Secret Arts

by Dar, Azma;

Farzana stood up as she saw them enter and grabbed a shawl to wrap herself in.

  ‘Ammaji’s in bed. Let me show you in. She’s been like a dead person herself since Tuesday.’

  Rabia was lying on her side in bed, one hand propping up her head, the other moving beads on a rosary. She motioned towards the settee, her lips moving soundlessly as she continued her repetition of Arabic. Munir was no longer sitting near her. He was in front of the television with his grandson, watching Ben 10. Farzana was about to leave when Rabia spoke.

  ‘You stay too, beta. Where is Arshad?’

  ‘He’s upstairs in the lounge talking to the visitors from Burban,’ said Farzana.

  ‘Get rid of them. He needs to be here.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I have his number.’ Rabia fished out her mobile from the top of her kameez and phoned Arshad, instructing him to come downstairs.

  ‘By the way, if either of you need credit, I’m running a special deal at the moment,’ Rabia told Anwar and Sharif. ‘And how is Sicko?’

  Both men looked at her blankly.

  ‘As you know we haven’t caught her yet,’ began the Inspector.

  ‘I mean Saika, Anwar. We call her Sicko with love. A pet name.’

  ‘I didn’t know. She’s very well, thank you,’ said Anwar.

  Arshad came in, carrying a watermelon.

  ‘Uncle left this for you, Ami.’

  ‘Where shall I put it? On my head?’ said Rabia, nevertheless taking it in one hand and rolling it under the bed.

  The Inspector and Anwar stood up and one at a time, Arshad engaged them each in a warm, lingering hug.

  ‘All right, that’s enough Arshad,’ said Rabia, hoisting herself upright. ‘It’s not as if it’s the first time you’ve seen them since that black day. Chal, sit down quietly.’

  ‘What’s happened, Inspector? What’s the news?’ said Arshad. ‘Please don’t spare any expenses or efforts. I am quite willing to –’

  ‘Didn’t I just tell you to shut up?’ said Rabia. ‘What effort will he make? Anyway I’ve used my own mental abilities, which are still functioning magnificently, thank God, and I know exactly who’s responsible for what’s happened.’

  ‘Yes, madam, please share your information with us,’ said Sharif.

  ‘I’m not going to make a drama of it. Arshad, take this cup of tea. You’ll need it.’ She took a breath. ‘It was her. She killed my son.’

  Farzana glanced around her, looking for another female in the room, and then began blabbering when she realised she herself was at the centre of her mother-in-law’s recriminations.

  ‘What are you saying Ammaji I never touched him he was my brother my son my children’s uncle I loved him very much I never touched him I loved him so did the children and so of course did Arshad no question about it...’

  ‘Calm down, Mrs Arshad. Mummy is just joking,’ soothed the Inspector.

  ‘Like hell I’m joking!’

  ‘Mummy – madam I mean. You know we require solid evidence before we can make an arrest,’ said the Inspector. Farzana yelped, and Arshad got to his feet.

  ‘I’m her husband!’

  Considering her size and her very recent incapacitated condition, Rabia crossed the room with amazing speed and shoved her son back onto the settee, before grabbing Farzana’s ponytail.

  ‘Ask her! Ask her! Did you get a magic charm for Pervez? Did you? Tell me or I’ll break your neck!’

  Farzana clawed at her mother in law’s face and pushed her knee into her stomach, which sent Rabia off into a slapping frenzy, before Anwar and the Inspector were finally shaken from their shocked dazes and pulled them apart.

  ‘Yes! I went to Baba!’ panted Farzana.

  ‘But did you stab him to death?’ said the Inspector, hardly daring to believe that this melee was about to result in a beautifully wrapped conclusion.

  ‘No, I didn’t!’

  ‘Told you,’ muttered Munir, but no one heard him.

  ‘She did I tell you! She hated him from that first accursed day of her marriage!’ said Rabia. ‘And if she admits to putting a spell on him, it’s just as good as a confession in my book. She even used to wave knives in his face.’ She was in Anwar’s lap now. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to restrain her.

  ‘Unfortunately the law requires logical proof, not hocus pocus fantasies,’ said Sharif. ‘We will talk to Mrs Arshad – alone – but I don’t think this is what you’re making it out to be, madam.’

