The Cry of the Dove: A Novel

by Fadia Faqir

  I spent hours making that baby-girl dress. I spent hours trying to imagine what a white water lily would look like floating in clear water on a luminous jolly night: Layla. I tried to make the shape of the dress similar to that of a lily. I was willing the life of whoever wore it to be happier and whiter than mine. The zigzagged hem, the flowery collar, the small rose-like pockets, the tiny puffed sleeves, the satin belt and the glistening pearls stitched around the collar.

  I nodded my head ...

  The large steel hangar where the post was sorted was brightly lit. They sorted and delivered thousands of letters, but mine never came. What would it take to receive their letters or, even better, hear their voices? If I lay in the middle of the street like a sleeping policeman, then got run over by a big red Royal Mail van, would they notice me? Whenever I was about to have an attack I would look at the barred window and recite my mother's letter several times until my heart stopped beating and the sweat on my forehead dried up. I could read between the lines that my mother was advising me to start eating again, but could not say it openly, afraid of the men of the family. `Why don't you wear my bra," Noura said, `it might ease the pain.' I shook my head. I would press on my sore nipples gently to relieve my breasts of the unused milk, then change the pads. The dried-up milk felt like pebbles inside my raw breasts. My nipples became darker and longer with all that futile pulling and squeezing, with all that grief.

  The night was cold and dry but the Exe ran wild over the rocks that blocked its way down to the sea. It sounded like an ululation followed by a scream. The Turk's Head car park was full of cars with misty windscreens: smart cars, expensive cars, the kind of cars that I would like to be driven in. Over time the two floors of the pub were divided across age lines. The old went up the winding stairs to the ground floor and the young stayed downstairs in the cellars. Through the misty windows I saw the colourful disco lights and heard the hoarse voice of the singer. Tens of young English men and women were jerking their heads and swaying their hips to the music. Some were drinking, some were nuzzled against each other, some were kissing, and others were dancing alone.The sign on the door announced `A private birthday party'.

  `I want to help you get out of the country,' said Khairiyya then crossed herself.

  `Please introduce yourself to Salina" said Officer Salim.

  `I am a civil nun from Lebanon. I have saved many young women like you. I prayed for all of you for years, but now I only travel between prisons and smuggle out women. I cannot bear the thought of an innocent soul getting killed. Here it is. Driving around in the dark is my fate,' she said hurriedly.

  `Salma, you are in protective custody, which means you are here not because you have done something, but for your own protection. If I release you and you stay in this country you will get killed in front of the prison gates. If you leave the country you will be out of harm's way,' said Officer Salim and pressed his fingers on his shiny desk.

  `They will shoot me,' were my first words in weeks. I had lost my tongue and remained silent for days. The inmates called me `the pipe-mute'.

  `Look, I will make sure that they won't. We will be extremely careful and release you at night. By releasing you I will not be breaking the law As far as the state is concerned you are innocent.'

  Khairiyya ran her fingers round her collar and said, `The Lord knows that I am here to help. I'll pick you up at midnight and drive you to Lebanon.'

  `What about? What about my ... my family?'

  `My child,' said Officer Salim, `your teacher delivered that letter six years ago and we have not heard from your family since.'

  I would be in prison: the next day at two o'clock, when the visiting bell was sounded - they stopped ringing it since no one visited the women prisoners of Islah - the warden would shout on the loudspeaker, `A visitor for Salina Ibrahim El-Musa.' I would straighten my clean clothes which I had washed especially for the occasion, put on my plastic shoes and walk proudly to the barbedwire fence. There they would be: my father haj Ibrahim, my brother Mahmoud and my mother hajjeh Amina crying and holding a brown sack of oranges. We would stick our hands to the wire and push and push until our palms touched. My mother's hands would be as rough as ever, and endangering my lips I would kiss them through the barbed wire.

  I walked through the wide doors into an island of warmth, smoke and noise. The singer's hoarse voice reverberated through the wooden floor. The first glimpse of those who were sitting on the red stools told me who was out hunting tonight. I chose a stool at the far side of the bar to avoid unwanted attention. The owner, who sat on a comfortable chair in the far corner, kept an eye on the numerous waitresses. The girl working behind the bar looked homely in her wide skirt and big blouse; she had a clear, open, unmade-up face that emitted honesty. `Good evening.

  `Hello'

  `What would you like?'

  `Half a pint of apple juice' The colour of apple juice looked like beer so whoever approached me would think that I was open-minded, not an inflexible Muslim immigrant.

  Right behind me I was aware of a group of men in their thirties discussing something. I drank some `beer' then turned round. One of them had long ponytailed hair, pleasantly ageing face and a loose smoky-blue shirt. Sixties generation. He pointed at me and asked the man standing next to him something. The two heads met in consultation. I turned to my drink. He was about to smile to me. The pub was full of people congregating in groups. They were talking to each other, but wanting to be noticed. Almost everyone was on the lookout for better options, a better choice than the one leaning on his shoulder and laughing herself silly. Looking at my honeycoloured drink I thought that everything was silly, including buying apple juice and pretending that it was alcohol.

  Khairiyya fixed a date for my release. Salim smiled and waved his hands in the air in agreement. I asked for some water. Escorted to my prison room by a guard, I started thinking about the coming Tuesday, when at midnight I should be packed and ready to go. `Go where?' I asked the stained walls. `Where?' Although there wasn't much to pack, I rehearsed the packing tens of times in my head. The most important possession I had was already packed and hanging around my neck like an amulet: my mother's letter and her lock of hair. I sighed and was jerked back to the present by the sight of tomato juice being poured into a glass. The redness of it startled me.

  `What?' said the ex-hippy, who was now standing next to me and leaning against the bar.

  I shook my head and said, `Nothing' I tried to cheer myself up by summoning a television advertisement. The chocolate ad reminded me of Hamdan. The coffee ad was better, where the couple were about to get together. I took a deep breath and smiled, flashing my teeth as if advertising toothpaste.

  Winking at his friends, he asked, `Can I buy you a drink?'

  His face had seen better days, and his dark hair was going grey at the temples, but he looked clean and smelt of washing powder. I liked his thin fingers and the ovalshaped fingernails. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, I said, `Tomato juice, please.'

  `Virgin?' he asked.

  `Yes, please.'

  He smiled and with a shaky voice ordered the drinks in a south-western accent.

  `Where do you come from?'

  I foresaw with dread the next few minutes. How many times had I been asked this question since I came to Britain? After years of working in his shop, Max, my boss, still asked, `Where did you say? Shaaam? Hiiimaa?'

  `Guess?'

  The list, as usual, included every country on earth except my own. `Nicaragua? France? Portugal? Greece? Surely Russia?'

  `No. There is a big chunk right in the middle.'

  `Turkey?'

  `No, the Levant.'

  He was toying with his pint; he did not know where to put it, aware of his friends looking at him. Faithful to the script he said, `Why did you leave your country?'

  My belongings, which I was frenziedly packing, were: a reed pipe, cloth sanitary towels, a brown comb with a few of the teeth missing, a Qur'an, a b
lack madraqa, my mother's shawl, a spoon, a toothbrush which I was taught how to use in prison, a plastic cup, a grey towel, the lipstick that Madam Lamaa had given me, the two mother-of-pearl combs and bottle of perfume that Noura had given me as a present. I put the amulet - my mother's letter and the soft shiny lock of hair - on top of the pile and tied the bundle tight.

  `Why did I leave? I wanted to explore, I suppose.'

  He sipped some beer, not knowing whether to call it a night or to continue chatting up this foreign woman. `Have you been living here long?'

  `Yes,' I said, pulling my skirt down.

  `Do you like it here?'

  `Yes. It's fine.'

  `Do you have a family back home?'

  `Yes. I have a family.' A mother, a father, a brother and ... and some friends.

  `Do you miss them?'

  `Yes' He was trying hard to engage me into conversation. I never swallow bait. I take a long time to savour it, chew it, then spit it out before the hook tears right through my tongue. I had a sip of the cold tart blood in my glass then asked, `What about you?'

