Is this a crisis of faith? Gene asks, mock-seriously, peering down at his watch. Because Evening Service starts in approximately two minutes.
Sheila frowns but says nothing. She reaches out and grabs a third plate.
Whats that thing youre always quoting at Mallory? He tries his best to pep-talk her. You know that weirdly sadistic thing about God always testing the people he loves best the hardest?
After a long pause in which she dries the third plate with a spectacular level of thoroughness, Sheila finally rouses herself to answer him: For he maketh His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sendeth rain on the just and the unjust, she suggests.
Uh, no, Gene demurs.
The inestimable treasure of tribulation, she second guesses.
There you have it. He nods, gratified.
So I suppose by my own warped logic that I must be incredibly blessed right now
She smiles over at him, brightly, then places the third plate on top of the other two. I must be tremendously blessed, stupendously blessed.
Is that a roundabout way of saying youre depressed? Gene wonders, concerned.
Uh She ponders this for a while. Lets change the subject, shall we?
He stares at her, uncertain whether to do as she asks. Her mouth is slowly turning down at its corners. Her jaw is tightening. Her nostrils begin to flare.
Let me finish off the drying, he murmurs, reaching out his hand for the cloth.
Its almost done, now, she sniffs, glancing up at the ceiling as if to preclude any unwanted accumulation of excess moisture in her eyes.
Dyou know anything about agoraphobia? he promptly demands (keen not to precipitate a total breakdown directly before Evening Service). Is it a curable condition? Didnt you counsel a parishioner with it at one stage?
Agoraphobia?
She struggles to focus. Uh
I met this young woman today
Fear of the marketplace, Sheila butts in (pulling herself together with what appears to be a mammoth amount of effort).
Sorry?
Agora She grabs another cereal bowl. Its the Greek for marketplace. Agora-phobia: a fear of the marketplace.
Sorry?
Agora She grabs another cereal bowl. Its the Greek for marketplace. Agora-phobia: a fear of the marketplace.
I see. Gene is nonplussed.
There was a woman I visited while I was in training up in Sheffield. Her name was She thinks hard for a second as she looks down at the cereal bowl then notices a small food remnant still gracing its rim. Nina. Late thirties, early forties, unhappily married. Her husband was incredibly overbearing. Didnt take the condition seriously just thought it was yet more evidence of a basic lack of moral fibre She places the bowl back into the sink, and then stares, glumly, through the window. I think it was him who got the church involved, although it wasnt an especially successful manoeuvre. She just really seemed to resent it.
Sheila raises a hand to her face but Gene cannot tell from the rear if shes moving aside a strand of hair or wiping away a tear with it. Not my greatest piece of Community Outreach work, as I recollect.
Her voice starts to shake a little.
This woman I met today this agoraphobic Gene is about to confide in her about the meeting with Valentine (the broken meter, the strange bruise), but then in the light of the whole Stan farrago he suddenly thinks better of it and falls silent.
This woman you met today Sheila prompts him.
Uh Yeah. Shed done something really strange to herself, Gene improvises.
Really?
Sheila glances over her shoulder at him, her powerful, dark eyes dulled with a profound indifference.
Shed tattooed a brick on to her leg, Gene expands. Several bricks. Incredibly lifelike
Bricks? Sheila echoes, blankly.
Shes an artist. It was some kind of an art statement, I suppose. She showed me this photograph. It was really beautifully taken
Ah
Her eyes suddenly glimmer with a momentary show of engagement. Women Who Marry Houses, she muses.
Women who ?
Sheila returns the tea towel to its hook.
Its the title of a book I salvaged from the church jumble a couple of years back. Looked intriguing. There was a quote on the title page by Anne Sexton one of the women poets I wrote my dissertation on at Oxford She picks up the four, dry plates and places them into a cupboard. It went something along the lines of She frowns as she struggles to recall it: Women marry houses. Its another kind of skin.
She shrugs. An odd concept, really, but its always stuck with me for some reason.
Gene gazes at her as she speaks slowly drinking in her ragged fringe, her deep frown lines, an area of inflammation in the centre of her right cheek, a suggestion of staining on one of her front teeth and suddenly feels an incredibly powerful rush of emotion towards her.
Youre amazing, he says, his voice low and unexpectedly guttural. So bloody wise.
She turns to look at him, shocked.
Dont be ridiculous! she snaps, then pats him on the shoulder, straight after, almost as an afterthought, before heading off, morosely, to Evening Service.
Im sorry Valentine stares at her brother, her cheeks flushing, her expression one of complete bewilderment. What kind of therapist did you say he was, exactly?
