Intimacy by Hanif Kureishi Page A

through her journal. It’s dusty; she doesn’t keep it regularly, but only writes down the things she wants me to read. I glance over the passage in which she wrote, three years ago, of her lover, wondering if she should visit him in Rome. I could see through her lies and told her I would be glad if she went. I was always looking for opportunities to leave her.
    I return to my position on the sofa. I will smoke more of this, though it makes me feel I have been handed over for public accusation.
    ‘There you are.’
    I look up. I look away. I look back again. Susan is at the bottom of the stairs in her white T-shirt and white slippers, her face creased and puffy.
    She looks so white I could write on her.

Once, coming home at four
    *
    Once, coming home at four, having walked back from some teenage party, I found Mother downstairs in her floor-length stained dressing gown. Scattered on the floor were photographs of her as a young woman. In those old prints she was gawky and keen, with hair as long as mine, sandals, and a flowered dress. She was posed with men who had partings and ties, none of them Father.

Asif was marking papers
    *
    Asif was marking papers, surrounded by his alphabetically arranged books on philosophy, education and child development. On his desk were pictures of his wife and children. When he saw me this afternoon at his study door, with Najma standing concernedly behind me, he was alarmed. Perhaps I looked strained, or worse.
    ‘The children are well?’ was the first thing he asked.
    ‘Yes, yes.’
    He was relieved.
    We shook hands then.
    ‘And yours?’ I say.
    ‘Thank God, yes.’
    Najma said with a challenge in her eyes, ‘And Susan?’
    ‘Fine. She’s fine.’
    Asif looked at me enquiringly. I didn’t like disturbing his peace. I didn’t even know why I had come. I had been walking the streets since morning. Then I hailed a cab and told the driver Asif’s address. Perhaps because Victor is a recent convert to hedonism I required the other view.
    I said, ‘Can I speak to you?’
    Najma left us reluctantly and Asif exchanged his slippers for his outdoor shoes. I realised that he is getting fuller, and with his waistcoat pulled tight across his stomach, he looks older, more dignified and substantial.
    We walked in his garden. I noticed he kept looking up towards the conservatory where Najma was reading in a wicker chair. I fancied she was already condemning me.
    I said, ‘The house is full of poison. Susan wants me to be kind. I can’t be kind. We can do nothing for one another. It is a fact. I have decided to leave.’
    Asif said, ‘All couples fall out. Even Najma and –’
    I said, laughing suddenly, ‘But I remember.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Over the omelettes at breakfast. Before we went down to the pool – on holiday in Italy last year. Susan and I were civil to one another for hours at a stretch. But you two. The silences. The resentment. You couldn’t wait to get to that café where you and I could play table football alone.’
    ‘Fair enough. She and I disagree … at times.’ Then he said, ‘It is easy to turn away too soon. Why behasty? See what happens. I beg you to wait a year.’
    ‘I can’t wait another week. In fact I am off in the morning.’
    ‘Surely not? But a year is nothing at our age. Is it because of the girl?’
    I shrugged. ‘I don’t see her. I’ve lost her.’
    ‘Don’t – you are shivering.’ He put his arm around me. He said, ‘But you are following her in some way?’
    ‘If I could see the hair on her neck again, I could move outwards from that point. That would be the start, you see, of a new attitude.’
    ‘Her hair?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘It’s only that I didn’t realize men of our age could get so romantic.’
    I said, ‘Asif, no age is excluded from strong feeling.’
    He snorted. ‘What a pity you ever met her!’
    ‘Why do you insist on finding this risible?’
    ‘Perhaps I hate to see a man I respect, who is brave and dedicated