We eat breakfast out by the swimming pool. The morning is still cool and the grass damp. Striped chipmunks run up and down the pale, twisted trunks of a castor oil tree. White jasmine nestles against the brick wall; kites wheel against an azure sky. So beautiful, I shiver.
When we have finished, Mike goes up to the apartment to get his briefcase. I finish my coffee and make my way to see if Hashim’s bookshop is open. I am hoping the language books he ordered might have arrived.
Delegates for Mike’s meeting are beginning to arrive in the lower lobby wearing their PAA name badges or those of the various agencies they represent.
Young women teeter through the glass doors of the hotel in delicate sandals and flutter like butterflies in their brightly coloured shalwar kameez, their chatter as noisy as sparrows. The men are mostly middle-aged and wear sober western suits or beige baggy trousers with waistcoats.
I am glad to see Hashim is busy with a customer. I am studying the blurbs on some new paperbacks when a young woman in a shimmering blue shalwar kameez comes into the bookshop. Unlike the other women who are wearing their dupattas loosely over their heads or draped around their shoulders, this woman is wearing a tight hijab. Most women look unappealing with this bandage-like scarf wrapped round their face like a nun, but the angular lines of this woman’s cheekbones and jaw are like an exquisite painting, perfectly framed. Her skin is a creamy coffee. She is so beautiful I cannot take my eyes off her.
She picks out a magazine from the rack. Her eyelashes are so long they make shadows on her cheeks. I’m staring and she looks up at me suddenly and gives me a cold and appraising look. Her eyes hold haughty disdain. I look down to the name badge hanging round her neck. Zakia Rafi PAA.
Mike materializes in the doorway of the bookshop and Ms Zakia Rafi’s eyes light up.
‘Mr Michael, sir! Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Zakia …’ Mike holds his arm out to me. ‘This is my wife, Gabriella. Zakia is my new marketing coordinator …’
Cool and beautiful Zakia turns and nods at me. She knew who I was. She followed me into the bookshop. As I look at her, I understand how impossible it would be to see that face in front of you every morning and not be moved by its compelling beauty.
Mike says smoothly, ‘Zakia, would you mind making sure there is coffee and cold drinks outside the conference room? We need to start on time. I’d like to finish at one o’clock …’
Mike puts his arm round my shoulder and draws me away. ‘Have a lovely morning shopping. Stay safe. Don’t lose sight of Birjees or Shahid. See you when you get back …’
Zakia glides away down the corridor on tiny feet, the light catching the threads in her beautiful shalwar kameez. If this is her work outfit I wonder what she wears in the evening.
I turn and walk into the lift and the doors slide to with a smooth hiss. As I travel up to the fourth floor I look at myself in the lift mirror. I am small and thin with fair, thick wild hair that has to be expertly cut. I have Maman’s dark skin and high cheekbones. Occasionally, I can give the illusion of beauty. I can wear clothes in a certain French way, like Dominique. I can carry things off to make the best of myself, but in no way could I compete with the extraordinary, luminous beauty in the bookshop.
On the drive into Karachi, Shahid tells me about the imminent arrival of his uncles from Canada.
‘They arrive every other year. It is a big disruption in our lives. They are exceedingly demanding and have many requests we must fulfil during their stay. It is exhausting, indeed, Gabriella. Mike has kindly given me a few days’ leave to help Birjees prepare for their long stay with us.’
Birjees smiles. ‘Shahid, he says the same every time they come. The uncles, they are hard work, but they are family.’
Shahid stops at the edge of a huge shopping mall and Birjees and I get out before he goes to park.
‘This Dolmen Mall,’ Birjees tells me. ‘Very good shopping. First, we will go to Zama-Zama and Innovation before we go to the market, then you can see many different style of shalwar kameez to choose from.’
Innovation is a magical dress shop that sells off-the-peg clothes in a dizzying multitude of colours and textures, from wedding glamour to heavy burqa-type uniforms.
Inside the shop women of all sizes and shapes are pulling colourful garments from the rails and taking them to the tiny, hot fitting rooms. I love the bustle and excitement. Pakistanis take shopping very seriously indeed.
