Between Cups of Coffee

  Between Cups of Coffee

  Tajalli Keshavarz

  Copyright © 2010 Tajalli Keshavarz

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  5 Weir Road

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1848765 009

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset in 11pt Aldine Roman by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To Jila

  ‘Meanwhile I talk to myself, as one who has plenty of time. No one tells me anything new; so I tell myself to myself.’

  Nietzsche

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  1

  It had rained heavily; I had time to think while walking slowly down the shiny alleyways with tall buildings on both sides. It was a short walk but when I got back to my flat I knew things were going to be different.

  I had bought milk, bread and paper. I was putting them on the kitchen table when there was a knock at the door. Carol came in with the usual expression on her face; stress. She had a light fabric skirt on with small pinkish flower patterns. She threw her bag on a chair and dropped into the chair next to her bag. It was a hot day.

  ‘I am going, have decided, going tomorrow. Have the ticket.’

  Had she bought the ticket weeks ago; now telling me about it? Perhaps she thought, in the little quiet times that she had, that I would be devastated, that I would pick up a big fight. I was thinking of the bulk of marking to do and how to organise my time to read the book I had wanted to finish for a long time.

  I said, ‘but why?’ I thought her bra was too tight, that the skin around the edge would be red. I thought of the feeling of liberation that releasing the bra will bring her.

  So she had planned her going away well in advance, perhaps months ago; all those times we were together she was thinking about leaving.

  I do have an admiration for women. I generalise but maybe I am entitled to. Women do things; men make a mess of things. Women make decisions and act on them, maybe slowly but they do. Their action is based on a conviction; they are – at least most of the time – convinced. Those women who have passed a couple of ‘interpersonal transactions’ are decisive, determined and nothing can stop them! Oh! I love this: ‘interpersonal transactions’! But men, they get into an animated state of affair, they have to prove things, to themselves more than anyone else, but all the same they have to prove.

  I look at Carol sitting in front of me with her hair sticky, with some drying sweat around her hairline. I imagine her walking in the heat, I am thinking about her and she is leaving me!

  I repeated:

  ‘But why? Why such a sudden urge?’

  ‘You knew it. Didn’t you? You should have at least guessed something was not right? Don’t tell me you knew nothing. I cannot believe such a blunt denial, not from you.’

  So, she was experienced! As if I did not know it. Could anything move her? She was always in a state of drama. No, not in the way you might think. I am not imposing a general view on her responses here. But she was always in trouble with something. This had a degree of attraction for me in the beginning. I guess this was the way I got attracted to her. When I think about it, I get absorbed in momentary cases. Momentary pictures, changing of the light, movement of a face, a profile, a short journey of hand to face, to hair, to a glass of wine; and then what? How would that glass be moved to the lips? How would it stay in one hand or be embraced in two hands, getting warmer and warmer while words pass by? Words that escape from the door of a small crowded café, words that remain inside, get repeated, rehearsed silence get heavier and then precipitate with a sudden impulse on the table between two faces.

  I remained silent. This was a question I did not want to answer; did not want to ask myself. I wasn’t sure if deep inside I did not wish her out; out of my life in spite of all those times we had spent together, apart from, I suppose, the good times talking: words to fill in gaps between events of the skin. As if it was a moral duty, not only for me – for both of us – to explain intimacy. But for me when her hand approached her shirt, the buttons opened one by one with a certainty that defied romantic scenarios, it was intimate. For me, it is a meaningful dialogue when a skirt loosens and falls, when a clip opens. It is a personal statement. But if I wanted her out, it was perhaps because her statements were just words put together to form idle, meaningless paragraphs. I could imagine her as a studious pupil in her childhood when her teacher would tell her to write a page a week because it would improve her composition.

  I said, ‘you haven’t left enough time for us, to spend at least a few days together.’

  ‘Did you want to?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She remained silent.

  ‘What time tomorrow?’ I asked.

  ‘The flight is at 2 p.m.’

  ‘So we have today and tomorrow…some of it at least…I hope.’ I said.

  ‘If you like. I have some chores to do though.’

  I had meetings the next morning. Well, they had to wait. Any hint about the meetings would create uproar:

  ‘You see, you pretend to miss me. You pretend to be shocked and upset about me leaving. All you think about is yourself!’

