Alon Shalev - The Accidental Activist / A Gardener's Tale

Prologue

 “The truth, Your Honor, is that I got involved because of a woman, the defendant.”

 “She…persuaded you to get involved in her cause?”

 “No sir. I simply fancied her and was looking to spend time with her.” 

“Love is a noble cause, young man.” The judge smiled at me indulgently.

I nodded but, being under oath and speaking to a judge, I felt an overriding need to be completely honest. “At the time I was pursuing less noble intentions, Your Honor.”

The judge cleared his throat. “Well, I see no need to pursue this line of thought.” But after a few moments he turned to me. “Really? All this for a potential pick-up?” He shook his head. “Well, I hope it was worth it.”

I was just stepping down from the witness box when I turned to face him. My reply was quiet, yet its conviction resonated to all corners of the courtroom. “It was, Your Honor, it was.”

Chapter One

 I looked at myself in the mirror—for only the eighth or ninth time that hour. A smooth-shaven, pathetically optimistic Romeo peered back, reassuring me that, should the Juliet of my dreams turn up at tonight’s party, I was surely in with a chance. I slapped more aftershave onto my already saturated face and glanced at the bottle. The label promised to fulfill my dream and the woman in the picture would certainly achieve my ambitions—quite the bargain for less than a fiver from Boots the Chemist.

I turned and reached for a pair of socks. Two calculating green eyes stared at me, but all I saw was a fur ball lying on my creaseless imitation silk shirt.

“Get off that, Gates. I said I’d feed you before I left. Damn! I’m going to have cat hairs all over my shirt now.”

Gates nonchalantly rose and stretched before walking over to his bowl. He sat, wrapped his tail around his body and stared expectantly. As I searched for cat food, the phone rang. I did not attempt to pick it up and, just as I began to feel guilty, the comforting click of the answering machine filled the room.

“Come on, Matt, I know you’re there. You’ve never been early for a party in your life. Answer the phone, you silly bugger.”

I turned on the loudspeaker. “Whatcha want, Paul? I’m taking my rollers out.”

“Ha. I need a lift to the party, mate. My car’s been towed away and they’re not answering at the pound.”

“Leave it there,” I replied. “The fine will be more than the car’s worth anyway.” Paul was very proud of his brand-new 1995 BMW. Ignoring his colorfully articulated response, I continued. “And what happens if I pick up a date, and she insists I take her home?”

His analysis of this possibility wasn’t pretty, but he’s my best mate and we set a time. I put the phone down and started to walk to the bathroom when a scratching sound stopped me abruptly and my smug mood quickly vanished.

“Gates, leave my shoelaces alone. I said I’d feed you. Look, here’s a tin and, oh, where’s the damn tin opener. I’m gonna be late, Gates. What about this dried stuff, huh? Doesn’t entice you? It does when there’s nothing else. So what if there’s a tin, there’s no fucking tin opener!”

Again, the phone rang and I vowed to ignore it.

“This is Mr. Rees. Pick up the phone or you’re fired.”

It’s amazing how quickly my telephone answering reflexes improved for my boss.

“Having a good weekend, Mr. Rees?”

I knew he wasn’t. Mr. Rees was never the type to enjoy life and would probably get annoyed if he did.

“Matthew, I’m at the office and I can’t find the latest Husseini printout you showed me this afternoon. We need to get this finished, you know. It’s a big account and there’s tough competition out there. Why, when I was your age, I’d work on weekends just to—”

The Husseini account was big. We were creating a computer program for an oil conglomerate and, if deemed successful, we could sell it worldwide. I knew it was a serious deal for the company, and I was an important cog in the wheel. I also knew I was covered.

“Mr. Rees, I know it’s important and that’s why you can’t find it. I brought the file home to work on during the weekend. Here, I have the folder in my hand—”

As I lifted the folder from the table to give Rees his information, the tin opener fell onto the table. Twenty minutes later, I left my flat: my boss with his information, my cat with his food and me hopelessly optimistic that tonight would indeed be the night.

We got lost, it began to rain, and Paul was getting me down with his map reading. How is it that he can read his way through any computer program within an hour but can’t find his way through Camden on a Friday night?

At his suggestion, I dropped Paul at the party and meandered down the crowded street in search of a parking space. By the time I’d walked back to the house, I was in no mood for a party. The place was packed and the music loud. As I flung my raincoat on top of a mound of equally wet coats, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. The well-groomed Romeo who had peered out from my bathroom mirror and nourished such high aspirations a mere hour ago had dissolved into a wet, disheveled slob.

