The Black Coat

by Neamat Imam

  25

  The Girl, the Woman and the Old Man

  There was a girl standing in the street, under the massive new signboard which featured a picture of Sheikh Mujib and screamed: ‘MUJIBISM IS THE BEST.’ She was looking at our window, looking constantly, until some noisy rickshaws distracted her for a second. She was fifteen or so and looked thoughtful and anxious. She stood there as I cooked food and did not change her position, though it was midday and the sun was extremely hot. After watching her for a few more minutes, I raised my hand and waved at her, just to be sure she was not blind. She did not respond.

  I closed the main door and crossed the gravel path to have a close look at her. No, she was not from this neighbourhood. I had not seen her before. She must be from the refugee camp at the school field, one of those newcomers, a victim of the famine, coming from a village whose name I had never heard in my life.

  ‘Are you looking for someone?’ I asked.

  ‘Someone like who?’ she said, instantly irritated.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘What makes you think I am looking for someone?’ she answered quickly. ‘Have I told you I am looking for someone?’

  ‘No,’ I said. I did not want to scare her, so I kept my voice low. ‘You have not. But you seem to be lost and I am trying to help.’

  ‘You will help me?’ She smiled briefly. ‘Have you helped anyone in your entire life?’

  It was no use beginning an argument with her. She would not understand how the adult world worked. I did not think she had even learnt how to speak respectfully to an older person. If she were my relative, I would have never forgiven her parents for not teaching her how to maintain a minimum courtesy with a stranger.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, suppressing my embarrassment, ‘I know this neighbourhood better than anyone else around here; if you need to go somewhere I can be your best guide.’

  She smiled again, but quickly returned to her attacking mood. ‘Have I told you I wanted to go somewhere?’ she said, and as if she was doing me a favour, added: ‘Don’t waste your time with me. Go on your way. I have nothing for you.’ That gave me the idea that though she was young, she was not inexperienced or foolish; she knew how to hide herself behind her words.

  ‘Why were you staring at our window?’ I asked then. ‘Have you seen anything strange happen there? Are you expecting anything to happen?’

  ‘I know you,’ she said, faintly. She understood she had upset me and I would not let her go without some harsh words. ‘Nur Hussain has spoken to me about you a few times.’

  I did not want to mention Nur Hussain’s name, considering the sensitiveness of the situation, but since she had mentioned him, I asked her what he had told her about me. ‘You remember any of that? One or two words, maybe—the beginning, the end, the middle, anything?’

  She looked at me narrowing her eyes, as if she would never forget any part of his remarks until the last day of her life. ‘You have no heart,’ she uttered clearly. ‘There is only ash inside you.’

  ‘And? He did not stop there, did he?’ I took a step closer to her. I waited with anger in my heart but still a vivid smile on my lips.

  ‘Your tears are fake. Your words are lies.’ She watched nervously as I began to laugh.

  ‘Anything else?’ I asked. ‘Tell me even if it is trivial. Tell me even if it is ludicrous. Don’t hesitate. Don’t hide anything. I am enjoying this moment.’

  ‘You do not believe what you see,’ she said, with a sort of obstinacy.

  ‘What do I not see?’ I asked.

  ‘Yourself,’ she answered rapidly.

  ‘I do not see myself?’ I raised my hands before me. ‘I think you are right. I see a pair of lovely feet before me. Each has twenty-five toes, some of which are rotten, and some yellow and blue. I will have to crawl instead of walking on my feet.’

  She did not find my response amusing. ‘You are a cheat,’ she said. ‘Those that cheat suffer.’ She took a step back and looked away from me. ‘You will suffer for a long, long time.’

  I could not understand if Nur Hussain said that or it was her own conclusion about me based on his remarks. But that was not necessary. I got my message. I was trying to understand how what he had said was in any way related to her staring at our window today. I asked her if she was looking for him, what business she had with him now, if she had any news for him. Finding her silent I changed my style.

