by Saba Imtiaz
The landline rings. For a moment I wonder where the sound is coming from. Nobody’s called on this number since the nineties. Ask not for whom the bells toll, Ayesha. I am staring at it as if it’s going to explode, until my father hurries irritably out of his room, asking why I can’t, for once, do a single thing around the house. He barks hello into it and I wait, holding my breath. ‘Oh hello beta,’ he says, smiling warmly. Beta? Has the cat learnt how to use the phone? He hands it to me. ‘It’s Saad.’
I gratefully snatch the receiver, exhaling for what must be the first time in about ten minutes. ‘Hi Saad.’
‘WHY are you not answering your phone? You always answer your phone. You answer it if you’re in the shower or on the treadmill.’
I drag the phone into my room, nearly tripping over the wire. ‘Saad, I can’t get into it over the phone, can you text me? I’m texting you a number.’
‘Are you alright?’ Saad says, sounding concerned. I resist the urge to start bawling. ‘No, but I’ll just tell you.’
Five minutes later, I am babbling my entire story in a series of texts, studded with frowny faces.
‘Fuck,’ Saad replies, succinct as always. ‘I’m booking you on a flight to Dubai. I’ll reschedule my trip.’
I am about to reply ‘no fucking way’ as I always do when trips to Dubai are proposed but then I realize Saad’s right and this is just what I need. It would be nice to not spend the week expecting the landline to explode. I can’t live like this let alone try to write this story. ‘You’re crazy, but sure. Yes. Thank you!’ I hurriedly tell my father that I need to be in Dubai this weekend, thank my stars that I actually have a valid visa, which Saad forced me to get last year ‘because, Ayesha, what if you want a drunken weekend?’ and start packing haphazardly.
Thursday, April 7, 2012
9 a.m.: I’m packed, have given my father a version of what happened and implored him to be very cautious the entire weekend, just in case the spooks decide to follow him around.
I’m about to call a cab to take me to the airport when Saad’s 15-year-old cousin Ali shows up. He hands me a copy of my ticket. ‘Saad bhai asked me to drop you to the airport, and I’ve brought my Pajero and my guard, so you don’t have to worry.’
I kiss the cat goodbye, remind my father again not to answer any calls from unknown phone numbers or tell anyone in the neighbourhood where I’ve gone, and hurriedly write Jamie a text telling him I’ll be out of town this weekend. ‘That sucks,’ he replies. ‘Hope your story worked out okay! Call me when you’re back in town.’
‘It didn’t,’ I reply. ‘But more on that later. Speak soon!’
Saad’s cousin Ali bundles me into the car and I sit sandwiched between him and his steely-gazed guard. This seems a bit extreme to me, god knows what kind of trouble Saad told him I was in. Ali makes a couple of phone calls on the way, then puts the phone down and says, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure,’ I say, hoping he’s not going to ask me why I’m making such a quick trip or why he’s been deputed to take me to the airport.
‘Did you ever date Saad bhai?’
‘NO!’ I almost shout. Am I imagining this or is the guard also straining to hear my answer? ‘No, we’re just friends. We’ve been friends for longer than you’ve been born, silly,’ I say, remembering how Saad and I snuck out of the hospital to find a place to smoke while Ali’s mother was in labour.
‘Why not?’ Ali persists. I’m about to answer but stop. This kid is fifteen. I don’t have to justify my platonic friendship to him. I’d smack him if it weren’t for his armed guard. I start to formulate an answer, but I just don’t have one for this question—one either understands or one doesn’t.
‘Just because. Your cousin isn’t my type,’ I say, and begin looking in my handbag for something to serve as a distraction. I pull out a grotty tissue and blow my nose. This seems to serve as a full stop.
Why didn’t Saad and I date? I haven’t been asked this question since our first year of college. As teenagers, we were far too involved with our own convoluted love lives. But increasingly, more of our friends gave up on the dating scene and ended up marrying each other, prompting Saad to sardonically remark that weddings now seemed like a game of musical chairs. ‘Honestly, isn’t it just a bit desperate?’ he said, attacking a plate of kulfi as his ex-girlfriend said her qabool hais to my ex-crush five feet away at a wedding last year. ‘It’s as if they ran out of people to date, landed up on Facebook and clicked on the first profile photo that came up and thought “ha, this could be the one, he’s been here all along”.’
