Mister mister, p.19
Mister, Mister, page 19
– This is your father, boy. The one with no eyes, there. Taken when off on his bloody who-knows-where adventures.
I stared, dumbfounded. Letting my breath out as I looked. My father was brown-tanned and bearded. He was holding some long-stemmed oud in his hand. I brought the image closer to me. My father and this other man were standing with what looked like great hills behind them. Some blurred distant mountain. A magnificent valley shimmering below. There was a line there of blue water. And a bright smudge burned in.
I looked up and my Sisi Gamal was sat watching me. My mother, meanwhile, was turned away. Her biscuit untouched by her side. They were both silent, Mister, waiting. As if it were my turn to speak.
109. MARWAN’S EYES Mister, my uncle and I left my mother’s room with that photograph of my father.
I went to touch my mother when I left. Just softly, on the back of her neck, the same way that nurse had done. I touched her there because I couldn’t think of anything to say to her, Mister.
– She’s not there, I said to my Sisi Gamal as we left.
– Not here, he admitted. But at least not alone.
We walked to a cafeteria near the main station. I couldn’t say a word, even after my uncle ordered a plate of chips for us and some milky tea.
I stared, Mister. For the longest time. I didn’t see a resemblance. His broad shoulders, for instance. And so tall. The creases in the photograph had turned my father’s face into a wrinkled map. I drew my fingers along the mountains behind him.
The voice of the waitress brought me back:
– Anything else, lovelies? she went.
She had blue hair, I remember. Two studs in her cheeks like dimples. I looked past her at them handwritten signs on the wall. Little ketchup bottles on the other tables. Paper napkins inside metal nets.
– Nothing else, replied my Sisi Gamal.
He sprinkled salt on the chips.
There was an inscription on the underside of the photograph. I hadn’t seen it until I sat turning the thing around in my lap. I recognised the same girlish scribble as I’d read on the labels of his English-English books. My father had written: Abdallah’s House, Ayn Issa. 1996.
I turned it over, peered at the narrow strip of colour to my father’s right side. The blue wall, Mister, and there, the small tree behind him: Abdallah’s House.
– It is Syria, said my uncle. A town called Ayn Issa. Northern region – it is on the path.
– Syria? My father was in Syria in 1996?
My uncle dropped his head, making his glasses slide, and ate some chips.
– Maybe. Last thing he sent was this. A cassette before it.
– The one labelled 1996?
– Yes – it’s the one.
Of course it was, Mister. That strange whining tune. That wildness in the voices.
– He…we don’t look anything alike, I said quietly, spreading the image on my lap.
– No, no, said my Sisi Gamal, sipping some tea with his chips. You are like her, boy. But you disguise yourself like him. See now, how you dress like Marwan.
He lifted a chin at my black smock, my beard and upper lip.
– And Him, said my uncle, pointing upward, Allah brings you here for a good reason. But why do you think? Tell me.
I thought a moment, Mister. Reading his eyes as if there were some right answer.
– Maybe to stay here. With you?
At this my uncle burst into laughter. He brought his palm down so hard the table shook.
– And do what, boy? Do you think these Berties and Betties want to listen to your verse? And what would you sing – the Mu’allaqat? Or maybe your own about bombs and bullies and such things? And where will you sing them? There?…There? On these roads, on these Peter-Paul roads? Believe me, you cannot…
My uncle dusted his hands and gestured for the photograph. He brought it close to read the inscription.
– Good that you came, boy. Good that you came and saw your mother. The woman has suffered. But she does not need you here. And me, I do not need you here.
– Where do I go then? I leaned foward, swallowing my breath. There’s nowhere left.
My uncle shushed me and gave the picture back. I sat there quietly and ran my fingers over the marks on the photograph. I noticed the brightness of the sky behind the two men. The sun. And them scratches at his eyes, Mister, which felt violent to me now, and frightening.
– My mother made these didn’t she? I said.
– The scratches? Yes – she said to me once, Marwan smiles with his eyes…So – scratch, scratch…
He imitated, clawing at the napkins.
