Out of the Silence

by Owen Mullen

  ‘I thought it was the best place on earth. The only place. My whole world.’

  The self-deprecating hero, the award-winner, was in the room. I pretended to make notes. ‘Why did you leave?’

  Jameel Hafeez considered his reply. ‘Things changed. It was the right thing to do.’

  I believed I knew what had driven the young Jameel from his home. ‘A friend of mine met someone from there, a woman called Afra. Did you know her?’

  His voice faltered. ‘...No, I don’t remember the name. Perhaps your friend was mistaken?’

  I let it go.

  ‘Have you ever gone back, back to Mundhi, I mean?’

  ‘Never.’ The reply was terse, hostile. I’d crossed a line. ‘What would be there for me now? Life has moved on. The past is where it needs to be. I saw that village through the only eyes I had, the eyes of a boy. It would look very different to me now.’

  He stood, the interview was over. ‘Sorry. I have a busy day ahead.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, it’s appreciated.’

  ‘Not at all. I told you, I’m flattered by your interest in me.’

  The handshake was firm. I started to go when something caught my eye: wooden circles piled one on top of another. They’d been there all the time. In the old days, I would have spotted them earlier. Ali appeared to see me out. I picked one up. Jameel Hafeez hurried to shepherd me.

  ‘These are interesting.’ I counted in my head.

  One, two, three…six.

  The wood felt heavy. I was being rude and didn’t care. My host put his body between me and the jewellery. ‘They were my mother’s and very special to her. I keep them close, they help me remember.’

  I tried to imagine him as a boy.

  ‘It’s good to remember, isn’t it?’

  Jameel Hafeez didn’t say if he agreed.

  -------

  Ali came in and sat down. Jameel let the tips of his fingers touch as if he was about to pray and thought about what he wanted to say. ‘How many times have we talked into the night, telling each other who we really are and what we really feel?’

  ‘Many times, Jameel.’

  Jameel ran his tongue over his lips. ‘Of all the millions of people in Lahore, only two know what brought me to the city. My father and you.’

  Ali relaxed. Jameel and Gulzar were more alike than they knew, neither was ever in a hurry to get to the point, and he loved them for it.

  ‘From the moment we met I knew we would be friends. It’s the friend I’m speaking to now. I need your help, Ali, and your silence, because I have no idea what I’m expecting, no notion of where the road is going.’

  Jameel could be a serious man, never as serious as now.

  ‘I’m confusing you because I’m confused myself.’

  ‘What’s happened, Jameel? Is everything all right?’

  ‘Perhaps you can answer that question for us both. I told you about the car that stopped in my village and the man I saw across the compound. The man with the hooked nose and the cruel stare. I disliked that man, though I knew nothing about him, not even his name. Later, when I saw him outside Afra’s house, I knew my time in Mundhi was at an end. He was there to take her away and that her mother would see in him what she couldn’t see in me. I knew he’d come to marry Afra.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘He wasn’t just my rival that day, he was my enemy.’ Jameel paced the room. ‘A few nights ago, I saw him again. In Jahan’s, with a woman. The woman wasn’t Afra.’

  ‘She may have been a relation. Perhaps he had every right to be with her. Another wife, maybe.’

  ‘That’s not how it seemed. This was a girl. They played like lovers. And that’s what I want you to find out.’

  ‘Who the woman was?’

  ‘No, I’ve no interest in her. If this man – his name is Dilawar Hussein – has another woman, even a wife, what has become of Afra?’

  Ali understood: the village girl. Always the village girl.

  ‘Maybe they’re divorced. Maybe she’s back in Mundhi with her family. Maybe he’s deceiving her. A lot of maybes. I want the truth. Will you help me, Ali?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I need to be sure she’s all right.’

  ‘Okay. When did you see him? Are you sure it was the same man?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. I’m absolutely sure. The face of an enemy is even more familiar than the face of a friend. If he’s wronged Afra….’

