Our Lady of Everything

by Susan Finlay

  ‘I think that’s mainly in the north.’

  ‘And something called—’

  ‘Hello, Family Announcements. Aaeesha speaking how can I help you?’ said Aaeesha, much more loudly than normal.

  ‘And something called gram flour and—’

  ‘Okay, I’m just going to read that back to you using the phonetic alphabet to check that I’ve got the correct spelling. That’s Sarah – Sierra, Alpha, Romeo, Alpha, Hotel . . . ’

  ‘And cardamom – that’s very popular isn’t it? And—’

  ‘I’ll bring some in for you,’ Meghana almost shouted, while simultaneously trying to push all thoughts of a discordiant, or even discordant, smell to the furthest corner of her mind.

  ‘Oh would you?’ And Judy shook the tin of shortbreads, first at her, and then Aaeesha. ‘Now wouldn’t that be nice!’

  Deuteronomy

  KATARZYNA KWIATKOWSKA STOOD ON A chair in the centre of her parents’ living room, while her mother and Mrs Jones from next door crouched at her feet. Then she raised her arms above her head and touched the lampshade that dangled from the ceiling and, as she did so, she wondered why the man that they were making her wedding dress for no longer replied to her emails; and then she wondered why, in spite of this fact, she was still glad that they were making her wedding dress now, or maybe she was just glad that they were here with her now, in this little patterned room that, unlike her flat in Forest Fields, which was only white and now also cold, was always warm and cosy . . .

  ‘Stop moving arms about,’ said Iwona. ‘Or you will get the prick with pin.’

  ‘Your mum’s right love,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘We need to make sure it’s hanging properly.’

  Katarzyna put her hands on her hips and then held her breath until she turned into a white marble statue in underwear that wasn’t quite white because it had been washed with her black tights and jumpers because when it came to her underwear she just didn’t care. Just as she didn’t care if she got lines on her face from worrying, or fat from sitting down all day, because although when she touched the lampshade and looked up she felt as if she were about to break out into something bigger and larger and more fulfilling than just herself, as soon as she dropped her arms she knew that in reality she was falling . . .

  ‘This is good now, yes?’ said Iwona, and Mrs Jones, after tugging at the hem, also nodded. ‘Kasia, say the thank you to Mrs Jones.’

  ‘Thank you Mrs Jones.’

  ‘I think you’re old enough to call me Carol now love,’ said the woman who was now called Carol. ‘So when’s the wedding taking place then?’

  ‘That is very good question,’ said Iwona.

  Katarzyna wriggled her fingers but retained her grey-and-white pose. She and Eoin had talked about dates before he went away, and then she had talked to Canon Zawodniak up at the Cathedral, and even, under her mother’s duress, to the priest at the Polish Mission – because even though they all, supposedly, belonged to one holy, Catholic and apostolic church, the priest up at the Polish Mission was much more old-fashioned and strict – and then she had emailed Eoin their suggestions. And then emailed him again . . .

  ‘Well I emailed Eoin some dates.’

  ‘These days wedding take long time because expectation are so high,’ Iwona said darkly. ‘These days girls want whole shebang.’

  ‘And where will you get married?’ said Carol.

  ‘I don’t care. I’d be happy with a registry office.’

  Iwona patted the section of Katarzyna’s leg that was closest to her, and inadvertently drove a pin into her thigh. Katarzyna winced but once again kept still. She watched as Iwona turned to Carol and in English said, ‘She will marry in Polish Church or maybe even Cathedral.’ And then looked up at Katarzyna and in Polish added, ‘I didn’t go to all this trouble for you to behave like a heathen in front of the neighbours.’

  To which Katarzyna wriggled her fingers, and then in Polish said, ‘I’m not a heathen, I’m a pagan.’

  Which translated as:

  I’m a Romantic.

  Which translated as:

  I believe in the divine character of the natural world and all the strange and wondrous power that this contains.

  Which translated as:

  And I still believe in love – natural, animal and pure – all of which exists outside of any institution . . .

