{"id":27055,"date":"2023-07-02T09:33:34","date_gmt":"2023-07-02T07:33:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/?p=27055"},"modified":"2023-07-17T10:31:27","modified_gmt":"2023-07-17T08:31:27","slug":"we-saw-paris-texas-a-story-by-ola-mustapha","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/we-saw-paris-texas-a-story-by-ola-mustapha\/","title":{"rendered":"We Saw Paris, Texas<\/em>\u2014a story by Ola Mustapha"},"content":{"rendered":"
When a film becomes the blueprint for love, life, even death…<\/h5>\n

<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ola Mustapha<\/h4>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Michael first saw the film Paris, Texas <\/em>when he was ten years old. His mother was on night shift at the hospital, and his father was playing dominos with the old Rasta guy next door. His sister, six years older than him, was out with her friends.<\/p>\n

As he lay in front of the TV, Michael\u2019s eyes were snared by a wide-open landscape of rocks and sand and hot orange sky. Everything in the film looked big<\/em>. And everyone in it was sad. Their sadness felt familiar, though its causes were unclear. It left a delicious sting in his throat, like lemon sherbet. Transfixed, he watched right through to the end.<\/p>\n

\u201cI saw a really good film last night,\u201d he said to his friend Chris at school.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, Back to the Future<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, it was called Paris, Texas<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cParis is in France, you dipshit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"
Starring Harry Dean Stanton & Nastassja Kinski (courtesy Argo Films).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The second time Michael saw Paris, Texas<\/em>, he was 15. His father had run off to Birmingham with a woman twenty years younger. His mother worked and cried and tried to put her cares in the lap of Jesus. Worn down by it all, his sister had moved across the river to South London, and was expecting a baby with her fianc\u00e9.<\/p>\n

This time, the film made more sense. People were sad because of their own actions, and those of others. Chin resting on his hands, Michael savored the lonely journey of Travis, a grizzled man with unusually long ears. Crimson sunsets, a solitary guitar, those vast American highways. The film was so beautiful it made Michael cry. He wanted that heartbreak, too. Aged fifteen, he wanted to have loved and lost and loved again \u2014 in a Paris, Texas<\/em> kind of way, not like his own parents. It didn\u2019t take a genius to realize that film-sadness beat the real thing.<\/p>\n

\u201cI saw a good film last night,\u201d he said to Nicole, a girl in his class whom he\u2019d kissed once and fingered twice, though she refused to let him call her his \u201cgirlfriend.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t tell me you watched Pretty Woman<\/em> without me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, it was called Paris, Texas<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cParis, Texas,\u201d<\/em> she mimicked in a lisping, high-pitched voice before flouncing off with her friends.<\/p>\n

Four years later at university, Michael watched Paris, Texas<\/em> on video with his first proper girlfriend, Fiona. A student of Media Studies, she was an aficionado of the New German Cinema movement, which filled him with hope. But her running commentary about montage<\/em> and framing <\/em>and mise-en-sc\u00e8ne<\/em> left him cold. All art and no heart, it robbed the film of its magic.<\/p>\n

Other viewings followed with subsequent girlfriends, each blighted by snoozing, nail-filing, or slack-jawed boredom.<\/p>\n

Then he met Yara.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He wanted to have loved and lost and loved again \u2014 in a Paris, Texas<\/em> kind of way … that film-sadness beat the real thing.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

 <\/p>\n

It was a Sunday morning in September. A back-to-school feeling hung in the air. Michael, aged 32, was heading south to his sister\u2019s place in an empty carriage on the Victoria Line, balancing a box of mangoes on his lap, fragrant mementos of summer.<\/p>\n

At Finsbury Park, a woman got on the train and sat opposite him. She was wearing an Adidas tracksuit, carrying a tatty gym bag. He looked up at her, smiled, and looked away. Seconds later, she did the same. As her gaze alighted on the mangoes, he felt an impulsive urge to offer her one. Should he? Or would she take it the wrong way? Wracked with indecision, he found himself fondling a mango in a way that might seem suggestive. His face turned hot. Without looking, he sensed hers had, too.<\/p>\n

