The Cry of the Dove: A Novel (13 page)

Margaret, Rebecca's eldest daughter, began seeking me out on the ship. She would sing her salaam, which I taught her, and hold my hand urging me to take her to the deck and play her some music. I would blow her name into the pipe: `M-a-r-g-a-r-e-t'. She would laugh, swinging her golden braids. I learnt more English from her than all the afternoon lessons with Miss Asher. `Not "woord", "world".'

While playing one morning, a tall, graceful man walked straight towards me stretching out his hand. `My name is Mahoney, and I am the pastor on this ship. I've listened to you play the pipe several times and wanted to introduce myself.'

I often wondered who this graceful man, always looking at the sea, was. `I am Salma and here is my friend Margaret.'

He raised his eyebrow quizzically. Margaret was eleven and I was twenty-five. `Pleased to meet you' He shook her hand.

`Where do you come from?' he asked.

I did not know what to say, but Miss Asher had taught me to say that I was her daughter. `Hinglish,' I said.

`I am Irish,' he said.

`Where?'

`Across the sea, silly,' said Margaret.

He looked at my face too intently. I felt hot under my white veil so I held Margaret's hand and said, `You're late for bed.'

We waved goodbye and rushed down the stairs.

Miss Asher closed the New Testament and said, `You came back early, you two.'

I sat with my cup of tea watching a show on television. The presenter was wearing a glittering green suit and must have changed her hair colour; it was warm brown this time. I sipped the cold tea and watched long-lost families being united courtesy of the show Amanda's baby sister Molly was lost during the war, and it turned out that she was adopted by an Australian couple, and was now living in Sydney. Ten years ago she began looking for her sister. The presenter smiled and said, `Amanda, your baby sister Molly is here with us today. COME ON, Molly!' Amanda and Molly looked at each other incredulously, ran towards each other then hugged. I switched off the TV and looked at the damp walls, the small table, the Indian mirror and the dark window Before closing the curtains I noticed that a dark shadow was standing by the railway track. No one was allowed to get near the track. I shut the curtains and switched on the light. Water was dripping from the electric bulb onto the duvet. I tied a pillow case around the cable and rushed downstairs to tell Liz.

Liz was dozing off on the sofa with a letter in her hand. Her diary lay on the floor. On the dirty carpet I could see an empty bottle of wine and a glass. `Liz,' I said and shook her shoulder.

She opened her eyes and said, `Kaise no?'

`Liz, wake up!'

She rubbed her eyes and said, `Where am I?'

`In your home in Exeter," I said.

She sat up and began crying. `I haven't got my reading glasses on. Please read me this letter.' Her tongue slurred over the words. She was drunk and tired.

I began reading: `Darling, I called you Upah because of your white luminous skin that shone in the moonlight. I wanted to celebrate you, worship you, treasure you.'

`Stop,' she said and snatched the letter. `What do you think you're doing? What, at this hour?' Liz's face was covered with sweat, the red veins under her skin filled up with blood.

`Let me help you up the stairs and tuck you into bed," I said.

`No, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,' she said while holding my arm tight.

I pulled her up, put her arm around my shoulders and helped her up the stairs. Entering her bedroom felt like trespassing into a forbidden territory. It was a mess: ruffled sheets, dirty clothes scattered on the floor, some cold pizza on a plate and dark stains on the beige carpet, where wine had been spilt. It smelt of dust, lavender soap and denture cleanser. The large `Victorian Mercer king bed I inherited from my grandfather' was exquisite. It was made of silver metal with a brown finish; the head- and footboards had large medallions, cast in the shape of the letters V, R and I, `Viceroy to India', which were accented by smaller halfcircle castings with flowerlike decorations at the end. On the antique bedside table I could see a bundle of letters tied up with a rubber band in an open crimson satin box. Liz caught my eye and put the lid back. `That'll be all. Thank you,' she said.

She took her dentures out and placed them in the glass on the bedside table, untied her hair and, fully clothed, eased herself under the white frilled duvet covered with yellow and red stains. Still holding the letter she switched off the dusty old bedside lamp.

The next morning I looked through my window at the green hills dotted with white sheep and black cows. It was a sunny day and the river, which I could see beyond the old rail carriages, was sparkling silver. Was she out there? I rushed down the cold stairs to the kitchen and made myself some real coffee to get myself going. I had some cereal, drank some water and got dressed. I realized that I was losing weight again. The tight blue jeans, which I had not worn for months, fitted me perfectly. Mondays were the hardest because of Max's foul mood so I sprayed myself once again with deodorant. I put my fleece, Understanding Poetry and my pipe in my large bag. Today I would insist on having a lunch break so I could read a bit. I pulled down my T-shirt, laced up my trainers and took the tuna sandwich wrapped up in clingfilm out of the fridge and stuck it in the bag together with the coffee thermos. I opened the front door and filled my nostrils with morning air.

`Good morning, Salina,' said Postman Jack.

`Finally you got my name right," I said and smiled.

`I am not the sharpest tool in the box,' he said and winked at me.

It must be mid morning in Hima by now My mother would be walking through the hills piling up kindling and long dry sticks, then tying them to her back. I would get up, open the window and listen to the cock's crow and the cooing of pigeons. My mother told me once that what the pigeons were really saying was, `Glory be to Allah!' I rushed to the well, got some water then washed my face. The coal in the brazier was lit and Mother was kneading the dough with her rough, swollen fingers.

`Good morning, Mother,' I said and kissed her forehead.

