Read Online Damascus by Richard Beard - Free Book Online Page B

Apparently today is the only day I have left.’
    Mr Mitsui asked testily, in Japanese, if they could speak Japanese now, but Henry replied in English that he preferred to speak his mother-tongue. He then fiddled with the fascinating controls of his telephone before eventually managing to ask how she was. In Japanese, his mother was fine, although recovering only slowly. She sometimes had nightmares.
    â€˜Does she want to see me?’
    Henry’s father said he didn’t know, and Henry unexpectedly felt sorry for him. He was always trying to do the right thing which meant that he was usually unhappy. When Dr Osawa had suggested, more than two years ago, that Henry could profitably spend some time studying abroad, his father had immediately set about organising a place at Trinity College Oxford or Sidney Sussex Cambridge or somewhere sounding equally grand. But Henry had explored the edges of a major tantrum (nervous breakdown) until his father gave way and allowed him to follow a distance-learning course. This meant that he could always be someone and somewhere else, travelling tirelessly round the country making his telephone calls and sending in his essays on
British Culture and Society, The British Detective Novel, An Introduction to British Birds and Trees
, or
The Kings and Queens of Britain
. For nearly two years he’d phoned Miss Burns at least twice a week until she became the fixed point of his nomadic life. She calmly answered all his questions, sometimes praised his written work, and gradually convinced him there was nothing she didn’t know.
    â€˜You realise you’re not allowed to stay here?’ his father asked. He repeated it, more quietly, to be sure that Henry understood. ‘You do understand, don’t you?’
    â€˜Mum’s British.’
    â€˜She’s Australian.’
    â€˜She told me a quarter Irish a quarter English a quarter Welsh a quarter Scots.’
    â€˜She has an Australian passport. Listen to me, Henry. You were allowed to stay while you were a student, but now you have your diploma you’re not a student any more and you’re not allowed to stay. Do you understand?’
    Henry blamed it on Europe. If Britain hadn’t signed any treaties he was sure he’d be allowed to stay because his mother was practically English. He spoke the language perfectly. He’d even promise to work like a Trojan so they wouldn’t close the door on him.
    â€˜Henry, I’m your father. I want what’s best for you. I’ve come all the way from Tokyo. I’m a design consultant with a multinational company and I have experience. I can see that you’re tense, like you were before, and we don’t want anyone to get hurt, do we?’
    â€˜You mean you don’t want me to get you into any more trouble.’
    â€˜I want what’s best for you. We can spend the day at the Getty exhibition. Yes?’
    Henry fingered the plastic envelope of powder which he’d transferred to his trouser pocket. It was about the size of a sugar sachet and he liked to have it on his person at all times, for reassurance. It gave him a sense of power. It was a key to sudden change, and therefore real life.
    'It’s at the Royal Academy,’ his father added. ‘Not that far from here.’
    'I’m in love.’
    Mr Mitsui stared past Henry’s shoulder, finding it as difficult now as always to resign himself to how closely the son resembled the mother. He wondered if it could ever have been any different.
    â€˜We’re going to be engaged,’ Henry said.
    â€˜Congratulations, Henry. We’re leaving this evening.’
    â€˜Then I’d best ask her today, hadn’t I? I’ll ring her up, right now.’
    Henry picked up the phone and keyed in the digits. There was an answer, and Henry nodded sagely for the benefit of his father as a woman’s voice in his ear said:
    â€˜Mr Mitsui?’
    No matter how many times