Bird Summons

by Leila Aboulela

  Iman pushed herself up and dusted her clothes. The Alsatian frisked around her. The sounds it made, its saliva, fur and smell – all were incomprehensible. Iman wanted to get away from these people who were too watchful, too talkative, too close. Her tongue betrayed her. She answered them in a language they didn’t understand. She couldn’t help it. The English words were out of reach, she knew them but could not retrieve them. They had slipped away, unreliable.

  Her heart beat, ya Allah, ya Allah – forming proper words, while her tongue could only mumble.

  ‘Let me see your hands,’ the man said. Iman hid her hands behind her back. She did not want them to nurse her, to flutter over her.

  ‘Go away, leave me alone,’ she said, and it was a good thing that she could not be rude in English.

  She hobbled back to the cottage, where Moni and Salma fussed over her. She lay on the sofa and cried out that her body hurt, all her bones were broken and, for sure, she must be dying. Alarmed, the other two surrounded her, examining and questioning. She had bruised her knees and cut her palms, but it was her mind that was more troubled. All the bad dreams that had belonged to dark nights flared up, brought to life by the sudden fright and physical pain. She saw, again, fresh blood spilt, whiteness that wasn’t porridge but brain; she smelt charred flesh and heard children screaming. She hadn’t escaped. In this idyllic location the war could come and not from the internet or the television screen. It could rise from inside her because she had not left it behind. She had brought it with her on the airplane.

  And the earth had wanted her, had tried to hug her in, to cradle her. ‘I was going to be buried alive!’

  ‘You must have imagined it,’ said Salma. She noticed that Iman was dressed as Jessie and, for all her bravery, she was terrified of dark enclosed places. ‘We will go back to the very same spot where you fell, and you will see that the ground is flat and normal.’

  Of course, it did not make sense. The earth was not like the wall of a stomach, capable of clenching. But the earth could contract, could it not? If Iman had been better educated she would have known. Or at least known how to find the information. Fear and muddled thoughts. ‘Mummy, mummy,’ she wailed. ‘I want my mummy.’

  Moni could no longer help it. She turned away from the scene on the sofa, struggling to hide her amusement. Salma, though, was visibly moved. ‘My darling, you are fine, you are fine.’ She fetched a pocket mirror and Iman examined her face with care. No scratch or blemish on the beautiful cheeks, that bluish black smudge on the chin certainly dirt and not a bruise.

  Iman eventually settled down, her moans subsiding, her anguish blending into peevish requests. She became a queen reclining, with two ladies-in-waiting fetching and carrying for her. Moni was dispatched to the kitchen to make soup. Salma bustled with ice pack, hot-water bottle and paracetamol. Cups of tea. Iman sighed, and tears rolled down her cheeks. For a couple of hours, Salma and Moni sat on the floor next to her couch.

  ‘No one is prettier than Iman,’ said Salma. ‘Even if she has bruised herself. Even if she is crying like a baby.’

  ‘I don’t like dogs,’ said Moni. ‘Even puppies. They are smelly and nasty. Why would anyone want them in their home, on their sofa, shedding hair everywhere? Then they take them out and let them run amok, leaping on people and frightening them.’

  ‘It wasn’t the dog that frightened her,’ said Salma. She was speaking for Iman so that her friend could feel babied and cosseted, looked after and safe. ‘Iman loves animals, don’t you, sweetie?’

  Iman didn’t reply. But she looked straight at Salma as if she were hanging on every word.

  Salma went on, ‘My children have been nagging they want a dog.’

  ‘Don’t give in,’ said Moni.

  ‘They promise they would look after it. Take it for walks, give it baths, take it to the vet, but I don’t believe them.’

  ‘You’ll be doing all that,’ said Moni.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Why add to my chores?’

  ‘And don’t forget having to renew your wudu every time the dog touches you.’

  ‘No, licks you. It’s a misunderstanding. Its saliva is what is impure, not its fur.’

  ‘I had no idea. Iman, did you know this?’

  Iman turned to look at Moni. ‘What?’

  Moni repeated her question.

  ‘Yes,’ said Iman.

  Moni and Salma exchanged looks. Salma said, ‘You had a cat, didn’t you, Iman?’

  ‘Did you?’ Moni smiled. ‘Nothing wrong with cats. They’re clean. What happened to it?’

  ‘Got lost,’ said Iman. ‘Maybe stolen.’

  ‘You think someone stole it?’ Salma leant her back against the sofa. ‘You didn’t tell me at the time.’

  ‘There was a group of teenagers in the building. Hanging around smoking joints in the backyard. I caught them frightening her once. Being mean. Maybe they stole her.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ said Moni, and the other two didn’t reply. She shifted gear. ‘I know a job Iman would be good at.’

  ‘What job?’ Salma sounded possessive.

  ‘A receptionist.’

  ‘A receptionist? Where?’

  ‘At our clinic.’

  ‘What clinic?’

  ‘I’m thinking of this idea,’ said Moni. ‘The three of us could start a business together. A massage clinic for women. I have some savings that I can invest, and I can manage the business side. Iman would be the receptionist and you, Salma, could do exactly what you’re doing now, but then you’d be working for yourself. What do you think?’

  Every massage therapist contemplated becoming self-employed. Choosing her own clients and her own hours. But Salma was surprised by Moni’s idea. The three of them working together, Iman as the receptionist. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Her voice sounded a little stiff, her smile not genuine.

  ‘I can be a receptionist,’ said Iman. It would be a role, a costume she could put on.

  ‘There you go!’ Moni said to Salma. It was as if she had scored a massive point or won another board game.

  Salma looked at Iman. ‘You would be the best receptionist ever.’ She sounded more patronising than sincere.

  ‘But seriously, Salma,’ said Moni. ‘Aren’t you uncomfortable massaging men? Are you even sure it’s allowed, did you ask?’

  ‘I asked two scholars,’ said Salma. ‘And they gave me different answers. One said yes, it’s an extension of nursing, with the intention to heal, and one said no – only massage women and children.’

  ‘You got the no answer first, I’ll bet. Otherwise you wouldn’t have tried again.’

  Salma smiled. ‘That’s what happened. But I work in a hospital, so I rarely had the bad experiences other therapists had. There are weirdos and perverts out there.’ She sometimes felt that her hijab protected her, made her hazy and distant, further out of reach. The signals she sent out were muffled by clothes, obscured by layers, buried out of the way. But Moni was right: to choose her clients would be a step in the right direction, to focus on women and children would make her life easier.

  ‘You told me once,’ said Iman, joining in the conversation, ‘that most massage therapists are self-employed.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Salma. ‘The pay is better if you’re self-employed. But you end up working plenty of weekends and evenings. Then again, with better pay, you can train in other methods. I’ve always wanted to learn reiki.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  They spoke about it for some time, how the word sounded like the Arabic ruqyah, the healing prayers accompanied by touching or blowing. Iman told them about a woman in her village who was believed to have been possessed by a djinn. Ruqyah was used to cure her.

  With Iman now feeling better, the other two started to drift and to contemplate their exits. Moni longing to search for the boy, Salma to text again –
I’m not telling you where I am, stop asking. Finally, when they left, and she found herself alone, Iman picked up Lady Evelyn’s book, which Moni had abandoned on the coffee table. She looked at the pictures – the clothes and hairstyles. In 1895, the demure floor-length skirt and long jacket with puffed sleeves, hair held back and covered by a hat. In the mid-twenties, the soft bobbed hair and long pearl necklace. A pleated skirt, ankle length; a cloche hat, probably wool.

