Bird Summons Read online

  Today, at the beach, when she had planted the date tree and watered it with her tears, a connection to the land had begun. At first gentle and overpowered by Ibrahim barging in to hurt her and throw back her things, but now as she looked out at the countryside, it was reaffirmed. This could be his replacement, she thought. Not another man but a place made up of heather and hawthorn, wild cherry and birch. It was the strangest and most muddled of thoughts, but it had a zest to it.

  Moni started to complain about the draught. Iman ignored her until Salma said, ‘Iman, close the window.’ She obeyed with a scowl on her face.

  Chapter Four

  It was time to leave the car and cross the water. They were all, in different ways, thrown by this. Moni had no idea that they needed to cross by ferry, Iman had misunderstood the word ‘ferry’ to mean bridge and Salma assumed that she would drive the car onto the ferry. But the ferry itself was small, a rugged smelly boat just enough for them and their things. Mullin, the man who steered it, wasn’t interested in their misunderstandings. He shrugged when Salma wanted reassurance about the safety of her car and he didn’t care that Moni nearly slipped on the wet gangplank. ‘Are there monsters in the water?’ Iman asked him (she had been primed by Salma’s children). ‘Yes, lassie,’ he said. ‘Selkies too. Do you ken that word?’ Salma noted the softening Iman induced in him, her usual effect on men. She wasn’t jealous. It wasn’t worth it. Mullin was small and solidly built, with white stubble that grew on his scalp and chin. His clothes were dirty and his mood disagreeable. Afterwards, when Moni gave him a tip for helping them with their things, he looked at the coin with disgust as if he was about to toss it away.

  The boat was unpleasant, but they were surrounded by beauty. A glory that made Salma feel light-headed. Leaving the car behind meant that she lost one of her capabilities, a bit of her authority, and now instead there was a strange freedom from bulk, the necessary space ready to take in a blast of visual stimulation enough to make her unsteady. Iman, the only one of them who didn’t cringe from Mullin’s proximity and stood near him, began to hear more clearly than ever the vibration of water, the timbre of white, notes for purple, green, grey and the constant low pitch of the mountains. Even Moni, who was never moved by nature, felt grateful that she wasn’t blind.

  Disembarking, Salma had to concentrate on Mullin’s voice as he gave them information about their accommodation and the loch in general. His voice was low and she struggled with his accent, too intimidated to ask him to repeat himself. The nearest shops were seven miles away. From the outside, their stone-built cottage looked very much like the picture she had seen online, red sloping roof and green door. Inside, it had low ceilings and pine furniture, chequered curtains and a bright kitchen. It was even prettier than expected. She was relieved. Moni, the hardest one of them to impress, smiled with approval. Mullin showed them how to use the wood-burning stove. He answered their questions. Yes, the mobile phone signal should be okay. Yes, there were other families staying on the estate. In turn, he did not seem curious about them except to assume that Iman was Salma’s daughter.

  That’s new, thought Salma, slamming the door of the cottage after him. I look that old! She found that the other two had already chosen their rooms. There were only two. The downstairs one was larger with twin beds. Up in the attic was a smaller single room. Salma assumed that she would share with Iman and Moni would be alone upstairs, but it turned out that Iman had fallen in love with the attic. Besides, as she explained to Salma, with a completely straight face, no hint of mockery, the room was so narrow that Moni would hardly be able to squeeze into the doorway.

  Usually Moni did not like new places. Change and different scents disrupted her equilibrium. She protected herself by ignoring her surroundings as much as possible, but moving to a new place had forced her to adjust. The surprise of having to share with Salma made her more energetic than she would have normally been. She set about unpacking, but not before running her fingers over the shelves and hangers in the cupboard. Not a speck of dust or grime. The sheets on the bed smelt fresh and clean. There was a rough woollen rug on the floor, which she suspected of not being hygienic enough. She moved it to Salma’s side of the room. If they were going to be here a whole week, then it was important that she make herself comfortable. She was marking her territory. Her bed, her side of the cupboard; prayer clothes and mat on top of the one chair in the room. Prayer clothes and mats were communal property, borrowed without permission or hesitation, but still Moni preferred to have her own. She kept them spotlessly clean and regularly rubbed a solid perfume cube on her mat on the spot where her nose touched the ground. It was always pleasant to touch down to fragrance, to rise up with the lingering scent of musk.

