The Cry of the Dove: A Novel Read online

  The kettle was boiling so I switched it off, poured some hot water in the mug and dropped a teabag in it, then stirred. Streaks of brown colour whirled in the water instantly. I was convinced that what I was making was not tea because I could not see the tea leaves and because the water turned brown instantly. Every afternoon in Hima I used to put some tea leaves in the metal pot then fill it with water, add some dry sage or cardamom pods and seven large spoons of sugar then place it on the open camp fire we kept under the fig tree. When it boiled, I would pick it up then put it back again to boil it one more time until the aroma of the tea and cardamom reached my mother's nose. I fished the wet round teabag out and threw it into the bin, then tried to open the milk carton. I pulled and pushed the wings, but it refused to open. I couldn't even open a damn carton! I was angry with myself for being so foreign so I stabbed the carton with a knife spilling the milk all over the worktop. In Hima, whenever you needed milk you would take a bowl and put it underneath a cow then pull its teats until your hands were sprayed with fresh warm milk. I wiped up the milk with the multi-purpose cloth, which Liz used for wiping all surfaces including the floor. The cloth was impure so I washed my hands with soap and water, had a sip of the now cold tea and rushed up the stairs to my room.

  I was not allowed to put my mug on the two antique chests of drawers, which squatted in the corner like shepherd dogs. So I put it on the cheap side table next to my bed, which squeaked whenever I sat or slept on it. I put my television, which I bought from a junk shop for twenty pounds, on the small antique table Liz had provided. Looking through the open made-to-measure curtains from my window I could see the railway line and the glow of the setting sun. The cream and navy curtains were the only promise in the room of a better future, a future of owning a house and furnishing it with new made-to-measure pieces. A few books and many glossy magazines rested on the DIY shelf. I emptied my shopping bag on the bed. I had got carried away this time. I bought instant hair colour, facial scrub, breath freshener, shampoo, E45 cream, Big Dum the toilet cleaner, which was on the top of Liz's list of prohibited items, and a jar of Nescafe. The rattle of coffee beans urged the lady to take action, go borrow some sugar from her dark, handsome neighbour, who had just moved in.

  If I were not waiting for him out there among the vines Hamdan would make a shrill sound as if he were calling his dogs back to the barn. Whenever I heard his whistle I would sneak through the metal bars then jump down to meet him. Barefoot I would walk by the wall, by tree trunks, behind rocks, afraid to disturb the dog. When I arrived in the vineyard I would lie down quietly looking at the distant stars and listening for footsteps. I recognized his light ones, the paws of a hyena meeting the ground then leaping hastily again. He would grab my ankle, suppressing his cackle. Under the indigo sky and among the dark shadows of trees we would embrace.

  He would tug at my hair and say, `You are my courtesan, my slave.'

  `Yes, master,' I would say.

  He would push and push and I would lie still, biting my lip in order not to let a cry escape. Panting I would rest my head on his chest and he would run his fingers through my hair and sing me love songs: `Your love took hold of my insides, my soul.'

  `My love for you is kicking and shoving like a mule,' I would say and he would laugh and hug me.

  For few fleeting moments I felt that Hamdan loved me, cherished me. I would never recapture that feeling ever again.

  `Lighten up! Groom yourself! Sell yourself!' Parvin said to me. `You are now in a capitalist society that is not your own.

  She was right. Most hair colour was designed for blondes, and a dark woman like me, who had gone prematurely grey, found it hard to match the original colour of her hair. Yesterday a man was talking on the radio about `institutional racism'. He must have been referring to the blondness of it all. A healthy blonde advertised the toothpaste, hairdryer and light yoghurt. Whenever I looked at the ornate mirror, which Liz had brought all the way from India, I saw a face dripping like honey wax, a face no longer young. My hair was dark, my hands were dark and I was capable of committing dark deeds, I thought, while looking at the well-lit first-class carriage of the London train. There, on the blue chairs, my future husband would be sitting in his grey suit and pink shirt reading the Financial Times. A sensitive, generous, rich white Englishman, who was dying to meet an exotic woman like me with dark eyes, skin, hair and deeds. I would rub my olive skin against him, and - puff - like magic, I would turn white. Just like that, without using a skin-bleaching cream for years I would become whiter and fairer. Just like that I would disappear.

