The bicycle was too heavy to ride, so I pushed, feeling every bump along the ancient river bed that constituted a track and each treacherous turn of the wheel increasing the distance from Lizzie. Ai-Lien seemed content enough on her back looking up at the sky as the light grew pinker and then more yellow. I pushed the bike through the arboreal area where young willows had been grafted on to poplars and it seemed as though my senses were heightened. I have walked this way many times now, but sounds came upon my ears as if in a rush. For the first time I noticed clumps of wild, scraggly lavender and bushes of sage growing at the edges of the track.
I hoped to arrive at the Old Town Citadel before the morning sun was up and blazing in its full fury. The rhythm of the journey took possession of my bones and, to my surprise, rather than Lizzie, I was thinking of Millicent. I should hate her, by rights; one could say she killed my sister, but the powerful sun dissipated hatred. All I could feel was the thud of my feet stepping forward and the turning of the bicycle wheels.
At Kashgar city gates the guards were the worst sort, young and foolish. They looked insolently at me as they checked my papers, even though I could tell they could not read. They looked at Ai-Lien. They smoked several cigarettes, stared again at Ai-Lien, at me and at the bicycle and whispered and smoked more cigarettes. My hair was wrapped in a scarf as best as I could but they continued to leer closely towards my face. I tapped a rhythm on my wrist to keep myself calm until eventually, they let me through. Inside the city wall I asked a benevolent-looking elderly man who had been watching the whole scene if he would take me to the knife souq. It took several efforts of miming to convey my request before he understood: knives.
At first I assumed that the priest was out as his room was quiet, but I could smell something recently cooked in oil, and then I heard the cooing and bickering of his restless pigeons. I had no choice but to gather up Ai-Lien and leave my bicycle with all of my possessions in the dubious, awkward-shaped entrance to his house, an entrance that seemed to stand on nothing, the ancient wood beams of its construction looking like a child’s game of balance-the-sticks.
I held Ai-Lien against me and we made our way up to his roof. He was at the cages, bent over, feeding the pigeons and at first he did not hear me or realise that I was there, despite me calling him.
‘Father, I need your help,’ I said, walking towards him. The sun was blinding. I held my scarf over Ai-Lien and squinted at him. He turned around then and did not seem surprised to see me.
‘Come out of the sun,’ he said. A dove balanced on his arm and his thin face was very red in the brutal heat, his clerical hat filthy and tilted to one side.
‘Do you have any news on Millicent, Father?’ The priest stroked the neck of the silver-grey dove, kissed its head, then leaned down and put it into one of the cages. He came towards me then.
‘They are holding her at the Magistrates’ prison,’ he said, patting my elbow and nudged me back in the direction of the entrance. ‘It is not safe for you here, mi angeli.’
Inside, I attended to Ai-Lien, feeding her and changing her as he poured me some water. Once Ai-Lien was settled I sat back and was about to tell him about Lizzie when I noticed that on the floor underneath the window, laid out in complex patterns, were tiny scraps of paper. They were arranged in lines, layered across and around each other. As I looked closer I saw that each piece was cut into a star or hexagon shape.
‘What is that, Father?’
‘Illumination. I have taken the words from the Bible and placed them in the geographical shapes of Islamic Illumination.’
I bent down. An Italian version of the Bible had been cut into thousands and thousands of pieces, some simply words, others whole sections.
‘What do you intend to do with them?’
He looked up at me and took a packet of matches from his pocket and lit the match, then picked up one of the scraps of paper.
‘Pouff,’ he said, ‘gone.’
The flame glowed, then he blew it. I watched, mesmerised, as he set fire to scrap after scrap of paper, letting the paper-ash fall from his window, a moment of light, like a firefly. In a sense it was beautiful, the sudden flare and the paper-flakes falling, but the futility of it – him – and of Millicent’s Mission, and us here, it was unthinkable.
‘They are going to kill her, aren’t they?’
Father Don Carlo began to sing softly. Listening to the pipes dangling from the tails of pigeons, dreaming his Islamic spheres, I wondered what exactly it was that the priest was doing here in Kashgar. I repeated myself, ‘Aren’t they?’
He did not answer but continued to light his flames and I had a strong feeling that he had thoroughly prepared for our meeting. Goodness knows how long the scraps had been on the floor so that he could stage this vision. There was a good chance he had even rehearsed it all, the pause before the strike of the match, the dangle of the flame in the air, the puff-puffs. Along with his pigeons, I saw, it was a cultivation of sorts – a theatrical element – his shabby dress and the felt black hat were all part of his costume. He was less abstract, more fully articulated than I had previously assumed.
‘Father,’ I said, ‘is there anything we can do for Millicent? Do you know what will become of her? You have good contacts, you could help.’
‘I asked to see her yesterday, but I was refused.’
‘Whom did you seek permission from?’ He looked away, and I did not believe him.
‘Father, you have spent much time with Millicent, helping her with the translations, you must see that some of the . . .’ I paused.
When he had no more matches, he turned the box upside down and looked inside as if surprised that within there was not an extended supply reaching as far as heaven.
‘Responsibility lies with you,’ I finished.
