It is the height of summer and reception is busy. Eyes swivel and focus on us as we walk in. The stares of the male staff are expressionless and invasive. No smiling faces or welcome here.
‘This hotel feels hostile,’ I say when we have found our room. ‘It’s clear they don’t like westerners here.’
Mike throws the French windows open onto the snow-capped mountains.
‘Most of the staff will have come from those isolated villages we passed through. Although this used to be a hotel diplomats and ex-pats use, I don’t suppose they see that many westerners any more. I checked it out with PAA and this is the designated safe hotel.’
Outside the window there are sloping lawns and formal flowerbeds full of English summer flowers. The evocative scent of roses rises from the garden. I smile, reminded of black and white films of hill stations. British memsahibs lovingly recreating English gardens in remote outposts, leaving behind a lasting legacy and a passion for gardening, long after they are dead and gone.
Mike gazes out. ‘This makes the long trek worth it. Let’s shower, grab something to eat and then go and explore.’
The water pressure is no more than a trickle but it revives me. I pull on white trousers and a long blue top with sleeves. While Mike showers I brush my hair dry on the balcony. I’ve dreamed about Kashmir since I was a child. The gold-tinged mountains in the distance make me wistful for a time when Mike and I were young and close and having carefree adventures.
I turn to find Mike out of the bathroom and watching me. Maybe my feelings are transparent because he says, ‘Come on, Mrs, let’s enjoy every minute we have here.’
He holds out his hand and I take it.
The restaurant is full of friendly Pakistani families on holiday from Lahore and Islamabad. Unlike the hotel staff, they beam at us, anxious to speak English and know what we are doing here. Eventually we escape and pick a table on a long covered balcony with a dizzying view of the mountains.
As soon as we have eaten we head outside. The day is still hot but nothing like the sizzling heat of Karachi. The gardens are landscaped into steep terraces. Small paths wind between flowerbeds covered in highly scented roses with snapdragons, aquilegia, pansies and carnations dotted among them.
Noisy families sit on the grass by a curved swimming pool. The lawns slope in a circular fashion to an amphitheatre set against the background of green forests.
Mike and I sit on a grassy slope. Mike immediately takes out his iPhone. ‘I’ll just check my work emails, then I’ll turn it off.’
His phone gives a ping and he turns away to look at it. I think it unlikely that any of his work colleagues would text him.
I close my eyes for a minute and float to the sound of laughter and children’s voices rising and falling all around me. When I open them Mike is asleep, his head on his arm. He is snoring gently, to the amusement of some passing little boys. Asleep, Mike looks younger and somehow vulnerable. I feel a rush of protective love, the way I feel for the boys.
Mike wakes with a start. ‘Did I go off for a minute?’
I laugh. ‘You certainly did.’
‘Sorry.’ He stretches. ‘Come on, let’s go up into the woods, they’ll be wonderfully cool.’
We climb steep steps carved into the hillside, past trekking shelters and a small stream with ducks and a shabby farm with a couple of depressed-looking horses. I think of how busy these trails would once have been, full of young trekkers and climbers passing through. It is as if the signposts and gates and paths lie waiting patiently for better, safer times, for all the tourists to return. I hope that time comes. How wonderful it would be to bring Will and Matteo here, six thousand feet up facing the Kashmiri mountains.
Light slants in thin shafts through the trees and the only sounds are pine needles dropping softly to the ground and our breathing as we climb. In the distance Kashmir glitters, remote, exotic and tantalizing.
We round a corner on the twisting woodland path and walk straight into a man with a gun. He appears from nowhere, dark uniform stark against the green trees. We freeze, staring at his henna-stained beard. He is wearing the blue uniform of a security guard and he seems equally startled to meet two goras in the woods.
‘Salaam alaikum,’ we both say, quickly
‘Alaikum-a-salaam,’ he replies and courteously waves us forward on the path. He turns and follows, keeping behind us at a discreet distance. As we climb higher into the forest more and more security guards appear. They seem to be around every tree, like a small private army.
