Bird Summons Read online

  And what lies ahead for her, how will she live? Everyone had predicted she would marry a rich man and never have to lift a finger. Her beauty had pointed towards this. Marriage versus prostitution. Marriage a way to legitimise the oldest profession? It need not be like this. She knew this, glimpsed it in the lives of other couples. Two things could look alike and feel alike and seem alike yet be profoundly different. One was blessed and the other doomed. The intentions that led to each were different. The resemblance was superficial but understandable. Man pays and woman serves. He houses, clothes and feeds her to get something in return. Put love in the equation. He gives because he loves her and would give regardless of whether services were rendered or not; she gives because she loves him and would keep giving even if he didn’t pay. Or they both give and receive in a flow generated by love with neither one keeping tabs, with neither one viewing the relationship as a transaction.

  She looked up when her friend walked into the room. ‘What am I going to do, Salma?’ Tears started rolling down her face.

  Salma sat next to her. ‘You’ll be fine. He isn’t worth it. And how can you possibly cry when you’re wearing this amazing outfit. Look at you, a queen!’

  Iman rested her forehead on her knees and Salma continued talking. ‘Everything happens for a reason. Earlier today, you were upset that you weren’t pregnant. Imagine if you were, it would have been an added complication.’

  ‘Ibrahim wouldn’t have left me if I was pregnant.’

  ‘Really?’ said Salma with sarcasm. ‘He wasn’t up to the responsibility of a wife, let alone a child. Don’t fool yourself.’

  ‘You warned me against him,’ said Iman, looking up and wiping her face.

  Salma was pleased to hear this. She had been restraining herself from saying, ‘I told you so.’

  ‘You insisted on him,’ she said gently.

  ‘He was so nice to me, I can’t believe it.’ She remembered how he could scarcely keep his hands off her during the daylight hours of Ramadan, how he gave her everything she wanted – a Netflix subscription, a new coat, a weekend away in London. ‘His parents are to blame.’ She was musing now, looking for justification.

  ‘You deserve better than him. Mark my words. This time next year, inshallah, you will be married to the right man and with a baby on the way.’

  Iman shook her head. ‘I want to depend on myself. To work, like you.’

  Salma tried not to laugh. Iman’s greatest asset was her looks, her finest skill was in drawing men to her; zero qualifications, English language minimal. What sort of job could she do? Iman was lazy too. With Salma’s children, she watched children’s TV and never got bored. Imagine being told, you’re too beautiful to ever toil, you’re to be kept home in a fine state, you’re created to be pampered and adored – all that Iman heard as she was growing up. Salma said, ‘I’ll make you hot chocolate and you’ll tell me the kinds of jobs you can see yourself doing.’

  Iman perked up. The two of them sat side by side, their backs resting on the headrest, drinking the chocolate and Iman rambled on about work. Maybe she should have stuck to that job at the supermarket. Maybe improving her English was the way forward. Salma listened, indulging her from time to time, challenging her with questions or suggestions to help her formulate more realistic goals. Then Iman lurched back to talking about Ibrahim, reminiscing. ‘Once, he had a friend over, spending the night on the sofa. In the morning I got to the shower first and washed my hair. As soon as I came out, Ibrahim said I had to go back in there and make sure I hadn’t left a single stray hair down the plughole. He wasn’t worried about the plug being blocked. He didn’t want his friend seeing a strand of my hair.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, I’m not. He was that possessive about me!’

  ‘That’s daft, Iman.’

  ‘He said one single strand was enough to determine the length of my hair, its colour and texture.’

  Salma burst out laughing and Iman said, ‘It’s true. I’m not making this up.’

  Outside, dusk was gathering and although the ground was dark and hidden, there were still dabs of orange and pink high in the western sky. I am happy, thought Salma, sitting here with my friend. I am happy being of use to her, being needed. Already Iman was in a more settled if not cheerful mood. When she slid down and stretched out on the bed, Salma felt free to leave her.

