The Cry of the Dove: A Novel (10 page)

I was wrapped in a blanket and sitting on the floor when Miss Asher, the English Little Sister, said, `I changed your name to Sally Asher and got you a temporary document.' I stuck my head out from the covers and saw a middleaged woman with silver-framed glasses, leather sandals and buttoned-up grey shirt. The expression on her face was similar to that of the Jesus crucified on the wall of the big hall. `A lawyer in Beirut has done the papers of adoption for me. The visa section did not like the idea of adopting someone in her twenties. I had a long chat with the ambassador, who is a secular fundamentalist, and told him that you had lost all members of your family in South Lebanon and all your documents, and that you are suffering from a severe psychological disorder. Jesus will take care of her and we will give her a family,' she crossed herself and added, `I will show her the way of the Lord and teach her English.'

Francoise was translating what her English Little Sister was saying. Holding my reed pipe tight I listened to her in silence.

`Here is your temporary Lebanese passport and your travel documents. At three o'clock we will take a boat to Cyprus.'

I looked at the white nightdress with flowery pockets I was making for Francoise and the big bowl of grapes and repeated like a parrot, `But I am happy here.'

Francoise rubbed her left eye, held my hands tight and said, `Child, you must understand that your life is in danger.You must leave.' She stuck her hand in the pocket of her brown robe and produced a shred of blue sky `This turquoise necklace belongs to my distant past in the back streets of Paris. I want you to have it.'

I fingered the cold blue beads set in a silver pendant and imagined what Paris would look like. `Thank you so much,' I said and stuck the necklace in my cloth bundle.

I sat on one of the chairs and placed a large illustrated book on the table. The library was quiet before the lunchtime rush. An old Greek woman, wearing a black dress with a wide skirt, her head tied with a black scarf, was patiently sweeping the yard of her old white cottage. Hidden Greece was the title of the book. One of these days I would go there, play my pipe for the sheep, chase the hens, run after the dog and ride the horse. The whitewashed walls of the cloister kept the heat of the sun away. I closed the big black book and looked at the bowing heads of readers in the library. They would smile to each other, greet each other, but never say what people of Hima used to say to strangers: 'By Allah, you must have lunch with us. I won't take no for an answer.'

Arianne, the Mother Superior, held a special prayer for me. I hugged them tightly, kissed Francoise, whose tears were trickling down her face, and walked down the hill with Miss Asher. I was told that Mahmoud, my brother, would be there at any moment, his dagger tied to his belt and his rifle loaded. I'd better hurry, I was urged. I could hear their French hymns and see the flickering of their candles even when walking towards the sea. The seagulls were soaring above us like white clouds. A taxi was waiting for us; before getting into the passenger seat, I looked up and waved to the convent with its painted glass windows and crucified Jesus.

Miss Asher tugged at my sleeve. `Let's go.'

`Lits goo,' I repeated. Those were my first words in English.

THE BACKPACKERS' HOSTEL WAS TOTALLY QUIET. ITS residents had finally gone to sleep. While watching the flickering reflection of the orange street lights on the dirty curtains I heard Parvin's muffled sighs coming from her ex-army bed. She must be crying. I put the kettle on and made her a cup of tea. `Miss, tea?'

She looked at me with her red swollen eyes and said, `I don't want your tea.'

I held back the hot mug.

She began crying and repeating, `Sorry. Yes. Thank you. Sorry.'

`Drink,' I said and she held the mug and drank some tea.

`Too sweet,' she said.

'Only four spoons," I said.

After she drank the tea to the last drop, she sat up and asked, `Where do you come from?'

`Over the sea,' I answered.

`Are you Arab?'

`Yes, Bedouin me.'

`Wow! A fucking Bedouin Arab!I

`I fucking no allow,' I said.

She smiled.

She put the mug down, pulled herself up, put the pillows behind her head and sighed. She said that she did not know how she ended up in this dump. Her father wanted her to get married to an ignorant bastard from Pakistan. She tried to dissuade him, pleaded with her mother, but no, she either went ahead with it or he would disown her in the papers. `Parvin is not my daughter.' She ran away and ended up in a refuge run by Pakistani women, not far from Leicester, where she used to live, but the women advised her to move down south because some of their girls were kidnapped.

'"Kidnapped" what means?' I asked.

`They took them away by force. They push them into a car and take them away,' she said.