I looked at the photograph, where my mother’s nails had pierced through.
– She used to talk to me, you know, my mother – she used to say things to me.
– Hmm? What are these things she said, boy?
– I couldn’t understand her. She’d mention him a lot, say his name – like whisper it. And then she’d tell me other things. I couldn’t understand any of it.
My uncle turned and looked out the window. There were people on the promenade, old dears wrapped in windcheaters, earmuffs and hats. Others with scarves knotted at the chin. The sky was darkening. It was about to rain, though these people looked prepared for bad weather.
– Your father…my uncle began. And your mother…Estella loved Marwan, boy. But she could not understand him. Did not want to put up with his dreaming – ach! – they would fight like dogs when he would tell her…And Estella could be unkind, boy – she knew what to say, how to say it. But even after, with his foolishness, and her, with her words, they only had each other…And then, she knew you were inside. Hmm…So she was going to convert for him. But by then, Marwan told me his dreams were like fire at his feet…so he left. He was selfish. He ran away, boy. Marwan wanted paradise. And he believed it – really believed like those other men, fathers, brothers, who left to fight in the desert…Marwan believed in paradise more than what he had. Because what he had was this country. And Estella. And they would not believe in him any longer…
My uncle sniffed, looked away.
– What about the rest, I said. What about your letters…
– Ach…he went, raising his eyebrows at the glass. I don’t know. I never met Estella’s father and mother. They sent me a letter, asked me to take care of her. It was after you were born, boy – they sent enough to take care of you both.
He looked at me stonily. Measuring me with his eyes.
– They sent money, boy. Not love. That is this country.
The waitress came and left a saucer. My uncle fished for coins. I felt with my fingertips over the edges of the photograph and with my thumb at the scratches.
– What colour were his eyes? I asked.
– Marwan’s? His eyes were black. Like mine…see.
He gurned then, taking his glasses off, and making his eyes into scoops. Them rheumy irises, Mister, like marbles in his head. They might have been black at one time, but were only a dusty grey now, and small. He dropped his coins into the dish. I went to help him out of the booth. He came out hissing, cussing, complaining about his aching arsehole and buggered spine. He then told me, between breaths, that I’d be catching the five o’clock train to London – fast train, boy, you are better off…
110. ZOUN, ZEEN, ZEEN…I think it was right my Sisi Gamal leaving me there at the station. The last thing he asked was for me to send a picture from one of my recitals. Something in the light – ah? I want to see you in the light, and see if you slouch when you stand…
I said I’d send him a photograph. I left watching for a moment from the ticket gates. My uncle stopped to light a match. He coughed and a blue cloud lifted up around him. Then he turned the corner and was gone.
I found a seat in the last carriage next to someone’s luggage. I sat with my back turned and my hood covering my ears. I reached for the cassette – the 1996 – but then stopped. I wanted to conjure that zoun, zeen, zeen…from memory, Mister. The sound of them drums. With my other hand I felt for the photograph in my pocket. Tracing my finger along its edges. Them lines in the folds. I couldn’t have possibly imagined where them same lines were to lead…
…but enough with the mystery, Mister. It’s time to write how I came to leave your Britain. How I escaped my Al-Bayn and even gave Ibrahim the boot. How I went off, at long last, into the far-flung, Mister, committing myself into exile.
111. ‘YOU’RE A SELFISH PERSON’ Well, I knew I’d have to have it out with Ibrahim. It’s an episode I won’t dwell on for too long. It’s enough to mention here that my brother fumed at me, Mister, before finally accepting my choice.
I met him in a kofta shop near school. Ibrahim didn’t speak to me at all, at first. He was sore at having heard of my antics at the last recital. Making up nonsense verses and instigating only heckles and commotion. It didn’t bother me, Mister. I wanted to tell him I was out. I knew it would most likely mean an end to our friendship. But Ibrahim seemed so distracted he barely registered I’d said anything. It was only after I repeated myself that he set his plastic fork down.
