Bird Summons Page 3

  ‘Mama, out of all of us that’s only you!’ Such a clever thing for her youngest to point out. But despite his calm tone, she knew that an anxiety could start to lurk. This was how childhood fears began, beneath the surface of the everyday. She gave him a hug to reassure him.

  While Moni was yawning herself awake in the back, Salma stared at the screen in case a message popped up there and then. She reread her last message, sent as a response to Amir’s ‘let’s talk’ request. Neither a yes nor a no but, ‘Away for a few days, out of reach of internet.’ Not that she really believed that there wouldn’t be any internet access at the loch. Surely there would be free wi-fi and she could use her data, but she was buying time, sidestepping out of his reach before he came too close.

  It was Moni, instead, who received a phone call. Struggling to wake herself up, she had decided to get a coffee from the service station café and was standing in line waiting for her order of three lattes to take back to the car when Murtada called from Saudi. ‘I need you to send me a photocopy of your passport,’ he said. ‘The boy’s too. It’s good news. I’ve passed my probation. The job is mine now permanently and I can start to apply for you two to join me here.’

  Moni turned away from the counter. Everything he said was wrong. Every single sentence. She didn’t know where to start, so she said, ‘No.’

  ‘No what?’

  ‘I am not sending you the passports.’

  ‘Photocopies,’ he said with deliberate patience. ‘Not the passports themselves. Haven’t you been listening? I said copies, not the original documents. For me to apply for your visas, I need the copies. Then, afterwards, we’d need to send in the originals.’

  ‘I’m not going, Murtada. I am not going anywhere.’

  ‘Just send me the copies, Moni, and we can discuss all that later. A step at a time.’ He spoke as if all she needed was for him to jolly her along.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m not at home. I told you all this. I told you about the respite for Adam and the trip with Salma.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember now. How inconvenient! When will you get back? Can’t you cut your visit short for this?’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘I told you a thousand times. Here is the best place for Adam. Here is where he’s getting the right treatment, he might even go to a special school. He—’

  ‘But I am not there, Moni. I am here, and I want my wife and son with me. It’s as simple as that.’

  She became angry now, but still she was conscious of her surroundings, the lunchtime restaurant, people coming in and leaving while she argued out loud in Arabic. ‘You don’t even say his name,’ she said, and that was a mistake because it brought tears to her eyes. ‘You don’t even say Adam. You can’t bring yourself to say it.’ She did not want to sob in public, so she hung up.

  He immediately called her back. ‘Adam. There, I’m saying his name. Adam. Happy? Listen, I’m earning well here. I don’t pay a penny in taxes. If you expect me to give this up and come back to you, then you’re dreaming. We need to move on, Moni.’

  No, it was not enough.

  ‘You need to get back on track, Moni. Be fair to yourself. Get this through your head, Adam isn’t going to get better—’

  ‘He is getting better. Not cured. But the massage therapy and the cognitive therapy are helping. In little ways. In Saudi there will be nothing for him. He’ll be stuck at home all day, every day.’

  ‘I’ll get help. I promise you. I’ll get you a Filipina.’

  ‘I don’t want a Filipina!’ People looked up from their plates as she shouted into her phone.

  ‘Moni, you’re being unreasonable. This isn’t how we imagined our future. This isn’t what we planned.’

  He was right: the togetherness, the love, her banking career were all expendable. Life was about getting through each day; it was no longer about futures. ‘It’s fine that you come back for holidays,’ she said.

  ‘A month,’ he snorted. ‘Out of the twelve. One month in which you get to play the part of a wife. That sounds fair to you?’

  ‘No one is stopping you from coming back. Get a job here.’

  ‘It’s that easy, is it? And even if I do get a job as I had before, why live where I’m not wanted? Here I come and go as I like without ever having to justify myself. On Fridays I wear my jellabiya and saunter to the mosque in my slippers. There is no pressure to prove anything. I do my work and get paid. No nonsense.’