“Hi, Matti, been out for a swim, dear?” A hand playfully ruffled my hair before wiping itself extravagantly on my shirt.

I hope your hand is covered with cat hairs.

Another partygoer gleefully patted my shoulder. “Your birthday’s coming up soon, isn’t it? Now I know what to buy you, old boy—an umbrella.”

You’re getting a fucking bus home, Paul, I swear. Where was the bastard, anyway? Nearing the bar, I spied him in the corner with a small blonde. Seeing me, he rose on the pretext of refilling their glasses.

“Isn’t she a beauty, Matt? She even comes with her own car. I don’t think you’ll need to give me a lift home after all.” 

Paul casually looked me up and down. “Why don’t you go to the bathroom and comb yourself out, mate,” he said, patting me on the arm before returning to his prey.

Struggling between a sarcastic reply and a more primeval urge to throttle him, I quickly turned and eased my way through the crowd and upstairs to the bathroom. It was in use, so I sat on the stairs and rested my head in my hands.

Perhaps I whispered some magical words for, when I looked up, I was staring into a pair of deep-brown eyes. A beautiful smile greeted me sympathetically, but the voice was earnest.

“Here’s the deal. You’re having a miserable time, and I need to get out of here quick. You have a car. I need a lift. You drive me home, and I don’t invite you in. Impress me with your conversation and we’ll stop at my local on the way and I’ll buy you a drink. Whatcha say?”

I didn’t. My mouth opened but nothing came out. She misread. “Perhaps I made a mistake. You’re probably with someone and having a great time. Sorry.” She got up and retreated down the stairs.

I stumbled down after her and, elbowing my way through the crowd, I caught sight of then lost her. Friends stopped to greet me, but I politely kept moving. Finally, I zoned in and approached decisively.

“Okay,” I said confidently. “Here’s the deal—”

A thick hand pushed against my chest. “She’s with me, mate.” The words were slurred and it somehow dulled their effect. “I’m a bodybuilder and I pump two fifty.”

Though he was bigger than me and I’m usually quite the coward, his alcohol intake and my elevated hormones conveniently subdued any rising fear. Slowly, but firmly, I moved his hand away and met his stare. As I spoke, there was an abrupt lull in the music—unfortunately.

“And I’m a computer programmer and my viruses are deadly.” With everyone else seemingly absorbing my words, I turned to the woman and graciously extended my arm. “Do we have a deal?”

Those beautiful eyes gleamed as she nodded and took my arm. “A deal, my hero.”

As we made our way to the door, I spied Paul without his small blonde. He was staring at me with his mouth agape. Victory was complete.

“It’s attached to my lance,” I replied, “which, unfortunately, I left with the blacksmith to be sharpened.”

“And where’s your charger?” She peered along the rain-strewn street.

I grimaced and offered to bring the car round.

“No, I don’t think so,” she replied glancing back. “Mr. Universe might just sober up enough to follow us.”

Once in the car, we drove in weary silence, both wet and content to allow the windscreen wipers and Lloyd Cole ballads to keep the atmosphere subdued. After a while, she made the effort to strike up a conversation. “Do you usually go around saving women in tight situations?”

“Oh yes,” I replied, “about once every thirty years or so.”

As her laughter tailed off, she shook her head from side to side and repeated, "'My viruses are deadly.' Where did you come up with that one?”

I didn’t have a comeback and the conversation died. Nearing her pub, she realized it was past closing time and, as I pulled into her street, she seemed to be deliberating something.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I knew the terms of the rescue. You said up front you wouldn’t invite me in.”

“Well, I haven’t kept my side of the bargain,” she replied. “What’s your name anyway, or should I just call you My Knight?”

I answered in my best Queen’s English. “In public you may call me Sir Matthew of Putney. In private, Matt will suffice.”

Following her directions, I stopped outside her house. I was tired and had driven a good half-hour out of my way. However, as I turned, her face cut a fine silhouette, and I felt the urge to see her again. Considering my aspirations for this party, I had ironically not even thought of this as a potential pickup. “Tell you what, meet me tomorrow and we’ll have a drink—neutral territory. What do you say?”

“Tomorrow I’m busy.” She paused, thought for a moment then her face lit up. “But I will see you Sunday, noon at Hyde Park Corner. Then, my brave knight, I’ll treat you to lunch.”

