The Cry of the Dove: A Novel Page 6

  `One day, while Shahriyar was out hunting, Shahzaman stayed in the palace feeling very depressed about his dead wife. He looked out at the garden and saw his brother's wife enter the garden with twenty slave girls, ten white and ten black. They undressed and turned out to be ten men and ten women, who proceeded to have sex together, while another slave, Masud, jumped down from a tree when the Queen called out, "Come, Master. " He pushed her against the tree, smothered her with embraces and kisses, then mounted her. The negroes and the slave girls followed suit, revelling together till the approach of night. Then they all got dressed as slave girls, except for Mas'ud who jumped back over the wall and was gone.'

  Suddenly I felt thirsty and walked as if in a daze to the kitchen looking for Hita.

  Jim and I tiptoed through the hall and climbed the stairs quietly. I put the kettle on and asked him to sit down. He sat on one of the chairs near the window. The orange light of the railway, suffused through the net curtain, made him look like an alien. I took off my shoes and my shawl and sat on the floor leaning against the cold radiator, hugging my knees.

  `Are you cold?' he asked and squatted opposite me.

  I saw my father's face then my mother's then Hamdan then Shahla then the Ailiyya convent in Lebanon then Minister Mahoney's house. The men of the tribe spilt my blood. My mother beat me up. The prison walls were filthy and smelt of urine and tears. I knew that air. She was out there crying for me.

  `Oh! Dear! Let me warm up your hands,' he said and started rubbing my fingers. The water was boiling, filling the room with steam; then the kettle switched itself off. He placed his cold lips on mine. I had nowhere to go.This country was the only home I had. I shut my eyes, shut out the urgent love-making of Hamdan, and received his kiss. He was gentle, rubbing me with his thin fingers as if I were a jewel; as if I were fragile. Hamdan knew that I was strong, that I could take it, so he roughed me up then mounted me with his hand pressed hard against my lips.

  `Shall I make the tea?'

  `Yes,' he said and retreated to the chair.

  I placed the two steaming cups on the table. The sage leaves, which were floating on the surface, got soaked and sank to the very bottom.

  He sniffed the tea, then took a sip. `It has a wild, strange aroma.

  I could hear the snoring of Liz downstairs. `The landlady,' I said.

  He put the mug on the table, pulled me up, held my head firmly between his hands and kissed me.

  The vivid greenness of the Beqaa Valley; its brightness, openness, splendour brought tears to my eyes. My mind was kissing everything: the spacious blue sky, the green plains, the large trees, even the donkeys and other cars. I was free. Khairiyya stopped the car opposite a small makeshift shop. `Stay in the car," she said and rushed to the shop and bought two boiled eggs, two loaves of thin pitta bread and a cup of sweet tea. As soon as she handed them to me I began eating. Khairiyya smiled and said, `In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, amen,' and began eating. In prison it was always lentils and crusts of dry bread. Other women prisoners asked me to play my pipe and they sang:

  `Morning or evening: lentils. Summer or winter: lentils. Hot or cold: LENTILS.'

  In the morning I gave Jim a cup of coffee and a bowl of muesli and said, B&B,' and smiled. Jim was a gentleman; he had his condoms ready; he hugged me between acts and looked me in the eye when he said, `Why all this sadness, I wonder?'While chewing the muesli in bed, and among dirty tissues, ruffled sheets and scattered clothes, we said goodbye. He kissed me hurriedly on the forehead and walked out. I could hear him rushing down the stairs, slamming the door behind him, starting his car, and racing out of the street. I continued eating my breakfast. No yanking of hair, crying or rending of garments. You say goodbye tight-lipped.You keep your cool if you want to see him again. You never ask, `Can I have your phone number?' or `Was it good?' or `Will I ever see you again?' You stay in bed next to him all night pretending to be content, asleep and all you wanted to do was to jump up and wash your body with soap and water including your insides, do your ablutions then pray for forgiveness. No, you just chew at your cold breakfast looking at the bright stripes of light between the curtains and the windowsill tight-lipped.You would smile because it was supposed to be the morning after the beautiful night before.

  Lilac or Jasmine

  FRANCOISE, THE YOUNG FRENCH NUN, PUT THE BREAKfast tray on the side table and said in broken Lebanese Arabic, `Good morning.'

