A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar (17 page)

‘Well, of course, I have the funds to support you if such a trial should come to pass, and we will defend you fully, without question, but this is entirely dependent upon one specific condition, in addition to the points I have already raised.’

‘That is?’

‘You must sever all contact with Father Don Carlo. He is entirely disconnected from the Mission and has been disallowed to operate under any auspices, including the Italian Missions. He is not a suitable contact, nor is it beneficial to your reputation to be considered in communication with him. I am extremely firm on this subject, Millicent.’

She said nothing.

‘Finally, I cannot emphasise enough how imperative it is for you to heed these issues not just for your own safety, but also that of Misses Evangeline and Elizabeth English. I am sure that together, we can navigate this Mission back on to safe terrain.’

On his departure, long after nightfall, Mr Steyning handed me a present that sits beside me now: a small booklet, handmade on beautiful paper. It’s a copy of Mr Greeves’ translations of Mongolian folktales.

‘I wish you the best with your book,’ he said. ‘Work at it. Just keep working and I shall pray for your safety.’ He did not mention Millicent. He smiled at Ai-Lien in her cot and then it was time for him to go.

What I was unprepared for was that his presence should bring my father to mind. As a consequence, I felt his loss viciously, like the injustice of a puncturing wasp sting. We watched, hopelessly redundant, as he mounted his horse and we stood like three ghosts, waving him goodbye.

July 3rd

I might have dropped down dead and died. In fact, I did drop down, my heart beating, a shiver and a sweat came up all about me, and I shook my head.

I really do not know how I shall write this – but – I shall.

Start where I can. Well, it has become my habit to leave Ai-Lien with Lolo during the early-afternoon hours when the heat bleeds through skin and bone. He entertains her and then they lie and sleep together in his cubbyhole behind the kitchen. She seems to like it in there, and more often than not she is tucked into the corner of his elbow, sweet as a pea. During these hours everyone is asleep. Lolo’s messenger boys sleep in a tumble, a jangle of limbs at the gate, even Rebekah sits her great legs down and sleeps.

More often than not, I cannot sleep at this time despite the heat. I write in here, or I read. Today, though, restlessness bewitched me so that I was useless. I could not get a certain thought out of my head: that Ai-Lien loves Lolo more than she loves me.

Could that be? Certainly he can stop her crying in an instant with his low singing. He charms and lulls and those brown spots on his hands stand out from the rest of his skin; he carries a leathery smell and his eyes glimmer. I simply cannot work out if he is a person I can trust or not. Ai-Lien looks at him in a way she does not look at me.

I headed to the kitchen. (I am avoiding writing it, but I must.) The air was afternoon-heavy with heat and insects. The earth in the courtyard scorched my bare soles so that I was forced to hop.

In the kitchen I could already hear the snores from Lolo and, as I peeped around the corner into his cubby, I saw Ai-Lien with a light sheet over her, sleeping face down next to him. They were serene and I was ashamed of my jealousy. Why, after all, shouldn’t they love each other?

I decided to take a peek at Lizzie and Millicent asleep. I was still greatly concerned for Lizzie and her secretive, removed manner of late. I crept, wanting to be invisible, to the kang room and instead of approaching the door I bent down so that I would come to the window unseen. Then stretched up and peeped through the window.

As I said, I could have dropped down with shock, though I could not help but look again: my sister Lizzie lying on her kang, wearing Millicent’s dragon kimono. Only, the kimono was mostly undone and hanging off her and she was lolling, one moment on her side, saying something, then on her back, looking up at the ceiling. Then Millicent stood up, she had been crouching near the floor, arranging something, and I saw that she was naked, apart from her black satin trousers. Her breasts are small, boyish, and her pink nipples almost square-shaped. There appeared to be a moon-like scar, quite vivid, across her stomach. They were talking, though I could not hear what about, and then Millicent began to laugh, sat on the kang and leaned on to Lizzie’s knees. Millicent extinguished her cigarette by grinding it on the floor, and then – Lord – she pushed my sister, in a playful way, back down (she had risen slightly in conversation) so that she was flat on the kang and actually pulled her legs apart a little, and then bowed forward.

I dropped down below the window. Ants disappeared into a hair-crack in the ground. I crept on my hands and knees across the courtyard, praying that I would not be seen and then I stood up and ran into the kitchen. On the table was a chicken carcass which Lolo had ordered, left there by one of the boys, and I picked it up. Quickly, I dunked it in the bucket of water and began to pluck. The feathers came out easily enough, tug tug tug. I picked up Lolo’s carving knife and hacked it, chopping through tendons, quartering it. I ripped the thighs from the body and, as the flesh came away from the bone, my heartbeat finally began to steady.

16.
London, Present Day

A flat by the railway tracks near Victoria Station

Knowledge sleeps dormant in the bones until an opportunity comes for it to flourish again. It’s a long time since Tayeb has handled a bird. His father would have coaxed that bird down with ease and much quicker. At least he had remembered that it’s all about food with birds. Tayeb stood in the small living room listening to the woman make noises in her kitchen. He was not sure what to do, whether to sit or move or remain where he was. He looked at the owl in its cage and it occurred to him that she might know that he had followed her last night. She had put the pillows out for him – why had she done that?

‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

‘Tea. Please.’

