by Dar, Azma;
A few of the men lingered on the second floor balcony, watching the scene below, but most were in the sitting room, smoking, sleeping, or talking, about the murder, Toyota Picnics, Nawaz Sharif. Munir was being particularly forthcoming on the subject of Brad and Angelina’s wedding.
Farzana put on her most miserable scowl to fool the guests into thinking she was sad about her brother in law, and went into Pervez’s room with a pile of washed towels. Even if she looked vaguely busy, none of the men would think to question her. They knew nothing about housekeeping.
The room was as she’d left it in the morning. She came in every day to make the bed after Pervez left for work. He didn’t like her touching anything else, and neither did she want to. There was a mound of dirty clothes on the floor in the corner, and on a coffee table stood his hi-fi system, several CDs, and a collection of aftershave bottles and hair treatments – gel, Brylcreem, and mustard oil. Closing the door, she put the towels on the bed and pushed her hand under the mattress, feeling for the little leather square.
It wasn’t there. She went round the bed and tried from the other side, but again, nothing. Farzana sat down and forced herself to think, without imagining terrors, but still they came. Surely his spirit could not have returned so quickly for revenge, before the funeral even?
There was nothing to do but lift the whole mattress and search thoroughly. She went out to the balcony and checked what was happening in the courtyard. Rabia wasn’t there– they must have taken her to sleep for a while.
She picked up a twig brush from outside the bathroom and went back to the bedroom. Inside, Farzana moved the mattress across with difficulty and stood it up against the wardrobe. It was an awkward manouevre. It was king-sized and made of heavy foam, squashy to push and bendy when finally flipped up, and she had to bound quickly across the bed to stop it from crashing into the mirror.
There was nothing on the green bedsheet that covered the divan but a dead lizard. She got on to her hands and knees and tried looking in the small gap between it and the floor, and covered her palms with dust. There was no way she could move the whole thing quietly. Finally she sat back and tried to think of a rational explanation, when the door opened and the taveez landed in her lap.
‘Are you looking for this, witch?
After she had first denied ever seeing the thing, then warned him there were too many people about for them to have an argument, and finally convinced him she would explain if he helped her put the mattress back, they sat on the bed together, and she held his hand.
‘Please Abbaji, it’s not what you think. You must believe me,’ said Farzana.
‘You asked for a prosperity spell, did you, or one to open his good fortune?’ said Munir.
‘Yes, marriage, that’s right. How many girls did we show him, and he never liked any of them! I wanted him to be happy. And now, oh God, it’s never to be!’
‘Don’t lie to me! I gave you a chance, and you took me for a fool! Just because I sleep you think I can’t hear what goes on? I’ve seen how you hate him, and you think I’ll believe this is a marriage charm? I’m taking it to the inspector. It’s evidence.’
‘No! Please! If Ammaji finds out she’ll get upset. I’ll tell you.’ Farzana stood in front of the door. She was double Munir’s size in every direction, but he was looking at her with steely new eyes.
‘Wise girl.’
‘It was just a mild thing. You know how treated me. I just wanted him to have a little discomfort in his life. I never asked for this. Baba will tell you.’
She waited, tensed to block his exit, but he sat down on his son’s bed.
‘I know how he was, I understand how you were tempted,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t the best son but I’ll miss him.’ He started making breathy panting noises, and she went to put her arms around him.
‘Bas, bas! We must pray, it’s the best thing.’ She patted his back. ‘Quiet, quiet, you must be strong for us all.’ He nestled his face in her cushiony shoulder. ‘And you must promise not to mention this to Ammaji. She will get upset. Promise me you won’t say anything.’
The funeral was over by ten o’clock the next morning, Pervez safely interred in the ground in the cemetery behind the tyre shop. The women stayed at home, and after reading a prayer the men returned for lunch, and to continue the three days of mourning, consisting of alternating bouts of Quranic recitation, reminiscing and jokes. Having spent the previous night sitting up in a state of half sleep in Rabia’s house, by the time Anwar and Saika reached home that evening they were exhausted.
