In a Kingdom by the Sea

by Sara MacDonald

  Gestures of public affection are frowned upon in a Muslim country so I don’t expect him to swing me off my feet, but I feel somewhat deflated by his half-hearted greeting as we chase after Mahsood through the crowds.

  At the baggage carousel Mike glances at me.

  ‘Good flight?’ he asks distractedly, keeping an eye out for my luggage.

  I start to laugh. ‘What?’ Mike says, startled.

  ‘I feel as if I’ve just got off a number seven bus, not travelled thousands of miles to be with you.’

  Mike stares at me guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, Gabby. I didn’t mean to be unwelcoming. Things have conspired against me today. I have a meeting later on this morning that I couldn’t change …’

  An airport official interrupts us with something for Mike to sign.

  I turn away and watch a fat man in long khaki shirt and baggy trousers. He is shouting directions at two women in faded shalwar kameez. Their faces are devoid of emotion as they struggle to lift two huge parcels onto a trolley. The fat man does not go and help them. One woman is young, just a girl, the other is much older. I wonder if they are his wives. Both women have an air of weary resignation and compliance. I sit on the urge to go and help them. Mahsood might shoot me.

  Mike places his hand on the small of my back as we follow my luggage trolley to the exit. As we step out into the glare and swelter of the morning I spot Noor standing by the car smiling.

  ‘Mem! Mem! It is you!’

  I laugh. ‘It is!’

  ‘I very happy to see you again, mem.’

  ‘And I am glad to see you, Noor.’

  Mike’s phone starts to ring as soon as we are in the car.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake … I’m sorry, Gabby, I need to take this …’

  Mahsood does his odd disappearing act and as we join the main highway I turn and watch the terrifying traffic thunder past in bursts of colour, in an endless dance and gamble with death. After all the excitement and upheaval of the last few weeks, the reality of what I have done hits me. I look up to see Noor’s green eyes watching me in the car mirror. He smiles at me with such sweet concern that I have to swallow hard.

  Mike puts his phone away as I see the Shalimar rising up on the left of the road.

  ‘Here we are, mem,’ Noor calls. ‘We are safely to your new home.’

  Mike smiles. ‘Let’s get you settled in, darling.’

  There is a warm welcome from Rana who is manning reception. ‘Mrs Michael, Mrs Michael. How lovely. You are here!’

  I smile. ‘I am. It’s good to see you again, Rana.’

  Mike says. ‘Tiring night flight, Rana, so I am going to take my wife straight up.’

  ‘Of course. Please to ring if there is anything you need, Mrs Michael …’

  We take the lift up to the refurbished apartment on the fifth floor. Mike throws the door open with a flourish.

  ‘Here we are then … your new home.’

  Unlike his last faded but evocative rooms, everything in this apartment is light and pristine. So spanking new that the high-ceilinged rooms still smell of paint. The sitting room is large and airy. There is a tiny kitchen and a bedroom leading off on the right with Mike’s desk at the far end. The bathroom is luxurious with an oval bath and black tiles. Best of all there is a little balcony with French windows that looks down over the distant city; a tiny outside space.

  I walk round exclaiming excitedly. Mike laughs, his face relaxing.

  ‘Will it do?’

  ‘It’s fantastic.’

  I feel relief as he hugs me to him for a moment. Then he kisses the top of my head and glances at his watch. ‘Oh hell, I’ve got to go … Gabby, sorry, I have a meeting downstairs. I’ll order you up some lunch, for later on. You won’t want to go down to eat on your own yet, will you?’

  ‘What about you? Aren’t you going to have lunch?’

  ‘I’ll get someone to grab me a sandwich.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have it with me?’

  ‘Sorry, darling, it’s a working lunch.’

  He orders me soup and a sandwich. ‘Someone will bring it up to you at midday. I should be through by mid-afternoon. Relax, have a sleep, you must be shattered …’ He makes for the door. ‘See you later. Have fun unpacking …’

  The air-conditioning hums into the heavy silence. I go and open the French windows onto the balcony. The heat hits me, making me flinch. Sprawling buildings shimmer in heatwaves like a mirage. I look out over billboards and flat roofs and a round gilded mosque. The city stretches towards the sea. Cranes hang across the skyline like spider’s legs. A dusty ochre haze lies over everything. The heat makes me giddy and I go back inside and shut the French doors.

