The Cry of the Dove: A Novel (30 page)

But I had to stop breastfeeding Imran and to teach him how to eat normal food. I had to go to look for Layla. I began seeing her swollen face everywhere, on window panes, in my breakfast bowl swimming in the milk, in the water whirling down the drain of the kitchen sink, in all the mirrors. I began hearing her muffled cries whenever a breeze hit my face.

One early morning I held the cold washbasin and looked at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Imran was finally used to eating from a spoon whatever I blended for him and drinking from a cup. He was sound asleep next to his dad. I was the one who was neither eating nor sleeping. I also began talking to myself, `Oh, how I love you, Imran! Oh, how I love you, Layla! He will be all right. I will cook him enough food for a month and put it in the freezer, a bag for every day I am away. Marked clearly,' I said to my reflection. `Hug him as much as you can, and don't leave him at the nursery for more than three hours. Hold his hand when he walks towards you because his feet are still weak. Cup his head and hold it close against your chest, he is used to that. When he cries make a sash bundle of aniseed and crystal sugar and put it gently in his mouth, behind his tiny white tooth. Cover him with his blue velvet blanket and hold it close to his tiny hand. Love him treble: one for you, one for me and one for his Arab grandmother. I command him to your protection, John,' I said and wiped the tears with the back of my cold hand.

The taxi ride to my village took about two hours from the airport. With my dyed short hair, straw hat, sunglasses and short sleeves the Bedouin taxi driver, with the red-andwhite-chequered kufiyya fixed into place by a black rope, assumed that I was a hhawajayya: a foreigner. He mumbled his disapproval under his breath. He thought that I had come to their country to study their way of life and get them some money to encourage them to continue living in squalor, sleeping with their camels and sheep. `Cigara?' he said, pointing an unlit cigarette at me, leaving the car to steer itself down the narrow run-down road.

`No, thank you,' I said.

He lit the cigarette, turned down the window to release his tea glass, secured between the roof and glass panel of his car window, and had a swig then a puff. He swung the car left and right without spilling one drop; the sticky liquid swirled in the cup, a mini storm in a tea glass.

`Smoking bad.' I pointed at his cigarette.

`Wife bad. Smoke good," he said, tilting his headdress to one side and raising his eyebrows.

It reminded me of Hamdan's secret mating call, which I answered by rushing to the vineyard and taking off my pantaloons. Hamdan would propose, I thought, but he left me in the valley and took to the mountains.

Looking at the almost bare brown mountains, the olive groves, the relentless sun and hazy blue sky, I felt my mother's rough hands run over my face. I sniffed my father's musk and snuggled against his ribcage.

When I saw olive trees in the distance I felt like running back. I wanted so much to be sipping tea with John in our kitchen in Exeter, but the driver was singing along with some new pop singer,'Bahibak ahhh: I love, yeah' and pressing on the accelerator. The street sped towards me and the village was approaching with its makeshift concrete houses and mud storage rooms. The sun was sitting behind the thorn-covered hills and the sound of shepherd dogs and the call to prayer filled the air. I wiped the cold sweat on my forehead and was about to ask the driver to turn round and drive me back to the airport. Then I saw a group of young men walking up to the mosque, slapping each other's backs, fixing their headgear, twisting their moustaches, and suddenly changed my mind. Layla was out here somewhere and I must find her. Olive, apple, plum trees sped across the car window I would help her settle in the new country, teach her English, register her in a college. If my eyes would ever meet hers we would both be fine.

When I saw the two storage rooms that used to be our house I asked the driver to stop and handed him forty dinars.

He spat on the ground and said, `Adjnabiyyeh wa bahhileh: foreign and mean.'

A woman in black was sitting on the raised platform in front of the two badly built new rooms. I waved. She did not wave back.

My son, my heart, was teething. He was drooling, irritable, endlessly chewing on things. He began crying again so I took him to the guest room, which used to be my bedroom when Elizabeth was alive, placed him on the bed, wiped his face with a wet cloth and ran my finger gently over his sour gums. He chewed at it then began crying again. I held him tight against me and began rocking him and singing:

Finally he closed his eyes and sighed. I covered him with a blanket, got a pair of scissors out, cut a tuft of his shiny, soft hair and hid it quickly in my pocket. I sniffed his neck, filling my heart with his baby scent; I ran my hand over his tender head, placed the palm of my hand over his heart. Would he be all right if I left him for two weeks? John was a good father whispering poems in English and endearments in pidgin Arabic in his ear all the time.

I looked through the window at the dark silhouette of trees bordering the fields on the hillside. They were all swaying in the wind, now this way and now that. When I pushed the window up a gust of wind rushed into the room. I stuck my head out and looked at the outline of the hills, the sheen of the river and the steel rail track. The rustling sound of leaves was followed by a swish.

There he was. His dagger tied to his side, his ammunition belt wrapped across his chest, his leather sandals worn out, his feet covered with desert dust, his yellow toenails long, chipped and lined with grime and his rifle slung on his right shoulder.

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. Sniff the air for the sweat of assassins. Listen to his arm grabbing Layla's neck and pulling it right back, to his dagger slashing through flesh and breaking bones to reach the heart. Listen to your daughter's warm red blood bubbling out and drip dripping on the dry sand. Listen to her body convulsing on the ground. A ululation. A scream. Rending of black madraqas. Rhythmic banging of chests. A last gasp.

`Kill me instead,' I screamed at Mahmoud's shadow by the steel railway.

Everything seemed smaller, the well in the yard, the storage rooms, the horse tied up to the fig tree, the dog, my father's riding saddle, the pots and pans, even the plum and apple trees. `Hajjeh, are you all right?' I said to the woman sitting on the raised platform and hiding her face with the black mask. Her head was covered with a black veil tied into place by a black head band, the sign of mourning. Her protruding green veins ran down her dry and wrinkled leathery hands.