  ‘Ego-maniac!’ said Rabia, in English, a phrase she had picked up over the last few days, the children having had their satellite TV on for most of the time while she lay in the corner. She thought it was a swear word. ‘I’ll get you proof.’

  CHAPTER 8

  They decided to leave Farzana in the capable hands of Arshad, who vowed to guard her with his life. He locked Farzana in the bedroom, hid the key in a CD case, and then went around the house trying to put out of sight any large object that could be used as a battering ram, but gave up when he realised there were at least five coffee tables and sixteen chairs in the house, and the only possible hiding place was up on the roof.

  Sharif promised Rabia he would return to question Farzana further when things had cooled down a little. He left before she had time to ask him about the other aspects of the case, although Rabia had already privately decided that she would make all new investigations herself (naturally focusing entirely on her daughter-in-law), the Inspector having proved himself thoroughly useless.

  The Inspector was about to invite Anwar to visit the brothel, and was preparing his wording carefully, when his mobile rang with news of a brawl outside the hospital.

  ‘A rare night of crime,’ he said with a twinge of pride as he wished Anwar goodnight and drove off.

  The road through the main part of town was, as usual, busy, and Anwar’s progress was slow and hindered by the crowds of sellers and shoppers, beggars with injuries real and fake. The air was a cacophony of roaring truck engines, musical hooters, and the creaky rumble of scooterly rickshaws, and smelt of roasted peanuts and diesel. Clouds of black smoke coughed out from the back of grunting buses edging their way forward, piled with passengers and decorated with paintings of everything from flowers and fish to beautiful girls and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. A young man in his twenties wearing a patterned shirt and pale jeans poked his head through the passenger seat window.

  ‘Sir, I have my college entrance, I need money for the fees, I am studying medicine, five hundred will make a lot of difference, when I become a doctor I can help my family, God will reward you sir, my mother will pray for you, here is the letter from my principal…’

  Anwar knew that if he gave him any money, a line of supplicants would appear at the window in a flash. In any case he didn’t believe the story.

  ‘Forgive me, brother,’ he said, and revved the engine, moving forward an inch. The boy ran along a couple of steps with the car, head still in the window, evidently prepared for this eventuality.

  ‘Don’t do this, sir, think of your own youth.’

  Anwar didn’t look at him, and the boy gave up, crossing over to a Suzuki van. Another man rapped on the windscreen of the Mercedes. He was carrying a wooden pole on his shoulder, upon which were hanging dozens of white and red gajre, circlets of wire strung with rose and jasmine flowers. Normally Anwar would have shooed him away with a shake of the head, even over the last few weeks, when after so long he had a reason to buy them, fearing he might look like a sentimental fool. Zareena had loved the bracelets with their intoxicating fragrance, often made him promise to bring them for her in the evening, and even made him wear them when they were alone, like the hedonistic, self-indulgent nawabs of old.

  Anwar felt a sudden urge to be at home on the sofa with Saika, eating a tub of orange-flavoured Polka ice cream, watching an old film and laughing at a line of atrocious dialogue. His daily drive home held the promise of warmth and pleasure at the end of it, but neve
r had he felt so strongly that there was nowhere else he could belong, that it was all solid, definite and necessary. He called to the old man and bought six of the bracelets.

  Saika sat on the bed, cutting up pieces of an old sari, planning to paste them onto a canvas depicting an elderly lady. It was a task she could perform automatically, leaving her brain to churn over the conversation with Gago. She decided there wasn’t any reason why she should have known about Zareena’s tragic pregnancy. Lots of people kept that sort of news quiet.

  How would she tell Anwar?

  Our life garden is about to bloom with a little bud.

  I feel partial to limes/pickles/both.

  I was sick this morning (these last two ideally should, she knew, be accompanied by demure downcast eyes, and suggestively saucy smile).

  You’re going to be a daddy/Mother’s going to be a granny, etc.

  She hated all of them and abandoned her plan of rehearsing it. She would wait and see.

  A good piece of news amongst all the bad.

  A dead dog, a dead mistress. A fallen tree. A broken tooth.

