All the Tomorrows
Page 33
He pulled the lever, but it stuck fast. Emir tugged it again to unleash the nets at the top of the tent. An avalanche of paper balls covered in stark print came turning through the air. Emir’s mouth gaped and he cried out, dismayed at the unwelcome surprise. Not one of them had noticed the change in the contents of the nets that morning. They’d been secure in the knowledge that all had been prepared for tonight’s show.
The performers stuttered to a halt.
The band momentarily lost its rhythm.
Silberling’s security men emerged from the shadows.
The audience clutched at the dirty projectiles as they tumbled through the air and onto laps. Silberling, too, unfolded his spidery legs and reached for a paper ball, as if it were a fortune cookie to be read. He unravelled it, eyes hooded as he read the page, mouth curled in displeasure.
Yusuf’s ribcage contracted, as if the air had suddenly become thinner. He didn’t need to read the words—the sabotage spoke for itself—but he couldn’t help himself. He grasped a ball, unpeeled it, and read:
Dirty rat.
And another.
Thieves. We don’t want you here.
Around him, the performers stood still, faces painted in alarm. Emir, ever ready with cheer, appeared dumbstruck. With every moment, the buoyancy in the tent fizzled out. Circuses were stitched together from fantasy and could not survive the intrusion of the real world, the shades of grey and black and blue that track human existence.
“Follow my lead!” said Yusuf to Zul the Clown.
They ran around the arena, and the rest soon caught on, scooping up the offensive words, teasing the children, offering a peck on the cheek here, a handshake buzzer there, doing their best to ignore the expletives nestled on the page, the clues that to some they were not equal to the shit on their shoes.
Inside, a leaden darkness settled over Yusuf, despite the cheer he showed in the tent.
As the audience emptied the stands and the final sounds of the band died out, Emir excused himself, and his moustache drooped. “You understand, son. My heart can’t take such shocks.”
“It’ll be okay, Emir. Leyla will make you one of her world-famous soups for supper and all will be well.”
“You may be right.” The older man pushed through the heavy curtains of the tent, looking all of his fifty-seven years.
Yusuf turned and found himself face-to-face with Silberling.
“Goodnight, Herr Alam,” said the gravel-voiced minister. His stare, predatory and cold, sent a jolt of electricity through Yusuf. “You understand, these little disturbances cannot go on?”
Yusuf’s throat thickened. How could it be that Silberling offered neither praise for the revelries nor solace for the night’s injustice? The man remained as cold as a fish. Far be it for him to explain something so obvious to a superior.
“I’m sorry,” said Yusuf with a stutter. Even this foreign tongue that he’d taken pains to learn came to him less easily when he stood before Silberling, as if by the very virtue of being himself Silberling made others smaller. “I’ll pass that on to Emir. We’ll do better next time.”
Silberling wrinkled his nose, and Yusuf became aware of the mild stench of bodily exertions and stale popcorn underneath the cloud of incense and sawdust. With a nod, the minister took his leave, striding into the night accompanied by his team to where his state car awaited him.
He’d met men like Silberling before. Hadn’t his father been such a man, before it all came crashing down? Can’t they be found on every street, in every country, there where the wine flows, backs are patted and decisions are made? Some wore suits, others wore kurta, some carried guns, and some a briefcase, but the undercurrent of energy remained the same, and the hunger in the eyes.
There, in the majestic tent full of possibility, oceans away from the troubles of his past, amidst the sweat and the sawdust, despite their talent and commitment, Yusuf knew the circus and its people to be pawns in a game of power and perceptions. Yusuf couldn’t trust Silberling even though the circus, in essence, belonged to him. Without the circus, Yusuf would have been lost, and Silberling could so easily take it all away.
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Acknowledgements
Thanks to my team at Evolved Publishing for believing in this book and bringing it to life, especially my editor Jess for your guidance and friendship.
I am grateful to my critique group for your wisdom, and here I must single out Pav for your generous advice and tattoo-laden brilliance. Thanks also to my first readers Amira, Meg, Tess and Phillip for your time and vital insights, and to Zahra and Azhar for sharing your wisdom though you are far from home.
I cannot express enough gratitude to the online writing communities, which I fell into by accident. Finding you in many ways was like coming home. You spurred me on. I owe you more than I can say.
I cannot forget Vera and Evemarie, my Stuttgart family, and the conversations we had around the kitchen table, together with the books on your shelves, which initially sparked my interest in feminism. You lit a fire.
Lindsay, my creative sister, thanks for going to bat for me. Snatched moments with you buoy me.
Thank you to my parents for teaching me to love well, and for encouraging me to paper my path with my own views and dreams.
To my children, thanks for your patience when mummy disappeared into her dream world or was chasing a deadline. Remember you can do whatever you set your mind to.