  When I open the wardrobe I find an exquisite shalwar kameez on a hanger with a note from Birjees.

  Welcome to Karachi, dear Gabriella, I hope this fits. Michael was not sure, so I guessed your size! Birjees.

  It is dark blue with pale blue edging along the neck and sleeves. There are aquamarine and gold beads in small fish patterns along the front. I run my hands over the beads, deeply affected by the kindness of this gift.

  I find a pair of thin cotton trousers tucked inside and a long dupatta draped over the hanger in the same sky blue as the edging. Birjees has thought of everything.

  I hold the shalwar kameez up against me in front of the mirror and imagine a different woman dressed in this lovely garment. The woman I might become. I smile at her. This blue is my colour. I hope I will be able to carry it off.

  I hear Dominique’s voice in my head. ‘Go to Karachi if you must, darling, but remember this. People do not change. If you want excitement, an adventure, make it your own, not Mike’s. Stay safe and never, ever, ignore the little warning voice inside you.’

  Wise woman. I go to the window. Above me is the vivid, cloudless sky; below me, the fronds of a palm tree make moving shadows over the armed guards patrolling the hotel entrance. I feel a flash of exhilaration. Karachi is spread out below me like an unknown map. I am here. There is no going back for Mike or for me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Karachi, 2010

  That evening Mike takes me to eat in the Mandarin restaurant on the hotel’s ground floor. The Chinese waiters greet him effusively. While we wait for our food Mike asks about Will and Matteo but he is distracted and not really listening to my answers.

  ‘You look exhausted. You didn’t have to bring me out, Mike.’

  ‘We have to eat.’ He smiles. ‘You look pretty weary yourself …’

  He tells me about the restaurant, about Charlie Wang’s plans for making the hotel a destination for locals. It is tired, deflective small talk, like being on a first date or dinner with an old lover.

  We are both saved by the appearance of a beaming Charlie Wang himself. He takes my hand in a firm grip. ‘Gabriella, I have heard all about you from Rana. Welcome to the Shalimar …’

  Like a magician he produces a bottle of wine nestling in a large brown paper bag.

  Mike laughs. ‘Charlie, please, come and join us …’

  ‘I will join you for one glass, to celebrate the coming of your wife …’

  ‘Please, eat with us. We’d love it, wouldn’t we, Gabby?’

  I smile. ‘We would.’

  The bottle is whisked away and when the waiter comes back he fills our wine glasses from a discreet water pitcher. Charlie is charming, charismatic and funny, one of those rare men who can lift a room and make everyone feel included. I watch Mike relax, laugh and become himself again.

  I wake in the early hours unsure where I am. Mike has left the blind on the middle window up. I don’t like the dark and this little act of thoughtfulness comforts me more than any words could.

  Clouds scud across a navy sky. I turn on my back and drink in the sounds and smell of a strange city at night. I listen to Mike breathing, to the air-conditioning humming. I must not expect too much, Mike and I have to adjust. He has not worked with me around for years, not since the boys were
small. He is probably wondering what he has done, too.

  I turn as he turns, nestle into his back and wrap my arms around his waist. He does not wake up but reaches as he always does to tuck my arm under his. Habit. Love. I smile. His body warms me. It is all going to be fine. Tomorrow, we will be more relaxed. Tomorrow, we will start again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Karachi, 2010

  Mike has gone to work. I get out of bed and gaze out over Karachi. It is hard to believe that I cannot walk out of the glass doors of the hotel and saunter across the road to seek the shadowy sanctuary of the Catholic church. It is not possible to make for the small patch of green I can see in the distance. It is a park but no one goes there because it is too dangerous. The enticing dappled peace is deserted. To leave the hotel I need security or Noor, or Birjees and Shahid.

  Nothing can be done spontaneously; everything has to be planned.

