The Storm

by Arif Anwar

  The too bright moon prevents her departure, so she sits in her drawing room and hoards nerve. The Moslem call to prayer drifts in through the windows, along with the warm heavy scent of evening jasmines. It feels like both her first and last night in this land, like the betrayal of her people, husband and family. It feels right.

  She prays for darkness to arrive, aware that each additional minute is a conspirator against her. Thankfully, clouds amass before the moon and she steals out through the back door, a small but powerful electric torchlight in one hand, the haversack slung over a shoulder. The woods lie beyond the small meadow annexed by her backyard, but she must first pass by the row of the servant’s quarters, whose windows emit soft yellow light, the low murmurs of conversation and the tinkle and clatter of the evening unfolding life within. Should anyone look out at that very moment, she would be spotted.

  But she manages to rush through this treacherous stretch without incident. In the safety of the trees, she risks a light to find her bearings. The temple sits at the edge of a forest atop a moderately steep hill, not far, but deep in the wilderness. On a walk to explore their new home in the first week, she and Teddie discovered the temple by accident, a brooding reward for their trek up the hill.

  She walks there now, praying that he has made it. It takes her an hour’s trudge and climb before she stands—out of breath—at the foot of the temple, which appears as a gaping hole scissored out of the night sky.

  She crouches in the shelter of the trees. A clearing stands between the edge of the woods and the edifice. She flashes the torchlight three times in quick succession. In moments, a shadow detaches itself from the temple’s side and walks toward her.

  “I didn’t think you’d come,” Ichiro says when he sees her.

  “Well, I gave you my word, didn’t I?”

  They step into the temple together. She swings her torchlight around, and the beam falls on a vicious face at the far end. She freezes with fear, then remembers who it is. A seven-foot-tall woman with midnight skin stands against the wall, unclothed but for a garland of severed limbs around her waist. The goddess Kali. She of the gold-rimmed eyes and lolling red tongue that reaches beyond her chin. Incubating in darkness for so long, the light has brought her to life.

  “She is quite extraordinary, isn’t she?” Ichiro says. “I feel safer with her here.”

  She nods and moves the light to reveal walls encrusted with vines, underneath which she can spy elaborate carvings—elephants, horses, humans with features of both men and women, copulating figures. Above them, the holes on the roof look out to a star-spattered sky. It is just the two of them there, under the watch of an ageless deity.

  “Let’s have a seat.” She moves toward the wall. The enormity of her responsibilities is registering. A man’s fate, and more, rests in her hands. This is no game.

  They sit with their backs against the bumpy walls, listen to the sounds of their breathing—erratic and unsynchronized—fall into the same rhythm.

  Ichiro’s profile is silhouetted by the moon and starlight. “When I was little, we lived in mountain regions. I went out to the woods all day and stayed there until it was very dark. Night sounds don’t bother me so much. When I listen to symphonies, they remind me of being in the forest.”

  “Night sounds didn’t bother me so much in England, just ’cause it’s so bloody quiet. But here they do.” She looks to the statue. “The nights are so alive here. Did you see any snakes?”

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason.” Her first and only time seeing one was when she was six. They were in Dorset on summer holiday when she saw an adder slithering through the grass at Corfe Castle, its skin—a variegated gold-brown—glistening in the sun. She had screamed and run to her father, hysterical with fear.

  “I want to thank you for helping me escape,” Ichiro says. “For helping save my life. As long as I was captured I was determined to end it.”

  “Why?”

  “In Japan, there is much madness that we have made normal in the name of honor. I can see through those masks more and more. We call it gyokusai. The term is from an ancient Chinese text—The Book of Northern Qi. It means ‘shattered jade.’”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The wider meaning is that a soldier who dies in battle or kills himself is a shattered jewel. A prisoner of war who lives is a whole roof tile. The Japanese think it is better to be the first thing. The Chinese, at least now, have evolved to a different, more reasonable view. They don’t see the need for uselessly throwing away the lives of men for the sake of honor and tradition.”

  She mulls the concept. “You wanted to be a shattered jewel?”

  “The last few days, I was.”

  “We are all shattered jewels in a way,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We are all broken in a way. But while the Japanese see it as an end, not just to be accepted but embraced, the English see a path back, a way to pick up the pieces and make something of them.”

  She removes the food from the haversack.

  “What is this?”

  “A tiffin carrier. Indians call it a ‘dabba.’” She opens the lid, places the three compartments on the floor.

  He whistles. “Very clever. We have bento boxes in Japan. But these appear better for carrying.”

  “That nurse. Rachel. Is she a friend of yours?” he asks.

  “The closest thing to it. At least when we first met. But we’ve been drifting as of late. And now when I look at her, I feel like maybe I don’t know her that well at all.”

  “Do you have many friends here? Outside of England, I mean.”

  “I had a good one in Rangoon,” she says, after a pause. “We were . . . separated during the fall of the city.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “What about you?”

  “I had a good one as well.”

