by Dar, Azma;
Farzana gave her some water.
‘Why are you doing this? Trying to serve me after all I’ve done?’ asked Rabia.
‘It’s what we are taught.’
‘Baba’s told me everything. Did you hear? The bastard. At least he’s dead too.’ She sent a string of curses on Baba’s invented villain.
‘My name’s been cleared, then?’ Farzana put the laundry in the cupboard.
‘You know it has. Saying sorry isn’t enough is it? What can I do? I don’t want you and Arshad to go. I’ll be left alone.’
‘You have Abbaji.’
‘Even he refuses to eat or drink anything I give him now. He makes it himself. Tell me, Farzana.’
Farzana straightened her kameez.
‘I think you know. Put me in charge of the hotel.’
Saika was asleep, Gago at her side. The Begum was in a coma, having taken both Baba’s medication as well as an overdose of insulin. She had added it to the cocktail in the syringe for extra potency.
‘Saabji…’ Gago had tears in her eyes. ‘Thank God they are both safe! And thank God for Nathoo.’ Anwar gave her a hug, and for once she accepted the affection. She went out to sit with the day’s hero, who’d gone up to the tower to make sure they were coping with the power cut.
Saika stirred and opened her eyes.
‘I can’t believe any of it,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘It is. I should have stopped her from seeing the old man long ago. I thought he was just a harmless old quack. I thought it was just something to keep her occupied, that he was giving her health remedies and the odd good luck charm. I never imagined…’
He looked miserably at the floor, reminding her of the first time she had been alone with him.
‘It doesn’t matter now.’ She paused. ‘I thought you did it. Zareena.’
He looked up, surprised, but able to quickly absorb the meaning of her words.
‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he said. ‘You can suspect me all you like.’
‘No, I need to say it now. It’s gone on long enough. I don’t know if you’ll forgive me.’
He sighed.
‘But I did kill her. At least, in my mind I did. She told me to meet her at that place, Monkey Point.’
‘Dolly told me. She said Zareena wanted you to see her with Pervez.’
‘I wasn’t sure if she’d planned it that way. It didn’t surprise me, I knew she wanted me to be jealous, wanted to humiliate me. I was upset, very angry. I didn’t speak to her when she came home. The next day we argued. She couldn’t make up her mind, one minute she said she was having an affair, she loved Pervez, then she would say it was all a joke. I’d had enough. I told her I didn’t care either way. I said I was going to divorce her. That was when she flipped. She started hitting me, then she fell on the floor and grabbed my legs. I left her there…’
He bowed his head.
‘Pervez lied to you,’ said Saika.
‘I suspected he might be making it up. I suppose in one way it made me feel better to think that it was true. I just wanted him out of our house. I should have told you.’
She laced his fingers in between hers, neither of them wanting to hear or make any more apologies.
Two weeks later, Baba put on his shorts, slapped aftershave onto his newly-smoothed face and walked out of his third-floor apartment. In five minutes he was walking down Jumeira Beach, blending in with the locals.
What foresight he’d shown in booking the flat with a big deposit eight years ago. It was here, all ready for him when he’d arrived, a nice little studio, modern and high spec, and his daughter lived only ten minutes away.
Dubai was like paradise. Nothing to do except sunbathe, eat, and shop. Or swim, but he couldn’t. He didn’t need to work. In addition to his savings, he’d also been left a nice little sum by a satisfied client in her will.
He took off his chappal, enjoying softness of the sand over his toes, pushing his feet in until they were covered. He looked around. Sun and opportunity. He walked further down, near the water, where a middle-aged Pakistani woman was sitting in a wheelchair. He would ask after her health. What harm could it do?
Anwar was in the garden beside the kitchen hanging up baby clothes. There were still many weeks to go, but they wanted to do things in advance, and they were excited and impatient. Gago had gone for a long holiday with her sister before the Junior Master’s arrival, and Anwar was insisting on experimenting with doing household chores. Nathoo had a day off and had gone into town, and Saika was getting ready to go to the opening night of the new luxury hotel. The Begum had died two days after attacking her daughter-in-law, the exertion of it having been too much for her heart. Anwar’s grief at her sudden loss was mingled with horror at the state of her mind, and a little guilty gratitude that the rest of his family had survived.
He was shaking a cellular blanket when he heard it, the unmistakable tinkle. He dashed round the side of the house and into the back where the sound had come from, but there was nothing. After an absence of months, the ghost had resorted to haunting in broad daylight.
He would find her, it. He hastened into the forest that began at the end of the garden, beyond the fence, and the noise came again, much louder. He ran towards and stopped when he saw her. Them. Rolling around on the floor were Sharmilee and the gardener. She was wearing Zareena’s purple dress. They looked at him in horror, and untangled themselves, then began a stream of stuttering apologies.
‘I don’t want to hear it right now,’ said Anwar, aware that he was barking slightly. ‘Why are you wearing those?’ He pointed to her feet.
‘I told her to,’ said the gardener. ‘It was just to make it exciting. Spicy.’
‘Where did you get them from?’
‘Old Memsahib’s cupboard,’ said Sharmilee. ‘Wasn’t locked.’
‘Get back to the house,’ he told her. ‘And you go home. Come and see me in the morning.’
He turned his back on their entreaties, and walked away, tasting the air, the freshness of the trees, and thought about the problem of explaining it all to Nathoo.