“Hyde Park Corner. I haven’t been there for a while.” Actually, I couldn’t recall when I had last been there, no doubt incidentally passing through. “It’ll be crowded. How will I find you?”

A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes as she unlocked the passenger door. “Don’t worry, you will. Just make sure you’re there before twelve.”

I could easily have slept past twelve o’clock and never seen her again. Saturday had been a relaxing day of football and newspapers but toward evening, I started working on the Husseini project and lost all track of time. Fortunately, the next morning, Gates came to the rescue. My ever-hungry feline situated himself on top of my pillow, lightly titillating my face with his tail. It was only a matter of time before my nose succumbed, and the sneezes sent my cat flying but pulled me upright.

“Godammit, Gates! It’s Sun—” I looked at the clock, and my mind cleared instantly.

I was out of the house within twenty minutes and only calmed when the car passed Hammersmith without running into traffic. I would make it on time. Shit! I hadn’t shaved. I had fed the damn cat and not shaved. At least it wasn’t raining.

It occurred to me that I might not recognize her. I hadn’t seen her in daylight, or in the light of anywhere. I didn’t even know her name.

Hyde Park Corner hadn’t changed. Everyone either was a tourist or dressed scruffily. There were even badly dressed tourists, and I wandered around feeling overdressed—or at least lacking a camera.

I passed the anarchists and self-ordained prophets ranting from their soapboxes in a language I wasn’t entirely convinced we shared. How would I find her here? Damn! What had she been up to suggesting this?

I drifted into a large crowd in front of a stage with a huge white banner as a backdrop. I couldn’t make out what was written on it, but there appeared to be a large drop of blood on a black smear. Against the white backdrop, it was very distinctive. I was about to walk away when a strong feminine voice filled the air.

I started shoving through the crowd with little concern for those I was pushing aside. It couldn’t be! I wasn’t even listening to her speech. I had to see her face. I needed a profile to be sure. As I reached the front, I found two big men suddenly standing between the stage and me. They were clearly part of the demonstration as they held leaflets and one of them had a sheet of stickers. They were eyeing me suspiciously, and I felt conspicuous. I turned to listen to the woman speaking.

“And so it’s not just a question of the rain forest's future. It’s not even simply a question of unethical business practices by multinational corporations. This is abuse. Human abuse. For a few barrels of oil, we are destroying the dignity of an entire tribe, trampling on their heritage. If they carry out their threat, I say there will be blood on their hands, not only of the multinationals, not only of their government who is so shamelessly selling them out for forty barrels of black silver, but on the hands of every one of us each time we fill our car's petrol tank. When we do that, we provide legitimacy and profit to these unethical and abusive companies.”

The applause was passionate, and I enthusiastically joined in though I hadn’t a clue what she meant.

A man took her place and urged people to sign the petitions and get involved. The two burly men came up to me as I tried to make my way to where she was leaving the stage. They blocked any opportunity for me to reach her.

“Want to sign the petition, mate?” one asked, mockingly.

“From the Green Alliance are yer?” asked the other, his cockney accent thick. They laughed.

I was frustrated. I had now seen this woman twice in three days and each time found myself in a confrontation with big men. At an approximate count, that’s twice more than I had encountered since leaving school twelve years ago, a perturbing pattern.

“Do you gentlemen have a problem?” I asked, trying dismally to sound assertive and no doubt only succeeding to appear hurt. “Britain is a democracy and Hyde Park Corner the jewel in its democratic crown. I am perfectly entitled to—”

“Cut the crap,” said a welcoming voice from behind them. “He’s waiting for me, boys. I owe him lunch.”

Relieved, I tried to catch a glimpse of her between these two human mountains, but they weren’t finished. One of them extended a huge hand and bowed. “Sir Matthew, I presume.”

“Careful,” his mate warned, grabbing his friend’s arm. “Suzie warned us he's got viruses and won’t hesitate to use them.”

They both creased up laughing, but at least I now knew her name. I’m sure I was blushing. The second man then introduced himself as Luke and explained how they had seen me pushing through the crowd and suspected me of foul intentions. Being such a sensitive issue, they had to take precautions. I was just beginning to feel at ease when he said, “The way yer dressed and all.”

A softer hand touched my arm. “Matt, I’ll get my things and we’ll be off.”

I wasn’t keen on her leaving me alone with these hulks, but Luke now set a friendlier tone. “So yer Suzie’s new bloke, huh?”

