A Distant Shore by Caryl Phillips Read Free Book Online Page B

“This is England. What kind of a place did I come to? Can you tell me that?”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Do you like it here?” asks Solomon, his voice suddenly impassioned.
    I look at Solomon, but I really don’t understand. I feel as though he’s blaming me for something.
    “I really don’t know anything else, do I? I mean, this is where I’m from, and I’ve not got anything to compare it to. Except France. I once went there on a day trip. I suppose that seems a bit pathetic to you, doesn’t it?” Solomon shakes his head.
    “No, but I am asking you, what do you think of this place?”
    “It’s where I’m from.”
    He points again to the pile of letters. “Then maybe you should not read the letters.” Solomon disappears into the kitchen and I hear the clatter of dishes, and water being noisily poured into a kettle. Solomon sounds angry, but I don’t know what to do, so I simply stare at the letters.
    After a few moments the noises stop, and then Solomon comes out of the kitchen and he sits opposite me. He seems calmer, and his eyes are softer, but I notice that his hands are shaking slightly. He carefully moves the cup up to his lips and then he replaces it on the saucer. When he’s driving he holds on tightly to the wheel. He’s in control and I feel safe with him, but sitting in this house he seems curiously vulnerable. He glances at the letters and I feel as though I have to say something.
    “Do you want me to read them, is that it?”
    Solomon laughs now, but he doesn’t say anything. I realise that he’s been hurt, and I watch him for a while and then decide that I should leave. As I stand up he also gets to his feet. It’s awkward for both of us, but I don’t think the relationship is in any way broken. Solomon reaches down and picks up an envelope.
    “How do you open your letters?” He doesn’t hand me the envelope, he simply lets it dangle between his fingers. I look at him unsure of how I’m supposed to answer his question.
    “Well,” I begin. “I just tear open the envelope.”
    “Ah,” he says. He smiles now. “Just tear open the envelope. I usually do this too, but for some reason I decided not to with this one.”
    I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take from all of this, but I continue to listen.
    “For some reason I took a knife to it. This was a fine decision, for somebody had sewn razor blades into a sheet of paper and carefully turned the page over so that I would grab the so-called letter and have my fingers sliced off. This is not very kind.”
    He laughs slightly and tosses the envelope down onto the pile with the other letters.
    “Love letters,” he laughs. “From people who do not want me in this place.” Again he laughs. “I am beginning to take this personally.”
    I sit back down and stare at the pile of letters. Solomon sits too, and he asks me if I would like more coffee. I look across at him and nod. “Would you mind?” He takes my cup and saucer and disappears into the kitchen.
    “I’m not naïve.” I say this to myself. I whisper it under my breath. I’m not naïve. I’ve got stuck into these arguments in the past. With Mum and Dad, for starters, both of whom disliked coloureds. Dad told me that he regarded coloureds as a challenge to our English identity. He believed that the Welsh were full of sentimental stupidity, that the Scots were helplessly mean and mopish and they should keep to their own side of Hadrian’s Wall, and that the Irish were violent, Catholic drunks. For him, being English was more important than being British, and being English meant no coloureds. He would no more listen to me than would the teachers at school, who also hated coloureds. When people were around, they’d go on about them not really adapting well to our school system, but in private they were always “cheeky little niggers.” I know this is what people think, I’m not naïve, but why the hatred towards Solomon, who doesn’t talk to