She smiled and handed me her first loaf, dripping with honey and butter. I ate it while watching her flinging the dough up in the air until the large thin loaf covered the whole of her outstretched arms. She would throw it on the hot iron tin placed carefully on the outside fire. It would start sizzling immediately then it would puff up like a round brown moon filling the chilly morning air with its aroma.

I spent weeks chewing at dry bread, drinking soup, taking pills and listening to Parvin's tapes. I went through them one by one: `Relax', `Like A Virgin', `Sexual Healing', `Rock The Casbah', `Rock With You'. I wrote down the lyrics, looked up some words in the dictionary, played the cassette again, then memorized the songs.

Parvin walked in on me while singing. `Get the lyrics right, Salma!' She put the shopping bag on the table and said, `No luck!'

I sat down on the bed exhausted and said, `Relax, something will come up.'

`We must change strategy. How about you? What can you do?'

`Can farm, take the sheep to grass, take care of horses and cows.'

She pushed her straight fringe back and said, `Countryside kind of skills' Then she looked at me and said, `That white dress you keep under your pillow Who made it?'

`How did you see? Search the room when me out?'

`No, I was stripping the bed to take the linen to the laundry, stupid.'

`Did you like dress?'

`Yes, it's so beautiful.'

`I no stupid, I made. Never say stupid.'

She held my hands and said,'I am so sorry. I was joking. I was not serious.'

`I no stupid, I family, I tribe.'

`I am sorry.'

`I no stupid, I think God.'

Completely mute and on hunger strike, I thought, while looking at the reflection of the moonlight on the barred window, about God. The night guard greeted Officer Salim, the prison governor, and shut the gate behind his speeding car. I could hear the clank of the main gate being pushed shut for the night. Ants were tiny insects crawling on this earth looking for food and shelter. They were defenceless against floods, the hot sun, famines and each other. They were exposed to the elements. We were exposed to the elements like an open wound.They put us in prison, took away our children, killed us and we were supposed to say God was only testing his true believers. But this heart, this blood-red heart, which was too hungry to beat regularly, belonged to me for I was the one who was starving it.

The Hellena stopped for a few hours in the French city of Marseilles. The old port was bustling with people and goods. I watched passengers rush down the gangway to meet their loved ones and could hear the cries of happiness of families being reunited: hugs and kisses and a rush of French and English words. I pulled down my white T-shirt to cover my hips, fixed my veil, put on a brave face and held the railing tight while France was receding. The seaside cafe with blue and green parasols was getting smaller and smaller. I joined Miss Asher on the sun deck.

Her blue eyes looked tired when she said, `Child, I must speak to you. 'I sat on one of the white chairs and prepared myself for one of her lectures. The sun was going down slowly, setting fire to the sea. `I have noticed that you don't think about religion at all. Look around you. This vast sea must have been created by a great force.'

I looked at the sea, the wave crests breaking, the sun sinking and said, `I have never thought about God before.'

Later in the cabin, looking out of the rounded window, my pipe dangling between my breasts together with my mother's letter and her lock of hair, I felt better. When on deck there was something in the way affluent foreign people converse and sip coffee, the openness of the view and the brightness of the sea that hurt your eyes. In the cabin, the view - small and framed - was tolerable. `May Allah bring a good end," my mother had said. I saw her open face, eversmiling eyes and heard the smack of the disapproving lips. I could smell the powder of cardamom pods which had clung to her headband while grinding coffee beans in the mortar. She would run her fingers over my face, rough from weeding, reaping and grinding in querns.

At around eleven o'clock in the morning Max calmed down about the Japanese and began working while having a long chat with a customer on the phone, sucking at his cigarette.When the yellow nicotine started dripping down the window panes I knew that the boss was in a good mood and ready to talk.

I placed the silk mauve skirt on the chair and walked towards Max. I must ask him for a rise `that in real terms was in accordance with inflation'. Ten per cent I thought, not bothering to calculate how much a month. `Max, I've got to talk to you.'

He pushed his metal glasses up his nose then said, `Not now Pass me the iron, will you?'

I picked up the steam iron and gave it to Max.

Max had always been kind to me. He offered me employment when no one did, he gave me Christmas presents and cards and helped me make skirts and trousers for myself. He also knew when I was going through one of my long silences and started telling me jokes in Pakistani pidgin English. `Is your wife dirty? My wife is dirty too.' I did not know whether to laugh or cry at his jokes. I would compose myself and say, `We better do some work or our customers will start complaining.'

`Max, I must talk to you now'

`What is so urgent?'

I pulled my stomach in, took a deep breath and said in a quivering voice, `I want a rise.'

`What? Say that again.'

`I want a rise, Max,' I pleaded.

He pressed the steam iron on the grey collar, spat all the needles on the floor and said, `With the way things are I cannot give you a rise.'

`Business is good.'

`Yes, but there is a cash-flow problem.'

`But you always ask for cash, you never take cheques with tax and all.'

`Look, Salma, there are many young English kids out there without a job. They would jump at the chance. Count your blessings, darling.'

I walked back to my chair, placed the mauve silk skirt on my lap and continued stitching the hem. I should really count my blessings. Four years of work and no rise. Five hundred pounds a month. Rent has risen to fortyfive pounds a week plus bills. About sixty pounds a month for rates, which together with other taxes added up to four hundred a month. Then I am left with one hundred to eat, pay for transport, buy books and pay university fees. If Max gave me fifty pounds more things would be much easier. I realized that I had stopped stitching and was gazing at my shoelaces which were getting longer and longer. Either my feet were getting thinner or the shoelaces were stretching.