  At last, after running around all day, she could take off her scarf and shower. In the bathroom she combed her wet hair. She was conscious of its thinness compared to Iman’s luxuriant tresses. In terms of looks, there was no point in competing. Enjoying Iman’s beauty without succumbing to envy was the only sensible thing to do. But a month ago, at Salma’s house, Iman had said with genuine surprise, ‘Your hair is getting so thin, Salma!’ Salma was not prone to overreacting, but from that day on she had become self-conscious about her hair. She started using an expensive scalp foam, volumisers and fillers. She topped up her supplements. Now, gazing into the mirror, she fancied she saw an improvement. Her hair was in better condition even if it was not any thicker. Turning sideways, she glimpsed a diagonal roll of fat above her waist. Where had that come from? Pilates twice a week, regular walks and eating more or less the same. Her bathroom scales back home had failed to flag this up. She put on her pyjama top and started to make wudu.

  Stepping out of the bathroom, she asked Iman, ‘Do you think I’ve put on weight?’ Iman’s eyes flickered over her friend, noticed the wet hair. It distracted her from answering Salma’s question. Instead she said, ‘How come you washed your hair?’

  Silence is a sign of agreement, as the Arabic saying went. So, I am getting fat, Salma thought, I am spreading out, this is exactly what they call middle-age spread. ‘I felt sweaty from my walk.’

  ‘You just washed it yesterday. You told me so.’

  When Salma confessed about the dream, they both laughed. It felt like a true holiday then. The setting sun shining on furniture that didn’t belong to them, the smell of cooking from the kitchen. A meal they hadn’t taken the trouble to cook. Iman in clothes that didn’t belong to her. Salma’s face as hot as a teenager’s.

  ‘You miss your husband.’ This was Iman’s verdict. ‘Send him a message. Tell him you wish he was here.’

  ‘I will,’ she said. It was the generous thing to do, the right thing to do.

  When Moni finished cooking, she called out for the other two. She could hear them talking in low voices in the bedroom and, guessing that Iman was upset, did not want to intrude. No doubt the hot chocolate had dented their appetite. She left the kitchen and wandered into the sitting room. Salma had put Lady Evelyn’s book on the coffee table. Making herself comfortable on the sofa, Moni picked it up and started to read.

  As a child I spent the winter months in a Moorish villa on a hill outside Algiers, where my parents went in search of sunshine. There I learnt to speak Arabic and my delight was to escape my governess and visit the Mosques with my Algerian friends, and unconsciously I was a little Moslem at heart. After three years’ wintering at Mustapha Superieur we left the villa for good, much to my despair, but in time I forgot my Arab friends, my prayers in the Mosque and even the Arabic language. Some years went by and I happened to be in Rome staying with some Italian friends, when my host asked me if I would like to visit the Pope. Of course, I was thrilled, and, clad all in black with a long veil, I was admitted into the august presence in company with my host and his sister. When His Holiness suddenly addressed me, asking if I was a Catholic, I was taken aback for a moment and then replied that I was a Moslem. What possessed me I don’t pretend to know, as I had not given a thought to Islam for many years. A match was lit and I then and there determined to read up and study the Faith.

  Later when Salma and Iman complimented her on her cooking, Moni was pleased. She explained her cooking methods and told them about how she had found mint leaves in the garden.
Mint in the kofta mixture enhanced the flavour and looked pretty too, all those specks of green that matched the jellabiya she was wearing.

  After they ate, Salma washed the dishes. The cottage felt colder, and Iman abandoned the Cleopatra outfit for the witch costume. She looked dramatic, but at least she was warm. She brewed tea for the three of them using the rest of the mint leaves Moni had picked.