I smacked my Bedouin lips in disbelief. The only English words that came to mind at that moment were, `Trouble your heart.'

Although her hazel eyes were glistening with tears she smiled and asked, `Trouble my heart?'

`Not. Not," I said.

She pressed her head with her hands and began crying.

`What's your name?' I asked.

`My wretched name is Parvin,' she said and wiped the tears with the back of her left hand.

`Many names I. Salina and Sal and Sally' l said.

Parvin began crying again. I sat next to her on the bed and stuck my hands between my knees. She was thin and short, with shiny straight black hair and large hazel eyes, which she kept hidden behind her lowered thick curled lashes. She had a small nose and full lips that remained partly open showing a chipped front tooth. She was wearing a white shalwar kameez, which emphasized the darkness of her skin and her angular shape.

`Parvin, stop crying please. Your tears gold,' which was what my mother used to say whenever I cried.

She ignored me.

I got up and sat on the ex-army bed. What brought me here? What brought her here? Who was watching over her?

In the twilight the small port looked haunted, with boats covered with nets and dirty pieces of cloth. An old Lebanese fisherman spat in the water then began swearing when he saw us approaching. We were late. I threw my bundle on board then stepped on the side to get in.When I pressed with my foot on the bottom of the boat it began swaying. I held Miss Asher's firm hand. When we were both seated on a wooden bench inside a small cabin, the old fisherman wiped his hands on the wide black pantaloons and pulled a string. The engine began purring and suddenly the whole boat began shaking. `Yala!' he shouted and the boat sped through the water. I held Miss Asher's hand to steady myself. When I was able to look back through the small door I couldn't see any lit windows although it was dark and the convent looked like a big dark eagle, wings spread, beak open, perched on the top of the mountain.

My skirt, top, underwear and dirty tissues were scattered all over my bedroom floor. What was Jim's family name? All of that fumbling in the dark so that you would forget who you were for a few minutes. The bed was ruffled and the mattress cover was stained. The room was stuffy and smelt of sweat and sage. I pushed the window open and sat down on the bed. The small leather bag containing my mother's letter folded around the lock of her hair looked like an amulet hanging on the side of the Indian mirror. My tribal protection had been removed, my blood was spilt and my arms had broken out with red sores. A shiver ran through me as if I had caught a sudden chill. A cold evening breeze rushed through the window I put on a fleece and began stripping the bed and the pillows. I put all the dirty linen and clothes in the washing machine in the bathroom and turned the knob right up to ninety degrees for ultra white. I sat down on the toilet seat watching the clothes being tossed around in the soapy water, spun, then tossed around again. Finally the whirring and vibration of the machine spinning the laundry dry shook the old wooden floor. I wished that I could put me among the washing so I would come out at the other end `squeaky clean', without dry stains or dark deeds. Without the approval of the elders, without papers, without a marriage contract I went ahead and slept with a stranger. They should cut me into pieces and leave each at the top of a different hill for birds of prey. `Salma,' called Liz from the landing, `I need the toilet.You have been in there for an hour and a half.'

The rhythmic sound of the pestles of Hima grinding roasted coffee beans was an early sign of weddings in the offing. It was Aisha's turn this year. A dark farmer from the valley had come to take her away in his cart. Her dowry was a piece of fertile land by the river. I was not sure whether I should go to the wedding, but my mother said if I didn't old tongues would start wagging. On Friday I went to the women's tent, greeted everyone, then sat on the ground with the other women of the tribe. It was so hot sweat trickled down my nose. I was young, pregnant and unmarried. The horse race filled the village with clouds of dust and shouts of victory or defeat. Aisha went to the tent with her husband. The men held hands and began bowing and singing in unison, `Dhiyya, dhiyya, dhiyya,' until their voices were just a hoarse drawing and releasing of breath. A young boy handed them a white handkerchief so they stopped singing and dancing and began shooting in the air celebrating Aisha's honour, her purity, her good fortune. Suddenly among the cries of joy and ululations we heard Sabha's mother shout, `Sabha was shot. Oh, my brother! Sabha was shot.' Sabha was my school mate. Some whispers in the dark turned into a rumour and then turned into a bullet in the head. I swallowed hard. An old woman in black squatting next to me and sucking on her long pipe whispered, `Good riddance! We've cleansed our shame with her blood!'

