The Cry of the Dove: A Novel

by Fadia Faqir

  The ticket, yellow around the edges, was still in my silk Chinese box, which Parvin had given me for my birthday, together with my mother's letter, the lock of hair, Noura's mother-of-pearl hair combs, a bottle of perfume, a Mary Quant lipstick and Francoise's turquoise silver necklace. I got dressed and packed my things in the small bag he gave me. He drove me to the nearest railway station. It was raining heavily when we got there so he opened his raincoat, invited me to move closer, covered my head and part of my body with it and ran to the platform. He smelt of books, open fires, lavender, honey and wine. When the guard blew the whistle I tore myself away, hugged him and jumped on the train. `Take care of yourself, child,' were his last words to me.

  I had never been on a train before, so I followed an old lady and sat next to her. `Toilet please," I said and she pointed at the sliding glass door. I found the sign, opened the door, closed it, locked it, put the lid down, sat on it and cried.

  Milk and Honey

  WITH MY UMPTEENTH FILLING OF THE DISHWASHER behind the bar, I began seeing the sparkling of glasses without seeing the glasses themselves. The smell of the detergent, beer, nicotine and breath filled the small bar. I straightened my back and gave some instructions to myself. Do not cross the sea! Do not depart! You are not allowed to tonight. My mind ignored the laughter, shouting, smoke, stale smell of mats and travelled all the way to prison, which I cleaned with Noura every Thursday. Equipped with a sweeping broom, two buckets of water and mats and some disinfectant Noura swept the rooms and I went down on my knees and mopped the floor. Noura swung Madam Lamaa's large bra in the air and laughed loudly and I kept my head down trying to get the dirt out of the cracks in the cement. Squatting on the floor the guard prodded me with her stick. `Are you leaving the corners for the spiders?'

  `Nothing, but nothing, frightens me except spiders,' said Noura.

  `Good, I shall bring you a bucketload of them,' said the guard.

  Parvin was reading a glossy magazine when I told her what the GP Dr Charles had said. The cleaner at the hostel said that immigrants were living off this country, `and the doctor said I foreign and waste NHS money.'

  She blew her fringe off her forehead, folded the magazine neatly and put it back in the rack, ran her hands over her shalwar kameez then rushed up the stairs holding my hand firmly. She pushed the door open and walked into his room. He ignored us and continued writing.

  `Look at me!' she said quietly. `Just look at me!'

  He took off his glasses and looked up.

  `She told you she is having palpitations, night sweats, little sleep, didn't she?'

  `Yes.. '

  She did not let him interrupt her. `You call yourself a doctor! This woman is ill and you send her off without any medicine, afraid to spend some of your precious budget.'

  Plump and erect in his chair the doctor seemed small, but when he stood up he was taller than Parvin.

  `Sit down and listen,' she said quietly so he sat down.

  `Miss Asher imagines men with rifles follow her around Exeter,' she said.

  `Just hostel,' I said.

  Right, are you going to do the decent thing and prescribe enough medicine for the next three months?F

  The doctor began scribbling on a small piece of paper. `Here you are! Now get out!' he said, handing Parvin the paper.

  'You also think that we waste the NHS, us Pakis. Well, I have some news for you. We are both British and soon we will be sitting in your very seat.'

  I got excited and said to Parvin, `Is OK do medicine?'

  `You want us to pay tax. We will pay you in shit because that is what we're getting at the moment.' She blew her fringe off, pulled me out, down the stairs and through the waiting room.

  I overheard the doctor shout,'You are most welcome to it ... miracles ... no money ... recovering ... heart attack ... rather live in Pakistan.'

  `You're fucking welcome to it,' Parvin screamed.

  The flushed receptionist ushered us out and shut the door.

  Parvin's hazel eyes were filling up by the time we got to the chemist. She handed him the prescription and hid behind a shelf decked with sun creams.

  `Me need rat poison,' I said.

  `Oh! Please shut up!' she said from somewhere behind the stacked-up shelves.

  `Fluoxetine twenty milligrams and E45 cream,' the Sikh chemist said and smiled.

  Allan looked at me and said, `You look tired. Maybe you should go home. It's your first day, after all.'

  I said I was fine, but wanted to go to the toilet. When I got there I looked at my face in the mirror: strands of hair had fallen on my sweaty forehead, my eyes had sunk in their dark sockets and my face was pale. I pinned back my hair, washed my face with cold water and gently dried it with the towel. I went up and began collecting and washing glasses again. When the last customer left the bar Allan waved at me with a glass in his hand. `Try this wine,' he said.

  `A soft drink please," I said.

  He raised his eyebrows and said, `You don't drink?'

  `I am tired, that's all,' I lied.

  He poured me some fizzy mineral water in a slim glass, put some ice and lemon in it and handed it to me. I sat down on the stool and drank it all in one go.

  `Here you are! Twelve pounds,' he said and handed me the cash.

  I realized that he had stuck to the original agreement and had not counted all the overtime I had put in.

  `Thank you Allan,' I said. `Is there anything you want me to do before I go home?'

  `Yes,' he said, `please put away the clean glasses.'

  Wave after wave, fear like an electric current used to rush through my body while I lay in the ex-army bed, reducing me to a heap of flesh and bones, turning me into a slain chicken convulsing and leaping about. I would hug my breasts and rock myself, reciting my mother's letter until panic loosened its grip on my insides, until some fresh air rushed into the room, until I surfaced and began to breathe. I knew what it felt like when the chicken gasped for air and finally died.

  I walked back to the hostel as tired as if I had climbed all the mountains surrounding Hima. At night I did not have to think about the possibility of walking out of my room. I lay in bed wondering. What if my family discovered my whereabouts? What if I had to walk out of this room and look for a job? What if I was ill, seriously ill? I used to hold my mother's letter, my reed pipe, and the lock of her hair Noura was able to cut off, and rock in my bed. The window was too small, the bed was small, the world was small and when I died my grave would close in on me because I was a sinner.

  It was just after midnight when I finally staggered back home with aching shoulders, back, arms. `Whatever is part of me is hurting,' my mother used to say and drink some brewed bugloss. Standing on the highest point of the footpath, which used to be the main road a long time ago, leaning on the green railing, I was able to locate myself. This country was right in resisting me; it was right in refusing to embrace me because something in me was resisting it, and would never belong to it. To be introduced first to four walls covered with metal sheets did not help. If I had been dropped by parachute in Branscombe, where Minister Mahoney lived, in that evergreen valley leading to the sea, I could have fallen in love with England. We were like two old friends now, who had become familiar with each other's anger. I should forgive Britain for turning me into moss that grows in cracks, for giving me the freedom to roam its cities between five and seven in the evening, for confining me to the space between the sole and the heel, and Britain should forgive me for supporting Italy in the World Cup, the nearest I could find to my old country.

  Parvin walked through the glass door and I was right behind her. `I have an interview this afternoon,' she said to the young woman minding the customer service counter.

  The girl sized her up and said, `Please wait here.'

  A young man in a black suit, black shirt and grey tie walked towards us. The suit I made for Parvin looked a bit loose and shabby, but Parvin by pulling her back straight and keeping her chin up m
ade it look elegant and expensive.

  `Mark Parks, assistant manager,' he said and offered his left hand.

  Parvin shook his hand and said, `Parvin Khan.'

  `Miss Khan, this way please,' he said and guided her through a corridor.

  I did not know whether to go with her or to wait outside.

  She put her arm behind her back and waved me off.

  I stood there looking at the corridor and wondering whether Parvin was all right. I needed the toilet desperately, but did not dare move in case I missed her coming out. `Can I help you?' the customer service woman asked.

  `Yes. If friend come out please say urinate me.'

  `I will tell her that you've gone to the Ladies,' she said and pressed the button of the money machine. A black drawer dinged then slid out.