  Iman could not believe how perfect her room was, as if it were specially made for her. The size of it, the sloping protective roof, the way the window was just over the bed so that she could lie down and see not just the sky but everything else – the hills and the water, a path that led to the forest and, far away, more sky and the tips of mountains. There was a dressing table and over it an old-fashioned pitcher and basin, both painted with the same scene of a princess – Iman assumed she was a princess or at the very least a noble lady – standing under a tree. She was surrounded by flowers bigger than the tree. Long flowing skirt and curled hair piled on top. A bird was perched on her wrist, wings spread out as if it was ready to take flight.

  There was a small cupboard in the room and when Iman opened it she found it full of clothes. But these weren’t ordinary clothes, they were costumes. A nurse, a witch, a kimono, Batgirl complete with cape and mask and, best of all, a princess. The princess gown was sky-blue, and it had silver gloves to match. The gloves were long, reaching up to the elbow. The skirt of the gown took up most of the space in the cupboard. At the bottom were packets of dried fruit and nuts and biscuits labelled ‘Meal Replacement’. They came in chocolate, banana, vanilla and orange flavour. Suddenly hungry, she ate one of them. It was chewy and satisfying. The pain Ibrahim had caused her was a small black tangle inside, undigested, like something she shouldn’t have eaten. But as she lay back, she found the soft mushy biscuit covered the black tangle so that it no longer touched the walls of her stomach. The biscuit was therapeutic, it was on her side against the pain. It was there to help her.

  Salma went for a walk. She wanted to see where the phone signal was strongest. Despite what Mullin had said, it was weak in the cottage. She walked towards the water, finding the air warmer the further she went along the path. It was smooth at first and then became twisted and unclear, and she kept looking behind her every once in a while to memorise the route so that she could find her way back. It felt good to walk after sitting in the car for so long. Her body, inherently athletic, needed movement. She used to play tennis with Amir, making sure that she never beat him but at the same time keeping him challenged so that he would not be bored. At times she wondered if he suspected that she was deliberately missing shots, slowing down in her reflexes, not running towards the net fast enough. His ego always needed massaging and she must have been good at massage, even then. Now it was her bread and butter.

  She smiled to herself and walked faster, enjoying how her body warmed up. Tomorrow she would wear her trainers and go for a run. It would be great to thrash through these trees, to smell the earth and her own sweat. Normally, she would now be bustling back in the cottage, putting away all the groceries in the kitchen, deciding whether the meat they had been carrying had defrosted or not and to what extent. Let Moni deal with it. Besides, she needed a decent phone signal to send a message to David, reassuring him of their safe arrival.

  Moni changed into a comfortable green jellabiya and set about organising the kitchen. Finding out where everything was, teaching herself how to use the cooker, absorbed her; each simple task a challenge she could overcome and feel proud that she had overcome. The meat they had been ­carry­ing – portions covered in aluminium foil
– was impossible to tell apart. Was this chicken or beef cubes or mince? She chose the softest packet, which turned out to be the mince. It had defrosted quicker than the others. She started to make kofta, seasoning the meat and then rolling it into balls, which she coated with eggs and flour. She looked up in surprise when Iman came in dressed in costume. ‘That turquoise belt is something,’ she said.

  ‘Cleopatra,’ said Iman. She stretched up her neck, balancing an imaginary crown.

  ‘What?’

  Iman explained about the costumes in the cupboard. ‘There is a matching wig too,’ she said and complimented Moni on her jellabiya.