‘So much for it being perfectly safe to walk here!’ Mike says laughing. ‘But if I was living in abject poverty, I’d be tempted to kidnap anybody who could afford to pay more for one meal than I could earn in a month to feed my family.’
We pause on a viewing platform and look out towards deep tree-lined valleys. They spread out to the gilded mountains that are slowly spreading gold as the day fades. The air is full of the smell of pine needles and a silence that is heavy and complete.
‘I wish Pakistan could be famous for its lakes and mountains and not for its violence,’ I say, thinking of Birjees.
‘That’s Pakistan’s tragedy,’ Mike says.
He holds his face to a sky that is bleeding scarlet flames into the mountains. His voice is husky with emotion. ‘Wherever we are, wherever we go, let’s always remember this tiny moment in paradise.’
We turn and head down, back to the lights of the hotel as the sun begins to sink. Night comes swiftly and suddenly. The dark is velvet, full of the scent of roses and the sound of insects. We risk the mosquitoes and eat outside in the gardens. Meat sizzles on sticks and the smell of spices fills the air. We do not talk much, we both seem a little sad, but our silence is companionable as we sit together in this tranquil place.
In bed, with the heavy scent of roses coming through the French windows, Mike tries to make love to me but he cannot. This is the first time it has ever happened and he is mortified.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say.
‘It does to me.’ It does to me too.
We curl up like spoons with the French windows open and a cool breeze blowing inwards, his arm casually thrown over me. The last things I see before I sleep are the purple shapes of mountains against the skyline.
I had been nervous driving up to Bhurban but the journey back to Rawalpindi is even more harrowing. We are told at reception that Hamid is not available. Mike argues that he is our assigned driver, to no avail. We are told all drivers are security checked. We have no choice but to get into the car if we want to catch our plane back to Karachi.
The driver, who does not tell us his name, drives at a snail’s pace. Irritated, Mike leans forward to ask him why he is driving so slowly. The man shrugs and mumbles something and speeds up for a few miles but soon slows again to a crawl. He keeps glancing anxiously into his wing mirrors. He exudes anxiety.
‘What is he playing at?’ Mike mutters. I can see he is worried. He tells the driver more forcibly to speed up and drive us to Islamabad. The man looks sullen and increases speed fractionally. The tension in the car is rising. I catch Mike looking in the wing mirrors to see if anyone is following us.
We descend to a bleak piece of mountain road and see a car speeding towards us. It suddenly slews over and pulls in sharply on the other side of the road in a layby. Our driver immediately brakes, pulls in, throws the driver’s door open and sprints over to the other car, leaving us with the car idling.
‘This isn’t good, Gabby,’ Mike says, reaching for his mobile phone, but the driver is already running back to us with a piece of paper clutched in his hand and the other car is speeding off. He grins at us in obvious relief and jumps back into the car. We resume our journey at normal speed. The driver even tries to make conversation but we are too unnerved to engage.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ Mike says, when we are safely in Islamabad Airport.
‘It was scary. I thought we were going to be kidnapped.’
‘So did I.’ Mike looks down at me. ‘It would have been so easy, wouldn’t it?’ We stare at each other, shaken.
When we check in I am dismayed to find our flight to Karachi has been delayed and there is not another flight until that evening. Islamabad Airport is not a comfortable place to be. A bored, fat man in the business lounge openly gapes at me. In the end, desperate, I copy a rare, lone Pakistani woman and roll myself up like a caterpillar, head and all, into a huge dupatta, curl up on the seat with my back to him and wait for a blessed flight back to Karachi.
When we are finally airborne Mike says, ‘It was too far to come for just a weekend, wasn’t it?’
I turn and look at him. ‘Yes, but I wouldn’t have missed seeing those amazing Kashmiri mountains. You’re right, we might never get another chance, so, despite all the drama, thank you.’