  This hotel could feel like a five-star prison, but I am not going to let it.

  I make tea and shower. I pull on my demure swimsuit under my clothes. I pick up Dawn, the local newspaper, from under the door and take the lift down to the lobby.

  Rana’s smile is radiant. ‘Good morning, Mrs Michael, how are you today?’

  She sails with me across the reception area, past the palms and heavy furniture to the door of the restaurant, chatting companionably all the way. Rana is a lovely woman inside and out.

  ‘Have a happy day, Mrs Michael!’ she calls as she leaves me at the door of the dining room with Naseem. Naseem shows me to a small table by the window and then guides me round the tables of food. When I have chosen fruit, yogurt and croissants I sit, uncomfortably aware of the scrutiny of other people having breakfast.

  Sensing my discomfort, Naseem says quietly, ‘Mem, would you prefer to have your breakfast down in the garden in the shade of trees? If you like I can bring a tray down to you each morning?’

  ‘Naseem, that would be wonderful. May I go into the garden now?’

  Naseem smiles. ‘Yes, mem, you can go now. It will take us few minutes to make your breakfast and then I will bring it down to you.’

  I push the heavy glass doors open and stand on the wide marble steps that lead down to the garden. The heat, after the air-conditioning, hits me even at eight o’clock in the morning. Birds are singing, chipmunks run across the grass; the pool shimmers above mosaic tiles. I feel visceral joy as I look down on a day unfolding in a walled garden in Karachi.

  Zakawi runs to greet me with towels. He makes sure I’m in the shade and positions me at an angle facing away from the windows of the hotel. He talks animatedly for a minute or two in fractured English. I can’t understand a word. I am going to have to learn Urdu.

  Naseem carries my heavy tray down the steps and lays out my breakfast with care on a small table under the trees. It feels like a gift.

  ‘Naseem, thank you for suggesting this.’

  Naseem smiles and places one hand on his heart. ‘It is my pleasure, mem.’

  I sit with the heady smell of coffee and listen to the day waking beyond the high walls, beyond the guns at the gates. The heat is gentle, the dew still quivers on the grass. An old hennaed gardener rhythmically sweeps brown blossom leaves from the paths. All is tranquil inside this empty garden. Black-eyed crows perch on a chair near my table watching me with their black, intelligent eyes. I have been warned that if I move an inch from the table they will steal my breakfast.

  It is true, the minute I finish eating they scrap and flap and make litter like stroppy teenagers, swooping for the packets of sugar and tiny cartons of butter with the speed of light. I watch them snatch up a yogurt pot, fly away with it in their beaks and peg it on a nail on the wall to finish what is left inside. I am entranced by their cleverness.

  I have my laptop and notes in my bag. I want to try to get into a routine of working before the heat of the day kicks in. Isabella Fournier’s new novel is disappointing and unexciting to translate. I work for nearly two hours trying to concentrate, my body growing hotter and hotter, even in the shade. Stripy chipmunks sit near my feet washing their whiskers but if I move a muscle they are gone.

  My mind drifts, takes flight. I read the same line over and over, pen poised. I give up. I will have to swim. Leaves drift down into the aquamarine water and Zakawi fishes them out. Two pink-grey doves sit on the curved steps of the pool drinking. My body burns. The heat shimmers across the grass making me dizzy. I glance at my watch, imagine myself in London, at my desk covered in manuscripts, back in a cool modern building, surrounded by a buzz of people.

  I take off my loose top, wrap myself in the large towel and walk to the edge of the pool. I slip into the water leaving the towel on the edge ready to whip around me as soon as I emerge. I am still anxious about offending, about showing too much of my body.

  The water cools and comforts me. I am in my element. I swim up and down the empty pool in a soothing rhythm, trying not to think of invisible eyes from high windows watching me swimming in dappled, refracted water that hides the contours of my limbs. I swim and kick and part the water with strong, sleek strokes until I am out of breath.