Lowering her head, the woman fumbled in her bag while Michael stared at the Tube map. When the doors opened at Highbury & Islington, she leaped off, fluttering a scrap of paper onto his lap. I\u2019ve never done this before, <\/em>it said. Here\u2019s my number. Yara.<\/em><\/p>\n

Afterwards, they agreed that while love at first sight was an infantile illusion, something special had happened that day.<\/p>\n

\u201cI felt like I already knew you,\u201d said Michael, nuzzling Yara\u2019s ear.<\/p>\n

\u201cMe too,\u201d she replied, twisting a clump of his hair into tiny coils. \u201cI felt like I\u2019d known you all my life.\u201d<\/p>\n

Two months passed before he sprang the Paris, Texas<\/em> test on her. There were other hurdles to clear first: friends to meet, parties to go to, art galleries to wander around with their arms encircling each other\u2019s waists.<\/p>\n

When people asked what\u2019s your new girlfriend like?<\/em> Michael would reply, with a grin that cracked the skin on his lips, \u201cShe\u2019s the kind of woman everyone smiles at in the street for no reason.\u201d<\/p>\n

One crisp Sunday afternoon in November, after he and Yara had had sex three times on his sofa, Michael decided it was time. Sliding the DVD into the machine, he lingered over the picture of Nastassja Kinski on the cover. Was he imagining it, or did she look a bit like Yara? The heavy hair, the doe eyes, the full lips \u2026 different coloring, of course, but something about the features \u2026<\/p>\n

As the arid Texan landscape filled the screen, Michael stole surreptitious glances at Yara. Each emotion flitting over her face seemed to mirror his own. Finally, someone who got<\/em> it \u2014 someone whose insides matched his. His heart filled with a tenderness he hadn\u2019t known he was capable of as he watched Yara absorb the poetry of Travis\u2019s ruined life: his wanderings in the wilderness, his abandoned son, his failed marriage to the luminous Jane \u2014 the revelation that Jane, desperate to escape Travis\u2019s drunken jealousy, had set their trailer on fire while he slept, sending him running distraught into the empty night.<\/p>\n

It was too perfect. A tendril of doubt crept into Michael\u2019s mind. Was he indulging in wishful thinking? Projecting his own responses onto Yara?<\/p>\n

When the film was over, she said, \u201cThat scene towards the end \u2026 So clever, how they filmed it.\u201d Her voice came out husky. She cleared her throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich bit?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen Travis and Jane are talking through the screen, and he\u2019s telling the story of how he\u2019d driven her to set the trailer on fire. The way you can see their faces merging in the glass.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI never noticed that,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Squeezing her fingers with one hand, he swiped away the wetness on his face with the other. Not caring that he was sliding into corniness, he said, \u201cThis\u2019ll always be our<\/em> film.\u201d<\/p>\n

Now that Yara had passed \u2014 no, sur<\/em>passed \u2014 the test, how could life be arranged so they were married?<\/p>\n

As if reading his mind, she sprang a test of her own on him soon after this.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

The look on her face when she asked him was pained, intense \u2014 not what the occasion seemed to merit.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve never introduced anyone to my parents before,\u201d she said, rubbing her wrist bone in a circular motion, something she did when she was worried or upset. \u201cBut I want them to know about you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d he said, trying to contain his delight. He could live with being the first ever guy to meet Yara\u2019s parents.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut we might have to pitch things a certain way,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, they don\u2019t really get the concept of \u2018going out\u2019 with someone. They\u2019re very \u2026 traditional.\u201d He could practically hear the capital T<\/em>. \u201cMy mum more than my dad,\u201d she went on. \u201cMy dad\u2019s cool \u2014 he didn\u2019t make a fuss when I never went back to live with them after uni. But my mum \u2026 she\u2019s, well \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTraditional?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. She thinks only prostitutes leave home before they get married. That\u2019s what it\u2019s like back \u2018home.\u2019\u201d Then she said, all in a rush: \u201cSo I know this sounds weird, but we\u2019ll have to pretend we\u2019re engaged when you meet them. Oh, and we\u2019ll need to say you\u2019ll convert. We can always say later that we broke off the engagement. If we break up for real, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. We could pretend<\/em> to do all that. Or, you know, we could actually \u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n

