The Cry of the Dove: A Novel

by Fadia Faqir

  `Pleased to meet you,' I said and stretched out my arm.

  He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and offered me a metal hook instead of a hand made of flesh and blood. Parvin raised her eyebrows, urging me to shake it. I held the cold metal hook in my hand and bowed.

  He went to the counter and ordered some salad and juice. Parvin winked and asked, `Isn't he cute?'

  `Yes, but he is white,' I said.

  `So?' she said.

  `And ... and ...' I whispered.

  `He had cancer and they had to amputate his hand. He is in the clear now,' she said.

  `Great, good, congratulations,' I said.

  `He is a good manager. He knows everything about sports gear. He will never go bust 'cause the English love sports," she said.

  I nodded. She was not wearing much make-up and her face shone in the midday sun. Mark came back with a tray decked with food for the three of us. `Parvin told me you love salad,' he said and sat down. He looked at Parvin and when she raised her curled eyelashes and looked at him her eyes were full of approval.

  `Oy, not so fast, miss!' he said when she began scoffing the salad.

  Mouth full she said, `I am hungry.'

  He asked me what I did for a living and when I mentioned Lord's Tailors he said that he might come to our shop to order his suit for the big day.

  `We be delighted to serve you,' I said and smiled.

  When we finished eating they both went silent and looked at me.

  I drank some water and said, `What? Is spider crawling my head?'

  `No,' he said, `but we want to ask you something.'

  I tucked my hair behind my ears.

  `Will you do us the honour of being our bridesmaid?'

  `Maid? What I do?' I said.

  `No, it is not like that.You will be the maid of honour, my best woman, like, second in charge,' she said.

  `You don't want me. You want a nice-looking Englishwoman,' I said.

  Parvin stood up and hugged me. `I don't want anyone but you, you daft Bedouin.'

  I did not go to the university very often because I felt that everyone knew everything about anything; they had read books I could not understand, they spoke a language I could not speak and they looked down upon me because my English was bad. The minute I began walking up the hill towards the university my heart would begin beating rhythmically like a pestle pounding coffee beans in a Bedouin mortar. I felt small against the old large building with towers and high ceilings. When I finally entered the building I was trembling. With shaking hands I showed my instructions to the porter. He led me down a spacious room full of sculpted busts, posters and conversing students to a narrow staircase. `Up those stairs, then turn left," he said.

  By the time I found Dr Robson's office I was in a state: my heart was pounding, my shoulders were aching and coffee was dripping through the rucksack. I felt hot and sweaty but before I burst into tears I knocked on the door.

  `Come in,' came my teacher's prompt answer.

  `My flask must be broken," I said to his thinning hair.

  He looked up and saw the coffee dripping on the carpet. He stood up and got me a towel out of a sports bag and said, `Use this!'

  I put the towel on the floor and placed my sack carefully on it.

  `Now get your stuff out.'

  I was reluctant to let this stranger see my personal belongings. Everything I had in the bag was cheap and scruffy and would look even more so soaked in coffee. I began pulling out my jumper, the ultra-short skirt, the see-through blouse, the make-up bag, Marie Claire, the file on which I scribbled my apology. I wrote it all down to get it right: `Last weekend I started a new job and I was extremely busy. I could not finish my essay. Please accept my sincere apology.' Gwen had added `extremely' and sincere' and an `ed' to `start'. I hesitantly pulled out some underwear and finally the broken flask.

  He held the frame of his glasses and said, `You need a new flask.'

  `Yes I need,' I said.

  A poster with a naked woman turning her back to the world was stuck on the wall behind him. Her head was bent towards her curled body and all we could see was her back clearly outlined.

  `Right,' he said. `Let me have your essay.'

  Looking at my personal belongings scattered on the floor I struggled with the elusive words. Out with it. `I haven't done it' There, I said it.

  `Why?' he asked gently.

  `I busy,' I said.

  `Is it family- or work-related?'

  `Is family,' I lied. `My daughter go to university. She is doing medicine and I have to cook for her and look after her ... I also work in the evening.'

  `Next Monday I want the essay on my desk,' he said.