  Moni was surprised and flattered. She sliced tomatoes to make a sauce for the kofta, searched for the black pepper. She knew why she was beginning to relax. It was because the phone signal was poor. Murtada could not call her now. All he did was put pressure on her. Send me a scan of your passport. Pack up and take your son to his father, that’s where you belong.

  ‘Moni isn’t your real name, is it?’

  ‘Manahil is my real name.’ But to her family and friends she was Moni.

  Iman walked around the kitchen, touching things, opening cupboards out of curiosity, peering into the fridge. She was absent-minded, not really watching what Moni was doing or even offering to help. ‘Do you think marriage is religiously sanctioned prostitution?’ she said it as if she was wondering out loud.

  Moni glanced up but didn’t immediately reply. She tested the oil in the pan. If it wasn’t hot enough, the kofta fingers would disintegrate and make a mess. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, without protest and this surprised Iman. ‘If a woman doesn’t have her own means, it could feel that way. If she is passed from one husband to the next without choice, if there is no love or understanding, it could feel that way. But one is halal and the other haram. One is blessed, and the other isn’t; that should be a sufficient difference.’

  Iman could not think of a reply or a further question. She opened the door to the back garden and stepped out, trying to act regal but not pulling it off.

  Moni was going to say, you forgot your scarf, but the garden seemed sheltered enough. She watched Iman through the kitchen window. The Cleopatra dress was see-through, it fell to the grass but did not cover Iman’s arms. Iman’s long black hair fell over her shoulders. She swayed when she walked, dragged down by the long dress and the weight of the padded gold collar. Such a pleasing image, almost detached from time and space. Youth and beauty in a garden. The perfect ingredients, a hint of paradise with Iman as a houri. As Iman bent her head and fiddled with the sash around her waist, her hair cascaded over a bush. Midges haloed her upper body. The garden was rich with colours: the pink of Himalayan rose, mauve delphinium, flowers that were white, yellow and blue. There was the movement of birds and insects and now Iman enhancing and being enhanced.

  Religion is the recognition of beauty. Moni had read this somewhere and, if it was true, then she possessed it now, looking through a windowpane. It was unusual for her to be visually moved, to notice, to see. And she could go out there too. She could be part of it. All that separated her was the kitchen door. Iman turned towards her. The usual slightly bored look was softened but her rounded shoulders, which earlier conveyed amiability, now spoke of pain. Another time, Moni thought. It was a shame about Ibrahim. Another trauma in addition to the civil war she had experienced. Poor girl.

  In the garden, a bee buzzed in front of Iman’s face. The buzz spoke of anxiety for sweetness. It made Iman crave honey. Honey was a cure for burns. She remembered her mother using it when she scalded her hand while cooking. Village life, the clamour of children playing in the alleys, then the war changing everything. The war made her despise her elders. Suddenly, they who knew everything, they who had to be consulted and obeyed, were rendered stumbling and helpless. Frightened too. And when they became frightened, they became aggressive, lashing out at whoever was weaker and younger. Parents, uncles, teachers – sometimes they terrified her more than the planes and the bombs. When the war started, she was the wrong age: too young to assume responsibility and too old to receive the precious, precarious care reserved for children. She was in the way: unnecessary. Only her beauty was valuable. Hence the marrying off, hence the flight out of the country. If you were useful and necessary to your people, you would not leave all that and become a refugee. You would stay put.

  But Iman did not want the flickering images of the past to be part of the garden. War should stay out of here. Shaking windows, wailing women, burnt skin, the terrifying gleam in the whites of a young man’s eyes. Blood that was not menstrual, softness that was damaged flesh, stillness that was not sleep but death. She wished she could wash her mind of all these things. She breathed in the smell of the garden, touched the flowers. This was the present, and she was here inside it.