Their foolish smiles seemed to dance off their faces, pirouette through the air and kiss each other.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not?\u201d she said. \u201cWhy the effing hell not!\u201d<\/p>\n

He bundled her into his arms, overwhelmed by the cuteness of how she said eff<\/em> and fiddlesticks<\/em> instead of fuck<\/em>, and Schweppesy-Cola<\/em> instead of shit<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Hours later, as they lay exhausted in bed, Yara said, \u201cOne thing about my mum.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d he replied, alert again.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s got some stupid ideas about \u2026 people.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPeople?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMmm. She thinks Irish people are always drunk, and English people smell of pig fat, and Greek people are sly, which is why they\u2019re good with money, and Black people \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

The sentence trailed off. It didn\u2019t matter. He\u2019d got the gist. Yara\u2019s wrist bone clicked as she massaged it.<\/p>\n

\u201cNever mind.\u201d He kissed her forehead. \u201cIt\u2019s a different generation. Anyway, I\u2019ve got a plan to win her over.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen we walk in \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen we walk in \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll flash my arse and say, \u2018Kiss that<\/em>, Mommy Dearest.\u2019 That should break the ice, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

Like a lullaby, their laughter soothed them to sleep.<\/p>\n

Yara set a time with her parents for the following Saturday. Michael met her at Southgate station, and they walked hand in hand past rows of pebbledashed houses. He\u2019d been to the barber that morning and was wearing his gray work suit, minus a tie. Yara was in a long, sacklike dress that swamped her delicate frame.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I forgot,\u201d he said. \u201cYou never told me what to call your mum and dad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can call my dad \u2018Doctor.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEh? I didn\u2019t know he was a doctor?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s not. He\u2019s an accountant.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, what, he\u2019s got a PhD or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. His dream was to be a doctor, so people call him \u2018Doctor.\u2019 It\u2019s a nice thing in our \u2014 their culture. Respectful.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay. What about your mum? Do I call her \u2018Reverend?\u2019 \u2018Professor?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

Yara hesitated. For the first time since he\u2019d known her, she didn\u2019t laugh at his silly joke. \u201cI don\u2019t know yet.\u201d She frowned. \u201cIt\u2019ll come in time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d he said, mildly mystified.<\/p>\n

They walked on in silence. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d he said, when she dropped his hand and folded her arms.<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d she replied brightly. There was a strained, hyper look in her eyes, like someone who\u2019d been up all night drinking Red Bull and revising for an exam.<\/p>\n

When they reached the house, she rang the bell instead of using the key pinched between her fingers. A short, portly man appeared, all hands and smiles and meandering vowels. Doctor<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome in, sir, come in, sir, it\u2019s very nice to meet you, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the recesses of the hallway, a lurking shadow revealed itself to be a woman. Tiny, sinewy, dressed in black. She looked like her bones would snap if you brushed against them. Never mind her real name; to Michael, she was \u201cGristlebones.\u201d It floated as clearly into his head as if she had announced it herself.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi,\u201d he said, extending his hand.<\/p>\n

Two kohl-rimmed eyes met his. They looked momentarily stunned, as if confronted by an apparition. Eventually, a small hand flopped against his. No word passed from her lips.<\/p>\n

They made their way into the living room, which felt familiar, yet strange. Some features greeted Michael like old friends: a sofa covered in plastic wrapping, a mantelpiece crammed with photos and knick-knacks \u2014 china ornaments, old sweet tins, birthday cards going back five hundred years. Others introduced themselves for the first time: curvy, ornate furniture, like you\u2019d find in a seventeenth-century French palace; a giant chandelier that grazed his head.<\/p>\n

Left alone with Yara while her parents went to the kitchen, he groped for her hand, but she tucked both of hers under her thighs, giving him a distracted smile.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d he asked, nodding at the black velvet wall-hanging over the fireplace.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe 99 names of God.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d Unbidden, the image of a Flake 99 ice cream popped into his head. As he tried to exorcise it, Yara said, \u201cNow you want an ice cream, don\u2019t you?\u201d Their hushed giggles terminated when Doctor returned with a big silver tray.<\/p>\n

Hours passed in a blur. A fluorescent pink cake gleamed and sweated on the coffee table. Mint tea was poured and drunk and poured and drunk. Beaming like a fairy godmother, Doctor dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and bombarded Michael with questions.<\/p>\n