He walked over to a large bookcase that occupied an entire wall and picked up a glass – blown paperweight – rubbed the dust off it and put it back on the shelf.
Mill on the Floss
. Proust’s
Swann Way
. Dostoevsky. Trains screeched past every few minutes and each time one passed the entire building shook, gently, as if in complaint. A loud beep resonated from Tayeb’s duffel bag. He pulled out his phone and glanced at it. Finally, a message:
A being questioned by police. Nidal gone to Manchester. Won’t text you again. Don’t come back to flat. Keep Safe. R

As he read, the woman who had introduced herself as Frieda came into the room with a tray, tea, biscuits, chocolate bars.

‘Help yourself,’ she said, putting the tray on a low table. Then, pointing at the sofa, ‘Please, sit down.’

Tayeb sat on the leather sofa and gestured to the owl.

‘I haven’t seen an owl for a long time. It brings me memories.’

‘Thank you so much for helping me to catch it.’

She had dark hair and dark eyes and the element about her that had made him follow her, originally, a daintiness combined with hardiness. She was like a vine.

He should offer to go, he realised; he should not be in her house. He scratched his moustache and looked at the owl again, sitting as if dazed at being back in its awful cage. Some nights, even now, he still dreams of his father’s cages. Each one stacked one above the other with all of those terrible, blinking eyes looking out. He hated those birds as a child. He had wanted to run and unlock them, not to set them free, but so they would die.

One summer he had been instructed to accompany his father on a trip into Wadi Dhahr. They were supplying the birds for a hunting party. An Omani Sheikh and his family were visiting Yemen and they all travelled the twisting steep road North West out of Sana’a, eventually stopping near Amran. The Sheikh and his sons tried to shoot an eagle but missed and Tayeb was told to bring all the boxes of birds off the cart and put them in a row. The Sheikh and his sons demanded that the bustards be released and then their competition began: to see who could shoot the most birds in the quickest time.

Two hours later, the twitching, mostly-dead bustards had been pushed into a pile, but one of the sons, about twenty years old, still wanted more. The Sheikh had asked for Tayeb’s father to bring as many birds as possible and so more cages came out: curlews, a white owl and two falcons, both of which had infected feet.

‘Open them, Tayeb,’ his father said.

Tayeb knelt and opened the cages and each bird emerged in a flap, into the sunlight, to be immediately killed by the shotgun. But one of the falcons, despite its impaired foot, flew away, fast over the dune. The men shot and shot but missed and then were outraged. They took their fury out on the other birds. Two more cages and the dazed, brutalised doves flew up just high enough for the men to shoot them. Blood and feathers flew all around Tayeb and the carcasses dropped, thudding dead weights to the ground. He paused, looking at a small white owl in a cage. His father shouted, again, and Tayeb opened the door, wishing that they would let the owl live. It did not move, even when the door was open. Tayeb made no move to force it out. His father angrily leaned forward, scooped up the white owl with his hand and threw it into the air. The Sheikh’s son shot at it just inches from Tayeb’s head, the feathers stuck in the sand.

When it was over, his father was given a thick wad of money. The family drove off in their Land Rover, leaving Tayeb and his father in their small Ford truck. Together, saying nothing, they piled the cages on to the back of the truck. The bloody little bodies were mostly still now. Tayeb did not look at his father on the long journey home, knowing that he would be beaten for crying over the death of a bird.

‘Are you all right?’

The woman was smiling at him. He was rather dumbfounded at her kindness. He had not actually met anyone this kind in England for the whole fifteen years he had been here, but he did not want this to show on his face, not least because it would make the past years a waste; a sad waste. He peered at his phone and read the message out to Frieda.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tayeb said then, ‘I don’t know why I read that out to you. You don’t need to know my troubles.’

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking both old and young simultaneously.

‘Who is R?’ Frieda asked.

‘My friend Roberto.’

‘And who is A?’

‘My friend, too. Stupid Anwar. I always knew he would get us into trouble.’

‘Questioned by police? That sounds rather heavy.’

‘Anwar is a bit zealous on the anti-American and anti-British websites. Plus, you know, he’s living the Muslim Brotherhood dream these days.’

Tayeb could imagine what she was thinking: bomb plots and jihad. He sighed. She was the type of English girl to wear the Palestinian flag on her T-shirt, but still think he might blow her up on the tube.

‘Anwar is just a big mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He spends his days in his boxers playing video games. He’s just playing at it all. I myself am just trying to exist. I am not interested in all of that. Nor is Roberto or Nidal. They are all just trying to stay in this country.’

Tayeb wished he would stop talking. This woman didn’t care. He tried very, very hard not to scratch at his wrists.

‘The problem is, what is a game, a phase, a bit of as he would say, head rush, for Anwar, is dangerous for me. If I get deported, things will be very bad for me. Anwar’s parents live in south London. He does not have the same worries, you know?’

‘I can imagine. Have you tried explaining this to him?’

‘He’s too lost in his visions of the victimised East. He hasn’t even been East. The most East he has been in Plaistow.’

Frieda laughed. ‘You seem to know your London geography very well.’

Tayeb raised his eyebrows, tugged on the edge of his moustache and again touched the scar on his chin.

‘So if you don’t mind me asking,’ she said, ‘why do you draw on walls?’

‘A difficult question to answer,’ he smiled. ‘Where I come from, a child caught writing on walls will have his fingernails removed by security police.’

He looked at her reaction; her eyes widened slightly, but she did not look surprised.

‘Still, despite this, people write on walls all the time. We write what we cannot in newspapers or books. There are Arabic words sprayed everywhere but without an artistic feel to them. Usually with a political message.’ He paused, how would he explain it to her? He had never actually explained it to himself. He carried on.