Sopra la lontananza del suo fratello dilettissimo [BWV 992]
PROLOGUE
I met her on an evening of November streetlamps and my breath rising in Piccadilly where a shaven-headed cabbie in a bulging overcoat raised his fist to a cyclist in orange, ‘What did you want me to do – fucking run you over?’
I got to the bar early and chose a table in an alcove to watch her as she entered. My friends say I’m a Luftmensch, drifting into other people’s stories but shying away from involvement. Maybe I don’t like to get drawn into other people’s misery. I didn’t want to get drawn into hers.
When she appeared I was startled. I’d pictured an afflicted Muslim in veils and tears, but Ayesha wore a pencil skirt and high heels and held a smartphone in her hand. She was prodding the screen but getting nowhere. She remonstrated with a waiter, exasperated by the lack of signal. She hadn’t glanced around, hadn’t looked for me. When she did, she had none of the first-encounter diffidence such occasions normally produce.
‘You’re Martin.’
‘Yes, hello. You must be Ayesha.’
‘I’ll have a glass of red. Cabernet sauvignon. French.’ The words were directed towards a waiter. ‘Mike says you’re a writer. So what are you writing about?’
Her question struck me as an interrogation.
‘Psychology. Psychiatry. I’m writing a history.’
‘Really? Which bit are you writing about right now?’
It’s not that I resent people prying; it was more her assumption that she had the right to quiz me.
‘Theory of Mind.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Attributing mental states to others.’
‘Yeah? What does that mean?’
‘Think about it. It’s being able to see that other people might not share all the same beliefs and desires that we have ourselves.’
‘No. You’ll have to do better than that. You won’t keep readers interested with stuff like that.’
I gave in.
‘Okay. Some people can’t understand the minds of others. Very young children or people with severe autism don’t realise that someone else might think differently from them. There’s an experiment where we show a child a pack of Smarties and ask him what he thinks is inside. The child says “Smarties”, but when the psychologist opens the tube it’s got pencils in it. The psychologist closes the tube and asks the boy what he thinks his friend Susie, who hasn’t seen inside the tube, will think is in it. If the child replies “Smarties”, we can say he possesses insight – he realises that Susie can have a false belief. But if he says “pencils”, it means he doesn’t yet understand how the mind works. Children have to be four or five before they acquire theory of mind. And some people never do . . .’
‘So why’s that such a big deal?’
‘Because it underpins the concept of empathy, for one thing. It lets us put ourselves in someone else’s shoes. And in evolution it was a spur to human development. Knowing that the man in the next cave might have purposes in mind that don’t necessarily reflect our own helped expand our intelligence. It meant taking on board that mental states can differ from reality, and that people’s behaviour can be predicted by their mental states. You needed to grow a bigger brain if you were going to keep track of all that.’
‘But we can never know another person, can we? I mean, truly know them . . .’
‘Aren’t we getting a bit philosophical? I didn’t realise you wanted to see me for a seminar.’
Ayesha looked blank. ‘I want you to work for me. I need to know you’ll write things the way I want them written. You need to convince me that you’re the right person to do it.’
The conversation had become a job interview for a job I never wanted, the tragic victim a hardnosed negotiator.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I thought we were going to talk about your father and what happened to him. Mike told me you were devastated and you wanted my help. But I can’t help you if won’t talk to me properly. And I’m certainly not going to write anything to order.’
Ayesha finished her glass of wine and waved to the waiter to bring another.
‘Then I suspect we’re not going to get on. I’ve worked in the City for long enough to know the importance of getting things clear. This is something that matters to me and I want it done properly. I’ll pay you a fee – you can’t be earning much from writing about psychology, for God’s sake – but I’ll need a proper contract with proper guarantees that you won’t write anything I don’t approve.’
I don’t know why I didn’t just walk out. It wasn’t the money. My interest was in Ayesha herself, in her story, and in why she wanted it to be told.
‘The point is that I can’t write something I don’t understand. I don’t know anything about Pakistan. I don’t know you. And if you won’t . . .’
