Aphrodite's Island (17 page)

The housekeeper comes in with my breakfast tray and a note from Karim.

I dress and then make a telephone call to the airline. By the time Karim comes home my bag is packed and my story prepared.

‘Karim, I’m sorry. Try not to be angry with me. I’m flying home this evening.’

‘This evening! But I thought you had another two days!’

‘I know, but I’ve changed my flight. I have to be at the airport by eight o’clock.’

‘But why? Why? Is it because of last night?’

I intended to tell him that last night had been a mistake and that I am leaving so that it can never happen again but looking at his face I find the cruel truth impossible to utter. Instead, I choose the obvious lie.

‘I’ve been feeling bad all day. I have to take my temperature every day and this morning it was over thirty-eight degrees. I need to be near the hospital in case I have to have emergency treatment.’

‘It’s my fault!’ he cries. ‘I should never have let it happen. It’s been too much for you.’

‘Perhaps that’s it,’ I agree. But I can’t sustain my resolve. ‘But I’m so glad it did.’

‘No, it was wrong. I can’t forgive myself.’

I put my arms round him. ‘Karim, darling! It isn’t your fault. Probably the whole journey and everything has been a bit too much for me. I just need to get home. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

He does not try to persuade me to stay but I know my sudden change of heart has wounded him beyond words. He drives me
to the airport and in the departure hall he takes me in his arms. ‘I’ll phone every day.’

I step back and look into his face. ‘No, Karim. Don’t do that. I think …’ Finally I find the courage to utter the words I have been rehearsing all day. ‘I think it would be best if we said goodbye here. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

‘Goodbye?’ He looks puzzled. ‘But we are saying goodbye. What do you mean?’

‘I mean for good, Karim. There’s no point in you pinning your hopes on something that isn’t going to happen. No point in you giving up a job you love and leaving your home just to be with me, if I’m not going to be around.’

‘Don’t say that!’ he cries. ‘How can you ask that? I won’t let you give up this easily. There is still a chance and we have to grab it.’

‘Not
we
, Karim. There is no
we
. There might have been and it would have been wonderful but I can’t bear the thought of you putting your life on hold on the tiny chance that I might get better. I can’t carry that burden, Karim.’ I have to fight back tears to continue. ‘Please don’t ask me to. It’s hard enough to struggle on from day to day, without dragging your hopes and fears with me. Please, Karim! Let’s say goodbye now.’

The tannoy announces the last call for my flight. He stands for a moment looking at me in silence and the distress on his face stabs me with an almost physical pain. Then he turns away abruptly and begins to walk towards the exit. I almost call after him but I fight down the impulse and walk towards the barrier that leads to the flight gates. I have almost reached it when I hear hasty steps behind me and feel myself grasped in his arms. He presses his face against my own with a fierce intensity.

‘Goodbye, my darling, my dearest love. But don’t think this is the end. I shan’t impose my worries on you, but whatever happens I shall be waiting – waiting for you to contact me. Be merciful, my darling! Don’t let me wait in vain.’

I re-enter my flat in a fog of exhaustion. I spent most of the flight home pretending to sleep, so no one would notice that I was crying. The journey and the emotional turmoil of the last few days have drained me completely and now I am incapable of feeling anything.

Amongst the junk mail and the bills on the doormat is a folded slip of paper.

I dump it in the bin, along with most of the mail, and fall into bed.

When I wake it is evening and it occurs to me that I have not eaten since yesterday. The contents of my suitcase are strewn across the floor, and the laundry basket is overflowing with unwashed underwear. The kitchen presents an equally unattractive prospect. There are dirty mugs in the sink and the remainder of a loaf of bread is growing mould on the counter-top. A search in the fridge reveals nothing except some sour milk and tuna paté that is well beyond its sell-by date. I consider dialling out for a pizza or a curry, but the thought of anything highly seasoned revolts me. I find a last tin of tomato soup and I am just trying to raise the energy to open it when the doorbell rings. I freeze, afraid that any movement might reveal my presence, and wait for the caller to go away. The bell rings again and then the letterbox rattles
and Sue’s voice calls, ‘Cressida! We know you’re in there. Your neighbour said he saw you come in this morning. Please let us in. We’re not going away until we know you’re all right.’

