Thicker Than Soup (16 page)

“That is true. People want their children to go to the old Christian schools because they're good, but preference is given to Muslim families. It's difficult for our children to get accepted. And when it comes to work, they don't even get to interview.”

“But how do they know they're Christians?”

Zara looked surprised. “Our names, of course. We have Christian names.”

“Zarah Masih is Christian?”

“That's not my name. I'm Zarah Wakil. Zarah, wife of Wakil. But many people now choose your western way, like my mother, your grandmother. She took my father's family name, Lancing, probably because he was English. Some people keep their own names too. I do. My full name, when I need to be official, is Zarah Lancing Wakil. But our children are Masih, which is a Christian family name, from Messiah.”

“It must be complicated to know who belongs to which family, or to trace families.”

Zarah looked surprised. “Trace families? We know who they are!”

So many differences were hard to absorb. “But surely not all names identify religion, do they? When you apply for a job, or register your child at a school, how do they know what your religion is if your name doesn't make it clear?”

“They ask. It's on all the forms too. Don't you do that in England?”

“Not always. Lots of forms, such as hospital forms, ask. But it doesn't matter; it's just for records, or so that they know if you need anything special.”

“Well here it does matter. If you're not Muslim you're not important, no matter how educated or qualified you are. More and more, Christians are becoming less educated and poorer, and soon, Christians will only get the jobs no-one wants to do. And there's nothing we can do about it. Daniel and Daoud were lucky; our mother was the daughter of an officer in the Indian Army and our father, of course, was English, and then, they were both respected. But it's changed. For our children it's harder. They're only at good schools because we pay the fees and I wonder how much longer that will be enough. You know the university where my father, your grandfather worked?”

Sally nodded. “Foreman's Christian College?”

“Yes. A very good college; one of the best. Daniel and Daoud both went there. After our father was killed the staff – many of them Christian too – gave them places. But that wouldn't happen now. Nazih – our eldest – wasn't accepted, even with very good results. He's a very clever boy. He would have been accepted before nationalisation.” Zarah's voice was bitter. “Being discriminated against is bad, but persecution is worse. There are many stories of attacks against Christians. In the past few years some of our churches have been burned and we hear of Christians being turned from their homes. What can we do? The laws of our country do not protect us, and the army enforces them.” Behind her make-up Zarah's face was flushed with resentment. “Wakil used to be Muslim – did you know? He converted to Christianity.”

It was an afternoon of surprises. “I had no idea!”

“That's why his name is Masih. He took the name when he converted. He was at an Army school but he had to leave. He finished his HSC – Higher Secondary Certificate – at an ordinary state school then trained to be a nurse.”

“Why did he convert?” She was more than curious.

“Wakil objected to fighting. A few years before Partition, violence here was escalating as Ghandi and Jinnah formed their different movements. Wakil found Christianity… more approachable. Little did he know how things would turn out.”

The complaining voice had a whining, petulant quality that Sally found hard to sympathise with even though she deplored such inequality. “I'm sorry, Zarah.” She patted her arm and made to stand, bringing the conversation to an end.

Zarah restrained her. “I sound dreadful, don't I? Mostly it isn't so bad. Most people are decent and nice.” She smiled. “We have friends who are Muslim; they don't like the discrimination any more than we do and they're horrified at the persecutions that are happening. But if they don't support the changes they appear to criticise Islam, which is dangerous for them too.”

As the one family member Sally hadn't warmed to it was easy to believe Zarah exaggerated the discrimination and problems she talked of and though Sally was interested, the conversation was unsettling. “Why do you stay? Why don't you go and live somewhere else?” It seemed an obvious thing to do.

“Sally, why did you come to Pakistan?”

“What do you mean?”

“You came to be with your family?” Sally nodded. “Maybe you came to discover who you are?” Again, she nodded. “That's why we stay, Sally. We are Pakistani. This is our home.”

*

When Zarah had left, Sally continued to ponder the truth of her words. No-one else had talked of religious discrimination. Had they, she wondered, wanted to shield her from such uncomfortable aspects of life so that she took home an image of a comfort and stability despite the horrors of recent history? It was hard to believe. They'd taken her into the family honestly and openly and she'd felt truly comfortable in their home. And for the first time in many years, she felt comfortable with the ‘home' she called herself. Her only shadow was the imminent departure.