He turned and looked at me. His bearded face was craggy, but his hands were steady as he took a drink of wine from his dirty cup. In the dull light of his shaded room, and the plum-flesh heat that was upon us, my various impressions of him flickered each second so that at once he was drawn in and up, next peevish and frustrated, then out again, like a pair of bellows expanded and living. Then again came withdrawal and a look of suspicion.
‘Responsibility for what?’
‘For Millicent, them taking her. What will happen?’
The sigh he emitted was a bitter one, and I could not make it out. He looked despondently at the patterned paper and the ripped-up books. His glance at me was clear, it was one of superiority; he was contemptuous of me, of my existence perhaps, or of my idiocy. This was his kingdom, I now saw, and we were less welcome than we’d presumed.
I busied myself with Ai-Lien and rocking her to sleep, wondering as I did what to do. Millicent, without her eye-glasses, was encased somewhere at the whim of the General. If I went to find her I would presumably be immediately arrested, too. They would take Ai-Lien away. Father Don Carlo clearly could not be relied on to help. Indeed, on the contrary, I had thought him Millicent’s ally, but now, I don’t know. There was Mr Steyning’s telegram insisting that I leave, and the birds, tapping at Lizzie’s bones.
The priest was pretending to read a book, turning the pages with elaborate concentration, his manner now entirely supercilious towards me. Stroking the velvet-down of Ai-Lien’s head, hearing the resonance of the cooing birds travel down through the roof timbers, I felt immediately that I must reach Mr Steyning. The only person who might help me get to him was Rami. Or, rather, she was the only other person in this hot, pink city that I knew. Perhaps there was one thing Father Don Carlo could help me with: his encyclopaedic knowledge of the bazaar.
‘Father, all I require is your assistance in helping me find the Inn of Harmonious Brotherhood and then I will be gone.’
The priest and I walked through the narrow streets, I pushing my bicycle, he holding on to his hat. He offered to take Ai-Lien but I declined, and kept her strapped close against me. Although the heat was at its apex it seemed odd that the streets we
re completely deserted. Previously children had played in doorways, and elderly gentlemen wandered the bazaar’s passageways, resilient to the afternoon heat. Now, we were alone.
Slowly, we made our way past the rocky clumps and dust and potholes deeper into the medina, the purposeful web whose full intent is to disorientate a stranger. Each small door led to a hidden courtyard, each passageway led to yet another. Without the priest I would not have found the winding alley nor the sign with the words ‘One True Religion’.
I banged for some time at the unassuming door. Ai-Lien was asleep against my body, hot, but peaceful. Finally, there were voices, rumblings, and a small, dark-eyed woman in full abaya opened the door, looked at us and gasped. She closed the door. There was much chattering and shouting inside. The door opened again and it was Rami without her veil, clearly profoundly shocked to see me. She scowled at the priest who bowed, shook my hand and stepped backwards. Then Rami took hold of my wrist and pulled Ai-Lien and myself and the bicycle through the door, quickly closing it behind us before I could even turn to say goodbye to Father Don Carlo. He was not invited in.
‘Rami –’ I started, ‘I am so sorry I did not warn you of my . . .’
Her gesture said, ‘Why?’
‘I had to come. Things have happened. I had nowhere else.’
Rami answered fast, in Turki, and I couldn’t understand what she was saying.
‘Slowly, Rami. Please.’
‘Revolt.’ She said it slowly, giving me time to understand. ‘Mohammed is with them. The city is in uprising today. Listen.’
I worked out the words, one by one, then strung them together like silver links on a necklace and listened. Faint, at first, but there it was, a chanting, a drumming and a humming and then several bangs.
‘Safe here but a Christian, you killed,’ Rami said, slowly, to help me understand. Her face, its ancient beauty-ghosts dancing on the skin, was kind.
‘Oh, Rami, I am so sorry. I have brought danger upon your family.’
‘Come, come.’
Here was Lamara, the young, beautiful one, and the other women slipping around like minnows and again, the fountain, the rose petals, the soft, sheltering shade of the courtyard garden. We were settled on cushions on top of the coloured rugs and again the small children crawled near us. Rami shooed away the other women who were staring and whispering at Ai-Lien and me.
A slave-girl brought a tray of tea, naan and fruit followed by bowls of leghmen, handmade noodles and beef. Rami pulled Ai-Lien from my arms and sang softly for her, milk was brought. They were kind, I would stay here in this women’s quarter for eternity, in the soft fabrics and shade of it, if I could. I cried, and I am crying now, writing this.
August 13th
The drumming is relentless, but despite the uprising that is apparently happening in the city, I feel safe in this inn with its clusters of women. Rami and Lamara help me bathe Ai-Lien, who rolls around, naked, on the divan floors, gurgling. Rami massages her, rubs oils all about her body so that she is relaxed and calm, her little limbs surrendering to the experience of being manipulated by so skilled a handler.
I feel such a thief as I watch my happy baby. She belongs with the brown hands and black eyes of these women and their oils, blended in a way I could never learn how. Their baby-charming tricks passed on mother-to-mother and me, being homeless and rootless, I know nothing. I am a fraud.
