Free Gabriel's Gift by Hanif Kureishi Page A

people continue to buy his records? Why, when he played live, did people queue through the night to see him? How did people acquire such powers? Was it in Lester’s hair, which was certainly magnificent and dyed ruby red? Or was the magic located in his white, long thin fingers with their round, clean nails?
    Meanwhile Lester listened to Dad’s reminiscences, leaning forward at first, and then further and further backwards. Dad hadstarted out on a story about a night in a Northern town that involved someone vomiting in their own suitcase. Lester, who seemed to be erupting inwardly himself, was looking for inspiration.
    â€˜Hey! Hey!’ he said suddenly. ‘Listen Rex. You know, I’ve just finished a new record. I think it’s my best one in years.’
    â€˜I know all your stuff. Can’t wait to hear this one,’ said Dad.
    â€˜Do you want to hear it right now?’
    Dad looked confused. ‘Not before you’re ready. Anyway,’ he continued. ‘Plucky, Twang the guitarist and I had just checked into this bed-and-breakfast and a big consignment of supernova grass had been delivered –’
    Lester said, ‘I’ve never been readier. I’ve got a tape of it – right here!’ He popped the tape into a small machine on the table. ‘There’s no track list.’ He grabbed a piece of paper. ‘I know what: I’ll write down the song title and you jot your thoughts down underneath.’
    â€˜Great idea.’
    Dad was starting to get annoyed but what could he do?
    Lester left Dad sitting beside the tape sucking the end of a pencil, and made his way across to Gabriel. This was not straightforward, as the floor was almost concealed by different-sized sheets of paper covered with scribbles, drawings, doodles, and poems in many colours.
    Gabriel remembered, from talking to his father, that Lester had been a painter before he’d been a pop star, and had continued to paint and exhibit.
    â€˜Tables aren’t big enough for me,’ said Lester. ‘I prefer floors, where I can get to things.’ Gabriel felt Lester’s different-coloured eyes on him. ‘What were you going to say?’
    Gabriel blushed. ‘I’m thinking that it reminds me of a kid’s bedroom.’
    He expected Lester to be offended. Across the room, Gabriel saw his father’s face twist in embarrassment and fear.
    Lester laughed. ‘Yes, I was brought up to be neat, but I was able to teach myself to be messy and disorganized, noisy and loud. It took some learning! Good boys achieve nothing! This is what I do for a living – cover bits of paper. Look, look!’ Lester got onto his knees and indicated a sheet of paper. ‘I found these new crayons. This is what I was doing last night.’
    Gabriel said, ‘But that’s what I do.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    Gabriel jumped up and fetched his sketchbook from where he had put it down. ‘See.’
    Lester looked at the picture. ‘What else do you have there?’
    Gabriel handed him the book. Lester went through it, page by page.
    Gabriel explained, ‘Like you, I’ve been writing on the pictures. Some of them are photographs.’ He showed a page to Lester. ‘I drew these daffodils for Dad and put them next to the photographs. Then I wrote daffodil poems across them in different colours so that Dad would know what I meant. It all went together in my mind –’
    â€˜You put it all together in the picture.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Lester went on, ‘I write songs but I don’t know how. When something occurs to me, I write it down and put it in the song. What does an imagination do but see what isn’t there?’
    â€˜I get that a lot,’ said Gabriel. ‘Sometimes I think I’m going mad with all the stuff that’s going on.’
    â€˜Oh everyone’s mad. But some people can do interesting things with their