  ‘Little girl, speak to me,’ I said. ‘You are clearly uneasy, aren’t you? Speak, speak.’ She looked at me and again looked at the window, while her face became pale. ‘What is he to you?’ I asked, taking another step towards her so that she was within my grasp. ‘Have you been sleeping with him?’ She was not shocked as if she knew I could be a little bit dirty-minded and began to walk away as she saw a rickshaw approaching carrying two passengers. I called her from behind; she did not respond. I called her three, four times more, then I had to stop, as the rickshaw-wallah and the passengers became aware of our conflict.

  I returned. From my window I saw her again after two hours, looking at our flat from the same place with the same concern in her face. This time I did not go down to speak to her. I did not need to. This was where the food was going, I thought; Nur Hussain must have found a sweetheart in her. How enigmatic he was. He had never mentioned her to me, though he had shown her where we lived and spoken to her about me.

  She would have to be warned, I thought. It was not a time for romance, and definitely not a time for romance with Nur Hussain. Love is only a clever investment for survival during the famine. It will not survive. If she did not stop looking at the house, I thought, she would have to pay for it dearly. But I also thought warning her thus would make my life more difficult; people would want to know why I was complaining about her looking at my window, why I thought she deserved to be warned off. Some overcurious and stubborn ones might want to see if I was hiding something in my flat; if I had started a brothel here and she was one of the disgruntled inmates.

  When evening came, she left. But she came back, early the following day, walked up and down the street, stopping for a while to look at the window. She looked quieter today, and broken, and smaller ‘Go away from there, brainless woman,’ I said quietly; ‘go away, go away! Or I’ll bring you here, lock you up and give you his fate!’

  The sun rose higher, the street became dusty; she stopped walking and sat herself firmly on the street at yesterday’s spot, bringing waves of sweat to my forehead. I thought she would stay there the whole day, and she would not leave as easily as she did yesterday; she would stay until I had unlocked Nur Hussain, taken him to the window and he had asked her to end her vigil on me. But after an hour she was gone and never came back.

  In the evening an old woman took her place. She was not one of the beggar people, and absolutely not a refugee, I was sure. She had a long veil drawn down to her nose, kept her hands inside her sari. It seemed she was ashamed of what she was doing in the street. I guess she was some housewife from the neighbourhood who did not want to be recognized by pedestrians and rickshaw passengers. From time to time she raised her veil a little and had a glimpse at our window. She stayed only half an hour and then walked towards the tea stall, following an old man with whom she had a short conversation, and who watched the window for at least a minute before going on his way.

  I saw the old man again, the next day, towards the evening. He took up his position at the usual place, looked up at the window once every few seconds, talked to the pedestrians and begged from them. He had a small tin can with him, on which he made a rich, penetrating noise with a stick. He made that noise looking at the window, which made some children look in the same direction. How devious he was, I thought, and how crafty. He thought if there were more than one person looking at the window, I might not accuse him of any wrongdoing. He was having a conversation with the children now. I should act quickly, I said to myself, before he had said anything insensible to them. I put
on my shirt and got down to the street. He noticed me and sensed danger; he began to walk in the opposite direction, looking behind from time to time. Soon he started running, throwing the can to the side of the street, when he saw me following him. I took long steps to minimize the distance between us and believed I would be able to catch hold of him before he got lost in the crowd that was now leaving the mosque after evening prayers. But he ran faster, through the crowd, pushing people aside, and, probably thinking the crowd ahead was thicker, took the alley to the right heading towards the end of the neighbourhood. He had made my job easier, I thought. There were only a few houses there standing among wet, cultivable lands; he could not go far. I ran behind him now, and ran until I pushed him down on the muddy ground under a mango tree and stood over his pale face. He was breathing fast; his lips could not pronounce what he wanted to say—some protest, some explanation; anything that people say when they feel unsafe.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ I said, ‘calm down. You see, I have nothing in my hands, no knives or hammers or batons. I am not a militia. I am not interested in your money either.’ I bent down on my knees, balancing on my toes, and asked him if he knew Nur Hussain, if he was waiting for him on the street. He gasped for air, but nodded. ‘Good man,’ I said, ‘very good man; now, wouldn’t you like to be a little more comfortable by sitting straight, maybe against the tree, so that you can answer me a few questions?’ I offered him my hand; he shrank back against the tree, with disbelief in his eyes, his voice failing repeatedly. Extending my legs beside his, I sat in the mud. I must have been crazy to do that, but he was too important to me, anything he would say was too important and useful. I smiled at him to assure him and mildly asked who the girl was. He did not know her; he moved his head from side to side. ‘The girl,’ I explained, ‘who stood at the same spot yesterday; she passed a long time there, waiting and looking at our window; who is she?’ He repeated his answer, which irritated me, but I was still a long way from learning anything from him and I could not afford to get angry.

  ‘Is she your granddaughter? Have you been advising her to fall for him?’ He moved his head more rapidly to deny my remark. ‘I know your type of people. You could even push her under a running lorry to escape the responsibility of feeding her. You disgust me. The moment I looked at you I felt that somehow I would be contaminated by your sick fantasies.’ I had to finish with him as quickly as possible, so I did not press him on the same point. ‘If you do not know the girl, it is all right,’ I said. ‘She is just a little woman with a little heart. She understands nothing. But perhaps you would like to tell me about the woman, the woman you spoke to, the woman, the veiled woman, who followed you yesterday; who is she and what does she want?’ He did not know her either. She had asked him if ours was the house where Nur Hussain lived and he replied it was; only this; she left after he had but they had not talked about anything else. He did not know where she went or where she lived.

  ‘You don’t know anybody in the world—I accept that; but tell me, why you yourself chose the same spot?’ I then asked. ‘It wasn’t a coincidence, was it?’ If he did not want to talk about other people, I thought, he might want to talk about himself. Some people consider maintaining the privacy of others a great virtue. ‘Don’t you think it is impolite, terribly impolite, to stare at people’s windows?’ Nur Hussain had told him to wait there, he said. He had told him to look at the window when he felt hungry and could not find anything to eat; he would come down with food for him. ‘That is very good; you are returning to your senses. Your life is not a total waste. Now, try to make yourself a little bit better. If you knew the house, and if you were so appallingly hungry, why didn’t you come to the door instead of standing on the street for such an awfully long time, making yourself more appalling? Couldn’t you come to me, ask for some food, when you saw me at the window? I’m sure you recognized me. Why did you run away?’

  He tried to speak clearly this time. ‘I was told not to come to the door, at any cost,’ he said and observed me to see the impact of his small deplorable revelation on me. I understood what he meant. There was an earthquake inside me; an unexpected twist; the most unusual cobra raised its head with endless hissing. It took me at least half a minute to collect myself.

  ‘Is that so?’ I finally said with a smile. ‘That is terrible. But I can understand; yes. I can understand that.’ I took his left hand in my right hand, clasped his fingers with my fingers. ‘I appreciate that you are so forthright with me. Whatever you’re saying sounds reasonable. My general estimation is that you’re telling me the truth. Nur Hussain could do something like that easily. There is something mysterious about him, isn’t there? There are layers, one upon another, one hiding the other; there are just too many layers, I lose count of them. Never says what he knows. But you are a transparent man; you say everything you’ve on your mind. I believe you.’ He raised his head and leaned heavily on the trunk of the tree, with a sense of relief. I shook his arm and then released it on his lap. ‘But I wonder,’ I said calmly, ‘why you would tell me the truth. Doesn’t it sound unreasonable to you? Because of you I now know what Nur Hussain did not want me to know. Why did you tell me what he had said to you? Why did you tell me anything?’ He became still. His relaxed mood disappeared. He was so baffled by my questions that though his voice had recovered by then, he did not find anything to say.

  ‘Were you afraid of me?’ I asked him, to which he nodded lightly, but only after a few seconds. He hesitated to admit it, I thought. He considered the consequence of both admitting and not admitting his feeling. That was what I wanted. ‘Be afraid, be very afraid,’ I said finally. ‘Do you know how many times Sheikh Mujib has sent for me to advise him about sanitation and relief management in the last few months? At least three times. And do you know how many times Moina Mia fell to my feet so that I would allow Nur Hussain to speak for him? More than you can imagine. Nur Hussain does not know these things. He does not know because I did not let him. I did not want him to be frightened of me because of my power and capacity and connections. But I will tell you what you’ll do. The moment I leave you behind, you’ll do me a favour. You’ll forget everything he has advised you to do or not to do. I am the king here. I rule this country. I don’t want to see you around here.’

  I smiled one last time before walking towards the neighbouring street.

  Secrets, but not secrets any more. Not to me. I laughed as I returned home and watched Nur Hussain through the small window. I laughed as I sat on my bed and as I stood at the window. ‘If only I could know what other secrets he has,’ I said to myself and laughed. ‘He must have spoken to many more people than these three; he must have spoken about many more things than just about food. If I could know one or two more, I could understand the origin of his present disorientation and take particular steps to solve it bit by bit.’ I grew tired. I needed to rest. Before that I needed to wash myself and wipe the floor behind me. With a towel in hand I entered the bathroom and suddenly burst into long, loud and painful laughter.

  26

  Tears in the Eyes

  A few days passed like this. I raised food to his mouth, he ate with gratitude; I raised the glass of water to his lips, he drained it completely in one go, in case I did not offer him water again. I ate whatever I made, then I slept in my room with pills, and he slept in his room, door locked. I always gave him only half the food he needed. I wanted him alive only, not strong, definitely not strong enough to overpower me; and I gave him only enough water to make sure the pills got lost without trace.

  Then I noticed tears in his eyes.

  They were not for food, I understood, but for the acute smell that had made not only his room but the whole flat unliveable. I felt like vomiting.

  Within minutes I unlocked the door, dragged him to the toilet, holding him by the collar. There I threw buckets of water upon him. He lay on the floor, tranquil, his face quivering with every splash. I would untie his hands, I said; he must stay on the floor, his
face down, and must not move until I was out of the toilet door. He would wash himself, and change his clothes, then knock on the door, so that I could tie his hands again before taking him to his room. I had the shovel in my hand, I warned him; it was sturdy, heavy, and a good size to use in the small space of the toilet. If he tried to do anything stupid or became violent towards me, I would definitely bring it down upon him and he would have to live with a far more acute smell for the rest of his life. Then I stepped on his neck and untied his hands and quickly ran out and closed the door. He lay on the floor, terrified. A moment of silence; a long moment. Then the sound of water splashing.

  His hands were free now. I suspected he would untie his feet and would not come out of the toilet without a fight. Or he would pretend he had no plan to attack me; he would behave politely, speak softly and in a friendly manner, and do as I would expect him to do. But the moment I opened the door, he would jump upon me with all his rage. He could be ruthless, I had seen that. I had seen how he broke everything in the room, everything that he found close to his hands.

  I heard his knock in due time. Two mild knocks, as I had advised. And then a pause, after which two distinct knocks again. I told him to open the door. ‘Only a quarter,’ I said. He opened it less than that and extended his timid and shivering hands out before my asking it. ‘Give me the rope,’ I said, ‘give me the end of the rope.’ He bent on the floor, one hand still outside the door, while with the other he threw the rope out. He had it ready before him. It was clean. No mark of blood. No smell of urine. He had washed it like he would have washed his handkerchief.

  Then he extended both of his hands up to his wrists through the door. I tied them quickly. I could see the cut on his palm. I wanted to ask if it was painful any more. If the Zam-Buk was not effective, I would buy something else from the pharmacy. But I restrained myself. I did not want to begin an emotional scene before I was confident he could not harm me. I had to be safe before I helped him. I told him to move away from the door. He jumped a few steps back and stood looking at me. I pushed the door open farther and found his feet the way I had left them—tied.