by Saba Imtiaz
‘Do you realize that that was basically a show of military aggression? Since when is that fashionable?’ I ask. A designer, whose father has served in every caretaker cabinet since 1990, sneers at me. ‘Our forces have made countless sacrifices, it’s only right that we celebrate them.’ ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘But they’re also responsible for genocide in Bangladesh, hundreds of extrajudicial killings, and for torturing activists and journalists all over the country.’
‘Uff, aik to you liberals and your propaganda about war crimes. This is why Imran Khan is so right about you lot.’ Had I been at a party, I may have actually considered slapping the woman. Decide instead to head back to my seat and vent on Twitter. Stop in my tracks. The seat next to mine is occupied by Jamie.
‘Wow,’ he says.
‘I know, what the fuck was that show?’ I say, wrapping my sari pallu around my arm so it won’t slip off my shoulder.
‘No, I meant you. You look wow. But that show too… yeah. It’ll make for great TV though,’ he says, and winks. ‘Everyone from Islamabad is going insane over the show.’
I groan. ‘Does this mean another year of fashion week coverage? I don’t think I can take it, Jamie.’ Over the last few years, coverage of fashion week in the foreign press has featured headlines such as, ‘Dare to Bare: Pak Fashionistas Thumb a Nose at Taliban’, ‘Pakistan’s Fashion Week Bares Country’s Frothy Side’ and my personal favourite, ‘Tattoo vs. Taliban’.
‘Unfortunately, yes. But come on…how often does one get to see a suicide bomber on a runway?’
‘Of course,’ I laugh and mentally high five myself for having worn a sari. When in doubt about whether a sari is just too over-the-top, I always think about the late Nusrat Bhutto, who in an interview that only referred to her as the ‘Begum’ pointed out that: ‘In my country we do not show our legs. We show a little here,’ gesturing toward her neckline, ‘and a little here,’ pointing toward her midriff. ‘But not our legs. We do not have the miniskirt in Pakistan, you know.’
We sit back in our chairs and wait for the next collection. Part of me is seething at the army apologists but I’m also excited at being with Jamie again. When the lights finally come on, Jamie holds out a hand to me. ‘We’re still on for dinner?’
I nod, and gather up my sari. My feet are shredded from the heels they’ve been encased in for six hours, but I am determined to make it through the night.
CHAPTER 7
Tuesday, April 5, 2012
Headline of the day: ‘Bookies gamble on election candidates’
Mmmmmm.
Last night, after dinner, a bottle of wine and much fluttering of eyelashes (me) and handholding (initiated by him), I kissed Jamie on the cheek and pushed the call button to summon the elevator. Jamie stepped in after me, brushed the hair away from my face and kissed me, a soft, gentle kiss. The elevator stopped abruptly, and I realized Jamie had never pressed the button for the lobby. He ran his fingers through my hair and suddenly stopped and pulled away. I panicked; oh please don’t let it be so close and yet so far away! Turns out he’d loosened my chignon, which I’d forgotten was held up by a sock. It tumbled ignominiously to the floor.
‘What is this?’ Jamie exclaimed, picking it up. ‘Are you stuffing your hair with socks? Is this some weird Pakistani sex fetish?’ He couldn’t stop laughing.
‘Don’t ask,’ I muttered. ‘I’ll show you one day.’
We were on the third floor of the hotel. Jamie held my hand, drew me out of the elevator and then leant in and whispered, ‘I’m dying to see what you look like under that sari.’
The sex was mind-blowingly good. Perhaps it had been too long, or maybe it was the wine, or how absolutely romantic it felt to be unwrapped and laid down on a plush bed, but ohmygod. White men really did do it better. Wondered if I could spin a thesis out of this.
I felt like every single part of me had come alive, like a head rush, an erotic ice cream headache. Was it possible I’d actually spent so many months with this deadened body? Why did I not jump Jamie the first night we met? I turned over to look at him. Hair still perfect. Mouth slightly open, and in spite of the small snorts issuing from it I still wanted to kiss it. Wondered if he’d be weirded out if I made out with him while he slept. Decided not to risk it and stuck to smiling like an idiot instead.