“Actually, we’ve only just met. I can’t lay claim to the title yet.” I raised my eyebrows conspiratorially on the last word, and we both smiled. A spot of male bonding never did anyone any harm, especially when the other stood over six-foot.

“Go for it, Matt. She’s one hell of a woman.”

Then Suzie returned and dumped some files in my arms. “I’m sorry, Matt. I must help clear up. I’ll only be five minutes.”

“Na, forget it, love,” said Luke. “Yer spent all day yesterday preparing for this. Yer run along. We’ll see yer at six and bring Matt along if he's interested.” I saw a distinct smirk cross his face. “I imagine he will be by then.”

With this, he slapped me on the shoulder, no doubt causing permanent bruising and walked off laughing. Though my shoulder stung, I was finally alone with her. I looked into those beautiful brown eyes and was struck as I had been on the stairs at the party two days earlier.

“Suzie,” I said. But the name, uttered for the first time, was more a declaration. She smiled. Taking her files from me, she tucked them under one arm and took my arm with her free hand.

“Come on.” While leading me away, she laughed then said, “You’ve earned your lunch.”

As we walked through the park, Suzie explained about their campaign to stop oil drilling somewhere in South America. Her adrenaline was still flowing from the speech, and her words were filled with excitement.

She didn’t stop talking until we reached the restaurant she had chosen. It was a crowded place with simplistic décor and natural pine furniture. The high roof and long windows made the place naturally light. A vibrant energy exuded from my fellow diners, a contrast to my largely fast-food culinary experience.

We found a small table near the front window. Suzie, in need of the Ladies, excused herself and left me alone with the menu. Seeing no meat, I searched for pizza, which I ate when dining with vegetarians on the rare occasions that I was exposed to such circumstances.

Accepting that I required help identifying the dishes, I sat back and looked around. Most people were midtwenty to early forty-something. There was an array of men with long hair, beards, badges and clothes I identified from India, Thailand and South America. But what struck me most was the intensity of their discussions. Though I couldn’t hear beyond the immediate tables, I was sure Ian Wright’s disallowed goal yesterday against Chelsea was not the topic of conversation.

From the other end of the restaurant, I saw Suzie returning. It was the first good opportunity to observe her. She was wearing a thick-woolen jumper that came down to her knees. It was a copper color and she had added a silk scarf since leaving the demonstration. From under the jumper protruded green stockings. Her hair was dark and curly, and her cheeks somewhat pouted.

I enjoyed watching her as she eased between tables. There were evidently people here she knew as she stopped a few times to exchange greetings and pointed to me. I tried to look relaxed, but I became increasingly apprehensive. I suspected it would be hard enough to keep up with Suzie in a one-to-one conversation and if we were invited to join another table, I would be about as obvious as an iceberg in Africa.

“We’ve been invited to join another table,” she said, as she slid into her chair. “Don’t look so perturbed. You get me to yourself for the whole afternoon, I promised.”

She examined her menu with the same intensity she had given her speech. After a while, she looked up and caught me staring at her.

“Already decided, have you?” A knowing smirk spread across her face. To my bemused nod she continued. “So what’ll you order?”

“Oh, the food,” I said, wondering why my brain seemed stuck in neutral while my hormones were clearly in top gear. Leaning back casually to buy time, I stretched my arms. “I thought I’d have one of the baked tofu dishes. Which do you recommend?”

God, I hope you bake tofu, I thought, not knowing if God was even a vegetarian.

I think there is a distinct reason why I went into computers as opposed to, say, acting. Suzie’s smile left no doubt she saw right through me. When the waitress approached, she did the honors for both of us.

“I ordered two dishes,” she said, essentially translating for me. “You can try each of them and decide which one you like.”

We stared at each other for a moment, neither quite sure where to begin. She put on an innocent look that reminded me of the actress Felicity Kendal who, I admit, I had a crush on during my teens.

“You realize that we live very different lives,” I said, breaking the silence. “Why did you invite me out?”

“Don’t you remember? You saved me at the party. I appreciate kindness, especially when you didn’t try to take advantage of it. Also, I like your sense of humor, and your honesty is cute.”

The waitress brought us a pot of tea and two mugs made of thick pottery. Without thinking, I fingered the pot enjoying its texture, and Suzie noticed but misinterpreted. “It’s not exactly your best bone china.”

“It’s better than the Styrofoam I’m used to, and it’s more ecological too, huh?”

“Aah, do I detect a repressed revolutionary spark?”

