Bird Summons Page 10

  She paused, trying to remember something in the background to this narrative. Something she was ashamed of, the degree of shame small enough that she could bury it. A little thing. It nagged her now, but she went on. ‘When we first moved to Scotland, the tables turned. I suddenly didn’t know anything. I couldn’t even understand what people around me were saying. All the skills I had – haggling to bring the price down, crossing a busy street, finding an ingenious way to solve a problem – were useless. The prices were fixed, there were traffic lights and there was usually only one way to solve a problem. David would go to work and I would sit at home. I became dependent on him and I didn’t like it. I finished my training and started to work. And here I am.’

  ‘Successful, mashallah,’ said Moni. ‘We all look up to you.’

  Salma smiled. She accepted the compliment. Hers was a story of accomplishments and it pleased others to hear it. She must put Amir out of her mind. There was no point in continuing to text him. What use would it do? And yes, it could be possibly harmful. But she would like to see him. For old times’ sake. To apologise. She owed him an apology. She had treated him shabbily. Her parents had treated him shabbily. He was scarred by what she did. It took him ages to get over it. He had never lied or dragged his heels voluntarily. It was true that, at the time, his mother was having a mastectomy and his father was indeed taking his cousin to court to sell their ancestral piece of land. It was true because of the evidence she had seen. That was it! The large envelope addressed to her. Inside it were some official papers. This was the detail she had not mentioned. The bit in the story she was ashamed about.

  A large envelope had been delivered to her flat on the day she came back from her wedding-dress fitting. She had walked in still dreamy from seeing her bridal self in the dressmaker’s mirror, the waves of white taffeta, the tulle sleeves and the floor-length silken veil. She had picked up the envelope and seen her name in Amir’s handwriting. She scowled, irritated. What does he want? She was ablaze with the preparations, almost feverish as every one of her wishes for the wedding was granted. What right did he have to intrude? In the envelope was a copy of the medical record of Amir’s mother and a copy of the court case his father was pursuing. Bastard, she had thought, trying to bully me back to him, wanting to ruin my happiness, they’re all probably forged. She had glared at the claims of weakness, before tearing them up. But the documents had been authentic. She and her parents had done him an injustice. How poignant that Amir desperately needed her to believe him. How young of him.

  The following morning, they set out for the ferry. ‘The weather is perfect for this,’ said Salma, and the others were encouraged by the fresh sudden sunshine after the previous day’s rain. They needed to find Mullin so that he could ferry them to the car. With the car, Salma would drive for an hour to Glencarron in Wester Ross. In Craig, they would come to a private crossing where she would need permission to cross the railway line. According to Salma’s research, there would be a telephone at the level crossing, she would need to pick it up and hear when the next train was coming. Only then would it be safe to drive across. After that was a two-mile drive into the hills, then she would park the car near a hydroelectric turbine. Beyond the two miles, the road was impassable for an ordinary car; only a 4×4 could manage the rocky bumpy path. They would need to leave the car and walk the rest of the way to Lady Evelyn’s grave.

  Mullin was painting a fence that led down to the boathouse. He shook his head at their request. ‘It’s the stalkin’ season. Ye canna drive into the estate,’ he said. ‘No permission.’

  The three of them stared at him. Iman did not understand the word ‘stalking’; Salma and Moni could not understand why it would present an obstacle.

  Because it was Iman who needed the explanation, Mullin was happy to oblige. This time of year, he explained, gentlemen and ladies came from England and further to hunt the red deer of the Highlands. This was not only a fashionable sport but a necessity to prevent overpopulation and maintain stocks at a stable level that was healthy for farming and the environment. Only the defective deer were culled; those with uneven antlers, those who were old or weak.

  ‘This has nothing to do with us,’ said Salma, impatient to get going. Her natural inclination was to dismiss objections, belittle obstacles. ‘We just want to visit the grave.’

  ‘The car would faze the deer,’ he said. ‘They feel the slightest sounds, e’en a loose stone. They can see black and white too.’ He stared at Moni. She was the one dressed in black.

  Frustration made Salma’s body rigid. The fear of failure. They would be right after all, the others in the Muslim Women’s Group who had stayed behind. Visiting the grave was difficult, they had said, it was remote, inaccessible. But she must prove them wrong, she had come this far and would not give up. Her voice rose, ‘We have the right to walk the hills, ramblers’ rights.’ This man might think her foreign and ignorant, but she knew about the Scottish Outdoor Access Code.

  Mullin shrugged. ‘If youse insist on going, it canna be with the car. You’d need to park in the Achnashellach Forest car park ower frae the level crossing, cross the train line by foot and then walk six miles intae Glenuaig.’

  Iman put her hand on Salma’s arm. ‘We can walk the six miles, Salma. It’s not a problem. Let’s do it.’

  ‘I’m not walking six miles,’ said Moni. ‘Six miles there and back. It’s too much.’

  Iman started arguing in Arabic and Mullin watched her with amusement. His presence was upsetting Moni even more than Iman’s inconsiderate insistence. She caught him looking at her with contempt as if he knew she was slow and cumbersome. She belonged to cities and cars, not to nature and fresh air.

