Bird Summons

by Leila Aboulela

  The trees were thinning around her. This would be the edge of the forest, now, closer to the village. She found herself facing a house or at least a building. A period house that looked like it was no longer a home, one of those places too expensive to maintain, part of an estate which perhaps had also, in the past, included the forest or at least some of it. All of this was conjecture. There was no sign or information. A wooden gate had been left open. It was evidence that Amir had passed through here, that he had entered the building ahead of her.

  She closed the gate behind her and ran the last few steps to the entrance. Up close, the building was imposing and unwelcoming. It was the grey exterior and official look that made it like that. But if he was inside, she would find him. It was already too late to turn back, to retrace her steps. Iman didn’t want her. And if Amir did, enough to travel all the way, enough to put his life on pause, enough to take such a risk, then he had earned her. She owed him. Why else had she given him her address? And here she was doing the chasing, running and running, calling out and pushing open doors to ruffle up the past and dig her way deep into it.

  It was how she had imagined Lady Evelyn’s hunting lodge. Victorian, with eleven bedrooms on an estate of 15,000 acres. The kind of home a lady came back to after a day of brown-trout fishing on the River Carron. Walls on which hung one stag head after the other. But no, this place could be a museum, unlived in, with the carpets and paintings of long ago. With the faces of the Scottish aristocracy gazing down at Salma, viscounts and earls, their clans and tartan. All around her was silence. No attendants or guides. The lights were off, and the curtains were drawn. Perhaps they had all gone but forgotten to lock up. It was not right that the valuable past be left without protection. A thief could come in and take these antiques. She, for sure, would not take anything, neither would Amir. Stealing? It reminded her of the time in the car when she asked Moni and Iman what sin they would choose to commit if it would never count against them, a sin that would not have repercussions either in this life or the next, a sin that would go unpunished. Iman said something confusing about freedom from accountability. Moni said she would kill someone. Murtada probably. Then Salma had sent a message to Amir asking him what he would do, and he had said exactly what she was thinking of saying. He wrote that he would steal what didn’t belong to him – such as another man’s wife. She wrote back that she would steal what didn’t belong to her too – perhaps another woman’s husband. It had made her laugh that Amir and she were thinking along the same lines, that their thoughts were in harmony. It was all tongue-in-cheek and disingenuous, reducing adultery to theft, twisting a major sin into one that carried a lesser punishment. They were flirting. And now the time for flirting was over. Here they were in this stately home at the edge of the forest, both foreign and free to roam. If she called out his name now, he might answer her. She took out her phone, but the screen was a complete fog. Even if there was a recent message from him, she would not be able to read it.

  In another room, there were floor-length tapestries, scenes of hunting and ceilidhs, picnics and battles. One, of a Scottish queen with her only child, reminded Salma of Norma and David. The reddish tinge in their hair, the pale, heavy-lidded face of the woman. The way she was holding her son, his feet balanced on a table – in a black and white photo at home, there was a photo of Norma, her hair in a beehive, balancing David in the same way but on top of an armchair. It surprised Salma that she could make such a connection, and it struck her now that through her children she was part of the history of this country. No matter what happened, even if she did leave, and now she had every intention of leaving, this connection would always be there, stretching back generations through glens and cottages, through woodlands and coastlines. No matter what happened, her lineage would remain, bits of her DNA. She might be forgotten but her mark would have been made. In the far future, a great-granddaughter would wonder about her black hair or how easily she tanned or where her full lips came from.

  Salma walked from one room to the next. Her heartbeat was settling, her sweat cooling, but she was still on high alert, waiting to turn a corner and find him. Any minute now, they would be together at last. In a further room, there were the stuffed animals that presumably the family had hunted. There were guns on display. A trophy and then suddenly a tribal mask from another continent. Here were the acquisitions, what had been bought from far away or won, what had been looted or stolen. To her surprise, she found herself standing over an Ancient Egyptian coffin. A man whose skin was gold, with a large, heavy black wig, a white shroud. But of course, it was not a shroud, it was a casket with four gold bands drawn around the lid and the base. The collar around his neck was green, black and red. The combination and tone of the colours were perfect for Salma to wear. It would not look out of place if she had a dress in these beautiful hues. She lifted the lid of the coffin. It was empty, of course. Did she really expect a mummy? Here was where death had served time, year after year. Now all that was left was a light layer of dust, a musty smell. She put the lid down and stared at the black eyes heavily lined with kohl, the magnificent eyebrows.

  She was conscious that she was getting distracted, that she had come to find Amir and was instead roaming around. Perhaps fate was giving her the chance to reconsider, to back out before it was too late. But already it was too late. When she sent him the address, when he decided to come, when she saw him in the forest, when she left Iman and ran after him.