  While watching Great Expectations on television, I opened my Advanced Learner's Dictionary and read Minister Mahoney's inscription, To Salma, may this country bring you happiness, then looked for the letter E. Expectation: think or believe that something will happen, wish or feel confident that one will receive. Liz expected this country not to change, her fortune not to decline and the sun not to set on Swan Cottage. She wished that her mansion and horses had not been sold and that her servants were foreign and obedient. Gwen wanted to educate the children well so they loved their mothers, called them often, visited them and hugged them. I expected to find milk and honey streaming down the streets, happiness lurking in every corner, surprise, surprise, a happy marriage and three children to delight my heart. Parvin expected a job, marriage, stability and a family who would accept her the way she was. Parvin had a proper education, she went to a comprehensive, passed her A-levels, and was doing a sociology degree at a community college when she had to run away. She often said, `At first everything seemed possible in this country, but the fucking orgasm does not last long'

  I was reading a leaflet about a store credit card when Parvin walked out. She raised her thumb and winked at me. I knew that she had got the job. When we walked through the glass doors, she screamed, `Yes! Fuck it! Yes!' and jumped in the air. `My Bedouin friend, this calls for a celebration.'

  `Great, great,' I said and hugged her.

  Hand in hand we walked to the best cafe in the city.We sat down on the stools where you could see the main street through the high glass windows. Parvin said to the waiter, `I want a hot chocolate with cream, marshmallows and a flake bar.'

  He lowered his tray and said, `And you, madam?'

  `Me want milk, with honey and butter.'

  `We don't do that, madam.'

  Parvin pulled her short skirt down and said, `Surely you do flavoured milk.'

  `Yes we do. Which flavour?'

  `Make it caramel,' she said and smiled.

  I held her hand and said, `I happy for you.'

  She pulled her hand away and said,'Don't hold my hand or touch me in public. They will think we are from planet lesbo.'

  When the hot chocolate arrived it looked so large, with a twirl of white cream on top, small pink pieces like cotton wool floated in the long glass and a chocolate bar lay in the saucer. She took the bar and began eating it and it instantly crumbled over the white cream and napkin.

  The cafe was warm, bright, clean, elegant and full. Sunbeams lit up the counter and shone through the water jugs. The aroma of coffee and the scent of caramel, hazelnuts, walnuts and hot milk filled the air. I had a sip of my milk and honey and it tasted like Islamic paradise. We looked at the passers-by and smiled; the whiteness of our teeth was accentuated by our dusky brown skin. Before every sip Parvin raised her glass saluting an invisible audience and I couldn't help but join in. We sat there, dark, employed, with white creamy moustaches, winking and waving at passers-by.

  That morning Max took one look at me then said, `You look exhausted this morning, girl. What have you been up to?'

  `I had a late night," I said and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

  `Who was it? One of them Arabs?'

  I shook my head.

  `You know what bugs me about them. They come here like an army, buy houses and cars then sell their houses and cars without us hard-working English people making a sodding penny out of it. They don't go to estate agents or dealers, no, they buy off each other.'

  `I don't know any Arabs here," I said and sat down.

  `That's strange. Why not?'

  I was taking in the sides of a crushed velvet ball gown. It was purple but when it caught the light it turned light then dark green like peacock feathers. I could picture its owner: a tall blonde, with an immaculate figure and long legs tucked in flat satin ballerina shoes, her hair tied with a velvet band, her lips crimson, her earrings a waterfall of pearls. She would be reclining on an antique sofa in a country mansion, sipping her champagne, surrounded by Europe's most eligible bachelors, who would dutifully kiss her hand. Her flushed cheeks were the only sign of her excitement. She would smile like a goddess made of pink porcelain, misty, smooth and expensive.

  `You're not listening to me. Are you?'

  Max held a needle between his fat lips, his eyes looked tired and swollen under his double-vision glasses and his grey hair was thinning. A photo of his family was stuck on the wall. He had a foot on the sewing machine and his lunch of sardine sandwiches and oranges was in a brown paper bag on the floor right behind him. The pungent smell of sardines preserved in oil filled my nostrils. He would say proudly, `None of this brine business for me.' Sometimes when I was steam ironing legs of trousers the smell of Max's sardines was released.