  ‘How dare you talk like this! You aren’t thinking about Adam. You want to pretend he doesn’t exist. But he does.’

  ‘Actually, I am thinking about him growing up where he’s seen as a burden. Where’s your pride, Moni? You’re not wanted in Britain. People see you as a leech benefiting from the free health system.’

  ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks as long as it’s good for Adam. You just don’t get it.’ She sensed the disapproval of the restaurant gathering around her. Her coffees getting cold. When Murtada started to protest, she said, ‘I can’t talk now, I have to go.’

  With trembling hands, she carried the lattes back to the car. She had bought some shortbread too. Salma started to make her way through it, in no great hurry to start driving. Iman didn’t want to eat. She had cramps and the hot drink was comfort enough. Moni felt congested as if the sob threatening to rise from her was a tangible object, stuck in her throat. Even sipping the sweet milky coffee was an effort. Her phone rang. Her first thought was that it was Adam’s nursing home, but it was Murtada again. She rejected the call.

  ‘Let’s play a game,’ said Salma, enlivened by caffeine and sugar. ‘Just for fun, let’s imagine a hypothetical situation.’ Iman turned to her with a smile. She would play along with her friend. For Moni, though, the delight in Salma’s voice sounded foreign. She craned her head forward to understand.

  Salma said, ‘Imagine a hypothetical situation in which you are allowed to commit one sin and get away with it. Only one major sin. It would be wiped clean straight afterwards and would never count against you in this life or the next. What would you do?’

  Kill Murtada, thought Moni. No, kill myself. No, kill both Adam and myself. Her eyes filled with tears. She had been counselled once and was told that these fantasies of self-harm were signals that she was exhausted, highly stressed, on the verge of not coping. This was the sort of professional guidance Moni appreciated. No one in Saudi would give her that. Instead she would sit in her nightdress with the air conditioner on full blast watching television while the Filipina maid fetched and carried. Whenever she wanted to go out she would put on her black abaya on top of her nightdress and for many reasons, ranging from lack of wheelchair access to intrusive do-gooders and fools, she would not be able to take Adam with her.

  Salma was oblivious to Moni’s mood. She sipped her coffee and mimicked the voice of a TV game show, ‘One chance to do whatever haram you’ve always wanted to do. Free without repercussion. What would it be?’ She turned to look at Iman and said gleefully, ‘I know what I would do. But you say first, Iman.’

  Salma was visualising this as a fun activity. Each of them would say something outrageous followed by peals of laughter.

  Iman considered Salma’s question. Already every minute of every day, the angel on her left shoulder was writing down her minor and not so minor sins. But Salma wanted a major sin.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Iman. ‘I can’t think of anything.’

  ‘Champagne?’ said Salma.

  Iman imagined it to be like 7UP but pink, fizzy on her tongue, the taste a blend between perfume and overripe fruit. She shrugged.

  ‘Model a bikini?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Salma laughed. She could imagine Iman on the cover of a magazine. Long hair cascading down to her hips. But she was too beautiful to be a model. Whatever piece of clothing she was modelling would be overshado
wed by herself. But then maybe not. Maybe as soon as she uncovered herself, all the mystique would be swept away, the spell broken. Iman would become another pretty face, another great body. One more woman on a screen.

  ‘No.’ Iman made a face. She shook her head and said, ‘Nothing. There is no sin that I want to do.’

  ‘Oh, you are a spoilsport,’ said Salma.

  ‘Wait,’ said Iman. ‘There is something I want. To be completely alone.’

  ‘But you love having people take care of you.’

  ‘I mean not be accountable to others.’ Her voice was soft. ‘Free as a fish.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Besides, how is that a sin!’ Salma turned her head towards Moni, who was still only halfway through her coffee. ‘Moni?’

  ‘You’re too optimistic, Salma,’ Moni said. ‘What if the sin doesn’t get wiped away, instead it manifests itself physically and we are stuck with it? If you punch someone, your arm gets twisted round your back and you can’t move it. Or if you abuse someone, your tongue hangs out of your mouth.’