Noel turns to the small, rotund, beetle-browed Asian man currently perched on their sofa and says, What kind of therapist did you say you were?
What kind? Hmmn. Well, I suppose in the current vernacular you might call me a jack of all trades, he says, amiably.
Karim was recommended by Salvatore at the daycare centre, Noel fills in. He works with three was it three? He looks to Karim for confirmation and Karim nods. Three, yes.
Three of the other patients. Salvatore says he works magic, that hes a genius.
Karim merely flaps his hand, modestly, at Noels compliments. He is wearing a pair of thin, white cotton trousers which finish some distance above his beige socks and brown sandals, a long, white cotton smock, with a light, grey cotton waistcoat over the top (its small, front pockets bulging with various paraphernalia). His hair curls behind his ears and he has a short, neat, prematurely greying beard but no moustache.
The Arabic translation of Karim, he volunteers, is the generous one.
He raises his eyes heavenward. I believe that I have been given my many gifts by Almighty God, and that it is Gods will for me to share them generously. So here I am, today he shrugs sharing them with you and your charming family.
As he finishes speaking his gaze moves from the statue of the Virgin Mary to the picture of Kali on the shrine. The large, framed photograph on the wall of the genital tattoo has now been removed, but his gaze rests on the spot where it was formerly hung, as if by some paranormal mechanism it might actually still be visible to him.
Could I get you a drink? Vee wonders, finally remembering her manners. A cup of tea, perhaps?
No, not for me. I cant stay long. Karim grimaces. My stupid wife is in the car.
Then you must invite her in! Valentine insists, horrified. Shed be very welcome
Please dont take this the wrong way Karim leans forward and pulls up a sock but Im actually relishing this brief interlude apart.
As he speaks, Valentine glances towards her brother (who is busily tapping out a text on his phone), then leans over and peers through the front bay window. Between a couple of the slats in the blinds she sees what appears to be a magnificent, old Citroën (pale blue, with exquisite chrome-work). Sitting in the back seat, somewhat incongruously, is a lone woman in the full veil.
Dont be shocked, Karim counsels, gauging her expression (that foggy, insect-ridden no-mans-land between surprise and alarm). Its just a silly phase. A kind of social revolt against what she perceives as the corrupt and corrupting mores of Western society he snorts, mirthlessly chiefly represented by yours truly, of course!
He performs a little bow, palms pressed together, then adds, Perhaps a Sprite, or a Diet Pepsi?
Noel promptly heads off to the kitchen, still texting. Valentine continues to inspect Karims wife. Its a warm evening. She is fanning her face (the tiny part of it thats still visible) through a tiny slit in the dense mass of heavy-seeming, black fabric.
She looks hot, Vee observes.
Its like a portable bread oven inside that thing, Karim clucks. Crazy! My current philosophy is that if I give her enough rope
He simulates sudden asphyxiation (hands at his throat, eyes popping, tongue out), then removes a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and vigorously blows his nose on it.
I tell her its a form of cultural hysteria he dabs at his nostrils, fastidiously an emotional anorexia. Not about faith! Ha! Not remotely. God is Love! God is Wisdom! God is Truth! God is Generosity Ya Karim, eh?
Valentine smiles, obligingly (although shes not entirely sure what shes smiling at).
God isnt just dotted here or there, boxed into a series of little, sacred spaces, Karim expands, scowling, hidden under that piece of black fabric swirling around like a tiny whirlwind inside the cool shadows of the mosque trapped within the vowels of a prayer Heavens, no! Hes everywhere, inside every created thing He throws out his hand, expressively (the white handkerchief waving its fleeting surrender between his fingers). God is the invasive gaze of an arrogant stranger! he exclaims. God is the modest curl of a pretty lip into a welcoming smile. God is the warmth of the sun on a beautiful girls bronzed shoulder. God is the exquisite brush of cool silk against a tautening nipple. God is life, eh? He grins. He enlivens us! He stimulates! He titillates! God opens us up, he doesnt shut us down. He didnt give us the whole, wide world so that we should wrinkle up our noses and turn away from it, full of haughty condemnation, riddled with disgust
Valentine nods, intimidated (her arms folded, defensively, across her chest), then glances over towards his wife again.
Shes just acting out, Karim grumbles. Its a pointless charade a farce! Forget modesty or reserve or decency or restraint its sheer bloody-mindedness. Its all about control
Karim pats the handkerchief over his forehead and then shoves it back into his pocket. Of course she wont listen, he mutters, so what can I do? Its embarrassing. People think Im a monster. She loves it. She absolutely loves it. Shes my second wife. Only twenty-one years of age. Attended Catholic school. Grew up in Barking. Is barking, to my way of thinking