  ‘Where do I begin?’

  ‘Watch. Watch and find everything there is to know about him.’

  ‘What was the name?’

  ‘Dilawar Hussein. If he’s harmed her in any way….’

  ‘I know,’ Ali said. ‘I know.’

  ‘And the reporter asked about Afra. He said a friend knew her. Who could that be?’

  -------

  ‘I’ve found him, Simone, I’ve found Jameel.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, so fast?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Have dinner with me and I’ll tell you. Pick you up around eight?’

  ‘No, I’ll cook. Come to my place.’ She gave me the address.

  I put the phone down.

  I was told you used to be good

  Her flat was modern, spacious, and not overly feminine. A copy of Vogue lay on the coffee table, the only clue to who might live there. From the window, I could see the city lights blinking, giving way to the sprawl of the Lahore Garrison Golf and Country Club. Simone wore black slacks and a white v-neck. She mixed vinaigrette while I watched, intrigued by her grace, and the passion of her commitment to her beliefs. She produced a bottle of wine. I’d decided to limit myself to two glasses. Anyway, wine wasn’t my poison. The meal was excellent: braised lamb shanks, Provencal vegetables and salad.

  I said, ‘This is wonderful.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do all French women cook this good?’

  ‘Only the ones who can.’

  ‘You must miss France?’

  ‘Sometimes I miss the shopping, but less and less.’ Simone wasn’t ready to talk about herself. ‘So you’ve found Jameel. Who is he?’

  ‘Someone you may know.’

  ‘And you’re certain? Jameel’s a common enough name.’

  ‘I’m certain.’ I emptied my glass.

  ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what makes you so sure?’

  ‘He’s from Mundhi.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ she pushed food around her plate, ‘that doesn’t make him the Jameel. There could be a dozen men with that name in the village.’

  I teased it out, my fingers stroking the stem of the wine-glass. ‘Yes, I suppose there could. Except he has the bangles. I saw them.’

  Simone dropped her fork.

  ‘You saw them? Where?’

  ‘He keeps them on his desk. My interest wasn’t appreciated.’

  ‘Did you ask him about Afra?’

  ‘Of course. He says it was too long ago. He couldn’t remember anyone called Afra. I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘So why would he still have the bangles?’

  ‘Why, indeed?’

  I topped up our glasses. Simone brought the dessert – crème caramel, smooth and sweet. She toyed with hers and told me again about the woman in the Punjab and her love for a boy called Jameel. I studied the curve of Simone’s neck, the perfect skin and her eyes, deep and clear. On the surface, a confident, assured professional, underneath a woman of passions.

  ‘Will you ever go back, to Paris I mean?’

  She lit a cigarette. ‘My father taught me to love Pakistan the way he did. He was privileged, and as his daughter, so was I. His experience became my experience, a cosseted view that saw the best in everything, blinded to reality by money and education. I don’t blame him – things were different then – though the glorious past he celebrated only existed in history books. Unfortunately, my father was too busy drea
ming to notice that this place was returning to the dark ages. Dreaming is fine. I dream, too. But not of palaces and dynasties.

  ‘In the Punjab, surrounded by so much need, it wasn’t difficult to fool myself into thinking my contribution had value. Afra changed all that. When I saw what they’d done to her, I knew how misguided I’d been.’

  ‘And came to Lahore?’

  ‘Eventually. I’ve taken this flat and told the hospital I need extended leave. They’re not expecting to see me for a while. Maybe never. The world has to understand. I was looking for a way to tell it, and found you.’

  ‘Too bad you’ve missed the best of me.’

  She laughed. ‘Do you intend to hold on to that forever?’

  ‘Not forever. Just for a while.’

  ‘And that’s my story. If I ran away how could I live with myself? So no, not to Paris. Not yet. What about you? Why are you here? Why Pakistan?’

  ‘It wasn’t my first choice, believe me.’

  ‘So why?’