I was still trying to get my breathing to even out when Jamie shifted. An arm rose, and I hoped it would land on me, but instead he turned over and muttered, ‘You can stay if you want,’ and then promptly fell asleep.
Oh dear. I think I am expected to go home.
I slid out of bed and jabbed my foot with a discarded heel. Oww. I hobbled across the room and tried to piece my sari back together. Bumped into the side table with a loud bang, but Jamie didn’t so much as stir. I admit I was rather hoping he’d spring up and protest my departure but I couldn’t really hold his sleep against him. I had no idea where my underwear was, but surely no one would be able to tell with eight metres of fabric wrapped around me.
I called the cab service from the elevator. The operator recognized my voice the minute I said hello. Do no other women call for a cab at 4 a.m.? Hmph. ‘All the cabs are at the airport. We’ve just sent one to your hotel. You can try and intercept it if you’re there.’
Most of the lights in the lobby were off. How was this possible? I had always believed that hotels were 24-hour, no-time-zone places akin to airports and train stations. The only benefit was that there was no one in the lobby so I wouldn’t be recognized walking out at 4 a.m. in last night’s clothes.
The doorman looked at me, and then turned to stare at the floor. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the glass doors. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the desire to tell someone about my night. I found my phone and WhatsApped Saad.
‘I just had sex with Jamie.’
Saad replied back instantly, even though it was 3 a.m. in Dubai.
‘Oh. How was it?’
‘Great. Fantastic, actually. You know how long it’s been?’
‘Yeah, I can imagine. I had no idea you guys were dating btw. Or is this a one-off?’
‘I’m not sure, I’ve only just rolled out of bed.’
‘Ugh. TMI.’
I felt a little put out. I’ve heard about nearly all of Saad’s sexcapades in excruciating detail. Why couldn’t he hear the same from me?
‘Seriously, Saad? TMI is when you tell me how many times you’ve been to the loo because you ate too much haleem.’
‘Acha sorry. Just weird. It’s 3 a.m. here and I’m half asleep. Call me in the evening.’
A cab rolled up and I shoved my phone back inside my bag and waved frantically.
Thankfully my father is out of town so I didn’t have to explain where I’d been. The cat, on the other hand, looked like she was quivering with rage. She is the judgmental parent I’ve never had.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I squealed. I took off the blasted heels, unwrapped my sari and left some food out for the cat.
Headed into the room to finally lie down. The cat had thrown up on the bed. I am scrubbing sheets at 5 a.m. A few hours ago I was having sex with the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met. How the mighty have fallen.
Oh crap, I forgot to take the morning after pill. Got out of bed. The cat stared at me from the corner as I gulped down two pills. I could sense the judgment in her beady little eyes.
9 a.m.: My phone beeps. I lunge for it. Surely it is Jamie. It is the natural order of things for the man one has slept with the night before to be inquiring gently if one is alive and well and possibly in the mood for a croissant and an Americano.
Check display. It’s a text advertising ‘herbal Viagra’.
I lie back down. Perhaps Jamie isn’t awake yet, though god knows he slept well enough. Wonder if I can call his hotel and ask whether his room still has a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign placed outside. Or perhaps I can show up at the hotel under the guise of covering an event for work. Surely there is some seminar on capacity building or
disaster management being held. And perhaps I can loiter around in the lobby and pretend this is all just a great coincidence, ha ha, when I bump into Jamie.
Realize that will only make me seem like a crazy stalker. We’re grown ups. He doesn’t have to call me the moment he wakes up to assuage my insecurity. I’m sure he’ll call when he calls. It’s not like I don’t have a life.
Still, why hasn’t he called yet? Was the sex not good for him?
Ohmygod. That’s it. I was probably not a patch on the legions of impeccably groomed women in Islamabad who seem to have enough time to get manicures and pedicures and have personal fitness instructors who charge a hundred dollars an hour. I am three—no, let’s be honest, Ayesha, five—kilos overweight. Most women bring their A-game; half a dozen tricks gleaned from watching soft-core porn. I brought a sock. A SOCK.