  `I've finished this dress, shall I hang it?'

  `Yes, with the tag, girl. Write "Sharon" on it.' The goddess's name was Sharon! Not Sofia, Alexia, Nadine or even Natasha. It shouldn't be Sally, Salina, Sharon or Tracy, who were birds of a different feather, a feather restricted to certain width and height. The dress belonged to a Sharon!

  I decided to spend two pounds on lunch today and went to a department store cafe, ordered a soup, two portions of bread and a glass of orange juice. It all added up to two pounds seventy. I took my tray and sat upstairs overlooking the entrance. I pulled out my Marie Claire, which was dog-eared, and started reading a piece about protecting your skin that summer when you were on the beach. The model's hair was long, very long and blond and it shone in the sun like rivers of molten gold. Her skin was even, taut and tanned, and her nipples nowhere to be seen. Which beach was she on? The sand was as white as sugar and the sea was light turquoise. The Mediterranean for sure. I sipped my carrot soup and then looked up and saw them. Dr John Robson, my university tutor, walked in with a petite woman with short blond hair, big beautiful blue eyes and a slim figure hidden under a loose T-shirt and blue jeans. She clung to him while he was choosing food off the counter. I had met him only once when I went to register for my part-time university degree. I concentrated on my soup and continued sipping. They sat down each with a tray decked with fruit and salad. I continued looking at the model, shot in mid-air, legs and hands splayed like a suspended bird. I pretended that I was reading. With the corner of my eye I saw that they had settled down and begun eating. I wrapped what was left of the bread in a napkin, put it together with the magazine in my bag then rushed out of the sliding glass doors. It was raining a gentle drizzle. The cathedral was quiet, apart from the sad sound of an organ; I pulled my scattered self together and looked at the bright colours of the window where blood was dripping down the forehead of the enamelled blue and red Christ. I walked to the altar, put a cushion on the floor, knelt down and repeated, `May Allah have mercy on Salma! Alleviate her distress, God, lighten her load, widen her chest! Bless her with the gift of forgetfulness!'

  I blew my nose then walked out of the cold cathedral. It was still raining a gentle drizzle that you'd normally ignore and end up soaking wet. The pavements were wet, the streets were wet, the windows were wet. Looking at the warm glow of table lights behind the steamed windows of the hotel in the corner, I psyched myself up to face the wrath of Max. I was
half an hour late. The minute I entered the door and shook the water off my hair, Max surprised me by saying, `You were crying? Weren't you?' No angry telling-off, threats of being kicked out of this fine establishment and this great country, no you have no respect for your employer, no hundreds of white English kids would give an arm and a leg to have your job. Nothing except, `Stitch this for me, will you?' I could not look Max in the eye. I could handle angry words, but kindness I could not bear. Kindness I did not deserve. He should have shouted at me, called me a foreign tart, kicked me in the stomach until I blacked out. Kindness I did not deserve.

  I went back home, had a bath, shaved my legs, washed my hair, rubbed my body with cream, sprayed myself with deodorant and powdered myself with perfume. I dried my hair enhancing its body, put on black tights, a short black skirt, black high-heeled shoes, a sleeveless frilly white shirt and painted a rainbow around my eyes. I looked at the mirror and saw a clown looking back at me. I might be attacked tonight. I might be gang-raped then killed. They might find my body under the yew tree by the river. When Elizabeth saw me she said, `Sally, you are hustling these days, aren't you?'

  Allan ran his hand over his sticky hair. `Salina!' He cleared his voice. `You look very nice.' Last night he summoned me to his office and lectured me on my appearance. `Our customers want to be surrounded by beautiful women; they all go to the cinema and see those Bacardi girls.You must try to look presentable like ... like an air hostess. Whenever I take a flight, I get tucked in, taken care of by girls with lined eyes, tight skirts and full red lips'

  How can I become a Sandy, a white beautiful doll? I am only a Shandy, a black doll, a black tart, which was heavily made up and quick with her straps and suspenders. I slept with Jim, didn't I? But Gwen advised me to look like a lady.