The fabric was a scarlet organza, woven all over with gold tulips and butterflies. The kameez was a little tight around the hips, but she could manage if she breathed in and didn’t bend over too much. Besides, Arshad thought it made her figure look slinky.
Farzana had sent most of the household ahead with her mother-in-law in a taxi to start receiving the guests. She’d hired a red Toyota for her own grand arrival. She put on her heaviest necklace, five strands of small pearls divided up by rectangles of twenty-two carat gold, etched with flowers and leaves and glistening with rubies and sapphires. She turned slightly from side to side to examine the whole effect in the full length mirror.
‘Masha Allah, you look like a bride.’
Farzana was startled. Munir had crept silently into the room. He was wearing trousers for the first time in his life. He’d begged and pouted for a pair of snow-washed jeans, and Farzana had pacified him with a pair of burgundy-coloured cords and white polo-neck jumper, a compromise between his casual preferences and the strict dress code policy she had set for any family members working at or even visiting the hotel.
‘Mistress of a big place now, eh?’
‘Yes,’ said Farzana. She pinned her dupatta on to her shoulder. ‘Are you ready to go? Locked everything up?’ Ensuring the security of the house was the task he’d officially stayed behind to do, although Farzana knew she would have to double check everything herself.
Munir sat down on the bed. She noticed he was wearing a thin gold chain.
‘Are you happy now? It’s what you killed my son for, isn’t it?’
She turned away from the mirror to face him.
‘What are you talking about?’ she said indignantly.
‘You’ve done quite enough acting already. You don’t fool me anymore.’
She laughed.
‘What a
joker you are, Abbaji!’
She brushed her dusky face with ivory powder.
‘No joke,’ he said. ‘I know it was you.’
‘If you thought it was me, why did you tell the police I was here with you, at home, when the murder happened?’
‘I didn’t know then. I was just trying to protect you. You have been good to me all these years. At least, better than Pervez and my own wife. But then, afterwards, I saw you. I’ve warned you before, just because I lie there on my bed like a corpse it doesn’t mean I’m not watching. One afternoon, when Rabia had gone out, and you thought I was sleeping. You were washing your burkha. The blood didn’t show on the cloth but it dribbled across the floor with the dirty water.’
Farzana filled her lips in red and blew kisses to make certain they were thoroughly coated.
‘What do you want?’ she asked. For a crazy moment she considered skewering him with the nail scissors.
‘I hope you’re not thinking of doing me an injury,’ said Munir. ‘I don’t intend to say anything. Although you’re right, I do have a secret wish.’
Farzana added the finishing touch, a thick dusting of silver glitter over each eyelid, and a little on her cheekbones.
‘You should have used the golden disco on your eyes instead, to match your dress.’
‘The driver will be here soon,’ said Farzana.
‘You’re right,’ said Munir, standing and hoisting up his trousers. ‘Well, there’s nothing else I’d like more than to sit beside the golden bell all day long. There is a bell in the hotel, isn’t there?’
‘The bell is for the customers, Abbaji. You won’t be ringing it.’
‘I don’t mind.’ He walked to the door. ‘Think of it as blood money. You murdered him, but I’ll forgive you. It’s almost religious.’
‘Alright,’ said Farzana. In her opinion, the bell was a small price to pay.
The whole town had been looking forward to the opening of the Princess Towers Hotel for months. VIPs from the local leisure industry, the tourists who’d been lucky enough to get an advanced booking, the local newspaper, family and friends, even the police, for security and a little style.
It was a family affair. Farzana had officially been given control of the whole operation. She’d made sure she’d had her own lawyer draw up papers that put her legally in charge. All the major decisions were hers, Rabia being happy to take the credit for making sure that whatever Farzana wanted was done.
Arshad managed the restaurant, though by judging by his performance on this first evening, Farzana was wondering if she should demote him to waiter until he knew what he was doing. Munir was the most delighted of all of them. He was at the front desk, talking to clients as they came in. It was a problem that he didn’t know how to read, but Wasim, the manager from the Happy Suraj Guest House, which had closed down, was there to help him with that.
They gathered in the foyer for the highlight of the evening, and crowded around Farzana who stood next to an object covered in a black sheet.
‘Thank you very much for coming. We hope tonight is the beginning of many happy and prosperous years for all of us. As you know a few months ago, my family suffered a great tragedy, and tonight I want to commemorate and celebrate the life of my beloved brother in law, to whom I would like to dedicate this hotel.’
She wiped a tear, Rabia shed four or five more, and the crowd cheered as she unveiled drew away the cloth, to unveil, lying down on his side in a lordly manner, Pervez in ghostly white marble.
About The Author
Azma Dar began trying to write seriously when she sent in a play to the Royal Court and was invited take part in their Young Writers’ Programme.
Since 2003 she has had several plays produced in major venues and at the Edinburgh Festival. She has also developed work with BBC Comedy, and participated in the Critical Mass group at the Royal Court.
Azma Dar lives in the UK. The Secret Arts is her debut novel. An extract from it won a New Writing Ventures Award for Fiction.
Published by Dean Street Press 2015
Copyright © 2015 Azma Dar
All Rights Reserved
The right of Azma Dar to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover by The Cover Factory
www.thecoverfactory.co.uk
ISBN 978 1 910570 02 9
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk