Chapter 1 (continued)

Chains.

Chapter 1 (part 2)

2 (continued...)

My mind wrenched back. Noise, commotion, had jerked my thoughts back to the road ahead. The November rain still splattered on the windscreen, and through the gaps in the ever swishing wipers I saw a shadowy figure up ahead, weaving between the traffic, waving her arms. It was definitely a her. The noise came from the cars, blasting their horns angrily, and motorists shouting. A woman in the road, no big deal I thought. They should learn to relax. The shape of the woman edged towards the pavement, the arms stopped waving and the monotony took hold once more.

3.
A week or so went by after my first chance meeting with Louise, and I kept her art gallery card in my wallet, because you never know. It wasn't too far from where I worked, so one afternoon when I'd left early, I sauntered in. It was up a side street off the main road and was surrounded by coffee shops, bureau de changes and souvenir places. It was so small it was hard to find. The hustle and bustle was extraordinary, possibly made more acute by the narrowness of the street and the resultant fact that most people spilled off the narrow pavements on to the road, careless of the taxis that vainly tried to force their way through. The inside of the gallery was a complete contrast: serene, quiet and almost ethereal. I think the effect was achieved because the owners had painted it almost completely white, with simple lines and few trimmings. The hushed air of the few devout art lovers who were browsing gave the place the feeling of a cathedral. I loved it. I found Louise sorting through some piles of photographs behind a screen. She seemed genuinely pleased to see me.
"Hey, the coffee shop man, or was it a cafe? I know, " she added quickly, barely pausing for breath, "the one who likes tall haughty women. How are you? she greeted me with the familiarity of a long lost friend. "Nice to see you in here. Voila the art, and she swept her arm round dramatically in an arc.
"Well, I'm going to need lessons, I said, "or at least an introductory brochure. I don't see much that's familiar here, I added, after a cursory glance at the walls.
"Ah well, Louise grinned, "that'll be because we're a specialist gallery, and she paused, expectantly.
I waited, and lothe to disappoint her, went on. "What are you specialists in then?
"You mean you can't tell? she wrinkled her nose playfully. "Middle Eastern art my dear boy. Landscapes, townscapes, contemporary photography, pre and post revolutionary work, old masters, everything from Afghanistan to Turkey and all the bits in between. I got the job here because I speak Turkish, grew up there. Oh I told you that.
My attention wandered. A woman was lingering over a photographic exhibition called "Contemporary Views of Tehran. She seemed absorbed in the pictures, peered intently at them and if I was not mistaken, occasionally let out a sigh.
"She's not tall and haughty, Louise remarked, her eyes darting from me to the woman and back again, "she's small and dark, like me. Her eyes settled back on me. "Comes here a lot she does, always on her own, hardly ever speaks. I knew that what I recognized as Louise's restless intelligence was at work, weighing up possibilities, considering and discounting, but I left it alone.

I went to the gallery quite a bit after that first speculative outing, often in my dinner hour or after work on the way home. I got to know Louise well. She had a boyfriend, she told me, and on and off affair, though she didn't say why. Not my business, so I didn't pursue it. I saw the dark woman a few times and she intrigued me. I began to learn about the art of the Middle East, and impossible to dissociate from it, something of the history and politics too. I began to have a dawning hope back then that maybe, maybe life could turn out alright. I hadn't expected much, hoped for much. Mostly I just wanted to survive, keep on living. It was only a year or so ago that I'd come here, having lost it seemed to me, most of what made life worth having. Bit by bit I was piecing things together, and perhaps that's all you can hope for. Perhaps the best any of us can hope for is to lose as little as possible on whatever journey we are compelled to take.