  Then she looked at Carol and in English said, ‘I think that the Cathedral would be a bit big, so probably the Polish Church – although Eoin’s family go to St Flannan’s.’

  ‘Oh that’s where my sister used to go. But now she lives in West Bridgford.’

  ‘Kasia did GCSEs at English Martyrs,’ said Iwona.

  ‘But you didn’t want to stay on?’

  ‘She wanted the vocational training,’ said Iwona, looking up at her daughter.

  ‘I want to be a journalist,’ said Katarzyna, looking down at her mother.

  ‘Ah . . . ’ said Carol, because, even if Katarzyna were to have explained her extensive, secret reading, it would still not quite have accounted for the many blank years prior to her enrolment at New College. ‘Is that so . . . ?’

  Iwona and Carol stood and began to circle Katarzyna, who remained as still as a white-and-grey statue, and took out some of the pins. Katarzyna looked up at the ceiling, and as she did so she remembered how she had only said ‘yes’ to Eoin because she had always said ‘yes’ to Eoin, just as she had always said ‘no’ to anything, besides her extensive, secret reading, that might have taken her away from anyone who dressed and spoke the same way he and she did; and then she looked down at the floor and wondered, once again, about that other bigger blacker ‘no’ that she equated with Eoin’s silence now . . .

  Katarzyna clambered back down off her chair and twisted into her ugly tracksuit bottoms. Then she pulled her ugly tracksuit top back over her head, and then, only when she was sure that she wasn’t going to cry at the fact that her tracksuit was so ugly that it made her ugly too, emerged from out the other end.

  ‘Thanks Mrs – I mean Carol. You’ve been very kind,’ said Katarzyna, as Iwona helped her to find her coat.

  ‘It’s no bother at all love. Just don’t forget my invitation!’

  The three of them laughed politely, and then Carol let herself out. A second later, the echo of her own front door opening and closing vibrated through the wall. Iwona put the bag of fabric back inside her sewing box and Katarzyna fell down beside her on the settee. She was so tired that in spite of her earlier efforts she started crying, and then she just carried on crying, until her eyes and her cheeks matched her mouth and her ugly tracksuit and she was just one giant sobbing blob . . . And then she felt her mother’s arms around her and heard her softer, Polish voice:

  ‘When I first sought asylum I was terrified. I thought that I had made a huge mistake. I used to wake up in the night terrified that I would never learn English, or make friends, or find work. Sometimes I thought that I would be sent back and put in jail. But, most of all I was frightened because I thought that I would never see your dad again, and that I would have to have my baby on my own. But do you know what I did? I said my prayers. And I kept on trying. And, well, look at the three of us now – everything worked out just as it should.’

  10.11.2004

  I always carry a picture of my mother. She’s wearing a blue dress and holding me in her arms. The writing on the back says that I’m four years old, which makes her the same age that I am now. I don’t remember it being taken, or much about her either for that matter, but otherwise there’s only men to look at – fighting, or begging, or both.

  Lingāchāra

  KATARZYNA KWIATKOWSKA MADE HER WAY to the very back of the Evening Post Classifieds office, and positioned her rucksack so that no one other than Meg could sit beside her. She had spent the last few days wondering what her next film should be, and having recently seen a picture of the strange, phallic stone sculptures that, if she had understood the explanatory paragraph corr
ectly, the Hindus worshiped three times each day, thought that this could be the starting point; and consequently, she wanted to ask Meg about this possible beginning to a possible extension of the ‘Architecture of Belief’ before her shift had ended.

  Katarzyna put on her headset and looked at the little green light but decided not to press ‘answer’. She had worked out that on average she received around ten calls an hour, which meant that on average she spoke to around seventy idiots a day – and today she just couldn’t be bothered. Judy had already been waylaid by one of their usual problem callers, which left only Sam from Motors, who had a hangover, and Aaeesha Begum, who alternated between Family Announcements and handing out fudge. Accordingly, she pressed ‘busy’, and then began to type, very quickly, into the box on the Free Ads screen:

  Three volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica (Ba-Br, M and G) will swop for microwave if in good condition. Contact Paul, Long Eaton 9133446.

