The Unquiet Dead

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  One of the girls in her class had fainted at the roadside. She wanted to stop and comfort Edina, but her sister wouldn’t let her. Her sister kept her slippery hand locked tight within her own, bruising it with her hold, and marched her forward, talking to no one, listening to no one. It was only the two of them now. They had already seen their brothers to the woods. Four boys, ranging in age from thirteen to twenty-one.

  “We will meet you in Tuzla,” Nesib said. “Look for us in Tuzla. And when you get to the base, look for our neighbors, they will help you. Look for Mrs. Obranovic. She will make sure you are safe.”

  None of this had been said to her. Nesib, the handsomest and oldest of her brothers, had given his instructions to her older sister.

  “And listen,” he’d said. “Stay in the middle of the crowd. Keep your faces turned away. Don’t go near any of the soldiers. Do you hear me? Always look away from them.”

  Her sister had nodded. Then Nesib tried to push the last of their food into her sister’s hands. She pushed it back, spreading her hands wide, refusing to take it. Her stomach was crying but she knew it was right what her sister had done. Their laughing, joking, beloved Nesib was losing his teeth. He was the skinniest of them all because he gave his share to whichever of them cried the most or complained the loudest. Only her sister was good enough not to take Nesib’s food, though she was hungry too.

  Her sister was right. It was a very long march to Tuzla.

  Her brothers would need the food in the woods.

  She thought that maybe Nesib was so worried that he might not even remember to say good-bye to her. But he had kissed her and kissed her, squeezing her tight, before saying to her sister, “Don’t let go of her hand.”

  Her sister had nodded, solemn as an oath-taker.

  “All the way to Potočari, don’t let go of her hand. If the soldiers come, you run into the woods.”

  And then he had pulled at her sister’s braid and kissed them both again.

  “Allah keep you, my little sisters. Allah is wise and protects us all.”

  He read the Fatiha over their heads, then he took their brothers and left. None of them looked back.

  Her sister had obeyed Nesib as if it was the most important thing in the world, the most important lesson she could learn. She had kept them marching despite her complaints. She had cried, begged, even thrown a tantrum, but her sister wouldn’t stop.

  She held her hand in a death grip.

  If they died on their way to Potočari, she would still feel that grip.

  Cinkara was even hotter and more crowded than the road had been.

  She hated it. She hated that Nesib had left them and that everyone was crying and angry and frightened. They made her frightened too.

  Her sister kept pushing and pushing, dragging her by the hand, through the crush of bodies until they got to the center.

  And every now and again, her sister, whose head kept turning from side to side, would call out, “Mrs. Obranovic? Mrs. Obranovic, are you here?”

  They found a concrete wall to lean against. There had been so much heat this July that even the concrete was warm against her bare arms.

  She was so hot and thirsty she thought she might fall to the ground like Edina.

  And then, her sister let go of her hand and darted into the crowd.

  Stunned, she sat back, too frightened and thirsty to move. She couldn’t even call after her. Everyone had left her. Their parents had died two months ago in the shelling. Now Nesib and her sister were gone. She was alone. She wasn’t going to make it.

  She began to cry, but it had been so long since she’d had any water to drink that the tears wouldn’t come. For some reason this made her angry.

  She cursed Nesib, she cursed her parents, and loudest of all, she cursed her sister.

  And then she remembered that smiling, hungry, skinny Nesib didn’t like it when she cursed. She recited his prayer instead.

  “Allah will keep us, Allah will protect us. Allah will keep us, Allah will protect us. Allah will keep us, Allah will protect us. Allah keep Nesib, keep Nermin, keep Jusuf, keep Adem, keep my sister.”

  “She is a good one, this little girl. Look how she says her prayers.”

  It was Mrs. Obranovic!

  Her face broke into a smile of unrestrained joy as she found her sister behind the bulk of their neighbor. Her sister hadn’t left her alone in the world. She hadn’t broken her promise to Nesib by letting go of her hand. She’d seen Mrs. Obranovic and dashed into the crowd!

  And now they were both with her.

