Bird Summons

by Leila Aboulela

  ‘Iman doesn’t have that excuse.’ Salma was surprised at herself. Why could she not be more forgiving? It was not as if she was blameless herself, immune to temptation. When it came to Amir, she could find a thousand excuses for herself. Another thousand for not giving him up.

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ Moni said. ‘It’s a deadlock now between me and Murtada. I won’t go join him in Saudi and he’s not accepting any other arrangement. I have to do what’s best for Adam’s health.’

  This sudden announcement, though not surprising in itself, caused Salma to snap back to herself. ‘Don’t rush this, Moni. It’s hard enough caring for a disabled child without being a single mother as well. Try and see things from Murtada’s point of view.’

  ‘I’m already a single mother,’ she said. ‘Considering his input and interest.’

  ‘I don’t think divorce is a good option for you of all people.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t take this wrong, but how many men are going to marry a woman with a disabled child? If you give up ­Murtada, there will be no substitute for him. You’ll be a divorcee for the rest of your life.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You mean this? You’ll be fine with celibacy? Fine with not having any more children?’

  ‘Isn’t this exactly what my life is like now?’ Moni gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘But you can reverse it. It’s in your hands. What Murtada wants from you is not unreasonable.’

  Moni picked up Salma’s empty teacup and took it to the kitchen. Was she rattled by what Salma had said? Maybe, maybe not.

  Salma took out her phone from the sealed plastic bag. This was Moni’s idea, a compromise to keep the phone in the room while at the same time hemming in its smell. The smell which Moni was imagining, as mobile phones do not smell. And yet somehow Moni had convinced her of this and she had dunked it in the water. Now, drawing the slim, smooth object out of the bag, Salma too caught a whiff of something. She pushed the phone back into the plastic bag, sealed it and lay down on the bed again.

  When she closed her eyes, she saw the envelope. It was meant to be white but had gone beige with handling. There were smudges on it and it was crumpled at the edges. It was addressed to her, her full name including Miss, written in Amir’s handwriting. She saw with less clarity the documents that were in the envelope. They were both official. Originals, not copies, stamped and authenticated. There was a doctor’s report on Amir’s mother’s mastectomy. There was the registration of the court case involving the convoluted sale of the piece of land which belonged to Amir’s father and his cousins. The envelope contained proof to Salma and her mother that Amir had not lied to them. Yet Salma had torn this proof up. In fact, had not even bothered to tear it up properly but scrunched it and shoved it into the kitchen bin. Pushed it among onion peel and chicken bones, the smear of tomato paste left over in a tin, the slither of courgette peel. Then she had forgotten it. How dare he intrude on the day she had just come back from the dressmaker, the day of the final fitting for her wedding dress. The gorgeous swirl of white taffeta, the silky veil, the embroidery on the bodice. How dare he grubby such a day, paw at it with his muddied circumstances, with his need to prove himself!

  And after the wedding, another memory, even more pathetic. Amir had wanted the envelope back. Bureaucracy demanded the original copies. He had called and called her mobile phone – her first – until she changed her number, and then he had shown up at her parents’ door. All this, and she didn’t tell him that she had thrown the envelope away, that he needn’t bother.

  In the bin.

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry. She ran out of the cottage. She held the phone in her hand and the rain did not matter. She had remembered what she had excelled at forgetting. I’m sorry.

  He said, ‘I was angry with you at the time to the point that I fantasised about strangling you, hurting you as much as you’d hurt me.’

  She listened to the venom in his voice and did not reply.

  ‘All those so-called friends sneering at me, saying hard luck buddy, with a twinkle in their eyes.’

  ‘Did you just say strangling me?’

  ‘Yes, strangling you.’

  She laughed as if he had absolved her. ‘But I’m not as puny as you think. I would fight you off. Did you not know that I pretended I couldn’t lift things, that I let you beat me at tennis, win when we raced? You have no idea how muscular I’ve become; how heavy I lift in the gym. I’m not afraid of you.’

