Gabriel's Gift by Hanif Kureishi Page A

bleak over there, didn’t you?’
    â€˜Christine!’ called a different voice.
    â€˜Who’s that?’
    â€˜Another friend.’
    â€˜Mum, couldn’t you go round to Dad’s and do some dusting?’
    â€˜Oh yes,’ she said sarcastically. ‘First thing in the morning. He’s got plenty of time on his hands, hasn’t he?’
    â€˜Don’t you want to see him?’
    â€˜Why should I?’
    â€˜He’s in bad shape.’ She said nothing. ‘I think he wants to see you.’
    She said, ‘He’s not working, is he?
    â€˜Not at the moment. He’s busy … thinking.’
    She pretended to choke. ‘He’s what?’
    Gabriel repeated, ‘Thinking things over.’
    â€˜Thinking! Ha, ha, ha!’ She was laughing hard. She repeated the word several times. ‘Thinking!’ Each time she said it she howled unnaturally.
    At last she picked up the picture. ‘I’m going to borrow this.’
    â€˜Mum –’
    â€˜I want to show it to my friends, d’you have any objection?’
    â€˜Dad’s helping me think what to do with it.’
    â€˜I bet he is,’ she said. ‘What suggestions does he have?’
    â€˜I don’t know yet.’
    â€˜He won’t be doing anything with it tonight, surely. Nor ever, if I have my way.’
    â€˜What?’
    She said, ‘Please let them look.’
    â€˜As long as they don’t breathe on it.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, these characters are hardly alive at all.’
    She took the picture and swept from the room.
    Gabriel put on his slippers and hurried out behind her.
    It was almost dark in the living room but Gabriel could see that his mother’s two friends were emptying bottles down their throats and the front of their shirts as rapidly as they could.
    The door to the little kitchen was open; Hannah’s flickering black and white television illuminated the outline of her solid peasant frame wrapped in a blanket.
    The two men were arguing.
    â€˜The thing is –’ one of them was saying.
    â€˜That’s not the case at all,’ the other was saying. ‘In fact you are talking complete crap –’
    â€˜I’m going to convince you, George.’ said the other, offering his fist. ‘Sit still and hear me out now,’
    Like a teacher addressing a group of school kids, Mum held the picture out.
    â€˜Look – you bums. Look at this. This is by Lester Jones, the pop star. I used to know him. I designed him a pair of flocked trousers. We called it his “Indian Restaurant” period.’
    â€˜But listen –’ said the man called George.
    â€˜I know exactly what you’re going to say,’ said the other. ‘And if you say it, I’ll fight to the death not to have to hear it –’
    Mum snapped the music off, cleared the ashtrays and glasses off the table, and laid the picture out.
    She pointed at Gabriel.
    â€˜This is him, my son.’
    One of the men said, ‘I’d forgotten you’d said you had one of those.’
    The other said, ‘What the hell is he wearing?’
    Mum said, ‘A kimono Never mind that. Now, Gabriel, Lester Jones drew this for you, isn’t that right?’
    â€˜Not entirely, Mum. Dad’s an old friend of Lester’s. Lester told me that Dad was one of the best musicians he played with. Dad created his sound, really. Lester had started the picture already and when Dad and I turned up –’
    â€˜All right, all right. You’re not giving a lecture at the Tate Gallery. Did you know, Lester Jones had me once,’ she said. ‘Years ago. I think he wanted to go out with me.’
    â€˜You should have married him,’ one of the men said.
    â€˜At least I wouldn’t have to buy my own drinks!’
    â€˜And you wouldn’t be hanging around with us,’ said the other man.
    â€˜Now,’ she said,