Finally, to Jan, the calm to my storm. Without your faith, encouragement and good humour, this book would have remained the whisper of an idea in my head. Thank you for being you.
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About the Author
Nillu Nasser was born in London, UK, to Indian parents.
She studied English and German Literature at Warwick University, followed by European Politics at Humboldt University, Berlin. After graduating, Nillu worked in national and regional politics, but eventually reverted to her first love: writing.
Nillu’s debut novel, All the Tomorrows, was published in 2017, followed by Hidden Colours in 2018. Her third novel, An Ocean of Masks, is due to be released in 2019. Her stories often take place in rich settings and explore the search for identity from an outsider’s perspective.
Nillu also blogs and writes short fiction. Her work can be found in Mosaics 2: A Collection of Independent Women (2016) and UnCommonly Good (2017).
She lives in South London with her husband and three children. If you fly into Gatwick and look hard enough, you’ll catch sight of her in her garden office, working on her next story.
To find about her next release, sign up for her newsletter: http://nillunasser.com/mailing-list/.
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SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW
“Redemption. This was the first word that occurred to me with the last sentence of the book. Redemption for what we’ve done; redemption from what we’ve suffered. ...a touching story of two people struggling to find their place in life and their true self, two souls which have suffered more than enough, two human beings who have discovered that we are the loneliest in our darkest hours.” ~ Tsvetalina Baykusheva
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CHAPTER 1 – Kasey (Present)
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Rainbow light danced inside diamonds as I twirled my wedding ring around my finger. Despite annual cleanings and the care I took with the stones’ facets, a dull sheen muted the sparkle that had shone so brightly when my husband David first slipped it onto my finger nearly a decade ago.
“Earth to Kasey.”
I looked away from my ring, at my friend Ann across the bistro table. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“I said Colbie enjoyed staying at your house last weekend.” Her daughter and mine were in kindergarten together, nearly inseparable. Ann eyed me. “You were real quiet at the Junior League meeting today, even for you. Problems with David again?”
Her barely noticeable enunciation of the last word was meant as friendly concern, of course it was, not an intentional slight. It wasn’t as if I complained about my husband all the time, about my empty life.
Nonetheless, I chose my words carefully. No need to make myself the gossip at the next Junior League meeting. “I don’t know what it is. Something feels off.”
“Well, Kasey, every marriage is bound to hit some bumps every now and then.” She took a sip of her sparkling water. “Tim and I are fine, of course, but lots of couples have problems.”
“It’s not so much problems, as we don’t seem to connect as well as we used to. Ever since he made partner he’s been working all the time. It seems like we never have the chance to talk or really spend much time together.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
I shook my head. “When would I have a chance? He works crazy nonstop hours, and when he gets home he pours himself a drink and then goes to bed. And if I try to say anything, he claims everything is fine and clams up.”
“Maybe you should do something nice for him. Make him feel appreciated.”
“I try. I do. He’s just oblivious to it all.”
Like this morning. I’d gotten up early to make him his favorite breakfast, eggs and bacon and waffles. Then he’d overslept, blaming it on me for not setting the alarm clock or checking on him enough, as if he were a child and not a thirty-two-year-old man. He’d grabbed his briefcase and a Pop-Tart and stomped out, barely saying a word to me or our daughter Aida.
I couldn’t tell Ann this. Ann with all the answers, with the perfect marriage and family and manicure. Ann in her form-fitting velour jogging suit, getting appraising looks from men in the restaurant and jealous stares from their wives and girlfriends. Ann who loved the lifestyle that came with being the wife of a wealthy Southern doctor.
“You’ll figure something out. He’s such a great guy.” She glanced at her watch. “I hate to dine and dash, but I need to run some errands before school gets out. Tim’s out of town this week, or I’d have him do it.” She fingered her bill. “Hey, Colbie and I are having a special girls’ night tonight. You and Aida should join us.”
“Tuesday is David’s career networking night, so my mom’s picking Aida up.” I rolled my eyes. “I think tonight we’re going to a client’s house for cocktails, but I might feign a headache and stay home.”
“That’s the price we have to pay.” She pulled her wallet from her purse, counted out some bills. “We get the fancy house, gorgeous husband, big allowance, and social bragging rights, and all we have to do is play trophy wife a couple nights a week. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, I don’t want to be a trophy wife. I’d give up everything in a heartbeat if we could just spend more time as a family.” I stabbed a tomato slice with my fork.
“You make it sound like we’re being forced into this.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll see you at the PTA meeting tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, unless my headache extends to that too.”
“Kasey,” she said with a laugh, “having to be around other people isn’t a bad thing. You have the perfect life. Lighten up!”
“Except for the unhappy marriage,” I muttered as she walked away.
And what was life worth without someone in it to love you?