Mike’s face lights up for a moment, banishing his weariness. ‘I’m glad you thought it was worth getting out of Karachi, even for twenty-four hours. It was unforgettably beautiful, wasn’t it? Maybe we’ll come back one day with all the returning tourists …’
But not together, I think. Not together. We look at one another for a long time. Two people who know each other intimately. The sadness that has hovered all weekend is still there, reflecting off both of us. We have shared something precious this weekend, but it feels as if something vital has gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Karachi, July 2010
I am sitting in the shade by the swimming pool. It is late afternoon. The pool shimmers opal green and empty, except for the crows and small pink-feathered pigeons that dip and drink the water from the slippery marble steps.
There is a rush of birdsong and the swish of a twig brush as the old hennaed gardener sweeps the paths in the cool. The heat has deterred people from venturing out of their air-conditioning. The pool has been empty most of the week.
Rana has just rushed down the steps beaming and waving a blue airmail letter at me like a little flag. It is from Dominique. It is strange for my sister to write me a letter rather than email, but I am so happy to have it. Dominique had been upset about my decision to come to Pakistan and furious with Mike for asking me. I smile as I slit the envelope and turn the delicate pages carefully, not wanting to tear them.
My darling Gabby, Dominique writes, I’ve thought hard about sending this letter, knowing you will be a long way from me when you open it, but the need to tell you the truth after all this time has been eating away at me for months. I always thought that I would tell you face to face, one day, but I’m a coward, I can’t bear to do it. I’m sorry.
You were only ten, but do you remember that summer I was sent away from home to live with Aunt Laura in Paris? When she died last year, you couldn’t understand why I was so upset by her death when she was old and frail, but she was the only person who knew the truth about what happened when I was a child. Without her I feel despair, as if she has left me on my own with a malignant old wound.
My heart begins to hammer. How could Dominique think I could forget her disappearance from my life? Her words fling me straight back to that terrible, long-ago summer of my childhood, to the misery of never knowing what heinous thing my sister could have done to get sent away from home.
I nearly told you in London. Without Aunt Laura as my anchor I cannot seem to control my thoughts. I am suddenly reliving that summer over and over in my head. It is as if I am a fifteen-year-old girl all over again. The horror of it has come back, Gabby, and I feel overpowered by it.
My stomach churns. I am back in the kitchen at home. I have this blindingly clear image of Maman standing flushed and defiant by the Aga, waiting like an avenging angel to tell me of my sister’s wickedness the day Dominique had been banished from my life.
Do you remember? Dominique’s writing stands out against the thin translucent paper. You were away for a sleepover with Morwenna. Maman had been in hospital for an operation and when she came home she had to rest. Papa was out at a council meeting. I took her up a cup of tea in bed and then had a bath and went up to my room in the attic to read. It was so hot up there I went down to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I heard Papa coming up the hill singing and knew he must have been in the pub … Maman heard too. As I passed her room I heard her whisper, ‘Oh, God.’
I was back in my room when I heard them arguing. Maman kept saying, ‘Tom, stop it! Go away, I don’t want a hug. You have been drinking. Go away …’
She sounded so upset I sat up in bed concerned for her. Then it went quiet and I heard Papa go downstairs. After a while I was desperate to pee so I went down to the bathroom. When I came out Papa was standing on the landing with a glass of red wine in his hand. He was unsteady on his feet and he just stood there glazed and staring at me, not saying a word.
I had that silly, skimpy nightie on because it was so hot. I felt my skin crawl in embarrassment and alarm. Papa was very drunk. I ran up the stairs to my room and banged the bedroom door shut, but I knew I couldn’t stop him coming in …
What the hell is Dominique saying? Has she gone mad? A leaf falls on my hand holding the letter. I close my eyes; listen to that shimmering call to prayer. When I open them my sister’s words are still there.
I heard him coming up the stairs after me, Gabby, and I knew what was going to happen. He pushed the door open and stood swaying in the doorway.
I said, ‘Come on, Papa, I will make you some coffee …’
I tried to move around him to get down the stairs but he grabbed me and threw me on the bed. I tried to wriggle away. I told him he was frightening me. I dare not scream because of Maman.
