by Fadia Faqir
Listen for the galloping of horses, for the clank of daggers being pulled out of scabbards, for flat-faced owls hooting in the dark, for bats clapping their wings, for light footsteps, for the abaya robe fluttering in the wind, for the swishing sound of his sharp dagger cutting the air. Sniff the air for the sweat of assassins. Listen to his arm grabbing your neck and pulling it right back, to his dagger slashing through flesh and breaking through bones to reach the heart. Listen to your warm red blood bubbling out and drip dripping on the dry sand. Listen to your body convulsing on the ground. An ululation. A scream. Rending of black madraqas. Rhythmic banging of chests. A last gasp.
Miss Asher sat under the kerosene lamp reading her Gospel loudly in English. All, the fisherman, was singing in Arabic about faraway lands and solitary stars. His hoarse voice ebbed and flowed with the waves. I sat huddled to the cold wood, looking through the round window for signs of Cyprus. The mist and the waves told me that I was moving further and further away from my country, my mother and above all from her. My mother's black shawl was wrapped tight around my shoulder, but I could still feel the cold. Whenever I was beaten by Mahmoud, my brother, Mother used to stroke my head to calm me down. `It's all right, child. It's all right, princess.' She would undo my braids, rub my head with olive oil, run her fingers through my hair, stroke my face with her rough fingers, fondle my ears, massage my hands. `You are so tender and healthy, Salina. I want to bite you so much.'
While stitching hems, folding collars and ironing darkblue suits in Lord's Tailors, under the watchful eyes of my boss, Max, I dreamt of whiteness. Sitting in a cloud of steam and starch, I dreamt of happiness. To sit in a department store coffee shop, buttering my scones, sipping my tepid tea and looking at the colourful dresses and shoes on display as if I belonged. While ironing I read the labels on dresses and shirts: Dream Weekend, Evening Lights, Country Breeze. Sitting in a cloud of steam, I dreamt of weekends in country mansions, tea with the Queen and whiteness. What if I woke up one morning a nippleless blonde bombshell, like the ones that splayed their legs in the Sunday Sport, which was the only newspaper Sadiq, the off-licence owner, would read. What if I turned white like milk, like seagulls, like rushing clouds. Puff, my sinful past would disappear, a surgeon would slice away part of my mind and my ugly nipples! I would turn white just like Tracy, who worked and talked non-stop while holding the pins and needles in her mouth. No more unwanted black hair; no more `What did you say your name is?'
It did not take long to get from the Ailiyya convent to Cyprus. It was dark when we arrived and the shore was deserted except for a few men shouting in Greek. All, the fisherman who sang sad songs all the way to Cyprus, was tying the small boat to the harbour. Sister Francoise had told me that Cyprus was a beautiful island, with good food and cheerful people who played the bouzouki and drank ouzo. `Your pipe and the bouzouki are similar, they produce sad tunes.' I tightened the knot of my veil and jumped out of the boat, happy to be able to stand on solid ground again. Despite the chilly breeze the sand was warm. We were met by a woman who looked like Miss Asher. I took off my shoes and walked behind them barefoot. `Bedouin style," Miss Asher said to the other woman. We walked on the shore until we reached a rundown building. `Sun Holiday Flats,' said the woman who looked like Miss Asher. New identical blocks of flats were built around a courtyard which had a vine trellis in the middle. Like Hima the air smelt of broken promises, spilt honey and heartbreak. I was about to burst into tears when I heard the sleepy voice of the landlord, `Khello, khello. Do you have good journey?'
`Yes, thank you,' answered Miss Asher abruptly. She was tired.
The street lamps outside the hostel were switched off, but I was still wide awake inspecting the sores on my arms and legs. Parvin was tossing and turning. I crossed over and covered her with the blanket, which had slid down to the floor earlier. The curtains were shut, but the distant and intermittent sound of traffic filled the room. I heard someone screaming in the adjacent bedroom as if having muscle spasms or giving birth. The wind blew against the curtain inflating it. Two brown feet in leather sandals stuck out from underneath the curtain. Blood was running down my thighs. I held the pillow tight. When the horse broke his leg and lay on the ground gasping with pain my father pulled out his gun and shot it. It was his favourite horse, the horse that had grown with him since he was a boy, the horse that took him to the nearest town once a month. He loved that horse yet he shot him. I looked up at the dark figure behind the curtain and said, `Yala tukhni w khalisni. It will be my deliverance.'
