Overlooking the loch, she took her phone out. It did smell. It did smell.
She bent down and dunked it in the water. Would it get damaged beyond repair? It was unlike her not to care. But she did not want Moni’s perfume on her phone. And the other smell. It made her ashamed.
‘Evil is often frozen,’ the Hoopoe later said to Iman. ‘Paralysed by weakness. Many a crime hasn’t been committed not because of a lack of intention but because of a lack of means.’ Iman thought of Salma, safe from sin because Amir was far away. That night, the Hoopoe’s story was about the snake catcher who climbed the mountain. He climbed and climbed and the air around him grew colder. Near the summit, he found more than he had aspired to – a huge serpent frozen in the snow. It was a magnificent sight. The ice had trapped the movement of the snake’s tongue as it lashed out, his fangs were in full display; the lustre of his coat was dazzling. The snake catcher could not believe his luck. This would be the most spectacular public display ever; the whole town would be agog. He carried the frozen serpent back down the mountain and, before he reached the town, he hid it under woollen blankets and tied it up with a rope. On reaching the town he started to call out, ‘Come and gather to see the biggest serpent on earth, the longest and most amazing.’ Soon an excited crowd gathered in the town square. It was a sunny afternoon and the mood of the gathering was festive. The snake catcher stood in the middle of the crowd with a large basket in which the frozen serpent lay covered under a blanket. With a flourish, the snake catcher whisked away the blanket and the crowd drew in its breath. The serpent was certainly huge, certainly stunning. The combined effect of the sun and the blanket had made the ice around it thaw. A twitch, a shudder. Had it really moved or was that the ice cracking? A blink. The serpent was alive. It had only been dormant, kept still by the ice. Suddenly, the serpent lashed out. It broke the ropes and immediately attacked the snake catcher. Crushed by its strength, he lay dying. The last thing he saw was the serpent wreaking havoc on the crowd.
‘Did you understand the story?’ the Hoopoe asked.
Iman, still thinking of Salma, said, ‘It was the snake catcher’s fault. He should have thought maybe, just maybe, the serpent was still alive. Or it could be that moving the frozen serpent from one place to another caused the problem. Up in the cold mountains, it was harmless and would have stayed harmless. Under the blanket, under the hot sun of the town square, it became the greatest danger. The snake catcher was disillusioned. There he was, full of eagerness and anticipation, carrying the very thing that would be his doom. We are our own worst enemies.’ She was now thinking of civil wars, how they went on and on until there was little to win and more to fight over.
‘But what is the serpent?’ asked the Hoopoe.
It was lust and greed, all that lies frozen and dormant, that remains harmless until we warm it up and activate it, until we accidently bring it back to life.
The Hoopoe told her another story. ‘Three fishes were swimming in a stream. They were content with their life, eating as much as they wanted, unthreatened by bigger fishes or other predators. One day, they sensed the approach of fishermen, men whose intention was to draw their nets. The first fish said, “To save my life I will escape from here. I will make the difficult journey to the sea. And I must do it alone and in secret. My friends will surely weaken my resolve. Their love of their home waters will persuade them to stay.” Without saying goodbye, the first fish set out and was saved.
‘The second fish said, “I am by nature crafty. I will play a trick on the fishermen. I will float belly up in the water and they will think I am long dead and discard me.” This is exactly what happened. One fisherman caught it in his net but believing it dead, tossed it back in the water. The fish swam off and was saved.
‘The third fish made no preparations. When the fishermen arrived, it panicked. Darting here and there in the water, it leapt high and fell with a splash. With greater agitation, it jumped again even higher and flopped down in the fisherman’s net.’
Chapter Nine
On the morning that marked a week since their arrival, the rain kept them indoors, in each other’s company. From the window, the sky was a low uniform grey. To Moni it felt like being in an airplane that was passing through dense clouds. She was the one least put out. To her, the outdoor life was still not entirely comfortable. If it wasn’t for the boy, Adam, she would not have gone out at all. She spoke about him now to the others, how well behaved he was, how adorable and agile. If only he would talk to her.