  Why was he leading her through this house which held remnants of the past? She crossed an atrium with a glass ceiling, the sun shining through, and it was as if she were in another continent. A place that was hot and bright. She quickened her steps. To go back in time is like diving into water. The body is out of its natural habitat, an intruder in the home of fish. Salma gasped as she walked into one of her favourite memories, the one in which she was wearing her green dress. She was in the corridor of Amir’s flat now, heading towards his room, her back to the kitchen where she had just been sitting with his mother. He was ill, and she was carrying the notes to the lectures he had missed. Because of his mother’s cooking, Salma’s dress smelt of coriander and garlic. Her heart was beating because she was in his flat and she had never been in his flat before. She was seeing what he saw every day, what he touched and smelt. Behind her in the kitchen, the lids of pots wobbled over a high flame and Umm Kulthum was singing on the radio. There was nothing particularly unusual about Amir’s flat or his mother, not much different from her own flat and mother, but she felt an added closeness to him. Now she knew about him what the outside world didn’t need to know, because she was special to him, she was his love and worthy of his privacy.

  In the real past, the past that had taken place, she had not entered his room. She had stood at the door, clutching the notes. She had stood at the door because it was the proper thing to do, because she had promised her mother, because his mother was there in the background and even though she had said to her, ‘Go in, my dear. Amir is still running a fever, he’s not eating, do go in,’ she would judge her if she did so. She could hold it against her in the future and Salma wasn’t stupid enough to fall into such a trap. So, she had stood at the door and when he saw her, he jumped out of bed, completely taken by surprise, dishevelled and sweaty in his pyjamas. Handsome, she had thought, and she was flooded with dread, thinking, oh no, oh no, what if he did not have influenza as his mother said but one of those deadly diseases they had been studying.

  In the real past, she had giggled and not returned his hug. She had averted her face and said, as primly as she could, ‘Do you want to pass on your flu?’ In the past she had behaved as one behaves when there is everything to be gained. But now this was not the true past, the past that had happened, it was only an echo of it, a mirage to dip in and out of, her chest constricted, her body knowing full well that it did not belong in this fantasy, that it could not last long and soon she would pop back into the present. When the dead are brou
ght back to life, they are not brought back to live. When the dead are brought back to life, they do not linger. The miracle is in the resurrection; it is not a reversal of destiny.

  Now, Salma the woman entered Amir’s room. She did not hesitate, she did not giggle. Like the diver and the mountain climber, she knew that her time in these depths and these heights was limited. She must make her mark and leave, there was no time for preamble, no time for shyness or playing hard to get. She would not avert her face, she would not be prim. But the bed was empty and that came as a shock. He was not here. He had led her that far, all the way to his bedroom, and then he was not here. The anger made it even more difficult to breathe, the gasp of disappointment an unyielding attempt to suck air in. She must back out, to search for him elsewhere, in another version of the past.

  His room led to another room, a heavy door to push and suddenly she was outdoors on a university campus where she was surrounded by students coming and going, their loud clamour, their youth brushing past her with its uncertainty and deceptive promise. She squeezed her way through the throng. There was hardly any room for her here; she was not welcome. A voice from a loudspeaker announced the start of an event or a rally, the latest graduation photos up for sale. Salma could not make out the words. If he was here, embedded in this crowd, how could she ever find him?

  She was shoved and pushed out the way. It was congested to the extent that the students would trample on her if she fell. And yet she had to keep going. She had ventured further than intended, covered more ground than she should; already it was too late. The portals behind her had shut, she could not retrace her steps even if she wanted to. Perhaps that portrait of the Scottish noblewoman and her son should have been sufficient for her, that tapestry which recalled her husband and his mother. Gratitude should have held her in check, made her reconsider. Perhaps that Ancient Egyptian coffin should have reminded her of the temporariness of life. Staring death in the face, she should have felt awe and remorse, or at the very least caution.

  On she went, fighting to reach him, crossing a busy road where there was no provision for pedestrians. She zigzagged her way through jammed cars and buses, impatient motorcyclists and children selling boxes of tissue paper. Car horns and vendors shouting. Although she could not see Amir in front of her, she did not feel lost. She followed her instinct and it told her not to turn right but to go up ahead. She knew which building she should walk into.

  It was a clinic, his clinic. She recognised it from the photos he had sent her. He was showing off, that’s what it was, bringing her to where he could be in an advantageous position, where he could remind her that he was the successful doctor and she was not. Who was the smarter one now, the one with the higher grades, the neater notes, the one the teachers praised? In his clinic, she must be humble. She must know her place. After all, she was a mere massage therapist and he was a surgeon with a scalpel.

