Melancholy Memories: Foreign Dreams

By Karen Dabrowska

An Iraqi exile who worked for the CIA but became disillusioned with the Western intervention in his country, an Islamic scholar who took up residence in Turkey and murdered her lovers wife, a safari guide cum tarot reader whose move to London was a breakfast in hell rather than the new dawn he dreamed of these are just some of the colourful characters in Karen Dabrowskas first collection of short stories. The characters in all eleven stories live in London but their lives are shaped by experiences abroad and dreams of a better life outside Europe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: May 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477105580

Karen Dabrowska

Born in New Zealand, Karen Dabrowska is a journalist, writer and currently Director of Communications for Friends of South Yemen. She was previously the Development Officer for the Sudanese National Council. Dabrowska has also worked as a journalist for the Evening Post daily newspaper, as features editor and then editor of New Horizon magazine, and as the London correspondent for the Jana News Agency. Her other publications include Iraq: The Ancient Sites and Iraqi Kurdistan, The Libyan Revolution: Diary of Qadha’s newsgirl in London, Into the Abyss: rights violations in Bahrain, Iraq: Then and Now and Iraq Bradt Travel Guide.

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Contents

Dedication

Give Paw, Take Paw

The Cv

The Real Story

Black Rain

Ten To Ten Thirty

No Nonsense

I Will Give You A Tinkle

Let Us Pause

There Is Wisdom In Silence

The Wisdom Of The Tarot

"That’s Not All, You Don’t Know

Half Of It."

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Harry Dronfield with appreciation, thanks and respect for his relentless quest for justice

and to Joseph Cutajar for heralding a new dawn.

Give Paw, Take Paw

Njoroge finished his shift. It was 1am. Most of the residents were asleep, no was making any trouble, asking for midnight cups of tea or wetting the bed. As always, he went to say goodnight Professor to Heino, the fading German who had helped him to turn his life around. Then began the short drive home. Heino pushed him to get a car rather than walk at an ungodly hour.

The care home was in Claygate where the palatial homes reached the one million dollar mark. The street leading from the station to Oaken Lane had an expensive knick knack shop run by an Armenian who decided to go into the import business because he could not find what he liked in London. The Indian restaurant recently received a face lift and the new furniture and cream table cloths spoke of prosperity. There was a ceramic shop which allowed customers to paint their own cermaics, an organic groceer, two upmarket charity shops, a Chinese restaurant, a kebab shop and a fish and chips restaurant.

Heino used to come to the street leading to the station in his wheelchair. On his birthday he even dined in the Indian restaurant and ordered shrimps. He loved to drive his electric wheelchair along the pavement and watch the people. The supermarket did not have a ramp and he resented not being able to go inside to select his food, but he had Njoroge.

The care home was a BUPA home and had the appearance of a posh hotel rather than a care home, immacuately clean with a cheerful lady on reception. At Christmas the decorations were magnificent with Santa’s grotto. The staff took pride in their work and in the way they cared for the residents, mainly old people but also younger individuals who had sustained serious physical injuries which often led to mental problems.

Once he had learned the ropes the work Njoroge was required to do was not particularly challenging: serving meals, shopping for the residents, driving the specially adapted van to accommodate wheelchairs on outings. He was a well built man but he exercised and took care not to put on weight. With the exception of Heino, he was on friendly relations with the residents but no real friendships developed.

Now Njoroge’s friend, mentor, councillor and adviser was a shadow of his former self. He was loosing weight and loosing hair. All he could do was lie in bed, waiting for the care home staff to sit him up. His eyesight was fading, nobody was quite sure what he could see through the glasses or whether the images on the tv screen made any sense to him. He was fed by a peg. He could no longer drink his beloved dry white wine to which Njoroge had become quite partial. He enjoyed shopping for Heino’s food treats and even sought out exotic delicatessans for his German sausages. He could no longer eat pepperoni pizzas and kebabs and he could no longer speak and turn his venom on the Turks who did not know how to make a decent kebab. They are not like the Lebanese, not like the Lebanese at all, Heino would say disgusted.

When he first came to the care home ten years ago Heino had to be lifted into the wheelchair. But he could stay sitting up for long periods, he could eat and read—but most important of all he could speak. The stroke has affected the left side of his body which was totally paralysed but there was a mischievous twinkle in Heino’s eyes. He still took an interest in those around him and his expressive brown eyes and his own special laugh, which spread a hidden light over his face, charmed everyone who met him. He used to be short and stout but now the weight was falling off him. He seldom cut his hair and it hung over his eyes but in the care home they made sure he was well groomed. For the first time in his life his clothes were ironed on a regular basis.