Iman was wearing a warrior costume that none of them could recognise. It made her look bulky. ‘Aren’t you too warm?’ asked Salma. She was the one most restless. With weather like this, she would not be able to run. The ground would be muddy. Besides, her phone had been confiscated from her, or at least that’s how it felt. Moni insisted that it still stank and was not fit to have inside the cottage. The phone was now perched on the sill outside the kitchen window. Safe from the rain, but still exposed to dampness and out of earshot. Already since dunking it in the water, the screen was becoming blurred. In messages, certain letters needed to be guessed at. Salma wished she had her old one with her, but she had left it in the car.
Iman said she was not too warm. She did not know where the costumes she had worn earlier in their visit had gone and she was not interested in finding out. Cleopatra, the princesses, Cinderella – she had passed that stage. Now it was Padmé Amidala, the White Witch and other warrior figures. The choice was either to wear these new costumes or her own clothes. It seemed a long time since she had worn her own clothes. She wondered how Ibrahim would react if he saw her dressed like Padmé with a lightsabre in hand, her hair cut short in a bob. Conjuring him up in her mind, she found her sadness turning into anger.
Salma looked out of the window and suddenly asked, ‘Shall we brave the rain and go for a walk? We need to practise for when we visit Lady Evelyn’s grave on Sunday.’
‘Better wait a bit,’ said Iman. ‘It might clear up.’ She turned to look at Moni.
Moni hesitated. Perhaps if they now went out for a brief walk in the rain, it would substitute for a long and potentially exhausting one in good weather. Instead she said, ‘Being in the cottage is part of the holiday, we paid for it. It would be a waste not to enjoy it.’
‘All right,’ said Salma. ‘Iman wants to stay so we’ll stay.’ She smiled at her younger friend.
‘I can’t believe you just said that.’ Moni’s voice rose. ‘I also said we should stay. Salma, why are you acting as if I hadn’t spoken?’
Salma turned towards her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I agree with what you said. The cottage is part of the holiday. We’ll stay.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said Moni. ‘Why do you treat Iman like a child? It’s not helping her. She’s a grown-up, perfectly capable of fending for herself. Yet you pamper and infantilise her. Like a pet. You don’t even do that with your own kids!’
‘I’m here, Moni,’ said Iman.
‘I know you are.’
‘But you’re talking about me as if I’m not here. I’m perfectly capable of talking for myself.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Moni. ‘Why this special treatment as if you’re delicate china about to break. There is nothing physically wrong with you.’
‘You don’t know,’ said Salma. ‘You don’t know everything that Iman went through during the war.’
‘No, I don’t know,’ said Moni. ‘But surely her dependence on you isn’t solving the issue.’
Salma spoke in a calm voice. ‘I think you’re jealous, Moni. Because you don’t have a special friend. Or any other special relationship. You’re aloof with everyone. You keep your distance. Don’t want to get too close, don’t want to get involved, don’t want to get your hands dirty . . .’
Moni gave a small tight laugh. ‘So this is about your phone, then. Because I banished it, you’re now saying a
ll these mean things to me.’
‘They’re not mean. You look at Iman and instead of compassion, you’re all self-righteous.’
‘I’m not. I’m just pointing out that you’re holding her back, Salma. If you want to be a true friend, then help her stand on her own two feet. That’s what you need to be doing.’
To Salma’s surprise, Iman blurted out, ‘Salma, I do want to tell you something. I’ve changed. I do want to stand on my own two feet, like Moni says. I want to know where I’m heading. And you don’t guide me, Salma. You’re just happy for me to stay as I am, keeping you company, listening to your problems.’
For a minute Salma was lost for words. She turned from Moni to Iman.
‘She treats you like a pet,’ said Moni to Iman. ‘I see it every day . . .’
‘Stop,’ said Salma. ‘What’s going on? I’ve known Iman longer than you have. Don’t come between us, Moni. Stay out of it.’
‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? You want to move people about. Maybe you mean to be helpful and you are sometimes, I won’t deny it, but you sure are bossy.’
‘You’re interfering too,’ murmured Iman.
Salma, her body rigid with surprise, wondered where all this, this insubordination was coming from. ‘How dare you speak to me like that! The both of you. I will leave you. I will take the ferry, get in MY car, MINE, as you seem to have forgotten, and drive back without you. Then you can be stuck here if you’re so keen on independence.’
She knew she sounded ridiculous even as she spoke. Moni laughed out loud. Iman giggled. Trying to remain in control, Salma forced herself to smile as if she had been joking all along and the outburst had been in mock anger. But some of it she meant. The reminder that the car was hers, that she had driven them here and they were dependent on her to get them back. It was lame, she knew. This need to assert her authority, to remind them and put them in their place. She was squirming now and wanting the comfort of her phone, the messages from Amir. Through him, and with him, time had different proportions so that her life back home – yes, home in Egypt – became long and eventful, her life in this country short and flat. All the married years, the children growing up, condensed into a single episode, one that was busy but minor, full of details and events that all had the same colour.
She started to walk to the kitchen, to retrieve the phone from its banishment. Enough was enough.
‘Don’t you dare bring that stinky phone in here,’ said Moni.
‘You’re hallucinating, my dear. I’m sorry to tell you this. The smell is all in your imagination.’
‘Iman smelt it too.’
‘By suggestion. From you.’
Moni turned to Iman for a defence. Iman said nothing. Emboldened, Salma said, ‘I will take my phone all the way to the monastery where the signal is strongest. A bit of rain won’t hurt me.’
‘I know why you’re so attached to your phone these days,’ said Moni. ‘Iman told me everything.’
Salma stopped and turned to glare at Iman. Her friend refused to meet her eye. Iman had told Moni about Amir when she had specifically told her not to. And here it was now, the predictable telling-off from Moni.
‘It’s wrong,’ said Moni. ‘You need to stop this, Salma. It’s beneath your dignity. It’s playing with fire. You’ll ruin your life and all that you’ve worked hard to build.’
‘Oh, the drama,’ said Salma, sitting down again. ‘It’s only texts and a few phone calls. Hardly enough to get me stoned to death.’
Iman said, ‘In your heart and thoughts you’re cheating on David. That’s just as bad.’
‘I thought you understood me, Iman,’ said Salma. She could take all this from Moni, but not Iman.
‘Stop contacting him,’ said Moni. ‘Stop it now before it gets out of hand. Can’t you see what’s going to happen? You will get so caught up with him, you won’t be able to be with your husband any more. Your relationship with him will become strained. He has rights on you and so do your children.’
‘Ah, the expert on marital bliss is talking. What do you know about successful marriages? You’ve put your son’s needs above your own husband’s. Above your own needs. How is that fair?’
‘She’s right,’ Iman said. ‘You’re not a good wife, Moni.’
Moni’s face flushed. She opened her mouth to speak, but Salma interrupted her. ‘Don’t give me lectures on a wife’s duty, Moni, when you lock your husband out of your bedroom at night.’
Iman raised her eyebrows.
Moni wished she had never told Salma that particular detail. She had been so keen to demonstrate what a devoted mother she was, sharing her bed with Adam, keeping her husband out. One night, when Murtada had come whispering her name so as not to wake his sleeping son, she had raised her head from the pillow and hissed, ‘What do you want?’ in a way designed to make him shrivel. The next time he travelled away and came back, he found that she had installed a lock. Moni drew in a breath. ‘I might not be a good wife, but I have my virtue, thank you very much. I’m not two steps away from adultery.’
‘Up to your neck in disobedience instead.’
‘I neglect my prayers for the sake of Adam. You don’t think I would neglect Murtada?’
‘Oh, the martyr,’ said Salma. ‘It’s all about motherhood for you.’