  I could not guess what there was behind her words; she was looking into her bag for something. I thought she was leaving and at least for the last hours I should be able to keep things calm, maybe more loving, at least for the l
ast hours. I said:

  ‘Would you like me to book Jasmine Leaf?’ it was the one that we used to go to when we felt upbeat.

  ‘OK’. She was standing next to the window. Perhaps she expected something else, an eruption, anger, sadness, perhaps even pleading. Then, she was gone. I thought last minute shopping!

  The restaurant was unusually quiet when I arrived. A couple of businessmen were sitting at a table in the corner. Nobody was at the bar. Three stems of small carnations in a small vase were sitting on a white tablecloth on each table. They had changed the decoration. On the wall, there were old drawings of game birds. The waiters were standing idle between the bar-stand and the door. I imagined that one of those loyal customers, a regular businessman, had bought the place to change the whole thing to his liking. Like those who marry a woman of certain type to make a better person of her. And look what happens: there are no customers; the place is like a funeral parlour. There was no similarity to the restaurant we used to go to.

  Then, she came in. I saw her as she came in through the door. She had a long scarf around her head with frills falling down over her right shoulder. As she saw me she touched the scarf. She did not seem to have noticed the changes, the drastic alteration of the décor, and the change of the background colour from that deep beige into very bright pink.

  ‘What would you like?’ I asked. She was looking at the empty tables around us.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Now she was removing her scarf.

  ‘What about the usual? Or you want to try something else?’

  Her hair was now hitting her shoulders, just, and only part of it. It was shorter in the front. A younger look? She did not need it. I thought now that she was leaving me she needed the confidence of being young. And who was it? Or maybe there was no one else? Why should there always be another person for an affair to end? The air is full of sentences:

  ‘Listen, we had a good time together, but…,’ ‘I have seen someone.’

  I thought that perhaps I like to convince myself that there is another person because if she left me for no-one else, then it would mean that she was bored with me; that I was no good at all, that she was so desperate she wanted to go at any cost.

  I looked at her as she was sitting there looking around. I was not sure if she had had her hair cut. When I first saw her, she had it curled and a pair of sun glasses was resting over her head. What did we talk about? I could not remember, nothing to remember. And now, what would I remember of this ‘year-long’ affair? I wasn’t sure what would excite her, what would move something in her. For me in this relationship, it was just fine to be together, even if it was for part of the time.

  The waiter was bringing the food and the restaurant wasn’t any busier. Only a couple of businessmen had come in. Where had all those people gone? I wished we were in a crowded place. We could sit together in peace without the lapses of silence which I could not fill in. There would be no questions, no excitement or anger, only eating! But why was I so defensive? These occasions have always been very embarrassing for me when people sit together face to face without a word. I would feel awkward even if there were five people sitting around silently saying nothing, expecting someone to break the silence.

  She was sitting there as though nothing had happened. It was she who came to me saying she was leaving. It was she who should have had something to say. But nothing was uttered now, no explanations, no excuses. ‘Good suggestion to come here,’ she said.

  How could it be good if she didn’t even detect the obvious changes to the restaurant? Whatever she said, it made her more distant from our past times together.

  I could picture her sitting on the bed with her bathrobe on, having one knee bent to be able to reach her toenail. Did I like bright red or dark, nearly black? I was standing by the window and the sun was shining into the room canvassing her fingers. ‘Red’, I said, ‘definitely red.’ Her eyes turned towards me.

  The businessmen in the corner were having a heated debate now. I could hear odd words. Tomorrow there was going to be an important meeting in their department. They disagreed about something. What was my programme? I was supposed to have a couple of meetings; one with a colleague and one with a student who wanted to change his course. Well, I was going to miss the meetings, something I had never done before. I also needed to put the final touches to a report I had been working on over the past year. Actually, I had started it the day after I met her and now I would finish it just after she left.

  ‘Don’t you want to drink that coffee? I didn’t know you liked it cold,’ she said.

  Now she was angry. Was she trying to say that she hadn’t been part of my life anyway? As if I cared!

  I say, ‘I don’t, I didn’t notice it coming.’ Now it was her turn to postulate. ‘Is he so much affected by my going that he missed the coffee coming?’ She smiles.

  ‘So when is your flight?’ I ask.

  ‘I told you. Tomorrow 2 p.m.’

