Bird Summons

by Leila Aboulela

  ‘But it is. It is. I badly needed the pretence, you were more mature, you held it all together.’

  That was true when she was with him, when she was there, but not after she came here, not when she was repeatedly failing the PLAB – failure a new experience, an alien state – and the children were so small. It had taken all her strength to crawl her way out of that, to turn around and start from scratch, then make something of herself.

  He went on praising her abilities. ‘Remember the time when we went to Saint Catherine?’ This was the college trip she had organised. Forty students, many of whom had never been away from home. She had been too distracted by her leadership role to appreciate the place, to be truly in awe. The burning bush seen by Prophet Moses, the place where he received the Ten Commandments. She remembered rocks the colour of sand, the way the monastery nestled in the gorge. Now she was standing in a monastery too, one that was converted and secularised, made frivolous and lucrative unlike that living, working monastery up in the rugged hills of Mount Sinai.

  After she put the phone away, she felt as if she had time-travelled. A part of her had been with him in a firm and complete way. The years scrunched against each other, a folded fan, slim and easy to hold up, to control. To put away? To put away all these years: David and the children, the work and the friends, a whole life she’d built. Impossible. But for a short time she had been sucked into a connection with the past, electrified by every word said, by every word implied and not spoken. She had felt all the clichés – alive and rejuvenated. Even now her body hummed, the body that had never left the loch.

  Moni held his hand. The little boy was balancing on the wooden climbing frame. ‘Look at you! You are my height now,’ she said. They were in the adventure playground and the rubber matting, covered in loose play bark, was soft underneath her feet. There was no fence encircling the playground and behind it was a pitch where a group of teenage boys were playing football. The empty, open-air tennis court could be seen further back, closer to the loch. The boy smiled but never spoke. He was not deaf. She was sure of that. His expressive eyes responded to her words, his mouth rounding in surprise, his forehead creasing into frowns. Then there were all the delightful faces he made to accompany her monologues. She figured it must be only a matter of time before he spoke. More than anything else, she wanted to know his name. She wanted to talk about him to the others. She wanted to assign to him an identity that was special. Frustrating too was the fact that she never came into contact with his parents. They certainly allowed him plenty of freedom and were unconcerned about his safety. If Adam had been like this boy, able to walk and run and climb, she would have been possessive of him. She would have made sure that she knew his whereabouts all the time. She would not have been careless. Never mind. Here was this little boy; it was such pleasure to be in his company. For him, she willingly left the cottage. She followed him wherever he wanted to go.

  When he let go of her hand and strode with new confidence across the wooden walkway, she sat on one of the big tyre swings and watched him make his way down the slide. The anxiety that she might be too heavy for the seat made her stand up again. She strolled around, enjoying the proximity of the other parents, flattered by the gift they were giving her – the unspoken assumption that she was the boy’s mother. She wished that she knew his name so that she could say it out loud for all to hear. He was a good boy, respectful of the other children, giving them their space. The playground was all made of wood and the steps of the ladder, leading up to the walkway, looked like logs.

  ‘Let’s go look at the rabbits,’ she suggested. In the lawns between the monastery and the loch, the rabbits were mounds of brown fur, nibbling diligently. Occasionally, one of them would dart across the grass and the boy would follow. She did not allow him to follow the rabbit that scampered into the monks’ graveyard. There, the land was completely flat, the grass marked only by short white crosses, with clubs on the tips and a circle on which was written the name of the deceased. No, he mustn’t go in there; it was disrespectful. The rabbits ate the grass of the graveyard because they didn’t know any better. Let’s count them instead.

  He loved the snack machine that was in one of the cloisters of the monastery, overlooking the garden. She gave him coins and with great concentration, his body tense with excitement, he inserted each coin in the slot. A coin slipped through his fingers, fell on the tiles and rolled away. ‘Catch it,’ Moni cried out, ‘quick before it gets away, before it escapes.’ The drama in her voice as he scrambled to pick up the coin, an exaggerated sigh of relief when he did, a clap of her hands. He stood tall then, pushing the last coin into the slot. Then he made his choice. The anticipation of the packet of crisps sliding down, then dropping to where he could pick it up, his small hand inserted through the rectangular compartment, not without a little hesitation, but still made brave by the treat to come. And then, at last, the snack.

  She taught him to share, showed him how to be generous. He must offer her some of his crisps, he must give her a bite of his chocolate. Then she would want a snack of her own too. Back to the machine. Oh, do I have enough coins? I hope I do. Have a look. Help me count. Alhamdulillah, I have enough. Here, you get it for me. He would insert the coins and select the juice, her choice of flavour, the satisfying thud of the bottle down to the compartment. She must share it with him too. Would he prefer one sip each in turn or the last quarter of the bottle all to himself?

  ‘I must call you something. You must have a name. My son’s name is Adam.’ They were on the croquet lawn, the water and mountains within sight. She showed him a photo of Adam on her phone. In the photo he was wearing a striped blue T-shirt and only a bit of the wheelchair was showing. She rarely showed Adam’s photo to anyone. This one she had sent to her parents. The grandchild they weren’t proud of.

  Today was turning out to be the warmest day of the holiday. She lay on the grass and watched the boy drink the last of the juice. His lips changed colour. She checked her phone’s signal and called the nursing home to see how Adam was getting on. The nurse said he was with the other children in the garden enjoying the fine weather. Moni watched as the boy stuck his tongue into the bottle and tilted his head back. A few drops of purple juice fell down his chin.

  ‘This will stain your T-shirt,’ she said, gently taking the bottle from him. ‘Be careful. Get a tissue from my bag and clean your face.’

  He wiped his face with the back of his hand, leaving streaks of grass and a bit of grit on his cheeks, then rummaged in her handbag, becoming distracted by her house keys and a leaflet about immunisation before he pulled the tissue out. ‘That’s right,’ she said to encourage him. ‘Wipe your face so that you can go home later nice and clean. Your clothes are always clean. Such a nice T-shirt you’re wearing today. Smart.’ He smiled as he looked down at the train design on his T-shirt and handed her the dirty tissue. A bee buzzed in front of her nose. She swatted it away and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the boy looked more substantial, as if he had moved to sit closer to her. She would miss him when the time came to leave the loch. The thought brought a prick of tears to her eyes. Silly to form such an attachment, exaggerated and sentimental.

  ‘I don’t even know your name. Next time I will bring a paper and pencil and maybe you could write me your name. Or –’ she sat up, propelled by a sudden idea ‘– why wait for paper, write your name on my phone.’

  She opened the Notes section. A new page. ‘Here, type out your name for me. I am sure you know all your letters.’

  When he handed her back the phone, she said, ‘No, that’s not your name.’ Her voice was sharp. The boy’s expression, open and full of goodwill, changed to disappointment, a slight frown in the attempt to understand why he’d been rebuked.

  Moni started to explain, ‘Adam is my son. Not you. It’s not your name. You’ve heard me speak about him. That’s all. But I wanted to know your name. I wanted you to write it down.�
� She made an effort to speak gently. She didn’t want him to think that she was telling him off. ‘I’ll give you another chance. Here. Now write your own name, not my son’s name.’ She handed him her phone.

  When he again wrote ‘Adam’, she felt the anger rise in her, the protectiveness. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this.’ She took the phone away from him and lay back on the grass again. She closed her eyes and kept them closed until she heard him standing up. ‘Where are you going?’ She scrambled up on to her knees, but he was already walking away. ‘There is no need for you to be upset,’ she called out as he broke into a trot.

  Later, at the kitchen table, she told Iman what had happened. They had drawn closer since coming here. Moni cooked, and Iman appreciated her efforts. Salma on the other hand acted as if Moni was deliberately sabotaging her diet attempts. She avoided the kitchen and all the rituals of cooking that interested the other two.

  Iman said, ‘Maybe his name is Adam. It could be. It’s a name anyone could have whatever their nationality or religion.’

  Moni was still sceptical. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘There is no other explanation,’ said Iman. She was dressed up in an outfit that was so ordinary and respectable that it didn’t even look like an outfit. Moni had gotten used to her in one outrageous costume or another but now found her different somehow, reliable and smudged round the edges. What was she dressed up as now? Receptionist? Bank teller?

  ‘You’re right. I should have at least taken him for his word, pretended to believe him.’ Now she may never see him again. She stood up and turned to the sink. Iman did not wash a single mug or dish. Salma and Moni did all the housework. Occasionally, Salma went up to Iman’s room to make the bed, empty the bin and bring down dirty bowls and cutlery.

  ‘Actually,’ said Iman. ‘Why don’t you look for his parents? At the very least you would meet them and then find out what his real name is.’

  The idea had already crossed Moni’s mind. That day he had given her the umbrella, she had assumed he lived close by. However, on inspection she had found no cottages or lodges there. The cottages were scattered further in the grounds of the monastery. Approaching them, she would feel like an intruder. She could ask Mullin. He was often around doing one thing or the other. But she was convinced that Mullin didn’t like her.

  ‘Iman,’ she said, her fingers in the warm water. ‘Would you do a favour for me? Would you ask Mullin about the boy’s family?’

  It was always a mistake to ask Iman to do anything. ‘Why me?’ She tossed her hair back. ‘Do it yourself. Or ask Salma.’

  Salma was busy either with her phone or her fitness. She had found a gym in the monastery.

  ‘Please, Iman.’

  ‘No. Do it yourself.’

  Moni was irked by Iman’s response. She lifted the bowl she was just about to wash and slammed it on the kitchen table under Iman’s nose. ‘Wash your own dishes!’

  Iman, taken aback, rose from the table. ‘Don’t get upset. It’s not a big deal. It’s nothing. I can ask him for you.’

  Moni picked up the bowl and put it back in the sink. She wiped the spot of soapy water that was on the kitchen table because of her outburst and, without saying another word to Iman, finished doing the washing-up.

  For this mission, Iman decided to wear something practical. There were even more outfits in the cupboard now than when she had arrived. Or at least there were ones that she had not seen before. Whereas on her arrival, there was an abundance of princess dresses, flouncy skirts and beautiful colours, a more pragmatic mood was now on offer. There was a sailor outfit, a nurse, even an astronaut! Now she chose to wear the trousers and top that Jessie the Yodelling Cowgirl wore in Toy Story. Iman hid her hair under the big hat and allowed the belt to show off her waist. After leaving the cottage, she took her time, not on purpose but because she was distracted by one thing after the other. There was a squirrel, which took up a good ten minutes, a rabbit she knelt to stroke and flowers to sniff. The sounds that the frogs made held her attention. She listened as if she could understand what they were saying. Most of what they said were prayers. Prayers for food and mates. At the edge of the loch, she found a tree trunk that had been shaped into a seat. She must try it out. Beneath her, the water was shallow and still. Further on, it spread deeper, with the mountains on either side. This was the southern end of the loch where it flowed into the river or the river flowed into it – Iman wasn’t sure. She noticed the sound of the wind in the trees and how it ruffled the water. A duck with a green head was swimming quickly to the shore. Near Iman it waddled out of the water and she could see under the simple white chain around its neck and its smooth brown breasts, the pink webbed feet navigating the pebbles on the ground. She could lose herself in all these details, colours of placenta and milk. She could become of these things and need nothing else.

  Eventually she found herself at the monastery. It was too imposing for her, too masculine. The gargoyles were the colour of guns. The tall slim windows like ghostly sentinels hovering above the ground. She stepped into the cloister. An atmosphere hung all over the building, she felt it on her skin. Salma had raved about the architecture of the monastery, but Iman felt a kind of heaviness. Like a responsibility. Knowledge is heavy. One can gain hold of the treasure and then lose it, or memorise sacred words and forget them.

