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The Cry of the Dove: A Novel

Page 23

by Fadia Faqir


  John hugged me and said, `There, there. Everything is going to be all right.You'll see.'

  But a cup of tea and `there, there' were not enough.

  I said goodbye to them while they were asleep. My packed bag was hidden in the wardrobe among my winter clothes and my British passport and ticket were in my handbag waiting for the right moment to leave. Imran was asleep in the wooden cot bed by the radiator next to the window He sucked his lips and whimpered, his eyes reeling under his closed eyelids. I sniffed his head, kissed his forehead, tucked the blanket with Snoopy riding among the stars under him, kissed his tiny hand and stood up. John was asleep on his side. I ran my fingers through his receding hair, kissed the top of his head, kissed the beauty spot on his back, kissed the back of his hairy legs and when he sighed, turned and settled on the other side, facing Imran, I tiptoed out of the room.

  I repeated, `Forgive me, Imran, forgive me,' with every step I took in her direction. I had to go to find her. I had to go to find me.

  Sadiq's shop was already open and he was performing his morning prayers. He did the tasleem then looked up.When he saw me he came out and said, `You look like a ghost. Are you going somewhere also?'

  `Yes, Sadiq. There is something I have to do," I said.

  `Going on a mission?'

  `Going back home,' I said.

  `Handle with care. You not only coconut. Your son cabbage. They will not be on the moon,' he said.

  `I know Will you ask John to forgive me?'

  `Wait, wait.You haven't asked for permission?'

  `No. Don't tell me. Angels will soar above my head cursing me day and night.'

  `You said it,' he said.

  `They have been cursing me since I was born,' I said.

  `Turning into Indian movie this,' he said.

  `Please listen! Ask John to forgive me and tell him that I love him and Imran so much. I love them so much.'

  `Love them? Stay then,' he said.

  `I cannot. My daughter is calling,' I said.

  `You have a daughter back there?You must go and save. I have two sons and a daughter. Mother says an old man want marry her. She is only seventeen," he said and ran his hand through his oiled hair. `I think about going back every day.'

  `Will you take care of them for me?' I said hurriedly and kissed each cheek.

  `Cabbage or no cabbage, I will,' he said.

  `Ask them to forgive me,' I said.

  `My eyes will wait for your sight, Salina. Be safe!' he said, jerked his chin then pressed his fine, dark forefingers at the corners of his eyes.

  One foot then another I walked on towards the railway station as if in a trance. I thought I heard some muffled sobs, snuffles, a man calling my name, the whistle of departure, a feeble call. Ya Allah! Would I get there in time?

  `Shut the door and windows quickly. Don't worry about your brother Mahmoud. He is often in the capital "seeking solace",' she said, sobbing.

  It was difficult to shut the door, which had probably never been shut before. I went round shutting and securing the two windows, listening for voices, watched for movement. When I was sure we were alone I sat next to her, held her hand and ran it over my face. She kissed my forehead and said, `The last words on your father's lips before he died were your name and her name. Grief sucked him dry. Look, he left me here blind, alone.'

  `I brought you some glasses, Mother,' I said.

  `What use will they be?' she said, wiping her tears.

  I kissed her rough hands, the top of her head and said, `Your tears are pearls, diamond, don't let anyone see them,' which was what she used to say to me when I was young.

  `The day they took you he suddenly turned into an old man walking with difficulty and leaning on a stick. From the horseman of the tribe to the butt of their jokes and gibes. His daughter had tarnished the honour of the tribe and got away with it.'

  `And Hamdan?'

  `He is a changed man.A mere shadow, creeping around.'

  His touch was tender, my love was kicking and shoving in my heart like a mule, his betrayal was final. She was meant to be born, beautiful and perfect like the red flower of a pomegranate tree.

  Heart held tight, chin quivering I asked, `What about my daughter, Mother?'

  `The little one? I took her from the Socials. I said to your brother she was innocent. She filled our hearts with joy, so fresh, so beautiful,' she said and wiped the cracked corners of her mouth with her index and forefingers.

  `Thank God I am blind. If only my heart could be blind too,' she said and covered her face with both hands.