  They played board games. A pile of them were on the shelves that lined one wall of the sitting room. Another pile was on top of the television. It was Salma’s idea, something she and David did with the children when they went on holiday. If she was honest with herself, she was carrying out this holiday, the idea of it and the execution, with what he had taught her over the years. A British holiday. Needing a holiday. Going on holiday. All of these were expressions she had learnt from him and her co-workers over the years. The sense of entitlement. And now extending it to her two friends, who on their own would not have gone on any holiday and did not believe that they even needed a holiday without family members, especially without men. Serving our children, our husbands, our parents – that’s how our lives revolve. Once in a while, though, we need our own space, our own break. Just once in a while. Watching Moni in the dim light of the cottage winning at Monopoly, Salma felt good. She had taken Moni out of herself.

  Iman was not a natural at board games. The rules confused her, and she was a poor loser, huffing and grumpy. Salma allowed her to win, but Moni didn’t. Moni played aggressively and played to win. It was getting her to play in the first place that had been difficult. Iman threw down the dice and threatened to go to bed. Frowning in her witch costume, flapping its matching silver wand, it was as if she was cursing the other two. ‘We will stop playing,’ laughed Salma. ‘We will, dear Iman. We will put all these games away, sit ­quietly and hear you sing.’ Iman pretended to be petulant while Salma pleaded and coaxed.

  Moni left them and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. There was no need to switch the light on. None of them had pulled down the blind in the kitchen and the gloaming was enough for Moni to make her way towards the sink. The gush of water from the tap sounded excessively loud. It sounded like a child’s cry. Not one of distress but of a child playing outside, calling out to one of his friends. Moni filled her glass and closed the tap. She imagined a group of young boys kicking a ball, playing five-a-side. But they wouldn’t be playing now, not so late at night. Mullin had said there were others here at the loch, other holidaymakers, presumably families. Their children would play throughout the grounds. Moni, well travelled, had lived in parts of the world where children stayed up past midnight when the schools were closed, where there was no concept of bedtime. Often this was because it was too hot to play during the day. So, at night, boys played football in the street until they were tired out. Girls watched television with their mothers and all these children slept till noon. She peered out through the window but all she saw was her own reflection. Of course, there were no children out and about.

  She sat at the kitchen table and gulped down the cool, soft water. Even after finishing the whole glass, she still felt thirsty. I must have put a lot of salt in the food, she thought. Good thing the others didn’t complain. She got up and refilled her glass, caught the sound of playing children again. Joyful, passionate in its own way. It made her smile to think of them, their enjoyments and little triumphs, free from responsibilities and worries.

  When she joined the others in the living room, she found that Iman had finally agreed to sing. At first, she sang grudgingly, but then she let the beauty slide through. Outside the cottage, her voice could be heard, the foreign words landing on the grass, picked up by the ears of djinns and those with wings, who understood even more than all three women did what Iman’s song was saying, who she was describing, for whom the longing was due.

  Chapter Five

  Later, lying in her narrow bed underneath the open window, Iman could see the night sky. It would never be completely dark, they were too far north for that. Instead, pink twilight glowed over the western horizon. There were clouds that looked round and full like candyfloss and ones that were as flat as milk stains. Low streaks of light touched the ground as if there would never be a deep dark night. In the east there was a crescent – low, orange and perfect. The stars were distant, much more distant than she could remember seeing before.

  Back home, her family slept outdoors in the summer and indoors in the winter. The desert gave them scorching heat and bitter cold. Hers were a hardy people, able to adjust and pickle and organise. But it was not memories of home that Iman embraced, not memories of walks along the Euphrates or vendors selling grilled corn. Instead her ears caught the sound of wings, a rustle of movement, sounds that were at first gentle but then became distinct. Through the window, a shy creature hesitated, asked permission to come in and speak to her. I am dreaming, she thought. I am dreaming, and this is a good dream.

  The creature was a bird, but it belonged to the night. The creature could be a bat, but it had feathers. It spoke a language that she could understand. It knew her from long ago, it had travelled with her all those miles, never left her side, was always there but only here, in this special place, could it make itself known. Yet it was not entirely visible, not exactly, for when she looked at it directly it disappeared. She had to pretend she was looking in another direction or at something else for the orange, black and white to materialise again. But this was not a problem, Iman wanted to listen to it and talk to it more than she wanted to look at it. The creature had a name. Hoopoe, it said, named after the bird in the Qur’an. You are too big for a hoopoe, said Iman. You are fat. She was not afraid to tease it.