*

“Let's go for an ice-cream.” She told Sammy as she fastened the straps on his buggy.

“I-keem. Sammy I-keem.” Sammy's hands clapped with delight.

Yalda laughed. “I like ice-cream too. Can I come?”

Sally manoeuvred the buggy through the gates and into the street. “It's so hot.” The scorching heat was one thing she knew she wouldn't miss.

The shady walkways of Model Town Park were always a few degrees cooler than the sun-blasted streets and it was a lively place in the late afternoon. People were already striding, jogging, or strolling and chatting their way round the shaded perimeter path, navigating between those who'd entered at different gates or who travelled in the opposite direction. Sally identified a few regulars, returning nods and smiles of recognition. At the rose garden she stopped; the peach coloured Peace rose had been her father's favourite. Cupping a full bloom in her hand she lifted it to her nose, darkening the petals with the trace of her fingers as she inhaled its perfume. A memory of her father pruning old thorn strewn stems in their small garden came to mind, his voice telling her again that God had made roses perfect whereas man, in trying to emulate him, lost the essence. She sent him a thought; ‘not from this one, Dad, this is one of yours'.

Back at the main entrance, Yalda sent Sally to find a seat whilst she bought the ice-creams. “Vanilla?” she asked, “and Chai?” In the shade of some trees they squeezed a Lipton's tea bag against the sides of cups and added sugar – something Sally never used in England. The metallic Pakistani tea was impossible to drink unsweetened and, to her surprise, she'd grown to enjoy the sweet milky drink almost more than its English counterpart. “I'll miss tea like this when I get home,” she admitted as she crushed tea-soaked sugar lumps.

Yalda popped the last of her ice-cream into Sammy's mouth, sipped her tea, and then said, “You don't have to go home yet if you don't want to.”

Sally blinked, and wondered if she'd misheard. “Pardon?” Yalda merely tilted her head to one side, and Sally realised she'd heard Yalda's words perfectly well. “Of course I do. Our flight goes in three days.”

“And I'm saying you don't have to go home yet if you don't want to. We'd like you to stay longer and your grandmother will be too sad to see you go. You have brought her son back to her. And to Daniel too; he and your father were close as boys.” She offered Sally the complimentary biscuit from her saucer.

“No thank you.” Sally shook her head then laughed. “I mean to the biscuit.”

Sammy pulled at his mother's kameez. “Cookie. Sammy.” He'd learned the word ‘cookie' from Aamina who, in Sally's opinion, watched too many American films.

Giving the biscuit to Sammy she admitted to Yalda that she'd love to be able to stay. “But how can I?” she asked, “I have to go and find a job and a home. And my mother will be missing us. And, well, I have my friends. And…” She paused. “But I'd love to stay” she said quietly.

“You could get a job here if you felt you needed to, a good job. You have an English degree. That's of great value, and plenty of women work, especially if they're educated.”

“But I don't speak enough Urdu, and I'd have to find somewhere to live, and how would I look after Sammy if I went to work?”

“What do you mean?” Yalda looked surprised. “Many people speak English. And you'd live with us. You're our family. And we'd look after Sammy. This is not a problem. Is it normal for you to not live with your family and help each other in England?”

“I, well no. Of course we support each other when we need to…”

“When you need to?”

They'd debated questions of culture and values on several occasions and always agreed that they were different. Could she live with Daniel and Yalda and have help with Sammy if she found some work? The idea seemed equally sensible and preposterous.

“Oh Yalda, it's different. People are more independent; we're encouraged to be individual. Family is very important to us too, but …. well it's different.”

“Well it seems very strange to not want to live together and help each other. But it's for you to decide. It's easy for us – Saima and Jai will be moving into their new rooms in a few weeks and we have enough room. Think about it. If you want to stay with us you'll make us all very happy. If you cannot stay, then we hope you will come back again. Very soon. Now, what do you think of the curtains Saima has chosen?”