I thought I’d prefer to keep it repressed as I poured pale green liquid from the pot.

“Maybe not,” I replied, thinking of the therapeutic effects that coffee would have on my brain right now or at least a super caffeinated Tetley’s teabag with milk.

But the next three hours quickly became a blur. I discovered more than tofu, more even than chocolate cake sans chocolate. Suzie revealed a completely new world as she described her lifestyle.

She had come from the north of England after the miners’ strike realizing that if she wanted to be in the thick of political action then London was the place to be. Her family had been politically aware, but the miners’ strike in the early eighties had been a turning point in her life, as it had for so many. She had taken a degree in Peace Studies and, after graduating, worked part-time in a small political bookstore making just enough to live on and free herself to lobby.

She reeled off a list of campaigns she had been involved in, but now she was concentrating on this one. She leaned forward and her eyes locked onto mine. Her tone changed—charged with intensity. “This is big,” she said, whispering, as a shiver went down my spine.

Monday morning at the office, and my fellow workmates were clearly stunned. We had worked together at the company for five or six years and had blended into a very cohesive team. The intensity of the job with the expectations to work from home and at each other’s houses had created an environment whereby the borders between our private and public lives were constantly blurred. I suspect this was the reason why we were an all-male team. Such intimacy between men and women might have complicated the team dynamics.

“And after all that, you went to her meeting in the evening?” Evan’s face, with his bright ginger hair and pale complexion, had a habit of flaring up with freckles whenever he got agitated. Usually this occurred when a computer program jammed, or a virus invaded his computer.

It was true. At some point, well into our second pot of herbal tea and carob chocolate cake, someone approached Suzie and offered her a lift to the meeting. Glancing at her watch, she said to me, “I'm sorry. I have a committee meeting at six o’clock.”

I nodded to the man, and replied, “I’m going that way. I’ll drop her off.”

The man smiled, and I felt everything was understood. He looked happy for her, and Suzie wore a huge grin on her face.

“You’ve no idea where the meeting’s being held? What if it’s in Edinburgh?”

“If that’s north of Watford, I’d have to go home first and get my passport,” I replied.

Suzie paid the bill and we left. Walking back through the park, she again put her hand on my arm, only this time I felt she pulled our bodies closer. I had no doubt it was subconscious but a thrill surged through me.

She explained how these were not formal committee meetings—rather a get-together to assess the demonstration and brainstorm the next step.

“I would happily invite you, but I fear you’ll find it terribly boring. I’m sure we’re more anarchist than your business meetings.”

“Actually, Luke already invited me,” I replied, “and I’m not sure he’s the kind of man who appreciates getting stood up.”

We both laughed. Then she squeezed my arm and looked up—her face serious. “Getting involved with me will throw you in at the deep end, you know. But if we’re going to have any chance together, well, this is my life. You understand?”

I nodded. “Yeah I do.” I didn’t have a clue.

Back at work on Monday, my colleagues were truly shocked. “So you had to go to her meeting for the evening before scoring? You poor bastard.” Paul had been most sympathetic.

Actually, even this had not happened. By eight, I was ready to make tracks and they were still arguing. So I said my good-byes and Suzie saw me to the door.

“I’m sorry, Matt. I thought you were having a good time, and I get so involved with the issues.”

She had an earnest look on her face, and I stroked her cheek with the back of my hand. “I’ve had a great time with you, but I have a boss who’d eat me alive if he knew I’d spent the weekend enjoying myself. I’ll need to get an early start tomorrow.”

It had been enjoyable. Upon arrival, Luke had taken it upon himself to introduce me. When he had announced in his booming voice that I was Suzie’s bloke, I glanced anxiously in her direction. She seemed unperturbed, to say the least, and Luke would not accept my protests.

“Yer just spent several hours with the lass. Don’t try to tell us yer were just discussing soap operas,” he said with a roar.

“More likely her soapbox collection,” another chipped in. Suzie was blushing by now.

“Well, whatever it was, it was thirsty work,” I replied, and bid a quick retreat to the bar.

“I’ll help ya, man,” said a dark, bearded man with a thick Geordie accent.

As we stood waiting for the barman, he introduced himself as Bill. His introduction lacked the warmth of his compatriots, and I would soon discover that Bill was different from the others. Throughout the meeting, I felt his eyes on me. He rarely spoke but when he did, it was clear the others held him in high esteem.

I tired of listening and started browsing through the leaflets strewn across the table. It was not a pretty picture.

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