\u201cI work in IT,\u201d said Michael. \u201cAt a big bank. Yes, it\u2019s a permanent contract.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was raised a Christian \u2026 But it\u2019s all the same God, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, my mum won\u2019t disown me for converting. She understands.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the periodic pauses, Yara gabbled and fidgeted and dropped things. Michael\u2019s heart ached at the sight of the red blotches climbing up her neck. Already, it was hard to tell where her discomfort ended and his began. She felt like a part of him.<\/p>\n

From her narrow, straight-backed chair, Gristlebones looked on in silence. Tuning into her presence, Michael became aware of her sunless eyes darting from him to Yara and back again. He half-expected a forked tongue to protrude from her lips and put an end to the whole business with one swift, deadly flick.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m very sorry, my wife has broken English,\u201d said Doctor, placing his hand over his heart as if that was broken, too.<\/p>\n

Finally, the ordeal was over. Yara ran upstairs to the toilet and Doctor went into the kitchen to pack up the cake: \u201cPlease, sir, please, you must take some to your mother with our best regards.\u201d<\/p>\n

As Michael hovered in the hall, Gristlebones materialized next to him. Jesus. Did she glide around on wheels?<\/em> Giving her a quick smile, he busied himself checking his pockets.<\/p>\n

She stepped closer to him. A gust of dark, musky perfume wafted into his nostrils. It reminded him unnervingly of Yara. Then, to his utter surprise, her face split open in a smile. Decades fell away in nanoseconds. Now he could see it \u2014 she was Yara\u2019s mother, all right. The impish tilt of her eyes, the playful flick of her lashes. Her face might be full of cracks like a dilapidated house, but the foundations were the same. Regal cheekbones, a dainty nose. From nowhere, a wave of warmth swept over him.<\/p>\n

They stood smiling at each other like long-lost family. Presently, her lips parted, producing the first sound he\u2019d heard from her all afternoon.<\/p>\n

\u201cPardon?\u201d He leaned forward. Filled with affection, he nearly stroked her shoulder the way he did with his own mother. At first he thought she was speaking another language. Her own language? Was she trying to teach him something?<\/em><\/p>\n

Sound crystallized into meaning. She was speaking English, saying two English words again and again. \u201cSister-fucker,\u201d<\/em> she was saying. \u201cSister-fucker.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Mesmerized, he watched her spit the words at him not once, not twice, but three times.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you ready?\u201d Yara came galloping down the stairs. Before he knew it, they were out of the door, his arm sagging under the weight of the cake.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell!\u201d Yara was flushed, giddy. \u201cThat wasn\u2019t as bad as I expected.\u201d She tucked her arm in his. \u201cSorry for getting uptight. I built it up into a massive deal. But they really liked you, I could tell.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHuh.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou okay, babe?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, yeah, all good.\u201d After a pause, he said, \u201cSo your mum can\u2019t speak English?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot much. She can understand, but she says the words taste bitter in her mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo she doesn\u2019t know any \u2026 like, swear words or anything?\u201d<\/p>\n

She gave him a look of surprise. \u201cI don\u2019t know. Even if she does, it\u2019s not like she goes round using them.\u201d A question mark began to form in her eyes. He could tell she didn\u2019t want it to. Her left hand inched towards the right, reaching for her wrist bone.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s when Michael decided. Never, ever would he be the one to make her fingers worry at her bones. Their relationship was poetry and beauty. It was spiritual communion, Paris, Texas <\/em>\u2014 a happy version. Before her hand reached its destination, he lunged at the crook of her arm and tickled the fold he called her \u201cbaby crease,\u201d letting the glorious melody of her laugh drown out everything else.<\/p>\n

Six weeks later, they got married.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
Harry Dean Stanton as Travis in Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas<\/em> (courtesy Argo Films).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Time sped up for Michael once he was married. A normal lifespan no longer felt enough \u2014 he needed at least 300 years to spend with Yara. When he told her this, she laughed and said, \u201cI\u2019ve been thinking the same.\u201d<\/p>\n