  He proceeds to tell her about Tadashi, about everything that happened before the temple, and after. It takes the better part of an hour.

  “What happened to his sash after you took it?” she says at the end, then hastily adds, “I mean. I’m sorry. I know that shouldn’t be the first concern . . .”

  “I was wondering that as well,” he said. “When you first gave me the journal, I was going to ask you about it.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He turns to her. “Because that’s when I remembered the girl.”

  She stares at him. The night has gotten cooler now, the light of the moon dimmed. “What girl?”

  “When I was about to release the leaflets. There was a girl standing in the drop zone. Just . . . standing there. Frozen. When I looked at her through my binos, it felt like she was looking directly at me. And then when I crashed. She was there too.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t remember the immediate moments after crashing, but I must have somehow crawled away from the plane, because when I opened my eyes I was lying on the ground, not far from the burning wreckage. My eyes were blurred and painful from the explosion, but through them I could see the girl standing above me. Maybe she had dragged me a little as well. I had wrapped my friend’s sash around my arm; I don’t know why, but I tried to give it to her. Perhaps I didn’t want it to perish with me. But she did something unexpected. She soaked it in the water she carried in her pail, held it against my mouth, and it was cool sweetness. It was heaven. She stood over me for a while, yet all I remember are her eyes—a deep gray. They stood out like jewels against her dark skin.”

  “Do you think she has your friend’s sash?”

  “It is likely. Perhaps something scared her, the arrival of the British soldiers. I don’t mind if she kept it. I’m forever grateful to her.”

  She does not speak in the wake of his story for some time, preferring to take solace in her meal rather than dwell upon the extraordinary circumstances that brought them together. A quiet falls between them and grows until she feels compelled to break it.

/>   “I realize that you can’t hide out here forever,” she says between mouthfuls of food.

  “Is there more to your plan?”

  “There never was much of a plan in the first place. I came in this morning not knowing what I was going to do, but that you’d be free at the end of it. What I did with the IV drip, that was all improvised.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  They have emptied the first level of the tiffin carrier, the one with the roti and aloo bhaji. She begins to refill her haversack. “We return to where we first met.”

  “The hospital?”

  “Not quite. We’re going back to the beach.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s Sunday.”

  IT takes them more than two hours to reach the dark, roaring shore. There they sit on the sand, listening, girding themselves for disappointment. When the sky begins to brighten to lighter shades, they rise and walk east.

  A sliver of sun is leaching pink and bruised purple into the sky when she reaches the boat. Hashim stands among other men, wide-shouldered and stocky, applying tar to the hull with a brush and bucket. When he sees them, he ends his work and rises to his feet. Claire removes her hat and shakes out her hair.

  Hashim hands the brush and bucket to another and approaches, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “Hello, Hashim. Do you remember me?”

  He nods immediately. “I take madam on boat ride.”

  When she tells him what she requires of him, he looks at her as though he has misheard. She repeats her request and he barks a laugh, turns to his crew to share the mirth. They join in on the derision, shaking their heads.

  “Burma far, madam. One full day . . .” he mimics the act of rowing, “to there.” He points south. “If go, still bad. Army . . . big problem.”

  She takes Ichiro’s hand. “Please, Hashim. It is a matter of life and death.”

  But the dodginess of their request is clear to Hashim. As she tries to persuade him again, she can see the physical signs of her impending defeat—his robust arms cross against his chest, the uncommonly direct gaze shifts above, and his features begin squeezing into implacable lines. The crew gawks, turning their heads from her to Hashim as though witnessing a match of tennis.

  He points to the leaden skies when she finishes. “See sky? Big, big, storm come.”

  She removes the roll of money stuffed deep inside her haversack. “Please, Hashim. I am willing to pay. Please take him. It’s very important.”

  “Memsahib not understand. Can buy boat. Cannot buy life. Storm coming.”

  But the money on offer is like petrol on the fire their appearance has already lit in the crew. One of them approaches Hashim and looks to be attempting to convince him to take the pilot. The others join until he is surrounded by a chorus of encouragement and urgency. Through it all, the fisherman keeps shaking his head.

  After minutes of loud debate, he raises his hands to quiet the men, and turns to Claire. “They say take the money, we take man. But I say no.”

  He drops his head. His back to the sea, the wind blows his shoulder-length hair forward until it forms a black curtain, hiding his face. Water flecks her skin, the ocean fidgeting like a restless dog.

  Hashim looks up again. His eyes hold a sadness, and she knows she has gotten her way once again, unaware of what a bitter victory this will be.

  He points to Ichiro. “Me and he. Just we go.”

  He takes the wad of bills, retains half and divides the remainder among his crew. But the protests continue once he finishes. Evidently, they are now opposed to Hashim going alone.

  A spectator until now, Ichiro bows deeply to the boatman. “Thank you. I am so grateful.”

  He points to the bucket of tar and brush. “May I use them?”

  The boatman nods, puzzled.

  His knees planted on the sand, Ichiro paints on the prow. First on one side, then the other. He finishes in minutes.

