the logic of dreams it made sense that my left side was human because that was where my heart was. In the logic of dreams I was not embarrassed that I was naked, nor that a part of me was inhuman. With my left hand I ran my fingers over a pattern of scales on my right shoulder, ridges of shell, leathery grooves. In the logic of dreams what perplexed me the most was that I had split vertically rather than horizontally. It was natural to be like a centaur or a sphinx; it was usual to have a full human head. But I had failed; I had morphed into somethingcompletely different. A man was coming behind me and I was reluctant to turn around. Below me was a sheer drop into rocks and burning forests. I lost my balance and jerked awake.
I sat up and remembered Tony’s message. I fished in my pocket for my mobile and realised that it was going to be a real nuisance not to have it. I could not remember Tony’s number off the top of my head. This was the result of years just pressing a button, instead of dialling. Of course there were other ways of getting hold of it and most likely I had scribbled it down in an old Filofax. But I wanted to hear that news from Khartoum. And how exactly had it reached Tony? Maybe Grusha, my mother’s friend, had called him. The news would be about my father – who else? I put the vacuum cleaner on and tried to remember Tony’s home number, the number I used to call Mum on all these years. 01224 was the code but the number itself was muddled.
When I went downstairs, Malak was locked in the same spot, her knees bunched up, her face expressionless. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded strange. An accent had crept in. Shock did that to people, it hurtled them back to their mother tongue. ‘They took the sword,’ she said.
‘They took every CD you have. They took my mobile phone and my laptop.’
‘I am sorry, Natasha. I hope you will get your things back soon.’
Tears came to my eyes. I wanted to speak to her like I had never spoken to anyone before. Instead I said, ‘I have to go.’
‘Can’t you stay a little longer?’ she whispered. She looked pathetic huddled in her shawl. She stood up and for the smallest fraction of a second, lost her balance and then regained it again. That wobble added years to her age, a slip-up as if she had been acting all the time, playing the role of a London actor, a glamorous woman of the world and now this was her real self. One of those who don’t matter, who shuffle down the street, reeking of failure if not trouble, suspect and unwanted. One of those people I never wanted to be seen with. She said, ‘Let’s make a pot of tea, shall we?’
Weren’t these the words I had longed to hear? Where did I have to go that was better than here? But the warning said get away, don’t get dragged further into this – it’s bad enough that you’re already involved; save your skin. I recognised this pragmatism, these tropes of survival. It made me grab my coat and head towards the door. Malak stood up and followed me. Her movements were slow and tentative; she was not herself. In a high querulous voice she repeated, ‘It’s all a mistake. They’ve made a mistake. They’ve got the wrong person I’m sure.’
I didn’t allow myself to speak, I didn’t look at her. Guilty, I got into the car and drove straight to work.
2. G EORGIA , J ULY 1854
She walked through grass that reached her waist. It tickled her arms and almost covered Alexander to the brim of his straw summer hat. He let go of her hand and ran in the direction of the soldier galloping towards them. Anna opened her mouth to call him back then closed it again; she shaded her eyes from the sun. These maternal flickers of anxiety flared with varying degrees of intensity through every stage of his life. Sometimes they were justified, often they weren’t, but cats had nine lives and children didn’t. What if the soldier didn’t see Alexander or Alexander didn’t stop running early enough? At
I sat up and remembered Tony’s message. I fished in my pocket for my mobile and realised that it was going to be a real nuisance not to have it. I could not remember Tony’s number off the top of my head. This was the result of years just pressing a button, instead of dialling. Of course there were other ways of getting hold of it and most likely I had scribbled it down in an old Filofax. But I wanted to hear that news from Khartoum. And how exactly had it reached Tony? Maybe Grusha, my mother’s friend, had called him. The news would be about my father – who else? I put the vacuum cleaner on and tried to remember Tony’s home number, the number I used to call Mum on all these years. 01224 was the code but the number itself was muddled.
When I went downstairs, Malak was locked in the same spot, her knees bunched up, her face expressionless. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded strange. An accent had crept in. Shock did that to people, it hurtled them back to their mother tongue. ‘They took the sword,’ she said.
‘They took every CD you have. They took my mobile phone and my laptop.’
‘I am sorry, Natasha. I hope you will get your things back soon.’
Tears came to my eyes. I wanted to speak to her like I had never spoken to anyone before. Instead I said, ‘I have to go.’
‘Can’t you stay a little longer?’ she whispered. She looked pathetic huddled in her shawl. She stood up and for the smallest fraction of a second, lost her balance and then regained it again. That wobble added years to her age, a slip-up as if she had been acting all the time, playing the role of a London actor, a glamorous woman of the world and now this was her real self. One of those who don’t matter, who shuffle down the street, reeking of failure if not trouble, suspect and unwanted. One of those people I never wanted to be seen with. She said, ‘Let’s make a pot of tea, shall we?’
Weren’t these the words I had longed to hear? Where did I have to go that was better than here? But the warning said get away, don’t get dragged further into this – it’s bad enough that you’re already involved; save your skin. I recognised this pragmatism, these tropes of survival. It made me grab my coat and head towards the door. Malak stood up and followed me. Her movements were slow and tentative; she was not herself. In a high querulous voice she repeated, ‘It’s all a mistake. They’ve made a mistake. They’ve got the wrong person I’m sure.’
I didn’t allow myself to speak, I didn’t look at her. Guilty, I got into the car and drove straight to work.
2. G EORGIA , J ULY 1854
She walked through grass that reached her waist. It tickled her arms and almost covered Alexander to the brim of his straw summer hat. He let go of her hand and ran in the direction of the soldier galloping towards them. Anna opened her mouth to call him back then closed it again; she shaded her eyes from the sun. These maternal flickers of anxiety flared with varying degrees of intensity through every stage of his life. Sometimes they were justified, often they weren’t, but cats had nine lives and children didn’t. What if the soldier didn’t see Alexander or Alexander didn’t stop running early enough? At
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