by Shamim Sarif
“Is everything all right, Dad?”
“Everything’s fine.” He cleared his throat. “We haven’t heard from you for three weeks,” he added, knowing that she must be wondering what he was doing there. “Your mother was worried.”
“There’s been a lot going on. I haven’t even noticed the time going by.”
“I know you’re busy, but it would be nice if you phoned your mother.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. She felt like crying suddenly, like running to her father and asking him to look after her and make everything better. But she did not remember a time when she had done that, even as a small child. She searched for something to ask him to break the silence that was looming in the room and to cover her distress.
“Why didn’t you just phone me?” The question had just occurred to her.
Mr Harjan looked uncomfortable. “I wanted to see you. To check you are really okay.”
“I’m fine.”
She saw his eyes move to her half-packed case.
“I’ve been having a strange few weeks, that’s all. Things haven’t been going too well.”
“With the business?”
“No . . .”
“I didn’t think so,” Mr Harjan said, and he sat forward in his chair, looking down at the floor. Amina waited without moving, to see if he would explain his last comment. He did not.
“It’s hard to explain . . .” she began, but he raised a hand to stop her.
“Don’t explain,” he told her. “People like to make sure your mother and I know everything that they think is happening with you. They wouldn’t like us to miss out.”
Amina closed her eyes against the sudden idea that her parents had all along known more about her life than she had imagined. Of course, she knew people talked about her, and that her parents must have suspected, but they had never mentioned anything to her, and she had never considered the issue for long enough for it to concern her.
She looked helplessly at her father, but he was not looking at her. He continued to study his shoes. After a few seconds, he spoke again:
“This time, people are talking about her, not just you. They know her as well.”
“Miriam? They have no right to say anything about her. Who even knows that we’re friends?” She paused. Farah, for one, would delight in spreading gossip. Omar might have complained to her. “It’s only because she is friends with me that they make assumptions,” Amina continued. “Don’t people have anything better to do?”
“No, they don’t,” replied her father with a faint smile. “That’s why I avoid them.”
He sat back again, so that Amina could better see his face.
“Amina?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“I’ve never interfered with your life before, have I?”
“No.”
“Well, I just have to say this.”
Amina looked up at him expectantly, and he caught the glint of tears in her eyes.
“She’s married, Amina,” he said. “It’s no good.”
“He hits her!” she burst out angrily.
Her father looked displeased and Amina was unsure whether his response was to her tone, or to her allegation.
“Then go and fetch her,” he said, as firmly as she had ever heard him speak. She stared at him, shocked.
“What?”
“Go and get her. If you are that serious, do it. I can’t help you, but I won’t stop you.”
Amina felt the tears burning on her cheeks and cursed herself for crying. Her father’s words had touched her, but also made her even more aware of the difficulty of her situation.
“She won’t just leave like that.”
“So you’re running away?”
Amina wiped her eyes. “I just need some time. Please, Dad, I just need some time away from here, to think.”
He stood up and walked the length of the room, which for him was about six steps.
“Do you need money?” he asked, stopping alongside her.
She shook her head. She did not need money, and would not have taken anything from her father even if she had, for he had very little of his own.
“Will you come and see your mother before you go?”
Amina nodded.
“Okay.” he walked to the small window and looked out.
“You shouldn’t go,” he said simply.
She gave a short laugh. “Why not?”
He scratched his forehead. “For one thing, your mother will miss you.” Amina almost smiled. So will you, she thought, even though you won’t say it.
“And for another thing . . .” he turned again to look at her, and saw in her vivid, intent eyes a determination and strength that he did not recognise in himself, but which he admired anyway.
“What, Dad?” she asked.
He looked down again and walked to the door.
“If she should come to her senses, and if you have gone away, how will she know where to find you?”
He turned the door handle and said something else, some form of farewell, which she did not hear because she was thinking. When she broke from her reverie, she realised that he was gone, and she looked around, wondering if she could have dreamt the whole episode, so out of character did it seem to her. He had left some money on her washstand, however, a trace that made her realise that he really had come, and had said what she had heard him say. She lay back on her bed, and closed her eyes for a while, and when she sat up again, she looked at the half-filled suitcase for a minute or two. Then she pushed it back under the bed, and got up to return to the café.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Miriam had no trouble getting her children to sleep that evening. Sam had come down to eat dinner with them and was worn out from the chattering of his sister. Even Alisha went to bed quietly, noticing an unfamiliar sadness about her mother and a redness in her eyes that she was at a loss to understand. Miriam read her a story, and then went to check on the baby, but Salma was already asleep. She too had joined them at dinner, gurgling in her high chair and was now tired as well, it seemed. Miriam watched her youngest child—she slept on her side, with her tiny arms held out in front of her, chubby hands formed into loose fists, breathing ragged but even. She leaned into the cot to smell her clean fragrance, and then felt tears in her eyes. Quietly, she closed the door and went downstairs, into the dim light of the kitchen. Beyond the windows, the night was already black, and she let herself acknowledge for the first time that her husband had not returned that afternoon, as he had said he would.
