Dear Infidel

by Tamim Sadikali

  He studied her face as she moved towards him. Would he be reprieved or was he about to be condemned? Be a man. He was trying, he was really trying. They were staring at each other but her expression remained blank. He started trembling and he leant to offset it, trying to affect a casual pose. It didn’t work, though; he looked more awkward. She now stood right in front. He was still trying to hold his ground but it was getting too much. His head dropped; too many conflicting messages. He was desperate not to cry but he’d failed to hold it back, his dread spilling over. His face crinkled, a quite pathetic attempt to conceal a quivering lip. She decided to end it. She put her arms inside his and wrapped herself around him, resting her head on his chest. Instantly he pulled her close, burying his face in her neck, her hair veiling him.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said softly. She knew he didn’t make her eyes catch fire, the way they should, but at times she did feel love for him. Sort of. They rocked together to and fro, arms interlocked and bodies meshed, if not quite souls fused. He started whispering her name – not mantra-like, more wish-upon-a-star.

  ‘I’m not letting you go now,’ he whimpered. She felt bad that his love hadn’t melted her more.

  ‘I love you, Aadam,’ came the reply, and she still didn’t know what those words meant.

  32

  Nazneen had been sitting in her car, two minutes’ drive from home. Her and Aadam’s home. But she couldn’t go there yet. She needed time to figure out what to do, what to say, what she wanted to hear. The streets were empty, not a soul in sight. She could drive off right now, just keep on driving ... She thumbed her mobile, teasing the call button, a number already loaded. A new number, saved from earlier today.

  ‘Hello?’ His voice sounded unfamiliar, in a neutral tone.

  ‘Hi, Martin.’

  ‘Nazneen...’ He almost whispered her name, stretching it out like he didn’t want to let go.

  ‘I ... I remember Red Rocks, too.’ She giggled self-consciously, thinking she sounded ridiculous.

  ‘Red Rocks?’

  ‘Yeah. You mentioned it this morning, when you called.’

  ‘It was a pretty special time, huh?’

  ‘God, yeah. You know, I’d not forgotten. But life goes on, I guess.’ Through the windscreen she peered up into the blackened sky, as if searching for clues. There were no stars adorning the London night and the naked heavens seemed reduced, stripped of all mystery; just a mechanical device, ticking pointlessly on.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have called you today. I knew you’d have moved on, settled down, but...’

  ‘Go on, Martin. Talk to me. I’m here.’

  ‘You know what I remember most about Red Rocks? The stars. And standing tall on that soil and looking hard in every direction. Nothing but earth, sky and stars. A billion specs of light, whispering a symphony.’

  The Scooby Doo air freshener was lying prostrate on the dashboard and grinning right at her. He won’t stop fucking grinning. She grabbed it firmly, constricting its rubber body, and tried to break its head off with her thumb but it was too elastic and it snapped back, its grin undimmed.

  ‘Nazneen?’

  ‘How did things get so fucked up? Can you tell me that?’ She slammed the air freshener down by her feet. ‘I mean, this isn’t real. You’re not real. All we’re left with is damn memories.’ With trembling hands she fumbled for a hanky, wiping the regret that was oozing out of her, staining her face.

  ‘Shhh. It’s OK, it’s OK.’ His voice, so formal on picking up, was now swaddling her.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just ... today. I wasn’t expecting any of this today. Why resurrect this now? I wish you hadn’t called.’

  ‘What? Oh, I get it – just ‘cause it’s inconvenient for you. I should fuck off now, should I?’

  ‘No! Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Oh, have I upset you? Disturbed your cosy little life? You know I’ve never even come close to recreating what we had. I’ve spent the past three years trying to forget you.’

  ‘Martin, don’t. I’m sorry...’

  ‘Sorry? Is that the best you can do? You know, you never actually explained to me why you left.’

  ‘Please, stop it...’

  ‘No, hang on – one moment we lived together, studied together, planned today and tomorrow together. And then all of a sudden you ended it. Why?’

  Silence. She remembered her gran, and Ramazan arriving one year and it suddenly meaning something.

  ‘We’d had a great time at uni but it’d finished, right?’

  ‘What had finished? The good times or just uni?’

  ‘Martin, please. You must’ve had a reason for getting back in touch. And I’ve not returned the call by mistake.’

  ‘But I need to know. I mean, all couples bicker but I don’t remember us tearing chunks out of each other, or us drifting apart and getting bored.’

  ‘And you think I’ve forgotten? Why the hell do you think I’ve called you?’

  She let go of her hanky and it fell by her feet, her sorrow now running freely.

  ‘Look, it’s OK. Forget it. I don’t want it to be like this. I just wanted to hear your voice, one last time.’

  ‘Wait! Don’t go. Let’s just talk for a while, huh? There’s no harm.’

  She adjusted the rear-view mirror and studied her reflection; her earlier glow from Eid, a day of pure celebration, completely washed away.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Nazneen.’

  ‘I know. Hey, I reckon that’s probably our first proper fight!’ She giggled innocently, her relief for the change in mood blinding her to the irony.

  ‘Great timing, huh? So what about you and your husband – do you fight?’

  ‘If you were, you know – getting intimate with someone – and a friend unexpectedly popped round, what would you do?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But he loves you, right?’

  ‘Yes, yes he does. He’s crazy about me. It’s just he’s so ... I think he’s forgotten how to live. So have I.’

  ‘And do you love him?’

  ‘What the hell is love, huh? Will someone please explain that damn word to me?’

  ‘Shhh, Nazneen.’ Again, swaddling her. She giggled briefly and bent to pick up her hanky and found the Scooby Doo by her feet. Holding it up, she carefully lifted off some debris collected from the floor mat and planted a kiss on those ever-wide lips.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Nazneen conceded. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore. So tell me, how are you finding life in the Big Smoke?’

  ‘Oh, I’m still a small-town boy from Branscombe. For most of my life even Bournemouth was a dizzying metropolis; London’s a crazy place.’

  ‘So you like my city, then?’ Her voice was playful, all tension gone.

  ‘It’s all right, my dear. Very cosmopolitan.’

  ‘So what can’t the small town boy get used to, eh?’

  ‘It’s been crazy round my area today. Really mad.’

  ‘Oh yeah? How’s that?’

  ‘The Asians. There’s lots round here. There’s some festival every other week.’

  ‘Eid,’ she underlined. ‘Today’s festival was called Eid. That’s why you caught me when you called this morning. I’d have been at work otherwise.’

  ‘Right, right. But you were never into all of that, were you?’ There was an edginess, a stiffness in his voice.

  ‘No ... Yes ... Things change, you know? Haven’t you changed?’

  ‘Not really. I like the same things, I dislike the same things. Actually, there is one way in which I’ve changed.’

  ‘Yeah? How’s that then?’

  ‘I was always an easy-going guy. You know, happy-go-lucky; I could get on with anyone.’

  ‘Yeah, totally. Being with you was like a ticket to anywhere. That’s still you, though, right?’

  ‘Look, I take people as I find them. I mean their colour, their race, where they come from – it’s all irrelev
ant bollocks to me. But religion? I ain’t got no time for that one.’

  She closed her eyes, a numbness surrounding her.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I always took you as you were – you should know that. I never thought of you as Asian or ethnic or Muslim. You were just you.’

  ‘And you were unique. My lover, my finest friend. And yes, I do love my husband, but what me and you had ... Don’t get bitter, please. Think of what we shared. Colorado, Keystone. Do you remember that lake? It was so beautiful, right? We used to go swimming and biking up in the hills. And Red Rocks? Think back to our last night, Martin. World’s End, under the stars.’

  ‘Those memories are a fucking prison. You left me because I’m not Muslim, didn’t you?’

  She recalled speaking to Nikki in the morning, and her trying to wish her a happy Eid, and flicking idly through magazines in their Colorado hut and suddenly wanting to torch the world.

  ‘Don’t you love your culture? I love mine.’

  ‘Our culture’s the same; was the same. But I didn’t ask you about culture. Are you into your religion?’

  ‘So if I said “yes” you’d see me differently, would you? I wouldn’t just be me any more.’

  ‘Basically, yeah. Look, if people want to believe in fairies or Father Christmas, let ’em. I won’t interfere. But when they start believing that they’re gonna go to some heaven and get seventy virgins to fuck till eternity, and all for killing Infidels, Jews and Hindus, then I got some serious problem with that. How can you love that?’

  There was simply no answer.

  ‘How can you go back to that? Did we reject you? Did Britain reject you? This country gave you everything.’

  Nazneen sat still, letting herself drift into the void.

  ‘It’s no good saying it’s all the media’s fault, focussing only on the nutters. I live around these people. I see it all with my own eyes.’

  ‘What, you see Muslims on street corners, distributing leaflets on how to kill Jews and Hindus?’

  ‘Don’t be facetious – you know what I mean. The Hindus and Sikhs – they’re all right; they just get on with their lives. They work hard; they want to fit in. It’s just ... it’s just the Muslims.’

  FUCKING JEWS, FUCKING HINDUS, FUCKING MUSLIMS. It’s so hard to love, there’s so much to hate. Hate, hate, HATE, HATEHATEHATEHATEHATE ... She pressed hard on her scalp, wanting to rip it apart.

  ‘Goodbye, Martin.’ She brought the phone down and held it in her lap; paused, for one last moment, and then ended the call. It was time to go home.

  33

  ‘Pasha, Pasha!’

  Salman cups hands to his mouth and shouts at the top of his voice. They’d been hunting for clues, scrapping and running for hours through woods and down bridle paths, across streams and farmland. Old Spam Head, their Scout master, had sought special permission – not everyone got to trample all over the English countryside like them. And here he was, young Salman, the first to reach the hilltop checkpoint.

  He breathes deep, greedy for fresh air and looks down at the chasing pack, which includes Pasha. Surveying green fields with cows out to pasture, he stretches up towards the English summer sky – a light, fresh blue with lots of fluffy, white clouds.

  ‘Come on, Pasha!’ His cousin needs all the encouragement he can get – at eight he’s a year younger than the others and a right skinny little runt. Still, it’s lovely out here, in the country. He’d like to live somewhere like this one day.

  The chasing pack closes in and Pasha crosses fourth. He was heading the others until the final ten metres or so. He collapses onto the earth, panting heavily, as Andy, Rob, Clem, Jon and all the others sprint for the finish, throwing themselves forwards for the last two yards.

  ‘Well done, lads,’ bellows Old Spammy, patting down each of his boys as they spread out over the slope, quenching their thirst and replaying every trivial incident of the day. Pasha looks upset but Salman goes to him and he soon cheers up. He really looks up to his older cousin.

  ‘Right!’ Old Spammy commands after their panting subsides. ‘Last leg now, lads – back to base camp!’ He puffs full of purpose and his boys dart up and mount their backpacks. ‘Blue team, yellow team – you got your maps?’

  ‘Yes, Spammy!’ chipper back bright, unbroken voices.

  ‘OK!’

  And with that his young charges break free, leaving him to keep watchful guard from the rear.

  Soon they are back in the forest, lost in another world – one in which dense trees lock horns, making daylight unwelcome. A riotous nature fans out: moss smothering bark, wet and dank, and fern leaves weaving an emerald carpet, shrouding a subterranean world. Unseen birds chipper and squawk and a mist freshens the air, cool and alive. But the lush, flat earth soon dips – imperceptibly at first, with the gradient starting to challenge as the terrain morphs – lustrous greens giving way to a powdery red, holding nothing but loose stone, atrophied vegetation and dead roots. The boys stumble, caution each other, continue with renewed resolve, for they are determined to solve this riddle, of how life and death can mock them; taunt them by appearing as comfortable neighbours, ignoring the human need for a mighty ocean to keep them apart.