There is a pause and then the letterbox rattles again. This time it is Angie. ‘Cressy, please! We’re all really, really worried about you. Please talk to us!’

I put down the tin and open the door. The exclamations of ‘There you are!’ ‘See? I said she was home …’ die on their lips and then Lisa says in a strangled voice, ‘Oh my God!’

There is a moment of terrible silence and then Angie reaches out and puts her arms round me. ‘Oh, you poor thing! Whatever’s happened to you?’

While I struggle to find my voice, Sue says, ‘I knew something was wrong!’, and marches past us into the flat.

There seems to be no point in holding out any longer and I let them lead me into the sitting room and settle me in a chair. I had not realized what a relief it would be to come clean about my illness. But I do not mention Karim or my visit to Cyprus.

‘But why leave without saying a word to anyone?’ Lisa
protests
. ‘We’re your friends. We want to help.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ The effort of explaining is too much.

Within minutes I am being spoonfed soup by Angie, Sue has set off for the supermarket and Lisa is in the kitchen dealing with the washing up. By the time my three friends leave, the flat has been cleaned, the cupboards stocked and my dirty laundry washed and tumble dried. What is more, they have drawn up a rota so that one of them will visit every evening to make sure that I am not left to ‘mope on my own’. I hear the front door close behind them with relief. I know I should be grateful but their energy and easy capability only serve to remind me of my own weakness. Not long ago I was as efficient as any of them and it hurts my pride for them to see me in this state.

The next morning I sit down at my desk and boot up my laptop but then sit staring at it until the screensaver clicks into blackness.
I finally have an address for the woman whose mysterious existence has obsessed me for so long but now I no longer know what I want to say to her. I reach into a drawer and take out the brittle sheets of paper on which my father wrote his impassioned declarations. I run the tips of my fingers over the unintelligible characters and wish that I could read them. I know Os’s translation by heart but it is not the same as being able to read the words for myself. If I write to Ariadne I will have to send her the letters. They are all I have left of my father, except for those faded photographs I found hidden in my mother’s bureau. Do I have to give them up? Unable to reach a decision, I put the papers back in the drawer and switch off the computer.

Karim’s first letter arrives a few days after my return from Cyprus.

I sit for a long time staring at the letter. The temptation to pick up the phone and call him is hard to resist. In a matter of hours
I could be in his arms. But then what? What can I offer him but long, dreary days of waiting? I have made my decision and in this one thing I will not allow my weakness to overcome my will. It will be kinder to Karim in the long run not to reply.

I am in the shower one morning when it strikes me that my period is late. In recent months they have been very heavy – a symptom, I have been told, of the leukaemia. Now, I am four or five days overdue. But that is probably a lingering effect of the
chemotherapy
. I was told that my periods would probably stop altogether if I continued on it for long.

For weeks my friends keep faithfully to their schedule. My every physical need is catered for and they chatter to me brightly about school politics and the latest gossip until I long to yell at them to shut up. They try to persuade me to go out with them – for a drink or a meal, or to the cinema – but I always find an excuse not to go. I have this intense feeling that my life is in a phase of transition and that I need to be quiet and alone until the process works itself out. I realize that my response to their kindness is ungracious but the guilt only serves to feed my growing resentment. They are trying to run my life and I refuse to permit that.

Eventually my lack of response has its effect. Sue is the first to telephone and apologize for not calling in that evening. She has a huge pile of marking to do. Can I manage without her? Some days later Lisa calls. Her parents are in town for the weekend and have booked tickets for a show. As September draws to a close the excuses become more frequent and I allow myself the bitter self-justification that I always knew it would be like this.