‘But you wrote that other book, didn’t you? The one about the mother and her lost son, wasn’t it?’
I couldn’t fathom where her hostility was coming from.
‘That was different. I felt a connection with it. I can hardly feel a connection with your story if you won’t tell me about it.’
She got up. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I don’t have the time for this. I’m not in the business of haggling. I’m making you an offer. You need to commit to this project or I’m leaving.’
Ayesha was already picking up her coat from the chair beside her. She’d got her arms into the sleeves when the heel on one of her shoes broke. She stumbled back down.
I saw the change in her face; she looked exhausted and defeated. She was sobbing, the pretence of detachment gone. The tears flowed and Ayesha told me her story.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
The phone call that sliced through her life had come three months earlier. Ayesha Rahman was in her mid-thirties, chief executive of an IT consultancy that she’d founded with friends from university. She had grown Rahburn IT from nothing into one of London’s most sought-after, beginning with loss-making contracts for local firms, building up a portfolio of retail chains, then making a timely switch to work for public institutions and central government.
Success had brought Ayesha a good income and a reputation as an operator. It had swept her from backstreet Burnley in Lancashire to sophisticated society in London at a pace that had at times left her bemused. But she had enough self-belief to take it in her stride; if she felt unsure about her entitlement to sit at the top table she didn’t let it show. She knew how to read people, to pinpoint their weak spots; and she had the steadiness of nerve to exploit them with a smile on her face.
Rahburn’s decision to focus on Whitehall had followed the government’s calamitous attempts to computerise NHS medical records. Contracts to rectify past mistakes were suddenly being offered and the big consultancies wanted them. Ayesha had pitched to the Department of Health and became such a frequent visitor at its Whitehall headquarters that the security staff gave her her own pass. The brief was for new networks that would allow the NHS to go paperless within three years. The government was putting a billion pounds into a new technology fund and winning a slice of it would make or break Rahburn as a public sector player. By the beginning of August success had seemed assured. Rahburn, along with two longer-established consultancies, was on the shortlist for a contract worth forty million over five years. Ayesha had made a storming presentation to the DH’s board and the Director of IT Services had responded to her mix of brash self-confidence and flattering deference. When she suggested they meet for a drink he was delighted.
I didn’t doubt Ayesha when she described how the fellow had been eating out of her hand. She was a good-looking woman with fine features and an air of serenity that men found charming. Her hair was dark and sleek, her comple
xion flawless café au lait. She wore designer dresses and understated jewellery that said she didn’t have to try too hard. Her manner was one of urbane entitlement, the City woman who accepted admiration as her due; speaking to her on the phone you’d more likely take her for a product of Cheltenham Ladies’ College than of Kahin Nahi in Pakistan.
A week after her pitch to the DH board, the Whitehall grapevine was unanimous that Ayesha had got the contract. But one of the rival consultancies heard of her tête-à-tête with the IT Director and lodged a complaint with the department’s compliance officer. Ayesha had done nothing unethical, but the love-struck civil servant had sent her a slightly too personal email and someone had leaked it. The DH had searched its departmental soul, wrung its hands and called Ayesha. A jumpy official on the end of the phone informed her that the competition for the IT contract was being reviewed and might have to be rerun with a new shortlist. He didn’t say that Rahburn would be excluded, but Ayesha got the message from the tone of his voice.
The human psyche is not good at calibrating the level of unhappiness in which it finds itself. We feel overwhelmed by one set of reverses, only for them to be superseded by others even more distressing. Then we yearn for the previous afflictions that once had seemed unbearable, thinking how happy we would be to have our old troubles back again. A day after Ayesha received the phone call from Whitehall she took another, this time from her mother.
‘Isha? Isha, dearest, is that you?’
Ayesha knew from the tremor in Asma’s voice that something had happened.
‘Yes, Mama, it’s me. What is it?’
‘Ya Allah! Tragedy . . . Tragedy upon us . . .’
