The Cry of the Dove: A Novel

by Fadia Faqir

  I hesitated then said, `I am sorry I am tired.'

  The seagulls this morning looked like a fluffy white cloud soaring over the green plain; some would fly away from the flock, others would stay close to their clan, others would dive hastily in the water, yet others would stand on a tree and watch all that dancing in the air as if they didn't have the same white feathers, wings and pills.

  The smell of beer and nicotine filled the now crowded club. `Give us a kiss, you bitch!' a man cried.

  `Go fuck your mother!' she answered.

  A man on the dance floor, who had been approaching women all evening and being rejected, unzipped his trousers and was mooning the dancers with his Union Jack boxer shorts.

  I was about to finish my second drink when a handsome, well-dressed, dark-haired man walked right in front of me, waved then winked urging me to follow him. I imagined myself making love to this Italian plumber on the leather seats of his yellow sports car. Then when the fun was over he would comb his hair, zip up his trousers, button up his shirt and say, `Must do a runner. My wife will kill me' I begged myself to follow him, to act human, to give in, but Salina and Sally refused to budge, to run after him, to seek refuge. I was a convict, an immigrant, trash, and a one-night stand with a plumber was more than I deserved. If I were them I would not let me into their clean fragrant houses. I was contagious and everything I touched turned into black tar. The sight of a man and a woman French kissing, who were, up to a few minutes ago, complete strangers, was nauseating. It must be all that Coke I drank on an almost empty stomach. If they came to me and said, `Would you like to have some fresh air,' as in Victorian dramas, I would have said yes. I sucked the ice cubes, wrapped myself with my mother's black shawl and walked out of the cloud of smoke. There was a chill in the early morning air, but the pungent smell of beer was slowly being overpowered by the aroma of rich food being fried.

  I sat on the bench inhaling the smell of falafel rissoles bubbling away in the frying oil and listening to the conversation in Arabic. I could also hear some old French songs in the background.

  `Yasin, why this to happen to me?' the old man said.

  `Kismet, naseeb, fate, man,' the younger man said.

  `Why it to be my son, ya rabbi: my god?' the older man said.

  `Allah test his true believers," saidYasin.

  `Amen,' the older man said.

  `Also he still young and might grow out of it,' saidYasin.

  `In the war of liberation in Algeria I joined the resistance. We kicked the French out of our country. We lose millions and now the European bastards claimed my son. He no longer Arab, no longer a man.'

  He threw a fresh batch of falafel in the frying pan. The aroma of crushed chickpeas, garlic and parsley balls hitting the hot oil wafted to my nose again.

  `I blame his English mum. She tied his hair with ribbons and dressed him up in girls' clothes,' said the old man.

  `She just spoilt him. Arab mums much worse,' saidYasin.

  `He is not my son and I don't want to see him ever again,' said the old man.

  `He your only son.You don't mean that.'

  I pricked up my ears and sniffed.

  `I will divorce that bitch, I will,' said the old man.

  `Doucement, my friend, doucement,' saidYasin.

  `Nice handlebar moustache, Mokhammad!' cried a young English man from across the street.

  `Don't listen to them! The moustache suits you,' said Yasin.

  `Fuck off, English poof! Bugger off, faggot! Bugger off, cabbage-eater," shouted the old man.

  `Your blood pressure haj, y'ayshah,' saidYasin.

  The smell of crushed cumin, black pepper and coriander filled the busy high street. Drunken young men and women staggered back home in the early morning light. I could hear the cooing of pigeons and police sirens in the distance. I filled my lungs with the smell of home, tightened my mother's black shawl around my neck then got up and joined the herds walking down the hill.

  `I haven't seen you for ages, you never call me,' said Parvin. We decided to meet in the cafe at one. I took extra care with my appearance. Parvin with her hazel eyes, long straight black hair, sharply cut fringe, dark shiny skin looked like a model in her mauve shalwar kameez and white trainers. We hugged and kissed each other on the cheek like we do.

  `You look fine," I said shyly.