  She stopped cutting.

  Anwar wouldn’t be here for at least another half an hour. Nobody was going to come up to the room, and if they did, she could say she was thinking about how to repaint it. She didn’t need to mention completely clearing the place out.

  The hallway was stuffy, stale smelling. All the doors really needed to be opened more. She leaned over the bannisters and could see light coming from the direction of the kitchen. It was almost time for the Maghrib prayer, dusk, the dark yet to come, the moments when spirits were said to come out to play. She uttered a few lines of Arabic to soothe herself, and went into Zareena’s room. A box of deepening greyness at the window spilt over the interior. She couldn’t bear to look around without switching on the light, so she did, then went straight to the drawer, took the doll out, and left. It grinned all the way as she carried it back to her bedroom.

  She didn’t think for a second that the doll was capable of anything, but it served as a perverse reminder of Zareena’s intentions, for whoever and whatever purposes. She thought there was probably some method with which you were meant to destroy such creations, but letting it go out with the rubbish was good enough for her. She wrapped it in a plastic bag and put it under the table with the bags of scrap materials.

  There was a rap on the door, and Gago came in, looking a little nervous.

  ‘Saabji’s secretary telephoned. She said he tried phoning you on the mobile but there was no answer.’

  Saika picked up the phone and saw a black screen.

  ‘I forgot to charge the battery. Is everything alright?’

  ‘She said he said to tell you he’ll be late. He is going with the Inspector.’

  ‘Okay. I hope nothing else has happened.’

  Gago lingered still.

  ‘You’re not upset?’ she asked.

  ‘About what? Anwar going with the Inspector?’

  ‘About the secretary.’

  Saika laughed.

  ‘Should I be? Why, has something gone on with Anwar and the secretary?’

  ‘No, no, of course not, Memsahib!’

  Saika waited, then said, ‘I suppose this is to do with the first mistress, is it? Didn’t she like it when the secretary phoned?’

  Gago shook her head.

  ‘She got jealous…’

  Saika was on the brink of asking more but stopped herself. What was the point?

  ‘Alright, well, never mind,’ she said. ‘It’s fine. Was that all?’

  ‘Madam said if you’re not busy maybe you’d like to visit her for a while?’

  ‘You haven’t told her, have you?’

  ‘No, no Memsahib, I wouldn’t go against your orders.’

  The Begum was injecting a dose of insulin into her stomach when Saika entered. She had knocked and now offered to go out but the Begum unexpectedly pulled up her kameez further and said, ‘Smooth, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t really see.’

  ‘And almost flat. But you can’t expect perfection when you’re bedridden.’ She settled back against the cushions. ‘What’s your opinion?’

  ‘About…exercising?’

  ‘All these things… health, fitness, beauty? How far should one go?’ She smiled. ‘At what price, perfection?’

  Saika gave a half smile.

  ‘I do what I can… I’m not exactly mad about keeping fit though. Those things are important, but they’re not everything, are they?’

  ‘As I thought,’ said the Begum. ‘Anwar not home yet?’

  ‘He was going to Chachi Rabia’s house with the policeman to see if he could help out.’

  ‘I know he was your cousin, and he’s gone and I shouldn’t say it… but he wasn’t a very likeable young man was he?’

  The Begum was opinionated, but her views were usually eloquently expressed through the coldness in her eyes, her lack of delight whenever Anwar told her any sort of good news, or by not elaborating, when asked to, on her own muttered remarks. It was remarkable how the Begum managed to create such a strained atmosphere in the room by simply not speaking. Saika felt the air tighten, as though the space was pressing in on her, beating her head.

  The Begum took out a pocket watch from under the quilt.

  ‘Ten minutes till I eat. Let me warn Gago.’ She buzzed on the intercom, which was connected to the kitchen, and told Gago to start walking now – it would be ten minutes by the time she and Nathoo climbed up the spiral staircase with the hostess trolley.

  ‘So, how are you feeling, beta?’

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ said Saika.

  ‘And what have you been doing? My son never lets me talk to you properly. He seems to think you need protection.’

  ‘I brought this for you.’