‘I can’t help it if my son is disabled.’ There it was, the pride in her position. ‘You’re the one who should be ashamed, Salma. Not me. Is it any wonder that your phone stinks, with all that disloyalty passing through it day and night? Have some self-respect.’
Iman spoke up, ‘We want what’s best for you, Salma. David is such a good husband. You say that yourself. How can you do this to him? He’s done you no wrong.’
‘I’m not doing anything to him. This is separate from him.’
‘How can it be nothing to do with him?’ said Moni. ‘How would you feel if he was having some virtual relationship with someone else?’
She would be hurt, of course, her self-esteem dropping to zero. It would matter who this other woman was, what kind of rival. It would make a difference if she was a younger version of herself. It would make a difference if she was white, or prettier, or with a better job. She would never forgive him.
‘Think of the children,’ Iman said. ‘Is that how you want them to know you? You’re their role model.’
‘No, I’m not,’ snapped Salma. ‘They’re ashamed of me. Ashamed of my accent, my background, my opinions. I’m losing them. Day by day, they get older and more British and sometimes I hardly know them any more.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Iman. ‘They love you. I know that.’
‘You’re the foundation of their life,’ said Moni. ‘They take you for granted. They probably take their father for granted too. But both of you, and the strong relationship between you, that’s what’s holding the family together. Don’t break that.’
Salma wished for tears of remorse, welling from a sense of shame. Instead she felt anger grow inside her. Moni couldn’t understand. Iman, who had more sympathy and imagination, was being obtuse. She had told her explicitly not to tell Moni about Amir. She turned to her now.
‘What happened to you, Iman? I trusted you. What got into you?’
Iman shrugged. When the other two stared at her, wanting her to explain, she started choosing each word with care. ‘I’ve been thinking about myself and my future, wondering what I really want. For a long time, all I wanted was a baby of my own, all I could imagine for myself was to be a mother. But that didn’t happen and it’s not likely to happen soon. It might not happen at all. No, don’t start to interrupt and insist that I must hope. It’s not about optimism or despair. And it’s not all about you, Salma, or how you treat me.’
She took a breath in and continued. ‘Every day since we’ve been here I wear a different outfit and I become someone else. Every costume has
a story and comes with a way of behaving attached to it. If it’s pretty and feminine or if it’s practical. Some of the clothes in the cupboard here are heavy and some of them restrictive. They made me think about my own clothes. Why do I dress the way I do? Because that’s how my mother dressed and the women in my village. Or that’s how my husband of the time wanted me to dress. Each one had an opinion. The first wanted me to wear these long, loose abayas or plain coats. The second thought I should lighten up and wear trousers and colours, not attract attention to myself. Then Ibrahim encouraged me to copy you, Salma, and we started to go shopping together. There was never time to think, what do I want to wear and why? Well, I’ve made a decision. I’m not clearing it with you or asking your opinion. I’m just telling you so that you know and don’t act all surprised. From now on I will stop wearing hijab. That’s it. I will take my headscarf off.’
The announcement stunned Moni and Salma. They had not seen it coming. It made no sense. Yet Iman continued to talk, and they followed her peculiar logic, an argument connected to uniforms and costumes, roles and camouflage.
‘If I’m not dressed for a role, then who am I?’ she said. ‘If I don’t know who I am, then how can I know what I want? The hijab wasn’t forced on me against my will, but I wasn’t given a choice to wear it or not, either. It was what the other older girls in my family were wearing. It felt natural that at a certain age I would wear it too. But if I were free to choose, I might not have chosen it. I might have chosen something else. Maybe I would have dressed like Mulan or like a cowgirl. We think we are the ones wearing an outfit, but it’s imprinting itself on us.’ Iman could not believe her own fluency, how she was talking and the other two were listening. It had never happened before. Not one stutter, not one fumble for words. She went on. ‘Maybe no one in the world really has a choice. Even men. If you’re born in a certain place or a certain century, you just fall in line and dress like everyone is dressing. The kind of clothes you would find in the shops. It’s artificial. And I want what is natural, what is true to myself, the self I was born to be . . .’
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