  `You don't look so bad yourself,' she said while inspecting my face closely. She was looking for `signs of paranoia' as she used to say. She smiled when she found none.

  She insisted on buying me lunch. `Are you sure you don't want dessert?'

  `I'll have lemon cake,' I said, grateful.

  She paid for both trays and we carried them upstairs and sat among the overgrown rubber plants.

  Parvin looked at me and said, `You're my bridesmaid so I want you to be there early to help me get dressed,' she said, munching her salad hurriedly.

  `At what time?' I asked.

  `If you can come by ten o'clock in the morning it will be great. Don't get dressed. Bring your stuff with you. We'll get dressed together. Oh, by the way, bridesmaids can wear anything provided it's lilac.'

  I ate the lemon cake slowly and carefully. `Parvin, are you happy?'

  `Yes'

  The smell of fresh lemon rind reminded me of lemon plantations on the outskirts of our village. In the spring when the trees were in full bloom, when they looked like decorated brides, the wind carried a strong perfume that went straight to your heart.

  `What about your family?'

  I never saw Parvin cry after that night in the hostel. Her tears were not for public consumption, she used to say. `What about them?'

  `Are they coming to the wedding?'

  `They don't know where I am,' she said and chased the carrot salad with her fork.

  `And if they find out about Mark and the wedding ...

  `It would be too late by then.'

  If I hadn't known Parvin I would have thought that she was completely composed, but she lowered her eyelashes to cover her eyes, bowed her head so far down until her fringe covered most of her face and toyed with the napkin, folding and unfolding it.

  `Have you told Mark about your family?'

  `Yes and he is going to tell his family that my family are in Pakistan and cannot come to the wedding.'

  `Why don't you try to reason with them?'

  `I think about it every day. They wouldn't approve. Although he agreed to convert to Islam to put my mind at rest he is still a white English man.'

  `They might approve if he is a Muslim,' I said.

  `Once a Christian, always a Christian,' she said, folding her napkin again.

  `Good Pakistani men don't climb on trees,' I said.

  `You mean "grow",' she said, correcting me.

  We laughed.

  While chasing the last bit of lemon cake, I thought that the real monkeys were Parvin and me, good at climbing trees without help and then coming out of them just like that. I reached out across the white tablecloth and held Parvin's elegant hand. `Don't worry! The wedding be fine.'

  After work I rushed to Gwen, who must have been in the kitchen when I rang the bell. I could hear her approaching the door with difficulty. She opened the door and her pale face smiled.

  `Hello, Gwen, you look pale,' I said and kissed each cheek.

  `These legs are killing me. I must lose weight,' she said while running her hand over her coiffed grey hair.

  I hugged her and said that she needed some exercise. `What about a walk now?'

  It was still early and the sun was breaking gently through the clouds. She put her rain jacket on, her flowery scarf and struggled with her walking shoes. I didn't offer to help, she would be offended.We walked down the road. `When you have arthritis the liquid that lubricates the joints runs out and they begin rubbing bone against bone," she said. The pain was drawn on her face, but she kept walking. `But if I don't keep moving I will become an invalid' I held her arm, trying to encourage her to lean on me. She pulled it
away and continued leaning on her walking stick. Her forehead was sweaty when we got to the first bench by the river. Gwen sighed with relief when we finally sat down.

  `Out with it. What's the problem?' she said.

  `Parvin has asked me to be her bridesmaid. I do not have a lilac dress. By the way, she did not invite her family.'

  `So?'

  `She should have asked one of her department store girlfriends. They would know what to do.'

  Gwen was drawing lines on the grass with her stick. She looked at me with her ageing eyes and said in her headmistress voice, `It's time for you to pull yourself together: a) her family are not yours and it was up to her to invite or not invite them, b) she has asked you to be her bridesmaid and no one else and c) I have an old lilac and mauve dress that I put on once almost forty years ago at my sister's wedding. It's in good shape, you can have it altered if you like,' she said and looked over at the river.

  `Really? Great, great,' I said.