– Come on, cous’. Don’t overreact – you’re too sensitive. So you bombed your last recital, so what? Won’t happen again. Not if you stick to the set-list. Make sure on Thursday –
– It’s not just the recitals, Ibrahim. It’s all of this. Everything. I’m done, really…
– Easy, cous’. Be mindful what you say – muraqabah, remember – you can’t be rash with these things. You’re so anxious. You’re so restless –
– And why wouldn’t I be? Can’t you see that I don’t like doing this, Ibrahim? I’m up there every night, nearly. I’m sick of it – I really am.
– No – can’t stop. Not now, cous’ – I’m sorry. Six events I’ve planned for June. Two in August. July we’re in Hamburg – there’s a recital tonight up near – up near Finchley Road…But I’ll see once this eases, once things lessen up. I’ll look after you, don’t worry.
I held up a hand. He looked across at me.
– No, Ibrahim. No more.
Ibrahim sat up staring at me. He shook his head perplexed. It was like I was trying to deny him something that was by rights his own. Him, sat there in his nice clothes now, and shining cheeks.
– How do you mean done, cous’? And how are you saying this to me now – now, with all the plans I’ve – what’s supposed to happen now? What am I going to say to Sohail? Idries?
– I don’t even know who these people are Ibrahim!
– Who do you think publishes you, cousin? Has it occurred to you that this is bigger than you? Bigger than just you on a stage in Barnet, or Bradford, or wherever?
I wanted to get away, Mister. To leave the lad to his kofta and anger at me. But then I relented and took a breath.
– Look, if you want me to do tonight, I will. But it’s the last, Ibrahim. I swear it. It’s the last one I’ll do.
I watched as he went on shaking his head at me. He looked at my ruffled shawl, my matted beard, and hood. It was as if he wanted to laugh, Mister, but he was so desperate.
– You’re a selfish person, he said.
I could see more than anger now. He was hurt.
– Not so many others have what you have, he said. Allah blessed you. Gave you – gave you a gift! So many people you put on the path and now you want to throw it away like…like…it’s nothing. Go against His will – go against Allah’s will…you want to go against Allah’s will, cousin!
I wanted to ask which Allah, Mister. But I didn’t.
– No, I said. You have my poems, Ibrahim. Go to my rooms if you want more, take the lot, I don’t care. Take my notebooks if it’ll make you happy.
Ibrahim stared at me blankly. His mouth fell open as if to reply but he swallowed it. And he was watching me now, his fingers scratching at his trimmed pointed beard, and his eyes narrowed, as if figuring out some calculation in his head.
– And – and you said you’d do tonight? he said quietly.
– I will if you want me to. And then it’s over.
I remember wondering, Mister, in that moment whether Ibrahim hadn’t always been a pretender all along. Him, who always plucked at his pointed beard, which seemed to me, now, only shaped to conceal his weak chin.
I can’t recall what he said to me after that. But I hadn’t lied to him. I’d no intention of writing poetry again. And as far as I was concerned, Mister, it was already over.
Al-Bayn was a dead name to me now.
112. LAST RECITAL See lights illuminate the rows of mostly men. My last recital was at some domed mosque in Edgware. A beautiful place for my last. It was packed to the proper rafters for me, I remember. Fierce applause began as soon as I arrived. I noticed the walls were tiled with delicate blue lines, letters curling around the sea of upturned faces.
The stage was positioned so high that I felt I could almost touch the centre. My eyes lingered there for a while. I stared and waited for the applause to end. I closed my eyes and said a short prayer.
I was praying for forgiveness, I think.
For I knew my own Allah would be up there, watching me, tutting, rolling His eyes, disapproving of me…
I did at least have the dignity, Mister, to stand there on that stage and deliver the proper thing. I acted the grotesque, hunched and leaned into all their very worst refractions – some split-apart djinn, some gobbing apparition, their red-lipped King Bollo, Mister, their greedy-eyed Golem, their slavering Saladin. For one last show, I watched them thrash about for me, appalled by me, enraged, call to me and reach for me. I gave them three written by Al-Bayn, and then a fourth, invented by me on the spot.