I fought, Gabby, I really fought. I kept saying, ‘Please don’t. Please don’t, Papa,’ but he was too drunk. He was someone else. He wasn’t Papa. He was someone else. It was over in a minute. He sobered up and stared at me horrified, as if from a long way away.
He said, ‘Oh, God, oh dear God, what have I done?’
He said, ‘Oh, my bird, this has to be our little secret. Understand?’
He went downstairs and I heard him leave the house. I heard him walk away down the road. After a while I went down to the bathroom. I ran another bath and got in and lay in the hot water. I was wrapping a towel round me when Maman pushed the bathroom door open. She asked me why on earth I was having another bath. She stood staring at me. ‘What’s the matter with you? Has Papa gone out again?’
I said, ‘Maman, Papa … hurt me …’
Maman was ashen. ‘What?’
I told her what he had done and Maman looked terrified. She hung onto the door and began to scream at me. ‘How dare you say such a terrible thing? You evil girl! How dare you lie about your papa? … Get upstairs … Get away from me. Don’t you dare open your mouth and ever say such a wicked thing again. Do you hear me?’
She pulled me out of the bathroom and pushed me up the attic stairs.
I crawled into bed and lay there shivering in shock. In the morning I did not dare get out of bed. I was afraid to go downstairs.
Maman came upstairs with coffee. She put clean clothes on my bed and told me to get dressed. She told me I had gone too far this time and she would not have me in her house a moment longer. I was to be ready in twenty-five minutes.
I was ready. Mr Pascoe’s taxi came. Maman told me to get in the back of the car and she handed me an overnight case and a paper bag with two croissants in. She got in the front with Mr Pascoe. She did not say a word all the way to Penzance station.
She put me on a train to Paddington. She said Aunt Laura was in London for a conference and would be at Paddington to meet me. From now on I would live with her in Paris. She warned me not to try out my wicked lies on my aunt or I would find myself homeless. I said, ‘Why would I lie, Maman? Why are you sending me away when you know I am not lying?’
I thought she was going to slap me but she just went a terrible colour and said, ‘Believe me, Dominique, lying and deceit is in your blood.’
Aunt Laura too
k me straight back to Paris with her. It was months before I could tell her the truth. I thought that it was my fault, because of the nightie. Aunt Laura never doubted that I was telling her the truth, Gabby. Not for a second. Maman had told her she needed to get me away from Penzance because I was sleeping with boys at school. Aunt Laura was outraged when she knew the truth. That is why she and Maman did not speak to each other for years …
The words leap out at me with sickening clarity. The letter flutters in my hands as I read to the end.
Gabby, I think I could have got over what Papa did, even learnt to forget, but Maman punished me by depriving me of every single thing I loved. She took you, my home, my friends and my school away from me …
I know she came to help me and make reparation later, but that was mainly because she wanted her grandchildren in her life. I came back into the family because I did not trust myself with my babies. And I was desperate. Maman and Papa gave my girls love and security and I was grateful. But, now they are dead and I can’t seem to keep what happened inside me any more. Guilt and loss eat away at me for the mother I might have been to my girls, instead of the one I was.
I am sitting here drinking red wine with suitcases all around me. I fly to New York tomorrow. I never meant to tell you, but maybe you have the right to know. Your life was messed up too. Perhaps, you would not have tried so hard to replicate our ideal little family life with Michael, if you had known the truth. My darling Gabriella, I am sorry. I love you. I love you.
All sounds in the hotel garden fade away. The day cools. The sky turns from a flushed pink to a bleeding fiery red as the truth of what really happened to my sister all those years ago begins to sink in. I think of the sudden, bewildering sequence of events and small inconsistencies. All the questions my parents refused to answer and the resoluteness with which Dominique’s banishment could never be discussed.
Above me a kite falls like a stricken plane, almost grazing the ground before it recovers. I can smell garlic and herbs wafting from the hotel as I sit in the middle of a foreign city with Dominique’s letter clasped in my hand.
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