  `You have to leave this place immediately,' said my teacher Miss Nailah.

  'Why?' I panicked.

  `If you don't you will get killed.' She ran her tongue on her dry lips.

  I pressed my wet face with my hands. `Where shall I go? What will happen to my goats?'

  `Never mind your goats. It's your neck we are trying to save here.' Miss Nailah blew out her kerosene lamp, put it on the floor, then held my wrist tightly. `The best thing to do is to hand you over to the police and pray that they will keep you in protective custody for ever.'

  Putting my shopping items on the bathroom windowsill I saw the colourful reflections of the old mill's lights on the water. The fractured lights were floating on the water of the river in different directions. I recognized that breeze. She was out there looking for a resting place, for a foothold, for rescue. She was out there tired and whimpering. She was calling me. I pressed my ears with my hands. A shiver ran through me as if I had caught a sudden chill and my ugly dark nipples, which were one and a half centimetres long, the size of my little finger up to the first joint, stood erect. I must not stay in tonight. I should go to warm pubs and brightly lit restaurants full of sparkling reflections of candlelight in wine glasses, where I would get embraced by warm human breath, by the murmurs and laughter and by the promise of finding degrading treatment.

  In Swan Cottage I lay in bed watching the plaster peel off then tumble down to the floor. The room was as damp as the prison cell where I had spent five months. `Solitary confinement,' I had repeated after the warden. The police officer told me that I was to be put in a cell for my own protection. My tribe had decided to kill me, they had spilt my blood among them and all the young men were sniffing the earth. `We are trying to save your life,' said the warden. Her name was Naima. I used to count the scratches on the walls, add one every day. One thing: I was happy to be pregnant.What would I have done if I had my periods? Would I have sat on the tin bucket for six days?

  When I went to the Turk's Head pub I clipped a red flower in my hair to look exotic like the girl in the advertisement for the Seychelles Islands. She had long smooth black hair, even olive skin, narrow black eyes and large breasts with invisible nipples. She stood on the beach with a coconut in her hand shaking her straw skirt to tribal music. `Our golden crop, ya ya ya. Reap and put on top, ya ya ya' The summer songs signalled the beginning of the engagement season, when all the girls of Hima started turning in their beds, looking through the iron bars of windows for signs of morning light. The bridegroom's mother would come tomorrow to propose, carrying gold necklaces, emeralds, rubies, silk brocade, linen damask, Hebron glass and Attar pure perfume in ornate glass bottles. They would finally stand in the cool shadow of a man.

  Dear Noura,

  I am happy, so happy. I got married to an English gentleman from a very good family, and we are expecting a daughter. We saw the scan. He is also so rich. His mansion is old and big. It is lined with beautiful books, colon ful books from all over the world. The westerners read so much, not like us. They are also nice and humble, not like us. Imagine - the policemen stop the traffic to let ducks cross the road! We are horrible to our animals except my goats, I used to spoil them rotten. How is my mother? I do hope she is taking good care of herself. I still remember her rough hands running over my face, blessing it. I still remember the freshly baked bread, honey and spiced ghee butter sandwiches. She was half b
lind with grief when I left so I bought her some spectacles. They are expensive, I know, but my gentleman husband gave me the money and advised me to buy the bifocals.

  Missing you, Salma

  She was crying for me. I held my heart tight and opened the freezer and got some frozen fishfingers out, then stuck five under the grill together with two slices of bread. The fishfingers were almost burnt when I pulled them out, but I would eat them all the same. I had a sip of my flat Diet Coke and started chewing at the cod, whose heart was still uncooked. Leaning on the windowsill, I made out a shadow of a round pearly light hiding behind translucent clouds. I opened the window and stretched those arms covered with dry scabs towards the distant sky. The cold breeze carried her muffled cries all the way to this godforsaken island. If I stuck cotton wool in my ears I might not hear anything: the rustling of leaves; the shunting of trains; Elizabeth drunk and knocking about in the sitting room; Hamdan's whispers; the whimpers and thud thud of my heart.