Saika had wanted to ask Anwar in the car the reason for his desolate mood the day before, but he seemed normal, chatting about the turnout at the cemetery and how the finished grave had seemed slightly lopsided. Now, he was asleep, apparently untroubled. Outlandish thoughts began to creep through her. Anwar seemed to have gone from a state of worry and depression to one of bliss and comfort in the time it took to complete the burial.
A dangerous man, Dolly had said.
She couldn’t sleep. Senseless words best forgotten. She strayed to her side of the bed by the window, making a large space between them, then sat up, a heaviness on her chest, a faintly sour taste in her mouth, and switched on the lamp. She got out of bed and sat down at the table. She looked through her new paintings, still lifes done in an abstract style in soft, muted tones. They were all right, she thought, neither terrible nor something she was especially proud of. Maybe some pastel smudged here and there would enhance them. She looked under the table for the art box, but it was behind a pair of bags that she had brought out from the store room. Looking through the collection of photos and other old documents would be a less tiresome distraction than making a mess with coloured dust at this time of the night, and she took out the sack of relics instead.
The photographs were plentiful, and spanned several decades. Some of the oldest were mere fragments: a headless woman in a sari, standing beside an automobile, a disembodied hand holding a piece of cake. They had probably been accidently creased and the missing pieces had either fallen off with age and neglect or been ripped by a disobedient child. Most of the pictures had been taken at parties, and Saika recognised the exterior of the mansion and some of the rooms downstairs. A few of the faces had been scrawled over and deformed with biro in a juvenile yet disquieting way, giving them eyes that popped out, rabbit teeth, huge moles and wide nostrils. The unfortunate subjects of this treatment, she noticed, were either fat, old or, although it was difficult to tell beneath the scribblings, not especially attractive or good looking. Amongst the patchwork of grey and sepia that now covered the table were pictures of a boy she guessed must be Anwar. His frown gave him away. Some were of a serious-looking baby, others of a four or five year old, and then at various ages until he was an ageing teenager.
At the bottom of the bag was an album, covered in dark pink satiny material, worn and furry with tiny bobbles, with many of the threads pulled. The first page showed a couple, dressed as if it was their wedding day, but standing in a stagey photographic studio with a backdrop of a waterfall. The woman was obviously the Begum, not a bashful bride but standing with her head lifted, beautiful but in an almost sinister way. She reminded Saika of Marlene Dietrich or the Indian actress Nadirah, in her early films, before she became overweight and started playing villainous stepmothers and money-hungry brothel owners. The Begum stood with her hand resting imperiously on her seated husband’s shoulder. He, too, was no teddy bear. She could see no resemblance to Anwar in the heavy jowled face and small interrogational eyes. He didn’t appear much in the pages that followed, except in the corners of photos, sometimes half chopped off, and in one beach scene, where he stood posing on the sand with the Begum, a metre apart, she in a pale summery shalwar kameez and broad-brimmed hat, he in a pinstriped suit with tie, with the trousers rolled up a few inches, the ocean stealing up behind them.
The second album was entirely the Begum’s. Here she was professionally photographed again, looking u
p at the camera with an attempt at coy innocence in her eyes. At the beach, alone this time, laughing, hair billowing across her face. In colour, wearing a red sari, and dancing with an unknown man, her husband out of focus in the background, his balding head catching the light. There were two photos of her with Anwar. In the first she held him over her shoulder, his face not visible. In the second he was a toddler, sitting on a tricycle and stuffing a segment of orange into his mouth, as the Begum looked on, the picture of doting maternal adoration.
Saika put the loose photos back into the bag and left the album on the table. She went back to bed, thinking it might be a nice idea to take them up for the Begum to look at, surprise her with old memories that she probably thought were lost.
When she awoke, Anwar had gone, and it was strange. She was always up before him, and laid out his clothes and prepared breakfast while he was in the shower, but today he’d left without even saying goodbye. He probably hadn’t wanted to disturb her. She felt a little disappointed, but also relieved that the impending confrontation had been delayed a little longer.
