This Is Where I Am by Karen Campbell Read Free Book Online Page A

to his red-rimmed nose. ‘And anyway, what d’you expect when you’ve got signs everywhere telling folk to “feel your paint”. I mean to say –’
    ‘ That is confined to one specific area of the interpretation centre. And if folk canny tell the difference –’
    Abdi moves between us. ‘Please. I am sorry I touch your painting.’
    ‘Right.’ The curator steps back a pace. ‘Right. Well, just see that it disny happen again, OK?’
    ‘Yes. OK.’
    I wait until the curator’s out of earshot, until the gawkers have returned to their perusal of art as opposed to drama. ‘Why did you say that? You didn’t touch the painting.’
    ‘I know.’ Abdi eases his thumb behind the padded strap of his rucksack, transfers it from one shoulder to the other. Gives me a half-smile. His eyes glisten. ‘May we carry on, please?’
    ‘You want to go?’
    ‘I want to see other paintings.’
    We walk on through the museum in silence, broken by me going, ‘That one’s nice,’ and him going, ‘Mm.’ Under my skin, my heart is going haywire. Maybe I shouldn’t be allowed out. Abdi won’t look the road I’m on – he can’t be that transfixed with the Sioux Ghost Dance Shirt. I blether on about it for a while, telling him about its origins and its repatriation, then we leave that room and move to the next. I’m suddenly conscious this must all seem greedy. Piles of stolen property – that’s what a lot of this is. I watch him gaze at all the faded glories. The Refugee Council folk tell you that you haven’t to pry, you mustn’t ask ‘leading questions’. Well, what is a leading question? What’s been stolen from you? What do you do with your days? What brought you here; to me, to Glasgow?
    ‘Oh, wait. You’ll love this one.’ But he is already gone.
    He’s walking down the vaulted corridor, galleries opening on either side, and he is ignoring them. As you should. As you are drawn, intractably, along this narrow passage, by a thread of light that calls your name. I see it dawn on his face, the lines of cloud and sky and sea and cruciform arms, the billowing up and out and down of this sublime painting. Although it’s iconic, although you see its image on mugs and brollies, postcards and bags, it does not purport to be more than it is.
    Quite simply, it is a vision.
    I let him stand awhile. I’d forgotten how beautiful this picture was. Even the trace of the tear, a jagged half-square carved by a nutter’s knife, is beautiful. It speaks of visceral response. It’s like the painting kisses you, every time.
    ‘It’s called Christ of Saint John of the Cross .’ I don’t know why I’m whispering. ‘By a painter called Dali. Have you heard of him?’
    Abdi shakes his head.
    ‘Do you like it?’
    ‘I do.’
    His head rises a little on his neck. I hadn’t noticed it was bowed. Most people look up at the Dali, not down.
    ‘Do people pray here?’ he asks me.
    ‘Eh – no. I don’t think so.’
    ‘They should.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe.’
    ‘Maybe,’ I agree. But I don’t. Not really. I don’t want to argue with him, though; in fact, I’m glad if he still has the comfort of prayer. To me, it just got easier to stop asking.
    ‘Coffee?’ I chirp. The word tastes bright and harsh.
    We go back downstairs to the basement café, another new development, honey-scraped from the dust. Previously this was stores. They’ve gouged out windows through the sandstone, broad curving windows that seem to have always been here. There’s a shop full of trinkets and postcards, beaded bags and Egyptian jewellery. Actually, it’s very pleasant. I buy two buns. Iced ones.
    ‘Is this place very old?’ asks Abdi, as I place the plastic tray on our table. His rucksack is locked between his knees.
    ‘Quite old. About a hundred, hundred and twenty years?’
    ‘Mm.’ He sips his coffee. Makes a face.
    ‘Is it not very nice?’
    I think for a moment he’s going to ignore me. His lips and brow indent, as if he’s doing