All the assistants are young men and I find this bizarre. Men and women’s lives are so clearly delineated. Yet, here, young Pakistani men are rooting through the racks of clothes with a certain intimacy, searching for the right size and colour for a startlingly different array and status of women. Females of all ages, who are chaperoned and segregated in other areas of life, undress behind a flimsy curtain and preen in the mirrors under the eyes of these young men.
I tell Birjees that most British women would be horrified if clothes shops in England were manned by young men who knew what size they were. Yet here, in Pakistan, where men and women fraternize with extreme care, it is considered perfectly normal.
‘It is because fathers and husbands, they make it difficult for women to have jobs,’ Birjees explains.
There is haughtiness in the wealthier women buying clothes. They hardly glance at the humble male assistants. Weddings and formal party clothes seem to be the exception. Expert advice is sought. The young male assistants come into their own, producing a flurry of shimmering, beaded and exotic shalwar kameez in every colour imaginable. Rank and station are abandoned in the serious dilemma of choosing a shalwar kameez that will adequately reflect the status of the wearer and their family at a wedding where celebrations go on for days. These young shop assistants are consultants, expert in making sure these women will look beautiful and honour will be maintained.
Birjees picks out colours I would never think of wearing at home, but once I am standing in front of the mirror I am astonished to see how right she is.
‘You say you cannot wear red, but Gabby, you can wear this dark poppy colour. It looks so good with your colouring …’
The clothes are more expensive than Birjees’s tailor and she tries to persuade me not to buy, but there is no way I am walking out of this shop empty-handed. She goes away to find some cool baggy cotton trousers to go with the red shalwar kameez that I am reluctant to take off.
She comes back with trousers and a long ochre dupatta. I put everything on and stare at myself in the mirror. Someone exotic looks back at me.
Women holding piles of garments and waiting for the mirror stare at me. Birjees smiles. ‘People, they stare because it is an honour when western women wear our clothes.’
‘I think I would like to leave it on,’ I say, feeling as if I am about to step into another life.
The linen top and trousers I was wearing, plus another green shalwar kameez I cannot resist, are wrapped and beautifully packaged. I stand born anew in my red shalwar kameez and long dupatta.
Everyone seems to be smiling at me and Birjees says, laughing, ‘I am very proud of you. You are just like Pakistani woman, but for silver, blonde hair …’
Shahid insists on carrying my light bags from the shop. I love his paternalism. It makes me feel cared for in the light of Mike’s neglect. Hot and flushed with heat and the success of my purchases, I walk between my friends like a spoilt Pakistani Rani back to the car.
Outside, I find the heat almost unbearable as the day edges to midday. Shahid puts my bags in the car and we go to find an air-conditioned café. Mike has warned me to avoid tap water, fresh juice, salad or fruit outside the hotel. The water in Karachi is unsafe; we even have to brush our teeth with bottled water.
As we sit drinking Coca-Cola, Shahid and Birjees ask me how I have been on my own in the hotel. Have I missed my friends? Have I been lonely?
I tell them I have been fine. The hotel staff are lovely. I have a walled garden to myself most mornings. I tell them about the little
bookshop and the joy of discovering Pakistani writers. At the moment I am reading Daniyal Mueenuddin’s short stories. Every afternoon I sit by the pool as kites fly low and the sun dips behind the wall staining the sky red, and I am transported to rural Pakistan, to a harsh world I know nothing about. I am lured into lives, so viscerally drawn, that I can see the faded colours and taste the dust of remote worlds I will never see.
I say to Birjees, ‘Most of the short stories are about women. None of them ever have a happy ending.’
Birjees smiles. ‘Gabriella, we do not have your western concept of happy endings. The writer, he writes of things as they are.’
When I have cooled down, Shahid drives a few miles out of town and parks on a side road. The heat and noise in the covered market is very different from the shopping mall. I find it a little daunting. It is packed full of hundreds of rows of stalls, manned by young competitive men selling a massive choice of materials. I am overawed by the choice. There are thousands of designs and colours and textures to choose from. Shahid hovers near me, heroically patient. When I have decided on material and colour, Birjees steps in like an auctioneer and the serious business of bargaining begins.
