The Cry of the Dove: A Novel (24 page)

I imagined myself standing there in the middle of an old dance floor wriggling my hips to the beat of a desert drum.

`Where do you come from?' asked a young man in an England T-shirt and black trousers, which shone with too much ironing.

He looked like a football fan so I said, `I don't speak the English.'

He looked at me with his big blue eyes and said, `Go on. You do speak English.'

`No, I don't.'

`Where are you from? Barcelona? I've been to Barcelona. Right, Italian?'

I did not answer.

`I know why you are not saying. Because you are from Argentina,' he said and walked away.

Had I told him I was Arab he probably would have run faster. A Bedouin from a village called Hima, whose blood was spilt by her tribe for any vagabond to drink it. I straightened my back, pulled my tummy in and shut my mouth. Like a key witness in a mafia crime case I changed my name, address, past and even changed countries to erase my footsteps.

Gwen said that it was so important to trace back your family tree. The roots hold you tightly to the ground. One must accept and be proud of who you are. She was trying to construct a history of her family when I asked her about her father.

`My father at some point moved to Merthyr Tydfil and was training as a Mining Deputy. He gave up this idea and I know was in Wolverhampton for some time. He rowed, played rugby and was in the Territorial Army among other things. In nineteen twelve he went to work near Johannesburg in South Africa where he was deputy chief engineer for the first iron and steel works set up there. It is now part of Kvaerner.'

Out of a muslin handkerchief she produced a grey ingot, rubbed it gently and said, `The small part of the first ingot I have is almost three inches by just over one inch and about an eighth of an inch thick. On one side it has "USCO", United Steel Corporation, I believe, and "INGOT No 1" and on the other "1/9/13" which is the date it was cast. He also left me one of the original ingots before it was cut just after it was cast. All the bigwigs were watching' She poured some more tea in the fine china cup with English roses meticulously drawn on one side. This was a special day. Gwen was sharing her limitless love for her father with me.

At Dansers a middle-aged, dark-haired man with a beer belly stood in the corner sipping his drink slowly and watching me.Women approached him and he politely sent them away. He walked towards me. `Would you like to dance?' This coming from a decent-looking man, with solid practical shoes and clean white shirt, probably a teacher in a comprehensive, must not be rejected.

I hesitated then said, `I am sorry I am tired.'

The seagulls this morning looked like a fluffy white cloud soaring over the green plain; some would fly away from the flock, others would stay close to their clan, others would dive hastily in the water, yet others would stand on a tree and watch all that dancing in the air as if they didn't have the same white feathers, wings and pills.

The smell of beer and nicotine filled the now crowded club. `Give us a kiss, you bitch!' a man cried.

`Go fuck your mother!' she answered.

A man on the dance floor, who had been approaching women all evening and being rejected, unzipped his trousers and was mooning the dancers with his Union Jack boxer shorts.

I was about to finish my second drink when a handsome, well-dressed, dark-haired man walked right in front of me, waved then winked urging me to follow him. I imagined myself making love to this Italian plumber on the leather seats of his yellow sports car. Then when the fun was over he would comb his hair, zip up his trousers, button up his shirt and say, `Must do a runner. My wife will kill me' I begged myself to follow him, to act human, to give in, but Salina and Sally refused to budge, to run after him, to seek refuge. I was a convict, an immigrant, trash, and a one-night stand with a plumber was more than I deserved. If I were them I would not let me into their clean fragrant houses. I was contagious and everything I touched turned into black tar. The sight of a man and a woman French kissing, who were, up to a few minutes ago, complete strangers, was nauseating. It must be all that Coke I drank on an almost empty stomach. If they came to me and said, `Would you like to have some fresh air,' as in Victorian dramas, I would have said yes. I sucked the ice cubes, wrapped myself with my mother's black shawl and walked out of the cloud of smoke. There was a chill in the early morning air, but the pungent smell of beer was slowly being overpowered by the aroma of rich food being fried.

I sat on the bench inhaling the smell of falafel rissoles bubbling away in the frying oil and listening to the conversation in Arabic. I could also hear some old French songs in the background.

`Yasin, why this to happen to me?' the old man said.

`Kismet, naseeb, fate, man,' the younger man said.

`Why it to be my son, ya rabbi: my god?' the older man said.

`Allah test his true believers," saidYasin.

`Amen,' the older man said.

`Also he still young and might grow out of it,' saidYasin.

