Madeline held the bookmark up again.
‘Ah, I see. Clever woman. What does she write about?’
‘She finds women who have been forgotten from history and writes them back in. All the places they’ve been left out. She’s been teaching classes, too. Women’s biography.’
Madeline nodded at this, her eyes on something out the window.
‘Sounds like the kind of class I need.’
They sat in silence as the university passed before them, the medical building, the music conservatorium, vet and agricultural sciences. And behind them the rooms where they’d both dozed off during tutorials or torts or statutory interpretation. The tram stopped to let in a few more passengers.
‘Did I make the right decision?’ Madeline asked, her voice a whisper.
Nell didn’t know how to respond.
‘I read the newspapers,’ Madeline continued. ‘I know all these changes are meant to be happening to the legal system. Maybe I should have held off longer. But the problem is, he reads the paper too.’
She sighed.
‘You know, for a long time, years now, I dreamt about how it would feel to leave. Yearned for it so desperately. But it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I live with my mother, I have no money and now I have this intervention order to my name.’
She kept looking at the university out the window, her head tilted away from Nell. From this angle Nell could make out the faint white zigzag of a scar along the underside of Madeline’s chin. She’d never noticed it before, though she’d stared at her face countless times.
‘Do you think I could go back there?’ she said, indicating the buildings with her head. ‘Seize myself by the shoulders and shake until I see some sense?’
Madeline raised her hands to her face and let out a small moan.
‘There’s so much still to come. Property, parenting orders, the rest of the boys’ lives . . . The rest of my life. And he won’t make any of it easy.’
She made a sound, a frustrated yelp, then ran her hands back through her hair.
‘But at least I’m free. Or whatever version of freedom this is meant to be.’
She pulled the cord to indicate she was getting off then rose from the seat. She turned to Nell, her mouth forming a sentence as Nell interrupted.
‘Please don’t thank me.’
Madeline let out a gruff laugh.
‘I wasn’t going to. I was going to ask if I could keep this?’
She waggled the bookmark between her fingers. The tram groaned to a halt and then Madeline was gone. Nell stared at the empty seat, the vacant space where Madeline no longer sat, and understood now what her mother had been searching for all these years. What Rani had been trying to say. All those stories no one told. All those Madelines who were forgotten, again and again, but whose stories were longing for telling because they were complex and uncomfortable and this was why they mattered. She looked at a bookmark in her hand. Where were all the women?
When Nell arrived home the house was bathed in darkness. She flicked the light switches but nothing worked, so she groped her way down the hallway. Seymour’s door was closed and she paused before it, pressing her ear to the wood, but inside was quiet. In her room, she shed her clothes then sat on the edge of her bed, staring out at the shadows. She looked, blindly, at where her hands should be, then held them to her face, pressing her fingers into the ridges and furrows, running them along the lines of her jaw. Would she recognise this face if it were placed before her, with only the memory of touch to assist her? She explored her face a moment, before realising the strangeness of this action, then let her hands drop to her lap. She expected herself to think of things – to feel things. Guilt, for instance, or perhaps sadness. But surprisingly she felt nothing, which was easier than she thought it would be, so she remained like that for some time until eventually she curled into sleep and dreamt of going back and starting things again.
29
Aida
Once more it had been the silence that had startled Aida as she pulled herself from dreams of her father stumbling blindly through the darkness. That same foreboding silence, a darkened mirror of all those weeks earlier. Perhaps, she had thought, it was another bad day. She’d padded down the hallway and knocked gently upon Elham’s door. The first thing she noticed was Niki’s little mattress, the sheets rumpled and discarded from where they’d recently been slept in. Niki was now at Elham’s empty bed, coiled around the bottom like a forgotten kitten. She looked up sleepily as Aida entered the room, her dark eyes sticky with tears.
‘Maman?’
It was a plea more than a question. Aida knelt beside her, holding out her arms.
‘Why don’t we check the house?’
