Hand Me Down World (26 page)

That afternoon Jermayne gets up from the bench and comes over to where we are playing with the ball. He says something to the boy. The boy glumly picks up the ball and hands it to me. Jermayne said something else and the boy walked to the gate, where he waited. Jermayne said I wouldn't be able to see him next week. He had some business in Hamburg.

For a week I worried that he had taken the boy. I worried that he and his wife had moved. I returned to the bench under the trees and watched the windows of the apartment.

There was no sign of him on the first day. Nor on the second. I was sure now. Jermayne had stolen him again. On the third day I happened to be standing on the bridge staring down at the canal when I heard feet and a mother's voice—not any woman's voice but a mother's voice. By the time I looked up they were coming off the bridge. The boy was holding the woman's hand. While they waited for a van to pass the boy looked back over his shoulder. He didn't quite smile at me. But there was intent in his eyes. He recognised me. And there was a knowingness that should never be seen in someone so young. He'd seen me and he knew that I was someone—his mother, well, he didn't know that part yet—I was someone he had to keep secret from the woman holding his hand. The van passed, and the woman, Abebi, led him across the road around the corner of the cafe.

The rest of the week dragged by. To kill time I went with Bernard to his work. We caught the train, just like the other people setting off to work. We hurried from the station so Bernard could catch the lunch crowd leaving the museums. He told me to leave him alone for fifteen minutes; he needed to get into character. He was right. I found a different Bernard when I returned. A circle of people had gathered around him. People laughed—they applauded. He shouted out his poems, then he passed around the black hat he wore for such occasions. People put money in the hat and after the last of them had drifted away he looked around for me.

At night I slept with my little Frenchman's face snuggled into my neck. He'd stopped wearing his coat to bed, but he still lay on top of the duvet. ‘Bernard,' I said one night. ‘Do you not want to touch me? What kind of man are you?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘But I am more afraid of you leaving me.'

I told him I would never leave him. Why would I want to leave him? I had never trusted anyone as much as I did him. At the same time I didn't know the man he turned into for his performances. The man who spoke to the inspector, the man of that testimony, is a stranger to me.

Jermayne returned from Hamburg, and the meetings in the playground with the boy resumed. One afternoon I was a few minutes late. Jermayne and the boy were sitting on the bench near the red slide. When I came in the gate the boy looked up and slipped off the bench. In that same moment I saw my worth to him. The ball had just turned up. I asked Jermayne if I could be left alone with the boy. He winced and looked down. Then he began to shake his head. He said it couldn't go on like this. At this rate Abebi would find out. He'd already done more than any reasonable person could expect. And in any case my request was ridiculous. How would he know I wouldn't run off with the boy?

I told him I wouldn't. I promised. But that wasn't good enough. I was taking him for a fool. What would he tell Abebi if I ran off with the boy? He looked away and breathed out slowly. He shook his head. He said I'd asked too much this time.

‘People always did—they pushed things to the point of no return.'

We'd forgotten about the boy. He stood staring down at the ground between us waiting for the talk to end so he could have someone to kick the ball to.

I dug in my coat pockets and brought out all the money I had. Jermayne looked surprised, but not entirely so. That's the thing about Jermayne. His mind travels in the lower circles. His surprise was at seeing where my own mind had sunk to. But I also saw how quickly he swept the surprise from his face. He looked at the money as if it was of no interest at all. He put his hands in his coat, wriggled down into his shoes. He looked off in the direction of the slide. ‘And your coat,' he said. ‘You won't get far without a coat.'

I took off my coat and placed it on the bench. His face was still calculating. ‘I'll need your boots too,' he said. ‘And your socks.' I sat down on the bench and took off each boot, then I peeled off each sock. He had a good look at those. The socks belonged to Bernard and in the end he couldn't decide what to say about them. He stuffed the socks in the boots and wrapped them in the coat. He looked at his watch. He said we'd already used up fifteen minutes. He'd be back in another forty minutes.

It was cold that day. At first the cold seemed to sit on my skin like a coat of paint. Then it discovered my bones and it settled in them. The ground hurt my feet. Each time I kicked the ball back to the boy I thought my toes would snap. Soon I had to switch from kicking with my right foot to my left foot, and when that one turned raw I switched back to the other.