  In a photograph taken at Glencarron, Lady Evelyn was aiming a gun, wearing jodhpurs that reached just over her knees, with long stockings underneath. Iman made the effort to read one of the captions. Her progress was slow, but she persevered. ‘Evelyn in one of her famous tweed skirts.’ ­Molyneux, the French fashion designer from whom she ordered her clothes, had his studio in the garden of her house in Mayfair. If only the photographs had colour! ‘Which outfit is my favourite?’ Iman asked herself. She wasn’t sure. In a photograph taken in Kenya, right outside a hut, Lady Evelyn was in a pair of high-waist, wide-leg trousers. This would definitely be Salma’s favourite because she had a maroon pair that looked exactly the same.

  Chapter Eight

  Moni walked around looking for the boy. She scrutinised every child she came across. It occurred to her that perhaps his holiday had come to an end and he had left the loch. This dismayed her. Not only because she would miss him but because they had parted on unfriendly terms. She chided herself for not handling the situation better. Why had she over­reacted to him saying that his name was Adam? Why hadn’t she, from the beginning, made attempts to contact his family? These thoughts beat her up as she walked around searching the playgrounds, the tennis courts, the public rooms inside the monastery. She even found herself at the indoor swimming pool, a congested, damp place where people looked indistinguishable in their swimming clothes and she looked odd, fully dressed.

  She wandered into the refectory and recognised it as the room Salma had spoken about. It had been empty when Salma first saw it but now there were several people. Three teenagers were playing billiards. A mother sat on a tartan upholstered armchair while her children played with a puzzle on the floor. The room had the effect of stillness on Moni, of arrival. She suddenly did not want to leave or keep searching for the boy. Here was peace and plenty, a connection to all that was good and right. Here was something of a replacement. She chose a high armchair in the furthest corner of the room, near the window. She sat and suddenly felt exhausted, her throat sore as if she had been frantically running around the whole of the estate, shouting out his name. But she hadn’t done that. She had simply walked around without saying a word. Her calves felt heavy as if they were swollen. According to Salma, she ate too much salt and needed more exercise. What would it be like to care again about her body? To find the time and the willpower. Pull her stomach in as she pushed Adam’s wheelchair, eat more fruit and vegetables. It sounded simple enough. Sometimes, she received emails about courses especially for carers, yoga or art classes, coffee mornings or even first-aid workshops.

  Her phone, dormant in the cottage because of the poor signal, suddenly came to life. Every day, from the grounds, she phoned Adam’s care home to check up on him, but she had not switched on her data. Now the wireless signal picked up messages from her mother and from Murtada. Missed calls too. The same reproach, the same disregard for her here and now. A new angle of attack from Murtada. You are oblivious to my own needs and deprivations. If you’re able to leave your son with strangers, then why didn’t you come to me instead of going off on holiday with your friends? I’ve been patient but you have no compassion. A direct command from her father demanding an immediate and urgent call. She called home without hesitation, alarmed because the message had been sent a day ago. Her parents’ faces glowed from the screen. Her mother in national dress, her father with a grizzly chin as if he had skipped shaving. The ceiling fan swirled above them and here she was, sitting in her coat. Murtada had reported her intransigence. She would not forgive him for this. Her mother led the recriminations – a wife’s duty is to be with her husband. You cannot continue to live in Britain on your own. It’s high time you gave him another child. They did not add that the next child must be free of fault, but it was implied. How odd that although her family and Murtada’s all said that Adam’s disability was Allah’s will which must be accepted graciously, they all tended to imply that it was somehow her fault. She had fallen short. She needed to step up and make amends. She argued, as she had argued with Murtada. Adam, Adam, Adam, she kept saying because it was as if the whole world wished him out of the way, out of sight and out of hearing, a minor factor to be taken, only reluctantly, into the equation. Why couldn’t they understand how fulfilled she was when the doctor examined Adam and said to her, ‘Well done’? When the nurses treated her with tender respect. She would not find this care in any other country. Her father closed his eyes. He had heard all this before. Her mother cut her off. ‘Listen here, you’ve been indulged enough,’ she said. ‘Murtada is not going to wait for you for ever. A man has his limits and he’s been patient enough. How would you feel if he now goes ahead and takes another wife?’

