‘You are a wonderful friend.’
‘It is much pleasure to be your friend, Gabriella …’ Birjees says, with such gentleness that it startles me. Then, I understand. Birjees knows Mike is having an affair. Or straying. I shut my eyes to hide the flush of pain and humiliation that rises in my guts. It is real.
‘We will have to feed you up, dear Gabby,’ Birjees says, her voice a long way away. ‘You have lost weight since I last saw you …’
She helps me out of the bath and into a clean nightie and I get into bed. I am so tired I can hardly see. It is only when I am back in bed that I feel tears streaming down my face.
‘Do not cry, Gabby,’ Birjees whispers, but I cannot stop the silent flow now I have begun. I want to tell her about Dominique, about the letter, but there are no words, there never will be.
Birjees dabs my hot face with cold water and gives me a blue pill. She asks no questions and gives no platitudes, but she is wholly and silently present. It is a gift.
‘I will stay until you sleep. Then I will return tomorrow and we will plan our shopping trips for when Shahid returns. Inshallah, you will be stronger very soon, Gabby.’
‘Inshallah,’ I murmur and sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Karachi, 2010
I toss and turn and dream and dream again of home.
I am in my bedroom in Cornwall lying on my bed soporific on a hot, lazy Sunday afternoon. My fat white cat Minou is sitting on the windowsill washing her paws. Maman is down in the vegetable garden picking peas or lettuces or some summer vegetable. Papa is leaning out of their bedroom window and shouting down to her.
‘Marianne, it’s too hot to garden. Come and rest … We’ll do that later, my bird …’ His voice rises and falls, his Cornish accent more pronounced when he’s had a drink.
My parents are talking inconsequential rubbish to each other as they do after red wine at lunchtime. I listen sleepily to their banter, feeling secure in this small weekend routine. Later, Maman will put together a picnic and we will walk down to the beach to join Dominique.
Half asleep I hear my father’s voice change and grow lower. He is cajoling Maman upstairs to their bed. I register this with embarrassed horror but also a little frisson as I quickly pull my headphones over my ears.
I wake up and turn on my back. I can rarely think of my parents without acknowledging the dominating physicality of their relationship.
Somewhere in the corridor of the hotel a door opens and shuts with a squeak. My throat is parched and I get out of bed for cold water from the fridge and lie on my back in the dark.
How hard my parents worked in those first years to pay the mortgage on Loveday’s house. Maman taught French, she cleaned cottages, she ran the café, and she did occasional B&B.
Papa worked so many hours on building sites he sometimes swayed with tiredness when he came home. Yet they both still had time to fish for our supper, grow vegetables, bake bread and spend time with Dominique and me. I marvel at it now.
Looking back, I jumped single-mindedly straight from childhood to Mike. I met him when he came up to the campsite one summer with friends. He was seventeen and broodingly good-looking. I was fourteen and awkward but I made him laugh. I had a scholarship to the high school and we would lie on the beach and talk about books. He came back to Cornwall most summers with a group of friends, to surf and to work in the local cafés and restaurants.
When I finished my degree at the Sorbonne I only moved to London because Mike was there. By then I had grown into my looks, but Papa said:
That boy will break your heart, too restless, too ambitious … Stay in Cornwall, marry a local boy, then I can keep an eye on you …
Don’t be ridiculous, Maman said sharply. You don’t mean it. Gabriella needs to grow up, get away from Cornwall, earn a living …
I wake late, befuddled, but I am definitely better. I feel ravenous and I go to the kitchen to make tea and toast and take it back to bed. I check my mobile and find I have a lot of emails. I sort out the personal. There is a text from Mike.
Feel bad I haven’t had time to ring you. Manic here. Hope all okay. Will ring as soon as I get a moment. M xx
There are three emails from Will and two from Matteo, both saying the same thing. Why don’t you answer emails, Mum? Keep trying to Skype you but you are never online …
Could you please get in touch with one of us, Mum?
Maman, where are you? We are getting worried now.