Three hours later the claustrophobic heat smacks me in the face as I step out of the airport, making me want to rip my clothes off and throw myself into the shower. I am tugging my shrug off when Saad bounds up, gives me a hug—one arm out of the shrug and the other at an awkward angle and all—and pats my head. ‘You’re alive. I was not looking forward to having to organize your funeral.’
‘Of course I’m alive, you idiot,’ I say. Saad offers me a cigarette and we light up. I grin happily and watch people streaming out of the airport.
I feel relieved, like I’ve been running a marathon and now that Saad’s here everything is okay. I don’t have to be anyone else—the perfectly witty and charming woman to Jamie, the perfectly capable reporter to Kamran—around him. I can just be myself. ‘Should we go?’ Saad asks, lifting my bag. ‘Jeez, that’s light. Didn’t you bring anything?’
‘No, I was terribly panicked when I packed and had no idea what I was throwing in.’
‘Don’t worry. We’re going shopping tomorrow. And to the beach. No scratch that. The beach is for people who didn’t grow up in Karachi. Dinner. We’ll have falafel and shawarma so good it’ll make you cry. And then I’m taking you to this bar that has a view of the entire city—and get this, the cheapest cocktail is about four hundred dirhams and is served with gold paper shavings—and we are going to get drunk.’
‘Don’t you have to work?’ I ask Saad as he speeds down the highway. It feels amazing to be in a city where I’m not concerned that we’re going to get stopped by a gun-toting teenager demanding our cell phones. The highway stretches out, a bunch of Porsches zip by, the air-conditioner is on full blast, and my favourite song of all time—Khaled’s Didi—is on the radio. I feel… oh good god, is this happiness? Peace of mind?
‘Nope. It’s the weekend, remember? And I’d already taken time off until Tuesday because I was planning to be in Karachi so…’
‘Sorry about that,’ I say.
‘Are you kidding me?’ Saad says. ‘I was coming to see you anyway.’
At his apartment, there’s a photo of us—one of the pictures he sent me earlier this week—in a silver frame. ‘Ha, look at us,’ I say. ‘Don’t your dates ever wonder why you have a random girl’s photo in your apartment?’
‘I tell them it’s my sister,’ he says, and winks. Saad digs out a bottle of wine, plonks it in front of me and uncorks the bottle. ‘Talk.’
‘Really? It’s pretty late.’
‘Yeah and neither of us have to be at work tomorrow. So, first things first, tell me the work issue.’
I run through the entire story. ‘You know, there are a lot of editors right here in Dubai. My friend Ali is a freelancer here too. Screw the paper and Kamran. Why don’t you pitch this to them?’
Maybe it’s the two glasses of wine I’ve already had, but this actually sounds like a good idea. ‘That could work! And I could tell Kamran that he can just excerpt it from them. That way he doesn’t get into trouble and this story still gets told.’
Saad smiles. ‘See, that’s a problem solved. Now what else is up?’
‘Jamie,’ I say, and sigh.
‘Oh right,’ Saad says, smiling a little too brightly. ‘How is that going?’
‘Really good, actually,’ I say. ‘I thought it was a one-night stand thing, it turns out it isn’t. I mean, he’s still really thoughtful and the sex is actually better than it wa
s the first time, which I did not think was possible…’
Saad grimaces. ‘I love you Ayesha, but do we really have to do the sex talk? I’m glad you’re having good sex. Now move on.’
‘Ok fine,’ I say, pouring more wine. ‘It’s good with Jamie. But I don’t know where this is going, and now I’ve just kind of upped and disappeared. It’ll probably work out?’
I sigh and down my glass of wine.
‘You were drinking wine that night when you met Jamie. Is wine your fall-in-love drink?’
‘What?!’ I shriek. My voice seems to boom when I’ve had more than two glasses of wine. ‘You know,’ Saad says with a shrug. ‘Everyone has a drink that makes them feel a certain way. Vodka makes me violent—don’t laugh, you’re exactly the same on tequila—I get chatty after a lot of scotch, and you clearly fall in love with goras when you have too much red wine.’