  The swans were waltzing across the river as if there was nothing wrong with the world. I looked at Gwen's sweaty face, her short grey hair, her overweight body and her swollen legs stretched on the lawn and hated her son Michael for not visiting her. Shahla would have said, `You give meat to someone without teeth, and earrings to someone whose ears are not pierced.' I stood up, got my bamboo pipe out, and blew a tune, which I practised so many times while sitting here on the riverside, enjoying the sunset. I tried to imitate the graceful movement of the swans, introduced the sudden cries of seagulls and the sound of running water. I stood in front of Gwen as if performing in a royal show under the patronage of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.When I received my citizenship, when I became a British subject, I had to vow allegiance to the Queen and her descendants. Gwen was my queen so when I finished I bowed to her.

  She clapped her hands laughing. `You know how to play that thing.You never told me,' she said.

  `Now you know.' I smiled.

  `Yes, now I know' She smiled.

  Max noticed the troubled expression on my face and said, `What's wrong now?'

  `Parvin is getting married and she wants me be her maid.'

  He gave me a I-wish-you-would-get-married-one-ofthese-days-too look and said, `That's nice.'

  `They're an elegant family and I don't know what to do,' I said.

  He spat out some needles, ran his fingers wet with saliva over his hair to make sure it was still held in place and said, `Whatever you do do not throw up on her shoes. My niece was invited to her university friend's wedding. You know, la-di-da kind of people. Horses and boat races. The daft bugger saw all that free booze and began guzzling it. First sherry and champagne, then beer followed by wine, then port and whisky until Bob's your uncle the fivecourse dinner was plastered over the bridegroom's mother's silk chiffon dress.' He sniggered. `No, it gets worse. The daft bugger went to the wedding to find herself a posh husband,' he laughed.

  What he did not know was that alcohol had never passed my lips ever. I was a goddamn Muslim. But what if I got too nervous and vomited all over the floor?

  `If they are toffee-nosed then keep talking about the weather and saying "ma'am" to his mother and you will be fine. By the way, I wouldn't worry too much because very few will be sober. If you remember what went on in a wedding then it must have been crap,' he said.

  Gwen's dress - altered, dry-cleaned and wrapped in plastic - was rustling in the breeze. I hooked the hanger on the edge of the old wardrobe top to keep it crease-free and to look at it before I went to sleep. It was mauve, strapless, figure-hugging with a heart-shaped bodice and a wide georgette lilac coat with long sleeves and a high collar. A big magnolia flower made of both the mauve satin and lilac chiffon was pinned to the side of the collar. I shortened the satin dress to just below the knee, took it in at the back slightly and left the wide flowing top as it was. It was just beautiful. I opened the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and brought Layla's white dress out for the first time in months. I spent hours making that baby-girl dress. I spent hours trying to imagine what a water lily would look like on a luminous jolly night, a 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 all wished her well. I pulled up the fine plastic covering Gwen's dress, slipped the shoulders of the dress off the hanger, hung Layla's white dress on it then slipped the dress and the lilac coat on top. I stuck the metal hook through the hole in the plastic wrapping and hung the two dresses at the edge of the wardrobe. The fine mauve satin and the few pearls stitched to the collar of her dress gleamed together in the darkness.

  Liz was bedridden. Her tummy was swollen, her arms were bruised and she looked as pale as the old wallpaper. I heated some soup out of a can, sliced some bread, placed them carefully on a large tray and took them to her bedroom. I knocked on the door and she said, `Come in, Janki ayah.'

  I placed the tray on the bedside cabinet carefully and noticed that her black-and-white wedding photo with the intricate silver frame was nowhere to be seen.

  She was still wearing the same sullied white cotton underwear. I pulled her up and put the pillows behind her. The silver box with the foul cream was under the pillow She looked up at me and smiled. The yellow of the butter that I scraped off her face had seeped into the whiteness of her eyes. I placed the tray in her lap and smoothed the dirty duvet.With trembling fingers she held the spoon and tried to scoop up some soup. After a few attempts she put the spoon down defeated so I sat next to her on the bed and began feeding her like a child. She swallowed the soup with difficulty and looked up, `Is Hita making coconut ladoos, ayah?'