In a panic I try to work out the time back home. It is about 3 a.m. They will be asleep. I switch on my laptop and email them both asking if they are okay and to ring me on my mobile, I will pay for the call.
I go and have a shower and two hours later Will Skypes me. He has obviously just got up, his hair is standing on end and he is wearing the washed-out tee shirt and shorts he wears in bed. He is furious. My gentle Will is mad as hell.
‘FFS, Mum, your mobile has been switched off and you haven’t answered emails or been online for ages. Matt and I have been worried sick …’
‘Darling, I’m sorry. I’ve been ill with a bug for two days. What’s happened? Are you both okay?’
‘We’re okay. We were worried about you.’
‘But, why, Will?’
‘Because …’ he says, slightly less crossly. ‘I had to get hold of Dad, which is a feat in itself. I needed his signature on some uni funding for next year, and he told me he was in Islamabad at some conference. Matt and I couldn’t believe he had left you on your own in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Then, we couldn’t get hold of you. You just seemed to have disappeared. You could have been kidnapped for all we knew, without anyone knowing …’
‘Oh, Will! I keep telling you, I’m in a safe, guarded hotel and Karachi is quiet at the moment.’
‘Not according to the news, it isn’t. There is one hell of a political crisis brewing out there. You probably don’t get to read about it. Pakistan is impounding and burning UN trucks at the border. They are trying to stop supplies getting to Afghanistan and that’s just for starters …’
‘I have heard about it. Will, I rarely go out and I don’t go anywhere on my own without security or friends. I’m sorry I worried you both. I’ll make sure I keep in close touch from now on, I promise.’
Will, mollified, peers at me. ‘You look awful, Mum. Are you better?’
‘I am. It was nasty while it lasted. It was why I switched everything off.’
‘Why didn’t you go to Islamabad with Dad?’
‘He would have been working all hours and I’ve got good friends here.’
‘What is the point of you being out there, Mum? Dad is always working. Nothing ever changes. If you wanted a bit of an adventure there are so many places you could have gone with the real freedom to explore …’
I look at my son a thousand miles away. He is undeniably right. Will stares back at me. Something clicks into place. I remember how angry he was in Muscat over Mike sloping back to the hotel. Did he overhear or suspect something was going on in Oman? I can’t ask.
Eventually I say, ‘I don’t regret coming to Pakistan, but I’ll probably be home soon. You’re right, there is no real point in being on my own here …’ I smile, longing to hug my scruffy, unshaven son. ‘I’m sorry if you think I abandoned you and Matt for a silly middle-aged adventure.’
Will smiles back. ‘We’re adults, Mum and we wouldn’t begrudge you a safe adventure, you deserve it, but Karachi isn’t safe and … we miss you.’
‘I miss you too. Give my love to Matteo.’
‘I will. Stay safe and plugged in, Maman.’
My son fades from the screen. I feel a rush of homesickness. Will is right. What am I doing here, ill and alone in a hotel in Karachi? It does not make sense. My life is on hold. I can make up all the excuses in the world for Mike not ringing me each night, but not one that makes sense, if he really cared.
How speedily I gave up the life I had in London. How eagerly I let mys
elf be led, blinkered, into Mike’s life. To be valued for choosing to be with someone is not a sacrifice, but for it to count for so little makes me pretty stupid.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Karachi, 2010
Will was right; violence was crouched in the shadows waiting. Today, extremists hide an incendiary device inside an old television. They strap the television onto the back of a motorcycle and casually walk away leaving it outside a hospital. An alert and suspicious doctor spots it and points it out to a policeman. The policeman, for some inexplicable reason, carries the television into the hospital to examine it. It blows up, killing and maiming many people.
A little later the bus carrying grieving relatives to the hospital is targeted. Thirty-five men, women and children are killed and injured in a gruesome second wave of carnage. This starts a wave of revenge killings and demonstrations and protests that reverberates across Karachi.
The city is jittery and tense. People are told to stay off the streets. The unease is like a Mexican wave reflected inside the hotel. Zakawi is distraught.
‘Why these bad men do this violence? Why? Everybody only remember Pakistan for bombs. I very sad, mem.’
