Bird Summons

by Leila Aboulela

  ‘Go naked,’ said Moni, half sarcastic, half challenging. ‘Nudity is the natural state. That’s how we’re born. That is who we really are without the dignity of clothes.’

  ‘I tried it.’

  Moni and Salma gasped. ‘No, you did not,’ said Salma. ‘Lunatic.’

  ‘I did it once in the forest.’

  ‘Do it again and if Mullin rapes you, don’t come to me crying,’ said Moni.

  ‘Oh Moni,’ said Iman. ‘I got cold and had to crawl in the ground. I covered myself with leaves and branches. It was like being buried. And I thought to myself, like you just said, that’s what I was wearing when I was born, nothing. And that’s what I will be wearing when I’m buried – a shroud over nothing. I learnt from that. Clothes are about living, not hiding away. Clothes are protection from the cold and wind. I felt vulnerable without them. The pebbles on the ground cut my feet, there were thorns, dirt and insects and little animals. Let alone the cold.’

  Moni rolled her eyes. Salma was aghast. She was losing Iman; little by little, her special friend, the younger sister, was slipping away. This was not the Iman she had always known. Not with this fluency, this waywardness. Salma could not reply. It was left to Moni to talk and argue. She went over the basics, tried different tactics, but Iman would not budge. She was not going to wear her hijab any more.

  ‘Lady Evelyn didn’t wear the hijab.’

  ‘She did when she went on pilgrimage,’ said Moni.

  ‘But not here,’ insisted Iman.

  ‘We went over this,’ said Salma. ‘She was restricted by her social position. And the times she was living in. She couldn’t go around dressing up as a foreigner!’

  ‘She could if she wanted to,’ said Iman. ‘She was brave enough.’

  ‘It’s not about courage,’ said Moni.

  ‘Besides, you of all women, shouldn’t do this,’ said Salma. ‘You’re so attractive. Already men are all over you. What will it be like when there is more of you to admire, have you thought of this?’

  Iman shrugged. ‘I never cared for all that.’

  ‘Liar,’ said Salma.

  ‘Look who’s calling who a liar,’ said Moni.

  Salma turned on her, ‘You think you’re better than us both.’

  Moni made a face. ‘I’m not the one cheating on my husband or taking off my hijab.’

  ‘You’re an oppressor,’ said Iman.

  Moni was shocked. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, acting as if no one in the world has more troubles than you do. You’re full of it.’

  ‘That’s completely unfair,’ said Moni. ‘You two are free to do what you like, but my duty as a friend is to caution you.’

  ‘So why don’t you accept caution from me?’ said Iman.

  ‘Because I’m not doing anything wrong.’

  ‘Pushing your husband away is wrong.’

  ‘I am fighting for my son’s well-being. I should be applauded, not told off!’

  ‘You need to do both. Care for your son as well as your husband. Teach your husband to care for his son.’

  ‘You need to stop phoning Amir.’

  ‘You need to dress like you’ve always dressed.’

  Outside, the rain continued to lash down, the wind rattled the windows. It was difficult to believe that this was summer.

  ‘Punishment,’ the Hoopoe later said to Iman, ‘can sneak up on you. Justice can take many forms and the one who administers it might not necessarily be aware of his role. This is the oddest story I will tell you, the one that is the most difficult to understand, its message the hardest to accept. Remember it, though, when things become too difficult and your instinct is to scream out, that’s not fair, that’s not fair. Because more likely it is fair, even though by all accounts and appearances, it looks like nothing of the sort.

  ‘A travelling knight came across a waterfall. He got off his horse and decided to have a wash and a drink. He took off his clothes, bathed and refreshed himself. When he got dressed, he forgot to put on his belt and galloped off. That belt was a money belt full of gold coins. It was later found by a young boy who went to the waterfall for a swim. The young boy could not believe his luck. He grabbed the money belt and ran off. Meanwhile, the knight continued on his journey. When he eventually realised his mistake, he turned back. When he reached the waterfall, he found an elderly man making wudu in preparation to pray. “Where is my money belt?” asked the knight.