*

Once the seed was planted it was impossible for it not to germinate. The following morning Sally waited in one of the rows of seats at the Pakistan International Airlines office, clutching tickets and passport and waiting for her turn at the counter. A couple went to a vacant position; he attentive, she pregnant. They looked so young. With a pang of sadness she realised that she'd miss Diane's wedding and for a moment faltered. But though missing her friend's wedding would sadden her, the desire to stay was strong.

Half an hour later, and with tickets extended for five months, elation assured her she'd made a good decision. It would take most of the money she'd put aside for her and Sammy's future, but, she rationalised, it would focus her mind when she did eventually return home.

As the TV faded John felt himself drawn, Alice-like, into a celestial vortex of perpetual white. He blinked and focused on a pile of books until the retinal impression faded and then, turning off the now silent TV, felt the crush of emptiness it had dispelled. He both longed for and yet recoiled from the clamour of the earlier celebrations that seemed to have happened in a distant, if parallel time; an evening in his honour that had celebrated the restaurant's first anniversary and lent itself to a degree of retrospection.

The evening had been Alain's idea; success, he'd said, breeds success. There'd been spontaneous speeches praising John's talent, his ingenuity, his flair, and vows of friendships and enduring promises had been sealed with quaffs of wine. Julia's husband had honoured him with a case of vintage Napa Valley, and Alex Manning's request that he appear as Guest Chef at Woodhome Park was proof of prowess. He'd planned a speech, but after the tributes, praise inspired and wine loosened words had come from his heart. But now, alone, the stillness of the flat echoed with emptiness and silence. On a normal day it refreshed, but tonight he buzzed with celebrity, and solitude thumbed its nose at him.

Unable to resist, he'd brought a plate of dessert upstairs with him. A pool of sweet cherry compote surrounded two crescents of the lightest of cakes, one richly dark, the other snow white; Angel and Devil Food cakes in an amusing synergy, with cherry ‘sauce' adding to the joke. Dipping a finger first into the devil frosting then the angel sugar glaze, he licked the sweetness, recalling how the naughty double-entendre dessert had enticed some of the more imbibed guests to high spirits. The duo of cakes had been an inspiration; they'd been the ‘icing' on the meal. The idea for the confection had come from the old American recipe book that Sally had given him the previous Christmas, and which despite the association, he couldn't resist using. A book, he told himself, was just a book. But his cake, he thought, looking at the plate, wasn't just cake. Sally would have liked the cake, particularly the devil, and a crazy stray thought that he would save her some made him question his sobriety. She'd gone, but she wouldn't leave him alone. He hadn't seen her since the day she'd betrayed herself in the cruel irony that mocked his misunderstanding over blood groups and dried up his love for her as though it had never existed. No, worse. It had existed; he'd loved her almost since he'd first met her though he hadn't known it to start with. Now, he knew love was nothing more than an intangible, fleeting mood, a device conjured by poets and storytellers to weave dreams. He'd almost believed it could last. Almost. But Sally had confirmed what his birth mother had taught him. She, who had given birth to him had taught him that love didn't endure and he'd believed it before Sally. But it had been hard to give up on and he'd dared to trust her. She'd been everything; his lover, his best friend, his soul mate. Her happiness had been his. He'd begun to understand and then trust when she'd told him that in loving him her own freedom to love grew. And he'd dared to share it with her.

Love was a deceit, that he was sure, but what he couldn't explain and didn't understand was the child. He massaged his temples. He missed him so much it – love? – ached. A line from somewhere came to mind;
Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all
, and muttering “Tosh!” he licked the final sauce from the plate.

*

The celebrated chef slept and woke as sober John. Both had been there the night before. The chef and ordinary John. Jekyll and Hyde. John had hidden behind Chef and watched the evening; an observer who couldn't take part. Now he re-lived the evening, hearing again Alain's accentuated Frenchness sprinkled liberally with absurd mispronunciations and pronounced Gallic shrugs. As Chef basked, John wilted. “We ‘ave ze man oo iz giving us ze nouveau umpire, out in zis field of iz own.” He'd gone on to play on his ‘empire' corruption by adding “zis strong competition from zis new player iz, as you say in Inglis, just not cricket.” He pronounced it ‘crickette' as though the word belonged to the French, and though Chef had laughed along with the others John had resented the Francophile distraction from his New World style as much as his own lack of repartee that might have bowled Alain's ‘crickette' out. He envied Alain's assurance and acknowledged the debt was greater than mere investment, but in the cold light of a new day, it was he who'd made Seagrams successful. His hard work, not Alain's banter.