  Salma was weighing the situation. She knew that Iman was deliberately supporting her, but at the same time Moni was saying the truth. Six miles were a lot longer than four. It would be twelve in total not eight. Challenging but doable for her and Iman; too much to ask of Moni.

  ‘Is there a time of day when the stalking stops?’ she asked Mullin. Perhaps there could be a window when she would be allowed to drive the two miles up into the estate.

  ‘Sunday,’ he said. ‘Nae stalkin on Sundays.’

  The three women looked at each other. Saturday was the day they were meant to leave the loch and go home. ‘We can stay extra,’ said Moni. ‘I’m happy to pay for the extra night.’

  ‘It would need to be two,’ said Iman. ‘Saturday night and Sunday night.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Moni. ‘If Salma doesn’t need to go back to work by Monday, I can phone the nursing home and tell them I’ll pick up Adam a day later.’

  ‘I can take Monday off,’ said Salma. Hope was coursing through her again. And relief too.

  Iman walked back to the cottage while Salma and Moni went to the monastery where the signal was stronger so they could make the necessary phone calls. Salma texted David to update him. Iman had no one to message, no one who cared whether she returned to town on Saturday or Monday. The gap that Ibrahim had left, who or what would fill it? Sometimes she fantasised about winning him back. But even if he did take her back, she would never feel safe with him again. He had showed her that she was easily disposable, her body and silly possessions.

  When Moni and Salma returned to the cottage, they found Iman dressed in floating turquoise. She demanded that Salma take her out in a boat. She was a mermaid, she said, and mermaids need water.

  Moni, still annoyed with Iman, took the opportunity to criticise her Ariel costume, the flimsy blouse revealing the purple seashell bikini top. ‘You can’t go out like this!’

  ‘I can, and I will.’ She was in a rebellious mood. ‘You can’t stop me.’

  ‘No one will see her,’ promised Salma. ‘There really aren’t that many people around and she can take her coat with her just in case. Let’s go.’

  They climbed into the boat. Salma was the one who rowed. It gave her
pleasure to scoop the water with the oars, to push the combined weight of them forward. The loch at this end was narrow, almost like a river, but the water was still except when the wind caused the surface to ruffle. Tree branches bowed over the water. Mountains rose on either side, the close ones grassy, the ones further away brownish, the ones even further away grey and misty as if they were shadows.

  To maintain balance, Moni had to sit alone on one side. She watched the green banks drift past. She was searching for him. The little boy who had played ball with her, the one she gave the cupcakes to. He was the real meaning of this place. Every minute with him counted. She smiled when she thought of him, when she remembered the things she said to him. He never spoke, only smiled and nodded, his face animated, his eyes understanding. It was all her monologue and she liked how she spoke to him, how she found things to say. She liked how she sounded, too, kind and entertaining, pointing out things, explaining, making connections. Next time she met him, she would tell him about this boat ride. She must make a conscious effort to remember what she was seeing, to enumerate the details, not everything – that would be boring – but only the things that would interest a little boy, like the ducks swimming alongside the boat. Maybe she could take him out on the boat. Maybe she could row like Salma. It was certainly something to aspire to.

  Iman looked down at the water. There was so much in there. Pebbles and creatures that could sing. Fish that knew her. Plants that were stretching up to the light. She breathed in the smell of the water and saw the shadow of wings, the Hoopoe following her, his crown reflected in the water, his black and white feathers a shimmer. She pointed him out to Salma. Salma said that he was one of the animals of Paradise, one of the animals mentioned in the Qur’an. ‘He was King Solomon’s special messenger, carrying important royal letters in his beak.’

  Iman started to say, ‘My Hoopoe is modern and I’m not afraid to tease him,’ but then she stopped. Moni was waving to someone on the bank. Iman turned to see a boy picking up a ball that had rolled away from him towards the water.

  ‘He looks like Adam,’ said Iman.

  Moni’s skin prickled. Typical of Iman: blunt and casual. But all the more reason to trust in her sincerity. Moni felt that she had been given a gift. The last of her negative feelings towards Iman evaporated. Iman would not make this up. It must be true. He did look like Adam. Past the disability, there was a resemblance, and yet most people couldn’t see past the disability. It was too big, too glaring. And here was Iman, in her usual deadpan voice, matter-of-fact, just like that. Delight and greed made Moni turn to Salma. Made her ask, ‘What do you think, Salma? Does he look like Adam?’ She wanted Salma’s endorsement too, to seal the likeness, to make it official. But Salma had not seen the little boy and now it was too late, he had already stepped back from the shore, out of sight, and their boat trailed on.

  Never mind, thought Moni. Another time, another day. One could not be disagreeable within this tranquillity. She brushed away at the wasps that circled Iman’s head but didn’t circle hers.

  Iman dangled her arm outside the boat. Her fingers caressed the water. Such a busy world down there. She hummed a song for the dolphins, but if they came too close it would alarm Salma, so she sang softly instead.

  Salma could row without getting tired. She was stronger today than yesterday. She turned her head and glimpsed the blur of red. There he was, jogging through the trees, alongside the bank, but she could row faster than he could jog.

