Secret Arts

by Dar, Azma;

  But why was he thinking about that now? Since then he’d exchanged his grief for a heavy block of guilt, which still sat on his head like a colossal beast, a sphinx or a dragon, committed to guarding him for the rest of his days, not protection but punishment. It was an invisible burden that sometimes he thought he could feel physically in the ache at his temple, in the clammed-up feeling in his neck.

  The chill in the air was becoming almost blade like. The ribbons of mist were thicker, winding around trees that still twinkled with the lights. He thought they looked a little too pretty and sweet, but surprisingly, Saika had told Nathoo to leave them on, to prolong the party atmosphere for a while. Anwar hoped she wasn’t using festive decorations to give her the excitement he was failing to provide. There were a thousand reasons why she might pretend to be happy: simply to make the best of things, her parents, and though he seriously doubted it, his money.

  Things seemed comfortable. Maybe someday that memory would begin to fade, perhaps he might even tell her.

  He heard it then, the faintest shiver of bells at the end of the garden. It was already too dark to see clearly who or what it was, except that it was a figure in black, with an unruly mass of hair, running towards the forest of pine trees.

  Although he’d kept the room as she left it, he’d never gone inside himself. Nothing had changed. The dressing table with her perfumes, the trinket box shape like a pagoda. The velvet stool where she had sat combing her hair, singing Punjabi songs, shooting him furious looks when he corrected her.

  ‘Dictator.’

  They had not slept here. Not together, at least. It was her dressing room, but there was a bed there for napping – and she had come here on the not infrequent nights they argued.

  The jewellery had been at the bottom of the cupboard for twenty years. Unnerved, Anwar untied the loose shawl and took out a flattish box, padded and covered in blue velvet. He’d given Zareena’s wooden box and most of her jewellery back to her parents, keeping only the few pieces that meant something to him. Her rings, the gold watch he gave her on their wedding night in exchange for ‘seeing her face’, a brooch shaped like a butterfly that she always wore on her coat, and a pair of anklets, woven silver laden with bells, two strips of tarnished metal, chunks held together by thick wires and a sharp latches, twisted like a deformed piece of an old skeleton. He remembered telling Zareena to be careful with them. They were cruder objects than what she was used to. They were found easily at any bazaar but for Anwar they held a tangle of memories. Zareena would don them on odd occasions, usually whenever she decided it was necessary to express the eccentric streak in her character.

  ‘I know they’re really quite cheap and nasty but I fancy it, darling.’

  She would be seized by the urge to wear them for walks, in bed, occasionally at dinner, when she was particularly intent on irritating the Begum, who openly declared her distaste for what she called ‘harlot’s baubles’ with their grating sound. Zareena ensured that her feet jingled restlessly throughout the whole twenty minutes that the meal lasted, to test the Begum’s self control, and to make it obvious that they were roving about under the table.

  She’d been wearing them at the time of her fall, their continuous tinkle jarring discordantly with the thudding and screaming as she rolled down the staircase, breaking her bones and snapping her spine. When they’d tried to rouse her they’d heard nothing but that damned music.

  He opened the box. They were gone.

  Wasim, the manager of the Happy Suraj Guest House, noticed the black figure leaving, despite being engaged in a detailed explanation to a honeymoon couple, concerning why they would have to spend the night apart. The bed in their suite had collapsed and the only two rooms available were single, the others having been booked out unexpectedly that afternoon, by a large extended family group from Gujranwala.

  When Wasim suggested they borrow some thick blankets and make a love nest on the floor, the husband, a large man with a shaved head who seemed the more mild mannered of the two, had to stop his wife from slapping the manager. Wasim had no energy to argue, and saw no point in delaying the inevitable process of giving them their money back. He watched them check into the Suhana Rest House across the road somewhat indifferently. He was more interested in finding out what the boss had been up to, but this depended on whether Pervez was in the mood to boast.

  He dialled Pervez’s mobile and listened to the voicemail, which Pervez had recorded in the accent of a Punjabi bandit. This was odd – Pervez always answered, even if he was in the bath. Wasim laughed. He must be saying his prayers, inspired by the hijaab girl.

  He tidied the reception area, made sure the cash box was locked away safely, and began the climb to the top. The boss would be finished by the time he got there, unless he was trying to catch up on a lifetime of forgotten worship.

  He found himself laughing again outside the room, as he knocked and called out, ‘Room service!’

  He pushed open the door and stood still for a few moments, trying to see in the dark.

  ‘Where are you, Sir? It’s only me.’

  He didn’t want Pervez to pounce out on him. It was the type of silly prank he liked playing.

  ‘Sir, don’t scare me now. You know this boy’s only got a small heart.’

  He slid his hand across the wall and found the light switch. A dim glow spread stealthily across the room, and he made out a shape on the bed.

  ‘That good, huh! Still dreaming!’

  When he reached the bed he was thankful for once that the lights in the building were dismal, although they were just about bright enough for him to see that Pervez wouldn’t be leaping out at anyone in a hurry.

  Saika found Anwar sitting in front of the living room fire, in the dark, very still, and, she thought, asleep. He didn’t move when she walked over and sat opposite him. He was staring at the flames.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ she said.

  ‘You’ve discovered a new variety of onion?’ His tone was flat, humourless.

  ‘It’s bad news. There was a death, a murder. My cousin Pervez was murdered.’ She waited for him to jump, be aghast, ask her if she was all right.

  His eyes widened then looked away.

  ‘Which one was he?’ he asked.

  ‘You know, the one who turned up late at the valima with Rabia.’

  Saika went to the fire and warmed her hands. ‘We should go over to the house.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Memsahib!’ Gago came in, breathless but determined to talk. ‘Salaam, saab. Nathoo’s just come back from town. He met the boy from the doctor’s house. There’s been a new development.’

  ‘Have they caught him already?’ asked Saika.

  ‘Not him, Memsahib, not him! Her! Can you believe it? They haven’t caught her, but they have a description. A mysterious woman, dressed all in black.’

  CHAPTER 6

  The body lay on a string bed, in the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by a mass of about forty women, sitting on the floor, crying, screaming, chatting, reciting the Quran. Anyone looking down from the balcony would have seen a shifting motley of mostly white shades. The women who’d had time to get ready before arriving at the house of mourning had put on the colourless garments of death. Not that there was any compromise in style or fashion. The outfits were all carefully chosen: lace with satin lining, a particularly pretty pattern of broderie anglaise, velvety devore in palest pink. Those too rushed or grief-stricken to change clothes had come as they were, which was also acceptable, although anyone too bright or shiny would be disapproved of once the tears were dry.

  The funeral would take place in the morning, after the Fajr prayer, as the sun came up. The ideal situation was to bury the body as soon as possible, but because the murder had been discovered in the evening, they would have to wait overnight. Until then Pervez, bathed and shrouded, would lie in the garden while the ladies prayed for his soul’s forgiveness.

  His mother was now calm enough to
sit up, and an armchair had been brought out for her. Her sisters were in constant attendance, plying her with cups of tea and offering water whenever an outburst seemed imminent.

  Earlier that evening, Rabia had been in the same armchair, plush maroon and padded, talking to a builder about building a fourth storey for the house, to accommodate the bride (as yet unknown) she was planning on bringing for Pervez in the coming year. She was just discussing the possibility of creating a little kitchenette with marble worktops, when Farzana brought in the Happy Suraj manager and the plain clothes Inspector Sharif.

  ‘Who is this man, Wasim, and why the hell have you brought him to my house?’

  ‘He is the new Inspector, Madam,’ muttered Wasim.

  ‘Acha, acha. Please, I’m honoured. Chal, tu ja, go.’ She pulled the builder to his feet. ‘Wait.’ She produced a mobile phone from the pocket in her kameez – she had her tailor make her clothes using a man’s cut, straight, loose, and with at least three pockets. She scrolled through the phone’s address book.‘Haa, you’re in here. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’ The builder left. ‘Now, Inspector saab – tea or coffee?’

  ‘Nothing, please.’

  ‘Farzana, bring a bottle for the Inspector. Do you want water, Wasim? No? Now, is it the simple matter of money or something more private?’