Parvin turned her head then squinted her eyes and said, `Who are you talking to?'
`Someone in the room after me,' I said.
She got up, looked under the beds, behind the wardrobe, and outside the door.
`Behind the curtains,' I said.
She pulled the curtain open and there was nothing, no Mahmoud, no sandals and no rifle. `He must jump the window,' I said.
`How on earth would he slide through a five-incheswide slit? He must be an acrobat, a cat,' she rebuked me.
`Cannot you see how ill I am?' I pleaded, stretching my arms for her to see the sores.
She sat down, pushed her fringe back and said, `Salma, you are not ill.'
`I am, I am,' I said and began crying.
She stretched her hand to touch me.
`Stay away. Might infect you,' I said.
`Allah is the maker and breaker. Sometimes you get broken, sometimes you are made whole.' While Miss Asher was on her knees, praying to the dark wood cross on the bed, I opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside to do my own praying. I could hear two Greek people talking to each other. The dark sea was covered with white foam as if the waves were fighting themselves. I breathed in the air which carried the smell of ripe olives and white orange blossoms with it. There, beyond the horizon, was Hima my village. There on the opposite shore lived my mother, my friend Noura, my tight-lipped teacher Miss Nailah and ... and my father. `Lyeesh? Lyeesh? Why? Why?' murmured the waves. I held the white railing of the balcony tight. My heart was fluttering in my chest like a slain chicken. They seemed to be so near in the darkness yet so far. `Keep your mouth shut!' said Miss Nailah. `Mummy,' she screamed. She was crying for me. `I command you to Allah's protection, our maker and breaker, daughter,' said my mother. `I will never hold my head high as long as she is still breathing,' said my father.
I sat in the cafe without family, past or children like a tree without roots sipping the now cold tea. It was my lunch break and I needed to get some fresh air. The smell of starch and tobacco filled my lungs and clung to the insides of my nose, my clothes and hair, making it more frizzy. At the next table a family were having their lunch: a middleaged mother with a wrinkle-free face and slim figure; a middle-aged father, who looked as if he were in his early twenties; and two kids, a boy and a girl, who smiled politely at their parents while eating their quiche and salad with knives and forks. `To the homeless this sense of security was unattainable.' That was another Open University expression I picked up from a TV lecture about family dynamics. Miss Asher had advised me to consolidate my knowledge by using these words and expressions in real-life situations. `Unattainable,' I repeated after I heard this word in order to memorize it. I went to the counter to ask for more tea. The overworked girl behind the counter asked, `Do you have any change?'
`Change', I said, `was unattainable.'
`You what!'
`No change. Very, very sorry.'
My mother watched over me. I held the ripe peach with my hands and stuck my teeth into it. It was red and velvety on the outside and orange on the inside. The juice began dripping down my chin.When I saw the expression on my mother's face, I laughed and continued eating. `You are like a rabbit, munching, munching all the time.' I shook my ten-year-head and picked another peach. She put the weeds on the ground and whipped my face with the end of her sleeve. `So hungry for life like a locust, but you must not chew whatever you come across. One day you might chew a snake and it will
sting back.'
The rattlesnake stuck her fangs into my arms and released her venom, Mother. I sat on the bench in the cathedral close watching the sun go down. A group of children were rolling on the grass; their blond hair shone in the golden glow of the sun. I pressed my hands against my tummy to stop the cramps. It was my third day of taking the medicine, but my mountainous stomach refused to adjust. Soon after we met I opened my heart to Parvin and told her about Mahmoud lurking in the dark wherever I went; she dragged me all the way to the doctor, who prescribed some medicine to help me sleep and make me feel happier. He also gave me some cream for my sores. The mothers of the children were sitting on the grass having a cigarette while watching their children play. Another wave of nausea washed over me. I ran to the bin and threw up.
`She had one too many,' shouted one of them at me.
`Not in front of the children,' said another.
I wiped my mouth, my forehead, and lay down on the grass panting.
Parvin and I walked through the alleyways behind the cathedral close, crossed the busy street, pushed a white wood door open and asked the receptionist for Dr Charles Spenser.
She looked at us holding hands and said, `Please sit down. 'A few minutes later she said, `Dr Spenser's room is upstairs second left.'
Parvin was reading a glossy magazine when she waved me off.
I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door.
`Come in,' he said in an elegant English accent.
I opened the door, closed it and stood right there in the middle of his office.
He pushed his glasses up and looked at me suspiciously. `Your name is Miss Sally Asher? How preposterous!'
I nodded my veiled head.
`What can I do for you, Miss Asher?' he said and poised a pen ready to write.
`I ill, doctor. My heart beat. No sleep," I said and pulled the white scarf back off my hot forehead.
He sat up, released the pen, adjusted his tie and said, `Any physical symptoms?'
`Sick yes. Arms and legs see.' I stretched out my arms so he could inspect them.
He held my thin dark arm in his fat white hand and inspected the sores. `It is psoriasis, that's all. A skin condition. Nothing serious,' he said.
`Sweat, heart beat, cannot sleep,' I said.
He dropped my hand and said, `If your heart is beating then it must be in good condition. That's what hearts are supposed to do.'
`But I ill. Please. Today alive, tomorrow dead, me,' I pleaded.
`I told you there is nothing wrong with you. Please do not waste my time and government money.'
I turned around, held the cold door handle, pushed it down and walked out.
I made sure that I walked neither too slowly nor too quickly for Miss Asher's sake. The promenade was old and run-down, just a path covered with concrete slabs and a low wall. There were a few buildings dotted around and a kiosk selling soft drinks, cigarettes and newspapers in Cypriot, which I did not understand. Whenever we got a paper in prison we used to have a celebration. We would sweep the floor, mop it and then spread the paper carefully on it. Noura would line her arched eyebrows, put on some lipstick and comb her shiny black hair, Madam Lamaa would tie her pink headscarf properly around her head, making sure that all her grey hair was covered, and I, the youngest and the only inmate who could read, would put on my veil. I would open the paper on the obituary page and read out all the names. `We announce the death of our beloved mother al-HajjaAmira Rimawi. We belong to Allah and to him we shall return.'
Madam Lamaa would say, `If my sister dies they would never tell me. I wouldn't know anything.'
`Munira al-Hamdan,' I read and stopped. `Noura, I told you about Sabha, remember? Her brother shot her during the wedding? Well, this is her mother.'
`It did not take long for her mother to follow her,' said Noura.
The derelict Turkish castle on the Cypriot beach looked dark and grim. `The Turkish sultan had it built during the days of the Ottoman Empire in sixteen twenty-five,' said Miss Asher. `Do you want to go in?'
`Yes,' I said.
`Castle,' she said.
`Castle,' I repeated.
The gates were big, made of sturdy carved wood. `Islamic architecture,' she said. The smell of vegetation filled the air. There was an inner courtyard full of trees and shrubs which had not been pruned for years. A vine tree coiled up a big trellis. Miss Asher pushed her short grey hair away from her glistening forehead and pointed at the guard's small room. When we got there the guard pointed at my veil and said, `Turkish?'
`No,' said Miss Asher.
`No this,' he said, pointing at my white veil.
`Please,' said Miss Asher.
He waved us in, but he seemed unhappy.
We went up the stairs to the sultan's quarters and walked straight into a big hall, where the sultan used to sit on his throne and hold court. The room was full of velvet chairs, settles and cushions, and a brazier with brass coffee pots stood in the middle of the room. The sultan's tribe must have had many visitors.
It was dark when I finally returned to the hostel. Parvin was pale with worry. `Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you.You also left your pipe and necklace behind.'
`I went for a walk,' I said.
`Look, I made us some curry,' she said.
`Cannot eat. Everything that goes in comes out,' I said and sat on the bed.
'OK! I will get you some soup,' she said and rushed out.
I lay on the bed listening to the sound of traffic outside. Among the hubbub I could hear a sparrow twittering, the clanking of glass, dogs barking, then the din of the traffic again.
Parvin unlocked the door and rushed in, took off her fleece, put the kettle on and then sat on my bed. `Potato and celery soup,' she said, `your favourite.'
She filled a mug with hot water, emptied the packet then stirred. `You'll love this,' she said, holding the mug under my nose.
`I cannot,' I said.
`You have to eat.You cannot take the pills on an empty stomach.'
I shook my head.
Lying there on the bed I tried to wrap myself with their warmth, their sad voices. I needed a rope to pull me up and suddenly I began hearing their singing.
`Low, low low lowlali,' we started singing, our voices bouncing off the stained wall, reaching out to the outside world, which we hadn't seen for years. `My absence has been long,' we sang together. Noura stood up, tied a shawl around her wide hips, and began wiggling and swaying to the beat of the metal pot. We raised our voices.
The guard on the evening shift began shouting abuse at us. `You are all whores! No one cares about you.You are just cheap sluts so why don't you shut up?'
`Low, low low lowlali,' we sang together.
`If I shoot one of you your families would thank me,' he shouted.
When Madam Lamaa heard that, she clutched her big breasts, stopped singing and began crying. Noura held her tight and said, `What does he know? He's just a peasant boy, so uncomfortable in his uniform.'
`A garbage collector with a rose in his lapel,' said Madam Lamaa.
`A monkey leaping about in the dark," said Noura.
`Outside his cage he looks ridiculous," Madam Lamaa said.
`The Japanese are coming,' said Max, my boss, one morning and ran his hand over his thinning hair to make sure that it was gelled into place. He grew the thin strands, and pulled them all the way up and round his head to cover his baldness. The wave-like fringe was always slipping down and he would curse and press it back into place. `The Sock Shop is back in business, possibly bought by a Japanese company.' He waved the newspaper at me and said, `The Japanese are coming, and they will buy my trousers off me before I know it' Every day he expected a Jap to come and offer him a `phenomenal' price for his shop. And what would he say? The answer varied every day depending on Max's mood. `Take your filthy foreign hands - no offence - off my shop and go back home, eaters of monkey brains.' Max had read somewhere that monkeys' brains were a delicacy in the Fa
r East, so he decided that all Asians were snake-, monkey- and donkeyeaters. Another morning the answer would be different: `This government is playing ping pong with us. One day they say we must pay the community charge and we say they must never introduce the poll tax. If a Jap offers a million for this dump I will pack up and go to Gibraltar.'
`Why Gibraltar?' I asked.
`It's British, innit?'
Butter, Honey and Coconuts
RUSHING UP THE WHITE THIN STAIRS OF THE LARGE SHIP my heart started beating. A few days before I had visited a small church inland with Miss Asher. The Little Sister who received us was keen to please her. She rushed into words breathlessly, pointing at some old instruments and bookcases. She said that the Hellena was a cargo ship, which would take some of the belongings of the convent from Cyprus to Southampton. The captain had granted Miss Asher and `her daughter' special permission to travel on his vessel. Cypriot families were saying farewell to their sons, tanned English husbands were kissing wives and children goodbye, sailors were pulling ropes and porters were carrying wooden chests and suitcases. I was ashamed of my tears because I felt I should try to look cheerful for Miss Asher's sake, a woman who had saved my life. When I saw tears trickling down other faces, I held the railing tight. Miss Asher was standing on the deck surrounded by boxes and suitcases. I put my colourful bundle on top of the wood trunk. The ship blew its whistle announcing departure.
I still would not eat.The stomach cramps were so bad I had to curl up on the ex-army bed for hours. Parvin put the mug of soup on the side table and began rummaging in her rucksack. She produced a small silver cassette player, put it on the table, looked for a socket, then plugged it in. She pulled out a plastic bag full of tapes and selected one, opened the cassette door, slid the cassette in and pressed one of the buttons. Like the aroma of ground coffee music filled the room. The lyrics were so clear and for the first time I was able to understand them. The singer sang in a husky voice about arduous journeys uphill, about heartache and pain. When Parvin joined in I realized that she knew the words by heart. The singer's deep voice and Parvin's sweet voice soared together in the hostel. Parvin pretended to be holding a microphone. `I screwed up real good.' Her voice was loud and shrill by now `But I drink tea and chew biscuits. Drink and chew Drink and chew Drink up the soup and chew the bread then screw up agaaaain!'