‘Mama, you need to calm down. Tell me what’s happened.’
Her mother couldn’t calm down. She was crying, shouting into the phone that her life was over, that she didn’t want to live any more. She couldn’t bring herself to put it into words; she would begin a sentence then break into sobs.
Ayesha told her to put down the phone and make herself a cup of strong doodhpatti tea, boiled up together with the milk. ‘It will calm you, Mama. Don’t do anything foolish. Just sit in the parlour and I will ring Bilal so he can come and help you.’
Ayesha picked out her younger brother’s number on her speed-dial. Bilal lived in Burnley, five miles from the family home. By right, Asma should have rung him first – Pakistani women know that men must be deferred to; their pride must not be slighted. But Bilal was gentle and ineffectual; Ayesha had strength and resourcefulness. The family had come to rely on her, girl or not.
Bilal picked up. She could hear from the noise of a car engine that he was working. ‘Bilal, I think you need to go round to the house as quick as you can. Mama just rang and she’s in a state . . .’
‘I’m driving, Isha. Can’t you hear? It’s Saturday night. I’ve got fares booked for the next five hours. I can’t just drop everything . . .’
‘I’m not asking you, Bil, I’m telling you. Drop off the fare that you’re driving now and go straight round to the house, okay?’
Bilal did what he was told. Sixty minutes later he rang her back from their parents’ home.
‘I’m at the house, Ish. I’ve seen her and she says it’s Dad. She’s had a phone call from Guddu in Kahin Nahi and he’s told her that something has happened to Dad. But she’s so upset I can’t get the details.’
‘What do you mean, something’s happened to Dad? Where is he?’
‘In Pakistan, of course. He went weeks ago. Didn’t you know? You’re away in London, Ish. You don’t know what’s going on any more . . .’
‘Tell me again, Bil. Dad’s in Pakistan. And what do you say has happened to him?’
‘It’s not me saying it. It’s Mum. She says Guddu told her. I don’t know what it’s all about. But it’s serious. And Mama’s in meltdown.’
Ayesha told her brother to put their mother back on the phone. She was a little more coherent.
‘Isha, dear. Terrible news. Guddu rang. He says Daddy has died in Kahin Nahi.’
CHAPTER 2
Ayesha spent the next hours on the phone. She called Guddu, the brother of her father’s mother in Kahin Nahi outside Karachi and the only member of the family there with a telephone. The first dozen attempts didn’t connect, then she got a recorded voice that she recognised as her great-uncle’s. Her Urdu was good enough to understand that the voice was asking her to leave a message.
‘Guddu, it’s me, Ayesha.’ She spoke as calmly as she could. ‘I’m calling you from London. Asma says something has happened to Dad, but we can’t work out what. I know it isn’t easy for you to call, but please . . . please would you ring me as soon as you can?’ She paused and swallowed. ‘Oh Guddu, I’m so worried. I’m so, so worried . . .’
Ayesha put down the phone and sat for a moment. It was after midnight. Getting upset wouldn’t help anyone. She rang the Foreign Office, made a note of the out-of-hours duty number and called it. A sleepy female voice answered. ‘FCO out-of-hours. This number is for emergencies only.’ It was the first time that word had been spoken. ‘Yes,’ Ayesha said. ‘Yes, it is an emergency.’
She explained to the woman what little she knew. She was alone and scared; making contact with the Foreign Office felt reassuring. The British government had the authority that she lacked. Its machinery would whir into motion and take charge of things.
‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ring back in the morning, madam,’ the woman was saying. ‘There isn’t anything that can be done at this time of night. Ring again on the main switchboard number tomorrow.’
Ayesha blinked. ‘Time of night? But my father is in trouble. I need your assistance. It’s urgent.’
‘I’m sorry, madam, that’s not something we can help you with. And I thought you said your father had died. If he’s dead, then there isn’t a hurry.’
