“You were right, I was being evasive with myself. It was not denial but self-destructiveness. You told me to talk to the oncologist, but I hated to be inside the system, the machine. You insisted it worked, that it was the only way. Now he and I sit in the hospital café like two adults and I love him passionately while he shows me photographs of his wife and family. You said I should speak to these medics directly, as an equal. They wouldn’t be afraid of my distress if they knew I’d seen my death.
“But facing reality, that’s an art form. When I thought I was about to die, I wanted to ring everyone up and tell them-hey, didn’t you know it, you’re only playing at life!”
When we got to the house, Mum opened the door, greeting us and smiling enthusiastically, offering her cheek to be kissed. Although she admitted to being nervous of Rafi and what she called his “obnoxiousness”-though with her he was always polite-I was glad to see her. These days, though, when we met, it was like running into someone you knew well a long time ago but now had little in common with-indeed, felt awkward with-a feeling which had been reproduced with Josephine.
I said, “You never much liked children, did you, Mum?”
“You give them everything,” she said. “And when they’re grown up they can’t wait to tell their psychiatrist how much they hate you. Either way, they don’t want you.”
“No.”
Mum said, “But I thought you might have brought Josephine for me to talk to.”
“You did? I was just thinking of her. Why do you say that?”
“I like her.”
“Do you?” I said, as Mum led me into the house.
“She was the best of the lot. I’d like her to see the studio. Will you bring her?”
“She’s with someone else.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Tell him to go away.”
Miriam was there already, and I was glad to see her, and she me. She was staring rather wildly around the place, as if she couldn’t understand why her childhood had suddenly disappeared. She was still agitated and disturbed by Mum, as if Mum wanted to attack her for her crimes and mistakes. But, nicely drunk, Mum only beamed at everyone with a sort of Zen perspicuity and benevolence, while Miriam clung to Henry’s arm.
Recently Miriam had been spending more time at Henry’s place; they were also talking of renting a country cottage. Henry was working again, with renewed persistence and concentration, trying to link Don Giovanni to consumer and celebrity culture, which he thought paralleled its vicious, cynical murderousness. He’d decided the only thing to be done was to remake the world, even as the politicians he’d supported were unmaking it.
As we drifted out into the garden with glasses of champagne, I could see the fine new studio, made of pine and glass, set amongst trees and bushes. Alan was out there already, and Karen bent down to embrace him, to weep too.
In a wheelchair, Alan was frailer than even her, and wrapped in several blankets. He was exhausted, staying awake for days. Having been a druggie, he was convinced that his prescribed pills did not affect his corrupted body. He resembled someone staring into a universe of fog. “London’s full of ticking bombs,” he murmured, taking my hand. “I’m one of them. Only a gay death for me.”
I wasn’t surprised to see how gaunt Alan was, but Mustaq, usually sleek and manicured, seemed overweight, fretful and bedraggled, as if determined to walk all the way to death’s door with his lover. If Alan didn’t die first, they would marry in a few months’ time, when the law changed to allow civil partnerships.
Mustaq touched, stroked and kissed Alan continuously. At other times, standing beside Alan, he seemed to stare at me, successfully locating my paranoia while resembling someone in a dream. He only perked up when Rafi came out, asking the kid what music he was playing on the iPod.
As there were friends of Mum and Billie yet to arrive, I kissed Ajita and took her by the arm. “Let’s get out of here for a bit. I need to look at something with you.”
It was a short drive. We were standing outside the house Miriam and I had grown up in. Ajita had visited that house only twice, as far as I could recall, leaving Mum some of her aunt’s “special” dhal and aloo in plastic containers. The place was almost unrecognisable now, with many new rooms built on, and in the porch there were kids’ bikes and toys. Then we drove the short distance to Ajita’s old house, which she hadn’t seen since the day she’d packed up a few things and left for India.
We arrived at the same time as the owner, who looked at us but said nothing. The layout of the place was the same. We got back into our car as the garage door opened like a mouth.
The space was tidy; just a few boxes. We watched as the man drove in. He got out of his car, glanced at us and went into the house.
She was looking at me, I noticed, as I stared at the spot where her father fell. I wanted to make some kind of gesture-if I’d been a Catholic I’d have crossed myself-but didn’t know what to do.
“Was it all true?” Ajita asked as we drove away. “Did it really happen?”
“Who knows?”
I told Mustaq we had gone to the house and asked him if he wanted to see it again. He said irritably, “Why do you ask me that? I dislike my father more and more. A man who didn’t understand homosexuals, who would never have grasped this passionate love, who was incapable of such feeling.”
To our delight, when we all gathered round for the ceremony, Mustaq had decided to adopt the queen’s voice to open the studio, saying what a great thing it was and how fabulous the two old girls were. He smashed a bottle of champagne against the door and sang, along with everyone else, “Vincent.”
Then, while we drank more champagne and ate from the tables laden with good food, a pissed opera singer, accompanied by someone on accordion, sang tunes from Puccini and Verdi. Some people danced; even Alan was persuaded from his wheelchair and tottered about in Mustaq’s arms as the singer gave us “The Man I Love” from Porgy and Bess.
As Mustaq and Alan kissed on the lips, Mother said, “We’re all shuffling towards the exit, one by one.”
“Yes,” said Billie. “And some of us are singing!”
It was later, when we were having cake and sandwiches, that I saw the knife again, horrified as much by the way it had moved unnoticed through the years as by its history. Mustaq looked at me. “What’s up, Jamal? You look as though you’ve just seen a ghost.”
I could only walk away. I found Henry inside the studio, looking at Billie’s and my mother’s work and using Miriam’s camera-phone to photograph their tools. Through the window we could see Miriam with Rafi.
“Doesn’t she look good?” Henry said.
“She’s a little thin for me.”
“I like her like that. She seems more serious. We’re not going on ‘the scene’ for a while. But that’s not the end of anything,” he added. “I don’t want to be Don Giovanni. Nor am I one of those who believes relationships become less libidinous as they continue, that intimacy is countererotic. In fact, sexual relationships between near-marrieds like us can become dangerously satisfying and deep. I guess they can feel incestuous, which is why people prefer strangers. What do you think?”
“When Josephine and I had sex, it was better than anything else.”
“You want to go back to her?” He was looking at me with concern. Then he started to laugh. “You’re joking. You’re crazy.”
Karen slept in the car on the way back; she was saving her energy for later on, when she’d be watching Karim in I’m a Celebrity…Get Me out of Here!
During the brief window while Rafi was searching through his pockets for his earphones, I was able to speak to him.