I am going to die alone, living in this flat with sheets the cat has spewed on.
The phone beeps again. It’s a text from Jamie. Oh thank god, thank god, thank god.
‘Where’d you sneak off to?’
I type out three messages and delete them (too eager, too coy, and too saccharine respectively) and settle for ‘Duty calls’, hoping to keep the tone mysterious and light. ‘I’m heading out of town tomorrow.’
‘Oh. So I think I have to do an interview in the afternoon. Let’s do coffee?’
‘Let’s do coffee?’ I think. What does this mean? This is what I say to acquaintances I don’t know well enough to sit through a dinner or lunch with. Coffee is the most impersonal of dates. I reply, ‘Sure, let me know when.’ Tempted to throw phone against the wall in dramatic re-enactment of all Bollywood films I have ever seen, but phone is too precious to lose and I don’t have the money to replace it. Toss phone on the bed instead and wonder if there’s any alcohol in the house to self medicate with.
I keep reliving last night, a minute-by-minute dissection until I feel like my head is about to explode. I call Zara. Her phone is off and then I remember she was flying to Lahore for a cousin’s wedding. I want to scream. Even though I know that he doesn’t want to hear about my back-from-the-dead sex life, I call Saad. I need to talk.
‘I’m coming to town next week,’ Saad says before I’ve even gotten a word in. I am actually looking forward to seeing Saad. If Jamie does decide to ignore me after this coffee, I will need someone to help me drink away the pain and reassure me that I will not die alone.
‘Get here soon!’ I yell, and hang up.
Check my phone again. Jamie is posting photos of fashion week on Twitter. Hmm. So he has enough time to tweet but not to text. Do not know if it is now appropriate to comment on his tweets in jokey manner or if this counts as clingy. It’s a miracle everyone isn’t in therapy from constantly guessing whether a like is just a like or means something more. Try to remind myself that I should stop acting like a besotted teenager and instead play the cool, collected woman who does not get into a panicked frenzy if a man, as gorgeous as he may be, has not called. I am a hard core reporter, an intelligent, independent woman who is perfectly happy being single.
Wouldn’t hurt to check my phone again though.
Bah. Nothing.
Am listlessly pondering whether I should even go to work when Kamran calls. ‘AYESHA. GET TO SEAVIEW NOW.’
‘Ok. What’s happened?’
‘There’s a lion loose!’
I don’t know how to respond. ‘You know that’s an urban legend right?’
‘I know, but can you go check it out please? We’ll see.’
I pick up my work handbag and hail a cab. ‘Seaview, and can you please hurry?’
‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m a journalist,’ I say, checking my notebook to see how many pages I have left.
‘Why are you going to Seaview?’ the cab driver asks, as he runs a red light.
‘Because there’s a lion loose.’
The cab screeches to a halt.
‘What?’
‘Gari chalao. Bhai, every year someone spreads a rumour that a lion or a tiger has escaped from some rich idiot’s private zoo on Seaview, and they have to close the entire stretch down. Except no one has ever seen it.’
‘Your job is very strange,’ he says, and resumes driving.
At Seaview, the grimy, grey beach lies placidly before a roiling sea. A monkey is napping on the sidewalk with his owner. A few reporters have set up outside the McDonald’s branch. One guy is taking a nap on the bench with Ronald McDonald’s statue. ‘Lion here yet?’ I ask.
Everyone shakes their head. I walk up the promenade. A small crowd has gathered outside a house, with a security guard trying unsuccessfully to disperse them. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, hiding my press badge with my dupatta. Everyone I know wants a press badge, including the owner of the grocery store around the corner from my flat, who believes the badge is a real-life get out of jail free card that will ensure he never gets stopped by the police. In reality, a press badge is a liability, a card that ensures that people shut up instantly when they see you or decide to berate you for something they once read and didn’t agree with. ‘These people think this is the house the lion escaped from!’ the guard says, waving his gun in the air.
‘So did it?’
He looks around, and then nods. ‘But it’s not a lion. It’s a baby. It can’t have gone very far. Sahib has gone to look for it.’