  ‘Things went bad. I made mistakes.’

  I emptied the bottle; she brought another and I told her, in a strange way hearing it for the first time. Not just Jo-Jo, all of it: Germany, where I’d lost respect for myself and the friendship of my colleague, Stanley Dow. A young reporter, Lonnie Harper, had died because I wouldn’t listen. Simone didn’t interrupt. We’d uncovered a racket involving the theft of armaments – a big-bucks scam. Nobody dared guess how high up it went. When it got too dangerous we were told to pack the tent and head for home. I hadn’t passed on the instruction; nothing mattered more than another glittering prize to sit alongside the others. As the senior man, the responsibility was mine. And I’d blown it. They killed Lonnie. Back in London, the drinking really took over and my behaviour became more and more unpredictable, until the paper had no choice. The golden reputation hadn’t saved me.

  When I finished, Simone said, ‘This is where they sent you?’

  ‘My punishment.’

  She put her palm across her glass. I poured for myself. The bottle was two-thirds empty. ‘So. I’m not the only one with a tale to tell.’

  -------

  The sun was already high when I woke. Memories of the previous night coaxed me into the day. Simone filled my head. I found her everywhere and in everything.

  I’d slipped away in the early dawn, mindful that this was Pakistan and she needed to be protected. Back at the flat, I poured myself a drink. Part of me was afraid. She was a woman of ideals and high expectation, to be with her meant embracing her crusade. I hoped I wouldn’t disappoint her. A story of lost love had brought us together. I wanted a happier ending. The beautiful doctor deserved no less. And I was beginning to understand what really went on in this country. But I hadn’t left my demons in England.

  Chapter 21

  The house was impressive on a street of impressive houses. Towering above the high wall surrounding it and set back from the road, it was a world away from life on the street outside. The garden was grassed and planted with fruit trees. Tall black gates ensured privacy. In the shadows, its outline blurred, making it look larger.

  Ali sat across the street in his car. This was his second time watching, no not watching – spying – on the Dilawar Hussein family.

  Finding where they lived had been easy, learning more might be difficult. The street was well-lit. In this neighbourhood, how could it be any other way when the people who lived here had money and money bought security?

  He yawned. It would have been no trouble to get an off-duty employee to cover the house. He hadn’t considered it; he’d made a promise. If that meant spending night after night in his car, well….that’s what a friend would do.

  Ali had been in position since late afternoon. Three men arrived, then a taxi dropped a female at the gates. No sign of the woman he’d heard Jameel describe so often.

  It was late, past midnight; the house seemed closed up for the night. The sky showed neither moon nor stars and now and then a car passed. Other than that, this tranquil suburb of Lahore had gone to sleep. He stretched against the beginnings of cramp in his thigh and thought about Jameel: how they’d met, how their friendship had grown, and how the success and recognition he’d achieved was nothing to him beside the girl from the Punjab. In the beginning, Jameel talked about her often. When he did his eyes filled with tears.

  Though Ali hadn’t heard him mention her in years, his friend hadn’t forgotten. He’d found a way to live with what was. Until he saw Dilawar Hussein.

  Ali had his own memories. At that moment, his comfortable bed was one of them. He checked his watch – twelve twenty-five – and slid further down into the upholstery. A man appeared from behind the gates, looked up and down the street, and started towards the city. Ali sat forward. Who was it? Not a servant. One of the men who had arrived earlier, though not the Dilawar Hussein he was interested in.

  He waited, for over two hours he waited, no longer bored or tired. Around two-thirty the figure returned, keeping to the shadows wherever he could. The next night nothing happened. Nor the next.

  Each evening, the same people came to the house. The man with a secret was with them. He might be having an affair with someone’s wife which would explain the suspicious behaviour. Pakistan was not the place to get caught for that crime. Ali would find out about the family in due course; for now, he wanted to know what made one of them sneak around in the middle of the night.

