Porky (24 page)

Not that he was chatting me up now. I looked at his card. He was called Ahmed something, but once I got to know him I liked calling him Ali, him being a Pakistani. You know, Ali Baba. Anyway, it's better that none of you know his real name.

His father ran a shipping firm, he said. He'd joined it and he did a lot of business in the Middle East. He didn't brag about how sophisticated he was, what a hot shot, which impressed me. He was my age; most of the men I met were older. He talked a lot about his father, and his family; they were obviously close.

‘You live at home?' I asked.

‘Oh yes. And yourself?'

‘When I'm in England.'

‘The best place . . . I'm right? Home is where the heart is. At least, in my country it is.' There were damp rings on the glass table. He ran his finger across them. ‘I admire my father very much . . . He's a wonderful man. I do so hope, Heather . . . that you will meet him.'

I rubbed the table with my damp finger, thinking how I'd describe my own Dad.

I usually threw away cards, but I kept his, with his office and residence addresses. After all, I hadn't got to know him yet. All we'd done was shake hands in the lobby of my hotel.

Two weeks later I saw him again. It was March; sleet blew into my face as I climbed into my Mini. The yard was slushy from last week's snow; Dad hadn't bothered to sweep it. Closing the door, each trip, I closed away England. From now on it would be corridors and lounges, heated and odourless, with no demands on me except the easy, automatic ones. I would know no weather for fourteen hours, until I stepped off the plane. When I arrived there, home would have dissolved away; and when I was back home, all those cities dissolved away too. You can see the appeal of my job.

I saw him in Karachi and he fell in love with me. Actually, the scent was there at our first meeting, though you would hardly have believed it from the conversation. He had dark, liquid eyes; he looked as startled and pure as a woodland creature. I gazed at his slender brown wrists, covered in hair.

He said, ‘I want to show you everything beautiful in my city.'

I wanted to shut my eyes tight. I wanted to slip my hand inside his white shirt and to feel the warm, smooth skin in there. Oh yes, I'd felt like this before, but I wasn't prepared for the effect upon him.

He'd been brought up so religious, you see. The first place he took me was the Quaid-i-Azam's Mazar. The Kaidi What? I asked. It's the tomb of our Founder, he replied, the Founder of Pakistan. His driver took us there in a beige Mercedes. Ali talked about the Muslim State; in front, the driver's shoulders set themselves squarer, in pride. I sat in the back, within touching distance of Ali. I was heated by the sun, and lust.

The tomb was an ugly modern thing in the middle of a roundabout. He talked about Islam, and what it meant to him. When he couldn't think of a word he rubbed the side of his nose. I was trying to work out why his scarred skin made him even more attractive. I suppose it stopped him being perfect; it made him vulnerable. He was marked by his youth. On most faces the past doesn't show . . . most people can cover it up.

His family meant a lot to him. He was the only son. He had two sisters and he was worried about their education. There were endless cousins too, and uncles; his life seemed to be one long series of weddings and family reunions. His upbringing sounded the opposite of mine. That family was the centre of his life . . . Until he met me.

I was just laying-over for two days. We went on a boat-trip with his sisters and some girls from Am-Air; we scarcely talked, alone. The next day I was to meet him at the Gymkhana Club. He'd asked me for a game of tennis but I can't play tennis, nobody's taught me, so I said I'd join him later. In fact, I arrived early to get a glimpse of his legs. He was playing with three older men, all of them drenched with sweat. They shouted to each other, laughing, ‘You rascal! . . . You rapscallian!' His legs were all I'd hoped; the hairs painted on them like seaweed in the current.

Afterwards we all shook hands. Two were uncles and one was his father. We sat at a table, drinking Seven-Up. The men sucked their straws; with their fizzy drinks they looked as innocent as children.

‘Don't trust him,' they said proudly, ‘he's a terrible sport.'

The father put his arm around Ali, fondly. The portly one gave him a mock punch in the ribs. Under the milky sky I felt the old envy rise, catching in my throat. I thought I was immune by now.

They turned to me, from their charmed circle, and were polite.

‘Your parents must be proud of you, jet-setting round the world.'