  `Yes, Liz,' I answered.

  `Yes, Upah,' she said.

  She drank half of the soup and slid back under the duvet exhausted. I ran my hand over her straight grey hair and said, `Do you want me to contact anyone? Shall I call your niece?'

  `Where is Charles?' she asked. `Still in the country?'

  `Yes, ma'am,' I said.

  Running, running also," shouted Sadiq from across the street. `Where go? Stock Exchange market? The price of your shares falling?'

  `Good morning to you too,' I shouted back.

  `Or going to your English boyfriend?'

  `I don't have an English boyfriend. I am a Muslim,' I said and smiled.

  `All coconuts have English boyfriends. Muslims by name only,' he said.

  `There are Muslims and Muslims,' I said.

  `There are one Islamic,' he said.

  I crossed the street and stood by him on the pavement in front of his shop. `What do you want me to do to prove to you that I am a Muslim? Pray five times on your doorstep?' I said.

  `That would be nice also,' he said and sniggered.

  `I love the new hairdo. It's like the crest of a rooster,' I teased.

  He jerked his chin sideways and said, `Don't be smart aleck also. Just because you crossed the road to university just once does not make you professor,' he said and pointed towards the hill.

  `How is the wife and kids?' I asked.

  `As fine as can be expected. No good being apart,' he said.

  I held his right hand then released it.

  He pressed his forefingers at the corners of his eyes, smiled and said, `My tummy ache. I've been having too many hamburgers and I fancy a curry, yaar.'

  `Falafels are bad for you,' I said and smiled.

  `I can try,' he said, winked, slanted his head sideways then ran his hand over his gelled hair, destroying the carefully constructed upward-tilting fringe.

  Rubies and Dry Bread

  PARVIN'S FACE, THE TEAR-SHAPED PEARLS AROUND THE low-cut draped neckline of her silk cream dress and the crystals and pearls embedded in the rhinestone leaves and flowers of the tiara glowed in the faint light of the setting sun. Dark, regal and composed in her silk sheath she held the sword handle with Mark ready to cut the cake. He said something to her. She smiled, lo
oked up and kissed him on the cheek. His parents, Sarah and Jenny his sisters, relatives and young friends cheered them on so they counted to three and sliced the cake in one swoop destroying the waltzing lilac bride and groom made of icing sugar. The aunt in the large bright red hat with white flowers said, `I made it myself. Parvin chose the colours. They must be the colours of the prairies of Pakistan.'

  `Don't be ridiculous. She is British,' said Mark's mother.

  Earlier his mother was suppressing her tears when the registrar read a poem entitled `Himalayan Birch', which Parvin had chosen for the occasion.

  A single slim trunk

  Branches that bow in a storm

  Green, leathery leaves with a soft centre

  Glittering against blue sky

  White bark scarred, bleeding

  Heart wide-open

  Bandaged, but upright she stands ...

  Parvin looked at me through the veil and smiled. I lowered my gaze, breathed in, composed myself then looked up and smiled back. She kissed me on both cheeks the way we do and walked next to Mark holding his left hand. The hook was pressed gently against her back when she walked to the decorated sports car outside. They waved to us then drove off jingling their way down to married life. Mark's mother's flushed face gleamed in the faint light of the dusk. `I am so glad he found happiness after what he has been through,' she said and wiped her face with her embroidered lace handkerchief.

  I was filling up so I said, to stop myself from crying, `Ma'am, it's a glorious sunset!'

  Speechless she nodded her head and squeezed my hand.

  She was emerald, turquoise encased in silver, Indian silk cascading down from rolls, acacia honey in clear glass jars, fresh coffee beans ground in an ornate sandalwood pestle and mortar, the scent of turmeric, a pearl in her decorated dias, a single white jasmine, standing there alone, head high, with nothing to prop her up except his artificial hand.