Ayesha had been buoyed by adrenalin, but things were starting to hit her now. Yes, she thought, perhaps it really is true; perhaps Daddy really is dead. She calmed herself. Guddu hadn’t rung back. Until she heard from him, there was little she could do.
She tried to make the time pass by trawling the Internet for information on flights to Karachi. She found an early morning departure, glanced at her watch and saw it was leaving in less than five hours. Without thinking she opened the drawer with her British and Pakistani passports. She picked up the green one and slipped it into her handbag.
Her patience ran out; she rang Guddu again. This time he answered. ‘Kahin Nahi 261813. Hello.’ Guddu sounded harassed. Ayesha found herself unexpectedly on the verge of tears. ‘Guddu, it’s Isha. Are you all right? What’s happened to Daddy? We’ve been hearing all sorts of things. I left you a message . . .’
Guddu was old and his native language was Urdu. Ayesha listened as he did his best to explain, but she was catching one word in three. She stopped him repeatedly to ask for clarification; the story was getting more and more confused. She picked up the word ‘suicide’ and asked Guddu what he meant. He said something complicated in Urdu then something incomprehensible in English. The old man was flustered, his words tumbling out at such bewildering speed that Ayesha asked him to stop. ‘Guddu,’ she said slowly and clearly. ‘I think I should come to Kahin Nahi. Then I can see things for myself.’ Her great-uncle understood; the relief and gratitude in his reply were unmistakable.
Fifteen hours later Ayesha emerged from the customs hall of Karachi’s Jinnah airport carrying the single bag she’d had time to pack and plunged into the swirling sea of handwritten signs, shouting people and sweltering afternoon heat. The plane had coddled her in its familiar air-conditioned envelope, but this was another world.
In the terminal building Ayesha waved away the men in sweat-stained shirts who jostled her with cries of ‘Car for you! Car for you!’ and walked outside. Trusting to the safety of uniforms she buttonholed a taxi wallah and asked him to find her a driver for a journey out of town. She was worried that the man would laugh at her Urdu, but he
nodded and led her to the parking lot. ‘This is Jasir,’ the man said. ‘Tell him where you wish to journey and he will take you there in the lap of modern safety and comfort.’ For the first time in twenty-four hours, Ayesha allowed herself the shadow of a smile. She negotiated the price with the driver and told him she needed to be in Kahin Nahi before sunset. She had managed to explain to Guddu that they should postpone Ibrahim’s funeral to the last permitted moment.
The hour’s drive passed in a flurry of anxiety. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going; she hadn’t slept; she felt feverish. Guddu had said suicide, but why would her happy, gentle father kill himself? If Ibrahim had died of a heart attack or in an accident that would be something she could understand. But everything she was being told seemed confusing. She wanted the truth but dreaded finding it.
Arriving in Kahin Nahi Ayesha hardly recognised the place. She hadn’t been there for over twenty years. The small village had become a sprawling town. New roads ran at unexpected angles and Ayesha struggled to direct the cab driver to her grandmother’s house. They made false starts along dusty streets with rows of wooden houses, some of which looked familiar but never led where she expected them to. A woman sitting at the roadside shelling peas shook her head when they asked for directions. Ayesha told the driver to mention the Rahman house and the woman asked which Rahman they meant. Ayesha said, ‘The widow of Hassan, son of Mohammed.’ Finally the woman nodded.
Ten minutes later they pulled up at a two-storey house with distinctive iron railings along the front. The canopies of the jacaranda trees around the building had spread extravagantly since she was last here and a herd of goats had colonised what was once the garden. She paid the driver and walked up to the house, expecting to be met by her grandmother or by Guddu. But the door was answered by a man she didn’t know, and his perfunctory as salaam alaikum sounded unwelcoming. For a moment she feared she might have got the wrong house. She asked him in hesitant Urdu who he was, but the man told her to wait and closed the door. Ayesha’s stomach knotted. The taxi driver had gone; she was alone in a town she barely knew, grappling with a language she barely spoke, embroiled in a mystery she could barely comprehend.
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