by Sara Alexi
Her fingers twist on each other but it does nothing to ease the weight in her chest. Her shoulders tense, stiffening the muscles all down her back.
Chapter 14
She hadn’t planned for Aaman to go away. It just came about. But when it did she gave him all the encouragement he needed to make the decision. He would not have gone of his own accord. It was she who had presented an argument strong enough to convince him.
Their village was dying. Everyone saw it, everyone knew it. Their family’s way of life had always been hand to mouth. That was how it had always been. But for the younger generations, the generation after her, this was no longer enough. As a result, in recent years, every family in the village had a son, even a daughter, in the city, working, trying to improve their lot in life and sending money back home.
But with sons and daughters gone it was necessary to employ casual labour, especially at harvest time. The sons and daughters in the cities would send extra money, but Saabira knew that this was not the answer; she saw it was a trap. The more young people who left the village, the more casual workers must be hired, and paid for, at harvest time, and this put a strain on everyone. It was a cycle that only made the village unhappy, with families forced apart.
So it was she who first suggested, quietly, gently, privately, that the village buy a harvesting machine and Aaman, with her encouragement, brought up the idea at the chopal one evening. It was a practical solution that would lower the costs at harvest time, and it would bring the crops in more quickly from the fields, giving them time to get the produce to the marketplace before their neighbours. It could be a partial solution to their poverty and, at that point, she had no ulterior motives. The idea was met with a positive response by the other farmers and the subject was much discussed over the following weeks at the meetings and in the fields. Aaman, as the initiator of the idea, grew in stature. He walked taller, and she was proud.
After much deliberation the village agreed that a brand-new machine could never be bought, as they cost many, many thousands of rupees. But there was, however, a big trade in second-hand machines whose working life had expired – officially, at least. They were bought at scrap value by the importers, who sold them on to the farmers, who had the time and ingenuity to bring them back to life. These farmers sold them on to other farmers when they could afford an upgrade.
The villagers agreed that the fairest way forward was to divide the price of a machine by the amount of land each of them owned. They worked out how much time each would spend harvesting. This showed how much time would remain, when the machine would sit idle, and they invited a nearby village, where there were many cousins, to become part-owners too, to use up all the machine’s idle time. In this way, the divided price became ever smaller, making it possible for all but the poorest families to contribute and reap the benefits.
Although Aaman had become a respected man in the village because of this idea, he quietly pointed out to her one evening that they were one of the poorest families and could not afford to contribute their fair share. He spoke with delicacy, but as his words came out it was as if all the recent status she had enjoyed as Aaman’s wife was torn from her, leaving her disappointed and frustrated. She knew that her recent loss was making her extremely sensitive, but not contributing was an impossible option.
The simple fact was that the farm was not bringing in enough money to pay for their share of the machine, and nor was Aaman qualified to do anything but menial work. Even if he were to get a job in the nearby town, he would not make any more money, and the farm would be neglected.
‘They pay much more abroad,’ she said to Aaman one night. A man from a neighbouring village had just returned from a trip to Europe. Although he did not quite make it all the way, he brought tales of great wealth to be obtained, and he planned to try again – soon. Aaman replied with a smile that he would pray to grow wings so he could fly there.
Saabira began to research how the plan could be realised. Much of her initial information was from a man who came to the village offering to escort people for a fee. But Aaman did not need an escort; he just needed to know how, and he could make this journey by himself. Once she started talking about it to neighbours, friends and cousins, she found there were plenty of rumours and gossip. Then she took the bus and went into her old university in Sialkot to use the library computers. There she even met someone else with the same idea, and together they ventured into a part of Sialkot she had never been to before in order to put questions directly to a smooth-talking man who claimed to help people get across borders, and to another who had tried to make the journey and had failed. Her research filled her mind and, to her relief, her heart. It distracted her from her recent overwhelming loss and helped her bury the bottled-up emotions that threatened to consume her. She planned and plotted until she felt sure she had found a way Aaman could have safe passage, earning as he travelled, until he reached Spain, from where he could, possibly, fly back.
But she did not admit, even to herself, that she felt an element of relief because this journey would take Aaman far away.
The information she discovered gave her words authority and she assured Aaman that he could use each country’s authorities to aid his journey. There was a man in the next village who would soon travel to visit relatives near the Iranian border. He already had two passengers, distant cousins, and he said Aaman could join them. ‘Yes,’ she said to the man, ‘Aaman will go with you.’
That evening she told him about the man’s offer, and explained the route he would take. She explained how the three of them could cross the border at night, and then walk to Kerman, as if it were a game. She did not tell him how long that walk would be, and he did not ask. Instead, he looked terrified and she assured him his feet would be light and the excitement of his journey would carry him. He trusted her, trusted every word and wanted to go willingly for her, but there was fear in his eyes.
‘If you can make it beyond Kerman it will be a victory!’ she said, ‘Because there you are sure to be picked up by the authorities, who will take you to the capital, Tehran. But you really need to get past Kerman before being picked up, or they will bring you back to the Pakistani border.’ She spoke as if she was directing him to a shop to pick up a sack of flour. But she knew from those she had spoken to that the Iranian authorities were not particularly friendly, and they might hold Aaman and the others in very unsavoury places until they could confirm that they were illegal. However, as soon as that happened they would assist him out of the country. The nearest country was Iraq but, as the authorities knew that taking illegal immigrants there would only result in their return, they took them instead to the Turkish border, to help them on their journey to Europe.
Her research had been thorough and she felt she knew what she was talking about.
‘Once in Turkey, you will head for Ankara. The authorities there will probably give you a lift to the capital.’ All the authorities knew the direction of travel, and if they took them back to Iran they would simply be brought by the Iranian authorities back to the Turkish border. So the Turkish authorities would take them to Ankara. There they could be held in warehouses with many other illegals. They could be held for up to two years before being deported.
‘But this is nothing to worry about,’ she enthused, ‘because the government uses illegal immigrants as underpaid labour in tourism and local industry. You will already be earning money, and that is the whole point.’
Saabira spoke to a man who had actually made it as far as Ankara. He said that if Aaman did the same it would be good to bribe the police, to get one of these jobs sooner rather than later. When out labouring, he said, it would be easy for Aaman to make contacts and escape the authorities, and make his way to the border with Greece. But he himself had not done this, and Saabira did not ask why. He had a scar from his ear to the corner of his mouth.
She did not mention any of the possible dangers to Aaman. No – she pressed on, explaining how he would need to br
ibe the border authorities, or get into Bulgaria and then down to Greece where the border was not even marked in some places. From Greece, everyone knew, it was possible to make money and go to Italy. In Italy it would be possible to make even more money and go on to Spain. In Spain, it would be better of course to get papers to work legally and then fly home triumphant. It was generally accepted that papers were easier to get in Spain, but she had not actually met anyone who had done it.
Later, after he left, she wondered to what degree she had perpetuated this rumour, and perhaps others, because she wanted so much to believe they were true. But it was too late by then.
How simple and yet heroic she had made the journey sound. How she had promised that Αaman would return tall and wealthy and save the village and help the elders buy the machine. How she had lied to herself and to him about the real reason she was eager he should go away.
She had treated the plan so frivolously; she had been unrealistically optimistic, and counted away months and years of Aaman’s life as if he had a surplus to play with. She had estimated that the journey to the first country where he could make money would take maybe four months if he was lucky, which, she felt sure, he would be. He would then need another ten months, travelling and earning, to make the money they needed back in the village, and a bit more to aid his journey home. So he would be back within two years, just in time for when the village planned to buy the machine. How proud she had promised him she would be.
Saabira draws her scarf over her mouth, the corners quivering.
Cyril is looking over the moors, lost in his own world, at the clouds that are being pushed up over the horizon. Diagonal lines of sun spear the purple heather. The backyard is well sheltered from the fresh breeze that has picked up. If Cyril would say something it would release her from her own thoughts, but he does not and Aaman’s struggles continue to torment her.
He made the journey to Greece in five months. He said he was very lucky compared to others he met. The longest part of the journey was the walk through the hills in Iran and he has never really told her of his time in Ankara, or what the authorities were like. When he arrived in Greece, he managed to telephone her, and she can remember her neighbours running to her excitedly, holding out a mobile phone. And did she delight in his achievement? Did she delight in him even still being alive, did she praise him for his efforts? No – she acted as if she had expected his great achievement, as if it was natural that he should have got so far, so quickly. He didn’t talk over the phone of the horrors he had seen and the hardship he had suffered, until he returned and the nightmares started. He didn’t mention that the way into Greece was patrolled very tightly, or tell of his skirmish with patrol dogs or explain that he had been beaten and robbed in Bulgaria – not until he awoke one night, when he was safely back home, sweating in fear and hiding in the corner of the room fearing the dogs in his dreams.
‘I think I hear my daughter.’ Saabira stands before the tears escape her thick lashes and she hurries indoors.
If he blamed her, or shouted at her – beat her, even – it would be easier. But he is gentle and forgiving, and this makes it worse. He has forgiven her, and never blamed her in the first place. It is she who cannot forgive herself.
Chapter 15
Baby Juliet sleeps on, nestled into the corner of the sofa, cushions all around her, blanket tucked in over the top. She will not wake for another half hour at least. Her tiny lips pulse at her dreams of suckling. Saabira washes her face in the kitchen sink, the cold water stemming her tears, cooling her cheeks. She smooths her hair, loosely throws the end of her scarf over her shoulder and takes a deep breath, and only then does she feel ready to return to Cyril.
Before she can make a move, there is banging on the front door, so loud it makes her jump. With a glance at Jay she hurries to open it before the noise is repeated.
‘Yes?’ She swings the door open.
‘Is he there?’ The old man on her doorstep has a strong regional accent, which, although it is becoming familiar to Saabira, she still struggles to understand. This man has a flat cap firmly pulled down on his head; the sleeves of his collarless shirt are rolled up. Small eyes are set close to a thin nose in his weather-beaten face, and he has not shaved for a few days, the white stubble contouring the creases around his mouth.