  She wanted him to laugh with her, but he didn’t. ‘You should be, Salma. You should.’

  There was a silence after this. Hours when he did not contact her again. And it was revealing of how often they were texting and talking that six hours without him felt long and strange. The world became quiet again without the buzzing and flashing lights of her phone.

  When it finally did ring, it was not him but Norma. ‘I’m still away, Mum. Is your shoulder not a bit better?’

  ‘Still away?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. It’s only been a few days since we spoke.’

  ‘I’m aching all over, Salma, and the heating pad hasn’t been much help.’ There was an impatience in Norma’s voice. ‘I suppose you must have your holiday.’

  ‘I’ll be with you as soon I get back. I’ll pop round and give you a nice massage. I promise.’

  ‘What if I come to you now instead?’

  She had to stop herself from laughing. ‘I’m nowhere near you, Mum. It’s best if you take some codeine.’

  Norma grunted and ended the call.

  Still no message from Amir, no calls, no wishing her goodnight or good morning. Instead of waking up to sobriety, feeling relieved or at least chastened, she felt deprived. ­Norma’s call hadn’t jolted her back to reality, back to weighing all that she could potentially lose. Neither had the messages from David and the children. Instead, she was sickening for Amir. When she could no longer bear the withdrawal of his attention, she texted him with her exact location, the address of the loch. She added the nearest airport, the nearest train station, the bus that could take him to the nearest village. ‘I’m waiting for you,’ she wrote.

  She justified it to herself by saying that the least she could do to make amends was to give him the opportunity for revenge. He would not come, and she would be the one who had begged him to, the one who had lowered her pride and sullied her values for his sake. This time he would be the one to reject her. Then it could end. Fair and square between them. An even score.

  The forest in the rain was dark and cold. Iman shivered. Her hair was wet. She was waiting for the Hoopoe. He no longer came to her room. Ever since she had taken off her hijab, he no longer told stories especially for her. She sensed his aloofness, his silent rebuke. She was meant to learn from his stories, to become spiritually nourished, to tame her ego and strengthen her resolve. Instead, the pull of the other current was visceral and strong. The costumes more intimate than his stories; her anger louder than his voice. But still she wanted to listen to him, the wisdom of his words mesmerising if difficult to apply, comforting despite being cautionary. To listen to the Hoopoe now, she must join all the others in the forest, sitting as if she were one of its inhabitants, no longer a princess with a crown, no longer high up in the attic. And she must wait and interpret. She must interpret because the language in which the Hoopoe spoke to other creatures was not her language, not her mother tongue. Here, with the wind blowing, with the sounds of the frogs, birds, deer and foxes, gulls, rabbits and squirrels, she must listen more intently. The story that the Hoopoe told sounded like an echo of another tale, a classic of two sides, someone turning from friend to foe, from companion to devil, someone becoming something else. And, by doing so, stepping far away, detaching, springing out of reach. The animals did not listen quietly, it was not their custom to do so. They heckled the storyteller, they threw in snippets of
their own stories, insisting on adding their trials to the pot. There were wails and chuckles, grunts and screams that substituted words. The Hoopoe was revered but taken for granted. He was given time and freedom to speak, but his listeners knew better. Usually Iman did not cry when listening to a story, but this time she sensed the loss and the confusion, how change was the nature of life, whether violent or subtle.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was Saturday, the day before they were due to drive to Glencarron and visit Lady Evelyn’s grave. Salma proposed that they go on a forest walk. A shared activity, she believed, would bring them together and help mend the ruptures that had taken place between them these past few days. The weather was slightly better, and it was something she had always planned they would do, a positive way to end their holiday at the loch. To voice this suggestion, Salma had to rehearse and build up her strength. It no longer felt natural to take on a leadership role. She did not even sound confident as she spoke, but it was her duty to try. The future of their friendship was unclear. Iman neither spoke nor acted as if she was going to move in with Salma when they got back. All the declarations about being independent, all the accusations about Salma being domineering, were hardly pointing to a future under one roof. Besides, without her hijab, did Salma really want Iman in close proximity to David? In the past, it would have been easy to joke, ‘Gorgeous, keep away from my husband,’ now it wasn’t. And yet she would insist that Iman moved in with them. It was the right thing to do. The poor girl had nowhere else.

