by Fadia Faqir
My dearest friend, Noura,
Forgive inc for writing to you all these letters. You probably cry when you see another letter from me. But do you receive my letters? Is the address complete? I stand in this new country alone wondering about the final
destination of migrating birds. Wondering about us, why are we here and what is it all about? What is it, Noura? A heart made slightly larger than the ribcage or too small to handle life? A mother who allowed you to swim in the spring? A tuft of wool dyed crimson rather than green, the colour of the village? Why am I still alive and what brought me here?
With love and gratitude, Salma
I grabbed the tester bottle and sprayed myself abundantly under the mascaraed disapproving look of the sales girl. In a cloud of perfume I walked back to St Paul's, the place for the `upworldly riff-raft", and sat down on one of the white chairs of the pavement cafe. The Algerian waiter, who pretended to be French, came running and asked me, `What you like drink, madam?'
`Some water y'ayshak: may your life be long?'
He smiled, pretending not to understand the Arabic, and disappeared. After all, he was supposed to be Pierre, whose grandfather had served in the French army. Parvin told me that North Africans were known for forging army documents to gain entry into fortress Europe.
`What is your address?' the immigration officer had asked.
I did not understand him so I kept pulling the end of my headscarf.
`Where will you live?'
`Heengland, think,' I said.
`Where in England?' he asked patiently.
`The river meet sea,' which was the way Little Sister Asher had described Southampton to me.
`Oh! For God's sake!' he said.
`Yes, for God sake!'
Exeter was famous for its cream tea. When you saw a pot of tea, scones, some jam and clotted cream on a table then the person eating them was bound to be a local. Tourists and foreigners could not handle the richness of the cream so they ordered espresso or cappuccino instead. Cream tea I could not stomach; cream tea I did not deserve. If you had crossed lands and seas looking for answers, looking for a daughter, looking for God you end up drinking bitter coffee out of a small cup. It was my shopping day, I reminded myself. It was the most enjoyable day of the week, when I would picture myself in Parisian make-up, expensive hairstyles and a glamorous dress drinking mineral water and reading Marie Claire in a seaside cafe. It took me ages to twist my tongue and pronounce `Marie Claire' with a faint French accent. My broad Bedouin Arabic had to be hidden over there at the end of the horizon. I used to say to Hamdan, `Your love in my heart is kicking and shoving like a captured mule.' He used to hug me and say, `Love me!' meaning squeeze me tighter, pull me closer.
I sat, back straight, tummy flat and sipped my sugarless coffee to the very end. Here things were different. You measured everything in tiny spoons. If you fancied somebody, you never mentioned mules, you just whispered over coffee or fizzy mineral water with thin slices of lemon, `Would you like a cup of coffee?'
I offered coffee to everyone: immigration officers, policemen, the milkman, the postman, sales girls. My tent was open and coffee with cardamom was being brewed all day, its aroma calling friends and neighbours. One morning I opened the door for the postman to collect a parcel for Liz. Instead of Jack, a young man with short dark hair, big blue eyes and sticking-out ears stood there. It was frosty that morning so after I signed my name, Sally Asher this time, I asked him whether he wanted a hot cup of coffee.
`Are you sure?' he asked.
`Yes, must be cold out there," I said.
He said that he would come back for it at six o'clock in the evening. I wiped the coffee table clean and bought some English tea biscuits and put them on a plate. He arrived at six on the dot, but I did not recognize him. His dark hair was swept back with gel, his shirt was bright and clean, his mouth smiling, and he held my hand a bit longer than he should. I asked him to come in and directed him to the sitting room and brought the coffee and biscuits on a tray. He had a sip of his coffee and then said, `Why are you sitting there? Come sit next to me on the sofa!'
`I am fine,' I said and smiled. He was my first guest.
He got up, stood in front of me, placed his fingers under my chin and tilted my face up towards him.
I jumped up and said, `No'
`What do you mean "no"? You asked me to come.'
`No, sorry,' I said, hugging myself.
`What do you mean sorry?'
My lips were trembling when I said, `More biscuits?'
He pulled his shirt down, pushed his hair back, rubbed his nose then walked out of the room. He opened the front door while shouting something that sounded like `Coke tea man,' then left, slamming the door behind him. Maybe I should have served him Coke. Liz would be home soon so I got up and with trembling fingers I began chasing biscuit crumbs and stray dark hairs.
Hamdan and I had been playing hide and seek for weeks now His mother complained to my mother over morning coffee that her young son seemed to be revolving around himself like a well-mule. My mother sipped her coffee and said, `Brew him some camomile.' I was lying on the grass under the fig tree, my hair spread like a halo around my head, blowing my heart's desires into my reed pipe when Hamdan walked into my view I stopped and looked at the praying expression on his face. Sunlight flickered through the leaves, the smell of jasmine filled the evening air, and I could hear the barking of shepherds' dogs coming home. I closed my eyes, bit my lower lip and held my breath. He ran his fingers through my hair, tightened his fist and walked away to come back later and claim what was his already, releasing me and imprisoning me for the rest of my life.
`AMERICAN MOTHER PAYS GUNMAN TO KIDNAP HER DAUGHTER'. I put the newspaper down and had another glance at the dark Italian sitting alone sipping his espresso. Hamdan, but instead of the wide white robe, he was wearing a white T-shirt with a sophisticated pattern and blue jeans. He smiled to me and I smiled back. Italy is fine, I thought, while trying to decode the latest poll in the paper. Conservatives behind. Labour five per cent lead. I tried to understand the politics of this country.
`You cannot go on being an ignorant Bedouin,' Parvin said, `you have to learn the rules of the game, damn it.'
But I kept my head down, hopes up and supported victors: that was what my immigrant A-Z guide advised. My knowledge of British politics began and ended with Spitting Image, where I couldn't tell which dummy was who in real life. It was a rare occasion when I was watching television with Liz.
`Was that the shadow Chancellor?' I asked Liz.
`No, the Prime Minister. The Chancellor does not spit,' she answered and looked at the television screen, not wanting to be interrupted.
`Who are these puppets?' I asked.
`Foreigners! Aliens like you,' she said and smiled.
`Like me?' I asked.
`Yes, illegal immigrants,' she said.
`I no illegal,' I said, suddenly losing my English.
`Yes, you are.You must be,' she said.
`Would you like a cuppa?' I asked, imitating my friend Gwen and trying to change the subject.
`No, thank you,' she said, sounding more annoyed now She did not like Gwen and her Welsh influence on me. `A cuppa? Honestly!' she said, shaking her head.
Liz was right, I was scum.
Whenever I used to climb Rim, the highest mountain in Hima, with my goats, Hamdan would be following me discreetly, leaping behind rocks and shrubs. His shoulders wide, his brown cloak fluttering in the air, his white-andred-chequered headdress hiding some of his curly thick dark hair, he would be running trying to catch up with me. One day it was so hot the haze of the heat descended on our valley. Playing my pipe I was guiding the goats to the Long Well. I filled the trough with cold water and instantly my goats began drinking. I pricked up my ears listening for the neighs of Mahmoud's horse. Not a whisper. I dropped the rubber bucket in the well again and heard it hitting the cold water, splitting it open then sinking deep. I screamed wi
th excitement knowing that the brown eyes of Hamdan were watching me, his ears tuned to my cries. Behind the bushes Hamdan had gone quiet when I poured the contents of the bucket over my head. While washing my body, I sang one of my grandma Shahla's old songs. `Hala hala biik ya walla, hey ya halili ya wala: welcome, welcome, oh boy! Hey! My love! Oh boy! Welcome my soulmate! Welcome my husbandto-be.' When her husband took on a second wife my grandmother died of heartbreak. A few months later my grandfather died too.
It was getting dark and the pavement cafe was about to shut down for the day; no encounters after five. At five o'clock the English normally rush back home to their cats and dogs and empty castles. I could see them in their small kitchens sticking the frozen chicken nuggets in the oven and frying frozen potato chips. In the early evening the city belonged to us, the homeless, drug addicts, alcoholics and immigrants, to those who were either without a family or were trying to blot out their history. In this space between five and seven we would spread and conquer like moss that grows between the cracks in the pavement. I sipped the dregs and put the small espresso cup in the saucer.
`You know, Salina, we are like shingles. Invisible, snakelike. It slides around your body and suddenly erupts on your skin and then sting, sting,' Parvin said and laughed.
I was lying on the ground when Hamdan walked through the vines and stood still above me. I was not hungry, but all the same I picked some grapes and began stuffing them in my mouth. When I looked up, his silhouette was squatting right in front of me. I held my breasts with both hands. An intake of breath was followed by a brisk kiss on my lips. The cool dusk air was whirling in my wide pantaloons, reminding me of the code of honour in our village. No. `Have you gone mad? Do not be impulsive!' I could hear my mother shout in my ears. No. `They will shoot you between the eyes' Yes. No. No. No. I pushed him away. `You will be full of regret later, oh beautiful,' he said, pulled a hair from his dark moustache and walked away. When his back disappeared between the vines I began shaking. The sun had set and it was getting cold. I wrapped my mother's shawl around me and walked back home.
The rooftops and glass windows of the red-brick buildings picked up the glow of the setting sun and sent it back golden and fading. I walked to the cathedral close, where among the pigeons and hymns the dark-haired man might feel comfortable to approach me. He might be Arab. A congregation of priests crossed the lawn and entered the cathedral. They looked bizarre in their long black robes and white collars. I could hear the doors of the dorms being shut. The turquoise silver necklace Sister Francoise had given me was in the Chinese satin box.
Pointing at me, the dark-haired man said, `Hi?'
I looked behind my back to see if I was being watched. If my brother Mahmoud sees me talking to strange men he will tie each leg to a different horse and then get them to run in different directions. He was nowhere to be seen. I stuck my feet firmly on the ground to stop them from walking away and smiled. Here in this new country, only men spoke to me.
The Sisters would be bolting the heavy gates of the convent and the sound would echo in the hollow space inside. I would be running around barefoot on the cold cobbled floor looking for her.
`I am David. Call me Dave.'
`Sally,' I answered, using my English name and enjoying the sound of a human voice.
`Will you have a cup of coffee with me?' he said in a strong Devon accent.
`Yes,' I answered folding my newspaper and with it my hopes of meeting an Arab here, who would report me to the police or kill me instantly.
We walked down the road towards a shop that sells ethnic artefacts and doubles up as a cafe. A man with a `Can't Pay Won't Pay' placard was shouting abuse at passers-by. David shielded me with his left arm and guided me through the doors. He insisted on paying, so I treated myself to a glass of fresh orange juice and a bottle of sparkling water. David ordered cream tea in a cafe that tries hard to sell itself as a trendy jazz club.
`Do you live in Exeter?' he said.
`Yes,' I said while looking at the handsome young waiter.
`I work in a health club,' he said.
`Oh! How interesting!' I said, trying to imitate the accent of the Queen. Liz, my landlady, would be proud of me.
`Where do you come from?' he asked.
If I told him that I was a Muslim Bedouin Arab woman from the desert on the run he would spit out his tea. `I am originally Spanish,' I lied.
`I have visited Spain many times. Where in Spain?'
`Granada," I said. At school we were taught so much about the glories of Muslim Spain and the Moors in Granada.
Watching darkness descend layer upon layer through the French window suddenly I got really tired. I could not carry this through. It had to be the look on David's face, full of hope and fascination. Salma ate the grapes, angered the tribe and paid a heavy price. I was too fragile for closeness, my skin was still tender and bruised. If I were him I wouldn't give me a second glance. The stupid plants were getting larger and larger, turning the cafe into a greenhouse. I could hear the clinking of cutlery downstairs and the thudding of chairs being stacked up on tables. The waitresses were getting impatient. I could not carry this through. I was not the granddaughter of my grandmother Shahla, who was made of a different metal altogether, who was shameless and fearless.
Shahla, my grandmother, used to weave her long thin white hair into braids and say, `Follow your heart always, daughter of mine.' Her marriage was a love match. She belonged to the ferocious Udayy tribe and he belonged to the Fursan tribe, which was constantly at war with hers. He saw her by the spring one morning filling her clay jar with water and he felt a tremor run down his spine to the small of his back. `Good morning, young gazelle,' he shouted from the distance, afraid to cross to Shahla's tribe's territory. From the way he had arranged his kufiyya tilting to the right and covering his right eye she realized that he belonged to the Fursan tribe. He began waiting for her early in the morning when the wheat sheaves sparkled with dew under the morning sun. Shahla looked at his wide shoulders, his dark thick moustache, his long strong dark hair woven into two braids and decided that she had to go to the well every morning to make sure that their horses and camels would never go thirsty. It was really early one morning when his silhouette shouted at her, `Tonight I will come to kidnap you. Prepare yourself!' She shielded her eyes and looked at his outline in the distance. He stood tall, dark and awesome, blocking the sunlight. Their bait al-sha'ar was four tents made of thin goats' hair so she chose to sleep in the guests' tent in order not to disturb her mother when he arrived. Her mother's mattress was positioned across the entrance to the tent as if she were a guard, so Shahla pretended that she was cleaning the brazier in the guests' tent until she could hear her mother snoring. She sat fully dressed waiting for him and when she was too tired to keep her eyes open she heard the sound of the galloping hoofs and the whining of his horse so she ran out to meet him. That masked man with a rifle swinging on his shoulder stretched his arm to her and she grabbed it and was swung in the air then placed firmly on the saddle in front of him. She looked back at their bait al-sha'ar with the flaps wrapped tightly around their tents, their horses tied to the pole, their camels' front legs tied together, the goats asleep behind their dwelling. Shahla sucked at her last tooth when she said, `Tzz' that was the last glimpse I ever had of my dwelling and tribe.'
What would Shahla have done in this dwelling? Would she have dinner with David and allow him to `ride her until her brass hand and ankle bracelets get jumbled up'? Would she stretch her arm to a total stranger and ride away with him in the dark? Would faith outweigh doubt? And what about the past, that dark shadow stalking you?
Holding my shopping bags firmly, I headed towards the main door. He followed me and said, `Will you have dinner with me?'
`Thank you so much, but I don't think so,' I said.
`Why not?'
`I am busy. I must go, Dave.'
I lowered my head and walked through the shop under the dry palm trees. Among the Indi
an peacocks, Buddhas, Mexican parrots and quilts and Chinese tables a new sound was being formed inside my head: `No', which my immigrant A-Z had always warned me against. A brass unicorn leaping into the air trying to reach the sky caught my eye.
I said to David quickly, `No. I am sorry.' And before he could answer I rushed out through the African door to the cold street sniffing the air for the aroma of home. The smell summoned me and I obliged as if in a trance. The smell of rich food being fried was mine.
I sniffed the smell of familiarity, freedom and home and listened.
`Balak: is that girl MI5?' the old man said.
`What's wrong with you? Agents don't go around dressed like Arab tramps. They wear big hats like Philsy, innit? White, blond, with a cigar in their mouth,' said the young man.
`You mean Philby, you idiot. And these days agents look like anything, look like Jesus Christ himself. How do I know?' said the old man in a North African accent.