*

Leaning against the cold red bricks outside the back door John raised his face to the morning sun and let it ease the grittiness of another long Saturday night as he chewed his bacon sandwich. A cigarette, the first and best smoke of the day followed, and in the quietness of the spring morning he savoured the calm before the storm. This second Easter Sunday would be twice as busy as last year's. Lunches would start shortly after midday. From ten onwards they would be flat out, and John enjoyed the last of the peace with the last of his cigarette. In his mind, he scheduled shoulders of spring lamb with rosemary, chicken ballotine, and salmon en croute until the sound of a car on the gravel in front of the restaurant distracted him. It was early for any of the staff, and certainly too early for a customer. Grinding the butt of the cigarette under his heel he walked round the side of the building.

“Morning.”

“Morning. Can I help you?”

He recognised the woman walking towards the front door as having been at the anniversary dinner with Alex Manning and his wife.

“Sorry. I know it's early. I lost an earring on Thursday, probably at your party.” She put out her hand. “I'm Sandy. Alex Manning's sister-in-law.” A gap between her front teeth was attractive. “I couldn't come before; I've been in London. I suppose I could have rung.”

It wasn't surprising that he remembered Sandy. Everyone at the party had probably remembered her spiky copper coloured hair and green day-glo dress. Now, her hair gleamed like polished metal in the sunshine, and her short, sleeveless dress displayed a tan that went beyond the deep ‘V' of her neckline. “Yes, I remember. You asked for a second dessert.”

Sandy's laugh was as loud as her hair. “Sorry – too much wine. But who could resist a Fallen Angel?”

She'd almost purred ‘fallen angel' and his Sally chilled libido spiked into life. “My fault entirely.” Her eyes were green and accentuated with black khol. “Well, let's see if we can find your earring. Hold on, I'll get the key and let you in.”

Dodging dustbins, kitchen tables, servery, and finally, restaurant tables, he unbolted the front door. “Hi. Come on in. What colour's the earring; you've brought the other one?” He pulled a box from under the bar. “We keep lost property here.”

“Ah. That would have been a good idea, wouldn't it? But no I haven't brought it. It's silver, with three jade stones. It's not precious, but I like it and it's part of a set.”

They searched the box without finding it and then Sandy almost disappeared under what had been her table. John looked on, enjoying the spectacle. “I don't think it will be on the floor. It's been cleaned a few times since Thursday. Are you sure you lost it here?”

Sandy was almost under another table. “No, not really. But I don't know where else it might be. I hope you don't mind me coming over.” She stood up, revealing the extent of her tan.

Averting his eyes reluctantly he assured her he didn't mind. “Look, I was just going to have some coffee. Would you like some?”

Wishing he had more time to spare he brewed fresh coffee and found Sandy in front of his iconic Rothko-like panel. He waited, curiously, whilst she stepped back then forward again, and peered closely. People either loved or hated it and he wondered which camp she would stand in.

“This is unusual. It looks a bit like Rothko but his are more opaque than this.” She pointed to the sides. “You can see the different colours this artist has used here, and here, quite easily.” She looked at the label. “No title. And no price either. How much is this?”

The mention of Rothko and obvious regard stirred his interest but this picture was not for sale. “It's mine.”

“You painted it? You're an artist as well as a chef?”

He shook his head thinking how deep – and captivating – Sandy's green eyes were. “No. I mean no, I didn't paint it, but yes, I'm also an artist, or used to be.” He explained how the artist, like himself, had been influenced by Rothko, and that he'd commissioned the painting. Intrigued by her interest, he asked if she painted.