  At breakfast, Salma explained to them again that the forest trails were graded by difficulty and time. Left to her own devices, she would have opted for the longest, most challenging route that involved a high climb. Iman too was quite willing to make the attempt. But it was tricky enough persuading Moni to go on any walk, let alone one that was anything but short and basic. ‘We can compromise,’ Moni said. ‘I could go with you half the way and then come back. You two can then do the rest of the walk.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Iman gave her usual indifferent shrug. In the past she would have then looked at Salma to confirm the final verdict. Now she just turned and walked up the stairs to get dressed.

  Salma, disappointed in her, turned to Moni. ‘That’s a good idea. Maybe you will change your mind and keep going with us. You might surprise yourself.’

  Moni made a face as she stood up. ‘I’ll get some snacks ready and make a few sandwiches.’ She no longer spoke of her plan for the three of them to set up a massage clinic when they got back. It had appealed to Salma more than she had let on. Iman as the receptionist, Moni the business manager, and she free to concentrate on the clients. It could work. She could visualise it being successful. Or, more precisely, it could have worked. A deep sense of loyalty to Iman stopped her from initiating the kind of conversation in which Moni might cruelly say, ‘I don’t want her working for me without her hijab.’ So, Salma did not mention the clinic, though she continued to think about it as the brake to prevent her from sliding further towards Amir, an alternative that would make her present life more appealing and, by extension, save her marriage.

  When they opened the door of the cottage, it was as if they were setting out into a new season. The rain of the previous days had given way to washed sunshine, clean air, satiated earth and plants. They walked in silence, with Iman a little ahead, as if she was leading the way, claiming the forest as familiar territory. Salma matched her pace to that of Moni’s. Moni was walking as fast as she could, but for Salma it felt like a warm-up.

  ‘You will tire out,’ she warned Moni. ‘We can go more slowly.’

  When they did, the distance between them and Iman grew. ‘What’s the hurry?’ Moni panted.

  The question did not require an answer. That first day at the castle, Iman had hurried to the spot where Ibrahim would later repudiate her. She had rushed towards an appointment with pain. It must be a human instinct, pondered Salma, this running towards what would ultimately destroy, this headlong trajectory towards death. ‘Iman,’ she called out. ‘Slow down!’

  Iman stopped and turned towards them. She was wearing camouflage, the grey-green of a soldier, not as tight as Tomb Raider but the same colours. Her hair, darker and wavier, was tied back in a Lara Croft style but with a shorter ponytail. Was that who she was trying to emulate? Her body language said impatience, indifference, independence. In other words, I don’t need you any more. Where was this strength coming from? Salma wondered. From taking off her hijab? Or was it the other way round? Salma wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the triviality of it all or to feel sad.

  To walk as a group, their pace must match the slowest. To walk as a group, Salma needed to curb her enthusiasm, Iman to become more patient, Moni to exert a bit more effort. It occurred to Salma that the best tactic would be to engage Iman in conversation. In that way, Moni could concentrate her efforts on the walk itself while Iman could be distracted from the need to hurry.

  ‘You haven’t sung to us for a long time,’ she said to Iman.

  Previously whenever Salma made this observation or some variation of it, Iman would break into song. Now she was silent.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Salma could not hide the nervousness from her voice. She reminded herself that Iman was the same person, with or without her hijab; nothing had changed, nothing could change. She needed these reassurances.

  Iman shrugged. ‘You didn’t stand up for me. You didn’t take my side.’

  Salma was taken aback. ‘When?’

  ‘In every situation I can think of.’ Iman lowered her voice. ‘When Moni was mean to me in the car, you were silent.’

  Salma could not remember Moni being mean to Iman in the car. The whole car journey seemed a long time ago.