  ‘Like Pinocchio,’ said Iman. ‘When he lies, his nose gets long.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ Salma laughed. ‘Moni, play the game. What would you do if you could get away with it?’

  ‘I would kill someone,’ Moni’s voice was flat. ‘More than one.’

  ‘Who?’

  Moni didn’t answer.

  It wasn’t funny. ‘Well,’ said Salma. ‘This isn’t how I thought this would turn out. Neither of you are any fun. So I will keep my secret to myself.’ She spoke lightly but she was irritated with them both. They had let her down. She sent a message to Amir asking him the same question. It had been her intention all along, hadn’t it? The reason she had come up with the game. He replied immediately, ‘I would steal.’

  ‘What would you steal?’ she typed, the smile stretched across her face. Here was someone on the same wavelength. Someone with a sense of humour.

  ‘What was once mine and then got taken away from me,’ he replied.

  She almost laughed out loud. Yes, it would be stealing. What she wanted to do with him (in theory, of course, definitely in theory) was also a kind of theft. She started the engine.

  Sometimes Moni found Salma and Iman juvenile. Imagine you were allowed one major sin . . . Did this not sound like some game teenagers would play? Iman was in her twenties, so she could be forgiven. But Salma was older than Moni, over forty, even if she did look younger. The first time they met, Moni thought they were the same age. It was just another massage therapy appointment for Adam, but instead of Kathy or Anne, there was Salma in a plain navy headscarf that matched her uniform. When she spoke Arabic, Moni was won over, though she had to admit that, at first, she doubted Salma’s abilities. Surely, Moni thought, Salma would neither be as professional nor as qualified as her white British counterparts. But Salma was even better with Adam. She was patient and interested. She made Moni feel that Adam was more to her than just a client. Once, during the Christmas break when the clinic was closed, Salma came over to Moni’s flat and gave Adam a session free of charge, a session that made all the difference to those long days when Moni had nowhere to take him. Salma made him relax and when he relaxed he ate and slept better.

  Moni and Salma became friends after that day, with Moni feeling a little beholden. She often brought Salma gifts, or cooked falafel for her. Salma adored the way Moni cooked falafel. There were variations to the recipe across the Arab world and Salma acquired a taste for Moni’s version with crisp chickpeas and dill. It gratified Moni that she could please Salma. Her admiration of her friend was so great that she elevated her to a special status. Salma belonged to the healthcare establishment on which Adam was dependent, and she was trained as a doctor. She was someone Moni could consult on every large and small detail.

  Moni’s self-conscious appreciation of Salma was coloured by her own privileged upbringing. One in which women were gracious and men lauded for their largesse. One in which useful connections were cultivated and favours reciprocated. Compared to Salma and Iman, but not too blatantly, Moni was the one most financially secure. Wealthy parents, Murtada’s salary and her own prudent savings had resulted in this enviable position. Yet it hardly showed on her. She was unkempt and repetitive in her choice of shoes and handbags. An expensive piece of jewellery looked odd against the sunglasses she picked up from Primark.

  To Iman, all this reeked of miserliness. Iman had known a wide spectrum of poverty, from scrambling for the next meal to ultra-careful rationing to tremendous efforts to keep up appearances, all glued together by insecurity. So it made no sense to her at all that someone as loaded as Moni could see beauty through a shop window and pass it by. To Iman’s dismay, Moni’s spacious flat was sparsely furnished, with Adam’s paraphernalia taking centre stage. When Iman brought this to Salma’s attention, she was surprised at how staunchly Salma had defended Moni, pointing out the generous gifts she had given her and how she spared no expense on Adam’s treatment. Iman was unconvinced but her own lack of confidence made it difficult for her to argue with Salma. Growing up in a family in which her opinion never mattered, she found that her thoughts only developed up to a certain point before the argument aborted or disintegrated. She sensed without having proof; she saw in Moni a supressed meanness and a deep-set strictness.