Niki crawled into her arms, surprising Aida. She clung to the little girl, terrified. She was back on the island, watching in mute horror as the officers cut the young man down from his fan cord noose. As another still body was rushed away for its stomach to be pumped or skin sewn back together. Please don’t let us find her, she prayed. Not like that. They wandered through the house, neither saying a word, before finishing in the empty living room.
‘Why don’t you wait here for a moment, watch some television?’ Aida started, but Niki refused to let go.
So the two of them made their way back to Elham’s room where Aida scanned her belongings. It was a room of little character: their bedding, Niki’s toys and a half-filled wardrobe dominating the space. The few clothes Elham owned were still there; only her coat and handbag were missing. As they left the room Aida noticed Niki’s lonely mud-speckled boots by the front door. Elham was gone.
They stood frozen in the hall, Aida’s mind racing. Aida tried Elham’s number, but each time the phone went straight to the message service, her mobile powered off. She was gone. Elham was gone. Aida racked her brain. She should tell someone. But who would she tell? It was Friday and Sarah wouldn’t be back in the office until Monday. And maybe Elham wasn’t gone, after all. Maybe she had left the house to run some urgent errand. She could be back at any moment. You couldn’t report someone missing until twenty-four hours had passed, that was the thing, wasn’t it? That was what they said in movies and movies were usually right, weren’t they? Well, not all movies. Or most movies. But that bit was probably right. And she might not be missing, she might just be out at the store. Surely there were stores open at this time of the morning? There would be an explanation for all this, something other than the only one she could think of right now, which was that Elham was gone and that they – Aida and Niki – were still here. Niki. She looked at the little girl tangled in her arms. That is what she would do today: focus on Niki until Elham returned. And if she didn’t – no, focus on Niki.
‘Maman has gone to an appointment,’ Aida began, pounding her forehead with an exaggerated slap. ‘Khaleh Aida completely forgot about it! Silly me. Maman had to go but she’ll be back later, okay? Today we get to spend the day together! Isn’t that wonderful?’
She ended on a patently false high note, convincing neither of them. What would her mother do right now? She rattled through the drawers of her memory. The slow, solid thwack of slipper on palm rose up in her mind. She shoved this aside. Something else . . . Food! She would feed them! There was nothing in Iran that couldn’t be fixed with a good hefty meal . . .
‘So we start with breakfast,’ she announced, and they set off for the kitchen.
She leant forward, attempting to lower Niki from her arms. The little girl clung to her like a terrified koala, her fingernails digging into Aida’s flesh.
‘Ahh, Niki! I can’t make breakfast with you in my arms. Hop down, I promise I’m not going anywhere.’
Niki allowed herself to be released onto the floor, grasping the hem of Aida’s pyjama top and following close behind her as she prepared their breakfast. She made a proper Irani breakfast – eggs, cheese, jam, b
utter and bread – all to distract Niki, who peered anxiously towards the doorway every couple of minutes. As Niki ate, Aida checked her mobile. Nothing. She rang Elham’s phone. No answer. She put it to one side. Once they’d finished eating, Aida looked at Niki for inspiration. They needed to leave this house, for one thing. Every corner and shadow shrieked of Elham, her scent embedded in the furniture and her absence thundering about the walls. She couldn’t deal with this upsetting Niki; not with the gnashing of teeth or the intensifying wails.
It was a long walk to the playground, Niki refusing to relinquish her stranglehold on Aida’s clothing. They shuffled along the pavement, crab-like and stumbling, as Aida chatted away like a deranged suburban David Attenborough.
‘Oh, Niki, look at the butterfly over there. See how it is eating the flower? Or maybe it’s drinking? Oh, wait, I remember, it’s pollinating it, which is kind of like, never mind, let’s look at something else. Look at the puppies over there! They’re – oh, let’s look somewhere else. Wow, it’s definitely springtime out here . . .’