  Mrs. Obranovic studied their hungry faces and reached into the basket she carried on her shoulder. She had a plastic carton of water. She twisted off the lid, giving each of them a little to drink. Then she reached back into the bag and produced a half loaf of bread. She gave all this to them with a little bit of yoghurt.

  “It’s gone bad, I think, in this heat, but take it anyway. You girls need it.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She kissed Mrs. Obranovic’s hands.

  Such a wonderful woman. So blessedly, blessedly kind!

  The noise and heat and crush around them faded. She relaxed against the concrete wall, happier than she’d been in weeks. As if in harmony with her moment of contentment, the people around her quieted from their terror. Everyone went thankfully still.

  Dutch soldiers in their UNPROFOR gear and blue helmets were approaching through the crowd.

  Her stomach full, her thirst a little quenched, she smiled at them and waved her hand.

  9.

  I addressed one of the wingborn singers,

  who was sad at heart and aquiver.

  “For what do you lament so plaintively” I asked,

  And it answered, “For an age that is gone, forever.”

  Now that she was standing before it, Rachel couldn’t believe they had missed this house upon their former visit to Nathan Clare. It was four doors from Winterglass and roughly double the size, albeit entirely different in style. A style unseen in the climate of southern Ontario, let alone at the edge of an eroding series of cliffs.

  The Andalusia Museum wasn’t just a museum: it was a house drawn from the rural architecture of southern Spain, where internal spaces expanded outward in a marriage of gardens and stone. In Scarborough, it was impractical at best, foolish at worst.

  From the street the house fronted, Rachel could see the lake through a row of French doors and recessed windows. The loveliest part of it was the shining coil of light that illuminated the courtyard within.

  She marveled at it. The grace of modeled plaster played against slurried brickwork and roofs of red clay. A portico and forecourt beckoned beneath the rusticated arch that crowned a flight of terracotta stairs. Under the sconces on the cast-stone surround, the name Ringsong was outlined in tiny bronze and blue mosaic tiles.

  Ringsong.

  Something to do with Andalusian love poetry, she recalled.

  It didn’t belong on this street, yet she had difficulty imagining it anywhere else. It was too rich, too alluring, too beautifully imagined. It made her think of constellations in a southern sky unfolding against the velvet of night or the sweet taste of nectar in a miniature golden cup.

  All it required in addition was an encampment of glossy-necked peacocks. There was plenty of space for them to wander in the tiered garden that surrounded the house, plantings she was fairly certain wouldn’t survive the winter.

  The house was filling her head with fantastical thoughts.

  To dispel the magic, she pressed the doorbell, Khattak silent at her side.

  For someone who’d been agitating about their visit to the museum, he had little to say. She shot him a glance. His face was meditative, absorbed. She could tell he was impressed.

  A woman close to Rachel’s age, in her late twenties or early thirties, answered the door. She wasn’t the coal-eyed, caramel-skinned beauty Rachel’s imagination had conjured up to go with the house, a woman of Spanish warmth and languid
bones, another stereotype dashed.

  If anything, the woman’s grave young face made her think of the soft-spoken Jane Austen scholar whose course she had taken as an undergraduate. Dreamy-eyed, a little withdrawn, but there the comparison faltered. The woman who answered the door had a guarded, subtle face with eyes the pale blue of Waterford china. Her sheaf of hair was the color of wheat, neatly captured at the base of her neck. She was narrow-shouldered with wristbones that hinted at a painful fragility. Dressed in a white silk blouse and tailored gray trousers, she was mildly attractive, though too self-possessed for true beauty.

  Pale-hearted, Rachel thought in another flight of fancy.

  Before they could introduce themselves, Marco River appeared at her shoulder.

  “Well met,” he said. “These are those cops, Mink. The ones I was telling you about.”

  So much for the element of surprise. And what kind of kid said “Well met”?

  Khattak made polite introductions with more than a touch of warmth in his voice. As Mink led them inward through the forecourt, Rachel wondered if it was the woman or the house that attracted him. They passed under an arch inlaid with a narrow river of Moorish tiles and then through a space Candice Olson would have described as a flex room. It was a space between spaces, inviting them deeper into the house, yet Rachel could have lingered in it for hours. The antique Moroccan carpet that warmed the floor, the assembly of indoor palms potted in sand-colored stoneware, books and pamphlets on Andalusian history—all of these demanded time and care.