  He said, ‘You are bigger than me, but I know more. I can find hidden sources of water. You are stronger, but I have flown further. I have seen east and west, north and south. Inhuman creatures that trail purple clouds. Remote forests, trapped people, animals as big as giants, humans as small as plants. I’ve seen surplus, building and tearing down. At times, I’ve seen nothing because in some places there was nothing, nothing alive. But all things submit to the rule of time. We can’t stop it moving, it pulls us forwards; it takes us away. There is no escape. I am here to warn you. Do not stay here in this cottage, at this loch, for too long.’

  ‘Oh, I love it here,’ she said. ‘A room all to myself and the cupboard full of clothes. I don’t want to leave.’

  ‘This is not a destination but a stage. The stage of consequence where what you do and what you want and what you secretly think will take a tangible shape. Things you will see and experience. Leave before this happens. Continue.’

  ‘We are going,’ she said, ‘to visit Lady Evelyn’s grave. The three of us.’

  ‘Only one of you will get there,’ the Hoopoe said. ‘The one who is least distracted. The one who has learnt that to keep going it’s best not to look right or left.’

  This confused her, and she started asking why, how come, how did he know? When she got no reply, she wanted to know which one of them it would be. Moni? Salma? Herself? Which one of them would visit that difficult-to-reach place? Say Iman, she begged.

  Instead the Hoopoe told her a story. ‘This story is about a landowner from here, from the loch, long before it was called the loch. His name was Nathan and he was a Christian at a time when most people were still pagans. Nathan was hard-working and charitable. He was rich too. His farmlands extended all the way to the river. At one time there was a severe drought, which almost led to famine. Nathan distributed his stored grain to his villagers until he had none for himself. But winter was coming to an end and it was obvious that spring this time would not bring the usual crop of corn. So Nathan turned to the Almighty for help. He fasted and prayed continuously. What can I do? What should I do? These were his questions. The answer came. He must sprinkle the sand of the riverbank on the desolate fields. Nathan ordered that wicker baskets be filled with sand and brought back to the farms. T
he soft fine sand sank into the earth and everyone witnessed a miracle. They saw the sand germinate and oat and barley start to emerge. In time, the stalks grew and swayed in the wind. Everyone expected a rich harvest and Nathan was a happy man.

  ‘His standing grew among the villagers. Not the usual respect granted by tenants to their landlords but something else, personal and rare – the awe and reverence that mystics and miracle workers evoke. Nathan began to preach to the villagers. Leave your pagan ways behind. Worship the one true Lord, the Creator, the Sustainer, the Giver. For Nathan, the miracle of the growing crops was proof not only of the truth of what he was saying but of his own elevated, special station in the eyes of the Lord. You should have seen his face the day he set out for the harvest. Flushed with happiness, the eager villagers surrounded him, scythes in hands, already visualising the riches to come, the meals, the celebrations, the overflowing stores. But suddenly the sky darkened, the heavens cleaved open and the river broke its bank in a flash flood. Before their very eyes, the crop was completely destroyed.

  ‘Let us pause here for a minute, young lady. Tell me which is more difficult and more painful – to be deprived altogether or to reach out for your prize, it is there so close, within reach, already yours it seems, and then have it, at the very last minute, snatched away from you? Which is the greatest trial?’

  ‘The second,’ said Iman, but she wasn’t sure if this was the correct answer.

  It must have been because the Hoopoe continued, ‘Nathan was distraught. He lost his composure and his good sense. He did the worst thing ever. He raised his fist up in anger against Heaven. He spoke words he would spend the rest of his life regretting. Suddenly, the river water receded, the sky cleared and the sun broke over the destroyed crops. Oh the guilt, deep and wretched. More so than the loss of the harvest. If it were not another sin, he would have thrown himself in the river. But he threw something else instead. A key. And where did this key come from? Let me tell you.