The waiters stay in the hotel for the night, too nervous to risk the streets. The hotel empties as businessmen fly smartly out of Karachi on packed planes. Police foil another bomb plot in the city centre, but everyone knows this only means the fanatics will try again.
Outside the hotel, more ramps and roadblocks are erected. The embassies impose curfews on all personnel. Ambulances and sirens scream and wail constantly amidst the cacophony of traffic. Goose bumps rise on the back of my neck. The sense of urgency and fear colours everything. The hotel staff are nervous and jumpy. They have families out there in the city. No one ever knows whether the sirens are a false alarm or they mean sudden death.
The sun, as if in sympathy, disappears. A cold blistering wind descends from the mountains. It is too wild to translate outside and I retreat to my room where the French windows blow a dusty draught through the room. I find a sleeveless sweater of Mike’s and pull it on over my tracksuit bottoms. There is a strange comfort in climbing into ugly western clothes again.
Like a noisy clock winding down, when I wake on Sunday morning there is an ominous, eerie silence. I get up and go out on the balcony. There is no traffic on the wide roads. The intersection is deserted. The city seems to have ground to a halt. Nothing stirs out there. Even the hotel around me seems muffled, as if the world is crouched, waiting. I shiver with fear. This is much more unnerving than the bombs and the tear gas and the sirens.
I feel abruptly alone. Karachi has grown alien and ugly, its dust and violence clogs my throat and fills my nostrils. I long for my sons. I want to tell Dominique I love her. I want to hear Kate and Emily’s voices.
I am still standing on the balcony when Mike rings. He sounds anxious. ‘Gabby, are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘You must stay in the hotel. It’s not safe to go anywhere until it all calms down.’
‘I have no way of going anywhere even if I wanted to, Mike.’
‘I heard Karachi was in lockdown last night, but it was too late to ring you. I’m so sorry you are on your own … Curfews are unnerving …’
He pauses. I don’t say anything and Mike clears his throat nervously.
‘I’m told the situation is now calm but uneasy. Shahid is on his way back to Karachi ahead of me. I am sure he will come and see you as soon as it’s safe …’
‘It will be good to see him.’ I don’t want to admit I am feeling isolated here on my own.
‘I hope you’ve rung Birjees? Has Massima been in contact?’
‘They both ring to make sure I’m okay. Birjees came over when I was ill. Massima’s in Lahore at the moment …’
‘I should be there with you, Gabby. I’m … I know I haven’t supported you enough just lately … I’m overworked and stressed and this thing with your sister … I wanted to shut it out. I’m sorry …’
Mike stops, sounding guilty. I do not reassure him. After a beat, he says in a rush, ‘Gabby, I’m afraid there’s a chance that this bloody conference may overrun for a couple of days. Can you hang on in there?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
Mike says smoothly, ‘When I’m back we’ll get out of Karachi for a while, go away somewhere peaceful. We’ll have time to talk things through. I’ll be on leave. I’ll have time to listen, okay, darling?’
‘We certainly need to talk,’ I say, but I do not know whether Mike wants to talk about my parents or our marriage.
‘I’ll try to ring you tomorrow. Are you eating? Are you sleeping?’
‘Yes, Naseem and Baseer are force-feeding me.’
Mike gives a jolly laugh. ‘Good! You take care, Gabby.’
I go inside and shut the French windows. I hear Will’s voice. There you go again, Mum, accepting everything, as you always do.
Not this time, Will. Not this time.
I can’t go along with this charade any more. My anger feels cold and contained, like a second skin I did not know I had.
Papa was the one person I loved and trusted implicitly. He never, ever let me down. He made me feel safe until the day he died. Yet, he did something irredeemable. I do not think life will ever feel so bright or good or full of hope again. If Mike cannot support me when I need him most, when my world has rocked, my marriage is a mockery.
I need to get out of this apartment or I might go mad. Outside in the empty corridor there is a huge window with a glimpse of the overgrown garden next door. An arch covered in creeper leads to the faded and beautiful old orphanage. It is full of young, bright Pakistani girls, given up by their families on remarriage.