  I opened my eyes and realized that I was no longer in prison. The painted window of the convent reflected a rainbow of light on the bed. It was my first experience of a comfortable bed. In my village we slept on mattresses spread on the floor. In prison I slept first on a mattress, then on a hard metal bed.

  `Good morning.' I smiled.

  Last night we arrived late. Khairiyya looked pale when she held the brass knocker and hit it against the base. A ruffled old woman opened the gate and let us in. Holding my bundle close to my chest I followed them dutifully through the candlelit corridors.When the old nun opened the door and said, `Your bedroom,' my chin started quivering. My bedroom was a spacious, well-lit room, with a huge bed in the middle covered with clean white sheets, pillows and blankets.

  `Don't be silly!' Khairiyya snapped.

  I held the tears back. `Thank you.'

  They closed the old wood door and said, `Goodnight'

  I opened the window and saw the moon in the middle of the sky above the deep valley. A handful of lights twinkled in the darkness. The sea was a silver sheet spread at the feet of the steep cliff. I opened the door and ran barefoot up and down the cobbled corridor, but could not find a soul. The candles were put out and the corridor was cold and dark. I went back to my room and looked through the window again at the sea, where waves broke into each other leaving streaks of foam behind. Where was I? How far was I from my mother? How far was I from her?

  I tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen in order not to be spotted by Liz. I could not face an interrogation this morning. The carpeted stairs were cold under my bare feet. I hugged myself. I always rushed out of bed in my T-shirt and then remembered the coldness of it all. I made myself a cup of coffee. The house was quiet. I went to the sitting room, hoping to find Liz's comfortable armchair empty, but there she was, in her dark-blue jumper and baggy Indian trousers, sitting on her chair, sipping her tea and watching Tom and Jerry on TV. `Good morning.

  `Good morning, Sal.'

  I didn't like being called `Sal', which sounded like a man's name in my native language. I sat down on one of the straw chairs, drinking my coffee quickly.

  `Did you have a good time yesterday?'

  Tom was chasing Jerry around the house. `Yes, thank you.

  `Who was it?'

  Jerry was trying to tie Tom's tail to an electric iron. `A guy who has a health shop.' '

  `Does he have a name?' she asked, running her fingers over the buttons of the remote control.

  To my shame I could not remember his family name.

  Nes' Before Jerry was electrocuted Liz switched channels. `A cold day in the south with some scattered showers in the afternoon.'

  I held my warm mug close to my chest, unable to locate myself, centre myself.

  `I stained my family's name with mud,' I told Francoise, the Little Sister in Ailiyya convent. She was folding towels and pieces of cloth carefully.

  `But no, my child, we all make mistakes,' she said and rubbed her left eye. She was young, with a beautiful, open face. I thought that all foreign women were blonde, but Francoise, although French, had dark hair and eyes.

  `Francoise,' I said and smiled, knowing that my tongue couldn't twist itself around her name.

  She smiled back.

  `Where are we? How far are we from my country?'

  Her Arabic was watered down, sounded foreign, but she rushed into it breathlessly. `We are north of Beirut, on the coast of the Mediterranean. Your county is further south, almost south-east. A number of hours' drive.'

  `So
we are not very far.'

  `No, but far enough.'

  I wiped my mouth, put the breakfast tray on the wide stone windowsill and said, `I shall go back one day.'

  She looked through the window and said, `Look, the sun is shining. I will take you for a walk around the farm to show you our vineyard. I brought you some sensible shoes and some clothes. Go on, have a bath.'

  She was emerald, turquoise encased in silver, Indian silk cascading down from rolls, fresh coffee beans ground in an ornate sandalwood pestle and mortar, honey and spicy ghee wrapped in freshly baked bread, Francoise, a white pearl glistening in her brown and white costume, a balm for your wounds.

