The Road Home (45 page)

At the other end of the room was a bar. Lev stared at it, saw a huddle of dark-suited men leaning there, drinking vodka and smoking. It was tenthirty in the morning. The bartender stood with his arms spread out, as if measuring fabric along the counter, his head inclined into the arena of smoke. As Lev came in, the bartender’s eyes flicked upward and all the heads turned and looked at Lev and immediately looked away. The drinkers were able to decide at once, it seemed, that here was a person of no account.

Lev hadn’t prepared what he was going to say. Wished now that he could remember better what Jasmina had told him about loan systems and start-up capital. As he approached the desk and the cold stare of its occupant, inhaled the smell of dusty furnishings pomaded with smoke, he thought how all of this reminded him of Procurator Rivas’s office in the Public Works building in Baryn and resurrected in him the hatred of Rivas he’d never been able to conquer. Part of him wanted to turn straight round and walk out again.

The young woman said in English, “How may I help you, sir?”

Her ultracorrect pronunciation made Lev think of Lydia—which he would have preferred not to have to do at this moment. He stood at the desk, made mute by memory and guilt. His stomach felt uncomfortable. He wondered whether the only thing he was going to utter was some inquiry about the location of the lavatory.

The woman stared up at him. Her hair was strangled back into a tight bun. Her skin was bone white, her lips a slash of glossy carmine. Despite the brightness outside, it felt cold in the room, as though sunlight had never entered there.

Lev cleared his throat. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “I came to ask . . .” he began.

The young woman screwed up her eyes, as if in pain.

“I came to ask . . . is there a . . .
department
. . . in this embassy that deals with commercial enterprises?”

“I beg your pardon?” said the young woman.

“It’s just an inquiry. I was advised to come here . . . to see whether the embassy might be able to give me any help.”

“Yes. Help with what?”

“Well. With a commercial venture.”

The eyes didn’t relax. The woman remained in pain, her skin stretched to such an excruciating pallor that it looked, to Lev, as though it had been nailed to her skull behind her ears.

“I don’t understand you. What is the precise nature of the help you need, sir?”

“I just wanted to ask whether—at any level, in any department, the embassy is sometimes able to help with . . . matters of business.”

“I’m sorry,” said the young woman. “You are going to have to make yourself understood better. Would you prefer to speak in English?”

Lev allowed a thin smile to touch his lips. “No,” he said. “I would not prefer to speak in English. All I wish to ask is, is there someone I can talk to about applying for funding to set up a commercial business in Baryn?”

“In Baryn?”

“Yes.”

“This is the London embassy.”

“I know it’s the London embassy.”

“We’re here to help our citizens in cases of personal or diplomatic difficulty. Are you in diplomatic difficulty?”

“Well,” said Lev, “I seem to be in diplomatic difficulty right now, in this room, in that I’m not making myself clear to you. Perhaps I could make an appointment to see somebody a little higher up, somebody who might be able to answer my questions.”

“I can answer your questions. What is it you wish to know?”

Lev sat down on a leather chair—very like the chairs in Rivas’s office—and pulled out his cigarettes.

“No, no, sorry,” said the woman, shaking a finger at him. “You can’t smoke here.”

Lev gestured to the suited men. “Everybody there is smoking.”

“That is the bar.”

“It’s all part of the same room.”

“No. This is Reception and that is the bar.”

Lev was familiar with this kind of illogic, knew that all you could do was resign yourself to it, that people in authority would never yield, so he put the cigarettes away. He looked toward the shrouded windows and the street. At this moment, a telephone on the young woman’s desk rang and she snatched up the receiver: “Embassy Reception, good afternoon.”

Lev held himself still. Tenthirty and she says “Good afternoon.” He tried not to let exasperation with the girl get its hold on him. He heard laughter begin to spill from the bar area. Heard the
snicker-snicker-snicker
of an unreliable, flint-worn cigarette lighter.

The phone conversation now absorbed the young woman. She turned her head away from Lev, spoke quietly but with sudden, flirtatious animation: “. . . I didn’t recognize your voice, Karli. I think you disguise your voice when you phone, just to tease me . . . No, I really think you do. You sound like a Russian . . . Yeah. A Russian businessman or something . . . What? . . . No, I’ve never dated a Russian! Why would I date a Russian? . . . What? . . . I never heard that. Who says their dicks are big? You just invented that to . . . Wait a minute.”