Gago knocked at the door.
‘Tea, Memsahib?’ She came in. ‘Sleeping in today? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. I didn’t realise it was so late.’
Gago picked up a round rusk. ‘Butter or jelly?’
‘No, just tea, please. And don’t put too much milk in it.’
Gago looked at her, bit her lip, and then smiled conspiratorially.
‘Maybe a bit of lemon with it? That’s what you feel like, naa, in this condition?’
‘What do you mean?’ Saika spoke abruptly, and then immediately regretted it.
‘Sorry. I didn’t want to be clever…’
‘Say what you mean, Gago, please,’ said Saika in a gentler tone.
‘Are we going to be hearing a little voice saying ‘papa papa’?’
Saika sighed wearily and nodded.
‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ she said. ‘Anwar doesn’t know yet.’ Gago sprang up and held Saika’s hands.
‘I hope you don’t mind – it’s just… well, mubarak ho!’ Unable to hold back any longer, she put her arms around Saika. Saika was touched, and any irritation that she’d had at being found out quickly dissipated.
‘Can I tell Madam at least?’ said Gago.
‘Let me speak to Anwar first.’
Gago nodded and poured out the tea, then sat on the floor again.
‘It will be a real happiness after all the bad luck,’ she said.
‘You mean the murder?’ asked Saika, sipping the tea.
‘I was thinking of the old days. The baby news was the only nice thing in the middle of all the bad things. But inshaAllah this time it will be happy ending.’
‘Baby news?’ said Saika.
‘Memsahib. She was expecting when she turned off. It was part of the tragedy.’
Saika sat silent, her heart beating.
‘Saabji never spoke of it,’ continued Gago. ‘He never spoke about her anyway. Madam was very upset, losing her first grandchild like but she thought it best we just kept quiet, no need to distress him further, and no one else was ever told.’
‘Are you sure she was pregnant?’ asked Saika.
‘I overheard her telling Madam. They were in the garden and I overheard. I was on the balcony hanging up the stockings.’
Saika took a deep breath. ‘So which other bad things happened?’
‘Where should I start? At the beginning of the year my uncle died in Peshawar. That was a sad time for me. My mother’s side. Then Saabji had his accident, slipped over on some ice and lost a tooth. After that the tree in the garden fell over in the storm and broke the kitchen window. On top of that the doggy was found dead. And finally… well you know about Memsahib.’
‘What happened to the dog?’
‘She had a doggy, a poodle called Pamela. Memsahib named her after the lady in Dallas. Anyway, Saabji bought the doggy for her a few months after they were married. Probably he thought Memsahib might like to dress the dog up instead of him – he even got her a little coat and legwarmers. Made to measure.’
‘So she was happy?’
‘Pamela loved the coat but she always got upset about the pyjamas.’
‘I mean Zareena.’
‘Oh, sorry. No, I don’t think so. She didn’t mind playing with Pamela now and then, but she didn’t like doing the walks or the feeding. It was Saabji that Pamela liked best. She yapped with such happiness when he came home, and only when he took her bowl out himself did she eat her dinner. It was like true love.’
Gago was gazing wistfully out of the window as she spoke.
‘And then one day they found her dead in her kennel. She didn’t get up to see Saabji off to work. He thought she must have a late night so he went without saying goodbye. A little while later Nathoo went to check and the bichari poochie was just lying there, all stiff and cold.’
‘What happened to her?’ asked Saika.
‘Who knows? Heart attack? I personally thought she died of grief. Saabji was spending a lot of time at work in those days.’
‘Was Zareena upset?’
‘She made a lot of noise, yes, screaming and shouting and saying it was all Madam’s fault. I think she just stopped herself from calling Madam the killer.’
‘What did Madam have against the dog?’