This psychic stuff happened often. It wasn\u2019t just a figure of speech when he said she was a part of him \u2014 he could feel her inside him, as if she inhabited his blood cells. If she stubbed her toe or cut her finger in front of him, he\u2019d cry out in pain, and she did the same with him. People called them a pair of saps.<\/p>\n

Oddly enough, this phenomenon didn\u2019t extend to illness. As if their immune systems had struck a bargain, they never caught each other\u2019s coughs or colds: One body took the hit for both of them. Proof of this came when Michael was walloped by a strain of flu making the headlines that autumn, while Yara remained untouched.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m worried about you,\u201d she said, stroking his head as he lay limp in bed. \u201cIt\u2019s been more than a week.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be fine.\u201d His voice was thin and echoey. His head seemed to have migrated to another solar system, soaring and floating among the stars, crashing into distant planets, throbbing like a red-hot sun. As for his body, it could barely make it to the bathroom and back.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt least the temperature\u2019s gone. Wish I could stay home with you till you\u2019re better.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be silly. Go shake your moneymaker for The Man. We need to save up if \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

She smiled. Shortly before he fell ill, they\u2019d decided to ditch the condoms on her 31st birthday, which was three weeks away. He didn\u2019t need an official date, but Yara liked her milestones.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re still as weak as a kitten,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWraoww,\u201d<\/em> he replied, which he knew would please her. Sure enough, her laughter scrubbed away her worry lines.<\/p>\n

Yara went back to work the next day, leaving a key with their upstairs neighbor, Terry, a personal trainer who only ever seemed to train himself. At lunchtime, he popped in to heat some soup for Michael: \u201cDon\u2019t worry about germs, Mike, I haven\u2019t had a sniffle since I started taking my new protein powder \u2014 I\u2019m telling you, it\u2019s turned me into Wolverine.\u201d<\/p>\n

When Yara got home, she brought him a plate of dark chocolate digestives \u2014 the only food he could stomach apart from soup \u2014 and told him about her day. As she got up to take the plate away, she said, \u201cMy mum\u2019s worried about you, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally?\u201d<\/p>\n

Yara\u2019s face clouded over. \u201cYes, really. She\u2019s not a monster<\/em>, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI never said she was.\u201d<\/p>\n

Yara twirled the plate around her hands. \u201cI know she doesn\u2019t talk to you much, but it\u2019s the language barrier.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know. Doesn\u2019t matter.\u201d Since his first encounter with Gristlebones, he\u2019d been at pains to avoid being alone with her. Whenever they went round to Yara\u2019s parents\u2019 house, he glued himself to Doctor. Kind, courteous Doctor, who, confusingly, had started calling him \u201cDoctor\u201d too, upgrading him from \u201csir.\u201d Two Doctors in the house, neither of them a doctor. Meanwhile, Gristlebones clung to Yara like a four-year-old reunited with their stolen puppy.<\/p>\n

Yara sighed. \u201cMy mum\u2019s funny sometimes. But, you know, she had a rough childhood.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe had ten brothers, and five died young. The wrong five, if you ask me. The others tormented her. One especially \u2026 He did some awful stuff to her, though she\u2019ll never say what. She calls him shaytan<\/em>\u2014\u2018devil.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s shit. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d He genuinely was. No one deserved that.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s funny \u2014 she told me once you remind her of one of her brothers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich one?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe wouldn\u2019t say.\u201d<\/p>\n

She seemed about to say something else, but stopped, her expression troubled. It niggled at him until she went on, after a pause, \u201cAnyway, she\u2019s worried about you. Although\u201d\u2014she giggled\u2014 \u201cit might be because of the \u2018swine\u2019 in \u2018swine flu.\u2019 She\u2019s so scared of the pig<\/em>. Once I accidentally ate ham at a birthday party in kindergarten \u2014 I didn\u2019t realize I wasn\u2019t supposed to. She kept checking on me every night in bed for weeks afterwards, hugging and kissing me as if I\u2019d swallowed bleach or something \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

Spurred into other reminiscences, Yara put the plate down and told him more stories from her childhood. He drifted off clutching her hand, comforted by the ups and downs of her light, eager voice.<\/p>\n