Horror from Birjees at the price the stallholder has arrived at; despair and a wringing of hands from the poor stallholder as Birjees beats him slowly but surely down. She is relentless.
‘What are they saying?’ I ask Shahid, anxiously. ‘I can afford to pay the sum he asks. Clothes are much cheaper here than back in the UK.’
Shahid rolls his eyes. ‘Birjees, she is saying that he has no right to ask more from you than he would if you were a Pakistani woman …’
‘But I took ages to make up my mind and he was so helpful.’
‘Oh, this will not wash with Birjees, Gabriella. Anyway, Pakistani women, they take twice as long and with more noise …’
The stallholder is now making a desperate plea to Shahid, in a hoarse voice, man to man.
Shahid translates. ‘He is telling me that my wife is going to make him bankrupt. That he has two wives and six children to feed and that they will all be homeless and starve unless I come to his aid …’
I turn to Birjees. ‘Please, let me pay what he asks, Birjees. It’s a fair price to me.’
But it is no good appealing to Birjees. She has the burning zeal of a competitive gambler.
‘Have a heart, Birjees; this man says he can’t make a profit on the price you insist on. Let us compromise,’ Shahid says firmly.
Birjees relents and a compromise is agreed. Everyone smiles and my material is wrapped up. As we walk away I explain to Birjees that I am uncomfortable bargaining for a lower price when I can obviously afford to pay the price asked. Birjees looks at me as if I am mad.
Shahid laughs. ‘Where would be the fun in that, Gabriella, for Birjees or the stallholder?’
Birjees’s tailor is so busy that it is going to be weeks before he can take any more work. He suggests another tailor in another market a few miles away down the road and scribbles down the address. I am flagging in the heat and Shahid says, ‘Maybe another day, Birjees. Gabby, she is feeling hot.’ But Birjees is not to be dissuaded. She wants me to have my shalwar kameez.
We drive a few miles and stop by some outhouses on a littered road lined by a monsoon drain.
‘Are you sure this is the right place, Birjees?’ Shahid asks, looking around.
Birjees winds her car window down and calls out to a child sitting on the pavement swinging a plastic sandal on the end of his foot. He nods and points to a building up on the left.
We get out of the car and find a huge warehouse full of stalls selling everything under the sun. Birjees is directed to the back of this market where the fabrics and rolls of materials are sold. Birjees looks at her piece of paper and homes in on a tailor sitting in front of his work booth. She greets him and, unsmiling, he greets her back. Birjees holds up my material and begins to explain how she would like my clothes made.
The tailor strokes his beard. He is staring at me with icy contempt. He shakes his head at Birjees, his voice soft, and lifts a hand as if he is swatting a fly. His meaning is quite clear. He does not make clothes for a gora. Birjees is too shocked to react for a second, then she answers him sharply. Stallholders, all young and male, start to gather around us. The atmosphere has changed in a second. I stand very still in my shalwar kameez, my heart thudding with fear.
Shahid murmurs, with some urgency, ‘Come, Birjees, Gabby … we must get out of here, now … We will walk casually. We will not show fear …’ He takes both our elbows and steers us swiftly through the length of the market and out onto the road. Resisting the urge to run for the car, Birjees holds my hand tight as we step over the rubbish lying in the monsoon drains. We jump in the car and Shahid starts up the engine before we have closed the doors. We drive back to the centre of the city in silence. When we are sitting in a cool restaurant with a cold drink Shahid says to Birjees:
‘We forgot, Birjees. There are some places we just cannot take Gabby.’
Birjees nods, still shaken. Shahid mutters, ‘This bloody country.’
It was my presence that put them both in danger and I start to apologize.
‘Please don’t, Gabby,’ Shahid says. ‘You make me feel bad for not obeying my instinct when we got to that market …’
He smiles at me. ‘You fit so quickly into our lives, Gabriella, that I forget you are not one of us …’
After lunch we are laughing again, determined our day together will not be spoilt. We head into the huge palatial shopping mall to buy sandals and visit Jaffrees, a wonderful handcrafted leather shop where I buy a beautiful tan bag and a wallet for Mike.