  “What are they?” she asks.

  The boat stares south with graceful, wicked eyes. Beneath each is a single character in a foreign script. With simple strokes of a tar brush, Ichiro has brought the vessel to life. Now it quivers on the surf, eager to take flight.

  “Eyes of the dragon. And the characters underneath mean ‘destiny.’ For good luck.”

  Hashim is less impressed. He points to the roiling skies. “No more time. If go. We go now.”

  They have been hurtling toward this moment like twigs in a waterfall. The crew stare and whisper furtively among each other as Claire and Ichiro say their farewells. As they embrace.

  “I am forever grateful,” he says. “If there is ever anything I can do to repay you . . .”

  “Actually, there is.” She takes out the waterproofed wallet and letter from her haversack. She tells him what she requires of him.

  He nods. “I will not rest until it is done.”

  “You’d better not. Or I might come after you.”

  The two men push off and jump into the boat, its prow teetering and slamming against the surf. Ichiro seizes an oar and rows alongside Hashim. The strokes smooth and strong. Only when the boat is no more than a speck against the iron-gray horizon does he stand and turn to the shore. He waves to her until she can no longer see him.

  Hashim’s crew disperses then, muttering and shaking heads. In seconds, only their footprints and the deep, long gash left by the boat remain on the beach. She takes off her waterlogged shoes and sits on the sand. Every part of her cold. The wind keening. The water edging to her feet before falling away.

  She smells the petrol belch of the C8s before she hears them. She stands and watches them approach. A group of soldiers descend from one. Selwyn and Rachel from the other.

  The pair stand back. Selwyn’s face is so pale that it glows white under the overcast skies. Rachel is a step behind, but close to him, the space between them dense with meaning.

  “How long have you two been an item?”

  Rachel looks down at the ground.

  “How long have you been spying on me?”

  “It was for your own good, Claire. Look at the mess you’re in now.”

  Selwyn approaches, his manner controlled, his voice at the edge of conversational. “So, was this your revenge?”

  She looks to the sea, thinks of the waterproofed bundle that Ichiro now carries across the heart of the bay, to Burma, one that contains the letter she wrote on the train that night, asking for Myint’s forgiveness for leaving her behind, along with the wallet full of sterlings that she hopes will make a difference in her friend’s life.

  I pray he finds his way to you, Myint.

  She looks Selwyn in the eye.

  “No,” she says. “This was my penance.”

  Shahryar & Anna

  Washington, DC

  SEPTEMBER 2004

  AT the DC Bangla School that afternoon, as Anna attends her penmanship class, Shar marches to the front desk. A pleasant-faced woman dressed in kurta and jeans greets him, her hair cresting in a bun.

  He speaks to her in Bangla. “I’m wondering if you can help me out. It’s a bit embarrassing. I met a gentleman here the other day. He gave me his card but I’ve lost it. I just need his number to give him a call about a potential business transaction.”

  She is wary of the request. Looking around, she says, “I’m not supposed to do that. There’ve been complaints from the parents about these kinds of things.”

  He offers her his most charming smile. “You know what, I think you’re right. I would be upset also if someone were giving out this kind of information so frivolously. However, if you could do me just this little favor—I don’t even need the number. Can you just tell me if I’ve got his name right?”

  She heaves a sigh. “Alright, but you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  Her fingers hover over her keyboard. “What’s the name?”

  “Faisal Ahmed.”

  She types it in. Frowns. “Any other spell
ing?”

  “No, but try the first name with an o if you don’t mind. If that doesn’t work, the last name without an h.”

  She fulfills these requests in the course of thirty seconds. “I don’t see anyone by that name. Are you sure he’s a parent here?”

  “That’s what he . . .” he stops as something catches his attention.

  “Thank you so much. You’ve been very helpful,” he says to the receptionist and walks over to one of the Ping-Pong tables where Ahmed’s son is involved in an intense game with another teenager.

  After a particularly involved point, when he sees Shar standing expectantly behind him, the young man stops in the act of retrieving his ball. “Hi.”

  “Hi there. I was wondering if your father was going to pick you up today. I met him here the other day and wanted to continue our conversation.”

  The young man is quizzical. “I always come here on my own. Are you sure it’s my dad you met?”

  “Your dad isn’t Faisal Ahmed?”

  “No.”

  “I must have made a mistake. Sorry!”

  He has an hour to stew over his discoveries before Anna emerges from the classroom. She holds a large piece of paper in her hands.

  “What was today’s project?”

  “Not too hard.” She hands him what has occupied her afternoon.

  “What’s this?”

  “We have to write our names in Bangla for our first assignment. Can you help me?”

  “Of course.” He studies her work, impressed.

  “I see that you’ve already got A down.”

  He shows her that when one adds that little straight line going down next to —shorey “aw”—one gets —shorey “ah”—the first half of her name, Ah-na.

  She hangs her head. “This’ll take forever, won’t it?”

  “No. You’ve done really well. And I’ll help you as soon as I take you home.”