Nightingale

by Andrea Bramhall

  “I’m fine. I promise.”

  “I know you think I’m old-fashioned and that your progressive new thinking is so much better than traditional values. You’ve seen your kafir friends—”

  “Mother, you know father doesn’t like you to use that word.”

  “How dare you tell me what to do or say in my own house?” The gentle smile was replaced by the icy look of determination. “Your kafir friends have turned your head, Hazaar. You’ve never been satisfied with your place in our world. I know this. You always wanted to be more, to be better than everyone else. To be better than your brother. Well, that is not the way we work. A woman’s place is to look after her husband, not go off playing a piano. A woman’s place is to raise her husband’s children to be proper Muslims, not to daydream and waste years and a small fortune of her father’s wealth. It is a woman’s place to please her husband, not to lust after a life that is sinful and unholy. My father arranged my marriage to your father, and it has been a good marriage. He is a good man and I grew to love him very much. I have had a happy life taking care of him and our children. It will be good for you too. It is how we do things.”

  Hazaar had to bite her tongue to prevent the words she really wanted to say from slipping past her lips, but she knew her mother was waiting for a response—the proper response. “I know.”

  “Your friends have told you, no doubt, that you should be in love with the man you marry. But that is not important. It will come later. It will grow from the life you share together, from the children you will create together, and from the memories and happiness you will share with each other. These things you cannot get from music and a life of loneliness, Beti. Pianos do not love you in return.”

  “I know that.”

  “When I was approaching my wedding day, I too was nervous. I asked the questions that you are no doubt asking. What if my husband does not like me? What if I do not like him? What am I supposed to do on my wedding night?”

  Oh fuck, no. Hazaar pulled back slightly, and her mother smiled comfortingly around the look of discomfort that pained her features.

  “Yes, I thought this was what might be bothering you, but do not worry.”

  “Maa, it is fine.”

  “Your husband will know what to do, and he will guide you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “Do not be embarrassed, Beti. It is the duty of every married woman to please her husband.”

  Holy hell, how did this end up being a talk about sex with my mother? “Maa, honestly, I understand. I’ll be fine.”

  “It may be painful at first.”

  Please make her shut up now.

  “But your husband will have been told how to make it less painful for you. He will know what to do.”

  If I stick my fingers in my ears do you think she’ll notice?

  “Your father has told me that he’s made sure Yasar is a good man. He comes from a good family.”

  You have no idea, Maa Jee. None at all.

  “So his father will have spoken to him about the correct way to—”

  “Maa, it’s okay. I promise, I’ll be fine.”

  “But—”

  “Like you said, his father will have spoken to him.” She smiled, trying to convince her mother that she could let the subject go. “I’m fine, and I know how busy you are. You have so much to do for the ceremony tonight.” So please let this go and leave me alone.

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes. Positive. I’m twenty-eight years old, Maa. I am well aware of what to expect on my wedding night.”

  “Okay.”

  Thank you.

  “But you know where I am if you want to ask me any questions.”

  “I do.” Not a cat in hell’s chance.

  Her mother smiled and hugged her. “It will not be as bad as you expect, Beti.” She pulled the door closed behind her.

  Hazaar closed her eyes and let the tears fall. No, it could be so much worse.

  *

  The green of her dress reminded her of the grass at Urquhart Castle. She ran her hand over the cloth covering her chest, satisfied when she felt the slight bump of the pendant that lay against her skin. Hatim was standing on the landing when she left the room.

  “Nice dress, sis.” He smiled at her. “Almost makes you look like a proper Muslim woman.”

  “Don’t start, Hatim.”

  “Start what? I paid you a compliment.”

  “That was meant to be a compliment?” She shook her head. “You should try looking up what that word means. It might help you in the future.”

  He closed the distance between them, his face darkened with anger. “It might help you in the future to watch your mouth. Not everyone is as forgiving as I am.”

  She laughed. “Forgiving? You? Now you want to make jokes?”

  “You might be my older sister, Hazaar, but I am a man. You will show me the respect I deserve.”

  “I am showing you the respect you deserve.” She stepped closer to him. Her own anger had been burning and boiling toward him since she had learned what his stupidity was going to cost her, and there was no way she could take any more needling from him. “I know exactly why I’m being married off, Hatim. I know what you’ve done, what you are. You’re a bully, little brother. A fool who thought he could play in the big leagues and come out on top, but instead you lost everything and all you can do about it is go home to beat your wife because you can’t accept you’re a failure.” She stepped closer again as his eyes widened and his face paled. “You got yourself in so deep that the only way out for you was prison or death.” She laughed. “Maybe both.” She pointed at his chest. “Were you scared to share your cell with the big boys, Hatim? Worried they might take a liking to you?” She sneered at him. “Worried they might treat you the same way you treat Fatima?”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Yes, I do. I know exactly what I’m saying. And so does everyone else. You play at being a man, with your business and your wife and your home, but in reality you would be nothing without Baba to keep bailing you out. He gave you a job and you almost destroyed the business. He gave you a house he has to pay the mortgage on because you gamble the money away. He found you a good wife.” She sneered. “Does he have to take care of things for you there too?”