  There was much to admire in the clinic. It was big, clean and well equipped. Minor surgery was performed here, as well as medical consultations. There were no patients now, but that was because the clinic closed in the middle of the afternoon. In the evening, after Amir had his siesta, it re­opened, and he worked late into the night. He would happily schedule a patient in for midnight and not get back home until two a.m. All this he had told her on the phone. She had coaxed the mundane details of his life out of him. What he considered dull, she considered nourishment. What he saw as matter-of-fact, she saw enhanced and plumped up with nostalgia. She let herself slow down, allowed herself to linger and indulge her curiosity. She looked at the rows of chairs, she noticed the calendar on the wall. She smiled at the stack of magazines in the corner, the water cooler next to them. A receptionist or even two worked here, nurses who were young and pliable. Did he flirt with them or lead them on? Envy made her skin damp, her cheeks flushed. And there he was when she turned, at last, wearing his red T-shirt, just as she had imagined him, just as she had thought he would be. All there, skin, height, smell and smile. The bulk of him. Not only the voice but flesh and blood.

  She walked into his arms and that was the end of it. The end of the chase and the waiting, the speculation and the games. She would never be the same again.

  Afterwards, when he left, she lay flat on her back on the operating table. She looked up and counted the circular lights beaming down at her. One, two, three, four, five, six. She closed her eyes and she could still see a blurred equivalent of them, also six. She tried to move her arms, but she couldn’t. She tried to move her legs. She turned her head to see where all her strength had gone. There was a pail and it was full of muscle tissue.

  She screamed until her voice was larger than the pain, bigger than her anger. It flooded her, and she passed out. Even then she could see the surgical scars and the stiches all along her arms and thighs.

  ‘Salma, Salma.’ She thought it was one of her friends come to rescue her. They owed her this at least.

  But the face looking down at her was neither Iman’s nor Moni’s. ‘Mum,’ said Salma. It was Norma as Salma had never seen her. The loose sixties dress, the beehive hairstyle, the warm red in her hair.

  Norma looked down at her. ‘You poor thing,’ she said. She dressed Salma and then she pushed the bed. She pushed it through the clinic and down the street, she pushed it across a whole city. Salma dozed and cried, she rambled about how she had come to him with desire and he had greeted her with a surgical scalpel. When she remembered who was helping her now, she said, thank you, thank you.

  ‘You help me too,’ said Norma. ‘You’ve always been kind.’

  Salma couldn’t remember what she had ever done for Norma. Nothing special, nothing to be proud of. A free massage once in a while, taking an interest in her aches and pains. Nothing more. Perhaps that’s what counted at the end, the actions one considered small and casual, not the big ones carried on the peg of self-righteousness.

  Back through the university campus, back through the corridor of Amir’s flat, back inside the museum, past the Ancient Egyptian coffin and the stuffed animals. Out again to the fresh air. When they reached the edge of the forest, Norma lifted Salma and laid her gently on the ground. ‘That’s as far as I can go,’ she said. ‘You have to find your own way now.’

  It took Salma time to figure out how she could move. She could not crawl. There was only one way. Using her elbows, she could drag her body after her. Slowly, slowly. She made her way into the forest, trying to get back to where she had come from, back to the blue trail. She started to call out, ‘Iman, Moni.’

  They heard her and came to where she was. The three of them recognisable to each other: Iman, Salma, Moni. They exclaimed and swapped stories – at least Moni and Salma did, Iman grunted and yowled. They wept with sorrow, not sure whether it was for themselves or each other, for it appalled Iman to see her bold friend flat as a doormat, it pained Salma to see Moni, once tall and regal, reduced to a Swiss ball. And Moni could not get over the shock of what Iman had become – without dignity, inhuman and unable to speak.

  ‘He took my strength instead of my virtue,’ Salma said. ‘That’s what happened. He dug inside and took my muscles.’

  For a long time, the three of them purred and comforted each other. They murmured laments and whined in rhythm. They were freed from pride and convention, freed from the need to put on a brave face or pretend that things were not as bad as they appeared to be. They were friends again and eventually, after they cried themselves to sleep and woke up with the sun, they asked, what now? Iman and Moni looked at Salma. She was their leader and always would be. No matter what, they would always look to her for guidance. They trusted her. ‘What now, Salma?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘We must return,’ she said. That was all she could offer. The others understood her in their own way. A physical return. Their bodies back to how they had been before, able to stand tall, to bend when they wanted to bend, to move with ease. This wa
s the most pressing kind of return. A return to dignity, to humanity and strength. How else to imagine a future, a way of picking up where they had left off. A literal return to the grounds of the monastery and from it to their cottage? The cottage was only theirs until Monday morning. If they did not get there in time, what would happen to their things? Mullin would gather them all together, haphazardly no doubt, but with enough finality to prepare the cottage for the next set of holiday tenants. A spiritual return? Not yet. Their insides were too dark to contemplate a revival, their burdens too crushing.

  We have to move, said Salma. The three of us together, we must find a way to make progress. She was the least mobile of them, the most helpless.

  Moni said, ‘You must be in the middle, Salma. Iman and I

  will be at either side of you. You will tell us where to go, but we will be the ones pulling you.’