She went to the window and looked out, knowing that she did not much care that he had decided to stay the night with his sister-in-law. She was relieved. She was miserable and did not want to have to see him, look after him and sleep beside him while she felt like this. She leaned against the glass pane to catch sight of John’s glowing coals, keeping watch with him out on the porch, and then she looked back at the darkness ahead. There was a faint smear of light somewhere out above the trees that stood to the right of the track, a light that was drawing closer and closer, and she watched and waited with a breathless hope as a set of headlights appeared. When the vehicle at last came into view and she realised that it was her husband, she felt the metallic taste of her own tears of disappointment coursing down her cheeks.
She had brushed away all those tears by the time he entered. He walked in and stood before her with some arrogance, as though expecting her to be grateful for his arrival. He had struggled to get home that evening, knowing that she would be doubting him again, and he presented himself almost with a flourish now that he was at the end of his journey. She waited for him to speak.
“I have been trying to get back here since four o’clock this afternoon,” he informed her, his voice dramatic.
She watched as he loosened his tie and removed his jacket, draping it carefully over the back of the chair that was always his when they ate at the kitchen table. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and sat down.
“Do you
want some food?” she asked. He gave a brief nod and continued with his story.
“You won’t believe what happened to me. When I went to leave, both my tyres were down. Two of them.”
“Both tyres had punctures?” she asked, her tone carrying only the barest hint of disbelief.
“No,” he said irritably. “Both of them had been let down. Some little brat had let the air out. So, of course, I only had one spare, and I had to call Mackies repairs and wait for two hours till they came with another one. What a day.”
She placed his food in front of him before going to fetch a Coke. She removed the bottle cap and left it beside him with a glass. She did not pour it, as he liked to do that himself. She sat down and tried to think of something to ask him, something to pass the time until she could be in bed upstairs, lying silently with her own thoughts.
“Where are the children? In bed already?”
She nodded. “Who let the tyres down?”
He looked up from his food with a look of satisfaction. “Some Coloured kid,” he said. “I caught him. They were playing around the corner.”
“Why?”
Omar shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. Kept telling me he just did it for fun. The brat. He felt my hand.”
Miriam flinched. “How can you just . . .”
“Not badly,” he replied, waving his fork. “Just enough to make him sorry. On his backside.”
Miriam stood up, and got herself a bottle of Coke. When she came back to the table, his manner had changed and he was watching her with a slight frown on his forehead.
“Did you have your driving lesson today?” he asked, casually taking another mouthful of food.
“No,” she replied and she reassured herself inwardly that she was in fact telling the truth.
“So they’re finished with?”
She could not look at him for she felt a burning in her eyes, so she walked over to the window and looked out at the track where his car now stood, a dark, bulky shape looming in the night. Behind her, she heard him scoop up another forkful of food. His insouciant tone combined with the sound of his chewing irritated her.
“No,” she said, finally. He said nothing to that, but she could hear that he had put down his fork and was no longer eating. When she turned she looked first at his plate, which was still half-full. Omar was watching her, his face serious, his look narrow.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I need to be able to drive if I am going to be able to work.”
The anger rose visibly in his face like a wave, and she watched without much concern as it ebbed away slowly, as though she were watching a science experiment. She saw his mouth twitch as he fought to control the words that must be fighting to come tumbling out.
“You work here,” was what he said at last.
“And I will still work here. All I want is two or three mornings a week to go and cook . . .” She did not add “in Pretoria” or “at the café” for she knew that he was perfectly aware of what she meant.
He scraped back his chair with a noise that echoed in the high darkness of the kitchen. Walking over to the sink he almost tossed his plate there, irritably throwing his fork after it as though to emphasise to her that she had ruined his meal. When he turned to look at his wife, she had not stepped back into a corner, nor was her face lined with concern about what his next movement might be. Instead, she looked coolly back at him, interested, waiting.
Miriam saw Omar’s brows pull together and she almost smiled at the confusion on his face. When he spoke, his tone was harsh.
“Why do you want to work there?”
“Why not? The hours are flexible and short, and it is work that I know how to do. I have no other skills,” she replied, fiercely. “I must do what I can.”
“You don’t need to work.” his fist came down on the iron sink with such force that Miriam winced at the pain he must have felt.
“Yes, I do.”