As we drive back to the hotel I thank them. ‘You are so generous with your time. You have uncles coming and a lot to do …’
They both bat away my thanks. ‘It is good distraction from the preparations for my uncles,’ Shahid says.
At the glass doors of the Shalimar, Birjees hugs me. ‘Because of uncles we will not have so much time to see you, but please remember, Shahid and I are your family while you are in Karachi …’
‘We are on the end of a phone,’ Shahid says. ‘If you feel lonely or have need of us you must ring and we will come to you …’
‘Thank you,’ I say, overwhelmed by their goodness. I wave goodbye, place my bags onto the security belt and move swiftly out of the heat into the blessedly cool hotel.
Rana beams. ‘Mrs Michael! You wear shalwar kameez! It is beautiful. You look beautiful.’
I run a little gauntlet of male receptionists and waiters nodding approval. There is no sneaking back into this hotel. They laugh when they see all my shopping bags. ‘You just like Pakistani woman, mem …’
Refusing all offers of help with my packages, I back self-consciously into the lift feeling childishly happy.
The Shalimar is beginning to feel like home. I feel accepted. I have a little place among them all. There is such a strange dichotomy in Pakistan. The stringent paternalism and male chauvinism that restricts women’s lives here is also fiercely protective of women. I find this comforting. It makes me feel safe in an unsafe place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Karachi, May 2010
Will and Matteo call me on Skype. They are sitting on a sofa with a laptop. It sounds as if there is a party in the background.
‘Hi Maman!’ they chorus.
‘What are you two doing together on a working week?’ I ask, delighted to see them.
‘It’s Friday night and it’s eleven p.m. here. I came up to Will’s for a party tomorrow,’ Matteo says.
‘Has it started already?’
Will laughs. ‘No, that’s just noisy people drinking next door. We decided we would give you a ring to see if you’re surviving Dad and Karachi?’
‘Just about!’ I joke. ‘I don’t see much of him at the moment. He has a big conference coming up in Islamabad, so he’s flat out …’
‘What a surprise!’ Will says dr
ily. ‘Hope he’s looking after you. What do you do all day, Mum?’
‘Well, I’ve rattled through two translations in half the time it would take me in London and I’m going to teach myself Urdu. There’s a wonderful garden with a pool where I spend a lot of my time …’
‘But you can’t go out anywhere,’ Matteo says. ‘I’d go mad. You must get claustrophobic.’
‘Sometimes,’ I admit. ‘But, you somehow get used to it. Pakistanis are incredibly kind and hospitable and I’ve made some good friends. They take me into Karachi when they can. This hotel is a bit like a little island; there is a Chinese and Japanese restaurant and a wonderful roof terrace where they do barbecues and the hot biryanis your dad loves. We do go out of the hotel, you know. I promise you, I’m absolutely fine …’
They both look doubtful. ‘We’ll try to Skype you more often …’
‘It’s bliss to see you both,’ I say. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to …’
I watch them as they talk. Listen to their news. Drink them in. They look well, they look happy. I miss them. I miss them.
‘Will is getting serious about a girl,’ Matteo says suddenly.
Will shoves him crossly. ‘That’s for me to say, not you. Mind your own business, Matt.’
I rein in my curiosity. ‘Quite right, darling. You tell me when you’re ready. Butt out, Matteo, concentrate on your own love life.’
Matteo laughs. ‘Haven’t got one, unfortunately …’ He peers at me. ‘What are you wearing? You look all dressed up.’
I get up and do a twirl in the blue shalwar kameez and long floaty dupatta that Birjees bought me.
‘I am all dolled up. Your papa and I are off to the Deputy High Commissioner’s party, when he gets in.’
The boys whistle and stare at me surprised. ‘Wow!’
There is a kerfuffle behind them on the screen and someone calls, ‘Are you guys coming or what?’
‘Yeah. Five minutes!’ Will yells back. He smiles at me. ‘Nightclub …’
‘You must go.’ There is a wobble in my voice. Both boys stare intently into the screen. I wrinkle my nose quickly and say, ‘Just miss you both.’
In a Kingdom by the Sea Page 10
