Gravel Heart Read online

  GRAVEL HEART

  ALSO BY ABDULRAZAK GURNAH

  Memory of Departure

  Pilgrims Way

  Dottie

  Paradise

  Admiring Silence

  By the Sea

  Desertion

  The Last Gift

  GRAVEL HEART

  ABDULRAZAK GURNAH

  Contents

  Part One

  1. A Stick of Candy Floss

  2. After Baba Left

  Part Two

  3. I Will Write to You Every Day

  4. The OAU House

  5. The Little Utopia

  6. Billie

  7. Mother

  Part Three

  8. Return

  9. The First Night

  10. The Second Night

  11. Our Doubts are Traitors

  A Note on the Author

  Also available by Abdulrazak Gurnah

  ‘The beginning of love is the recollection of blessings: then it proceeds according to the capacity of the recipient, that is, according to his deserts.’

  Abu Said Ahmad ibn Isa-al-Kharraz,

  Kitab al-Sidq (The Book of Truthfulness) (899),

  trans. Arthur J. Arberry (1937)

  PART ONE

  1

  A STICK OF CANDY FLOSS

  My father did not want me. I came to that knowledge when I was quite young, even before I understood what I was being deprived of and a long time before I could guess the reason for it. In some ways not understanding was a mercy. If this knowledge had come to me when I was older, I might have known how to live with it better but that would probably have been by pretending and hating. I might have faked a lack of concern or I might have ranted in angry outrage behind my father’s back and blamed him for the way everything had turned out and how it might all have been otherwise. In my bitterness I might have concluded that there was nothing exceptional in having to live without a father’s love. It might even be a relief to have to do without it. Fathers are not always easy, especially if they too grew up without their father’s love, for then everything they know would make them understand that fathers had to have things their own way, one way or another. Also fathers, just like everyone else, have to deal with the relentless manner in which life conducts its business, and they have their own tremulous selves to salve and sustain, and there must be many times when they hardly have enough strength for that, let alone love to spare for the child that had appeared any old how in their midst.

  But I also remembered when it was otherwise, when my father did not shun me with an icy silence as we sat in the same small room, when he laughed with me and tumbled me and fondled me. It was a memory that came without words or sound, a little treasure I hoarded. That time when it was otherwise would have had to be when I was very young, a baby, because my father was already the silent man I knew later by the time I could remember him clearly. Babies can remember many things in their podgy sinews, which becomes the problem of later life, but it is not always certain that they remember everything in its place. There were times when I suspected that the fondling memory was an invention to comfort myself and that some of the memories I recollected were not my own. There were times when I suspected they were put there for me by other people, who were dealing kindly with me and were trying to fill in the empty spaces in my life and theirs, people who exaggerated the orderliness and drama of the haphazard tedium of our days, who preferred that what came to be was signalled by what had passed. When I reached this point I began to wonder if I knew anything about myself because it was most likely that I only knew what people told me about how I was as an infant, at times one person saying this and another saying that, forcing me to bow to the more insistent one and occasionally selecting for myself the younger self I preferred.

  There were moments when these guilt-ridden thoughts became absurdly insistent, though I thought I could remember sitting in the sun beside my father on the doorstep of our house while he held a stick of pink candy floss into which I was about to sink my face. That was a memory which came to me as an arrested instant without conclusion, a moment without preamble or direction. How could I have invented that? I just was not sure if it had really happened. My father was laughing in that breathless way of his as he looked at me, as if he was never going to be able to stop, his arms squeezed to his ribs, holding himself in. He was saying something to me that I could now no longer hear. Or perhaps he was not speaking to me at all but to someone else who was there. Perhaps he was speaking to my mother in that heaving, laughing way.

  I expect I was wearing a tiny vest, which came to just below my navel, and had nothing on below. I was sure of that, most probably. That is, I was sure I was probably not wearing anything below my vest. I have seen a picture of myself in the attire, standing nonchalantly in the street in that standard costume of male tropical infancy. Girls were not allowed to wander around like that, for fear of accidental damage to their chastity and decency, although that did not mean that they were spared what was bound to happen. Yes, I am sure I have seen that photograph once – a fuzzy, incompletely developed print most likely taken with a box camera – of a half-naked native boy of about three or four years old, staring at the camera with a look of pathetic passivity. Most likely I was in a mild panic. I was a fearful child and a camera pointed in my direction perturbed me. Little could be made of my features in the faded photograph and only someone who was already familiar with my appearance could have been sure it was me. The print was too pale to reveal the scabs on my knees or the insect bites on my arms or the snot down my face, but clear enough to show the tiny bunch that swelled between my legs, as yet unscarred and unblemished. I could not have been older than four. After about that age, adult jokes about the little abdalla and how it was soon going to lose its cap begin to hit their mark and make little boys cringe with terror at the forthcoming circumcision, and an old woman squeezing a boy’s testicles and shuddering and sneezing with pretend-ecstasy was no longer funny and began to feel like mockery.