‘Not with desi men then,’ I say, laughing. Saad suddenly clams up. ‘Clearly not,’ he says, and abruptly gets up from the sofa and yawns loudly. ‘I’m going to crash. Wake me up whenever you’re up, and we’ll get some breakfast. Night.’
I’m wondering why he was so abrupt till I see the clock. Its 5.30 a.m. He must just be tired. It’s enough that he bailed me out, he doesn’t have to love my—what the hell, I’m just going to say it—my boyfriend. Though I’m sure he’ll adore him when they spend more time together. I turn off the lights and stagger into my room feeling the giddiness that comes from using the word boyfriend, and also from seeing Saad’s wonderfully familiar things in his flat. It’s hard to get the blues around Saad.
The next day, Saad and I go shopping at the Mall of Emirates. After about an hour of looking at dresses and sighing at the price tags, Saad exasperatedly snatches a black dress from me and pushes me towards a changing room. ‘Go. Please, I can’t take this anymore. I’m buying this for you. Birthday present. Or something.’
The dress looks really, really good on me, except I can’t imagine where I would wear this. ‘Clubbing, silly,’ Saad says, as he steers me out of the store and to the food court. ‘We’re going dancing tonight. Oh, and check your e-mail.’
I look at my phone. There’s no message from Jamie, which bums me out. But there is one from Saad’s freelancer friend. He has already spoken about me to the editor of one of the UK’s most well known news websites. I hastily write a pitch to the editor, pray silently that I’ll get to do this story and beam happily at Saad. ‘You are the best,’ I say.
‘Of course I am. Now, let’s load up on carbs before we get smashed tonight.’
The club is great fun. The theme for the night is the nineties, which I am secretly glad for since that’s the only decade I seem to know songs from. My dress looks amazing, but Saad has really upped his game since we last partied together. He’s in head-to-toe black but without the air of someone who’s trying too hard to be cool. And everyone at the club seems to know Saad. As we wait at the bar, two super-thin girls in mini-dresses walk up to him and kiss him hello. One strokes his arm and asks him to join them at their table. ‘Nope, hanging out with a friend tonight,’ Saad says, turning away. I raise an eyebrow. ‘Friends of a friend,’ he says, gulping down his whiskey sour. I smile, and look around the club, which looks like the set for a vodka ad campaign. There’s a row of flaming shots on the bar, the women all seem to be dressed in head-to-toe couture and the men look like they spent the entire day getting gorgeous, golden tans.
Two days later, I find myself standing outside Saad’s apartment, waiting for a cab. He would have dropped me, but we’d spent the last two nights staying out at bars, then eating ridiculous amounts of fried chicken and talking till 6 a.m. about everything: our childhoods, old crushes, random gossip, and how guilty Saad feels about having left his mother in Karachi to move to Dubai. I knew he’d be a train wreck driving. ‘I love you, you know,’ I say. ‘Even if this pitch doesn’t work out and I’m going to be hunted by spies forever, I’m really thankful for this…’
‘Oh shut up,’ Saad says, and gives me a hug. ‘I love you too. Call me when you get in.’
I’m idling around the airport wondering if I should actually make my way to the smoking room—or what I like to think of as a preview of hell given the number of people that are stuffed in there, smoking their lungs out like it is their last cigarette—when my phone rings. It’s a UK number.
‘This is fantastic,’ the gravelly-voiced editor says, after I run him through the story. ‘I’d be really glad to publish this, and we can e-mail the military for their response to the allegations, so you won’t be in harm’s way.’
Five minutes later, I’m standing in that smoking room. But I’m the only one who doesn’t have the air of the condemned. I am writing this story for one of the most reputable news websites in the UK. Suck on that, spies.
CHAPTER 9
Monday, April 11, 2012
Headline of the day: ‘23% of Pakistanis say white is their favorite colour: poll’
9 a.m.: After a short but agonizing internal battle ending with me deciding not to take this opportunity to knock back many tiny bottles of free drinks, I dig out my laptop and start writing the story. The seat next to mine is empty and I spread out my notebooks and start typing manically. I plug in my headphones and start listening to my favourite song, trying to recall exactly how I felt during the interview. It’s a trick I do to be able to write from memory.