Two days later, he was able to lie at a slight angle in bed. His illness was getting boring. The whole point of being off sick was to enjoy yourself \u2014 read, catch up on emails, watch films. He was craving the gorgeous melancholy of Paris, Texas<\/em>, reconnection with that part of his soul. Two years had passed since he\u2019d watched it with Yara. Life was busy now. Maybe he was ready to decamp to the sofa \u2026<\/p>\n

Five minutes later, he crawled back into bed, his head swimming.<\/p>\n

Soon after midday, a key turned in the lock. Terry, doing his daily Florence Nightingale. Earlier than usual today.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYo, Tel-star,\u201d Michael called out.<\/p>\n

No reply. Light footsteps pattered through the hall as if a cat had wandered in.<\/p>\n

\u201cTerry?\u201d<\/p>\n

No sound. He held his breath. Just his luck. How would he defend himself against an intruder in this state?<\/p>\n

The bedroom door creaked open. Michael\u2019s muscles tensed. He braced to leap up.<\/p>\n

A tiny bundle of black slipped in. The sight was so incongruous, he thought he was hallucinating at first. What was she doing here? She never came round on her own.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi?\u201d he said. It came out as a question.<\/p>\n

She deposited a blue plastic bag at the end of the bed in a brisk, professional manner, like a district nurse doing her rounds. It made a sloshing sound as it came to rest. Then she walked over to his side of the bed, looking down at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello,\u201d he said. It struck him that now would be a good time to know what to call her.<\/p>\n

She greeted him in her own language, using a phrase Yara had taught him. He responded in kind, proud of himself for remembering in his flu-addled state. But why was she here?<\/em><\/p>\n

As if in answer, she reached into the carrier bag and pulled out a clear plastic bag full of dried herbs.<\/p>\n

\u201cKitchen,\u201d she said in English. \u201cMake better.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was the most he\u2019d heard out of her since she\u2019d called him a \u201csister-fucker.\u201d So Yara was right \u2014 his affliction had<\/em> unearthed a kernel of concern for him. Maybe the sister-fucker<\/em> episode was a terrible misunderstanding. On his part? On hers? On both?<\/p>\n

She vanished from the bedroom. A few seconds later, he heard the kettle boil.<\/p>\n

\u201cDrink,\u201d she said, returning with a steaming mug. The scalding liquid smelled vile, but it seemed to purify his throat as it slid down.<\/p>\n

Reaching back into the carrier bag, Gristlebones pulled out a clay incense burner and a small lump of tinfoil. Incense and charcoal. He\u2019d seen her do this at her house \u2014 go from room to room swinging the incense burner, muttering prayers under her breath. Sometimes she twirled the burner around Yara\u2019s head while Yara hunched into a ball and closed her eyes. The ritual made him nervous.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat if a hot coal falls on your head?\u201d he\u2019d asked Yara once.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d she\u2019d said. \u201cMy mum\u2019s got steady hands. I trust her.\u201d<\/p>\n

Once more, Gristlebones disappeared into the kitchen. He heard a hob sputter and die three times. When she returned with the smoking incense burner, she swept her arm out, saying, \u201cPig.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

She was going to cleanse the air of pig-flu. He gave her a thumbs-up, wondering belatedly if this was a rude gesture in her culture. Maybe there was something in these rituals. His own mother had a soft spot for traditional remedies, too.<\/p>\n

As the sweet-smelling smoke filled the room, he watched Gristlebones\u2019 deft hands and frowning face. Her rapt expression reminded him of Yara\u2019s engrossed in some task.<\/p>\n

It was strange, being so close to her. He wished he could talk to her. He wished he could ask her about herself. All the good brothers who\u2019d died. All the bad ones who\u2019d lived. What had happened to her, and which brother he reminded her of \u2026<\/p>\n

The incense must be doing something to his brain, fraying his thoughts around the edges. Through the smoke the old woman smiled, curves bleeding together.<\/p>\n

What was her name, again?<\/p>\n

Heavy-limbed, he floated in a place in which time unraveled. The old woman\u2019s smile culled the years. It showed him who she was \u2014 a girl with dancing eyes and rounded cheeks. Her smile gave her the face of an angel. His angel, Yara.<\/p>\n

Blurred hands rummaged in a mass of blue. Colors bounced like sunlight on a lake. Was he asleep or awake?<\/p>\n