‘Oh yes,' I agreed.

‘But I expect you're glad to get home. To the roast beef of old England . . . Not forgetting the Yorkshire pudding. Your father's in business?'

Yes: the betting and boozing business. ‘Haulage.'

I said to myself, ‘And pig-breeding.' Just so I could imagine their faces. You can't even mention pigs in front of Muslims; they'd probably faint.

‘If he ever travels this way, on his business, we would consider it a great pleasure to show him our city.'

He's lucky to get farther than Slough. I made these silent replies so often, nowadays, that people were calling me enigmatic.

Ali sent roses to my room, but so far the only moves he'd made had been floral ones. We were in company most of the time, either with crew members – my own temporary and forgettable family – or his retinue of relatives and his driver.

One of us must do something. He was too well-bred for me to know his feelings. Perhaps he thought I was even more well-bred, being English. I'd hoped that my being an air hostess would stop these polite thoughts; most foreigners weren't troubled with them.

On my last evening he drove me back to the hotel. In the car park he switched off the engine. You know the moment . . . By this time most men are loosened by alcohol, which helps.

At least he smoked. He lit a cigarette.

‘And tomorrow you'll be gone,' he said in a low voice.

‘Gone to London.'

Sleeping cars lay on either side; ahead stood stiff rows of flowers, bright in the spotlights.

‘I can't begin to tell you how happy I've been, these last two days . . .' Smoke wreathed his face. ‘In your company, Heather.'

A silence. Several cars away a door slammed.

‘You must hate this damned smoking.'

‘I don't mind. I'm used to it.'

‘I can't . . . Oh, I don't know what to say.' He paused. ‘I wish you weren't leaving.'

‘I'm here now. I'm not gone yet.'

Approaching footsteps. Two men were passing our car; they carried briefcases and they spoke in loud English voices: ‘. . . so she phones up', said one, ‘to tell me the bloody gerbil's died.'

We waited, watching them walk into the hotel.

‘I suppose this is goodbye,' he said.

I rested my head on the back of the seat. ‘For a while.'

In a lower voice he said, ‘I can't bear you to go.'

I turned. ‘Can't you?'

‘I can't bear it . . . I . . .'

I moved towards him. He took my face in his hands and kissed my mouth, hesitantly. I was released, like a coiled spring; the old blindness rose up. I grabbed him.

It lasted for a long time. Then he drew back, shakily, and kissed my eyes and my cheeks; I put my hand inside his shirt, at last, and felt his lovely hard chest. I stroked the hairs; I ran my hand over his shoulder, feeling its smoothness. He was trembling, he wanted me so much. My mouth was dry; I couldn't swallow.

I whispered, ‘Don't leave me tonight.'

We kissed again, and finally we managed to get out of the car. Dazed, we made our way into the hotel and along the lobby. My legs were so weak that I had to lean against him. We stood at the lift . . . his shirt was unbuttoned but he didn't notice. I always feel superstitious, at lifts. If the lift arrives soon, its arrow pinging, then it will be all right. This time it did. We stood there suspended like waxworks as the lift rose.

I fumbled my door open and slammed it shut. Then we were down on the bed, struggling.

‘I love you,' he said. ‘Heather, I can't believe this . . . Let me look at you.'

‘No.'

I gripped him between my thighs. I'd got his shirt off now and his skin . . . oh, its smell . . . I was rubbing my nose against it.

‘I mustn't do this . . . Heather –'

‘Come on,' I crooned, unbuckling his belt.

‘I shouldn't – please, my darling, please stop me –'

‘No,' I hissed in his ear.

‘We mustn't – not yet.'

‘Yes – now!'

‘You see, I love you. Do you understand? I've been wanting to tell you, all this time . . . I didn't dare say it – don't –'

I was licking his chest . . . the salty skin. My tongue stroked him. I grappled with his zip.

‘Ever since that party . . . those stupid people all round you –'

I silenced him. He couldn't speak now. I silenced him with my mouth, pulling him into me until I was filled. Greedily I explored his mouth; greedily I arched and fell with him, gripping him, damp with sweat, my legs tightening around him. There was a high humming in my ears, like telegraph wires singing in the wind, higher and higher.