  `I live in Exeter. I have my own health-food shop.'

  `Where do you come from originally?'

  `I was born in Lincoln, but my family have been living in Lyme Regis for years. My father was a fisherman.'

  Someone opened the door to leave and a sudden gush of cold air hit me. I knew that air. I sat there on the stool shivering and trying to stop my hand from pulling my skirt down. I put both hands underneath me and pressed hard while listening to the faint sound of running water, the clinking of glasses and the distant barking of dogs.

  A hesitant knock on the prison's door told me that it was twelve o'clock: time to leave. The inmates were asleep. I looked at their faces, at the cold floor, the stained wall, the bunk beds, which were brought in a few months ago to replace the rubber mattresses, then I turned round, ready to walk out. If Noura had still been there, it would have been difficult to say goodbye. Holding the bundle that contained all my possessions, I walked quietly behind Naima. My eyes were following the floor of the corridor I must have mopped hundreds of times. The walls were covered with marks counting days. Tonight I added to the maze of my scratches a final one with a dot underneath. `What is this?"It is an exclamation mark,' we repeated after Miss Nailah. To my surprise Naima hugged me and her usually angry face was covered with tears.

  I composed myself and said, `Thank you and goodbye.'

  Officer Salim hurried me through the gate saying, `May God guard you and protect you.,

  I whispered a thank you and jumped into the waiting car next to Khairiyya who took off instantly. The prison building disappeared in seconds. I could just make out the dark figures of Salim and Naima waving goodbye.

  Khairiyya was concentrating on her driving. `We don't want you to get shot by your brother.'

  Looking at the dark winding road and the distant stars, which I had not seen for eight years, I whispered, `No'

  `Please call me Jim,' said the ponytailed English man.

  `Jim, would you like a drink?'

  `I'll get it.'

  `No, I will.'

  `All right, double Scotch, please.'

  Only nine o'clock and he was going for the double Scotch, I thought, and dug deep into my purse.

  `Shall we sit by the fire?'

  `Yes'

  We made our way towards the fireplace where you could hear the hissing sound of gas in pipes.You saw the glowing logs, the bright, flickering flames and you realized that, like the rainbow I had seen this morning, it was fake, a trick of the eye. I sat on the leather sofa and sighed. It was much better for my tired back. Looking at Jim's grey eyes I wondered how many women he had slept with. The couple in the Nescafe ad, after days of borrowing coffee, smiling over dinner tables, near misses, still had not kissed.

  `What do you do for a living?' he asked, stretching his legs and showing his sensible shoes.

  `I am assistant tailor,' I said.

  `Oh!'

  He must be thinking how boring. `I also do part-time degree in English' That put some warmth in his eyes. `I taken an elective in Sociology and I to write a paper about the homeless. I don't know how get references on that. In the cathedral close the homeless scavenging for food. I still ten days to write it.'

  `Your tutor could help you.'

  Dr John Robson, my tutor, was distant, was busy; his eyes were always focused on something other than my face.

  `Talk to the homeless.,

  'About homelessness?' I asked. Imagine me: dark, immigrant, with minimum wage, asking the tramps, `Why do you sleep rough?'

  `Yes' Jim smiled and sipped the last drop of his whisky.

  Unintentionally I pulled my skirt down, then blushed because of the wrong direction of my hands.

  The night we drove out of my country was very cold, a cold that penetrated the spine and froze the breath. I was wearing my flowery dress, my pantaloons and plastic shoes. When I started rubbing my hands together, Khairiyya, who was concentrating on the road, said, `Wrap up with the shawl!' I wrapped my shoulders with my mother's black shawl and looked through the window at the distant lights. We drove by whole villages that were made up of just a few lights in the distance. My country was a string of tens of lights followed by darkness. The smell of wood burning in braziers filled the night air. My mother would be spinning under the kerosene lamp in her mud house; my father would be looking at the sky anticipating rain; and she ... and ... ? I was being smuggled out of the country. I held my cloth bundle tight. Whatever I did from then on, wherever I went from then on, I must not think about them.