  ‘See, you don’t even remember,’ said Iman. ‘It’s nothing to you.’

  Salma was lost for words.

  Iman went on, ‘I’m not going to move in with you. I can’t live in your house.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘See. That’s your response. Is that all you can think of saying to me? Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘Half of your things are in our garage. Remember. I told Ibrahim to give them to David.’

  ‘I will get my things, Salma. Don’t worry. I won’t burden you with my rubbish.’

  ‘It’s not a burden. Why are you talking like this? We’re sisters. We’ve always been. I want you to move in with us. Is that what you want me to say? Of course I do. Why should you even doubt it?’

  ‘I am over doubting it. To you, I would always be young—’

  Salma interrupted her. ‘But you are younger than me. It’s a fact. I didn’t invent it.’

  Iman sighed. ‘You always think you know better. And I’m tired of this. Of being told what to do. Constantly.’

  ‘Because you don’t know what you want. You’ve told me yourself, time and again, you’re not sure what you want.’

  ‘I want to be independent.’

  ‘But how practical is that, when you can’t support yourself, when you don’t have a job? Be reasonable. And it’s not as if I ever stopped you from being independent. I was furious when you quit your job at the supermarket.’

  ‘I don’t want you furious and I don’t want you pleased with me, Salma. I want to answer to myself, to make my own decisions.’

  ‘What decisions? You’re not making sense.’

  ‘I don’t have anything more to say, Salma.’

  Salma, of course, did. But she did not want to say, I did this for you and I did that for you, be grateful. It was on the tip of her tongue. She did not want to say that for someone who doesn’t have anywhere to go after this holiday except my house, you sure are acting uppity. She did not want to dish up threatening stories of homelessness and being vulnerable to abuse. These thoughts must have slowed her down for she found herself level with Moni, while Ima
n was now ahead of them on the path.

  Moni said, ‘Salma, I shouldn’t have come with you. I will do my best tomorrow, I promise you, but I don’t know why you insisted on this walk. It’s not for me.’ She was out of breath, but not too much.

  ‘It’s doing you good, Moni. You need to practise for tomorrow.’ Salma did not sound enthusiastic. Why had she insisted that they go out together when togetherness was not important to either Moni or Iman?

  ‘Maybe it is doing me good,’ said Moni. ‘But I can’t last much longer.’

  ‘You’re younger than me, you shouldn’t be so unfit.’ Irritability crept into her voice. Salma’s hopes of improving Moni were dwindling. Perhaps these aspirations had been presumptuous in the first place. Salma wished she were with Amir. But she was not. Here was her life as she had made it, as she had chosen it. From the very first time she had met David in Cairo and he had been happy to let her order for the two of them at restaurants, haggle on his behalf in shops, drive his car, save him from the city’s beggars and swindlers, she had fallen in love with action and autonomy. Freed from Amir’s need for her to be passive and secondary to him, she had surged ahead, enjoying the flex of her muscles, the importance of her voice, the power to achieve a difference. Now, years later, she was wondering if her achievements truly amounted to anything. And why had all these freedoms built up to no more than little pleasures?

  You choose, David would say. The choice is yours. No one had ever spoken to her like that before, no one had ever asked her to choose. She had been thrilled at what he was offering. He listened to her opinion, which did not need to be the right opinion and the right opinion did not need to be his opinion. She had valued this so much. It had pumped her up and made her radiant, made her voice louder and her chin higher. Looking back now, it seemed such a frivolous victory, such a flimsy version of autonomy and self-importance.

  Over the years, David and British society had given the children the same freedoms – they would not be subservient to her as she had been to her parents, they were independent and well rounded. Her daughter could throw away the chance to be a doctor, the doctor Salma wanted her to be because she couldn’t. At home, Salma was no longer a queen who reigned; when she barked orders, she was either ignored or humoured. The pressure was on her all the time to be a supportive, comforting mum. Unconditional love was what was expected. ‘There for them all the time’ and certainly not the boss.