  ‘ “I haven’t seen any money belt,” said the elderly man.

  ‘The knight drew out his sword and killed him.

  ‘You would think that the elderly man was innocent and unfairly killed. You would think that the young boy stole what did not rightfully belong to him. But there is a backstory to this tale. One that even the protagonists didn’t fully know and would never have been able to put together. For many years, the knight had employed the services of a loyal hard-working couple. The labourer looked after the knight’s stables and his wife worked in the scullery of the castle. The couple worked faithfully for twenty years, but the knight never ever paid them their wages. They did not have the means to challenge him and get their rights. The young boy who ran off with the knight’s money belt was their son.

  ‘As for the elderly man. A long time ago, in the arrogance and strength of youth, he had cruelly killed the knight’s father.’

  Chapter Ten

  When Iman took off her hijab, Salma took it personally, as if Iman was rejecting her, turning away towards another ideal, ditching all that they had shared. Alone, she found herself in tears, shocked and speechless as if betrayed. She did not fight back or try to argue with Iman. Instead she caved in and, quite unlike herself, experienced for the first time what she would have identified in others as low-grade depression. The reluctance to get out of bed, the disinterest in jogging and the constant dragging down of anxiety and guilt. Glimpsing Iman in the grounds of the monastery among other people caused a surge of envy. Iman’s hair was shining and luxuriant; with the new haircut, the ends bounced round her ears. Instead of approaching her friend with a greeting, Salma ducked out of the way to avoid coming face-to-face with her.

  Careful to avoid Iman even in the cottage, she found herself turning more towards Amir, towards their shared past, a time of certainties and hopes. The regret that she had married David and moved to Britain began to gather into an emotion, almost a fact. She had made a mistake. Amir was her ideal mate, her home city the true beloved, medicine her rightful vocation. She was forty-five and her life was a mistake. A mistake that could be rectified, or perhaps it was too late and it could not be rectified. That was what she considered as she lay down staring at the ceiling. Pull out now or go on knowing that you are living out a sentence. Which option was doable, which option was the right one? Then the sound of Iman up in the attic would bring her back to the loch and she would register how Iman now came and went without telling her, without urging her to join her, without checking up first on what she wanted to do.

  Moni clashed with Iman. Right was right and wrong was wrong, and Moni was confident of her position. She lectured Iman on the need to be mindful of Salma. In this country, who else did she have to look after her, except Salma and David? Whatever she did, Iman must not jeopardise her relationship with them, and taking off her hijab wasn’t helpful. Moni surprised herself by caring. It had been a long time since anything had penetrated her bond with Adam or was even able to distract her from him. Briefly, she was released and found herself sounding like her old self: the Moni who worked in the bank, who followed and gave orders, who understood the legal structures, the stock options and the fluctuations in interest rates. This was the same Moni who now faced Iman. It mattered little to her that Iman was not responding, not budging from her position; she was not even following Moni’s arguments. Moni was flexing a muscle she had thought long atrophied. It made her feel better.


  When she did come across Iman in public, riding Mullin’s bicycle on the path leading to the forest, Moni’s reaction was completely different from Salma’s. She found Iman without her headscarf indistinguishable from other women, one and the same. The special aura of vulnerability and preciousness that had surrounded her was gone. She was another glossy, wind-tousled head of hair, bland and common. And because Iman was small, there was even less reason for her to stand out. When she whizzed past and waved at Moni, who was on the phone to the nursing home, it took Moni a beat to recognise her.