  Then she typed ‘www.hotmail.com’ into the navigation bar, ‘katarzyznastan’ into the username box and ‘eoineoineoin’ into the password box beneath it. Then she pressed ‘refresh’, ‘refresh’, ‘refresh’ – but nothing. Then she clicked back to the Free Ads screen and carried on typing:

  Selection of computer games including Grand Theft Auto and Battlefield Vietnam will swop for train tickets (Southern locations preferred). Contact Steve, Nottingham 9476342.

  A variety of things in jars will swop for BMW. No time wasters please. Contact Ann, Mansfield 9186541.

  A variety of things in jars will swop for a selection of items in boxes. Contact Mike, Nottingham 9148283.

  Then she clicked back to www.hotmail.com. Then she pressed ‘refresh’, ‘refresh’, ‘refresh’ again – but nothing. Katarzyna sighed. She had already forgotten the Hindu sculptures and gone back to not forgetting Eoin, for whom she was just about to begin an Internet search, when Judy came over. She looked down at the Free Ads screen, which glimmered conscientiously in front of them, nodded approvingly at it and said, ‘Have you had some of Aaeesha’s fudge yet?’

  Katarzyna also nodded at the screen. ‘No, not yet I’m afraid. I’ve been too busy.’

  ‘Well you must try some when you get the chance, it’s absolutely delicious, although,’ Judy lowered her voice confidentially, ‘it is rather a shame that she didn’t bring any of her own food in.’

  ‘But didn’t she just go on holiday to Devon? I mean isn’t Devon like famous for fudge?’

  But before Judy had the chance to reply, the little green light started flashing.

  ‘Hello, Evening Post Swop Shop. Kathy speaking how can I help you?’

  She started typing into the Free Ads screen, while staring straight ahead, until Judy went on her way again. Then, as soon as the call had ended, she clicked onto Google and searched for Eoin’s name, followed by ‘When will the war in Iraq be over?’ and ‘Why is the war in Iraq taking so long?’ before realising that she needed to be both more and less specific. She adjusted her baseball cap and then googled ‘British troops in Basra latest’, and to her surprise a YouTube link appeared.

  Katarzyna clicked on the YouTube link and an Arab man started writhing on the floor. A circle of white men dressed in khaki surrounded him, all of whom were taking it in turns to hit him on his face, back and stomach. They were all laughing, while one of them threatened to rape his sister while he watched. Then another said that they would rape him. Then another said that if he didn’t talk they would arrest his mother and do the same to her. Then he said that they would do it anyway. One of the men had Eoin’s laugh.

  Katarzyna sat, motionless, while the tiny, violent rectangle continued to pulse and flicker in the place that should have been the Free Ads screen. She could see Aaeesha making her way towards her and yet she felt powerless to stop whatever it was that was playing out in front of her now. She watched as Aaeesha reached her desk, held out the box of fudge, and then heard her say: ‘Want one?’

  Katarzyna stared through Aseesha and into the computer, and her mind went as white and cold as her flat without Eoin, and then her throat went dry. She knew that she should click onto a different screen but she had forgotten how to use her fingers.

  ‘I-I-I—’

  ‘They’re made with clotted cream, not so good for your waistline, but still.’

  ‘I, err . . . ’

  ‘I brought them back from . . . ’

  Aaeesha followed Katarzyna’s gaze back into the computer. Then they both watched, in silence, as the Arab man raised the dark, bruised pulp that had once been his face up towards the khaki circle. His broken mouth was covered in wet and dry blood, which was red and black and brown. He started to cry, and then to scream: ‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’ while all the men continued laughing.

  ‘I-I-I’m sorry,’ said Katarzyna.

  Aaeesha turned and looked at her, and Katarzyna looked back, for the first time properly. She saw that the hijab framing Aaeesha’s face made her appear curiously ageless. And then she saw Aaeesha looking back at the screen and then back at Katarzyna and then dropping the box of fudge, so that all of the soft little blocks of fat and sugar rolled out across the floor. And then she saw her put her hands up over her mouth and slowly repeat: ‘Allahu Akbar.’