  ‘Oh, Madam!’wept Wasim. Unable to contain himself any longer, Wasim threw himself at her, then quickly realising his indiscreet position, slipped down to knee level. She kicked him away.

  ‘What’s wrong with him? I pay them good wages and still they behave like this.’

  ‘I’m afraid, Madam there’s bad news,’ said the Inspector. ‘Your son…’

  ‘Whatever you think he’s done, I’ll fix it.’ Her hand plunged into the neck of her shirt and came out with a wad of banknotes. She waved them in his face.

  ‘He is dead, Madam! Sir is gone, Madam, Sir is gone!’ bawled the manager.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the Inspector. ‘We found his body an hour ago. We think – we know he was murdered.’

  At this point, Rabia had realised the Inspector was utterly serious, and it was a miracle that they escaped with their throats intact.

  Now she sat rubbing her chest in agony, feeling empty of breath, insides wrenched out. The sight of Pervez swaddled like a baby was unbearable but she had to look as long as she could before he was taken away. Any woman that obscured her view by approaching the bed to look more closely, either from genuine love or ghoulish interest, was promptly removed by a flying metal beaker, of which she had a plentiful supply to hand.

  ‘Read as much as you can for my son! Beg for his forgiveness!’ she commanded them, beating her chest. ‘Hai hai hai! He was my good boy, my diamond, my lion, my king. Not even a groom yet, seen nothing yet, hasn’t made me a granny yet! The other one has children but I wanted to see my Pervez’s little boy. Hai hai hai, why didn’t he take me with him!’

  She drained another glass of water and prepared to greet another group of cousins – their lamentations audible even from outside, heralding their arrival. But before they entered she grabbed her sister’s arm and pointed to the bed.

  ‘I think he moved! Let me see!’ Trampling over live bodies she stumbled towards him. ‘His head, I think he moved it.’

  ‘No, Rabia, no.’

  ‘Let me check. Let me see.’

  ‘Don’t touch him now, he is pure.’

  ‘He’s alive. Pervez! Pejoo!’

  She touched his cheek, recoiled at the iciness, and then collapsed on to the floor beside him and cried, no commentary, no wailing, just loud unworded sobs of despair.

  She practised the words in her head on the drive up.

  ‘Bara afos hua tha sunke.’

  ‘Great sorrow was felt on hearing.’

  Saika had trouble getting her tongue around the stock phrase. It was the language of old people, a style not used by her generation. It was soulless, yet demanded, the cause of outrage if not spoken.

  The advantage of coming to a house in mourning within the first few hours was that most people were so freshly hysterical that they neither heard or cared about any words of comfort offered. But for the onlookers, there had to be a little exhibition. An incoherent mumble, a sorrowful expression along with the obligatory embrace would suffice, although a show of tears was highly recommended. Anything less than a droopy mouth, damp eyes and a sniffing sob was indicative of callousness or even enmity with the deceased.

  Saika waded through the women, stopping every two seconds to kiss familiar faces, as well as talk to the many unknown ladies who pawed at her legs as she struggled to get through, most of them wanting to congratulate her on her marriage rather than sympathise about her cousin. She noticed her own mother and Nadia sitting not far from where Pervez lay. The sight of his blue toned flesh made her mouth dry. Though roofless, the courtyard was without air, claustrophobic. Sweat broke out on her neck.

  Eventually she reached Rabia in a back bedroom, women cooling her with wicker fans. As she clasped her, Saika prepared her speech, but it was Rabia, now apparently composed, that spoke first.

  ‘Whoever did it – I’m going to rip off their arms.’

  Of course Anwar had seen him occasionally around town over the years, but had avoided the rascal. However it had been difficult when Pervez was standing smugly beside him at the dining table. When he’d begun to leer at Saika, Anwar had lost control.

  And later, outside, Pervez had admitted everything that had happened all those years ago. Boasted about it. Anwar didn’t know whether to feel anguish for truly knowing at last that he had been betrayed, or relief that his actions had at least been justified.