  Iman avoided her friends. She no longer cosied up to Salma or hovered around Moni while she cooked. Instead, she stayed out most of the time or up in her attic room. The cupboard continued to yield costumes. One was a US army marine. Iman put it on and rummaged in the cupboard for a gun. It was not there. She sat on the floor of her room and waited. The idea of a loaded heavy gun excited her. She did not want to harm any person or animal but walking about with a gun would indeed grant a sense of power and protection. No one would dare hurt her. They would be afraid. No one had ever been afraid of Iman. She attracted others and did not repel. But she was tired of all that. The emphasis on her beauty. It had not given her security or allowed her to understand herself. Beauty itself was a mask, a barrier, all that other people could see of her. They did not want to listen to her, they did not want her skills or her opinions. They were content with her presence, like a flower in a vase, pleasing and uplifting, a lovely scent to refresh and intoxicate, a brilliant colour against a drab, unappealing world.

  Moni cooked and ate by herself. She looked out of the window at the rain that again kept her away from the boy. It did not keep him away though and on hearing a knock at the door, she found him, to her delight, wearing a bright blue anorak with a hood and wellington boots. She fussed over him. ‘Adam, are you hungry? What shall I make you?’ He opened the fridge and took out the carton of eggs. She made him an omelette with feta cheese. ‘You must have been hungry,’ she said, as he wolfed down the food. ‘You need to eat to grow. I can almost see you growing right before my eyes!’ It was an expression, an exaggeration, but it did seem to her that he was bigger since the first day she had seen him. Not older, but bigger in size. It was a strange observation. As children grew older, they became leaner to some extent, losing their baby roundness. He, though, just seemed to be getting bigger, his cheeks chubbier than ever, his chin soft. She must be imagining things.

  ‘Have you never had a feta cheese omelette before? Do you like it?’ He shook his head and then nodded. She was used to the fact that he didn’t talk or couldn’t talk. He did make sounds, though, a high ah of surprise and pleasure, a frustrated growl when he stood on the kitchen chair and couldn’t reach the top shelf of the cupboard. There was a kite stored there; it had caught his attention and he wanted it.

  ‘Not on such a gloomy day,’ she said. ‘You need good weather for a kite. You also need your father to take you out. I would not be of any use to you flying a kite. I’m sorry but I know nothing about kites.’

  When he climbed down from the chair, he gave her a hug. ‘You are a lovely boy,’ she told him. ‘The cleverest, nicest boy.’

  His eyes, brown and full of expression, kept her captivated. They baked together. After getting him to wash his hands, which he did while making the most comical of faces, he shaped cookies and afterwards decorated them. He was clumsy with these tasks and she enjoyed instructing him on how to keep his hands steady, how to move without spilling. When he concentrated, he opened his mouth. It made her laugh.

  In Lady Evelyn’s book, she showed him photos of Toby Sladen, Lady Evelyn’s grandson. ‘Look, here he’s the same age as you are now. His shoes are funny! But that’s how little boys dressed in 1922. Every school holiday he would spend with his grandmother on her estate. He must have loved it – all the fishing and exploring – he even went hunting with her too.’

  She read out a letter written from Lady Evelyn to Toby. ‘I was so pleased to get your letter, my first post since I left London which seems years ago . . . I have now got permission from the King to do my Pilgrimage – I will be the first European woman to enter the sacred Cities – but it means that I won’t be home again till towards the end of April – so you must arrange for your holidays . . . I’ll write Grant to put the two housemaids back in case you want to go there for a bit.’

  For reasons she could not understand, the letter moved Moni, even though she had read it before. She felt tears welling up as she steadied her voice to explain. ‘Grant was the gamekeeper at Glencarron. At the time of this letter, Toby was seventeen years old. He was still at boarding school.’ She sensed a restlessness in Adam and put the book away. It was time for him to leave.

  She gave him most of the baked cookies to take home with him. She covered them in cling film and put them in a plastic bag. He would have to walk in the rain and that made her feel ever so sorry for him, grateful that he had come to see her.

  After he left, she went to check up on Salma. Having given up on counselling Iman, she had turned, since yesterday, to Salma. They shared a room after all and it was natural to lie on the second bed and converse or come in and out asking after her.