By the time they arrived at the playground Aida had provided rudimentary explanations of how worms could see, why some cats have no tail and a range of other flora and fauna–centric titbits, most of which she had largely made up and none of which Niki exhibited the slightest interest in. The sun had pushed through the clouds and shone down on the playground as if it were a holy temple at the end of an arduous mountain trek.
‘Here we are!’ Aida beamed, trying unsuccessfully to pry her shirt from Niki’s fist.
It was a neat suburban playground, the play equipment fenced off behind brightly coloured bars and a safety gate. Aida held the gate open for Niki, who hesitated. Her eyes surveyed the high bars and she shook her head firmly. Aida followed her gaze.
‘You’ll be able to come back out, I promise.’
Niki shook her head again.
‘What if I come with you?’
At this, Niki hesitated. She looked around, her eyes flitting from the tall fence to the swings and back to Aida. Uncertainty and conflict battled across her face. Aida bent down, lifting her onto her hip, then entered the playground. Niki flinched as the gate clanged shut behind them. And side by side, the two of them conquered the slide and became masters of the swings. After a time, Aida grew tired. Her neck ached from stooping to fit the play equipment and her arms were tired from Niki’s weight. Before her, Niki hurtled down the slide, chortling with glee. She landed on her bottom at the base of the slide and looked up to Aida for validation.
‘Afarin, Niki-joon! Well done!’
Aida stretched her neck, feeling the taut familiar pull.
‘Let’s do something else for a bit.’
Niki seemed reluctant but scurried after Aida as she made for the gate. They wandered through the playground until they found a bench warm from the sun. Aida sat down, pulling Niki up beside her. She checked her phone for messages then tried Elham’s number. It went to her message service, again. Niki watched her expectantly.
‘Maman back home now?’ Niki asked, her deep brown eyes peering into Aida’s.
In those eyes Aida saw faces from the past – her father, Shirin, Lida, and all the pain attached to this endless ocean of loss. Her mother’s voice on the end of that faraway phone line. The familiarity of its sadness.
He asks for you. Begs for you to come see him one last time. I tell him you can’t, that he must understand this . . .
She blinked, blurring her vision, then looked away. She cleared her throat.
‘Not yet. But I think it’s time I told you another Persian story. You remember how I told you about Rostam before?’
Niki nodded.
‘Well, today I’m going to tell you about his father, Zal. Zal’s father Sam was a champion of Iran. He was lord of many parts and very noble. When Zal was born his face was paradise but his hair was pure white.’
Niki frowned at this.
‘Why?’
Aida thought. She didn’t know.
‘Not everything has an answer, Niki-joon. Now listen. Sam thought this was a bad omen, a sign of horrible things to come, so he took his baby son and left him near the place of the Simurgh. A Simurgh, Niki, is a giant bird, like a phoenix. Now, the Simurgh took pity on poor baby Zal and took him to her nest on Damavand, the tallest mountain in the Alborz. She raised him like he was her own child, until he was tall and strong like a cypress tree.’
She paused.
‘Are you listening, Niki? This story is more than a thousand years old.’
Niki reluctantly withdrew her finger from her right nostril.
‘Now back at Sam’s palace he had a dream about his long-lost son and woke up feeling guilt and shame for abandoning him. So Sam rode off into the mountains to find Zal. Simurgh saw Sam coming and told Zal that he would soon be returned to his father. Zal, who was now a young man, didn’t want to leave the Simurgh and the place that had been his home for all these years. So the Simurgh gave him two great copper feathers from her wing so that he would always live under her protection. If at any time he needed something, he should just throw a feather into the fire and the Simurgh promised she would come and help him. So Zal returned to his father and is finally treated like the prince he is. When Sam goes off to fight great wars for Iran he leaves Zal in charge, and Zal becomes a great ruler.’
Niki was watching her, fascinated.
‘Two feathers?’ she repeated.
‘Yes,’ Aida confirmed.
She searched the grass around them. There were leaves and detritus, and what was possibly a condom wrapper.