  `Yes,' I said while collecting my clothes and sticking them in the wet sack. `Yes,' I said while offering him the broken flask. `Yes,' I said while walking backwards towards the door. `Yes,' I said and shut the door.

  `Sally, wait,' he called.

  I did not answer. My name was not Sally.

  One evening after we ate the mjadara, a risotto with onion and lentils, Noura, while looking at the barred window, said, `One day Rami fell ill and I took him to hospital. He was in a coma for four days. I used to go to the kebab shop to wash dishes at night and then rush to the hospital in the morning. I never prayed, but that night I prayed for the first time. "God of the universe, God of humans and jinn, God of earth and limitless skies, have mercy on this child and deliver him. Please, God, if you cure him I will wear the veil, pray five times a day, fast, give the zakat to the poor and go to Mecca to do the pilgrimage." In the morning Rami got better, but I had lost my job. It turned out that Rami was diabetic and needed two insulin injections a day. Someone told me about the "House of Perfume", so I went and instead of wearing the veil as I vowed I began taking off my clothes.You know why I am here, Salina, because I broke every promise I had made to Allah. My husband decided to take the children to live with him and his second wife. And here I am in Yildiz palace.'

  `Yildiz palace?'

  `It's the palace of the sultan on the shores of a lake in Turkey.'

  `Islah prison and Yildiz are identical. Aren't they?' I smiled.

  `Especially the ostrich-feather mattresses and the gold ewer,' she said and laughed. The sound of her laughter was somewhere between a titter and a sob.

  Allan said, while I was putting glasses in the large drawer of the tumbler washer, `I must teach you some social tricks. When I am finished with you people will mistake you for a princess.'

  `Are you sure?' which was exactly my answer to my first teacher, Minister Mahoney, the kind Quaker priest. After eating my breakfast, which tasted like sawdust, I drank the cold coffee, brushed my teeth and tied my hair back. Then I heard a knock on the thick detention-centre door. It must be Miss Asher, I thought, while trying to straighten the ruffled sheets. Then in came a tall man, with blue eyes, wide smile and grey hair. When he said in Arabic, `Al jaw bardun huna: the climate is cold here," I recognized him. He was the ship's pastor. His Arabic sounded stiff and classical like Miss Nailah's textbook so I laughed.

  `Haya bina ya Salma: let us go, Salma,' he said.

  'Ma'ak?' I asked

  `Yes, na'am, ma'i, with me,' he said and opened the door.

  A Bedouin shepherdess would be turned into a princess, full of smiles and brightness, sparkling, straight-backed and flat-stomached, no way.

  `You are basically well mannered, but a bit rough around the edges,' said Allan.

  I smiled to Allan while thinking of Islah prison, where I was lying in the filth, having a bath once every two weeks, washing the cloths I used whenever I had my period in a bucket full of soap and water, eating with my hand, and dreaming of a spring of fresh water, like the one my mother used to take me to on donkey-back when I was really young. The spring was so clear you were able to see every pebble, big or small, even or uneven, in the bottom. The water was jetting out of the hillside covered with grapevines. Ripe watermelons sliced in half were floating in the ice-cold
water like the fuchsia oleander flowers that grew along the stream all the way to the mill at the bottom of the valley. `Our tribe has given this spring as a wedding gift to the bridegroom's tribe. Alas, it's no longer ours,' she said.

  `I don't know how to speak to people,' I said to Allan while sipping the dregs of our closing-time cup of coffee.

  `You speak well,' he said while stealing a glance at my tired legs. I did not like it when Allan reminded me that he was a man. I wanted him to be just a friend without desires and stolen glances.

  `Yes, but today I made a fool of myself when I went to see my university tutor.'

  Allan ran his fingers over his waxed hair, straightened his bowtie and said, `Are you a university student?' There was admiration, confusion and condemnation in his tone.

  `Yes. First year English Literature, part time, though,' I said the same way Dr Robson would have said it to me in his untidy office.

  `Oh! You will be reading Shakespeare then.'

  `I am reading about his sister for the women and culture module.'

  `Oh dear! So Shakespeare is not important any more!' he said.

  I did not know why he was or was not important so I put my jumper on, my trainers and said, `I am off.'

  `Goodnight,' he said and sucked on his cigar.

  When I switched on the landing light, I heard moaning upstairs. `Liz, is that you?' I cried, rushed up the stairs and knocked on her bedroom door.

  A feeble `Come in.'

  I opened the door and saw her lying in bed, flushed, sweaty and breathing heavily. `Liz, are you all right?'

  `It must be a fever, ayah,' she said.

  `Have you been to the doctor?' I asked.

  She looked so thin and pale curled up under the sheets. `No,' she said. Her late husband's black-and-white photo smiled at her from the bedside cabinet.

  `I need some port,' she said.

  The bottle was almost empty on the smudged silver tray and the glass looked misty with stains. I poured what was left of the port and handed it to her. She pulled herself up and drank it in one go.

  `Ayah, there is no better ayah than you,' she said while looking at the lace curtains fluttering in the wind.

  `Yes,' I said and sat down on the bedside.

  `You know, ayah, I wish I had never set foot in India. Everyone looked up to me and served me. Servants carried me to school, you dressed me, Hita cooked for us, Mr Crooked Hands took care of the garden, Riza guarded the gate.' Her eyes drifted off to a place known only to her. She swallowed hard and said, `Hita used to make the best chaat, dal, onion bhajis. He would set a tray and bring it to me in the garden while I was playing with Rex. "Here you are, Princess Upah," he would say.' She looked at the cupboard and said, `It had to be him, Hitajaan; it had to be your father, Hita jaan.' Liz turned her head, looked at the peeling William Morris wallpaper, fingered the intricate silver frame and ran her hand over the fading black-and-white photo of her late husband, and finally focused her eyes on me and said, `What are you doing here?'

  `I heard something so I came up to see if you're all right.'

  `Get out! Shoo! Shoo! Get out,' she said waving her hand towards the door as if she was trying to shake off some dirt. The smell of cheap wine, dust; betrayal, damp, tears; broken promises, dirty sheets, false teeth and disinfectant followed me all the way to my room.

  It must have been love. I was sitting on top of a pile of sheaves of wheat, scoffing my butter sandwich, when Hamdan walked out of a dust cloud and sat next to me. I could see our wedding camel caravan crossing the village, carrying us to our own dwelling.

  He pulled a hair out of his moustache and said, `How is my mare?'

  I fixed my veil into place and said, `Fine'

  `I want to see you,' he said and fixed his white-and-redchequered headdress.

  It was hot and dry with clouds of dust blown about by the wind. The songs of the harvesters died out, the reaping and threshing season was over and piles of wheat, barley and lentils lay spread out on the threshing floor at the hill top. I swallowed hard then said, `I am pregnant.'

  His cockiness collapsed and he turned into a man troubled with a bent back and a trembling voice, `You cannot be. How?'

  `I don't know,' I said and stuffed the last morsel of bread into my mouth.

  When he finally looked up at me he was a different man, his brown eyes burning with anger rather than desire. He cleared his voice and said, `You are responsible. You have seduced me with the yearning tunes of your pipe and swaying hips,' he said and raised his arm about to hit me.

  I shrank on the wheat pile and covered my head with both arms.

  `I've never laid a finger on you. I've never seen you ever before. Do you understand?' he said, wrapped his kufiyya around his face like a mask and walked into a cloud of dust.

  I sat there listening to the barking of distant dogs, the moo moo of a cow in labour, the rustle of leaves and the susurration of the whirling wind.

  Liz did not usually allow me into her room, but that morning I knocked lightly then entered like a trespasser. Liz was sleeping soundly in her exquisite iron bed. The silver tray with crystal cocktail glasses was on the antique chest of drawers. I was relieved to see some colour back in her cheeks. I looked at the fading picture of her husband, who died in the war, on the bedside table. The crimson satin box was still open. I tiptoed to have a look and saw the bundle of letters held together by a rubber band and a diary with green silk covers with a photo of the Queen printed on it. I opened it and read, Monday 5th September 1931, Janhi ayah bought me bangles from a pedlar in all the shining colours of the rainbow, but Mama wouldn't let me wear them much. `Too Indian,' she said. Liz turned her head to the other side. I put the diary back in the box and walked quietly out of the room. I rushed down the cold stairs to the kitchen, put the kettle on and sat on the stool waiting for everything to get warmer: the wooden cupboards, the stainless-steel cutlery, the antique crockery, the pile of old Homes & Gardens magazines in the bamboo book holder, the misty ceiling and the dusty mugs hanging on the hitching hooks screwed to the edges of the wooden shelves.

  I stepped out of the house and breathed in the clean morning air. Although we were in the middle of the summer, it was still raining lightly. The persistent light drizzle took the edge off the heat and penetrated the soil all the way down to the roots of plants and trees. Through the large glass shop front I could see Sadiq spreading his prayer mat on the floor. He stood on the edge, placed his hands behind his ears and began the takbeer. The door of the shop was closed so I placed my ear against the letter box and listened. 'Allahu akbar, allahu akbar! With hardship goes ease. Lo!' Sadiq knelt down, prostrated then placed his forehead on the mat. My father stood up and placed his hands under his ribcage and began reciting. It was November and we had not seen a single drop of rain this year. He began the tasleem, turning his head to the left shoulder to greet the angel sitting there recording sins, then turned it to the right to greet the angel recording good deeds, then he waved to me. I walked towards his outstretched chipped hands. He held me up and then sat me down in his lap saying, `Good morning, my little chick.'

  Sadiq suddenly opened the door and said, `Good morning, memsahib! Do you want me to teach you how to pray to Allah also?'

  I waved a hello and crossed the street quickly.

  Walking on the green pedestrian bridge I could see the thin clouds lit by the morning sun reflected in the river like large balls of flames. I saw the river split into two branches forming a small island. It was a peaceful space covered with green grass, wild flowers, and on its borders birch, chestnut, oak and rowan trees grew The white seagulls flew in and out of the water and the dark green trees glistening like a sea of gems as if the rain was not water but pure sparkling olive oil. `Too much past,' the English doctor had said, `and not enough future.' I held the railing of the bridge and looked up again in time to see a dark figure lurking among the trees, wounded, his honour compromised, his eyes emitting sparks of hatred, the ends of his red-and-
white-chequered kufiyya stuck in the black round robe securing it over his head, his rifle aimed at me ready to fire. I took a deep breath, put my bag on the ground between my legs, held the iron rails tight and opened up my chest, ready to be killed. He put his rifle down then slung it on his shoulder, pulled the end of his headdress out signalling the end of hostility, and walked towards the balls of light. When I finally shut my eyes salt stung their rims. I filled my lungs with fresh morning air travelling down from the green hills, picked up my bag and resumed my walk to work.

  During my lunch break I went to the public library to look for books or articles on Shakespeare's sister. Imitating my university tutor, I began `deconstructing' why libraries were intimidating: a) because the system of classification and borrowing was too complicated for me, and b) because the sight of so many books reminded me of my ignorance and backwardness. I felt so guilty when I entered the library because I had been wasting my time reading trivial magazines. In Cosmopolitan there was an article about women addicted to chocolate, which had chemicals similar to those produced when falling in love, but there wasn't a single word about women like me addicted to glossy magazines. Whenever my morale dropped a notch or two I would go to the newsagent and buy some chewing gum, a bar of chocolate and a glossy magazine. I would eat and read, chew and read until the packet was just pieces of silver paper scattered on the table and the magazine dog-eared and falling to pieces, its perfume sample pulled open and wiped clean.

  A young girl with big eyes and a ready smile saw me hesitating and walked towards me. `Can I help you?'

  I wanted to pretend that I knew it all and give her a haughty thank you, but I remembered my tutor, the spilt coffee and said, `Yes'

  `Let me explain the classification system for you,' she said politely.

  When I realized that we were heading towards a computer, I was about to run towards the entrance. The place was unfamiliar and the pain of having to learn yet another new thing hit me hard. I remembered the expensive visit to the dentist, who is not subsidised by the NHS any more, and his persistent needle drilling right into my heart.