***
After lunch I had a few errands to run too. Most people scoffed when I denied spending my days at home on the couch eating bonbons, but there really was more to being a stay-at-home mom than daytime soaps. David believed in making the best impression possible, so he asked that his suits be impeccably cleaned and pressed; that meant frequent trips to the drycleaners. I tried to get into Aida’s school, if not her classroom, on a weekly basis, and PTA consumed a good deal of time as well. On top of that were numerous social obligations: luncheons for various organizations to which David belonged, meetings for clubs he’d encouraged me to join, and evening cocktails and dinners with friends and clients. Aida was currently in gymnastics and begging for riding lessons, which would mean more running around on my part. Throw in routine house cleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping, and I had little time to myself.
Today I arrived home with several hours free to spend however I wanted, for once. I’d stopped by the library and picked up a couple books, trashy historical romance novels that were as far as I could get from my mundane suburban life, but as I walked up the sidewalk to our front door, the fresh scent of lilacs reminded me of work that needed to be done around the yard. Not that I minded gardening. Today, however, I needed to know there was something beyond my Richmond neighborhood, beyond being a lawyer’s stay-at-home wife, even if it only existed in books.
As I stepped onto our front porch, an envelope tucked in the front storm door caught my eye—no return address, no postage, just Mrs. Sanford scrawled in messy feminine handwriting. I picked it up, opened it, and pulled out the contents: a letter, wrapped around several photographs. I smiled at the quaintness; who printed out pictures anymore when they were just as easy to email?
I set the letter aside and studied the photos. Their low-quality fuzziness indicated they’d been taken with a webcam, but I could still clearly discern two people intimately engaged. As I focused on the images, my smile faded. One figure was David; although his face wasn’t visible in the photos, after almost ten years together I’d have recognized his stocky frame anywhere.
The other figure, the female, was not me.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No, no, no.” Louder and louder, shaking my head more fiercely, it was all I could say as I backed up and collapsed onto a wicker chair on the porch. The letter in my hands trembled so badly I could barely read it.
Dear Mrs. Sanford,
Your husband and I have been in love for a year now. I make him very happy, much happier than you ever did, as you can tell in the pictures. But every time I bring up ending his marriage he makes excuses. I got tired of this and gave him a final choice: me or you. He refused to leave you. I want a man who isn’t too cowardly to follow his heart, so you can have your husband back.
Sincerely,
A woman scorned
PS - good luck satisfying him after he’s been with me.
The words blurred through my tears. Another woman? Things weren’t great between us, but infidelity was the last thing I expected from David. Ever since we started dating, he’d always said he loved me and only me. I thought he meant it, had no reason not to believe it. Things like this happened to other people. Not us. Not me.
Shaking, gasping, unsure of what to do next, I somehow stumbled into the house. I wanted to cry, to scream, to smash something, to go back in time just ten minutes and throw that letter away, never read it, never find out my husband had been with someone else. Instead, all I could do was stand in our living room, sucking in breaths, the letter and photos clutched in my hands.
Minutes p
assed, hours maybe, and gradually I was able to breathe again. I paced the room, the movement instilling in me a false sense of decisive action. I tried to determine what to say to David, how to handle this, the next steps to take. I tried to be rational but my thoughts wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t stay in one place long enough for me to work anything out. I shook my head occasionally, although whether it was to clear my thoughts or in disagreement with them, I couldn’t say. How dare he jeopardize our family, our home, everything we’d worked so hard to create for ourselves!
Something I was certain of, however, was that whatever happened next, we’d never have our life back, never the same as it had been. Gone, all gone. I sank down onto the couch, wishing we had a pet, something soft and warm to hold for comfort, settling for a chenille throw pillow that I hugged close.
I picked up my cell phone and called Ann. It went straight to voicemail.
“Hey, Ann, it’s Kasey.” I paused, unsure whether I wanted to tell her about this. She always talked about how perfect her relationship with her husband was, how many men had loved her before she’d picked Tim to spend her life with. She wouldn’t understand. “I—” My mind blanked. Feeling foolish, I stared at the pictures as I waited for the message to time out, then deleted it and hung up.
David was the only man I’d ever loved, who’d ever really loved me. I’d had boyfriends in high school and college, some casual and some long-term, but David was the only one who had ever meant anything. He’d always had a way of making me feel as if I mattered. Maybe at first I was just flattered by the attention of a popular attractive guy, but it quickly became more than that. He listened to me, supported me, backed up my ideas and defended me, took care of me.
I thought I was doing the same for him. Turned out I was wrong, that I’d missed something along the way.
My phone rang, probably Ann returning my call, but I ignored it. I read and reread the letter, trying hard not to stare at the pictures but failing again and again. In one the sheets were tangled around his legs, his back muscles tensed. Her arms hugged his neck, legs wrapped around his waist. In another she straddled him, long blonde hair falling to mask her face as she leaned forward, masking David’s as well. All clues to her identity were carefully hidden except for the blur of a tattoo on her ankle.