‘‘She doesn’t like me to be happy in any way!’ That’s what she said about Madam. She tried hinting to Saabji too, I think, but he ignored her. Oh, Memsahib, he was heartbroken. He buried her with his own hands at the bottom of the garden. Memsahib didn’t even stay for the funeral. She went out for dinner with some friends.
‘After that, things got really bad between Madam and Memsahib. They hardly spoke, until that day in the garden when I heard her saying –‘I thought you might like to know – I’m going to be a mother. Soon after, she had the fatal fall.’
Saika felt the tea rising back up into her mouth, and asked Gago to leave as she really needed to go to the bathroom.
When everything was in place, a holiday abroad might not be out of the question. The Begum had always had a special place in her heart for Austria. Some said it was like Murree, hilly with lots of snow but there were no cuckoo clocks or decent chocolate in Murree. She wondered what facilities there would be available for disabled visitors. Obviously she wouldn’t be able to go skiing in a wheelchair but they were always inventing new gadgets. And of course, well, she did have plans for that side of things too.
Gleefully, she leaned across to the table and picked up one of the magazines Gago had left for her. Spanish Vogue, February 2006. The Begum collected magazines and had almost a hundred-and-fifty. Like the Coco Pops, she asked her visitors from abroad to bring them for her. Despite most of her foreign relatives coming from England, the collection of Elles and Marie Claires consisted of publications in every other language. She knew very well they forgot her request until they saw the magazines in the Duty Free shop in some along-the-way airport, and then the old crone sprang to mind. She wouldn’t know it was Spanish, Japanese or Puerto Rican as long as it had pretty pictures. Of course she knew! Idiots.
She flicked through the pages quickly. It was not a good one. It was full of perfume adverts and the main fashion stories featured a charcoal-eyed Gothic princess sleeping on a gondola and an exotic gipsy girl working on a farm. One look was too sooty for the Begum’s taste, the other too bright and earthy. She threw the magazine back on to the table and picked up an Urdu newspaper, turning to an article about the increasing trend towards the nuclear family. Hmm. Sounded so obviously like a bomb. It certainly destroyed the lives of the parents that were thrown out, old and helpless. But it was their own fault. How did they expect their adult children to have values when they had not found the time to instill them when their offspring were younger? Worse still, they were too sick with love even then to be angered by the way they were treated, accepting that it was the way things were these days
. Look at herself and Anwar. Fifty years she had cared for him, thirty-seven of them on her own. He was a good boy, devoted to her in his own quiet way, because he loved her, yes, but also because he had a sense of duty. She was certain he would never move away from her, as he hadn’t in those dark hours. No, he would stay with her forever, unless he learned about it now, when someone else was to be involved. Innocent, and not even here yet.
CHAPTER 7
The girl had been causing trouble for a month now. First it was the socks. Five pairs of them had disappeared from Anwar’s drawer, and one returned with a hole deliberately cut out of it. Then there was the china ornament, a white flying horse, with a red-and-gold saddle made of silk, not particularly valuable but a personal favourite of the Begum’s. It had been found smashed in the garden, only identifiable by the little piece of colourful fabric peeking out from beneath the mass of shards. Finally, and most unforgivably, when the Begum went to use her new anti-wrinkle ointment from Paris she found the pot empty. She recalled seeing a creamy fingerprint on the tea tray when the girl had brought it in earlier.
The girl was questioned, and she denied all charges. When confronted with the evidence concerning the third crime, she said she may have used the lotion once or twice on a wart, but she couldn’t clearly remember. The same went for the socks. She might have borrowed a pair on a particularly cold morning to hang up the washing, but again her memory was hazy.
She was cross examined once more, mainly by the Begum, with Gago chipping in occasionally. This time she flared up, told them they would regret it if they didn’t leave her alone and ended by swearing at her mistress. It was all the Begum needed to decide on a course of action. The girl bore all the hallmarks of a jinn possession – unexplained behaviour, amnesia, extremely loud and unpleasant speech. She would have to be cured. If she threw the girl out the jinn would be enraged at being made homeless, then there was no telling what would happen. Safer to remove the spirit through the proper channels.
