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Authors: Hanif Kureishi
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said.
‘The musicians are only reading the notes. It’s not music, it’s map-reading.’
‘How many of us can do that? It’s better that people don’t foist their original attempts on the public. Don’t forget for years I went to gigs every night. It’s funny, I couldn’t wait to get home and play something quiet by the Isley Brothers.’
He laughed and waved at a man. ‘How was your holiday?’ someone called. ‘And the builders?’
‘These people recognise you‚’ she said. ‘I suppose they are the sort to read. Insomnia would be their only problem.’
He laughed and put his face up to the sun. ‘They know me as the man with the only infant in the park who wears a leather jacket.’
She let him sit, but they were both waiting.
She leaned forward. ‘After trying to avoid me, what made you want to see me today?’
‘Lolly – you spoke to her on the phone – has gone to look at a place we’ve bought in Wiltshire.’
‘You’ve joined the aristocracy?’
‘Not a wet-dog-and-bad-pictures country house. A London house in a field. For the first time in ages I had a spare afternoon.’ He said, ‘What is it you want?’
‘It wasn’t to bother you, though it must have seemed like that.’ She looked at him with concentration and sincerity. ‘Do you want a fag?’
‘I’ve given up.’
She lit her cigarette and said, ‘I don’t want to be eradicated from your life – cancelled, wiped out.’
He sighed. ‘I was thinking the other day that I would never like my parents again, not in the way I did. There are no real reasons for anything, we just fall in and out of love with things – thank God.’
‘I would accept that, if you hadn’t written about me.’
‘Did I?’
‘In your second novel, published two and a half years ago.’ She looked at him but he said nothing. ‘Nick, I believed, at the time we were seeing one another – two years before – we were living some kind of life together in privacy.’
‘Living together?’
‘You slept at my place, and me at yours. Didn’t we see each other every day? Didn’t we think about one another quite a lot?’
‘Yes‚’ he said. ‘We did do that.’
She said, ‘Nick, you used my sexual stuff. What I like up my cunt.’
He lowered his voice. ‘The Croatian version of the book has come out. It has been translated into ten languages. Who’s going to recognise your hairy flaps or my broth of a stomach and withered buttocks?’
‘I do. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Who says it’s your cunt? Sometimes a cunt –’
She rubbed her face with her hand. ‘Don’t start. The cunt in the book is called ME – Middle England. Those who enter it, of whom there seem to be an unnecessary number, and pretty grotesque they are too, are known as Middle Englanders. We –’
‘It was always my joke.’
‘Our joke.’
‘All right.’
‘I thought it would stop disturbing me. But it didn’t go away. I feel abused by you, Nick.’
‘That wouldn’t be the origin of that feeling.’
‘No, as you pointed out in the book, when my father was away lecturing, my mother did unwelcome things to me.’
He said, ‘Most of the women I’ve met have been sexually abused. If some women are afraid of men, or hate them, isn’t it going to start there?’
She wasn’t listening. She had plenty to say; he let her continue.
She said, ‘When I saw you the first time I was impressed. Writers are supposed to feel and know. They’re wise, with enough honesty, bravery and conscience for us all. Now I’m upset that you saw me as you did. Upset you wrote it down.Would you say anything, expose anyone, provided it served your purpose? If you only believe in your own advantage you would have to agree that that is a miserable place to have ended up.’ She picked up her cigarettes and threw them down. ‘Why didn’t you make the woman strong?’
‘Who is strong? Hitler? Florence Nightingale? Thatcher? She wishes to be strong, impervious to human
‘The musicians are only reading the notes. It’s not music, it’s map-reading.’
‘How many of us can do that? It’s better that people don’t foist their original attempts on the public. Don’t forget for years I went to gigs every night. It’s funny, I couldn’t wait to get home and play something quiet by the Isley Brothers.’
He laughed and waved at a man. ‘How was your holiday?’ someone called. ‘And the builders?’
‘These people recognise you‚’ she said. ‘I suppose they are the sort to read. Insomnia would be their only problem.’
He laughed and put his face up to the sun. ‘They know me as the man with the only infant in the park who wears a leather jacket.’
She let him sit, but they were both waiting.
She leaned forward. ‘After trying to avoid me, what made you want to see me today?’
‘Lolly – you spoke to her on the phone – has gone to look at a place we’ve bought in Wiltshire.’
‘You’ve joined the aristocracy?’
‘Not a wet-dog-and-bad-pictures country house. A London house in a field. For the first time in ages I had a spare afternoon.’ He said, ‘What is it you want?’
‘It wasn’t to bother you, though it must have seemed like that.’ She looked at him with concentration and sincerity. ‘Do you want a fag?’
‘I’ve given up.’
She lit her cigarette and said, ‘I don’t want to be eradicated from your life – cancelled, wiped out.’
He sighed. ‘I was thinking the other day that I would never like my parents again, not in the way I did. There are no real reasons for anything, we just fall in and out of love with things – thank God.’
‘I would accept that, if you hadn’t written about me.’
‘Did I?’
‘In your second novel, published two and a half years ago.’ She looked at him but he said nothing. ‘Nick, I believed, at the time we were seeing one another – two years before – we were living some kind of life together in privacy.’
‘Living together?’
‘You slept at my place, and me at yours. Didn’t we see each other every day? Didn’t we think about one another quite a lot?’
‘Yes‚’ he said. ‘We did do that.’
She said, ‘Nick, you used my sexual stuff. What I like up my cunt.’
He lowered his voice. ‘The Croatian version of the book has come out. It has been translated into ten languages. Who’s going to recognise your hairy flaps or my broth of a stomach and withered buttocks?’
‘I do. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Who says it’s your cunt? Sometimes a cunt –’
She rubbed her face with her hand. ‘Don’t start. The cunt in the book is called ME – Middle England. Those who enter it, of whom there seem to be an unnecessary number, and pretty grotesque they are too, are known as Middle Englanders. We –’
‘It was always my joke.’
‘Our joke.’
‘All right.’
‘I thought it would stop disturbing me. But it didn’t go away. I feel abused by you, Nick.’
‘That wouldn’t be the origin of that feeling.’
‘No, as you pointed out in the book, when my father was away lecturing, my mother did unwelcome things to me.’
He said, ‘Most of the women I’ve met have been sexually abused. If some women are afraid of men, or hate them, isn’t it going to start there?’
She wasn’t listening. She had plenty to say; he let her continue.
She said, ‘When I saw you the first time I was impressed. Writers are supposed to feel and know. They’re wise, with enough honesty, bravery and conscience for us all. Now I’m upset that you saw me as you did. Upset you wrote it down.Would you say anything, expose anyone, provided it served your purpose? If you only believe in your own advantage you would have to agree that that is a miserable place to have ended up.’ She picked up her cigarettes and threw them down. ‘Why didn’t you make the woman strong?’
‘Who is strong? Hitler? Florence Nightingale? Thatcher? She wishes to be strong, impervious to human
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