`Who is it?' She cocked up her covered head towards the sound.

There she was, hajjeh Amina, my mother, whose letter had kept me alive all these years, fine tunnels of wrinkles running down her cheeks, yellow discharge oozing out of her sticky eyes. She looked as if she were smiling, the red cracks on the corner of her pale lips tilting upwards.

`A visitor to your dwelling,' I said in Arabic, holding my heart tight.

`Ya hala bi it-daif: welcome to our guest,' she said and got up leaning on the metal door frame. `I will brew you some tea,' she said and ran her fingers over the mouldy wall. She stood in the middle of the room lost, not knowing which direction to go. `Where is the damn Thermos cooker?' It was in front of her, but she could not see it.

I held her hand and asked her to sit down. She pulled it back as if it were smouldering iron bars ready to cauterize. `Who are you?' she asked.

`Shahla sent me,' I said.

`She is dead,' she said and sat on the uneven cement floor, wiped her eyes with the end of her veil and added as if she were addressing the whole tribe, `All our guests are welcome.'

I put seven spoons of sugar in the brass teapot and a spoonful of tea then boiled the water. I carefully handed her a slim cup. When she sipped the tea she began crying. `Are we alone?' she asked.

`Yes, Mother," I said.

I spent hours sitting on the kitchen floor leaning on the cabinet. When John found me I was unable to speak, the muscle on the right side of my face, under my eye, had seized up. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

`You are letting this nightmare destroy our life.You have a chance of happiness and what do you do? You throw it away,' he said, pulled me up and hugged me. `You are so thin and cold.You must stop this madness, sweetheart.' He sat me down and made me a cup of sweet tea.

When I'd had a few sips my face muscles began moving. `I will. I promise,' I said. My voice was hoarse as if not my own.

`Please hold on to Imran and let go of Layla,' he said.

When I heard her name coming out of his lips my ribcage collapsed as if I was punched. I breathed in, but no air whatsoever entered my lungs. I began coughing hard to be able to breathe.

John hugged me and said, `There, there. Everything is going to be all right.You'll see.'

But a cup of tea and `there, there' were not enough.

I said goodbye to them while they were asleep. My packed bag was hidden in the wardrobe among my winter clothes and my British passport and ticket were in my handbag waiting for the right moment to leave. Imran was asleep in the wooden cot bed by the radiator next to the window He sucked his lips and whimpered, his eyes reeling under his closed eyelids. I sniffed his head, kissed his forehead, tucked the blanket with Snoopy riding among the stars under him, kissed his tiny hand and stood up. John was asleep on his side. I ran my fingers through his receding hair, kissed the top of his head, kissed the beauty spot on his back, kissed the back of his hairy legs and when he sighed, turned and settled on the other side, facing Imran, I tiptoed out of the room.

I repeated, `Forgive me, Imran, forgive me,' with every step I took in her direction. I had to go to find her. I had to go to find me.

Sadiq's shop was already open and he was performing his morning prayers. He did the tasleem then looked up.When he saw me he came out and said, `You look like a ghost. Are you going somewhere also?'

`Yes, Sadiq. There is something I have to do," I said.

`Going on a mission?'

`Going back home,' I said.

`Handle with care. You not only coconut. Your son cabbage. They will not be on the moon,' he said.

`I know Will you ask John to forgive me?'

`Wait, wait.You haven't asked for permission?'

`No. Don't tell me. Angels will soar above my head cursing me day and night.'

`You said it,' he said.

`They have been cursing me since I was born,' I said.

`Turning into Indian movie this,' he said.

`Please listen! Ask John to forgive me and tell him that I love him and Imran so much. I love them so much.'

`Love them? Stay then,' he said.

`I cannot. My daughter is calling,' I said.

`You have a daughter back there?You must go and save. I have two sons and a daughter. Mother says an old man want marry her. She is only seventeen," he said and ran his hand through his oiled hair. `I think about going back every day.'

`Will you take care of them for me?' I said hurriedly and kissed each cheek.

`Cabbage or no cabbage, I will,' he said.

`Ask them to forgive me,' I said.

`My eyes will wait for your sight, Salina. Be safe!' he said, jerked his chin then pressed his fine, dark forefingers at the corners of his eyes.

One foot then another I walked on towards the railway station as if in a trance. I thought I heard some muffled sobs, snuffles, a man calling my name, the whistle of departure, a feeble call. Ya Allah! Would I get there in time?

`Shut the door and windows quickly. Don't worry about your brother Mahmoud. He is often in the capital "seeking solace",' she said, sobbing.

It was difficult to shut the door, which had probably never been shut before. I went round shutting and securing the two windows, listening for voices, watched for movement. When I was sure we were alone I sat next to her, held her hand and ran it over my face. She kissed my forehead and said, `The last words on your father's lips before he died were your name and her name. Grief sucked him dry. Look, he left me here blind, alone.'

`I brought you some glasses, Mother,' I said.

`What use will they be?' she said, wiping her tears.

I kissed her rough hands, the top of her head and said, `Your tears are pearls, diamond, don't let anyone see them,' which was what she used to say to me when I was young.

`The day they took you he suddenly turned into an old man walking with difficulty and leaning on a stick. From the horseman of the tribe to the butt of their jokes and gibes. His daughter had tarnished the honour of the tribe and got away with it.'

`And Hamdan?'

`He is a changed man.A mere shadow, creeping around.'

His touch was tender, my love was kicking and shoving in my heart like a mule, his betrayal was final. She was meant to be born, beautiful and perfect like the red flower of a pomegranate tree.