  “How dare you?” He pulled his hand back to strike her.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Hatim.”

  He stopped, his face blood red, his eyes bulging, and his fist pulled back, ready, poised. “You need to be taught a lesson.”

  “Maybe she does, but not by you.”

  They both turned at the new voice. “Who are you?” Hatim didn’t drop his hand but stared at the man. He was tall, with powerful, broad shoulders, a neatly trimmed beard, and slicked-back hair. The topi on his head was elaborately embroidered, and the waistcoat was a rich forest green with gold trim on the edges.

  “Yasar Siddiqi. Please forgive me, Miss Alim. I know I should not be here while you are uncovered, but I could not stand by while I heard your disagreement from the bathroom.”

  “This is a private family matter, Siddiqi. And like you said, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “I believe in this matter, the breaking of the customs can be forgiven a little.” He smiled at Hazaar. “After all, we are suitably chaperoned, are we not?”

  “Mr. Siddiqi, I’m sorry you overheard something of our disagreement. It’s fine now. Isn’t it, Hatim?”

  Hatim didn’t say anything. He stared at Hazaar, his hand still poised to strike her.

  “She’s right, Hatim. You really shouldn’t do that.” Yasar stepped closer to him and whispered so quietly that Hazaar had to strain to hear. “Your big sister is saving your life. And you wish to repay her by beating her?” He wrapped his hand around Hatim’s bicep, and Hazaar watched his knuckles turn white as he squeezed and Hatim flinched. “She was right about everything she said to you, boy. How does it feel to be beste
d by a woman? Because that is what she’s doing. By saving your life, she has bested you, put you forever in her debt. You know this, do you not?”

  Hatim dropped his hand and wrapped it around Yasar’s fingers where they still dug painfully into his arm, trying to loosen Yasar’s grip.

  “She is to be my wife.” The word was little more than a growl as his continued to whisper. “And you will show her respect.” He shook his arm. “Or you will answer to me. Are we clear, little boy?”

  Hatim didn’t say anything.

  Yasar smiled at him. “I am your boss, boy. I control you. You will answer me. Are we clear?”

  Hatim nodded stiffly.

  “Good. Now stand by the stairs while I talk to your sister, for propriety’s sake.” Hatim moved away quickly. Yasar reached for Hazaar’s hand and brought it to his lips. “You have my word, Hazaar, for all the days you are my wife, I shall protect you.”

  Hazaar watched him as he bent over her hand. He was handsome, strong, and masculine. His hand was warm against her skin, but she fought hard to suppress the shudder that ran down her spine. There was no doubting he was a man who was confident, in control of himself, the business he was part of, and those around him. She was equally certain that she would be just another thing he would control. She couldn’t help wondering at his flawless English, after her father had said he didn’t speak the language.

  “Shall we adjourn to our separate parties, my lovely bride-to-be?” He held out his elbow for her to take.

  She nodded and allowed him to lead her down the stairs with Hatim trailing sullenly behind them.

  “Ay ay ay, no. No, this is not—”

  “Mrs. Alim, please forgive me, but we bumped into each other on the landing. We were suitably chaperoned at all times, I assure you. Your son was with us. Were you not, Hatim?”

  “I was there, Mother. It’s fine.” He pushed past them all and skulked into the sitting room.

  Yasar smiled at her mother. “You have a wonderful family, Mrs. Alim. You must be so proud.”

  Her mother grinned and flushed. “Thank you, yes, I am. Very proud.” She took Hazaar’s hand and pushed her toward the kitchen. “The men are through there.” She pointed to the sitting room at the back of the house. Music poured out when the door opened.

  “Yasar, this way.”

  “Coming, Abu.” He bowed toward Hazaar and her mother before leaving.

  “So handsome, so polite.” Hazaar’s mother tugged her into the kitchen and sat her at the table. “Your father has picked very well for you, Beti. Very well indeed, I think.” She was beaming as she and the other women took Hazaar’s hands and cleansed them before slowly applying the oil and henna to create the elaborate and intricate temporary tattoos across her hands and wrists. She’d taken part in her sisters’ wedding celebrations and always thought the pattern around the wrist had looked like charm bracelets. But they’re not, are they? They’re shackles.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Pakistan, today

  The drip was annoying. The periodic tiny splash prevented Hazaar from sleeping on the uncomfortable and smelly mattress that had been thrown into the cellar. But it was more annoying that she couldn’t do anything about it. Her shoulder hurt each time she moved. Hell, it hurt every time she breathed, so getting up and trying to quiet the drip wasn’t going to happen. Instead, she tried to focus on the sounds outside the room. She could make out the sound of wood clattering against ceramic tiles and knew Afia was playing with her animal puzzle in the courtyard. The occasional bubble of baby laughter made her smile. She was grateful her beautiful daughter seemed unaware and unaffected by her mother’s predicament.

  She lifted her hand and laid her palm on her chest, being as careful as she could be of her twisted and painful fingers while searching for the pendant that should have lain under her clothes. She closed her eyes when she couldn’t feel it, remembering instead the hours of the pain, the smell of smoke, and the agony she still felt in her left foot.