  ‘Shall I bring you something to eat? There is rice and aubergine stew.’ Moni knew by now that there was no point in offering the freshly baked cookies to Salma.

  Salma shook her head. She lay on her back with her arm across her face. This was a way to hide the tears.

  ‘But you haven’t eaten all day,’ said Moni. She remembered the raw food diet that Salma had been following on and off. ‘Shall I get you the nuts you like? Or some grapes.’

  ‘I had some earlier.’ Her voice was thicker, slow. ‘Thanks for getting me the water.’

  Moni felt sorry for her. ‘Salma, you’re not yourself. What’s wrong with you?’

  The tears rolled down Salma’s face. She could not hide them any more. ‘I know this sounds stupid. It sounds stupid to me, but when I think of all the time that’s passed and how I can’t get it back . . . I want to undo things and I can’t. How do I pull my children back so that they’re little again? It can never happen. I just have to keep on, keep on, but for how long? Everyone is thinking this, I am sure. If people spoke the truth they would admit how sad it is to get old.’

  ‘You’re not old,’ said Moni. ‘You are fit and healthy. And yes, you are young.’

  ‘These are platitudes, Moni. Forty is the new thirty. Fifty is the new forty. These things that are said so that people can be cheerful. When people are cheerful they get on with their lives better. They go to work, they shop. That’s what it’s all about. Then, at a certain point, sooner or later, they drop dead. And it goes on and on. One generation replacing the other, making a mess of things one way or another.’ She was talking about this, but she would have preferred to talk about Iman. To untangle her mixed feelings. But Moni was so sure of everything, so black and white, she would never understand.

  Moni said, ‘Maybe you’re tired, Salma. You do too much. You’re always pushing yourself. Maybe you’re just exhausted and need a break. There is nothing wrong with that. A lie-in. You certainly deserve it.’

  Salma nodded, ‘Thank you, Moni. Maybe I could have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Moni and she went to the kitchen to make it for her.

  When she came back, Salma was sitting up in bed. She had smoothed down her hair and tied it up in a scrunchy. ‘Have you seen her in public, Moni?’ She was talking about Iman without her hijab.

  Moni sighed. ‘Yes, briefly. I almost didn’t recognise her. I don’t know why she wasn’t content with our garden here which is secluded.’

  ‘I saw her,’ said Salma. ‘I was walking back from the monastery and I came across her talking to Mullin. It was a shock, seeing her standing there with her hair showing. If she had the hood of her rain jacket up, it would have looked natural given the weather. B
ut there she was, as if she was being defiant. I didn’t know what to do. I dodged away from them. I just couldn’t face her.’

  ‘I wonder what Mullin said to her,’ said Moni. ‘Or if he even noticed.’

  ‘Of course he noticed.’

  ‘But people here never comment on appearance. They’re very polite.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean they don’t notice,’ said Salma. ‘My mother-in-law loves a good gossip. She doesn’t interfere though. She wouldn’t say why are you wearing this or that, not even to her own son, there is a distance. But she does notice things.’

  Moni shrugged. ‘It’s pointless talking to Iman. She’s made up her mind. We have to accept it.’

  Salma felt, again, the wash of sadness. Iman mattered to her and she had thought, and all the evidence pointed to the fact, that Iman was dependent on her. Now this was an illusion. And if their old relationship was untenable, was there anything left that could replace it? ‘She is not good at articulating her thoughts,’ said Salma. ‘I’ve learnt not only to listen to the words that she’s saying. With her, actions speak louder than words.’

  ‘She’s praying again,’ said Moni. Yesterday Iman had a bath and washed her hair. Her period had lasted six days.

  ‘Yes, I noticed,’ said Salma. ‘And that reassured me.’

  ‘It happens,’ said Moni. ‘Friends on social media. Suddenly there’s an updated photo and they’re not wearing it any more. The pressure, I guess, especially in the US or France.’