Matters come to a head one evening about six weeks after my return from Cyprus. None of my friends have been to see me for five days and then Sue and Angie arrive together. In their absence I have taken a perverse delight in allowing the flat to descend into chaos and I sit hunched in my easy chair while they fuss around, uttering exclamations which are, to begin with, good humoured and teasing but rapidly become more and more exasperated.
‘Cressida, don’t you ever wash up?’ ‘Oh, Cress, really! When did you last change the sheets?’ ‘You haven’t been eating this jam, have you? It’s got whiskers on it.’

Eventually Sue comes into the living room and stands over me.

‘Cressida, you’ve got to pull yourself together. You’re perfectly capable of cooking yourself a proper meal and washing it up. And look at you! You’ve been wearing that tracksuit for a week and when did you last have a shower? OK, I know you’re ill and we’re all sorry for you but what’s the point of sitting here wallowing in self-pity? You’ve been given some extra time. You ought to make the best of it.’

It’s the final straw. I uncoil myself from the chair like a spring released and get to my feet.

‘What do you know about it? The way I choose to live is my business – and the way I choose to die, if it comes to that. Nobody asked you to come poking your nose in!’

For a long moment Sue stands silent. Then she turns away and picks up the carrier bag she has brought with her. Lisa has come to the door, hearing the altercation. Sue walks past her.

‘Come on, Lisa. We’re wasting our time here. Like Cressida says, if she wants to pass the rest of her time living in a dung heap that’s up to her.’

As the front door slams behind them, the phone begins to ring. I stand gazing at it like a rabbit menaced by a snake until the answering machine cuts in. Karim’s voice comes over the line, jagged with emotion.

‘Cressida, please pick up the phone! You don’t answer my letters. You don’t respond to my phone calls. I don’t know if you’re dead or alive! I can’t bear it, Cressida. For the love of Allah, if you are there, answer me!’

I stand paralyzed until the line goes dead. Then I make my way slowly into my bedroom and throw myself onto the bed. Tears come slowly, painfully at first, then faster until I am sobbing without control. I cry myself into exhaustion and fall asleep.

When I wake my throat is parched and my limbs are stiff from
lying in the same position but my mind is clear. I see myself with sharp objectivity, as my friends must see me – self-absorbed, bitter and ungrateful. I get up and shower and wash my hair and get dressed properly for the first time in days. Lisa restocked the fridge before she left and I force myself to eat a proper breakfast. Then I go to the telephone and thumb through Yellow Pages until I find a nearby florist’s number. I order three individual bouquets to be delivered to my friends at the school, each bearing a card with the single word ‘Sorry’. Then I go to my desk and open the drawer where I keep Karim’s letters. I struggle for some time with various forms of words until I finally have a version that comes close to saying what I want to express.

As I put Karim’s letter back in the drawer I see the yellowing bundle of my father’s letters. I take them out and smooth their creases with my hand. In the drawer with them is the letter Ferhan gave me with Ariadne’s address. I understand for the first time that the letters are not mine. They were addressed to that frightened eighteen-year-old girl whom Ferhan conjured up for me. Admittedly, that girl had grown into a mature woman by the time the letters were written but that must have been the image in my father’s mind as he wrote. It was a last, desperate attempt to explain that he had not abandoned her of his own free will, written at a time when he was in fear for his own life. I picture him, sick and shivering in that dark cave where he was imprisoned,
frantically
scribbling those words of apology and undying devotion. It was not his fault that he had fallen in love so completely that no other woman could ever fill the gap left in his life by the loss of Ariadne. And she must have loved him with the same abandon. Is it not my duty, as his daughter, to set the record straight? At last I come to a resolution. I will send the letters to Ariadne, with a note explaining how they had come into my possession. It will be a final tribute to my father’s memory – an act of forgiveness and reconciliation. I pick up my pen and begin to write.

I am sitting curled up in my easy chair, half watching some inane television quiz show, when the doorbell rings. I swear under my breath. Sue and Angie and Lisa have forgiven me for my outburst but they have taken the hint and made their visits less frequent and I am not expecting anyone to call this evening. Muttering bad-temperedly to myself, I get up and stomp to the front door.