She turned back to Lev. “Will you wait over there, please,” she said, indicating a leather sofa under the window. “I have to take this important call.”

Lev fixed her hazel eyes with a hard stare. “No,” he said. “I’m not able to wait. I would like to fix an appointment. With the ambassador.”

“No, no,” said the girl, holding the telephone a few centimeters away from her ear and shaking the bun violently. “That is impossible. I’m not able to make appointments with the ambassador’s office. You must apply in writing, stating your business and your credentials . . . Hold on, Karli. I’m just sorting something out here . . . What? . . . No, he wasn’t a stupid Russian. He was a Finn . . . Okay, sir? You must make your application in writing, stating the nature of your business, your name, home address, occupation, address in the U.K., occupation in the U.K., and all other data relevant to the meeting you are requesting. Please remember that all applications must be made
in writing,
not via e-mail. We do not accept e-mail applications under any circumstances.”

“Is that because you’re not connected to the Internet?” said Lev.

“No. Of course we’re connected to the Internet, but e-mail applications have been deemed unacceptable.”

“Why?”

The girl now looked at Lev with undisguised animosity. “It’s embassy policy,” she said. “That is all I can tell you.”

“Embassy policy. I see,” said Lev. “But you say I can write to the ambassador?”

“Stating the nature of your business, your name, home address, address in the U.K. —”

“And the time of day, I presume,” said Lev, “to help you distinguish morning from afternoon.”

“Sorry, sir? . . . No, don’t go, Karli, I need to talk to you about last night . . . What did you say, sir?”

“Never mind,” said Lev. “Never mind.”

He got up and walked out. The front door was heavy and the sound of it closing behind him brought him a moment of unexpected satisfaction. He stood in the sunshine, smoking. The flag of his country hung lifeless from a white pole above him, with no breeze to move it.

He began to walk. He knew exactly where he was going to go. He wanted, suddenly, to feel it again, that long-ago moment of arrival in this city, in the hot sun, trudging round with his carrier bag full of Ahmed’s leaflets. As though remembering this
in situ,
remembering it all through his being, could reassure him that, if he’d survived this far, he was surely capable of realizing the great dream of his future.

And here was Ahmed now: standing in his brightly lit kebab shop, cleaning the meat spit, his beard bushy and full of shine, his girth still impressive, his forearms glistening.

“Ahmed.”

The Arab turned. Lev smiled and saw recognition arrive a few seconds later, as Ahmed wiped his huge hand on his apron and held it out across the counter.

“Hey!” he said. “One of my leaflet men, right?”

“That’s right. Lev.”

“Lev. Sure. I remember. Howya doin’? You look smart. Got a good job now, right?”

“Yes. I work in Highgate. Greek restaurant.”

“Greek?
Allah!
Beware Greeks! You know the saying? But it’s better than working for Ahmed, eh? Better money?”

“Yeh. It’s okay. But I worked for G. K. Ashe for a while and that was —”

“G. K. Ashe? That rich punk? You serious?”

“Yeh.”

“Why you leave him? Don’t tell me. He tried to pan-fry your liver?”

“No. I had . . . what you call . . . woman problems.”

Ahmed raised his brown eyes to his ever-vigilant Heaven, then set up two saucers on the bar. “Better have a coffee, then, to sober up,” he said. “Woman problems make a man crazy.”

Lev looked round at the small space, empty in midmorning, but hot and blinding on the eye, just as it had been the previous summer. He saw, though, that the floor needed cleaning and that the drinks fridge, from which he’d once drunk water in a green can, had a notice strung across it saying,
Sorry broken. Mended soon, Allah willing.

“How are things going for you, Ahmed?” he asked.

Ahmed manipulated his Gaggia machine with his habitual panache and set two espressos delicately on the saucers. Then Lev saw his eyes flicker with sudden sadness.

“I can tell you, my friend—because you’re like me, you don’t belong to this country—these days my business is down. And I know why.”

Lev waited. Ahmed pushed a sugar bowl toward him. “You take sugar, or you sweet enough? G. K. Ashe grill your arse into a
brûlée
crust?” Ahmed chuckled, then he rubbed his beard and looked downcast again. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re down because people in this country got a prejudice now against Arabs. It’s crept up on us. Now, no matter what country you from, these days they just look at you and think, Shitty Arab, suicide bomber, Muslim scum. I’m not joking, Lev. That’s where we are right now. Got us all pigeonholed.”