Picture me holding one finger up in the air, Mister. Giving the crowd whatever spilled out of my head. I knew it didn’t really matter. They went wild for it regardless, tongues like eels as they shouted up. They were so loud. The sound came back at me so hard that I held my ears against it, Mister. People in the stands were stamping. Fingers at the edge of the stage scratching, and others making little circles in the crowd, shaking at the knees, and their arms outstretched, mouths wide and wet…
I stumbled away after that. I fell back as the lights came down and headed backstage. I’d fulfilled my promise, Mister. I flew out now, into a back alley, covering my face with my shawl, and let my breath steady itself in the darkness. I made a vow to myself as I went: I would not recite another word.
Not a word, not a word…not a word…
113. THE GATE As it was, I was afforded one last bit of grace. I arrived breathless, doubled over, my sides throbbing with pain, and having stumbled into the streets in confusion. I’d found myself at the giant gates at the Ibn Rabah again, Mister. Back in Poplar, and exhausted. I might have said a short prayer for myself. For it was then, out of the blue, that I felt a touch at the elbow.
I turned and saw them same squinty eyes on me – it was Zenab. The lad was alone, reaching out and calling my name. His lips moved but I couldn’t hear him. And all of a sudden, Mister, I felt faint, a familiar stirring in the belly. I felt myself fighting against myself. And I began to slide, sinking to the ground, before Zenab held me upright. The lad took me by the arms. I made no complaint as he shuffled me away with him.
114. ‘THANK YOU, ZENAB…’ Memories become vague as to how Zenab got me back to his flat that night. He must have carried me over his shoulder, Mister. I remember spotting the bright lights above the Kentucky Chicken window. And the smell of the hallway stinking of chips.
Once inside, Zenab brought my legs over, and I winced, feeling the pinch at my sides as he lowered me. The dull pain had grown at my back, Mister. I could hear his voice in the relative quiet saying something like Take these…for the pain…and I felt him push two tablets between my lips. I remember his fingers lifting my chin to swallow lukewarm water. And then nothing.
It was morning when I awoke. I managed to shift myself slowly over to the window. Parked cars and strewn rubbish, men going in and out of delivery vans carrying crates. It was early. I heard someone open the door and come inside. It was Zenab again. He had two carrier bags from Kentucky Chicken.
– Better you keep away from the windows, he went, as he brought two containers out to the table, with two Cokes, and held two plastic forks out to me. You hungry, brother?
I ate as if I hadn’t eaten for weeks, Mister. And as I devoured them wings and dip, coleslaw and chips, I glanced around Zenab’s apartment, a dark earthy-smelling space. His prayer mat was placed near the far wall. It was the only spot which wasn’t occupied by electric wiring and heaps of other heavy equipment. There was a spinning, hissing computer, which seemed always to be on, in the middle of his desk, which he’d linked up with external hard drives and a colour-coded keyboard. There was also a sort of labelling system he’d created for himself. Several towers of neatly stacked Mini-DV tapes surrounded his computer.
These were my recitals, I knew. The ones he’d so eagerly recorded on behalf of Ibrahim. I realised after the first few weeks living there, Mister, that this lad had been running a one-man operation from his flat. He’d been the one printing posters and editing slick-looking videos of my recitals, the ones I’d seen doing the rounds on them forums.
Whenever we ate together like this – and usually it was the same chicken and chips from downstairs – Zenab would talk between mouthfuls about his latest edit. He seemed quieter that evening. He sat hanging his head over his food, and kept glancing up at me, staring, nodding as he slurped his Coke.
– What’s wrong, Zenab? I asked, my voice still hoarse.
He swallowed. Looking away at first, at the floor and then the window. He looked worried, concerned after me.
– I’ve got to tell you something, brother, he said. There were people doing the rounds this morning. Asking after you. At the school. A few were in your old dorms. Poking about, I heard.