  She changed her mind in the forecourt, where curtains of wind brushed against her face, carrying the scent of grape myrtle, jacaranda, and chorisia from the courtyard through a wood-planked door. Small pedestals with glass cases were arranged in a circle in the forecourt, each with a manuscript page on display and an accompanying beautifully lettered description of the exhibit.

  Was this Hadley’s work?

  Three sides of the house opened onto a courtyard planted with flowers, olive trees, citrus, and palms. A massive hearth dominated one end, fortifying a large alfresco seating area. Cassidy Blessant was curled up in one of the armchairs, her long legs tucked beneath her as she paged through a magazine.

  Rachel expected it to be Seventeen or some teen gossip rag; she was surprised to discover a calendar with photographs of Arabian thoroughbreds.

  “This is a resting place,” Mink informed them. “To give people time to reflect on what they’ve learned in a space that’s purely Andalusian.”

  “Outwardly impassive, preserving the artistry of its craftsmen for the interior.”

  Mink nodded at Khattak, pleased. “Like the Alhambra,” she agreed, “with its Court of Lions.” They exchanged the glance of intimates who spoke an exclusive language.

  Mink led them through the courtyard to the great room, the first room that conformed to Rachel’s notion of what a museum should be. Exhibits were arranged on white marble pedestals and in bowfront cabinets, each with the same hand-lettered descriptions. Carved beams and a progression of clerestory windows subdued the immense space; tall glass lanterns were hung at regular intervals between the beams. The room was a spectacular contrast of dark timber against pale stonework. Three pairs of French doors opened to the courtyard, dressing the room in a canopy of light. The entire effect was effortless.

  Rachel loved it. From his arrested expression, she could tell Khattak felt the same.

  “I hope you don’t mind if we keep working while we talk. We’re due to open in October and we’re a bit behind.”

  The “we” included Marco River, who was now ensconced with Hadley at a huge wood table in the center of the room. They were seated on high-backed stools, bent over a table piled high with any number of disparate objects, manuscripts, and books. Hadley was using the fine nib of a calligrapher’s pen on cream notecards that matched the milky tones of the room. Riv leafed through a dictionary, presumably assisting with vocabulary. His knee was touching Hadley’s, who ignored it.

  “Why Andalusia, Ms. Norman?” Rachel asked.

  “Won’t you call me Mink?” She invited them to the table to inspect her collection, sliding onto a stool across from Hadley and Riv.

  “That’s an unusual name.”

  “My sister is Sable,” Mink said drily. “Our mother had two passions in life: fashion and theater. She respected the animal rights movement but deplored the need to give up her precious furs. So she took her revenge with typical drama—by naming us after them.”

  Rachel smirked. “No siblings named Otter and Ermine?”

  There was the briefest hesitation before Mink laughed. “None. Now, how may I help you?”

  Khattak was quick to step in. Rachel had the uneasy feeling that he was more than a little interested in their hostess.

  Great. He’d been the one man she’d met who she thought could resist blondes.

  “I would love to know more about the museum.”

  “It’s a passion project,” she said simply. “I’m a librarian. I’ve studied languages and history. There’s no place that speaks to me more than the civilization of Andalusia. Cordoba, Granada, Seville, Toledo—it was a sparkling moment in our collective history.” She was dismantling an ornate picture frame as she spoke, intricate gold decoration incised on black steel.

  “Moments that come rarely and are soon extinguished,” said Khattak, something indefinable in his voice.

  She paused in her work. “I don’t know that I would call seven hundred years of Moorish influence on Spain ‘soon.’ All history is eventually extinguished, but its monuments may well endure. Like the Alhambra. Or this one.”

  She placed the photograph intended for the steel frame before him on the table. Forgotten, Rachel peered over his shoulder.

  It was an exquisite Spanish building with a cascade of horseshoe arches in white.

  “A mosque,” Rachel said.

