Gabriel's Gift by Hanif Kureishi Page B

‘look at it, you two.’
    Trying to be obedient, the two men attempted to focus on the picture, one of them busily rubbing his eyes for a clearer view.
    After a time one of them said, ‘What is it?’
    The other replied, ‘Never mind that –’
    â€˜He should stick to singing.’
    â€˜Look at it, for Christ’s sake,’ said Mum. ‘That’s all I’m asking you to do.’
    One man elbowed the other, to shut him up. They gazed at the picture mournfully, saying nothing until the glowing ash from one man’s cigarette dropped, like a desiccated leaf, onto the paper. Gabriel, who had been watching, leapt forward, flicking it away before it could mark the picture. The ash flew into the other man’s lap.
    He regretted it; the picture would have made a pretty conflagration. The fire might have caught him too. Mum would have had to put him out, wrapping him in sheets like a mummy. He would have had many restful weeks in bed. Why was it so pleasurable to think of destroying the most valuable things?
    â€˜OΚ,’ said his mother. ‘That’s enough! Another time!’ She turned to the men. ‘He’s talented, you know.’
    â€˜Lester can sing, no doubt about that. “Ha, ha said the clown!”’
    â€˜That’s not him,’ said the other man. Gabriel could smell the ash smouldering in the front of the man’s trousers. ‘That’s –’
    Mum said, ‘No, I mean Gabriel!’
    â€˜Who?’ said the man with the burning trousers. By now his eyes were wide and he was holding his crotch with one hand and flapping in it with the other.
    â€˜This boy – this boy right in front of you!’
    The men looked at Gabriel the apparition. Usually, when his mother became angry, Gabriel and his father grew afraid. But these men were unmoved and looked at her vacantly. Theyseemed to have taken something, not only alcohol, that made them not understand what was going on. This mystified Gabriel; he knew something about drugs – every kid did these days – but he still didn’t know why anyone would want to do this to themselves.
    She turned to Gabriel: ‘Hey, I’ve got an idea. Show them how talented you are! Will you draw us? Yes, all of us – here, now! Go and get your crayons and stuff. What a good idea!’
    â€˜I don’t feel like it, Mum. I’m tired and I’ve got school tomorrow! I should be in bed!’
    â€˜That’s the first time you’ve ever said that! Don’t be sulky.’
    â€˜Couldn’t I just sing “Consider Yourself”?’
    â€˜What for? We’ve got music here. Too good for us, are you, now that Lester has praised you?’
    â€˜Go on.’ said one of the men.
    The other man laughed. ‘Get a job, lad!’
    Gabriel went upstairs and fetched his things.
    When he came back he settled down in corner of the room, and soon his mother and her fuzzy-eyed friends, drinking, yelling and retiring to the bathroom to do something secret, seemed to forget him.
    He drew quickly, as he liked to now, in crayon, rubbing the colours together with his finger, to give the impression of the smoke-smudged room. For some reason the scene reminded him of an artist he liked, Toulouse-Lautrec, who had, by the age of sixteen, completed fifty paintings and three hundred drawings. Once Gabriel had recalled this, Lautrec’s was the style he worked in.
    After a time his mother remembered him. ‘Let’s have a look! Is it good?’
    She carried the sketchbook across the room and turned on a reading light.
    For some time she studied the picture of the tired, middle-aged, black-stockinged woman pulling her skirts up, while corpulent, self-important men in tight waistcoats looked on condescendingly.
    Standing next to her, Gabriel noticed she wasn’t wearing the Indian ring Dad had given her. It wasn’t a wedding ring – as bourgeois as