Bird Summons Read online

  Also by Leila Aboulela

  novels

  The Translator

  Minaret

  Lyrics Alley

  The Kindness of Enemies

  short story collections

  Coloured Lights

  Elsewhere, Home

  Black Cat

  NewYork

  Copyright © 2019 by Leila Aboulela

  Cover design by studiohelen.co.uk

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Grove Atlantic edition: February 2020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

  ISBN 978-0-8021-4915-2

  eISBN 978-0-8021-4916-9

  Black Cat

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  Assembly of birds, the Hoopoe spoke, I am the Messenger Bird . . .

  A bird who carries Bismillah in its beak is never far from the wellspring of mysteries.

  Farid’ud-Din Attar, The Conference of the Birds

  It is travel which lifts up the curtain hiding people’s characters.

  Al-Ghazali, On Conduct in Travel

  Chapter One

  She had hired a coach, then when the women started pulling out after the anger over the photo, a minibus, then when the numbers fell still further, a people carrier, then when there was just the three of them, Salma decided to take her own car. She had fought a battle and lost. The next time the Arabic Speaking Muslim Women’s Group held their annual election, she would be voted out and someone else would be in charge. She had misjudged the situation. ‘How was I meant to know that the grave had been defaced!’ This was a lame defence. If her rivals in the group could find a news article and post it to the group chat, Salma hadn’t done her research properly. But even if she had known, it wouldn’t have deterred her. It certainly wasn’t deterring her now. She still wanted to go and offer her respects. She still believed in the purpose of the visit – to honour Lady Evelyn Cobbold, the first British woman to perform the pilgrimage to Mecca, to educate themselves about the history of Islam in Britain, to integrate better by following the example of those who were of this soil and of their faith, those for whom this island was an inherited rather than adopted home.

  Salma’s determination stemmed from her recent restlessness. Ever since her last birthday, time seemed to be snagging. She would put her foot forward and find herself still in the same place, as if she were about to stumble. More than once, she found herself wondering, can I last till the end without giving up or making a fool of myself?

  In her argument to the Arabic Speaking Muslim Women’s Group, she said, ‘We might never understand what it’s like to be the eldest daughter of the seventh Earl of Dunmore or to have a town house in Mayfair and a 15,000-acre estate in the Highlands, but Lady Evelyn was a woman like us, a wife and a grandmother. She worshipped as we worshipped, though she kept her own culture, wore Edwardian fashion, shot deer and left instructions for bagpipes to be played at her funeral. She is the mother of Scottish Islam and we need her as our role model.’

  The outrage had blown up right in her hands. One minute she was taking confirmations, collecting money, debating whether the cut-off age for including boys should be eight or ten, and the next, the photo was posted on the group page – a photo of the headstone broken off and the plaque bearing the Qur’anic verse of light crossed out. This was followed by a deluge of comments seemingly from all thirty-six members of the group. Is this what u want our children to see? that u can be from the Scottish aristocracy, buried in the middle of nowhere and still the haters will get u.

  After the initial anger, further doubts surfaced and were posted – Why didn’t she wear hijab? Why wasn’t she in touch with other Muslims? Sounds like an eccentric imperialist no offence . . . Then women started dropping out of the trip because their friends were dropping out or because their husbands discouraged them. Its 2 far away. Heard that some brothers from Glasgow tried to find it and got lost. Apathy crept in too. Khalas we know about her from what u said. We read the links u sent, no need to visit. Even Salma’s daughters refused to go because no one their age was going. And so, it now whittled down to the three of them – Salma, Moni and Iman.

  Salma’s refusal to abandon her much-diminished trip stemmed from her insistence not to be stopped or cowed by the Arabic Speaking Muslim Women’s Group and her assumption that a true leader forged ahead without need of followers. She was, though, grateful for the company of the other two and adjusted the journey with them in mind. Instead of an overnight visit to Lady Evelyn’s grave they would stay a week at the loch, a resort on the grounds of a converted monastery, then make their leisurely way to visit the grave.

  ‘Why so long?’ Moni had asked.

  ‘Because you of all people need a break.’

  Moni didn’t think she needed a break, but she did feel beholden to Salma for all her help with Adam’s condition, and when the other women in the group had started pulling out of the trip, she had decided to express solidarity with her friend.

  It surprised Salma that, out of all the women in the group, Moni was the one who ended up coming. They were not particularly close. As for Iman, she went everywhere with Salma, sitting next to her in the front seat. If you wanted to be mean, you would say that Iman was Salma’s sidekick. If you wanted to be nice, you would say she was like a devoted, much younger sister.