  ‘Iman, sing for us,’ said Salma, still in a good mood despite not being able to drive as she wanted to because of roadworks blocking one side of the motorway. Iman started to sing. There was a yearning in her voice for a home that would be more than a physical space, carried in the ancient words and melodies all the way from the Euphrates. Usually this familiar song brought tears to Salma’s eyes but today she was carefree, heedless of the words, distracted by the other cars on the road.

  It was Moni who suddenly felt choked. The longing in the song was spiritual but it manifested itself to her as a drowning person’s gasp for air. A necessity, a grab for freedom from pain. It reminded her of the times she had prayed for a miracle. The kind of miracle that would have Adam standing up on his feet. His illness was a test of her faith, but sometimes she indulged in fantasies. Fantasies of him doing well in school, opening a gift she had wrapped up for him, laughing out loud while watching cartoons or stomping off in a huff when she rebuked him. ‘Stop it,’ she snapped at Iman. ‘Stop singing.’

  Iman stopped singing. Salma looked up at the mirror. Moni’s breathing returned to normal. An apology was due, or at least an explanation. She told them about how Murtada wanted her and Adam to join him. Iman said, ‘You must obey your husband.’ She tossed this sentence without the slightest turn in her seat, in the flattest of tones.

  At first, Moni was too stunned to reply. The cheek of the girl! She thought Salma would say something, explain or take her side. But Salma was watching the road, acting as if she hadn’t heard. Moni took a deep breath in and started to speak. She outlined the complexity of the situation and the practicalities. She explained that ‘obedience’ was not a blind imperative; it was an acknowledgement of leadership, but still leadership could be challenged and interrogated. It had been a long time since she had talked at such length. Iman yawned and Salma didn’t comment. It suddenly made Moni feel lonely. They couldn’t possibly understand her situation.

  Iman was distracted by a text from her husband. Where exactly are you? I could catch up with you. How far did you go? Perhaps there is somewhere nearby where we could have some privacy.

  She texted back, I can’t ask Salma to stop. She added a sad face to the message and settled herself comfortably in her seat. Ibrahim had been opposed to this trip. Three women on their own gallivanting across Scotland – it was wrong and unnecessary. Iman had pleaded, pouted and sulked until he gave way. ‘I can’t bear you out of my sight,’ he said the night before she left. ‘What am I going to do?’ he wailed in his boxer shorts, punching pillows and slamming doors.

/>   Iman’s husband was a young student from a conservative family. His scholarship, paid for by his home country’s government, was ample and reliable. Ibrahim had suffered from homesickness and culture shock when he first arrived and the imam of the mosque prescribed marriage. Ibrahim’s family back home disagreed and so, with neither their consent nor knowledge, he took as his wife the most beautiful divorcee in the local Muslim community. He left the student halls, which – with girls in close physical proximity to beds they should not, would not and did not share with him – were a source of torment, and moved with Iman into a small flat near the university. She was his saviour. The one who met all his needs so that he could settle and study. And he was her saviour too. Dumped by the husband who had brought her to Britain (not exactly dumped, but he had ended up in prison and divorced her as a courtesy), she had been unsure what to do next, how to proceed. ‘Do anything but don’t come back,’ her family told her. Because of the war, home was neither safe nor prosperous. Those who were lucky to be out stayed out.

  Her ex-husband’s lengthy sentence was for grievous bodily harm after losing his temper with a fellow Syrian. Asked if he had beaten her now that his violent credentials were proven without doubt, Iman shook her head and answered no, but the truth was he hadn’t got around to it yet. So, she opted next for the peaceful, gentle Ibrahim. Of the string of suitors, he was the one least likely to lift a finger against her. Besides, when he said the magic words, ‘I will do everything I can to unite you with your mother,’ she was won over. His immaturity was endearing, his consistent lust for her reassuring. He rescued her from homelessness and from aimlessness. Closer to her in age than her previous husbands, she found herself loving him as a friend, someone she could cuddle on the sofa and play games with on the PlayStation.