  Iman caught a glimpse of the man in the red T-shirt. Mindful of what she was and wasn’t wearing, she hid herself behind Moni.

  ‘We will soon lose him,’ Salma said. ‘He won’t catch up with us.’

  By the time Moni turned, the jogger was already far behind. She didn’t even see the colour of his clothes.

  Are you running after me because I ran after you the other day? You will catch me only when I want to be caught, that is, if I want to be caught. I can run as fast as you can run. I am lighter than you, stronger each day, leaner and quicker.

  Later, Salma posted a selfie of them at the boat on the group page, the serene water around them, the purple mountains behind. Not all the comments were the mix of envy and approval she was seeking. The queries, ‘What happened? You couldn’t get to the grave?’ required explanation.

  At night when the Hoopoe flew into Iman’s room for the second time, she was not surprised. He told her a story about water. His stories made her not think about Ibrahim, not hurt and rage. Water, the Hoopoe said, is the essence of everything. We would not be here without it. He told her about the water djinn who could swim faster than a sailfish. Because they leapt out of the water, they covered more distance. The world of the oceans, the Hoopoe said, is a secret. People think they know, but what they know is only a little of the whole. It’s incomplete. That’s why the unexpected keeps on happening; that’s why so much is out of control. People believe they have tamed the wilderness, mapped the stars, charted every inch of every continent. But there are still surprises out there. To leap up and slap them on the face. To humble them occasionally. Just because they think they know best.

  But Iman didn’t know best. Iman knew that she didn’t know. And that was an endearing quality, she had been told. The Hoopoe was entertaining, but he was also a warning of what could go wrong, a warning of what was coming.

  ‘Disappointment is around every corner,’ he said. ‘The way forward is a circle. The other side is different only because it faces the opposite direction. If everyone could see the end of Time, their hair would turn white in fright.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ she asked him.

  ‘In a garden.’

  ‘Why can’t Salma and Moni see you?’

  ‘They did see me. But they would not gain anything now from hearing my voice. Not yet.’

  ‘I didn’t tell them about you. They will tell me I am dreaming. Besides, I want to have a secret all to myself. Something that I don’t share or explain. Tell me a story.’

  ‘Once upon a time in the snowy part of the earth there was a beautiful girl called Iman. She had blue eyes and blonde hair . . .’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, she did. This is not a story about you. It is about another girl, who just happens to share your name. Iman had a jewel, which she had inherited from her mother. The jewel was in a box and Iman kept that box under her bed.’

  ‘I know what will happen next. Someone will steal the jewel. I just know it . . .’

  ‘Iman was a light sleeper and she was confident that if anyone tried to steal the jewel from under her bed, she would wake up immediately. One day, Iman received a letter. The letter was full of medical advice. It said that recent scientific research has proved that prolonged proximity to jewellery could lead to a serious, debilitating disease. Women were warned to take off their rings and necklaces before they went to bed. And even then, they should store them away in a separate room. On the following day there was a news item about how the shop attendants in the top three jewellery shops in the city had all fallen ill. As a result, the shops were forced to close. Iman became alarmed. She was attached to her mother’s jewel. It was a shimmering green diamond as large as an ostrich egg. It had belonged to her mother’s family for generations. The lights flickered and danced on the diamond in such a way that one could sit and watch them for hours without getting bored.’

  ‘I would get bored.’

  ‘No, you would not. You think you would. But you too would be transfixed. You too wouldn’t be bored. The following day, there were more reports of illnesses from people who owned jewels. Three of the shop attendants died. The authorities decided to call in all the jewels in the city. People were asked to deliver their jewels to the nearest police station and they were paid compensation for that. Iman didn’t take her green diamond to the police. She kept quiet. She was not the only one. There were others too who were suspicious of the r
eports. Or they were not confident that they would be compensated fairly. One of them was a childminder who sentimentally held on to her engagement ring. When the youngest child she was minding fell ill and died, there was widespread alarm. Everyone was convinced that the new law must be more vigilantly enforced. That was when the police raids started. Police bursting into people’s homes and taking their hidden jewellery.’

  ‘Did they raid Iman’s house?’

  ‘Before they raided her house, she escaped. She wrapped the green diamond in rags and ran away from the city. She ran far away until she was safe.’

  ‘But this doesn’t make sense,’ said Iman. ‘How come she didn’t fall ill like the others? Or even die?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t true,’ said the Hoopoe. ‘The scientific research was a hoax. The illness and death of the jewellery-shop attendants was a coincidence. The death of the child was caused by a gas leak and not the childminder’s engagement ring.’

  ‘But how did Iman know this? How was she sure that the diamond would not harm her?’

  ‘She wasn’t sure,’ said the Hoopoe. ‘She reasoned that the diamond had been in her family for generations, bringing good and not harm, so why should it be harmful now. She reasoned that a thing of beauty must not be destroyed. And she was right in the end. Tell me, do you have a diamond too, just like her, handed to you from birth? I think you do.’

  ‘Oh no! My family are too poor for diamonds or jewels.’

  ‘You value your faith too little, you take it for granted, the sacred words you were taught, the path you were born into.’