They continue to feed me delicious food as if fattening me for a sacrifice: sangza flour dough twists and guxnan lamb pies. We have not mentioned Khadega, or Lizzie, or Millicent. After the pies there is more tea and bread and yoghurt and mint. We get along with scraps of English and Turki and mime.
August 14th
It’s over, as it had to be.
‘Eva,’ Rami said, waking me up, ‘you and Elizabeth must leave. It is very bad for you. Mohammed home soon. I have found a guide to take you.’
‘Elizabeth is dead.’ As I said those words I had a vision of Lizzie on the kang, and I could not stop myself, I sank to the floor. Rami’s eyes were wide but she asked me no questions, she simply helped me to stand up.
‘You must leave.’
‘Will Mohammed help us?’ Rami paused and a moment of despair – an insect suspended in glass, in jelly, held still – and I understood the extent of the risk I had brought to Rami. I have been stupid.
‘He would kill me?’
Rami’s face, soft and fading into itself, a lost beauty, said a Russian word: dolg. I thought of Mohammed in his white thorb, smoking his pipe, and I hunted through my inadequate vocabulary, then miraculously found the word. Yes, it would be his duty.
‘He is not here tonight or tomorrow. They attack the Chinese General before dawn.’
‘Will he hand me to the General?’
‘No. He kill you. All foreigners killed.’ Rami pushed her hair behind her ears and disappeared.
‘Father Don Carlo? Millicent?’
‘Yes.’
I was determined to control the shaking that came in my limbs, and managed it, as far as my hands and legs were concerned, but my right eye would twitch and jump about in its socket. She handed me a small leather pouch. I guessed what was inside. Never had Southsea seemed such a vast, universal distance away from where I stood.
‘Please know that Allah is behind you and I am always your friend.’
I was grateful, but had no way of showing her. I desperately wanted to give her a gift in return, but I had nothing.
‘Grey lady and priest are bad.’
‘Rami, why are they bad? What do you mean?’
She spoke fast but I couldn’t understand what she said. Ezaam. She then made a show of offering me another meal, but I refused, knowing the risk for her, and said I must leave.
‘I have guide for you.’
Outside the inn, it was Mr Mah. His neat hair in plaits, his moustache oiled. He nodded to Rami, but said nothing to me and I looked at her. I did not want to go with him. I have no reason to trust him. A helpless feeling overcame me; it was like being a child again, sent away from the table, sent to bed, sent off, powerless. A resistance, a form of fury came over me, but it quickly died down, I knew there was no choice.
Ai-Lien was wrapped up well and nestled in the bicycle basket. I felt something crooked inside me and realised as I looked at her soft sleeping face that it was love. It was dusk as we left and the guards on the city gate blew their horns to announce the closing of the gates. Rami had conveyed to me that the Moslem army was gathering outside the mosque and an attack on the Chinese section of the town was imminent. She had given me a full abaya and with my face covered I gave the guards a coin from Rami’s money and was allowed through quickly, although they saw my bicycle and obviously knew who I was.
Mah travelled by donkey alongside me as I pushed the bicycle. I knew that the journey through the desert at night was a very different thing from a journey by day and I was both disturbed by his presence and glad of it. It was very quickly exceedingly cold. We moved fast, but the temperature continued to drop after sunset and so after several li we stopped near a small farm and Mr Mah negotiated with the farmer for a room.
‘Is it safe, Mr Mah?’ I wanted to ask him why he was helping me but it was difficult to converse with him; he speaks with a thick, impenetrable accent.
The money Rami gave me is tucked underneath my black satin trousers. The farm room where I now write has a kang covered with a length of blue cloth. For supper we ate pancakes made from flour and oil which we dipped into vinegar. Mah smoked his long-necked pipe and very quickly fell into a deep sleep leaving me to wonder if it is opium that he smokes. At supper I tried to ascertain what he expects.
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
He merely smiled, then said, ‘You pay me.’
‘Of course.’
Sleep won’t come. Instead, I replay over and over the conversation I had had with Rami before leaving:
‘Give baby?’ It was a question. ‘You have promise s
he be safe. Mohammed, not know.’
Sitting on the woven patterns and colours, I was holding Ai-Lien to my face; she was dabbing my lips with her fingers. I thought of Khadega, her hair wrapped in stones from the bottom of the river; of Mohammed’s other wife, Suheir, wailing, stupidly and hysterically, on the floor with the anguish of wanting to be a mother. I thought of Lolo, of his tenderness towards Ai-Lien, then him disappearing. Part of me thinks that he should have taken her with him. Despite having no mother or father, despite being abandoned, if that is what she was, it is undeniable that, like the frail red poppy I have seen thriving in the harshness of the rocky crevices in the desert, she belongs here. I stroked her face. Rami would certainly look after her. But what would happen to her, a foundling?
‘Rami, I –’
Ai-Lien’s fingers reached up and pushed against my chin and touched my lips again. At the door Rami put her hand at the small of my back.
‘Peace be with you. Allah smiles.’
There are bangs and rumbles in the distance, the drumming continues and I have just realised that the word that Rami had mentioned, ezaam, is Arabic for bones.
A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar Page 21