  I was sitting on top of a pile of wheat, scoffing my butter sandwich, when Hamdan suddenly emerged out of a dust cloud and sat next to me. He walked towards me in his white robe like a panther without making much effort. His eyes were fixed on my dark thin ankles, which he pulled almost every night from under the vines. `How is my sparrow?' he said and fixed his white-and-redchequered headdress.

  I swallowed hard then said, `I am fine.'

  `You look tired. Am I exhausting you with my needs?' he whispered.

  I threw away the sandwich to the birds and said, `I am pregnant.'

  On the filthy floor of the prison room a bundle of flesh pushed its way out. I shouted, I cried, I begged, then delivered a swollen bundle of flesh, red like beetroot. Alcoholic women, prostitutes and killers of husbands watched while I, the sinner, gave birth on the floor of the Islah prison. Madam Lamaa fixed her pink scarf, wiped her face with both hands and hugged Noura, whose tears were running down her face when she said something that I could not understand. `Some day you will ... One day you will .. '

  Sage Tea

  I SLIPPED OUT OF MY RED UNDERWEAR, WHICH I BOUGHT in the sales, and stood naked on the dirty carpet. `You have improved recently,' I said to my reflection then immersed myself in the water. Just to lie in the hot water inhaling all the scents of soap and bath oils was enough. Enveloped in a cloud of steam and perfume, I felt warm and safe for a few minutes, broken promises, betrayal, shame and death were pushed away to the back of my mind. I stood up, wrapped myself with the towel and began scrubbing my face. My fingers went round the big crooked nose, the narrow forehead, the wide mouth and high cheeks. I scrubbed and scrubbed to get to the clogged pores and push them open. Suddenly the aroma of freshly ground coffee, the smell of ripe olives and the scent of white orange blossom filled the bathroom. I was sitting under the fig tree with my mother drinking mint tea. My mother put her glass down and ran her rough hands over my face, muttering incantations. Every Friday afternoon the whole village gathered around the only radio, outside the house of the sheikh, to listen to the Egyptian diva Faiza Ahmad sing:

  `Don't say we were and it was.

  I wish all of this had never happened.

  I wish I'd never met you, I wish I never knew you.'

  I splashed my face with cold water. The mirror looked blurred as if floating in the salty sea.

  I lined my lips with a red pen, trying to make them look smaller and fuller. I sprayed myself with deodorant. Up and down my body went the cold scent. I chose the tightest and shortest skirt in the wardrobe and squeezed myself into it, slipped my legs into sheer transparent black tights then wore my shiny black high-heeled shoes. I fixed my wired bra and pulled the straps up to give my breasts a younger, fuller shape. The black crochet beaded blouse was tight enough to enhance the breasts without showing the ageing stomach. I stood erect in front of the mirror and pulled my stomach in. Those were the few precious moments of the evening when I forgot my past. Those moments when I looked at my reflection as if looking at a stranger were the best. My mind would be busy finding a new name and history for myself. `Tonight I am going to be a movie star!'

  If I kept stitching and fasting, if I kept silent, I would slip slowly out of my body like a snake shedding her old skin. I might stop being Salma and become someone else, who never had a bite of the forbidden apple. Time might pass quickly so I would slide gently from prison to grave. No pain, resistance or even boredom. I stitched my mother's letter together with the lock of hair inside a leather pocket and turned them into an amulet, which I wore around my neck like a necklace. The pale handwriting of Miss Nailah, who wrote the letter for my mother, was engraved in my head.

  This is what Allah willed for you. I called you Salma because I had high hopes for you. I wanted you to be able to decode writing, to get married to one of the sons of the sheikh of the tribe, to eat almonds and honey for the rest of your life. I wanted you to have a better life than mine. But your tuft of wool has always been derent from the other girls of the tribe. You dyed it scarlet. You liked attention. They told me that you have stopped eating and drinking in prison. I cannot visit you because your father haj Ibrahim and your brother Mahmoud forbade me to come. They said they would shoot me too. When I look at your black goats looking lost without you and getting thinner and thinner, I say to myself may Allah bring a merciful end.