Another woman with a child came in the gate. She looked at my bare feet, at my coatless state. She looked at my face and finding no answer there she herded her child out of this playground of fools and mad women.

When I couldn't stand it any longer I picked up the ball and walked the boy to the slide. I picked him up under his arms and placed him at the top. He slid down and ran around to the steps for more. Each time I picked him up I rubbed his cheek against mine. I wanted him to get to know my skin, its taste and its feel. With Jermayne out of the way I was freer to put myself inside the boy's head.

He didn't seem to notice my bare feet. He ran off to the swings and I picked and hobbled my way after him.

He sat on the swing waiting for me to get there. I pushed him and he swung his arms. I pushed him higher and higher…until I caught him and held him against me. He thought it was a game—his panting little body waited excitedly to be released.

We were back to kicking the ball between us when Jermayne came in the gate with my coat and boots. I ran to get them back. He held them out of reach and laughed as I jumped like a dog. Then he must have noticed the boy looking on and so he let go of my things like they were something he had just caught in the wind. The boots hit the ground and my coat floated down after them. I pulled on the socks. There was no feeling left in my feet. Even after I pulled on the boots, I had no feeling. I got into the coat and did up the buttons. Jermayne called to the boy but the boy stayed put. He held onto the ball. He couldn't take his eyes off me. Probably he had never seen an adult sitting on the ground zipping up their boots. Jermayne spoke to him and he came forward on his little legs. He handed me the ball. He was very careful about it. He made sure I had hold of it before he released it. Now Jermayne took the boy's hand and pulled him away. When the boy looked back over his shoulder I shouted after Jermayne, I called out to him, ‘Tomorrow.'

‘No,' he said.

‘The next day,' I said.

He shook his bald head so I named another day. This time he left the boy and came back inside the gate. He told me from now on I could only see the boy once a week. Even that he thought was generous and might change in the future.

twenty-eight

The following week at the appointed time we met at the playground. The weather had improved and there were more people on bikes and on the paths by the canal. While I sat in the playground waiting for Jermayne and the boy I could feel the sun against my face. It was hard to believe that things could change so quickly. Jermayne could demand my coat and boots and today it wouldn't matter. My coat sat folded over my lap.

But he didn't want my coat. He didn't ask for my boots either. But he took all the money for security. While I swung the boy and kicked the ball to him I saw Jermayne's tall figure under the trees on the far side of the canal. He was easy to pick out in his denim jacket and black beret.

Once I might have worried about him bumping into Bernard. But Bernard had stopped delivering me to Jermayne's neighbourhood. I knew the way well enough myself.

This was the first time I had seen the boy out of his ski jacket and pants. There seemed to be less of him. Thinner—perhaps that was me I was seeing in his shoulders and arms, although there was a hint of what was to come in his father's frame. His face was larger. For the first time he wasn't wearing gloves. I kept reaching for him, feeling his little hand in mine. I still had the words and phrases that Bernard had written down for me. Abebi might not allow him chocolate, but I would. Just a little bit, it was harmless. He nodded unsurely when I asked him if he wanted some chocolate. He didn't know what he was agreeing to—only that it was new and came wrapped in silver foil which peeled back to dark chocolate. I broke off a square. He popped it in his mouth. He ate that and held out his hand for more. I broke off another corner. While he ate it I did not exist. The playground did not exist. He wanted another piece. I returned his hand to his side. ‘No,' I said. ‘No more.' It was the first time I had denied him and I saw his eyes move. Jermayne was approaching the playground. I saw chocolate on the boy's finger so I put the finger in my mouth. Chocolate marked the sides of his mouth. I licked that off.

The lovely weather hadn't had any effect on Jermayne. He was as agitated as he was when he dropped the boy off. I remember in Italy a man driving me to the motorway in the middle of the night looking the same way as Jermayne did now, wanting something but unsure of what, or if he could ask.