  During the day, street traffic was light, and by eleven at night it dwindled to the occasional car. Hours passed. Ali was alert and ready, poised to solve the mystery of where the man went when everyone slept. At one in the morning, he thought he saw movement behind the gates, and he was right. A figure slid from the shadows and set off in the same direction as before.

  Ali eased out of the car and followed; another moonless night helped him stay hidden. For close to an hour he weaved behind his target, walking on his toes at times to avoid making a noise. Away from his own street, the man behaved like an ordinary person, no longer disguising his progress. As he got closer to the centre the man quickened his step. Jameel’s friend trailed him past restaurants, noisy and fragrant. So late at night, the lights, the babble of diners, the sound of glass and metal and the fires of the tandoors glimpsed in passing made him feel he was moving between worlds; from the quiet of the middle-class suburb to the energy of a city.

  The streets were crowded now and still he held back. Discovery might jeopardise his chances of finding Afra. Soon he was in an alley that narrowed and twisted, never straight or flat for long, a snaking tendril that ended as the moon showed itself and drowned the ancient houses in pale light.

  Suddenly, he realised where the man was going and why.

  To Heera Mandi, Lahore’s oldest red-light district: to the prostitutes. Ali began the long walk to the car. He’d seen enough.

  -------

  ‘So?’ The question came out with more force than intended. Ali wasn’t intimidated or offended. He knew Jameel. No doubt he’d thought of little else since he saw Dilawar Hussein and the past had come rushing back.

  ‘The man in the restaurant was Quasim Dilawar Hussein, the eldest son. There are two more, Zamir and Firdos, and a sister, Chandra. The mother lives there as well. The brothers all work in the business, selling farming machinery and agricultural products. They have a warehouse in an industrial estate on the way to the airport. It’s a big market, plenty of demand and they do very well.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Simple, I asked.’

  ‘Asked who?’

  Ali tapped the side of his nose with his finger. Jameel was too serious for jokes, so he told him. ‘When I worked for Mohamed Abdul Quadir, one of our best customers was making his way in the world, a man who ate in the restaurant three times a week. In those days, he was slim and quiet and couldn’t cook. Why we saw so much of him. He liked our food, and our prices. I still run into him from time to time though I’ve never been able to persu
ade him to come and dine with us. He prefers to give Mr Quadir his custom. But things change. My friend is no longer slim and has a lot more to say for himself these days. I don’t know if he ever learned to cook. I do know he became the assistant chief of police, the youngest in the history of the force. You should meet him. He distrusts everyone, especially policemen. You’ll like him, Jameel.’

  ‘And he told you what?’

  ‘That the Dilawar Husseins are respectable business people. As the eldest son, Quasim is the head of the house. He has a wife but nothing is known about her. Like most wives she stays at home and rarely goes out, even with her husband. The other two sons haven’t married yet. Chandra works as a secretary in the city. She isn’t married.’

  Jameel was disappointed, he’d hoped for more.

  ‘They keep themselves to themselves. There is one thing.’

  Ali told him about Heera Mandi.

  ‘Interesting. What does it prove?’

  ‘About Afra, nothing yet. But where one secret exists there may be others.’

  Jameel didn’t disguise his feelings in front of his friend; they were too close for that. ‘Perhaps, perhaps.’

  His expression said he didn’t think so.

  -------

  Two days later, Ali thought their luck had changed. He’d abandoned night surveillance to discover what went on during the day, and when the brothers left, he was in position. Soon after, the daughter got into a taxi. Every hour or so, Ali got out of the car and walked down the street, crossed over then came back up again on the other side. At the entrance, he glanced through the gates, trying not to appear suspicious. Around mid-afternoon a car drove to the front of the house and Ali resumed his up and down patrol. He passed on the opposite side of the street, seeing nothing except the vehicle parked at the door. On his return, the driver was helping an overweight lady into the back seat. The woman was old and fat and needed assistance: the mother.

  The man assisting her was the midnight rover.