‘Excuse me, who is it that you are seeking?’ Does he want to speak to Aaman?
‘Tell him to come out. The woman from Health is going to be here soon and I’ve also put in an official complaint to Housing, so they might turn up too. It’s not right that he rents somewhere right next to normal folk.’
‘Do you want Aaman?’
‘Ah – who? No, I want that Septic Cyril. I know you’re all pally with him. I banged at his door and he’s not there so I’m guessing he’s with you?’
‘He is eating.’
‘Well, tell him it’s time to face the music.’
‘May I enquire who is calling?’ Saabira cannot remember which novel she has read this sentence in, but to be using it in this context makes her smile.
‘This is no laughing matter! I intend to get his animals and himself evicted. Go tell him. He knows who I am, I live at the top here.’ The man nods his head to indicate the house above Cyril’s and then shoves his hands deep into his front pockets and looks down the street.
‘One moment, please.’ She pushes the front door closed, but gently, so as not to be considered rude. With a quick glance over the sofa to satisfy herself that the talking has not disturbed Jay, she quietly opens the back door. Cyril is paused, eyes wide open, like a hare caught in a bright light.
‘Cyril, there’s a man at the door who is talking about evicting you?’
His hands start to shake and he puts down his fork.
She wants to ask what ‘facing the music’ means, but somehow it does not feel like an appropriate time.
‘He said he lives at the top,’ she adds instead.
‘Mr Brocklethwaite.’ The colour drains from Cyril’s face.
‘He says the woman from Health is coming, and that he has put in a complaint to Housing. He said something about you and your animals being evicted.’ It sounds serious to Saabira but she waits to see how Cyril will react. It seems a little extreme that someone has the authority to take away Cyril’s animals and remove him from his own home.
‘Is he waiting?’
‘He said the woman from Health was going to be here soon and maybe someone from Housing.’
‘Mr Brocklethwaite will let that woman from Health through his house to the back, show her the rabbits over the wall.’ He nods to the low wall that separates the yard from the open moorland behind. She’ll take them and kill them.’ Tears are filling the space behind his glasses, against his cheek.
‘Has this happened before, Cyril?’ He does not meet her eye and this is her answer. ‘Maybe it is best not to save any more rabbits, not if it means the woman from Health will kill them.’ Cyril nods his head gravely. ‘Perhaps it is even better to let them go, yourself, now?’
He is on his feet before she has finished her sentence, and jumps the low wall. She follows, through her gate, to his yard next door. He pulls out a rabbit from the first cage but then hesitates. The tears behind his glasses escape and flow, down the side of his nose, following the line to his mouth and on down to his chin where they gather and drip. His nose is running too, but he does nothing to stem either flow.
‘I don’t know if she’s pregnant. She might even be a boy.’ He falters, looking at the animal that is hanging in his grasp.
‘Why can you not let it go if it is pregnant?’
‘She won’t be safe, will she?’ The question seems genuine.
‘Of course. She will be fine. She will dig a hole or find a hole. That’s what rabbits do, is it not?’
Cyril’s eyebrows lift and he puts the rabbit gently on the ground over the low wall. The animal sniffs and they both watch as its nose quivers, and it sits there not moving. They wai
t, but it still does not move. Saabira reaches to stroke its long ears and at the first touch it leaps away, its speed increasing with the distance until it is a blur and is gone.
Cyril has taken out two more, one in each hand.
‘So I can release all the ones that do not have babies right now and they’ll be fine?’ He asks. He uses his forearm to wipe the wet under his chin now.
‘I cannot see why not. They are wild creatures.’
The next two that he releases do not immediately bound away either.
‘Go, go.’ He pushes the rabbit nearest him and it takes one trial leap before scurrying away at great speed. Two by two he empties the cages, his tears never stopping, little childlike groans escaping him as if the event is causing him real pain. He shudders in deep breaths, as if he is holding in any louder noises his crying might make. Saabira has not seen many grown men cry. Aaman cries on occasion, but then he is more sensitive than most. Cyril is older than Aaman, physically bigger, and it seems odd.
‘He’s letting the evidence go.’ Mr Brocklethwaite is the first to arrive, puffing, out of breath, from the direction of his house. The woman from Health, Dawn Todman, is behind him, wrapping her cardigan around her, one hand over her mouth.
‘Hello, again,’ she says to Saabira. ‘Got yourself involved, have you? Typical.’
‘I do not know what you mean by that?’ Saabira feels she has been insulted again by this woman but she is not quite sure how.
‘Mrs Todman, he’s let ’em go. Look, half the cages are empty,’ Mr Brocklethwaite complains.
‘Why is this a problem?’ Saabira asks. ‘You yourself said that you wanted to get his animals out. What was that word you used? Evicted. Well, they are evicted. Time to be happy.’ She smiles at the man but it seems getting the animals evicted may not be what he wants after all. It certainly does not seem to make him happy.
‘Look!’ Mr Brocklethwaite demands of Mrs Todman. ‘Look, a rabbit with young ’uns, and look at the size of that one. It’s too big to even turn around in its cage. Is that not enough?’