  The decline levels out and they stand again on even ground, panting in silence, quenching their thirst, and finally, cautiously looking out. Water, clear and trickling, moving softly over pebbles. A wide bank sits either side, uncut grass and reed bending uniformly with a gentle breeze, the benevolent sun making everything shine. Horses arrive. From where it is unclear, as they are in a valley, with each apex touching the horizon. The herd approach leisurely: four, five, six of them, heads bobbing with their gentle pace. They come right up, seeking contact, and a couple of the boys back away, turning towards Spammy for reassurance. Standing deliberately back he simply nods, giving them the confidence to touch the beasts, stroke their flanks, and immerse themselves in this strange encounter. The horses nicker and snort, letting them all take their turn before moving off, back toward the stream. Their pace again is so gentle the boys consider it an invitation, and thus follow the herd into the middle of the valley, to the stream, hopping over the larger stones, the water rippling on regardless. They look around, survey the space, the sheer expanse making them at first dizzy but then heady, intoxicated with their achievement in making it down here.

  Clem picks up a stone and hurls it up into the air, and they watch its flight, high, high into space, before hurtling back down. Immediately the boys all dart down to grab their own, with Salman and Andy making for the same one.

  ‘Oye!’

  ‘Leave it – it’s mine!’

  They tumble and roll, neither of them willing to let go. The others enjoy the scrap, cheering on both of them. It’s in Andy’s hand but Salman manages to prise it out of his grasp.

  ‘Leave it, you paki!’

  Suddenly a big hand grabs each boy roughly by the collar, yanking them apart.

  ‘Right, you pair of monkeys!’ Old Spam Head looks angrily at each of them, and despite both feeling aggrieved and wanting to protest, neither dares say another word.

  He clasps each boy firmly, one to each side. Their heads are bowed, cheeks glowing with anger.

  ‘Look,’ he booms, but both heads remain defiantly downcast. He tightens his hold of each boy, leaving them in no doubt that disobeying twice is not an option.

  ‘Look out there,’ he commands, and both heads are reluctantly raised. They look out but don’t really see ... The expanse of lush green, the horses playing, cantering, blind to the fragility of what they have; of the barren, infertile drop flanking them, bearing down on them, locking them in.

  ‘You see that?’ he begins, his eyes moving from the wasteland they descended to the oasis of the valley itself. ‘All this.’ He waits until silence rings around. ‘These horses will be here till the end of time. No matter what surrounds them, God will provide. God or Allah – ‘cause it’s all the same, in’t it?’ No
response comes forth and he re-applies pressure. ‘In’t it?’ He looks down to his left and right.

  ‘Yes, Spammy,’ muffles a chastened Andy.

  ‘Salman?’

  ‘Yes, Spammy.’

  ‘Good ... Good. Right, shake hands.’

  And Andy extends a speculative hand which Salman takes.

  Salman was back home and alone in the kitchen. It’d been a silent return drive and everyone had gone to bed within minutes of reaching. Salman, though, needed to think. Sipping water, he sat by the kitchen table, flicking through the day’s paper. One article grabbed him: an interview with one of Iraq’s few remaining Jews. He was an old man, one who could remember his thriving community from years gone by.

  ‘Why don’t you leave for Israel?’ the interviewer had asked the Arab Jew.

  ‘Because this is my home. I was born here and I’ll die here.’

  Salman stood outside his son’s bedroom. He couldn’t hear anything and, presuming Taimur to be asleep, he was about to walk away, not wanting to disturb him after such a long day. But then he heard some sounds. Salman pressed up against the door to hear his son in animated conversation with himself.

  ‘Sergeant, we’re under attack! Rat-at-tat-tat.’

  He opened the door a little and peeked in. Taimur had his back to his father and was playing war. His motley collection of toys were all out, forming two random armies. Not in any advert would you see a homemade Humpty Dumpty, a twenty-five-year-old train set and some camp-looking toy soldiers collaborating in war games. Taimur was holding the gun given to him by Aadam, like his life depended on it – he was clearly excited by this latest addition to his arsenal. Salman wondered where his own present was. He knew that Taimur would never pick it up without his mother or father pestering him to do so. But he was only eight – the Holy Book could wait.

  Salman shifted his weight and the floorboards creaked. Young Taimur turned abruptly, a little startled. It was only his daddy, though, and he gave a big smile. Salman entered, remembering that he smacked him today. He knew that his son would always remember that: the Eid day when his father hit him. He sat down on the carpeted floor and Taimur hopped up onto his dad’s lap.