  I went to the bathroom of the convent and was surprised to see a high toilet and a bath. In prison we were allowed to have a shower once every two weeks except for births and deaths. We used a low toilet, a mere hole in the ground, then washed ourselves with water from a plastic ewer. Using the shower was much easier than pulling cold water out of the well, then pouring buckets of it over your head. The smell of olive oil filled the old bathroom. I took off my clothes and for the first time in my life I looked at the reflection of my body in the long mirror fixed to the wall. A horse with a long horn and a thick tail was engraved on the corner of the mirror. I looked thin and dark, and had long bushy hair. My face was just two big, dark eyes, a crooked nose and a large mouth. I lowered myself into the hot water then lay down in the tub, making sure that the whole of my body was covered with soap and water. Morning light was freely bouncing off the walls, the floor and the water. I could hear the sparrows twittering away their welcome to the morning.

  With the end of my sleeve I wiped the mist off the sittingroom window `Yes, it's a bright day.'

  Liz continued asking about `this chap' I brought home last night with me.

  I wanted to be nice to Liz, but couldn't. I could not tell her which party he voted for. `You don't ask people about politics when you first meet them. It's private.'

  `Oh! Stupid girl! Of course you do.You don't want to end up with a Marxist,' she spat out.

  I didn't know what she was talking about so I changed the subject. `Liz, the weather is glorious today. Why don't you go for a walk?' I knew that Liz liked the word `glorious'.

  She ran her fingers through her grey hair and said, `I should. Shouldn't IF

  The flowers on the mantelpiece had withered days ago. I should get Liz some daffodils. The room could do with more sunshine. I went upstairs to my room, snatched my towel and rushed to the bathroom.

  I rubbed my hair with the hard cube of soap until I had a rich lather. The Little Sisters of the convent made it themselves. I filled the jug with water and washed away the dirt. Light brown water whirled down the drain. I scrubbed my body with a thick loofah until my skin turned red, poured clean water over my head until all the dirt of prison rushed down. With a white towel, I dried my hair and body. Its softness and warmth reminded me of my mother's rough hands. She held my body firmly between her legs, massaged my head with olive oil, combed my hair, wove it into two braids, then patted me on the shoulder and said, `Put on your madraqa and run to school! I don't want you to be illiterate like me.' Miss Nailah taught me how to decode Arabic letters and how to put them together to form words. `Head, heads. Repeat after me!' I memorized one word then another until I became literate. In prison after I started talking and reading old newspapers to the inmates I used to change the few news items to make them laugh. `An honourable donkey got married to a chaste monkey and they gave birth to a prison warden.' `A flower has withered: with a heart full of sorrow we announce the death of our cat Mishmish.' The changed news used to get a round of applause. Then I began learning another language. `If only you could hear me, Mother, reading Englisi.' I could see my mother's lips meet in a Bedouin smack, `Tzu'! Illiterate: you are not any more. In trouble: you are. Speaking different tongues does not lessen the burden of the heart.'

  Circles of light were still filling the bathroom of the convent like little rainbows. I put on pants and a bra, which I had never worn before. I put on the pair of blue jeans and the T-shirt Francoise had given me, tied my hair into a ponytail, tied my white veil around my head, and walked out of the bathroom: a new, clean and awkward woman, conscious of the tight elastic around her hips and breasts. The bright sun welcomed me when I walked out of the main gate. Shielding my eyes, I looked down. The green-blue sea spread at the feet of the high brown mountains. I could smell the fertile soil and the salty sea. I breathed in as much fresh air as possible, then walked behind Francoise, in the sturdy walking shoes she had lent me. The vineyard expanded to the end of the horizon. Tens of young, western nuns in brown and white were either digging the soil or watering the plants. They were all humming a foreign tune and working in unison.

  `They shouldn't be watering the vine trees,' I said.

  `Why?' Francoise asked.

  `Because vine trees don't need much water. If you want a sweet crop then you shouldn't water them much.'

  Her dark eyes were smiling when she said, `Of course, you used to be a farmer.'

  `And a shepherdess,' I said.

  The pots of African violets and wandering Jews were my only contact with farming now They stood like a question mark on the windowsill of Swan Cottage. I cleaned them, fertilized them and over-watered them.When you lived in this street a garden was out of the question. You were besieged by the railway and the garages. At least I had a good view of the river and the hills; a good view of other people's gardens. There was a house in New North Road with a big, beautiful garden. At night, when there were no people around, I would stand on the pavement and stick my head through the hedge to have a look at their seasonal flower beds. They changed the design every three months. You would be passing by and you would smell honeysuckle, lilac, heather or jasmine depending on the season.