  Salma felt light-hearted, confident that the holiday would be a success. When she was young, holidays had meant days on the beach, sticky sand and the roar of the Mediterranean. They also meant increased parental interference and telling off, tantrums caused by exhaustion and too much sun. Then, in university, there were trips with the Beloved club. Sometimes she would be so involved in the organisation that the trip itself would pass her by. Afterwards, she could not remember what they had seen or experienced exactly; she had been too busy, caught up with assessing whether her authority had been challenged or whether she had taken the correct decisions. It was meeting David that changed her. He took away most, if not all, of her anxieties, her sporadic harshness towards others and towards herself. With him she softened and learnt to enjoy those things that were essentially meant to be pleasurable but had descended into sources of stress.

  When the signal on her phone improved, she sent a message to David. She did not phone the children. Instead she kept walking and the more she walked, the healthier and stronger she felt. Too warm now for a jacket, she took it off and tied it around her waist. She walked towards the sound of running water and when she reached the stream, she washed her face and then, on the spur of the moment, decided to take off her shoes and socks, make wudu and pray. The grass was her prayer mat, the wind a protector, her knees felt grounded to this particular piece of earth. She spoke to it and said, ‘Bear witness for me on the day I will need you to. On the day you will be able to speak and I will not. Say that I prayed here in this very spot and nowhere else.’ The sound of her voice, urgent and pleading, made her smile. She was acting out of character. Usually when it came to matters of faith, she was pragmatic and mild. But this place was something else.

  She took out her phone. Amir, this is the last time I will write to you. This might sound lame, but I have come to my senses. It is not healthy to poke into decisions taken twenty years ago.

  She was interrupted by the sounds of people talking as they walked through the forest behind her. She stopped and turned. There was the blur of red from a rucksack or a T-shirt, accompanied by a man’s short laugh. She waited for them to appear, prepared herself to smile and say a friendly hello. Instead the group passed along and when she picked up her phone again, she could not find a trace of what she had written. All the words had been swallowed up and disappeared.

  She lay back on the grass. The sun shone directly above her and she covered her eyes with her arm. The sweat on her T-shirt started to cool, her skin permeated by the breeze. She pulled her jacket over her and that simple action, of drawing a cover over her arms, reminded her of bed sheets, the lightest of materials on a sultry night that was too hot for duvet or quilt. She closed her eyes and the darkness was not black. It had moving colours like running water. Her weight was on the ground, she wanted to roll over onto her side but felt she couldn’t. When she asked her clients to lie on their sides, she slipped a small pillow under their heads. But she was not at work; she was free to rest, to squander time, to let her mind run loose. If she opened her eyes now, she would see the sky through the trees, but she did not wa
nt to open her eyes. Later she would, but now she could not open her eyes. She dreamt that he found her lying down, that he left the group he had been walking with in the forest and found her ready, waiting for him. In the dream she is impatient, hardly needing encouragement or preamble, and pulls him to her in a hurry, desperate because there is only a short time, only a small chance, before the feeling is lost and everything else with it. Better this rush, better this grabbing, assertive and direct, linear without games, triumphant without strategy. There is more of her in this shadowy world, with more skin and stronger depths; she is not held back by mind or matter. Everything is permitted, there are no boundaries. It is one and the same between her and him, between who he is, familiar and unfamiliar, knowing her, but the end is up to her. Opening her eyes before it was completely over, she was wide awake to the last motion of her body, the surprise that was not a surprise but still out of her control.

  Slowly, she sat up and looked around. Her phone made a sound. She picked it up. It was a message from Amir. I can smell you. She smelt of sweat and of wanting a shower. She started to walk back to the cottage.

  Iman wandered into the room Salma and Moni would be sharing. She guessed which bed was Salma’s and sat on it. The room, furnished for a couple on holiday, highlighted her failure. Another marriage ending. After all the times Ibrahim had kissed her feet and said he was devoted to her. The little gifts, when he had been at her beck and call – running to McDonald’s at 2 a. m. because she wanted a strawberry milkshake, holding the hand shower so that she could wash her hair over the bath, borrowing money so she could send it, through Western Union, to her mother. All this had ended or been a mirage.