  In fact, I can be definite that photograph was taken before I was five because some time during that year and before I started Koran school, I went on a taxi ride with my father and my mother. The taxi ride was a rare event, and my mother made much of it, filling me with anticipation of the picnic we would have when we reached our destination: vitumbua, katlesi, sambusa. On the way, the taxi stopped at the hospital – it won’t take long, my father said, then we’ll be on our way. I took his hand and followed him into the building. Before I knew what was happening, my little abdalla had lost its kofia and the outing had turned into a nightmare of pain and treachery and disappointment. I had been betrayed. For days after that I had to sit with my legs wide apart, exposing my turbaned penis to the healing air while my mother and my father and the neighbours came to look on me with big smiles on their faces. Abdalla kichwa wazi.

  I started Koran school soon after the trauma and deceit of that event. Attendance at the school required me to put on a calf-length kanzu and a kofia, and almost certainly a pair of shorts so that my hands did not wander playfully under there as boys’ hands tend to do. And once I learnt to cover my nakedness, especially after it had been tricked and mutilated into a kind of prominence, I would not have been able to uncover it with the same freedom as before, and I would not have found myself sitting on our doorstep in a little slip of a vest. So it was certain that I was about four when I sat there in the sun with my father Masud while he fed me candy floss. For years I felt in my flesh the fondness of that moment.

  That was the doorstep of the house I was born in, the house I spent all of my childhood in, the house I abandoned because I was left with little choice. In later years, in my banishment, I pictured the house inch by inch. I don’t know if
it was lying nostalgia or painful proper longing, but I paced its rooms and breathed its smells for years after I left. Just inside the front door was the kitchen area: no power points or fitted cupboards or electric oven or even a sink. It was a simple unmodern kitchen, although it had once been primitive in its gloom, its walls grimy with charcoal fumes. Like the inside of a beast’s mouth, my mother told me. Traces of that grime still came through as a grey under-shine on the walls despite several washes of lime. In the corner nearest the door was a water tap for washing dishes and doing the laundry, the floor around it pitted and crumbling from the force of the water on the poor concrete. To the left-hand side of the door was a mat, never quite losing its vegetable smell over the years, and that was where we ate and where my mother received visitors. Male visitors did not come inside the house, at least not while my mother was young, or at least not all male visitors. That was how it was when I was a little boy but later a table and chairs replaced the mat, and many other changes were made to the kitchen to make it clean and modern.

  A door closed off this large entrance room from the rest of the house, our deep interior, which consisted of two rooms, a small hallway and a bathroom. The bigger of the two interior rooms was where my parents and I slept. I had a large cot which I loved. One panel slid up and down, and when I was in the cot and the panel was up and the mosquito net was tucked in, I felt as if I was in a craft of some kind, moving invisibly through the air. I have never lost that feeling of safety when I sleep under a mosquito net. Whenever my mother was busy and wanted me out of the way, she put me in the cot because she knew I was content in there. Sometimes I asked to be allowed in it myself, with the side-panel up, and then for hours I pretended I was hidden away in my own secret room, safe from all danger. It was still comfortable enough for me when I was ten years old. Later my sister Munira slept in the same cot.

  Uncle Amir, my mother’s brother, slept in the other room. A door led from the hallway to the narrow backyard where there was just enough room for a washing line. The backyard wall adjoined the yard of the neighbours who lived behind us, a man living quietly with his mother. They lived so quietly that for a long time I did not know the man’s name because no one spoke to him or about him. His mother never went out. I don’t know whether it was because she was ill, or whether the habit of seclusion had made her frightened of the outside. They had no electricity in the house and it was so dark in there that when I was sent round with a bowl of plums as a gift – plums were rare in those days – I could hardly make out her features in the gloom. I almost never heard any noise from their yard, just sometimes a man coughing softly or the clang of a pot. If I had to go to the toilet at night I tried if possible not to open my eyes, feeling my way to the bathroom in the dark. I never even looked at the back door at night but I could not help imagining a shadow looming over the wall in the diffused glow of a turned-down oil lamp.

  There was no garden or pavement in front of the house, so a visitor stepped off the street straight into the entrance room. On hot days when the door was left open, the slight breeze lifted the door-curtain in a lazy billow into the room. Sitting in the sun on that doorstep with my stick of candy floss meant my father and I would have had our feet on the road, assuming my legs were long enough to reach the ground, and we would have seen life trickling by. It was only a quiet lane, just wide enough for two bicycles to pass each other, with care. The tin roofs of our house and the one opposite almost met overhead to create a quiet twilight chamber which cooled the air and would have intimidated a stranger with its sense of intimacy and enclosure. The sun shone on the house steps for only a brief while in the day, peering in between the overhanging roofs, and that would have been the moment of the candy-floss stick.

  No car could come down these lanes nor was ever intended to. These were streets built for the shuffle and slap of human feet, and for bodies to rub shoulders against each other, and for voices to murmur and reverberate their courtesies and curses and outcries. Any freighting that was necessary was done by handcarts and human muscles. Nor was the road straight like a proper road, though it was paved with old flagstones, worn by time and traffic and the water, which ran over them during the rains. Sometimes, late at night, the crack of hard-shod feet on the flags filled the lane with menace. Soon after it passed our house the road turned to the right, and a short while after that to the right again. Aside from the big roads that led out into the country, our roads bent and turned every few metres, fitting themselves to the way people lived their lives. In our part of the town there were no mansions and courtyards and walled gardens, and people lived their lives in a small way. That was how it was when I was a child, when the lanes were quiet and empty, not as crowded and dirty as they became later.

