I hadn’t thought much about Osama either, until I met Wali in Manchester and started fishing my past for interesting anecdotes to recount on our dates. Now that I had finally begun to date a man, the cautionary tale of Osama began to resurface in my thoughts. But I dared not mention him to Wali until our trip to Blackpool. This was near the end of my second stay in England. Wali and I had made a spontaneous decision to spend a weekend on the beach after knowing each other for little over a month. Something had begun between us, but we were nervous to give it a name. Around him, I tamped down my shyness by adopting a slightly childish demeanor. Then I could take liberties I wouldn’t have normally allowed myself.
Drinking also helped, of course. The trip to Blackpool had originated out of a drunken plan at our usual pub. We’d been sitting in a discreet corner talking about childhood and watching a football match. When Wali said, We used to go to Blackpool when I was little, I tugged at his sleeve and piped in a manner that I felt made me bright and young, Oh, let’s go there! Tomorrow!
Darling, it’s almost December. The weather will be lousy, he said, scratching his nose. He had a large, bent nose that I found incredibly attractive.
I persisted. We must go, Waliullah. Tomorrow, right after work! I was on the verge of pouting but restrained myself. Even at twenty-seven I was entirely new to love and to drinking, and thought saying and doing something dramatic was important in both—otherwise, why bother dealing with all the risks involved? Wali’s estranged wife was in hospice after a long struggle with some autoimmune illness I was careful never to inquire about, and his son was hitchhiking in Australia or perhaps busing tables at a ski resort in New Zealand. Finally, a window was opening for Wali and he wasn’t too old or cynical to turn away from it.
Sure, he said, and laughed. Let’s go.
And then we were on the cold beach looking at the rusting Blackpool tower. The tallest building in the British Empire when it was constructed, Wali informed me, looking up from his book. It looked like a clumsy imitation of the Eiffel Tower. The sky and sea were nearly the same shade of ash; teenagers in bodysuits windsurfed in between the two. A Sikh mother handed her children sandwiches while warning them against swimming. A group of women in identical fuzzy sweatsuits fluffed themselves on beach chairs and drank from tall glasses. Not far from them, the two of us lay under an umbrella and made fun of the silly things we overheard from the “hen party.” We sipped beer too, and held hands under our beach towel, even though neither of us had anything to hide in Blackpool.
We used to come to this beach in the summer, Wali said again, putting his book down. My mum, my brother and me. It was a lot better down by the water then, none of these stones and wires and things. And the water was cleaner. This used to be a bustling spot, you know? You got quite a bit of action down here. Then the budget airlines and package vacations made it easy to fly to Spain or Greece or whatnot. There, you’re almost guaranteed to catch the sun any day of the week. He laughed. We used to eat at a curry house here, right by where that pawnbroker is.
Maybe the town will become popular again, I said. After Brexit’s finalized, I mean. Going to Spain might not be that easy?
Oh. Maybe, he said, and smiled. I could tell by that thin-lipped English smile that I had said something “daft.” I tried to change the subject and started telling him the only other trip I had taken to the beach, when my father had a conference in Karachi and Ammi and took a rickshaw to the beach. But Wali didn’t ask many questions, and after a pause, he picked up his book and started reading again.
Shall we go back, I said when the wind picked up. There’s a prediction of rain.
Yes, I’m bloody cold. He belched while talking. The sun was setting on the once-tallest building in the British Empire.
It started showering as we drove back into town. Going through those narrow brick streets, seeing the hens and stags huddled under the awnings of tacky tourist shops and tropical-themed bars, I almost felt I was back in Walton. Not that Blackpool looked anything like Walton—but the streets were narrow and there was some market bustle and I felt that vivid swelling feeling of Walton Road that always manages to make me a little sad.
There was a boy in my neighborhood, I said, named Osama. He was a friend of mine.
Osama, was it, Wali said, smirking. He’d get into loads of trouble with that name if he were here.
Oh, he got into trouble there as well, I said.