He was so passionate. His face was wet with tears, from wanting me so much. Cries came from deep inside him, as if his soul was being dragged up in pain. My face was wet from his kisses; he couldn't stop kissing me . . . we opened our mouths so wide it seemed our faces must split.

We rolled over and fell on to the floor, bumping my hip. The counterpane was pulled down, tangled in our legs. I giggled but he didn't; there was nothing light-hearted about him. We were jammed against the table; its lamp rattled, in rhythm . . . the wires in my head hummed higher.

Miraculously, we finished together. Afterwards he lay holding me tightly, for a long time. I had no idea what he was thinking; his intensity had shaken me. We lay there, skin to skin; he didn't relax. I wondered if I should get us a glass of water.

Minutes passed. Finally he unstuck himself from me, gently, and removed the counterpane as if tenderly unwrapping a parcel. He gazed at me; his dark eyes were like two sorrowful pools.

‘We shouldn't have done that,' he said.

‘Why not?'

His voice was high and tight. ‘Just . . . so very soon . . . too soon.'

He started stroking me, still in a sad way. He stroked every inch of me, gazing at my body. I was used to this, as you probably are . . . a lazy itemization . . . a sated inspection of the goods. But the expression on his face wasn't like that. It was tragic, and reverent. He pulled down a pillow and put it under my head, to make me comfortable.

Finally he got up and put on his underpants. There was a thud and a giggle from the next room. He sat on the bed.

‘Want a Polo?' I asked.

He put his head in his hands. ‘No thank you.' I fished for the Polos, on the table behind me, and took one. Sucking it, I watched him. He sat there, slumped. I gazed at his walnut body and white briefs.

Then he said, ‘Did that mean anything?'

I looked at him, startled. ‘What?'

‘I just have a feeling . . . that I wasn't quite reaching you.'

I paused. ‘Really?'

He lifted his head and gazed at me, stricken. ‘I love you so much, you see . . . I love you so much, Heather, that it frightens me.'

TWO WEEKS LATER
a letter arrived. I read it in the Tesco car park; I preferred reading letters in my Mini. The back seat was heaped with carrier bags. Dad was useless at shopping, and Mum was at work.

It was a sunny Saturday. I wound down the window. Beyond the fence was the recreation ground, and the squeak of the seesaw.

My darling Heather,

Your departure has shattered me. It's as if half of myself has been torn away. Those two days with you have changed my life for good. Existence before I met you – all twenty-one years of it – has become irrelevant. I told you it's frightening, didn't I? And now, life without you is meaningless too. I open my mouth to talk to people – why? I eat, I work, and I can't see any reason for it. Believe me, I've never felt anything like this for any human being. I can't be careful and cool about it, there's no point disguising my words. I tell myself that you can't possibly feel the same, it would be a miracle if you did, but I would be quite happy if, some day, you just felt a fraction of what I feel for you. Do I dare hope?

I can't concentrate, I can't work, I just remember the scent of your hair. I close my eyes and try to picture your face. If only I had a photo. I go over those two enchanted days again and again, trying to find some moment that I've overlooked. Just now I had a wonderful surprise – I remembered the government shop, and we were looking at handbags and you leant over and said, ‘It's such a relief, not having your driver staring.' I remember how happy I felt then. I remember, over and over, what happened that last memorable night. Those words I said: will you forget them? I behaved badly, please forgive me.

I can't exist without you. I must see you. Even being in the same city would help – even if I only saw you sometimes. Please, will you write and tell me whether you will be angry if I come to London?

And please, one more thing, will you tell me exactly what you're doing and what you're wearing, while (IF?) you write to me?

All my love, my darling, in hope

Your Ali

A cracking of branches. It was Teddy and his friends, bashing through the undergrowth. I sat in the car, holding the flimsy blue letter. Teddy stopped, and said to them loudly,

‘I kiss my girlfriend's tits before I go to sleep.'

They stood, switching at the bushes aimlessly. Teddy was eight now, and turning into a real thug.