  This was meant to be the ultimate threat, the winning card. If you don’t carry the bundle of your crippled son, drape yourself in a black abaya and hop on a plane to Saudi, your husband will take another wife. You will be replaced; your spot will be taken. Easily, because from the vantage point of his expat status, he would not struggle to find a successor to Moni. They are aplenty, and he could pick and choose from virgins to university professors, from those with salaries to those with influential brothers. How would you feel, Moni?

  She was too stunned to reply. Where was this heading, divorce? She could almost hear the collective condemnation from parents and friends. They would almost certainly take Murtada’s side. They would say that she had failed in her duty as a wife, she had put her child first and that was not proper, not natural. Will Adam ever thank you for this sacrifice? Will he ever give you anything in return? But instead of pondering these questions, reasonable in their own way, worthy of consideration, she revolted against the sarcasm between the words, the insinuation that Adam was incapable of gratitude, unable to give, not worthy of her sacrifice.

  It is not sacrifice, it is me. Me and him belonging together. His discomfort mine, his inability my duty. She should find Salma and tell her that her marriage to Murtada was coming to an end. She would tell her that in her search for the boy she found the refectory and it was true, there was a quality in the room, something that lingered from long ago, magnetic and lulling; something that understood and welcomed. But before she could name this quality, the door opened, and he came in. She stood up, went forward and gave him a hug. ‘I am sorry, Adam, I am sorry,’ she repeated. He seemed more substantial than she remembered, taller. Perhaps because she was hugging him. She drew back. Adam.

  He smiled and pushed past her. Not unkindly, but still she felt chastened. She watched him climb up the stairs to the pulpit. When he reached the top, he stood and surveyed the room, his eyes scanning the whole area but dispassionately, as if he couldn’t see her. She remembered what Salma had told her about the monks having their meals in this room while one of them would stand on the pulpit and recite the prayers. But he would not have been as young as that boy. Adam. She must think of him that way. That was his name.

  She tried it out now. ‘Adam,’ she said out loud. ‘Come down.’ The mother who had been leaning forward over her children’s puzzle sat back in her chair and gave Moni a quick look. The teenagers around the pool table, who had found the heated conversation in Arabic a curiosity, did not take any notice.

  Because he ignored her, she raised her voice. ‘Adam.’ He smiled down at her and started to walk down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he reached out for her hand. This was happiness. They were friends again. ‘Do you want to play with a puzzle?’ She would sit with him like that other mother. Moni was good at puzzles too, not just board g
ames. She would teach Adam all the tricks and shortcuts, what to watch out for. He shook his head.

  ‘You’re still not talking?’ She had almost forgotten that he didn’t speak. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she had found him and that he was not cross with her. It was true that his name was Adam. He had answered when she called him. So, she had been the one at fault, not believing him that other time. She must make amends. ‘Are you thirsty? Would you like a drink of juice?’ He nodded, and smiled when she swung his hand and said, ‘Let’s go.’ It was a joy to treat him, to see him enjoying himself. Together they walked out of the refectory and headed towards the snack machine.

  I am not a physiotherapist. Even that turned out to be unattainable. I’m a massage therapist. Anyone can become that. You just need O levels (the equivalent of the Thanawiya Aama) or a certificate in Anatomy, which all these university years amounted to. I do work in a hospital. That was not a lie. The pay is less than working in a private clinic – those alternative health ones that offer aromatherapy and reiki. And I would even do better if I was self-employed, but I’ve needed to say ‘today at the hospital’ or ‘they need me at the hospital’. Over the years, my parents forgot that I wasn’t a doctor.

  ‘You are a doctor,’ he said. ‘To me you always will be. Here your degree is just as valid as mine. You’re in the wrong country, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You make it sound as if I just stepped out of the picture for a few moments. As if I popped out for a break.’ Twenty years of marriage, four children, a job, a house, the Arabic Speaking Muslim Women’s Group . . .