  2

  The first time we flew together was two months after we met. She had her hair pulled back tightly, had a red top on and a pair of jeans. I was surprised to see her so agile, prepared and jolly. That was a trip full of agreement. Each word was absorbed, received with delightful acceptance on both sides. Then we returned and we started to treat each other with a sense of caution. I could understand why I felt that way, but I could not understand it from her side. Was I to be bothered? After all, when I should have bothered, I didn’t. I didn’t care at all. And that was in a totally different case. I say ‘case’. Sometimes I wonder about myself and my choice of words. As if they have come out of a redundant dictionary. Yes it had nothing to do with Carol. It was Kate our silent librarian with long rather dull hair.

  Kate had been with us for five years already and I had seen her on and off in the library, always in a rush returning a book or borrowing a journal. But it was that evening when I stayed longer to look up some references and needed her help. And I think that was the way it started. It all started slowly. I don’t think that either of us had any intentions of having a relationship. But it happened. I suppose we were a good match. A man in a hurry, always, and a calm and composed woman; one who had time to look at things, to read books, to see people, to walk to the sandwich shop slowly, and had decided what she wanted to have during her morning coffee. I always had to pause a second or two in the shop to decide on a sandwich, always momentary feeling or no feeling at all, very animated, just a chicken sandwich, that will do. A packet of crisps would change the taste if necessary. So it was interesting for us to go out to have dinner together to exchange ideas on topics.

  Carol is playing with her dessert. Piercing the chocolate with the tip of the spoon, spreading the cake on the plate making shapes. I wonder what Kate’s last meal had been, lying on the bed waiting. Assuming she had eaten the last several days before the final moment. It didn’t take long for her. Not at all. It was a case of going in and dying. Not exactly like that but pretty much so. It took just a week or two. I thought how very untypical of her. She was so thorough, patient, systematic. I thought she would fight it and come out calmly with her modest smile. But no! Perhaps she wanted to die systematically. And what did I do those two weeks and before that? Nothing. I did not see her in the hospital, I didn’t see her before that either; practically since she stopped coming to work. I assume she wore a tight scarf around her head, she didn’t like a wig. Perhaps she didn’t get to that stage. I could not imagine her with a wig. Had I gone and seen her, what could I have said? But then, I didn’t go. And that was that.

  Carol was in when the phone rang. I took the phone. ‘Kate is dead.’

  It was Elizabeth, the deputy head librarian.

  ‘I thought I should tell you. You might want to do something. They phoned me a minute ago from the hospital. They had tried to contact you as well but couldn’t find you. Apparently, they had found your name in Kate’s papers next to her bed.’

  Short and simple!


  ‘Are you a coffee or tea drinker?’ I asked.

  Kate had a light white shirt on and had cut her hair short.

  She laughed:

  ‘I do not discriminate.’

  She was jolly that day. We walked by the bank of the river and spent some time looking through the books at the outdoor stands with second-hand books.

  Lying on the bed I was looking through the book she had bought for me. When I looked up, I saw her shirt on the chair next to the bed. She was standing next to it. She leaned towards the shelf, took the candle holder with a long stem and blew off the small flame. As I was lying on the bed, I was looking at her body under the light of the two remaining candles next to each other. It was the first time I was seeing her skin in full. She moved towards me. It was a calm night. We were both silent throughout.

  Putting the phone down I kept my composure. Carol had a thin peach- coloured summer skirt, moving around bare feet in the kitchen, having an ice-cream, her fingers sticky. She was a sloppy eater. For me there was an erotic element in all that. I went to her and caressed her hair. She had that determined, yet attractive, look in her eyes. I continued my caress.

  I would never know what was behind that look. Was it saying: ‘well, this is yet another chore to get over and done with’ or, ‘he thinks that he is in charge, but this is my call.’ Now that I think about it, I question the element of attraction in all that; I don’t go as far as to say ‘love’ was behind that attraction. Was it a power game? I do not see myself as a man who seeks power against women. But maybe I am wrong to think this. After all, what about my mother? After all those years of submission as a child, as a young boy, don’t I want secretly to prove myself to a woman? A woman who is cunningly inviting me to submit to her? Albeit in a predictable manner? But all the designs are essentially the same throughout the years; all different shapes of the sticky fingers and the bare feet. How many of them are working on the same principle at this moment around the world?… And the obvious thing is that by their nature, they are designed to look innocent, innocent secrets! Keep them if you wish, avoid being obvious. Exactly contrary to men who are so obvious in their physiological responses that I doubt if a single man could do anything in his life that could go unnoticed by a woman who chooses not to ignore it.