  I know my body is blurred by the sun reflecting on the blue tiles on the bottom of the pool. I looked down on swimmers from the fifth floor yesterday and marvelled at the way the sun dances on the water like the ripples of a current, converting the moving shapes of swimmers into soft kaleidoscopic patterns.

  I’m trying not to remember Mike’s face as I stepped out of the plane. In the weeks before I came out I asked him repeatedly, Are you sure this is what you want? I quite understand if you have changed your mind. I was having a few second thoughts myself as I handed over much of my workload to Emily and interviewed a foreign rights assistant for her.

  I step out of the water onto the steps and throw my towel around me. The temperature as midday approaches is unbearable and I change quickly in the airless little changing room. I have a strange sense of no longer being rooted and a surge of homesickness, for Emily and Kate, for their easy company and laughter.

  As I walk back across the grass I stop to admire scarlet hibiscus framed against a sky so blue it makes me dizzy. Behind me, a young pool boy reaches up to break a spray off the tree. He hands it to me in a sweet instinctive gesture. Touched, I carry the blooms up to my room and place them in a glass on the table. Their scent fills the room.

  When I go back down to the garden later in the afternoon I discover a hidden little bookshop in the hotel’s basement with its door open. The middle-aged shopkeeper sees me stopped in my tracks and beckons me in.

  For the next hour I sit on a stool in the stuffy little shop as Hashim introduces me to Pakistani and Indian writers. It is like stumbling upon gold. The bookshop is surprisingly well stocked with English books as well as translated Pakistani writers. Hashim is up to date and knowledgeable about European writers and publishing trends.

  When I leave, I clutch a little pile of Pashto poetry, a big glossy Journey Through Pakistan; Islamic Art and Architecture, short stories, novels … I feel like an explorer about to embark on a journey of discovery. Hashim is delighted by my excitement and delighted to sell some books.

  ‘I do not know how long I can keep this outlet in the hotel going. I need more customers like you. I started off on the ground floor near reception which is a much better place to sell books but then the management, they moved me down here when they started to modernize the hotel …’

  I tell him I will buy as many books as I can if he stays open. He laughs and promises to order me some language books for both Urdu and Pashto.

  ‘You will find many of the waiters here are from the north and speak Pashto,’ he tells me. ‘Pashto is Eastern Iranian language spoken in Afghanistan, it is second official regional language, here in Pakistan.’

  ‘Thank you, Hashim, for your time and your lovely bookshop.’

  Hashim puts his hands together and inclines his head. ‘Mrs Gabriella, it was good to talk books with someone
who loves them.’

  I float up in the lift with my purchases and place them all on the table. What a lovely day; a gift of flowers and a clutch of books.

  I sit and open the glossy Journey Through Pakistan. The scent of hibiscus is heady. It reminds me of the smell of the hedgerows full of wild flowers behind our house in Cornwall. When the fields gave off the gentle heat of morning. When cow’s breath filled the air and dew hung from fat blades of grass like tiny glass pear drops. When the promise of summer lay ahead. When the long, feathery grass would soon become a hay meadow, and, when it was mown, Dominique and I would run and run through prickly, yellow rubble scratching our ankles.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Karachi, 2010

  It is the weekend. Shahid and Birjees are coming to take us into Karachi. Birjees wants her tailor to make me light-weight shalwar kameez, ones I can wear every day in the heat.

  When I wake Mike is sitting at his laptop. He brings me a cup of tea and announces that he has had to call a meeting in the conference room downstairs. He is sorry, but he won’t be able to come out with me today.

  I cannot hide my disappointment. I was looking forward to us going into Karachi together.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gabby. We have a big conference coming up in Islamabad and it is going to be a disaster unless I can pin people down …’

  ‘It’s Saturday, Mike. I’ve hardly seen anything of you since I arrived.’

  Mike’s face closes. ‘Do you think I want to work today? It won’t always be like this. It’s not exactly a hardship to go out with Birjees and Shahid, is it?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t, but it would be nicer if you were with me. Is that so hard to understand?’

  Mike sighs and puts his phone in his pocket. ‘Of course I understand. I just can’t do anything about it. Come on, darling; let’s have breakfast together before my meeting starts …’