Heino was not an easy patient. Very critical. Life had its own timetable. He had to watch the news at the same time each day. The Radio Times had to be there on the same day of the week. He had to have his wine with dinner and another glass after. He would drive around in the wheel chair when it suited him but he would not talk to the other residents and when they made small talk he would dismiss them like naughty children and send them to their rooms.

It was not unusual for him to swear at the staff. Some left his room in tears. He met his match when he met Andrew who used to drive trucks in Canada before settling into the routine job of a carer. And when Heino swore at him, Andrew would swear back. They reached an understanding. Andrew left the care home after training to be a manager. Heino abused him for being intelligent. You’re not going to be my bellhop till the end of your days? he would say. And Andrew got the message, did the training and left. Heino would ask about him sometimes and sometimes he would call Njoroge, Andrew by mistake and then apologise. Njoroge remembered their first meeting.

And where are you from? he growled.

Kenya Njoroge replied.

Oh, Kenya came the dismissive reply. I don’t know much about Kenya. It was probably one of the few countries Heino didn’t know much about, Njoroge later realised. I used to work in the Ahmadu Bello University in Nigeria. I taught politics. I had a nice time there. And Heino would speak about his colleagues, including Mark who fell in love with a local prostitute got her pregnant then brought her to the UK and married her, about his women, about the vultures that sat in the trees, about the students he loved. But no mail from Nigeria every came to the care home. No black men graced his bedside with their presence.

How are you this morning young man? he would ask Njoroge when he was in a good mood. From day one, Njorge called Heino ‘professor’. Not Professor Heino or Professor Kopietz, just professor. He used it like a title, a mark of respect.

Heino would abuse him but he dare not swear like Andrew. A student could not swear at his professor. Once he asked if the professor would like some tea.

Tea roared Heino. Who do you think I am? I don’t drink. Bring me a coffee and be quick about it.

Njoroge was always polite to Heino and Heino grew to like the young African and began to share his life with him. They spoke nearly every day after beginning their morning conversation in the usual way.

Heino always liked to talk about his Polish heritage and Njoroge began to learn something about European history. Heino was born in the German city of Breslau but after WW2 the city was given to Poland, renamed Wroclav and the German population was expelled. Heino, his mother and a cat were among the refugees.

The cat tried to run after the sled. I saw it sinking into the snow and then I did not see it again Heino recalled with great emotion. He loved cats. He was over joyed when one of his friends bought his cat, Monkey to the care home in a cage. It was a short visit, Monkey sat on Heino’s knee and then it was back into the cage for the long ride home.

He was a sickly child who suffered from rheumatic fever. His mother decided the Californian climate would do him good and immigrated to Bakersfield where Heino grew up. It was not a happy childhood. His mother had numerous lovers while Heino’s father refused to acknowledge his existence for the first thirty years of his life. He was a love child. His mother had a affair with a leading doctor who was married. He was happy to see them depart for California.

Heino’s mother, an elegant, once beautiful German woman, managed to visit Heino during his stay in the care home. She was in a wheelchair herself but was able to walk with the aid of a walking frame. The staff served them like royalty. Heino’s mother looked lovingly at Njoroge. She remembered Heino had adopted a small Lebanese orphan who was tragically killed by a land mine. It was good he had someone to treat like a son again.

Reading saved Heino. It was his joy, his source of education when he could not attend school because of the illness. He was a clever student who loved history—his own country’s history and that of the exotic Middle East. This love took him to the American University of Beirut where he completed a PhD on the influence of Nazi ideology on the Iraqi government of Rashid Gilani who supported Germany during WW2.

Life in Beirut was a dream come true. Here he could study and study he did: Arabic, politics, religion. His social life centred around a group of students of various nationalities who jokingly referred to themselves as the ‘Beirut mafia’. His American wife Carla was a fish out of water and they went their separate ways before he finished his studies. But Carla always had a soft spot for Heino and when she learned he was in the care home she started sending cards, photos from the past, their marriage license. It made him smile. It was a nice memory.

Beirut was not without its dangers. Heino would talk about how the body of an Iraqi he had spoken to the night before was found riddled with bullets in a