“Yes. I’ve seen this.”

“I’m from Qatar, right? I got nothin’ to do with Osama bin Laden or none of those fuckin’ fanatics. I’m even more nice and gentle than the Baghdad Blogger. You know this, because I think I was good to you, yes? I treated you fair.”

“Yes, Ahmed. You did.”

“Right. But British people—young an’ old—look at me like I’m going to poison them. Some nights I got no business at all. Shit pizza joint next door is overflowing with customers and I got no one. Pub closing time and my doner spit’s sizzling with fresh meat and I got nice salads lined up in the chiller and there’s no one in my fuckin’ joint! I tell you, I just wanna stand here and weep.”

“I’m sorry, Ahmed.”

“Yeah. Weep. Like you wept in my toilet. And I notice something: I don’t invent no proverbs anymore. Like my mind is exhausted.”

Lev nodded gravely. The two men stood close to each other, leaning on the counter. Outside, on Earls Court Road, the crowds of people surged on by, blinking and scowling in the sun’s brightness.

“Perhaps,” said Lev, after a while, “this will pass. This way people think of you. Perhaps it’s just part of the time now and it will end.”

“Sure,” said Ahmed. “You may be right. Provided there are no more bombs. But the thing is, how am I going to hang on? Can’t afford to get my chiller fixed, Lev. Can’t even afford to print any fuckin’ leaflets! I got a wife and kid. I can survive maybe two, three months like this. Then it’s over. And it was my dream, this. To have my own place. To have my name on the window.”

Lev sipped his coffee, then he said quietly, “It’s my dream, too.”

“What you mean, leaflet man?”

“Got this crazy idea, Ahmed. Go home to my country, start a restaurant in a town called Baryn.”

Ahmed’s eyes were huge with alarm. “Yeah? You serious?”

“Serious in my mind—you know? But G.K. did some costings for me . . .”

“Okay. Don’t tell me. Everything in the world comes down to money. That’s why people love religion all over again. They’re sick of the sound of the abacus.”

Lev went down the basement steps, saw the yellow front door and the cat dozing by the blue hydrangea bush. He stood still and stared at these things, and the cat didn’t move. The sun glanced down on the bushy hydrangea flowers and the sculpted bay trees. A tin watering can stood under the tap on the wall.

He was in Kowalski’s yard. The place was as silent and peaceful as it had ever been. Were Shepard and Kowalski at home? Was Lev going to ring their doorbell and announce to them he’d once trespassed all night on their land, slept tucked away under the road, relieved himself beside the tap? Something in him wanted to do just this, to say that he owed them a double debt, because that was when he’d first caught it, the scent of happiness in this city . . . But he didn’t move, just stayed where he was, halfway down the steps, watchful and calm. The cat slept on.

When his phone began to ring, he turned and walked back up into the street. He stood by the railings with the sun on his face.

“Lev,” said a woman’s voice. “Am I talking to Lev?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good. Now I hope you don’t mind my telephoning your mobile number. I got it from Sophie.”

“Who is this, please?”

“It’s Mrs. McNaughton, from Ferndale Heights care home. And I’m ringing to ask you a favor. Is this a good moment to speak to you, or are you busy?”

He remembered her now, the director of Ferndale Heights, efficient and severe, yet with a kindly face. “I’m not busy.”

“Good. Well, now, this is our dilemma, Lev. I expect you remember Mrs. Viggers and her daughter, Jane, who worked in the kitchen here?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m afraid we’ve been very badly let down. They walked out yesterday, absolutely without warning. No notice. Nothing. Out they march and that’s it. How people can behave like that is quite beyond me, but there you are. The thing is, I’m having a devil of a job finding a replacement. All I have at the moment is piecemeal help. The daughter of Captain Brotherton’s former cleaning lady is doing sterling service, but she’s extremely young and inexperienced and I can’t leave her to cope on her own, can I?”

“No. I guess not.”

“Of course, I myself am pitching in. Needs must. But on Sunday I simply have to go to visit my sister, who has shingles in Kent, so I was wondering . . . Would you be available to help out with lunch? I do recall that the kitchen work you did here was much appreciated. I know it’s wretchedly short notice, but —”