  I woke up early in the morning, washed and changed, had group breakfast with the nuns, then went for a long walk, down the valley, then up the mountain. My only companions were the amulet hanging around my neck and my reed pipe. I would watch how the sea woke up when touched by the morning light, its colours changing from grey, to coral, to gold, then to turquoise like my grandmother's necklace, which was a string of beads encased by silver. The sun would fight the darkness of the sea. The sunlight would win the day, filling the air with light. The dark-blue sea, exhausted, grew mossy green around the edges. That was the time to join the nuns in the vineyard. I walked towards them, playing their French hymn on my pipe. `Oh! My saviour! Oh! My beloved!' they chanted together. I rolled up my sleeves and the ends of my trousers, kicked off my shoes and barefoot began working in the farm. `Look at her,' Francoise said, `she weeds like a whirlwind.'

  The sky was blue, with a few patches of cloud. I snatched my handbag then rushed out of the house, slamming the door behind me. I wanted Liz to know that I had left Swan Cottage. My friend Gwen, who usually expected me Sunday mornings, lived in number eighteen. The door bore a brass plate with the inscription `Docendo Discimus', which was given to Gwen by her colleagues on her retirement. She had explained that it was Latin and it meant `We learn by teaching'.

  As soon as I moved in with Elizabeth I began walking by the river every Sunday. Once I was crossing the street and saw an old lady bending down to pick up her walking stick, so I picked it up and gave it to her. `Thank you," she said and tidied up her coiffed hair.

  `It's nothing,' I said and smiled.

  `Do you live around here?' she asked.

  `Yes, number fifteen," I said.

  `Are you walking to the river?'

  `Yes,' I said.

  `Do you mind if I join you?' she said and smiled.

  That afternoon we did not stop talking.We talked about the colour of the rainbow arched above the river, Gwen's dog that was so old and ill it had to be put down, my boss Max and absent friends.

  As soon as I knocked on the door I was able to hear the shuffling of her feet and the fumbling with chain and key. `Good morning, beautiful,' I sa
id and kissed Gwen on the cheek.

  She smiled, pushed her glasses up her nose, and hugged me. `Come in, Salina. Right on time for tea and biscuits.'

  I sat on the kitchen chair and watched Gwen, overweight and aproned, making tea. She used to be the headmistress of a comprehensive in Leeds, which she described as an ugly, beautiful, paradoxical and industrial city, and decided to retire in Devon. She bought this semidetached house, dumped all her belongings in a hired van and drove down the motorway.

  `Gwen, why don't you sit down? I'll make the tea.'

  `No, I will become dependent on you. Can't have that," she said in her sing-song Welsh accent.

  Flushed and exhausted she put the tray on the kitchen table. When she wiped her glasses with the apron and sighed, I knew that I could start talking. `I brought you some French strawberry jam and a George Eliot book.'

  `Oh! How kind of you. But you shouldn't bring me presents. Not with your salary.'

  `Look, the jam is a present but the book is not. You asked me to buy you Daniel Deronda, remember?'

  She smiled then produced a five-pound note from the pocket of her apron. The kitchen was cold and dark with just one window overlooking the railway. We sat there sipping our tea and chewing our coconut biscuits. Her son Michael was always the centre of our conversation on Sunday. Michael has done this, Michael has done that. `He's sent me a postcard, look. Tour Eiffel, but upside down and wearing trainers. He's got a new girlfriend,' she said, tidying her short grey hair with her trembling hand.

  `Really? Is she nice?'

  `She must be. They've gone to Paris together.'

  He had gone to France, but coming to Exeter was too costly for him. To stop myself from saying something that might upset her I blurted, `He must be happy.'

  `Yes, Salina, he must be,' she said and tucked the ends of her short grey hair behind her ears.

  When I got pregnant with you, Layla darling, my mother begged me to leave the village before my brother found out. `He will shoot you between the eyes with his English rifle. You must go, daughter, before you get killed.' She ran her rough fingers over my face, murmured verses of the Qur'an, kissed me then pushed me away from her. Miss Nailah held my hand and pulled me away. Hand in hand we walked to the police station.