  Our front-door neighbours Mahsen and Bi Maryam lived in a house as small as ours, door facing door like its opposite. Everyone called him Mahsen, without any kind of title, and always called her Bi Maryam. Mahsen was a messenger at the Municipal Offices, a short skinny man who would have been a certain target for bullies when he was a child. Messenger was the official and puzzling name for his work, because he did not really carry messages. He was sent on whatever errands the officers and clerks wanted done: fetch a file, escort someone out, buy a cold drink, a cigarette, a bun, go to the market, take a broken fan to the electrician – the interminable busyness of office life.

  Some of the officers and clerks were a quarter of his age but Mahsen never complained. He was always mild, soft-spoken and smiling, a man of endless courtesy and impossible piety. He greeted everyone as he walked home from work, anyone who made eye contact with him received a smile or a wave or a handshake, depending on intimacy, gender or age. He asked after this one’s health and that one’s family and transmitted any news he had picked up on the way. He was up at dawn every morning to go to the mosque for the al-fajiri prayers – not many people did that – and he did not miss a single one of his five prayers every day, devotions which he performed with discretion as if he meant to keep quiet about his doings. If he had not been so modest he would have been mocked as an exhibitionist. He was even polite to children when so many adults spoke to them with belligerence and suspicion, as if they disliked them and suspected them of wickedness and anticipated a challenge from them. Not a shred of evil reputation attached to him although some unkind people wondered aloud if everything was in its place up top.

  His wife Bi Maryam did not bother much with discretion, and in many other ways she was unlike Mahsen. She was stout, suspicious and combative. She took every opportunity to draw attention to her husband’s piety and generosity, as if anyone doubted it. A man of faith, she announced when the moment presented itself, the beloved of Our Lord, see how He has given him good health and such looks. He will get his due when his master calls him back to Himself, despite your envy.

  She made a living cooking buns and flapjacks for local cafés, and had something to say about almost anything, which she always did and in a robust voice that was meant to be heard by her neighbours and any interested passers-by. She had advice to offer on people’s ailments, had views on people’s travel plans, on how best to grill fish and on the likely outcome of a rumoured marriage proposal. Children hurried past her door in fear that they might be summoned and sent on an errand. Mahsen and Bi Maryam had no children of their own. Her greatest fear was to be misunderstood, which people were always deliberately and maliciously determined to do, so it seemed to her. Her voice and opinions did not seem to jar on Mahsen as they did on other people. My father said that Mahsen had probably gone deaf and could no longer hear her, but other people said it was because he was a saint. Some people said she knew medicines and were wary of her but my mother said that was just ignorance. What she feared was Bi Maryam’s quarrelsome and ill-natured bullying.

  For several years, before things went wrong, my father Masud worked as a junior clerk for the Water Authority in Gulioni. His job there was respectable and secure, a government job. That was before I really remem
ber and I only know that time of his life as a story. When I remember him clearly he worked at a market stall or he did nothing, just sat in his room. For a long time I did not know what had gone wrong and after a while I stopped asking. There was so much I did not know.

  *

  My father’s father was a teacher, Maalim Yahya. I never met him because he left to work in the Gulf before I was born but I have seen a picture of him. Later I went to the same school where he used to teach, and there were several group photographs of the staff in the headmaster’s office. There was one taken every year and they covered most of one wall in the office. The practice must have stopped several years before because there were no recent ones. The headmaster did not appear in any of the photographs nor did any of the teachers working in the school when I was a pupil there. It was like a glimpse of a mythical past: unsmiling men in buttoned-down long-sleeved white shirts or kanzus and jackets. Many of them must have passed away since then. Some were killed in the revolution although I would not have been able to point them out from the photographs. We only knew from rumours that some of the teachers were killed at that time. The headmaster himself had been a student in the school and had been taught by Maalim Yahya. He pointed him out to me.

  ‘Your grandfather. He was very stern, most of the time,’ the headmaster said. I knew that describing a teacher as stern, or even fierce, was intended as a compliment. Teachers who were not stern were feeble by definition and were appropriately tormented by the children. They called him Maalim Chui behind his back, the headmaster said, because of the way he glared at them and made his hands into claws as if he would tear into them. The clawing threat was so comical that the boys struggled not to laugh but they did not because when their teacher was angry he was frightening. The headmaster demonstrated the glaring and clawing and I could not help laughing. ‘But when you had done something wrong and he looked at you in that certain way,’ the headmaster said solemnly, demonstrating an expression of ferocity as he attempted to retrieve his authority, ‘you felt as if you were about to wet yourself. In those days teachers did not hesitate to hit us, and if you received that look you knew that at the right moment you were going to get a cuff on the back of your head, which actually was not as bad as the way some of the other teachers beat us. You are a spoilt generation compared to us.’