Listen for the galloping of horses, for the clank of daggers being pulled out of scabbards, for flat-faced owls hooting in the dark, for bats clapping their wings, for light footsteps, for the abaya robe fluttering in the wind, for the swishing sound of his sharp dagger cutting the air. Sniff the air for the sweat of assassins. Listen to his arm grabbing your neck and pulling it right back, to his dagger slashing through flesh and breaking through bones to reach the heart. Listen to your warm red blood bubbling out and drip dripping on the dry sand. Listen to your body convulsing on the ground. An ululation. A scream. Rending of black madraqas. Rhythmic banging of chests. A last gasp.

Miss Asher sat under the kerosene lamp reading her Gospel loudly in English. All, the fisherman, was singing in Arabic about faraway lands and solitary stars. His hoarse voice ebbed and flowed with the waves. I sat huddled to the cold wood, looking through the round window for signs of Cyprus. The mist and the waves told me that I was moving further and further away from my country, my mother and above all from her. My mother's black shawl was wrapped tight around my shoulder, but I could still feel the cold. Whenever I was beaten by Mahmoud, my brother, Mother used to stroke my head to calm me down. `It's all right, child. It's all right, princess.' She would undo my braids, rub my head with olive oil, run her fingers through my hair, stroke my face with her rough fingers, fondle my ears, massage my hands. `You are so tender and healthy, Salina. I want to bite you so much.'

While stitching hems, folding collars and ironing darkblue suits in Lord's Tailors, under the watchful eyes of my boss, Max, I dreamt of whiteness. Sitting in a cloud of steam and starch, I dreamt of happiness. To sit in a department store coffee shop, buttering my scones, sipping my tepid tea and looking at the colourful dresses and shoes on display as if I belonged. While ironing I read the labels on dresses and shirts: Dream Weekend, Evening Lights, Country Breeze. Sitting in a cloud of steam, I dreamt of weekends in country mansions, tea with the Queen and whiteness. What if I woke up one morning a nippleless blonde bombshell, like the ones that splayed their legs in the Sunday Sport, which was the only newspaper Sadiq, the off-licence owner, would read. What if I turned white like milk, like seagulls, like rushing clouds. Puff, my sinful past would disappear, a surgeon would slice away part of my mind and my ugly nipples! I would turn white just like Tracy, who worked and talked non-stop while holding the pins and needles in her mouth. No more unwanted black hair; no more `What did you say your name is?'

It did not take long to get from the Ailiyya convent to Cyprus. It was dark when we arrived and the shore was deserted except for a few men shouting in Greek. All, the fisherman who sang sad songs all the way to Cyprus, was tying the small boat to the harbour. Sister Francoise had told me that Cyprus was a beautiful island, with good food and cheerful people who played the bouzouki and drank ouzo. `Your pipe and the bouzouki are similar, they produce sad tunes.' I tightened the knot of my veil and jumped out of the boat, happy to be able to stand on solid ground again. Despite the chilly breeze the sand was warm. We were met by a woman who looked like Miss Asher. I took off my shoes and walked behind them barefoot. `Bedouin style," Miss Asher said to the other woman. We walked on the shore until we reached a rundown building. `Sun Holiday Flats,' said the woman who looked like Miss Asher. New identical blocks of flats were built around a courtyard which had a vine trellis in the middle. Like Hima the air smelt of broken promises, spilt honey and heartbreak. I was about to burst into tears when I heard the sleepy voice of the landlord, `Khello, khello. Do you have good journey?'

`Yes, thank you,' answered Miss Asher abruptly. She was tired.

The street lamps outside the hostel were switched off, but I was still wide awake inspecting the sores on my arms and legs. Parvin was tossing and turning. I crossed over and covered her with the blanket, which had slid down to the floor earlier. The curtains were shut, but the distant and intermittent sound of traffic filled the room. I heard someone screaming in the adjacent bedroom as if having muscle spasms or giving birth. The wind blew against the curtain inflating it. Two brown feet in leather sandals stuck out from underneath the curtain. Blood was running down my thighs. I held the pillow tight. When the horse broke his leg and lay on the ground gasping with pain my father pulled out his gun and shot it. It was his favourite horse, the horse that had grown with him since he was a boy, the horse that took him to the nearest town once a month. He loved that horse yet he shot him. I looked up at the dark figure behind the curtain and said, `Yala tukhni w khalisni. It will be my deliverance.'