“I wish I did. I studied art history but I've no talent. It's my mother who's talented.” She told him her family had moved to France when she was seven years old. Her father, a wine merchant, had bought a vineyard south of Béziers, which was where they still lived. “I'm going home on Tuesday,” she told him, “I've been here on a short holiday, visiting my sister.”

Enjoying the conversation as he was, John was aware of the work to be done. “Look Sandy, I've around eighty people for lunch today and need to get on. I'm sorry about your earring. Why don't you give me your telephone number then if it turns up I can ring you?”

*

Over the first new potatoes of the season, John let Sandy merge with Toyah Willcox, so that it was Sandy, rather than Toyah who strutted her rebel punk on Top of the Pops. He'd loved the irreverence and distinctive, magnetic voice and Sandy looked very much like her. A brief dalliance was tempting; her imminent departure suggested fun without commitment, and leaving the potatoes to cook he dialled the number she'd given him.

“Bonjour.”

“Sandy?”

“Oh! Sorry. I was expecting Alain.”

Alain? Alain was calling Sandy? Why? Righteous anger clashed with fluster. “Er, no. No, I'm sorry. It's me, John, from Seagrams. I……. I wondered if your earring turned up.”

“Oh, forgive me. I expected my brother.”

Indignation turned to relief and feeling slightly foolish he asked again if she'd found her earring.

“No. And it sounds like you haven't found it either.”

“No. Sorry, but no.” He soldiered on, telling himself she could only say no. “I was wondering, perhaps you might like to have …” he almost said ‘another look' but realised how ridiculously transparent that would sound and searched for an alternative option. “…coffee. Or a drink. Not here……. I close this evening.” He warmed to the idea. “There's a wine bar behind the Abbey in Bath: The Three Tuns. Would you like to go there? With me?”

*

For the first time in more than ten years he had a date! Checking his wallet for funds he danced an excited jig and sang,
Do you want me baby, Do you want me, Oh…,
as he went to explore his wardrobe. The black button-collared shirt? Or a t-shirt and leather jacket? Jeans? Her father was a wine merchant, so the wine would have to be good. Should they eat? The Italian near the bridge? He stopped short; where would he get condoms on a Sunday evening? In case…

*

Light from a three or four day wedge moon turned Sandy's hair from copper to gold as he propped himself on an elbow and ran a hand over the surprisingly soft spikes of her hair. “You could stay.”

“I have to go home. I have to go to work on Wednesday.”

“I meant tonight. Stay tonight. The restaurant is closed tomorrow. I have a free day.”

Sandy chuckled. “Mmmm, I could.” Head tilted to one side she made a drama of considering the options. “I'd better call my sister or she'll send out search parties.”

His eyes caressed her nakedness as she made the call. There was an audacity about her that daunted yet had permitted her to come easily to his bed, and in that, it pleased him. It had been quite an evening; they'd enjoyed an acceptable bottle of Rioja at The Three Tuns, eaten a Coq au Vin they'd both agreed to be chicken stew at The George, and moved on rapidly after his appalling line, ‘Would you like to come and see my etchings?' Conversation about music and art had started interestingly but with outrageous flirtation needing little encouragement his flat became more attractive than dessert or coffee. Now, Sandy was telling her brother-in-law she'd be back some time tomorrow. She both attracted and intimidated him.

Flipping the tape over in the cassette player, the sound of Queen's
The Game
album filled the room and she sashayed in time to the music. An absurd vision of his mother's likely reaction to the scene brought a grin that Sandy interpreted as an invitation, and she re-joined him on the bed, narrowing her feline eyes and purring as they sang
Crazy little thing called love
together with Freddie Mercury. He rolled her over on the bed, enjoying being shocked by her enough to overcome any sense of respectability. She'd be returning to France shortly and in the meantime, she was here, she was agreeable, and he was having more fun than he'd had in months.

Later he slotted another cassette in to the player. “Do you know the words to this?” he asked. Toyah Willcox's voice sang
I wanna be free
.

*

When Sandy left with no promises other than a breezy “Next time,” John was happy. She wasn't his kind of girl he told himself, and then thought again. She was exactly the kind of girl he wanted. Free, fun, no promises, and the antithesis of Sally.