I run out of places to spread my notebooks, and prop one up in the window. The flight attendant walks by and starts yelling. ‘Please remove that, NOW.’ Hmph.
I don’t even notice that the plane is circling Karachi until the cell phone ringtones begin. ‘Yes, so you’ll be at the gate, right?’ the man behind me says loudly. ‘I have five bags, two TVs, and a food processor.’
I close my laptop. I’ve reread it five times by now and for the first time, I’m not racked with self-doubt about the story or how it’ll be received. It really is kind of fantastic. Kamran still hasn’t replied to the e-mail I sent him about having someone else publish the story first, but I can bulldoze him into agreeing I suppose.
I check my phone as I wait for my luggage at the carousel. Still nothing from Jamie, but then I suppose he did ask me to let him know when I was back. Attempt to compose short flirty text. Cannot think of flirtatious things to say. Settle for uplifting: ‘Back in town after a great weekend away. Hope all is well.’
I move closer to the carousel to see if I can find my bag. It’s covered with what I can only hope is water. One woman is examining the back of her suitcase. ‘Oh God, I hope the Chantilly lace isn’t ruined!’
‘What happened?’ I ask a porter. ‘Someone had Zam Zam in their bag. The thing’s exploded.’
God is laughing at us, I know.
I head home, where my father has just woken up to feed the cat. He tells me there have been no strange phone calls or anyone lurking outside.
I take my notebooks out again and go through the story and the notes. I read it for the sixth and then the seventh time and finally attach it to an e-mail to the gravelly-voiced editor at the website. My hand is shaking when I press send. Is this really happening? Am I actually going to get a story published abroad? This is the first time I’ve ever written for someone outside of Pakistan.
Oh god, I really hope the story is good enough.
I keep staring at the screen, hoping the editor will reply right away.
It’s only 4 a.m. in London. Right. What do I do now? I suppose I should go to work, even though I’m yawning my head off and can feel the tiredness finally sinking in. I should probably take the day off, but I have discovered that the trick to being sent home after one has already been absent the entire weekend is to show up, fall asleep at the desk, attempt to write and then be told to leave after filing illegible copy.
1 p.m.: Kamran is in his office. I run to the kitchen and procure two cups of tea as a peace offering. ‘Oh, you’re still alive,’ Kamran says, as I balance the tea, my phone, cigarettes an
d lighter. ‘Ha ha,’ I say, setting the tea down on his desk. ‘I got your e-mail,’ he says, sipping his tea. ‘Look, its fine if you want to take this elsewhere. I don’t think we’ll be able to publish it, which is sad. You did a good job getting the story.’
I’m speechless. I had a whole emotional blackmail spiel ready, which included the past five years of slavery for the greater cause of Kamran’s paper. ‘Thanks,’ I say.
I yawn loudly and gulp my tea.
‘So where’d you go this weekend? I heard through the office grapevine that you went to Dubai.’
‘I did,’ I say. ‘Like every political leader in this country, I sought temporary relief in the malls and boulevards of the city.’
Kamran laughs. ‘Well, you look exhausted. Might as well go home,’ he says absently, staring at his computer screen.
I resist the urge to high five myself.
I go home and attempt to take a nap. Wake up twenty minutes later and lunge for my phone. There’s still no reply from the editor.
And there’s no reply from Jamie either. I double-check the Internet connection. It’s still working. Why isn’t anyone replying to my e-mails?! Did some major news story break in the time that I took a nap?
Nada.
I check Jamie’s Facebook and Twitter. He hasn’t updated either since we last spoke. I have no way of finding out if he’s still in Karachi, other than calling his hotel. Or him. But no, that would be too desperate since it’s only been six hours since I texted. Maybe I should give it half a day before I start to panic.
Now that the stress of the past few days is over, I can’t stop thinking about Jamie. Why hasn’t he called? Why can I never have a functional relationship with a non-troll like human being? Did leaving for the weekend make him forget about me?
And why did I not think about him in the last four days? Am I incapable of multi-tasking my emotions? Do stories matter more than sex? Or was I too busy having a good time with Saad and chugging bottles of wine to even think about Jamie?