It is not safe for poor women to live without a man in Pakistan. Society frowns upon it. Widows, or any young women alone by circumstance, are encouraged, or forced to remarry by their families, as quickly as possible. If the girls of a first marriage are not accepted by the new husband, they are placed in the care of the orphanage with its wild garden.
The kitchen staff at the Shalimar take left-over food over to the orphanage and once a year they go over and serve a special lunch for the children. One day Charlie Wang and Rana took me over to meet the girls. I was struck by their curiosity and their laughter. Their joy of life was miraculously undimmed but I supposed they were safer there than a lot of places in Pakistan.
Out across the city, the heat shimmers in wavy lines. So tangible, I can see a shivering mirage of cranes, a mausoleum, flat-roofed houses, the crawl of traffic like ants. Above me, kites swirl, swirl with those great red wings against the vivid sky like waiting shadows. My parents are dead. I can never ask them: How could you? How could you?
I stand against the glass, reflected in the empty corridor, the silence humming in my ears. I feel unreal, no longer anchored. I turn and walk to the lift. My sandals make little flips against my heels in the silence. My dupatta floats like a cloud behind me.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Karachi, 2010
The next day the city is still under curfew. No one goes out. Even the birds seem uneasy and blown off-course. Karachi remains eerily muffled. It is the quiet, the nothing moving, that unnerves.
Two days later it is all over. Life in Pakistan returns to normal. Traffic screams across the intersection and the hotel echoes to the sound of people checking in and the lifts carrying baggage up to the business floor. As I pass through the lobby in the afternoon someone calls my name.
Massima and Afia are sitting in the Cinnamon Lounge trying to phone me on their mobiles. They are very pleased with themselves for surprising me and I am so overjoyed to see them I surprise myself.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘We are springing you!’ they tell me. ‘It is safe to go out!’
They give me ten minutes to get ready. They are taking me to the Mohatta Palace. I rush upstairs, put on my coolest shalwar kameez, brush my hair,
add a bit of mascara, and run down again.
The waiters in the Cinnamon Lounge smile and wave at me. I think they are relieved that I am at last going out somewhere.
It is only after I leave the cool air-conditioned hotel and the heat hits me in a great sonic wave that I realize how long it is since I stepped outside. We inch through the barricades, out into the roar of traffic. I look out of the car window in contented silence, my clothes sticking to me. In the front, Massima and Afia bicker happily over the quickest route through the city.
I turn to watch the beautifully decorated buses flash by, religious icons dangling. Men cling onto the sides and sit on top of the roofs. Every vehicle overflows with people claustrophobically packed together without space to breathe. The women are like bright slashes of vivid colour entombed within vehicles. The curious eyes of small children peer at me out of lorries, cars, vans and tuk-tuks.
I cannot help thinking what a bomb would do in these crowded streets. At every junction or traffic lights beggars appear like lightning. Children swarm out into the middle of the road to wash windscreens or sell fragrant frangipani bracelets.
Massima checks the doors are locked. Hijra with pinched, made-up faces and angular male bodies dressed in shabby shalwar kameez press their faces alarmingly to the side windows of the car. It is considered unlucky not to give money to a Hijra so they fare better than most.
‘Look straight ahead. Do not make eye contact,’ Afia says.
I close my eyes as she suddenly veers alarmingly into oncoming traffic, beeping her horn wildly. No one seems to take any notice of road signs or roundabouts or one-way streets in Karachi. It is every man for himself.
Afia accelerates in a line straight across the traffic hurtling towards us, and turns abruptly right into a wide tree-lined road. She slows down only because of the huge ruts and holes in the road.
The frenetic traffic and the noise of the city are suddenly behind us. We have entered another realm, a world of dignified calm. Huge old colonial houses lie neglected and abandoned behind rusting gates, guarded by hennaed and heavy-eyed watchmen. Great slashes of purple bougainvillea hang over crumbling walls. Ancient trees with twisted trunks like elephants’ feet push up the pavements. Ghosts stare out of the shadows of gaping windows.
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