  Wrapping my mother's black shawl around my shoulders I tiptoed out of the house. Liz was having a chat with Sadiq, `the Pakistani chap in the off-licence', her supplier of cheap wine. `Madam, this is excellent, a good vintage also. Just try it, madam. Excellent also.' She would crack some jokes and laugh until her eyes were full of tears. This was her best self, when she was a little tipsy and her spirits were high. Her hand on his elbow, she would say, `Sadiq, you should be ashamed of yourself, flirting with an old English woman like me.'

  He would jerk his chin sideways as if looking for words, then say, `Madam, you're not old also.'

  Her laughter was so loud, affected, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. Then she would break into another language. `Kaise no tum?'

  `This is not Urdu, madam, this is Hindi,' he would say indignantly.

  `Theeh hail' she would say and shrug her shoulders.

  Sitting behind the old Singer sewing machine, I pressed on the pedal and rolled the needle over polyester, cotton, satin.Whatever the prison's wardens gave me I would sew: sleeves, trousers, collars, the hem of the warden Naima's skirt, the pocket of her uniform jacket, which was torn off by one of the inmates. I tightened my white scarf around my head and started stitching it back to the jacket. The room was stuffy and smelt of machine oil and urine. All you could see were bent, covered heads and all you could hear was the rhythmic shunting of the old sewing machines. `Just keep those fingers moving,' I said to myself, `and you will be all right. 'I wanted to mend my life. I used to fit collars carefully and stitch them by hand first, then run the machine over them. What was written on the forehead, what was ordained, must be seen by the eyes. `Isn't she a good seamstress?' the inmates used to say while looking at the carefully made garments. They didn't know that they were looking at my wasted life. `I always thought that you are not white like jasmine or pure like honey in its glass jars.You are a slut!'

  Walking along the road I was able to hear the shunting of trains, the sound of metal hitting metal. Slam. Slam. `It was a bit chilly,' I heard myself say in `Elizabethan' English. My landlady was haunting me. If not careful I would turn into an Elizabeth, an English rose, a Sleeping Beauty without a prince. A huge brightly lit board was the first thing I noticed about the railway station. They took down the advertisement for Tetley's tea with the Sleeping Beauty and the seven dwarfs and replaced it with a sleek image of a red Chevrolet convertible. A new company called Fax Home had taken over the rundown building next to the railway line. They sandblasted the outside, installed double glazing, brought in photocopying and faxing machines, and offered their services for a reasonable price. I could see the machine in the dimly lit office faxing
away messages to missing persons. Mrs Smith of Post Office Counters smiled whenever she saw me rushing through the door, but it was a weary smile. She must be thinking to herself, `Here she comes again, that dark woman!' Whenever I gave her another bundle of letters she used to put on her reading glasses and inspect the addresses. `To Whom it May Concern', or `To Noura, Islah Prison, Levant', she would read out, then lower her reading glasses and look up at me with her penetrating grey eyes. `This does not seem right.' But later she stopped checking the address. She would shrug her shoulders and say, `Oh! You must have so many friends out there!'

  `Oh! Yes!' I would say in a cheerful tone. I had friends: my teacher Miss Nailah, my dearest friend Noura, Madam Lamaa, Officer Salim, Sister Khairiyya, Sister Francoise, Minister Mahoney, Gwen and Parvin.

  `Who made this white dress? I want to meet her,' shouted a woman in a Lebanese accent at Officer Salim, the prison governor. `My name is Khairiyya and I want to see her.' She was my first visitor ever. I stood up, straightened my flowery dress and put on my plastic shoes. I was guided by the prison guard through the maze of corridors to the governor's office. A beam of sunshine lit the grey desk. I blinked and tried to make out the people in the room. A small dark lady in a high-collared grey dress was holding the white dress I made years ago. Officer Salim said, `Sit down, Salma.'

  I swallowed and sat down on a chair next to the woman.

  The officer was balding and tall, but had a kind expression on his face. `Did you make this white dress?'