  She startled when the door opened and the wooden stairs creaked under someone’s weight. She turned her head toward the light, but the figure was silhouetted and she couldn’t make out who it was, and the pain of the movement lanced through her shoulder. She sucked a breath through her teeth. There was so little left that she had any control over; her own reaction was the one thing that was hers. She refused to show them the fear she felt.

  “Why?” Yasar’s voice was quiet, soft, almost gentle as he spoke from the foot of the stairs. He set a box of what looked like medical supplies on the floor.

  “Your father’s crazy.”

  He laughed a little. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t wrong, Hazaar. Why would you do this?”

  “Your father misunderstood. The door was open. I was just trying—”

  Yasar laughed louder. “You’re a liar, Hazaar.” His sandals slapped against the concrete floor. “You’re a liar, and not a very good one.” He squatted beside her. “You want to leave me. I know this.” He stroked a finger gently down her cheek. “I have known this from the beginning, my dear, loving wife.” He brushed the hair from her face. “But you were my wife, my responsibility, mine to protect and care for.”

  “Yasar, I—”

  He put a finger over her lips. “Hush now, and listen.” He lifted his finger away, and she stared at the man who was her husband. The man who had taken her from her home, from her family, from everything she knew, and delivered her to her own personal hell.

  “Was I not a good enough husband for you?”

  Hazaar knew it was a rhetorical question and didn’t move.

  “I have provided for you well, given you a child, a good home. I give you everything you need for a good, comfortable life. Do I not?”

  Hazaar wanted to disagree. To tell him that he was her jailor and her tormentor, packaged in a convenient title—her husband, and that every time he touched her she wished she could say no and have it make a difference to the outcome. She wished she could tell him that what she needed for a good comfortable life was the one thing he had denied her since he forced her onto the plane. Her freedom.

  “I knew on our marriage night that you were not the virgin you were meant to be, but I protected you. I kept your secret. Do you know why I did that for you, Hazaar?”

  She shook her head as he ran his finger along her jaw.

  “Because I care for you.” He smiled at her. “I could have loved you, Hazaar. All I wanted was to be a good husband to you. For you to be a good wife. Was that too much to ask?” He shook his head sadly. “I could have loved you.”

  “Then let us go.”

  “You know I cannot.”

  “Will not, you mean.”

  “No, my darling, whatever you may believe of me, there is far more to this than you ever realized. Far more to me than you ever got to know. You judged me before you knew me.”

  “You’re a drug smuggler.”

  “I’m a business man.”

  “Your business is death.”

  “I provide a product that is in demand. Nothing more. I do not force people to use it. I do not even advertise my product. People seek me out for it, and I use the wealth to support you and our daughter to the very best of my ability. What am I doing wrong?”

  “It’s illegal.”

  “Alcohol is still illegal in some places in America. Would you think me a monster if I branched out into wine or beer or spirits?”

  “That’s not the same thing and you know it.”

  “No? Do people not die from alcohol poisoning? Do they not die from long-term diseases caused by alcohol abuse? If not alcohol, what of tobacco? Should I go into the cigarette business? Would selling cancer be more acceptable to you? Would this stop you from wanting to leave me? Would this make me good husband material for you?”

  “No.”

  “No. Because you never wanted a husband.” He sat on the edge of the mattress. “Thank you.”

  She looked at him. “For what?”


  “I had wondered what I did wrong.” He picked up her hand and examined it. “This will hurt, but the fingers need to be straightened.” She nodded as he gently took hold of one fingertip and pulled. She gritted her teeth and held her breath to stop herself from screaming. “I had worried that I was not a comparable lover for you.” He laughed and tugged on the second finger. “I suppose I was right, in a way.”

  “I’m sorry, Yasar.”

  He looked at her. “I believe you.” He wiped a damp cloth over her fingers, washing away the blood before taping them together. “You used to moan her name in your sleep. Your Charlie. I made the same mistake as my father. I thought you were talking about a man.”

  “There was no other man. Not ever.”

  “I know that now. Give me your other hand.” She did and gritted her teeth, ready for him to set her fingers. “This hand is not so bad as the other one. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He tugged and the knuckle slid back into place. “Did you always know?”

  “Yes.”

  He taped two fingers together and gently laid the hand back against her stomach. He slowly ran his fingertip over her neck, where her necklace had always been. “Where is it?”

  “He threw it into the fire.”

  “She gave it to you?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned toward the pile of ashes and moved them around until he found the long chain and the twisted, partially melted metal. “She meant a great deal to you? Would you have given up your family for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand why you hate me.” He coiled the chain into a spiral in his palm. “Was it her you spoke to today? Abu said you called the person Charlie.”

  “Yes.” She watched him trace the undefined edges of the bird’s wing. “I don’t know how or why she’s here, but yes. That was her on the phone.”

  “From the embassy?”

  “Yes.”

  His brow furrowed and he seemed lost in thought.

  “Yasar?”

  He turned to face her.

  “What are we going to do now?”