  Iman was beautiful. Old-fashioned eyes and sulky lips, the dip of her head and husky voice. Even with her hijab, men smelt her from afar, looked longer at her, exerted themselves to make her smile. She was in her twenties but on her third marriage. Once widowed, and once divorced. When Moni had first met Iman at Salma’s house, she was kept amused listening to Iman’s tales of prospective suitors. She seemed to have an unlimited supply – of both tales and suitors. Yet she narrated her stories in a flat voice, as if it was boring, after all, to be stunning. Moni would never know. She had, at certain times of her life, with the help of expensive attention and good taste, pulled off looking attractive. Her wedding photos, professional and stylish, were widely admired. These days she looked nothing like she had done at her wedding.

  Salma, Moni and Iman – travelling companions. Escaping the stuck-together buildings of the city, the regenerated Water­front, the Jute Museum, the busy Tay Road Bridge and the pretty park overlooking the estuary; distancing themselves from the coffee-scented malls, the kebab restaurants and the trapezoid mosque; getting away from the scheduled rubbish collections and the weekly meeting of the Arabic Speaking Muslim Women’s Group. The three of th
em moving together and alone.

  On the morning of their departure, Moni needed to settle her son first at the nursing home. Salma and Iman waited for her in the car. Moni had never been separated from Adam. She sat on the bed that had been assigned to him, holding him up on her lap, manoeuvring him out of his jacket. She was used to doing this, his head lolling if she didn’t support it, his arms flopping wide. Five-year-olds his age would be tying up their own shoelaces, but Adam had severe cerebral palsy. Looking around her, Moni approved of the small ward, it’s cleanliness and order, and she had been given a tour of the dining room, the recreation room full of toys and a television, the garden for regular fresh air. ‘It’s Adam’s first time with us, right?’ the nurse had asked her. Moni liked the direct use of his name, the dignity of it. Moni had often been encouraged to take a respite, and Adam’s health visitor outlined the length of time and kind of relief that the services offered for carers of profoundly disabled children. But it had taken Salma’s insistence to get Moni to take up the opportunity.

  Moni felt soothed by the soft colours of the walls, the cartoon decorations, the tunes of a childish song coming from the next room. Once his jacket was removed, Moni placed Adam on the bed, folded his wheelchair and started putting his things away in the bedside chest of drawers. Another nurse came to talk to her, though when she introduced herself, she said she was a student volunteer. The girl, with angelic eyes and braces, smiled and chatted to Adam as if he could understand all that she was saying. It made Moni smile and pitch in for him, venturing answers as if speaking on his behalf. She glanced at the other children, some in wheelchairs and some in bed. A few were even more disabled than Adam and that made her feel better.

  The real nurse came back and explained how Moni in the next few days could phone in to check up on Adam. ‘Anytime is fine, but please avoid calling during mealtimes when the staff are busy with the children.’ The sentence startled Moni. She wasn’t really going to leave him to be fed by strangers, was she? Strangers who might need to answer the phone calls of inconsiderate parents. Adam started to cry and fidget, his right leg jerked. She sat down on the bed and pulled him onto her lap. She gathered the expanse of his limbs, the awkward angles of his body, his spread-out weight and smoothed him to a centre. He fretted while she rocked and soothed him, her chin on his curls, his saliva dripping on her wrist. When contentment settled on him, he became less stiff and she felt settled too. With him was total belonging and peace. She didn’t want to leave, neither to take him back home nor to travel with Salma and Moni. She was happy like this, her lap full of his closeness, his smell, his sounds. She had given him a bath this morning, dressed him in his best clothes so that he would make a good impression. This was a special outing for him. The nursing home was a nice place and the nurses were kind. She would stay with him, why not? Yes, that was the best idea, she would help the nurses by looking after Adam while they concentrated on the other children. It would be a change for her, all the change she needed. Never mind about the trip to the Highlands.

  From outside, the nursing home looked like any ordinary bungalow in a residential area, perhaps a little bigger, but it blended with its surroundings. Iman opened her door and undid her seat belt. The weather was pleasant, a late summer that was hitting its stride rather than giving in to the cold winds of autumn. ‘Moni will take for ever. The meat will thaw,’ she said. They were carrying frozen halal chicken and minced beef in the boot, knowing they would not find any in the shops near the loch.

  ‘No, it won’t,’ said Salma. ‘I wrapped it in aluminium foil.’ She strummed her fingers on the steering wheel, already thinking of how to utilise the time. Nip inside to use the toilet, check her phone for messages or chat to Iman? She reached into her bag and felt something square and hard. She pulled out a gift-wrapped box. There was a note attached to it from her husband, David. Happy Journey, my love.

  She tore through the wrapping, tossing it on Iman’s lap, and gasped when she saw the new smartphone.

  ‘Ooh, you’re lucky,’ said Iman, starting to fold up the paper.

  The screen was larger than Salma’s two-year-old one, the whole phone slimmer, its back a pure creamy white. She switched it on straight away, the button only needing the slightest touch, the lights flaring towards her in a swarm of colours.

  ‘He’s so sweet,’ she said, almost to herself. Last night, he had hugged her as she was packing her suitcase, pressed his palm against her lower stomach and she had felt pleased that it was flat (well, almost flat) even after four pregnancies, her pelvic floor muscles in excellent condition.