A shadow fell over him. The old woman crooning, holding something that sloshed like the sea. It splashed on the covers like the sea.<\/p>\n

A smell \u2014 sharp and acrid \u2014 pierced his nostrils. Hurt his lungs. Make it go, make it go, make it go \u2026<\/em><\/p>\n

At the foot of the bed she tilted and rose. Steady hands, small, with a little yellow box. A rasp and a whoosh<\/em>! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.<\/em> Eyes lit, full of glee. A voice hissing, \u201cShaytan \u2026 shaytan.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

As the heat seared his feet, he tried to scream, but no sound came. Sleep had pinned him to a bed of burning flowers.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) on the tracks in Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas<\/em> (courtesy Argo Films).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Space rushed and receded. He knew something like this had happened before, in a film, their<\/em> film. The film that was a part of him, and of the woman he loved. Oh, Yara, oh Yara.<\/em> Someone running, something burning. He flailed and clutched at the memory, but it kept slipping out of his reach. Paris, Texas. Paris, Texas <\/em>\u2026<\/p>\n

*<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When he woke up, Yara was by his side, pale and red-eyed, framed by a powder-blue curtain. Harsh lights made him blink. Hospital lights. She kissed his cheek and sat holding his hand. Minutes passed before she whispered, \u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n

His lips made a smacking sound as they parted. Brain scrambled, he lay staring at the white-panelled ceiling.<\/p>\n

Crying, Yara reached for her right wrist. \u201cTerry saved you. The sheets were drenched in white spirit. Two more seconds and the fire would\u2019ve got you \u2014 he put it out just in time. He said my mum was there? She ran away? Don\u2019t tell me she \u2026 deliberately<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

Unable to stand the look on her face, he glanced away. When he looked back, her eyes were fixed on his, pleading. Through her skinny turtleneck, her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.<\/p>\n

A nerve twitched in his forehead. Seconds stretched like elastic, and reality smashed into shards: Gristlebones had been helping him remove chewing gum from the quilt<\/em>; he\u2019d been cleaning a set of paintbrushes while in bed with the flu<\/em>; a bottle of white spirit had grown wings and launched a kamikaze attack on him.<\/em> As for why the match was struck \u2026<\/p>\n

Yara\u2019s chest stopped moving. He felt the tightness in her ribs as if it were his own. But he was too tired and bruised to give her what she wanted.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he said. Together, they flinched.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d She nodded hard. \u201cWe\u2019ll talk later.\u201d Mirthlessly, she laughed. \u201cYou must\u2019ve been delirious. Terry said when you were lying in his car, you kept shouting, \u201cTravis or Jane! Travis or Jane!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh. Yeah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat was that about?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOur film. I couldn\u2019t remember how it went. If it was Jane who set fire to the trailer while Travis was in it, or the other way round.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich film? Who\u2019s \u2018Travis\u2019 and \u2018Jane?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

They stared at each other.<\/p>\n

\u201cParis, Texas<\/em>,\u2019 he heard himself say. \u201cOur<\/em> film.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d She thought for a moment. \u201cI don\u2019t remember too much about it. Was that the black and white one with Johnny Depp?\u201d<\/p>\n

He stayed silent.<\/p>\n

Pulling at a loose string on her skirt, Yara said, \u201cRandom that it came into your head then.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was a while before he replied. \u201cMaybe it was because someone tried to set someone else on fire.\u201d<\/p>\n

She winced again. He stayed still this time.<\/p>\n

As he lay weak and cold, Yara talked about other things. She said his mother and sister were on their way, and she\u2019d leave them to it and come back later. The hospital was keeping him for observation, she said, and he\u2019d be released in the morning; they thought he\u2019d drunk some herbal sleeping thing by mistake. She told him she had the rest of the week off work to look after him. She told him Doctor sent his love, and was distraught that he was in hospital.<\/p>\n

Then she started crying again. She told him he was a part of her, and it hurt so much to see him lying there like that. \u201cIf only it was me,\u201d she said. \u201cOh my God, I wish it was me.\u201d<\/p>\n

But Michael wasn\u2019t really listening. Time had shifted shape again, and life felt long now. Long and strange and lonely. Overcome with fatigue, he closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he burrowed into something deep within himself. Something he now knew belonged to him and no one else.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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