I fell to musing on my recent past as the lights turned green and the traffic rolled slowly forward. I passed a side road, and maybe through boredom with the unending tedium of the Friday evening journey, I impulsively took the left turn. At least I'd be moving, that would be something, I thought. Half way up, the road narrowed and the traffic slowed. I pulled over into a space to consult my road map, and then I saw her. A small dark haired woman was coming towards me, walking fitfully, and she was crying. There was no mistake, her shoulders heaved as sob after sob tore through her and her fingers angrily wiped away the running make up. Her hair tousled and fell across her eyes as the November rain mingled with her tears; she was looking down and nearly bumped into one of the trees, stumbled on the roots, caught herself and veered towards my car. It was one of those moments of indecision. What do you do? What business was it of mine? Why should I care that a woman I didn't know was crying? Probably boyfriend trouble or something, and didn't I have enough troubles of my own, and wouldn't she just yell and run away? But I did care. Having your own wounds can sensitise you to the plight of others. My heart went out to her. All the losses, all the betrayals, all the people made vulnerable by a world that seems increasingly to alienate them. What have we come to if we cannot stretch out our hands when someone needs it, needs maybe nothing more than a recognition from another, even for a moment? The thoughts flashed through me as I pressed the button to wind the passenger window down and called out into the wet and windswept night:
"Are you alright love? Can I help?
The woman paused and looked up momentarily, then leaned against my car and continued to sob. I got out and went over to her. People are not to be ignored, they are to be understood, and helped. These were my unspoken feelings as I made that journey to the other side of the car towards the woman I came to love more than any other person in the world.
"Can I help you? I repeated, for want of anything better to say, then added trivially, "you're getting wet. Is there somewhere you want to go? Can I take you? All this time I had stood awkwardly, not wanting to touch for fear it would make matters worse.
"I'll be alright, she mumbled, "I'm just a silly woman. She glanced up and the impact took me by surprise. I recognized her instantly. "You're the woman from the art gallery I exclaimed. She seemed a bit startled, but the connection was made. "Look, I hesitated, " at least get into the car out of the rain. You'll be warm there and I'll leave the light on, you'll be safe.
She ran her sleeve across her face and sniffed. The tears were beginning to subside and she looked quizzically into my eyes.
"Yes, I have seen you there, you know the reception lady. This seemed to persuade her that I was probably not a murderer. She paused, weighing up her options. "If you don't mind, I will sit in your car for a moment. I have no coat. You are very kind. She had an accent that I couldn't place and her English was good but with clear residues of her mother tongue in the way she spoke. I opened the door and helped her in, then got into the other side and left the light on. The engine was still running so I turned up the heater a bit.
"I can turn it up more and aim the fan at you and you can dry your hair a bit, I offered, unsure what to say.
"That is very kind, maybe just a little. She pronounced it "leetle and I warmed to her. We sat there with the fan blowing while she rubbed the worst of the wet out of her hair. It was thick and black, though she had coloured it at one time and there were streaks of reddish brown in it. She looked very attractive. When she finally looked up at me her eyes were the largest I had ever seen. "There, much better. You can turn your blower thing off now, and she smiled, and it was liked being pierced by the rays of the sun. "Can I use your mirror? Do you have a mirror on this thing? she pronounced it 'theeng' and she gestured to the sun visor, "sorry, I don't know what you call it in English. I pulled the visor down to reveal the little vanity mirror.
"Oh good she said, "I need to sort out my make up. Silly woman. She glanced sideways at me. "This is what you should not be seeing a woman do. Never mind, she shrugged, "you have seen me at my worst and it does not matter.

We sat in my car in the November rain, up an anonymous side street, two small people in an indifferent world, both with their pains and their heart aches, their worries and their wounds; and for a short time we gave each other comfort. It can only have been about 15 minutes, but to me, looking back, it seemed a glorious eternity, a small bubble in time and space that stretched backwards and forwards into infinity; whatever unseen forces there were, gathering together the errant strings of my life ' and maybe hers too ' and carefully, lovingly, placing them all here in this moment. As the ebb and flow of time faded into the ordinary, and the prosaic intruded into our lives once more, I realized I had to take her home, that I had to go home too. The moment could not be extended and nor should it, for its magic would have dissipated.
"Please let me take you back, I said eventually. She agreed, and told me she lived not far from here. I had worked out that she had probably been the woman in the road earlier, but I said nothing, trusting to the processes of life to take care of that if it needed to be taken care of. The traffic had thinned a bit and with her directions, I soon found the road where she lived.
"You can drop me at the corner, she said, understandably erring on the side of caution. I pulled over and we sat there awkward, now the moment of parting had come. The car stood by the kerb, engine humming, disembodied music emanating faintly from the radio, and silence within. Neither of us spoke. I looked at her and she registered it and looked away. It must have been a searching look. Her black-brown hair tumbled across her shoulders and she swept it back, revealing a gold chain around her neck, contrasting beautifully with her light brown skin, like the shining oil paint of an autumnal canvas. Her huge brown eyes turned to me and her gaze shot through me like fire.
"I haven't thanked you properly, she said. "I am very grateful to you, you rescued me, and you have been polite enough not to ask me questions. I will remember that.
I shifted awkwardly, not knowing what to say. "You're more than welcome, I replied, "I hate to see anyone in distress, and, I added, "you have no need to tell me anything. I'm glad you feel better now. She smiled at me as she opened the door and stepped out. The rain had stopped and the blustery November wind pulled her hair across her face. "I'm sure I'll see you at the art gallery again some time, I blurted out. She took a step forwards, away from my world.
"I hope so, " she said. I felt a thrill of anticipation that I don't think I altogether concealed. She turned and called back, "you never told me your name.
"Jamie, I called back. "Jamie Roberts.
"That's a nice name, a solid name. I could trust that name. She looked at me, her eyes searching my face, wondering if she'd given away too much. "My name is Roya, she said finally, and disappeared into the dark.