  On the dashboard she placed her old phone and the new one next to each other and started the smart switch. She must phone him to say thank you. Once she put in her SIM card, he would be the first one she would call. She noted the time on the screen. ‘I’ll give Moni an extra ten minutes before I go in and get her.’

  Iman said, ‘When I see what Moni goes through, when I see Adam, I’m glad I don’t have any children.’

  ‘You’re just saying that. You don’t mean it. Most children are healthy. Yours will be too, inshallah.’

  Salma’s four children were burly and good at everything: school, sports, hobbies. She was often anxious that the evil eye would smite them. Perhaps it already had. Her quarrel with her daughter still blazed in her ears. Free to study what she wants, to turn down an offer to medical school, after all the private tutoring and the gruelling interview. To get that far then cop out for something easier. Sports science! ‘What would you become?’ Salma had reasoned with her. ‘A fitness trainer? That’s not much better than me!’ Ungrateful, lacking ambition. And David’s laissez-faire attitude towards this issue was infuriating too. Just thinking about the whole thing made her feel betrayed – the daughter she had fed through cracked nipples, taught how to belly dance, worked extra hours so that she could afford to give her the best of everything. But a girl backed by her father could not lose a fight. Salma instead was the one left smarting. Which was why this holiday was a good idea. She must forget the anxiety about her daughter’s future and focus on Iman instead, the one who was always there for her, never thwarting or challenging. The more ­Salma’s children grew away from her, became more British and less a piece of her, the more she found herself relying on Iman. She didn’t need to justify herself to Iman, or feel self-conscious about her accent, or put up with the roll of the eyes and accusations that she just ‘didn’t get it’. Iman was easy to talk to, easy to understand. ‘Your children will be in the best of health,’ she now said to her friend.

  Iman sighed. Husband after husband and they had given her nothing. Not even a miscarriage to kindle some ‘nearly there’ hope. She had done the tests and they were all inconclusive.

  Salma began her pep talk – a mixture of religion and popular psychology. Iman fidgeted with the contents of her handbag, but she was listening. She didn’t disagree with Salma but a sense of resignation was creeping in. Was that what life was about? Trotting after the carrot, if you were lucky enough to escape the stick. Fighting for what could be got by fighting. Otherwise waiting your turn with a smile. There were things she wanted – to be queen of her own household, to bring her mother over from Syria, to walk in expensive shoes. She listened to Salma’s words, which were intended to soothe and brighten but instead stoked a steady hunger. What if she never ever had a child? What would the future look like?

  Salma was moved by Iman’s anxiety, the dip in Iman’s head, the darkening of her eyes. At the same time, a side of her could not help but admire the aesthetics. Sadness on Iman was like dark eyeshadow, like good mascara or smudged kohl. There was a cosmetic veneer about it that rendered Iman photogenic. Iman now took out an emery board from her handbag and started filing her nails. Only then did Salma stop talking.

  Salma removed her SIM card from her old phone and put it in the new one. She called David and, when he didn’t pick up, left him a voice message, saying she w
as speaking from her beautiful new phone, laughing through her thanks and goodbyes. She checked for new messages. It was now lunchtime in Egypt and Amir would have had time to answer her text. But there was nothing new. ‘Remember,’ she said to Iman, speaking as if she had to choose every word with care, ‘some time back I told you about an old colleague from university who contacted me via social media?’

  ‘The one you were engaged to?’

  ‘We never did get officially engaged. But yes, him. You told me not to accept his friend request.’

  ‘Of course. Most people are desperate to unfriend, block and avoid seeing news of their exes, let alone adding them as friends. Don’t tell me you did?’

  Salma made a face.

  Iman laughed. ‘Well, I warned you, didn’t I? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’ What could possibly happen when they were in totally different countries, when they were both happily married – at least she was, she wasn’t sure about him. They were both tied down by children and jobs, continents apart. It was this sense of safety that allowed her to correspond with him. A confidence in herself. Now in the car, she said to Iman, ‘Strange thoughts and dreams of a parallel life I could have had, if I hadn’t left him.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been a better life,’ said Iman. Her tone was careless, like tossing back her hair or flopping onto a sofa. ‘You have a good life, Salma. A lot of people envy you.’

  The word ‘envy’ irritated Salma. Roused her anxiety for her children, and for her successful life too. David was a Scottish convert and that meant she was treated better by him than her friends were who were married to Arab, African or Asian men. David gave her all the freedom she wanted. He respected her opinions. He shared all the household tasks. She had nothing, not a grievance small or large, unless you counted the latest quarrel, to complain about. Only perhaps the occasional feeling of greed, of wanting more, more of David’s time and touch. More of his undivided attention. But surely that didn’t count. Perhaps she should have listened to Iman, who had more experience with discarded partners. A mixture of curiosity and feigned innocence had made her accept that friend request.