`In the war of liberation in Algeria I joined the resistance. We kicked the French out of our country. We lose millions and now the European bastards claimed my son. He no longer Arab, no longer a man.'

He threw a fresh batch of falafel in the frying pan. The aroma of crushed chickpeas, garlic and parsley balls hitting the hot oil wafted to my nose again.

`I blame his English mum. She tied his hair with ribbons and dressed him up in girls' clothes,' said the old man.

`She just spoilt him. Arab mums much worse,' saidYasin.

`He is not my son and I don't want to see him ever again,' said the old man.

`He your only son.You don't mean that.'

I pricked up my ears and sniffed.

`I will divorce that bitch, I will,' said the old man.

`Doucement, my friend, doucement,' saidYasin.

`Nice handlebar moustache, Mokhammad!' cried a young English man from across the street.

`Don't listen to them! The moustache suits you,' said Yasin.

`Fuck off, English poof! Bugger off, faggot! Bugger off, cabbage-eater," shouted the old man.

`Your blood pressure haj, y'ayshah,' saidYasin.

The smell of crushed cumin, black pepper and coriander filled the busy high street. Drunken young men and women staggered back home in the early morning light. I could hear the cooing of pigeons and police sirens in the distance. I filled my lungs with the smell of home, tightened my mother's black shawl around my neck then got up and joined the herds walking down the hill.

`I haven't seen you for ages, you never call me,' said Parvin. We decided to meet in the cafe at one. I took extra care with my appearance. Parvin with her hazel eyes, long straight black hair, sharply cut fringe, dark shiny skin looked like a model in her mauve shalwar kameez and white trainers. We hugged and kissed each other on the cheek like we do.

`You look fine," I said shyly.

`You don't look so bad yourself,' she said while inspecting my face closely. She was looking for `signs of paranoia' as she used to say. She smiled when she found none.

She insisted on buying me lunch. `Are you sure you don't want dessert?'

`I'll have lemon cake,' I said, grateful.

She paid for both trays and we carried them upstairs and sat among the overgrown rubber plants.

Parvin looked at me and said, `You're my bridesmaid so I want you to be there early to help me get dressed,' she said, munching her salad hurriedly.

`At what time?' I asked.

`If you can come by ten o'clock in the morning it will be great. Don't get dressed. Bring your stuff with you. We'll get dressed together. Oh, by the way, bridesmaids can wear anything provided it's lilac.'

I ate the lemon cake slowly and carefully. `Parvin, are you happy?'

`Yes'

The smell of fresh lemon rind reminded me of lemon plantations on the outskirts of our village. In the spring when the trees were in full bloom, when they looked like decorated brides, the wind carried a strong perfume that went straight to your heart.

`What about your family?'

I never saw Parvin cry after that night in the hostel. Her tears were not for public consumption, she used to say. `What about them?'

`Are they coming to the wedding?'

`They don't know where I am,' she said and chased the carrot salad with her fork.

`And if they find out about Mark and the wedding ...

`It would be too late by then.'

If I hadn't known Parvin I would have thought that she was completely composed, but she lowered her eyelashes to cover her eyes, bowed her head so far down until her fringe covered most of her face and toyed with the napkin, folding and unfolding it.

`Have you told Mark about your family?'

`Yes and he is going to tell his family that my family are in Pakistan and cannot come to the wedding.'

`Why don't you try to reason with them?'

`I think about it every day. They wouldn't approve. Although he agreed to convert to Islam to put my mind at rest he is still a white English man.'

`They might approve if he is a Muslim,' I said.

`Once a Christian, always a Christian,' she said, folding her napkin again.

`Good Pakistani men don't climb on trees,' I said.

`You mean "grow",' she said, correcting me.

We laughed.

While chasing the last bit of lemon cake, I thought that the real monkeys were Parvin and me, good at climbing trees without help and then coming out of them just like that. I reached out across the white tablecloth and held Parvin's elegant hand. `Don't worry! The wedding be fine.'

After work I rushed to Gwen, who must have been in the kitchen when I rang the bell. I could hear her approaching the door with difficulty. She opened the door and her pale face smiled.

`Hello, Gwen, you look pale,' I said and kissed each cheek.

`These legs are killing me. I must lose weight,' she said while running her hand over her coiffed grey hair.

I hugged her and said that she needed some exercise. `What about a walk now?'