He moved forward, very quickly, and swiped at her with an open palm, but she must have been expecting it, and she dodged out to one side, so that he caught her with only the edge of his hand, on her neck. She felt almost no pain from the blow, but her heart was pounding fast. She turned to face him, and instinctively took a few steps back. He stood there, waiting, almost daring her to speak up again. She did not, for the moment, but to his surprise she regained those few steps she had just given up, and now stood almost in front of his face. Outside, John passed before the window on his walk up and down the patio, and was perturbed to see the master and his wife facing each other like two boxers, intent and alert, each waiting for the first strike.
Omar watched her, his limbs taut, his eyes flat and cloaked over, so that she could not read them. She did not need money, she did not need food. What need did she have to work? He wanted to ask, but did not, because, somewhere, very deep inside himself, he felt that her reasons were not reasons he could counter, even if he were ever willing to hear them.
Miriam cleared her throat and tried to speak calmly. She would not raise her voice and wake the children, but neither would she be afraid of him any more.
“It is just two mornings a week. That’s all. Teach me to drive.”
He cut her off impatiently with a gesture of his hand, as though he could not bear to hear any more.
“There is nothing more to say.” His voice rose. “You will not be my wife and work.”
“You want to divorce me?”
Omar stared at her open mouthed. He had overcome a moment of weakness when he had almost felt like giving in, but he had now uttered his final decree, and she was not listening. He made a sudden jerking movement forward, and Miriam moved back just as quickly, expecting the open hand again. But he seemed to pull back, tired perhaps of swinging at thin air.
“You will not be my wife and work!” he shouted, slamming his hand instead against the wall.
She could see the anger coiling in his body, making his movements harsh and abrupt, but she still ignored the instinctive movement of her own legs, which were trying to carry her out of harm’s way.
“What about the children?” she continued. “Do you want them to suffer? Do you want to send me back to Bombay? All because you will not let me out of your sight for two mornings in the week?”
She stopped, suddenly aware that her voice was unnaturally loud, and she watched as he turned around to the table, picking up his glass this time. He hurled it at her and she felt the hiss of it and saw the glistening edges of it as it flew past her eye, before it hit the wall behind her, splintering into pieces that sprayed out onto the floor.
“I will never teach you to drive,” he shouted, and she saw tiny spits of saliva spray out from his mouth. His hair was tousled, for he had shaken his head fiercely when refusing her, and his face was red and lined. She knew he hated feeling out of control. When he had hit her previously, he had always gone straight to the bathroom to cool and clean himself. To make neat his appearance once again.
“You don’t have to,” she said, and she saw his face relax slightly, saw him fall upon her words, desperate for an excuse to stop his own madness.
“I’ll take the bus,” she added, almost laughing at her own daring. She watched his face, appalled, and yet somehow removed, for it moved through so many expressions so quickly, that she felt as though it could not be real. He turned again and picked up a chair. This time she moved away, and towards the stairs, shouting at him to stop or the children would wake. He threw it in her direction, but with no real attempt to hit her, and it crashed down, taking with it a plate that was sitting on the edge of the table.
In the silence that followed, Miriam waited by the stairs. She waited, feeling nothing, hoping that he would look at her and see that she was not scared, that she would still look him in the eye. But he only stood with his hands resting on the table, his head hanging down, spent. She turned and went lightly up the stairs. On the top landing, Alisha stood listening, eyes wide open.
“It�
��s okay,” Miriam told her. “Your father dropped his glass, that’s all. Go back to bed.” She steered the child into her room, and waited while she got back into bed. “Sleep. I’ll come back to check on you. Go to sleep.”
She stood alone on the landing for a moment, overcome at once with the desire to weep. But instead, she went back down the stairs. Omar was sitting down, his head in his hands and he did not look up as she walked in. She took the chair right beside him and sat watching him. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with her proximity and somehow disarmed by it, by the feeling of his wife sitting a hair’s breadth away from him, even though she must be worried that he might hit her.
In a minute or two, he turned towards her, but without looking at her. He straightened up his tie, his lower lip caught slightly between his teeth, as though he were literally chewing over the problem.
“I don’t like it,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “If I don’t like it, that should be enough.”
She summoned the courage to talk back to him yet one more time.
“It’s not enough,” she told him. “It has never been enough, but I never told you before.” Her face was flushed, not with fear or tension, but with embarrassment, as though this moment of speaking her thoughts to her husband was a revelation of herself akin to being caught dancing naked in the street. He was staring at her and she held his look. Please don’t be afraid of me, she thought to herself.
“Will you teach me to drive, please?” she asked him, her voice almost a whisper. There was rain falling now, they could hear its light tapping on the roof. Omar studied his nails, and considered his options. She was offering him a compromise, he felt, but his pride would not allow him to take hold of it so easily.
“For what?”
“You know for what.”
He stood up abruptly, pushing back his chair so hard that it fell over. Why would she would not give up the idea of work and be satisfied with the driving?