  She was about to turn away when she saw something through the window. A figure in costume. It must be a costume, a brown medieval cloak, warm woollen layers with a rope for a belt. The figure evoked a memory, not of an experience, but of something she had seen on television, an image in a painting or in a book. She pushed open the door of the refectory and when she entered, her knees felt weak. She leant against the door and looked up to see the figure climb up the steps to the pulpit. Before he reached the top, he turned and looked at her. Fierce eyes, dishevelled hair, body tilted forward. She was reminded of the Hoopoe’s story about Nathan. That was how she had imagined him to be, intense and focused, someone who would be too busy for the likes of her. But here he was, stopping to give her a second glance; she had distracted him, delayed him from his prayers. She wished she was not wearing this ridiculous cowboy hat. In her own clothes, with her ordinary hijab, she would have better matched his medieval outfit. They would have understood each other, asked forgiveness from the same God, followed the Ten Commandments, experienced the trajectory of weakness, sin, regret, then redemption. But Nathan and his times were over, the monastery knew it, and the grounds; the silence because there were no more prayers, the blankness because no one knelt. The Nathan she was seeing now was a memory, his prayers did not count. Back out, she told herself. Already the air was thick with misplaced energy, the room closing in. This was a dead end.

  Out in the fresh air, she caught her breath and walked towards the boathouse. A boat was moored on the lake. There she found Mullin.

  ‘Hi lassie,’ he said. He was crouching down in the boat, folding the canopy. ‘How’re ye getting on?’

  It was clear that he liked her more than he did either Moni or Salma. Both had come across him in the past few days and complained afterwards that he was rude and gruff.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a little boy. He doesn’t talk. We see him on his own, never with his family. Do you know where they’re staying?’

  ‘There’s a fair number of young lads here. I don’t mind which one you’re talking about.’ He stood up and walked towards her. ‘Has he caused ye any trouble?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘There are families in the cottages at the other side of the monastery, near the start of the walking trails.’

  She turned to go, following the direction he pointed to. Salma had mentioned the walking trails. They were graded in difficulty. Some more challenging and longer than others. They took you up through the woodlands and the scenery was meant to be breathtaking. Hiking was an activity S
alma was determined the three of them would do before they left.

  Iman walked slowly. This was partly from reluctance and partly a response to Mullin. At school they had studied an ancient poem in which the beloved was praised for, among other assets, swaying like a cow making its way through a muddy pasture. Iman must have imbibed these attributes, wore them like she now wore these costumes. Every man was to be won over for favours or expedience. A few must be snared and conquered. Not in sin but in lawful marriage. A rich husband was the easiest way to make a living. But this hadn’t worked out, had it? And the failure bewildered her. Whenever she remembered Ibrahim, she felt stunned by loss. Her life was on hold, in shambles. What am I going to do with myself?

  She should ask the Hoopoe for advice. But he just kept telling stories. One after the other, as if all the answers were inside the narrative, all the guidance embedded in the logic. Besides, she was fairly occupied here, engaged in her surroundings. She did not want to tackle the future. The loch staved off the problem of her homelessness and she was young enough to inhabit the present. The attic room was the best of homes; Salma and Moni her family.

  It was a long walk to the other side of the monastery. Surely the boy didn’t live that far, otherwise Moni wouldn’t have found him playing near their cottage. It didn’t make sense. But Iman did not abort her mission. She would look for the boy and his family today, as best as she could. She heard scratching and panting behind her, but before she could turn to look, a force pushed her to the ground. She started to yell and kicked at the large dog. This made it more aggressive and she gasped as the gravel cut into her palms, the weight of the dog crushing her chest and thighs. The grass rose up to claim her and, for the smallest increment in time, it felt as if she was being sucked into a warm smoky place. The ground, hard as ever but still capable of becoming concave, hollowed, as if it were a belly sucked in. She started to hyperventilate and, lifting her head, saw a bright red spot of blood on her palm. Even here. Even here, there could be fighters, snipers, violence. They surrounded her now, slipping the leash over the dog’s head and pulling it back. The concerned owners talking and talking, to the barking, leaping dog and to her all at once. They apologised, was she seriously hurt? Their dog was new and friendly, his energy still unbalanced, and she was small. ‘You shouldn’t have fought him off,’ the woman chided. ‘You made him more excited.’