It was still early and the sun was breaking gently through the clouds. She put her rain jacket on, her flowery scarf and struggled with her walking shoes. I didn't offer to help, she would be offended.We walked down the road. `When you have arthritis the liquid that lubricates the joints runs out and they begin rubbing bone against bone," she said. The pain was drawn on her face, but she kept walking. `But if I don't keep moving I will become an invalid' I held her arm, trying to encourage her to lean on me. She pulled it away and continued leaning on her walking stick. Her forehead was sweaty when we got to the first bench by the river. Gwen sighed with relief when we finally sat down.

`Out with it. What's the problem?' she said.

`Parvin has asked me to be her bridesmaid. I do not have a lilac dress. By the way, she did not invite her family.'

`So?'

`She should have asked one of her department store girlfriends. They would know what to do.'

Gwen was drawing lines on the grass with her stick. She looked at me with her ageing eyes and said in her headmistress voice, `It's time for you to pull yourself together: a) her family are not yours and it was up to her to invite or not invite them, b) she has asked you to be her bridesmaid and no one else and c) I have an old lilac and mauve dress that I put on once almost forty years ago at my sister's wedding. It's in good shape, you can have it altered if you like,' she said and looked over at the river.

`Really? Great, great,' I said.

The swans were waltzing across the river as if there was nothing wrong with the world. I looked at Gwen's sweaty face, her short grey hair, her overweight body and her swollen legs stretched on the lawn and hated her son Michael for not visiting her. Shahla would have said, `You give meat to someone without teeth, and earrings to someone whose ears are not pierced.' I stood up, got my bamboo pipe out, and blew a tune, which I practised so many times while sitting here on the riverside, enjoying the sunset. I tried to imitate the graceful movement of the swans, introduced the sudden cries of seagulls and the sound of running water. I stood in front of Gwen as if performing in a royal show under the patronage of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.When I received my citizenship, when I became a British subject, I had to vow allegiance to the Queen and her descendants. Gwen was my queen so when I finished I bowed to her.

She clapped her hands laughing. `You know how to play that thing.You never told me,' she said.

`Now you know.' I smiled.

`Yes, now I know' She smiled.

Max noticed the troubled expression on my face and said, `What's wrong now?'

`Parvin is getting married and she wants me be her maid.'

He gave me a I-wish-you-would-get-married-one-ofthese-days-too look and said, `That's nice.'

`They're an elegant family and I don't know what to do,' I said.

He spat out some needles, ran his fingers wet with saliva over his hair to make sure it was still held in place and said, `Whatever you do do not throw up on her shoes. My niece was invited to her university friend's wedding. You know, la-di-da kind of people. Horses and boat races. The daft bugger saw all that free booze and began guzzling it. First sherry and champagne, then beer followed by wine, then port and whisky until Bob's your uncle the fivecourse dinner was plastered over the bridegroom's mother's silk chiffon dress.' He sniggered. `No, it gets worse. The daft bugger went to the wedding to find herself a posh husband,' he laughed.

What he did not know was that alcohol had never passed my lips ever. I was a goddamn Muslim. But what if I got too nervous and vomited all over the floor?

`If they are toffee-nosed then keep talking about the weather and saying "ma'am" to his mother and you will be fine. By the way, I wouldn't worry too much because very few will be sober. If you remember what went on in a wedding then it must have been crap,' he said.

Gwen's dress - altered, dry-cleaned and wrapped in plastic - was rustling in the breeze. I hooked the hanger on the edge of the old wardrobe top to keep it crease-free and to look at it before I went to sleep. It was mauve, strapless, figure-hugging with a heart-shaped bodice and a wide georgette lilac coat with long sleeves and a high collar. A big magnolia flower made of both the mauve satin and lilac chiffon was pinned to the side of the collar. I shortened the satin dress to just below the knee, took it in at the back slightly and left the wide flowing top as it was. It was just beautiful. I opened the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and brought Layla's white dress out for the first time in months. I spent hours making that baby-girl dress. I spent hours trying to imagine what a water lily would look like on a luminous jolly night, a Layla. I tried to make the shape of the dress similar to that of a lily. I was willing the life of whoever wore it to be happier and whiter than mine. The zigzagged hem, the flowery collar, the small rose-like pockets, the tiny puffed sleeves all wished her well. I pulled up the fine plastic covering Gwen's dress, slipped the shoulders of the dress off the hanger, hung Layla's white dress on it then slipped the dress and the lilac coat on top. I stuck the metal hook through the hole in the plastic wrapping and hung the two dresses at the edge of the wardrobe. The fine mauve satin and the few pearls stitched to the collar of her dress gleamed together in the darkness.