By now the boy was familiar with the handing-over routine. Any moment he would use both his hands to pass the ball up to me—that's what he was waiting to do. Jermayne began to count out the money. I told him I wasn't worried about him stealing any but he didn't hear me. He went on placing each note in my hand as if I was a paying customer. Then there was just one note left. Fifty euros. He folded his hand over it and placed it in his back pocket. He drew himself up to full size, seeking to diminish me or any complaint. ‘That's for my time.'

Part of me was left swaying. Another part responded to the new rules as if they had been in place all along.

When I asked Jermayne if I could see the boy again that week he didn't object.

I paid Jermayne another three times. Each time it was fifty euros. I hadn't seen where this would lead.

One afternoon on the swings the boy's face lit up and I pushed higher to make his face light up more and when I least expected it he let go of the swing ropes and flew through the air. I thought I had killed him. I picked him up off the dirt and praying to a god I did not believe in I asked for one more favour as I carried his whimpering little body over to the bench. His head pressed against me. I kept rubbing his knee. I could tell it wasn't hurting any more. But he didn't ask me to stop either.

The next time I met Jermayne I handed him my last thirty euros and he looked at me like I had spat in his hand. What was I trying to prove? I knew the rate. Fifty euros. We had established the price. So why was I giving him thirty?

I bent down and whispered to the boy to wait on the bench near the slide. Jermayne told him something else. The boy looked up to check with me. Jermayne saw that and swore at the boy. He swung the gate open and closed it with a bang. I told him I only had thirty euros. He said thirty euros did not come close to properly valuing his time. I was setting out to humiliate him. Did I think he was a common labourer? Why was I intent on insulting him? Why did I treat him this way? He had done everything that was humanly possible to make himself available, to make the boy available, to behave honourably. ‘I knew this would happen,' he said. ‘Something told me you would try to take advantage of me.' I told him I'd bring more next time. Next time I would bring seventy euros—an extra twenty to make up for this afternoon.

After he left, the boy and I kicked the ball to each other. I tried out one of the phrases Bernard had written down. I asked the boy if he was happy. I had to repeat the phrase. He listened with his eyes and his mouth. In the end he nodded. I had managed to ask him something which he had understood and answered! I had imagined it would bring us closer; instead, it felt mechanical, as mechanical as hotel smiles. The language I shared with the boy ran deeper. It had started out with kicking a ball to each other and over the space of a few weeks our islands had moved closer together.

Now those islands were about to move apart again. I had no more money. When I told Jermayne I would bring seventy euros the next time I hadn't thought about where I would find that money. The need to see the boy was as strong as ever. I walked along streets that meant nothing to me. Past faces that held no interest. When I entered that hole in the wall to the little Frenchman's world I didn't feel anything other than a need to see the boy.

The days were longer. The little Frenchman called them his ‘earning days'. This was his other self evaluating the world.

I told him I needed some of that good earning weather to shower down on me. He asked me what I could do, and I told him. I knew all about the world of hotels. I knew how to move in and out of a room without a guest noticing me. I knew how to smile pleasantly. I could make beds, clean toilets and fold the end of the toilet paper. I could arrange fruit. I knew various forms of first aid. And because at one hotel I had risen to supervisor I knew how to look out for the tricks of lazy staff. At the end of listing my skills the little Frenchman took my toilet-bowl cleaning hand and kissed it. He said I didn't need to make any money for the time being. I should use this time to think about my future. Learning Deutsch would be a good idea if I planned to stay on, and he assumed I would do so, because of my efforts to get here, and because he knew how important it was for me to be near the boy.

That's when I told him, ‘I need money to see the boy.'

Almost right away the two selves of the little Frenchman went to war with each other. He wanted to help me. He wanted to criticise me. He said he loved me. He said I was stupid. How could I have got myself into this situation? And because it was late, and people were sleeping around us, he couldn't stand it any longer, he had to get up and go outside and shake his fist at the moon and at my stupidity. In the middle of his outburst he began to recite a poem that moved him more than it did me, because within seconds of finishing the poem he was kissing my eyelids and cheering me with his words of kindness. He would do everything within his power to help. As he made these promises, the same promises seemed to deflate him. I left him muttering and picked my way back through the dark and the sleeping bodies to the bed we shared.