  Sadāchāra

  MEGHANA BUDANNAVAR ENTERED THE GROUNDS of Nottingham University and walked up past the lake that, during the summer term, was filled with rowing boats; past the kiosk that, during the summer term, sold ice creams; and past the rhododendron bushes that, during the summer term, were covered in large, almost tropical pink flowers. She knew that her parents had actually met here, as medical students, and not in their hometown of Bangalore; and consequently she wondered whether these, to her mind, inferior rhododendron bushes had therefore seemed more or less exciting to them than those that, back in India, blazed all the way from Kanyakumari to the Himalayas . . .

  She twisted a long strand of hair around her index finger and carried on walking until she reached the entrance to the geography department and the warm bureaucratic corridors filled with people who didn’t even know how to use the Internet and still relied on filing. Then she went inside and made her way towards the room at the far end, knocked, and waited for the familiar squeak of floorboards. There was silence, followed by a short, woody croak, and a second later, Professor Woźniak opened the door, and said, ‘Ah Meg, good to see you. Come in, come in, sit down.’

  He gestured to the empty seat in front of him while his eyes moved briefly over her. Instinctively, Meghana drew her coat around her shoulders, and then, with one hand raised towards her collar, took a seat; all the while the inward, ironical voice kept speaking, lifting her out of, and distancing her from, the warm, stuffy world that surrounded her:

  Meghana Budannavar occupies an attractive, although, imaginary space, almost existing between the East Midlands and Bangalore. Her national identity is British (although her ethnicity is Indian); her gender is female (and likewise she regards her sexuality as a passive yet fluid occurrence); her age range is 16–24 (just); and her religion or belief is mainly Hindu (or, more specifically, Lingayat) but sometimes No Religion and sometimes Other (although she is unwilling, or perhaps unable to specify exactly what she might mean by this, her last vague statement). Our study explores Meghana’s impact as a supposedly exotic (but neither daring, romantic nor poetic) fixture in the anthropology bit of the geography department where partial funding is available . . .

  ‘So Meg . . . ’ said Professor Woźniak.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘So, uh, yes . . . ’

  ‘My notes?’

  ‘Uh yes, your notes.’

  Professor Woźniak began to look up at her, with what appeared to be the intention of looking up and down at her, but then stopped and gave one of his piles of papers, which she now realised were actually her notes, a final sublimated shuffle.

  ‘So it uh . . . ’ Having exhausted his shuffling he now stroked his moustache. ‘It seems like your focus has c
hanged . . . ?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘To an, uh, to a more symbolic and interpretive one?’

  ‘Well I suppose that I’ve been thinking more about belief.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Belief as part of a system, which in turn creates meaning.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘So I was thinking that if we move away from a phenomenological approach, whereby we see the City of Caves not as a physical network, but as a metaphysical one, formed by the actions of those who visit it now as much as those who lived there in the past, and whose shared histories . . . ’

  Professor Woźniak took out a cigarette and lit it, an action that reminded Meghana of how, when she had first encountered him, he had seemed rather a glamorous figure, and how, on account of his nationality, age and moustache, she had attributed to him the type of exotic past that she herself would have fled from. And then she smiled warmly and broadly at him and tried not to play with her hair . . .

  ‘Well firstly, I think that we need to remember that a phenomenological approach and a symbolic, or interpretive approach aren’t mutually exclusive.’ Professor Woźniak took a drag of his cigarette and flicked the ash with his yellow fingers. ‘And as you well know, these days the lines between them are increasingly blurred. Secondly I’m not sure that what you’re saying makes any kind of sense.’

  Meghana nodded because she wasn’t sure either, then looked through the window at the empty lake and the empty ice cream kiosk and the bare and inferior rhododendron bushes. She knew that everything that she had just said had nothing to do with her thesis but quite a lot to do with Dave, and then she remembered that he wanted to go with her to Leicester for Diwali, which would mean that something definite and so no longer safe was happening between them . . .

  ‘Do you remember David?’ said Professor Woźniak.

  Meghana twisted a strand of hair around her index finger and tugged hard at it. ‘What?’