  “A synagogue,” Mink corrected. “Actually, this is Sinagoga de Santa Maria la Blanca, or Saint Mary the White, a structure that seems extraordinary to us now, though it was perfectly appropriate to its time.” Her fingers brushed Khattak’s at the edge of the photograph. “It was built by Mudejar architects for the Jewish community of Toledo, at their request.” She placed a special emphasis on the last words. The smile that edged her lips was wistful. “Muslims,” she elaborated for Rachel’s benefit. “Moorish architects designing a Jewish place of worship on Christian soil. Can you imagine such a sharing of religious space today?”

  Khattak had once prayed at the Dome of the Rock next to a Syriac Christian, a fact he was willing to discuss, if not advertise.

  “I think they did it on Little Mosque on the Prairie.” Not Rachel’s most brilliant offering, but true as far as it went.

  “Saskatchewan—the new Andalusia.”

  Mink said it gently enough, but Rachel caught the undertone of mockery. Khattak was slow to remove his hand, she noted.

  “Where do the exhibits come from?” he asked Mink.

  “I’ve been collecting little bits of history ever since I can remember. Nothing very valuable—most of it is just a translation of poetry and religious manuscripts, which, thanks to Hadley, we’ve prettified. The forecourt exhibits are a series of ring songs, a tradition that began with the Andalusian Arabs who had a genius for assimilating cultures and ideas. Arabic was the lingua franca of Andalusia—admired, almost venerated for its great poetry and expressiveness, not feared and despised as it is today. The ring song rejuvenated Europe’s indigenous tongues, gave voice to feelings and ideas that Latin couldn’t begin to grapple with. The ring songs from our exhibit are from Arabic, Hebrew, and Romance. It’s a remarkable synthesis. Andalusia was a remarkable synthesis.”

  She would have made a great teacher. Her passion for her subject, her ability to slice through centuries of history to the shimmering idea at the heart of it, would inspire the museum’s visitors: it was more captivating than her remarkable endeavor.

  But it was a humble project
as far as museums went. Scattered objects. More description than representation. For the life of her, Rachel couldn’t see why Christopher Drayton would have been prepared to make such a major donation. Just to put his name on a wall or a plaque? If David Newhall’s thinking was illustrative of the museum’s directors’ position, they hadn’t wanted his money. Yet a hundred thousand dollars might have purchased more than a few trinkets or seen to the upkeep of this fabulous house.

  Where had the funding for the museum come from? Surely not from a librarian’s salary. And did she live here? Had she been prepared to turn down Drayton’s offer? Rachel’s list of questions was growing longer.

  “So what happened to Andalusia?”

  “Fanaticism, fundamentalism of all kinds. Petty-minded rivalries from within, ignorance and fear from without. The Inquisition. The Reconquista. Before you knew it, Iberia’s Jews and Muslims had vanished into history. We think of it commonly as a case of Christians expelling or forcibly converting the peoples of the peninsula. In fact, there were all kinds of alliances between the communities and they changed frequently. It wasn’t Christians who burned the Great Library of Cordoba.” Mink looked pained at the mention of it, as if it were a loss that had occurred only yesterday. “It was Berbers riding an orthodox tide that swept the Muslim world.”

  Book-burnings. Those inveterate moments in history when knowledge and the transmission of it was the most dangerous currency of all.

  “What they were striking at—as did the Inquisition centuries later—was a culture of enlightenment. Knowledge shared, refined, debated, and ultimately transformed. Ideas, books, histories could come from any source, and the Umayyad rulers of Spain had instantaneous access to everything created and translated in the staggering knowledge-production factories of Baghdad. Knowledge was priceless, whether religious or secular, indigenous or foreign. The prince of Cordoba housed countless scribes, editors, and bookbinders in his palace.” Her smile was reminiscent, her blue eyes alight. “They say in Cordoba books were prized more greatly than beautiful women or jewels. In Andalusia, the mark of a city’s greatness rested on the caliber of its libraries and the quality of its scholars. That’s what we’re trying to re-create here, in some small part. That wonderful spirit of inclusion and mutual learning. The Library of Cordoba held over four hundred thousand volumes, with a catalogue librarians only dream of.”