‘Ah, here!’ Aida plucked two feathers from the ground, dusting them off on her jeans. They were a greyish black, possibly from a pigeon, but they’d do. She handed them to Niki.
‘Now many, many years later, Zal’s wife Rudabeh was having trouble giving birth to their baby. Zal burnt a feather and the Simurgh appeared before him in the flames. She told him to run the remaining feather over Rudabeh’s belly and the birth would be fine. Zal did as he was told and his baby was born safely. That baby was Rostam, and you know all about what kind of hero he becomes.’
Niki was staring at the feathers in her hand, transfixed. She twirled them in her pudgy fingers, then ran them along her cheek. Aida hoped they weren’t full of lice.
‘Well, that’s two Persian stories you know now, Niki,’ Aida said.
Niki nodded promptly.
‘Who told you?’ she asked, stroking the feathers along the back of her little hand.
Aida’s breath caught. ‘My baba, Niki-joon. He told me and now I’m telling you.’
Her face flushed with a sudden heat and she blinked quickly.
‘Let’s head home. It’s well past lunchtime.’
And they headed off out of the park, hand in hand, the two feathers trailing in Niki’s free hand. They took the scenic route, passing by the small shopping strip on the main street. The café tables were full as people took advantage of the springtime thaw. They stopped to buy sandwiches from a small family kiosk, eating them on a bench in the sun. Nearby, pigeons were squabbling over chips. Two small girls charged at the throng, shrieking with excited disgust. One of the girls lashed out with a foot, bursting into stunned tears when it unexpectedly connected with a tardy bird. Niki tut-tutted, her precious feathers clasped firmly in her fist. Aida stretched back, turning her face to the sun. In the distance she heard the clanging of bells from the Orthodox church and wondered if this meant someone had married or died. Small groups of elderly men sat cloistered around tables, calling to each other in Kurdish and Arabic and what might have been Italian. What had once been so foreign now felt so familiar.
Niki tugged at her sleeve, bringing her back to the present. Aida took the crusts from her hands, breaking them into pieces, and tossed some to the pigeons, Niki joining in. When the feeding frenzy died down they set off fo
r home.
The house was empty when they arrived, but Aida wasn’t surprised. They spent the afternoon sprawled before the television, napping in turns and wandering through the channels. Occasionally Niki whined for Elham and Aida sought creative new ways to postpone her arrival. Night-time crept across the house, and soon Aida rose from the couch.
‘I’m going to the kitchen to make dinner,’ she told Niki, who nodded, the two feathers still clutched tightly in her hands.
Aida had just opened the fridge when the house was plunged into darkness. In the sudden silence, Niki whimpered from the living room. Using her mobile for light, Aida found her, then the two of them examined the house. Nothing worked. For a moment Aida’s world spun – perhaps she had forgotten to pay the power bill? She could have sworn she had. What if there was a reconnection free? She could never afford that, not on her own. She opened the front door, peering out. The whole street sat in darkness.
‘It’s a blackout,’ she told Niki. ‘Nothing to worry about. See – all the houses are like us.’
Back inside she searched the house for candles, knowing there were none. Bundling Niki into a jumper, they made their way down the dark street, Aida hoping the little store was open. They arrived to find it lit up like a well-stocked séance. Candles had been placed all about the shelves, capturing the various products in an ethereal glow. Tinned soup cast shadows onto the egg cartons and bread loaves shone as the light caught the edge of their plastic wrappings. It was magical and comical, and for a moment Aida thought back to the stories her mother had told of the war years just before her birth. Of the barren shelves and queues for sugar, flour and rice. The young man sat behind the counter, unloading candles from a box. He grinned when he saw her and motioned at the carton.
‘Let me guess . . .’ he said, pretending to be deep in thought. ‘You’re lucky we found another box,’ he said as Aida counted out candles. ‘It was like an Apple store earlier – lines around the corner. Apparently the whole north has been affected. Some issue at the substation.’
The Book of Ordinary People Page 32