  A chill ran through me all the way from the ends of my hair to my toes. I pressed my hand on my chest to stop my heart from jolting out.

  `Two months ago her good-for-nothing uncle threw her in the Long Well. "Like mother, like daughter," he said. Your father and his friend Jadaan fished her out and buried her remains in the cemetery against the wishes of the men of the tribe.'

  She pulled the mask against her face and said, `Then, grief-stricken, your father died too.'

  `Yubba! My father! Yumma! My mother!' I howled blowing my cover to the tribe then collapsed on the floor and began chanting my grandmother's keen for the dead one, `My precious eyesight, I could not save you from him. Smear soot on my face! Wrap me with her sash shroud! Bury me instead! Ya Allah, where is she? I want to see her face. Bring me a lock of her hair!'

  Face blackened with ashes, T-shirt sticky with spilt tea, sweat and tears, I sat on the ground sprinkling sand over my dishevelled hair. My right arm flopped down in my lap paralysed. Her grave was almost indistinguishable from other graves. The ground was slightly raised and my father had stuck on it a makeshift rotting wooden box with `Died 1990' carved into it.With my left hand I began pulling the weeds and thorns covering the mound and clearing the space around it.

  The black iris at the end of the graveyard looked taller and more menacing in the twilight. Standing there covered with sand, arms cut and bruised stretched towards the sky, Layla tingled her way back to my heart. I knew that breeze. A sudden chill ran from the roots to the ends of each hair on my body and my chest collapsed as if I were drowning. She was tired, whimpering, hungry, looking for a foothold for her tiny feet. I knelt down and embraced her grave. My familiar smell, tender breasts and warm ribcage might reassure her, make her feel safe and protected. One day she, `the buried one', might stop crying.

  Layla was standing there, where the white clouds met the shredded blue sky, a thoroughbred mare, her taut body dark, coffee with milk, her eyes bright amber, Hamdan's mouth, ripe pomegranate seeds, her hair cascading on her shoulders. She smiled, a pearl in her grave, and walked away among the vines, glittering through the soft young leaves, a column of diamond dust. I tried to hold on to her, but the column whirled towards the black iris then disappeared where John, holding our baby, our son, against his ribcage, was standing between the black iris and the overcast sky.

  Suddenly I heard voices behind me. A woman was pleading with a man not to do something. A young man saying, `It's his duty. He has to hold his head high. Il `aar ma yimhiyeh ila it dam: dishonour can only be wiped off with blood.'

  `Let go of me, you old senile woman!' a man cried.

  I thought I heard my mother say, `You can have the farm, everything I own, she has a suckling now, I beg you...

  When I turned my head I felt a cold pain pierce through my forehead, there between my eyes, and then like blood in water it spread out.

  Acknowledgements

  I started writing The Cry of the Dove in 1990, but a winter of despair had set in.I finally emerged from under the yew tree and picked it up again in January 2005. While writing, and not writing, The Cry of the Dove, I had guiding spirits of my own: Angela Carter, Malcolm Bradbury and Lorna Sage, now dead but their souls will always soar above my head.

  The story of King Shahriyar's visit to his brother Shahzaman is adapted from Tales from the Thousand and One Nights translated by N. J. Dawood. Gwen's father is based on factual acco
unts by my dear friend Gwyneth Cole. They were adapted with her permission.

  I am also grateful to Mike Daley, Sue Rylance, Sue Frenk, Anne Woodhead, Carol Seikaly, Carmen Boulton and Ronak Husni for their friendship, which sustains me in the grey towers of Durham. I am also indebted to my Welsh friend Roger Fenwick.

  I am grateful to my nucleolus and extended family for their continual support, especially my fine mother, my youngest sister Eman, malikat ruhi: the queen/holder of my soul, my brother Salah, and my cousin Samir Makanay. Shukran jazilan habayib!

  I am indebted to Xinran and Toby Eady, my agent, whose friendship and limitless kindness have brought me so far.

  This novel would not have been possible without the numerous cups of tea and the attentive heart of my Magyar/Irish/English husband, Dean Torok. Koszonom szepen!

 

 

 


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