Interpreters (17 page)

As heard on BBC Radio 4
Woman’s Hour

If you liked
Interpreters
, you might
like Sue Eckstein’s critically acclaimed
début novel
The Cloths of Heaven
.

For an exclusive extract, read on…

D
aniel squeezed his way along the narrow paths of the market, his face brushing against the warm round backs of babies tied tightly to the women who strolled between the stalls, balancing containers of cooking oil, or flimsy red and white striped plastic bags of vegetables, on their heads. He breathed in the milky, tinny smell of the sleeping babies, the odour of rotting cabbage and kola nut spittle mingled with smoked fish and musty rice.

‘Come here, sir – nice things.’

‘Bananas – very cheap – come, come.’

‘Any pens? Any bonbons?’

‘New videos, no pirates, come, buy.’

‘Give me one lamasi…’

The shouts of traders competing for business, the sound of raised voices bargaining over clusters of misshapen tomatoes, the music of Bob Marley and Salif Keita blaring from the cassette-copying booths fought for space in the hot dry air. As Daniel took off his sunglasses to wipe his face, the market exploded into colour. Gleaming aluminium cooking pots and gaudy Chinese enamelware flashed in the sun, piles of aubergines glowed in a purple haze, pyramids of tinned tomato paste glinted. The cloth of the women’s robes and headdresses dazzled him.

He found himself walking to the edge of the market, towards the fetid canal which flowed, sluggishly, to the port. Here the rickety kiosks selling batteries, cigarettes, and sticks of white bread gave way to larger shops, cloth warehouses and wholesalers. The vast concrete buildings stretched back from the litter-strewn, potholed pavements.

Daniel stopped outside the largest cloth shop, hesitated for a moment, then ducked under the raised grille and went
in. He blinked, unable to make out anything until his eyes became accustomed to the dark interior. Fans turned above the high wooden shelves and ankle-height platforms that held the cloth. Motes of dust danced in the few rays of sun that had penetrated the half-closed shutters. The floor was concrete; bare light bulbs hung from the high ceiling. There was a tall wooden desk and chair in the corner, of the kind favoured by Dickensian bookkeepers. On top of the desk he noticed a calculator, a pile of receipts on a spike, and a novel spread face down, bursting from its spine.

He walked along the aisles, trailing his fingers across the bolts of cloth. As he did so, he could feel the textures in his teeth and on his tongue: the smooth damasks, the fuzzy appliqués, the stiff nets, the deep mauve gauze dotted with pink felt, the gold-embossed rayon trickling strands of silver thread, the lemon polyester with its universe of sparkling orange stars.

He became aware of the hum of a computer and looked up. At the far end of the shop was a glass-fronted gallery. A window had been slid open and he could hear the
high-pitched
whine of a fax machine. He could just make out the dark head of someone sitting in front of the computer.

He walked back along the first aisle, then stopped suddenly by one of the thick concrete columns. She was sitting at the high wooden desk, bent over the book. He wondered how she had got there without his noticing. It was the closest he had been to her. Daniel could see traces of perspiration on her forehead. From time to time, she raised a hand to push her damp hair from her face. She was wearing a simple black cotton dress. Her thin arms were bare.

‘Rachel!’

She held her place in the book with a finger and looked up at the gallery.

Daniel felt his palms prick with sweat. Rachel. Surely that couldn’t just be another of those coincidences?

‘Rachel. Did you hear me? Has that consignment from China arrived?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I’m going out for a while. Deal with it when it comes, will you?’

She turned back to her book without replying.

A short, dark, immaculately dressed man walked down the wooden stairs from the gallery. He stopped by the desk, gripped her arm with one hand and turned her face to his with the other. He kissed her slowly on the lips, then let her go.

‘Faysal and Suhad are coming for dinner, darling. Please be ready,’ he called behind him as he left.

She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, then flicked through the book until she found her place.

Daniel hesitated a moment, then went up to the desk. He could see the imprint of the man’s fingers on her arm. He took a deep breath.

‘You like Mervyn Peake, then?’

She looked up and stared at him impassively for a few seconds before returning to the book.

‘I loved the first two Gormenghast books…’

Daniel stopped, unnerved by the lack of response. He felt himself blush. He could kick himself. Not only did he do a good line in wincing and looking away, he could come up with a damn fine irrelevant question.

‘I’ve seen you a few times, here in the shop.’

‘I know,’ she said, without lifting her eyes from the book.

‘I hope you don’t think I’m –’

‘Do you want to buy some cloth?’ She shut the book and stared at him.

‘Sorry?’

‘Do you want to buy some cloth? If not, I suggest –’

‘Yes, I do.’ Daniel scanned the rows, his eyes frantic. ‘Some of the – the damask – that bright pink. The one with the fuchsia pattern in it. Three metres.’

She walked to the bolt of cloth with an elegant weariness, leaving her leather sandals under the desk.

He watched her as she dragged the bolt on to a long wooden table, measured it with a wooden ruler, snipped it with a pair of large black scissors, and then ripped the piece from the bolt. She folded the cloth, wrapped it in paper, tied the parcel with string, and handed it to him.

‘That’s forty lamasi. Thanks. Any more? You’re obviously quite a connoisseur. What about the crimson and purple nylon over there? Or the pure cotton with repeating images of Pope John Paul II?’

Her voice was icily polite.

‘No. Thanks. This is fine. I’m sorry to have –’

‘The Virgin Mary on best quality polyester?’ She pulled out length after length of cloth. ‘We’ve got the Wailers around here somewhere, too. On rayon.’

‘No. This is great. Look, if I’ve –’

‘Ethnic African batik? Freshly imported from the Netherlands.’

‘No, really. This is just what I wanted.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘No. You’re right. I just wondered who you are.’

‘Who I am?’

‘And what you’re doing here.’

‘What does it look like?’ She returned to her chair and opened the book again.

‘And I wanted to see if you were all right.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘After last night.’

She looked up at him. Her eyes were greyish-green, he noticed.

‘I saw you and – and him,’ Daniel nodded up at the gallery, ‘on the coast road. Last night. I just wondered –’

‘I’m fine,’ said Rachel flatly. She took a deep breath. ‘But thanks for asking.’

‘That’s OK. It’s just that things seemed, sort of, well, difficult. Look, I’ll give you my card. Perhaps you’d give me a ring some time. If I can do anything.’

She looked at the card. ‘Yes. Thanks. I may do that. Some time.’

‘Well, thanks for this,’ said Daniel, as he picked up his parcel. ‘Goodbye.’

He walked back out into the street and watched Rachel for a moment through the grille. He saw her look at the card again, then slowly rip it up and let the tiny pieces flutter to the floor. 

Sue Eckstein’s first novel
The Cloths of Heaven
was published in 2009 and dramatised for BBC Radio 4’s
Woman’s Hour
in 2010. Her plays include
The Tuesday Group,
first performed in London in 2003, as well as
Kaffir Lilies,
Laura
and
Old School Ties,
all for Radio 4.

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