I edge away nervously from the house. Who knows what a lion cub is capable of? They look adorable on National Geographic, but what if they’re really ravenous monsters who will bite off a chunk of your leg? I have not been trained to do this.
There’s a screech of tires as a Range Rover careens around the corner and stops in front of the house. A burly man jumps out, holding a cage. In it is the cub, who looks positively terrified. Intense deja vu moment. Didn’t this happen at fashion week two days ago?
‘It’s fine. We caught it. Please leave now,’ he says, still holding the cage aloft. I find my voice again. ‘Can we at least ask whose house this is? Why do you have a lion on the premises?’
The guy looks at me as if I’m an idiot. ‘Read the nameplate.’
I look closely at the nameplate and nearly reel in horror. The house belongs to one of the most notorious gunrunners in the city. Once the guy goes inside, I snap a photo of the nameplate and e-mail it to Kamran. There goes today’s feline scoop, unless Kamran suddenly grows a spine in the next hour.
Text from Jamie: ‘Coffee at 7 at the hotel?’
The hotel coffee shop?! This is really a brush-off, a caffeinated version of wham, bam, thank you ma’am. I can’t even process this. My day is going from bad to worse. I need critical levels of alcohol in my bloodstream.
I get to work and sift through a bunch of press releases and drafts, trying half heartedly to cobble something together to file. Kamran sends me a one-line e-mail about the runaway cub. ‘Drop the story.’ I don’t have to write anything about fashion week either. Kamran’s decided he’s just going to run lots of photographs with captions.
I can’t even be bothered to go home and change. What’s the point? Jamie has made it quite evident that this was just a one-night stand. Which I would have probably been alright with, had he not been so damn likeable, had it not been at least six months since I’d had sex, and had he not been a rarity in a city of men who speak only in monosyllables. Or, they’re like Hasan, talking incessantly about themselves, their only knowledge of politics coming from reading news stories shared on Facebook.
Hail a rickshaw. Realize five minutes later that I have nothing to tie my hair up with, which means that this ride will turn it into something resembling the bouffant-like styles sported by newscasters in the 1980s. Twist hair up into a bun and find a pen in my bag that can hold it up. Pen falls out and rolls onto the road a second later. Take my dupatta and wrap it around my head.
Idle in the hotel lobby for five minutes before I text Jamie to let him know I’m here. I feel defeated already, that weird kind of
feeling you get when you’re PMSing or have spent the entire day crying after watching a sad film, and my post-7 p.m. exhaustion has kicked in. I check my reflection in a mirror in the lobby. My hair is passable, and the lipstick I applied in the rickshaw has managed to stay on. Jamie comes bounding out of the elevator, looking possibly more fresh faced and happy than I have ever seen him.
‘Hiii,’ Jamie says, kissing me on the cheek. We settle down, order coffee and I order one of the cheesecakes in the display case. Since I’m clearly not having sex tonight—or ever again—I really don’t care about the calories.
Jamie starts to tell me about his day: the frustrating experience of trying to interview a politician who wouldn’t give a straight answer to any of his questions, being stuck in traffic, trying to find a good story. He gets up to use the loo and I check my phone.
Saad has texted me his flight details. He wants to see me as soon as he’s in the city. I scroll through the rest of my e-mails. There are a bunch of memos from HR asking employees not to misuse work e-mail to send mass birthday greetings. I’m about to delete the last e-mail—titled ‘Hello’ and from a sender I don’t recognize at first—when I suddenly recall who he is. It’s Samir Khan, a guy I met last year on the sidelines of a protest for victims of enforced disappearances. He was the only 20-something guy in the crowd and was smoking. I bummed a box of matches from him and asked him if he’d escaped the office to watch the rally. Wrong move, Ayesha. Samir dryly informed me that he was at the protest because his own father had been detained and shipped off to Guantanamo, where he’d been held without charge for seven years. We ended up exchanging texts every few weeks, and Samir would routinely invite me to other protests and to come to court, where he’d filed a case asking the government to explain why his father had been captured and detained.