  The room was shadowy, the table lamps dim. A row of candles in twisted brass sticks were lined up along a chest of drawers. With the light thrown up on them from below, the cobwebs in the corners loomed more distinctly.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Begum. ‘A box of chocolates?’

  ‘Pictures.’

  Saika passed her the album, thinking she would remember it when it came into her hands, but she showed no signs of recognition. Her fingers were long, slender, but with pleats of soft old flesh hanging off them.

  ‘From the wedding?’ said the Begum. ‘I convinced Anwar to hire a professional. Family members are quite useless. I know what a difference it makes to be shot by an expert.’ She turned the page and stared at her own image.

  ‘This,’ she whispered. ‘Why have you brought me this?’

  ‘I… thought you might enjoy looking at your old memories.’

  The Begum flicked through the pages quickly and slammed the book shut.

  ‘Enjoy looking at this? At what I used to be? You think I need reminding? Of anything?’

  Saika opened her mouth and closed it. The Begum’s gaze simmered with malevolence as she held out the spurned book. Then she rolled over, turning her face away from Saika and towards the dressing table with its huge, delicately carved mirror.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Anwar, looking at a photograph of himself as a baby. He was wearing a lacy dress and a bonnet. ‘Maybe she was upset about Abba. There are pictures of him in here too.’

  ‘She might as well have forced me out of the room.’

  ‘Were you so desperate to stay?’ he asked, putting the album aside. They were in the lounge, after dinner. He’d been about to gallantly produce his shopping when he noticed Saika’s unhappy face and she told him what had happened.

  ‘I missed you today,’ he said now.

  ‘I have something else to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t shout at her, did you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘It’s happened.’

  Now she was talking in riddles.

  ‘What, Saika?’

  ‘That. What you
were all waiting for.’ He still looked blank. ‘Why you brought me here.’ He thought for a moment.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh. You don’t mean…?’ She nodded.

  ‘Being productive,’ she said.

  ‘Well, that was… quick. I mean, it’s good, it’s great…’

  They both began to laugh and he pulled her to him.

  ‘I didn’t tell Mother. I thought you could. I hope you don’t mind,’ said Saika, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of the crushed jasmine petals as Anwar stroked her hair. They were lying in bed, the shutter creaking and knocking against the wall above. A fly was mangled on the gauze over the window.

  ‘It’s a strange thought, isn’t it? Becoming a parent?’ said Anwar. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t think about it too much yet.’

  ‘Very weird,’ said Saika. ‘I haven’t even got used to being a wife yet.’ He smiled as she thought about how to mention what was on her mind. ‘I hope this doesn’t upset you too much. Bring it all back. I didn’t know about it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Upset me? What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Bring what back?’

  ‘Zareena.’

  ‘Zareena? What’s this got to do with her?’

  Saika repeated what Gago had told her about the baby.

  ‘I didn’t know either,’ said Anwar. He blinked, then rolled and turned away, covering his face with the quilt like a scolded child.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ said Saika. ‘I thought you knew.’

  He didn’t answer. She wondered if he was crying under there, and unsure of whether to check, she shuffled away a few inches from him. She was angry with herself for spoiling what had started as a precious night, for deforming it into something despairing and ugly. How many more happy occasions would be haunted by this spectre from Anwar’s old life, the joy of his perfect memories with Zareena marring her own hopes for the future? Anwar’s breathing changed and he snorted, and she felt slightly relieved that he’d fallen asleep without dwelling too much on the shocking news she’d given him. She put on her dressing gown and wrapped another light shawl around herself, then went out to the balcony. It was pleasantly cold, the mist thick enough to blanket anything more than two feet away from her. She could see nothing of the woods or even the rest of the house or the garden below. She glanced over at her paintings, but there was a haze floating over these too. It was stupid of her to leave them outside in weather like this, but she didn’t have the energy to put them away now. Saika sat down on a chair, and tried to banish any negative thoughts as she planned what to do tomorrow… pick some mint from the garden to make a batch of Anwar’s favourite chutney, telephone her sister… Within minutes she was dozing off, dreaming of odd, disjointed things, rocking horses and swings, Pervez playing hide and seek, the smell of her mother’s roast chicken and the distinct jingle of bells.