  He was taken straight up to the second floor of Rabia’s house, where the men were congregating. Anwar was in no mood to practise his amateur dramatics further by pretending he loved Pervez before the deceased’s family, and was relieved to see that Munir was calm enough to be content with manly condolences. As he hugged Munir briefly, he glanced over the balcony and saw Pervez laid out in the courtyard below. His eyes were shut, but he still seemed staring straight up at him accusingly.

  Before he had a chance to find a space in the crowded sitting room, a hand led him by the arm back onto the balcony.

  ‘I would like your opinion, sir,’ said the Inspector. ‘On these goings on.’ He was a round man with oiled hair and rosy cheeks, and was wearing a pale blue suit with a royal blue shirt, and a red tie patterned with dominoes. He gestured towards the bottom step of the stairs leading to the third level. Anwar sat.

  ‘Why is he here?’ he asked. ‘Why haven’t you done the post-mortem?’

  ‘They objected,’ said the Inspector. ‘His mother refused to let her son be subjected to the humiliation. When I dared to offer my advice she said she would autopsy me.’

  ‘This is a murder investigation!’

  ‘Well she had a point. The cause of death was fairly obvious. There was a nine inch knife sticking out of his chest. You’ve heard the story?’

  Anwar shook his head.

  ‘At five thirty a woman arrived at the reception of the Happy Suraj Guest House. She was dressed in a full-length black cloak with her face and head covered completely. Wasim, the manager, sent her up to the room where Pervez usually receives his… ladies. He phoned Pervez in his office, and Pervez went up a few minutes later. Twenty minutes later Wasim noticed her leaving, but didn’t speak to her, as he was busy with clients. He went up for a chat at half-past-six, and found his boss lying dead in the bed.’

  Anwar frowned. ‘He didn’t see her face at all?’

  ‘No. He’s not even sure of her voice. She only said one word, ‘Pervez’, and that was in a whisper. He thought it was part of her act, or that she maybe had a sore throat.’

  ‘What else have you done so far?’

  ‘We’ve taken a description of the cloak. Long. Black.’

  ‘Traced it, have you?’ The sarcasm was lost on t
he policeman.

  ‘Well, no sir, it’s nothing out of the ordinary,’ said Sharif. ‘Hundreds like it. Tomorrow we’ll talk to the man who supplied the ladies.’

  ‘I doubt he’s going to admit to his managerial position.’

  The Inspector looked at his nails. ‘We’ll offer to overlook his activities if he helps us. And anyway, if he doesn’t he’ll have Rabia to think about.’

  ‘Was this woman expected?’ asked Anwar.

  ‘I asked this question!’ The Inspector was pleased. ‘He said the girls were always expected, at any time. Whichever one was available came round once or twice a week, and if it was convenient for Pervez, she stayed. It seems he enjoyed the surprise element.’

  ‘Tell me, Inspector, did the manager mention bells?’ asked Anwar after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Bells?’

  ‘The ones girls wear on their feet.’

  ‘Ah yes. Some of them bring them, if dancing is required. Not that I would know, but I’m guessing. No, no bells. An aesthetic decision, I suppose. They would have hardly gone with the look, would they?’

  Of course it was a shame, a terrible loss, but Farzana was philosophical. Pervez’s death had changed things completely. There was now a spare room. She and Arshad could be quite relaxed about taking on the management of Princess Towers. Farzana Towers was too obvious. Royal Princess Towers. That was better. More dum, more punch, more panache.

  But now wasn’t the time to think about it. She had to sneak upstairs –she could pretend she was going to dump one of the sleeping children in her bedroom. Rabia was, at the moment, too absorbed in her son’s final earthly hours to pay much attention. No, it would be wrong to assume that. Rabia noticed everything. Even when her own mother had died she she’d still managed to count how many plates of rice the greedy imam had devoured, whilst wailing for fifteen minutes with her eyes shut.

  The packet she’d buried under Pervez’s mattress had to be removed. She carried the youngest baby up to the third floor. There was no point in asking Arshad to take him – he was probably in the middle of another fainting fit. Even on ordinary days, he got dizzy halfway up the stairs if he was holding anything heavier than his briefcase.