  I began warming up to this ageing man with grey eyes. We were both pulling our tummies in, holding on to our youth. `Why do you come on your own to the pub?' he asked while running his thin finger around the lip of his glass.

  `I don't have any friends," I answered. I was lying. I had Gwen and Parvin.

  `You must have been living here for years. How come you don't have friends?'

  I spend most of my time the shop working,' I said then with both hands I tucked my frizzy hair behind my ears.

  He smiled.

  I smiled back.

  In the reflections of the whisky glass on the table I saw the actress's shadow turning round on the quay, smiling to the lieutenant in defiance of the whole village. I watched the film with Parvin in one of our rare meetings. In the fake flames Jim looked kind and welcoming like a hostel with basic amenities; a hostel full of other people's belongings and warm breath. A roof above your head; a man's cool shadow

  He put his glass on the mat and said, `Do you have a car?'

  No.

  `Can I give you a lift?'

  I hesitated. Through the flames of the fireplace I saw her smiling at me, then my mother stretched her arms to me, Miss Asher slapped me, Minister Mahoney blessed me, then Elizabeth shouted at me, then mist trickled down the cold window panes. `Yes,' I said.

  I wrapped my shoulders with my mother's black shawl and walked through a congregation of his friends. They cheered. He smiled and said, `Ignore them!'

  Khairiyya looked unreal in her grey dress and white collar; her silver glasses, which were tied to a leather cord, were hanging around her neck like a necklace. She drove as if a jinni was pulling her with his almighty force.We drove on in complete silence. Layer after layer darkness began to lift. Noura would be in the House of Perfume, entertaining customers; the other inmates would be looking at the barred window and dreaming of seeing the sky; and she would be crying and crying for me. At the end of the horizon I could make out green-brownish hills, some sheep grazing and a vast plain covered with dew The smell of cut grass and open fires filled the air. It was my first sunrise in eight years. The morning light lit up the mountains and the plains. I wondered what my black goats would be doing now I turned my face towards the side window and saw the glittering lush green plain, which spread to the end of the horizon.

  `The Beqaa Valley,' said Khairiyya.

  D
ew sparkled in the morning sun. I was free. With the end of my veil I wiped my wet face.

  `I love the sound of running water,' I said while getting into Jim's old car.

  Jim smiled and said, `So there is something you like after all.'

  `Yes, the sound water, sage-flavoured tea and chocolate cream cakes.'

  He laughed and said, `What a mixture!'

  I noticed the waxy glow of his skin, his thin lips, his small ears.

  `Sage tea? Yes. Do you drink a lot of herbal tea in your country?'

  `Yes, camomile and sage and mint and thyme.'

  `And do you grow these herbs?' he asked then took my hand.

  My goats would be climbing the mountain, and I would be busy gathering herbs for my mother. I used to rebuke the goats if they ate the herb bushes. `Yes, we do. Camomile, sage and thyme grow everywhere.'

  `I import them from Greece, dry and beautifully packed, to sell in my shop.'

  His trousers had a generous, comfortable cut; his shoes were sensible. He parked his car opposite Sadiq's offlicence then looked at me about to say goodnight.

  `Thank you,' I said in a trembling voice and grabbed the handle ready to get out.

  `Your hair is amazing,' he said and touched it.

  The warmth of his fingers ran down my hair all the way to the side of my face. I tightened my grip on the handle. The street looked cold and unreal in the dim orange glow of the street lights. My heart was thumping, my hands sweaty and my chin was quivering when I finally said, `Would you like cup of tea with sage?'

  He ran his fingers through his hair, then down his ponytail, hesitated then switched off the lights of his car and said, `Yes'

  It was not meant to be, but it happened. I inherited all Elizabeth's letters and diary. I forgot to give them to her niece so I became the holder of her Indian secrets.

  My grandfather and my parents were invited to the Begum's wedding procession. It was siesta time and the reading room was dark and pleasantly cool. A hushed silence enveloped us apart from the buzzing of the odd fly. I climbed the wooden ladder and picked out one of my grandfather's forbidden books, which were normally kept on the top shelf. I put the book on the desk and it split open to this page: