The Cry of the Dove: A Novel

by Fadia Faqir

  I could only see a faint light in the hallway of the Reed Hall, but the surrounding grounds were dark with the and oiled legs and realized that I was free at last. Gone were the days when I used to chase the hens around in wide pantaloons and loose flowery dresses in the bright colours of my village: red to be noticed, black for anger, green for spring and bright orange for the hot sun. If this small glass bottle were full of snake venom I would drink it in one go. I dabbed some perfume behind my ears and on my wrists, took a deep breath, tossed my no longer braided and veiled hair on my shoulders, pulled my tummy in, straightened my posture and walked out of Swan Cottage, which was the name Liz had chosen for her semi-detached house. I filled my chest with the clean morning air, inflating my ribs until my back muscles were taut and raw. I could see shreds of blue sky between the luminous white clouds that stretched out in different shapes: the mane of a horse, a small foot, a tiny, wrinkled hand like a tender vine leaf that has just burst open.

  The cathedral in the distance looked dark and small. The feeble English sun was trying hard to melt away the clouds. I walked past the student residences, past the large white houses with neat gardens and barking dogs, past HM Prison. I looked at the high walls, the coiled barbed wire, the small barred windows, and realized that this time I was on the wrong side of the black iron gate despite my dark deeds and my shameful past. I was free, walking on the pavement like an innocent person. My face was black as if covered with soot, my hands were black and I had smeared the foreheads of my family with tar. A thick, dark, sticky liquid dripped from the iron railing I was holding all the way to the walkway. I shook my head trying to chase away the foul smell and looked towards the Exe. jittering, stomach convulsing, hands and legs trembling, I rocked my body rhythmically to my grandmother's burial song, `Where is his grave? Where is his dagger? Where is his face? Bring me a lock of his hair!' she chanted when she heard that her father had died, scooped more sand in her hands and scattered it all over her head and body. A cloud of dust with a black centre. `Where is my daughter? Is she alive or dead? My eyes are hungry for her face! My ears are tuned to one call, "Mama", my nose sniffing for her scent. Bring me a blanket she had wrapped herself in, shoes she had worn, a lock of her hair!' I chanted. A hazy cloud with a mauve centre.

  Crossing an unknown river far from my dwelling I observed the demeanour of horses, looked deep in the shadows in the distance and watched the movement of trees. I listened for feet crunching dry needles and scales. Suddenly I felt human breath on the back of my neck.

  `Mahmoud?' I sobbed.

  Gwen straightened her apron, tucked her short hair behind her ears and said, `He did not know they were rubies. My father I mean. He brought those dusty stones with him all the way from South Africa and put them in his workshop in the garden together with other pebbles and pieces of steel. One of his friends had told him that he got the rubies from a miner and wanted him to have a few so he had put them in the pocket of his winter coat and forgot about them until he arrived in Swansea.'

  She buttered a scone, put it on a fine plate and passed it on to me.

  `You see he forgot about them again until one day when he was looking for his binoculars he saw them on the shelf hidden in a brown paper bag. He held one in his hand and began filing it to see whether it was a ruby or just a rough stone from the mines. He couldn't find anything that resembled rubies under the grey surface of the gemstone. He continued cleaning, filing, scraping all afternoon until he got fed up and threw them all on the floor. Later on he discovered that rubies must be cut in a certain way to get to their red heart.You know, Salina, he spent most of his later years looking for the rubies on the floor of his workshop, the shed, the garden, everywhere. I would watch him through the window on his knees looking for the damn rubies'

  She paused for breath, drank some tea and said, `A few weeks before he died he found one. Yes, he found one rough ruby.'

  I felt the warmth of a soft jacket on my shoulders so I looked up and saw a familiar face that I couldn't place. `Mahmoud?' I sobbed.

  `No. It's me, John,' he said and wrapped me in his jacket.

  `John who?' I asked.

  `John Robson.Your tutor,' he said.

  Suddenly my tummy muscles convulsed and I threw up on his legs and shoes. I was shaking, breathless, ill. `Toilet,' I wheezed.

  He lowered his shoulder until it was under my arm, balanced himself and pulled me up. I was about to pass out when I finally felt the ground under my bare feet. He helped me walk across the lawn, up the stairs, through the door, down the corridor to the ladies' toilet. I stood there disorientated until he said, `Go in!'

  Another surge of nausea made me run to the toilet, stick my head in it and throw up again. I don't remember how long I sat there on the cold tiled floor, how long before I heard his voice call,'Sally! Sally! Are you all right?' I placed my hands on the toilet seat and pushed myself up. When I was finally able to walk to the washbasin I could not see half of my face in the mirror; as for the other half, it was covered with dry leaves, mud and grass, my eyes were swollen and red, my hair was half tied up, half loose on my shoulders, and Gwen's dress was smeared with green and brown streaks. I washed my face several times with soap and water, unpinned my hair and wove it into a braid, and gulped loads of water straight from the tap. A flickering light blotted out my right eye. I steadied myself and walked out slowly.

  John was sitting on one of the sofas reading a newspaper. My black bag, shoes and pipe were on the floor. He stood up and said, `Are you OK?'

  `I think it's a migraine,' I said.

  `There are bedrooms upstairs. I can call the duty porter and get you one,' he said. He folded the newspaper and stuck it in the rack.

  `I still have the keys to Parvin's room. She wanted me to pack her stuff.'

  `You can stay there till ten o'clock tomorrow morning,' he said, held my hand and led me up the carpeted stairs. I unlocked the bridal wing and he helped me get in and placed my bag and shoes on the floor. The bed and two armchairs were covered with T-shirts, jeans, make-up, rollers, hairpins, underwear, towels. I placed my hand on my tummy and sat on the bed. The nausea was coming back. `I'll go and get you something for that,' he said and rushed out. I took off Gwen's dress to see whether it was damaged and how it could be repaired, put on my jeans and T-shirt and lay on the spacious bed. John was back with a tray full of stuff. I could see half of his face, his bloodshot eye, his goatee, his slipping glasses. `Some yoghurt, herbal tea, a bottle of water and a tablet for your migraine, madam,' he said and placed the tray on the bedside cabinet. I was too embarrassed to look at him so I kept tracing the ink lines of the painting of the Japanese lady on the wall. Strangely enough I ate the yoghurt, drank the tea, took the bright pink pill. Sitting on one of the armchairs he watched me eat. `Can I get you anything else, Sally?' he asked.

  `Salma,' I said. I slipped under the white sheet and blanket, turned round and went to sleep.

  `My father returned home in nineteen fourteen because of the political threat from Germany and was at first in the cavalry, but was not sent abroad. He was then put on the drawings of the first tanks and his brother Archie was one of those working on the construction. Winston Churchill came to watch the first trials and my uncle swapped the wellingtons Churchill wore for the occasion for those he wore and is said to have handed his own over to the people asking him for the wellingtons Churchill wore! I don't know what he did with the originals. Knowing him, he probably sold them later on! For the last part of the war my father was in the Fleet Air Arm on airships and I also have photos of the airship carrying a plane slung below it. These were experiments to try and help aircrafts fly over Germany carrying bombs and still have enough fuel to fly home again.'

  Gwen stopped talking, stood up and went to the bedroom then came back with a black umbrella. When she opened it the handle was made of a rusty, uneven piece of metal.

  `Believe it or not, it's part of an airship,' she said.

  Liz was in no condition to cros
s-examine me. She was still in bed. I made us some porridge, two cups of tea and took the tray up to her bedroom. It was messier and stuffier than ever before. Her dirty clothes were scattered on the floor, some cold pizza was rotting on a plate, and the dark red stains on the beige carpet were dry. It smelt of dust, lavender soap, denture cleanser and medication. I pushed the bundle of letters on the bedside table and the silver box to one side and put the tray down. Liz woke up, looked around with her yellowing eyes and said without dentures, `That'll be all. Thank you.'

  `I thought we might have breakfast together," I said hesitantly.

  `You did, did you?' she asked, her older self returning.

  `The wedding was beautiful,' I enticed her.

  Streaks of blood whirled in the glass full of cleanser when she took her dentures out. She stuck them in her mouth then bit, tied her hair, ran her fingers over her puffy face, eased herself out of the white frilled duvet covered with yellow and red stains and looked at the bowl of porridge. I placed the tray in her lap. She began to eat.

  I sat on the edge of her king-size bed and ate my porridge.

  `How was the wedding?' she asked.

  `It was splendid. The weather was great. The sun shone on them to the end,' I said.

  `Did they show you the howdah and the seven saris on the Shubbeah?' she asked and had a sip of tea.

  `What is a Shubbeah?' I asked.

  `You display the bridalwear and underwear on it. What about the bridegroom? Did they put him on a silver footstool and rub his face and arms with her butter?' she asked.

  She grabbed the bundle of letters held together with an elastic band and said, `Is Daddy still hiding in the library?'

  I placed the tray on the bedside cabinet, wiped her face with the kitchen towel and said, `You should have some rest now'

  `Don't tell me what to do,' she said, broken.

  Noura's nose was bleeding after a forced feeding. It was my fifth day on hunger strike after I gave birth. There was nothing left to live for so I began hitting myself hard on the face, stomach, legs. When I was exhausted I would lie on the filthy floor and refuse to touch the bread and soup brought and put under my nose every lunchtime, until Noura staggered back to the room after a forced feeding. Naima and another warden dragged her through the iron door then threw her on the mattress. Your face and arms were bruised, blood mixed with snot was dripping from your nose, a white liquid was stuck to your lips and your eyes were shut.

  Poking at me with her stick, the way I used to poke my lazy donkey, Naima said, `What about this one? Is she still on hunger strike?'

  `Noo,' whispered Noura.

  When they locked the door, Noura opened her eyes, smiled at me and wheezed,'Please eat' Her voice was both broken and strong, but there was something frightening about it as if she had come face to face with the travellers' ghoul. I stood up, untied my bundle, read my mother's letter again and looked at the window. She wanted to come to see me, but my father and brother must have forbidden her from crossing the threshold of the house. I bit into the dry piece of bread. In the dim moonlight coming through the barred window you were able to see me chewing at the now wet and salty bread. A faint smile was drawn on your face when you turned your head towards the wall.

  I watched the English sun setting behind the hills, leaving a glowing light behind, which floated on the water, fingered the tops of trees and shone on the hair of people walking their dogs. They would smile and whisper their greetings. It was a peaceful space covered with green grass, wild flowers, and on its borders birch, chestnut, oak and rowan trees grew I sat on the grass overlooking the steep slopes the water was rushing over and I tried to blow a simple tune, which would be in harmony with the sound of water, the gentle breeze fondling my hair, the barking of distant dogs, the sound of cicadas hiding in the long grass. That tune would be the English Sally, standing erect, head high, back straight, waving a white handkerchief to the sun. Then a shepherd's piece saying goodbye to the day, kissing the sun and crying over its departure, there was so much stamping of feet, yanking of hair and rending of garments. That was the Arab Salina sitting on the ground, swaying her upper half and sprinkling ashes over her head. Then a last tune, a tree neither of the East nor of the West, olive oil in a glass lamp, doves cooing, white upon dark, dark upon white, light upon light just where the sky meets the dark outlines of the trees, lambs and hills at the end of the horizon.

  I kept thinking about the next tutorial with John. To go or not to go. To fake a sickness, break an arm or simply say I have a family emergency to attend to. I was trying to compile a BBC2 Newsnight vocabulary: `on the other hand', `therefore', `despite the fact that the hostage-taking is universal it is mainly an Arab problem'. I looked up the words in the dictionary, wrote them down several times to memorize them then jotted down my speech, `I think it is time for me to say goodbye and go to another tutor. However, you have been very good, helpful, although you are a northerner. On the other hand I can bring a sick note and you can continue supervising my project. But if you have no respect for me I cannot work with you so sad and broken also. And I don't know where the hostages are. Hope I am clear.'

  `Hello, Max,' I said.

  He pushed up his bifocals, pointed at the photo and asked, `Look at this. The Princess in a bikini! How on earth are we going to see her as royalty?'

  He wanted a discussion and I obliged. `She is woman. Human like us,' I said.

  `Like you? Like me? Don't be ridiculous! She is royalty. Blue blood. Allegiance to God then to them.'

  `I see,' I said trying to assuage him.

  `Naked, stark bleeding naked,' he said.

  `She has her swimming suit on.'

  `Do you call those stripes of Lycra a swimming suit?'

  `Nosy photographers," I said, `she wanted to have quiet holiday, that's all.'

  Our discussions always ended the same way, either with `Sal, you have a long way to go,' or `Sally, you have a lot to learn,' so this time it was: `Sal, you don't know anything about us, the British, do you? How we feel when we see our princess naked in a newspaper.,

  I always give him the pleasure of giving in to his logic. I guess not.'

  'I don't blame you, being foreign and all,' he said and lit a cigarette.

  John looked at me in my long wide shorts, my old T-shirt and rucksack full of an uneaten lunch as if I had just landed from Mars. I sat down as ordered. He looked professional and acted as if I'd never vomited on the legs of his trousers and shoes, as if he'd never stroked my hair before I went to sleep, as if he'd never brought me a bright pink pill. He talked to me as if I were an ant crawling on his academic floor. The problem with my Newsnight English was that I could not pronounce most of the words. I tried to twist my tongue around `supremacy', but couldn't, so I sat there as if dumb and deaf listening to John telling me how `ignorant, simplistic and subjective' the writing was, as if the essay had written itself. I swallowed hard in order to stop myself spitting out some of my newly acquired English vocabulary. If I were not ignorant I wouldn't be in his office listening to him tear my first essay apart; however, I didn't know much about academia or the hostage crisis. He went on and on. Looking at his slipping half-moon glasses, his balding head, his blue blood-shot eyes, his peppered goatee, his bent back, his white spindly arms covered with fine dark hair, his white T-shirt, I said, `I have to go now'

  I snatched the essay he was waving at me and walked out.

  `Do you still want a degree?' he shouted at my back before I slammed the door.

  In the shower of abuse I just had, I noticed that he kept mentioning project Pallas. I went to one of the porters who pretended that he was sorting the mail when he saw me heading towards him. `Hi!' I said.

  `Hello, madam,' he said from behind the sliding glass window

  `Pardon me, sir,' I said, `what is project Pallas?'

  `This way, miss,' he said and led me down a dark corridor then opened a big door leading to a large welllit room full of flickering computer screens.
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  `Is that it?' I asked.

  `That's it, madam.'

  `That's it?'

  `Yes, madam.You learn how to use a computer.'

  We were not very busy that afternoon. Max was chatting up female customers and I was trying a spaghetti stitch on the `new ultra-high-speed cylinder interlock sewing machine'. Suddenly he called me using my Arab name in its full length, his tongue stumbling over it, `Saimaa!'

  I almost fell off my chair. He kept me in the background and never called me to the front of the shop while he had customers around. `Yes, Max,' I said.

  He ran his hand over his gelled hair to make sure it was stuck around his head, cleared his voice and said, as if he was delivering a speech in the Houses of Parliament, `To reward you for years of good service I have decided to give you the ten per cent rise you asked for.'

  I couldn't believe my ears, but I was at the same time resentful that he made the announcement in front of Mrs Smith of the Royal Mail of all people. The whole town would hear the news by tomorrow morning: `He is ever so kind, Max is, giving a rise to his black apprentice.'

  I knew what Max expected of me so I said, `Max, you've been always kind to me. Thank you very, very much.'

  Mrs Smith was folding her frilled green umbrella and unfolding it, totally enjoying the spectacle. Max had been trying to have her as his `bit on the side' for months now

  I filled my eyes with thank your and looked up at Max's face. By now he knew that I was a sentimental fool, and that I took things to heart. The only sign of receiving my gratitude was the rub of the nose which I have come to know very well.

  I inhaled more starch-leaden steam, held the wooden handle of the heavy iron and ran it like brisk wind over the blue jacket on the table.

  Max's motto was `cash in, cash out' so at the end of every month he handed me a bundle of creased banknotes. He left me my salary on his new sewing machine so I took the envelope that had my name on it and saw the British National Party leaflet on the floor next to his chair. I swallowed hard and pretended not to have seen it. I thanked Max and rushed out of the shop to breathe. Don't be stupid, I said to myself, ink on paper cannot harm you. It was not Max's fault. Maybe Max's brother-in-law had given it to him. He believed that all foreigners must be loaded in ships and dumped `like the bananas they are' on the shores of Africa.