The World Unseen

by Shamim Sarif

  Miriam turned and looked at Sam and Alisha, sitting mute as waxworks in the back seat, having been forbidden to speak for the last half an hour by their father, who peered tensely from the windscreen as they slowed to a halt before his brother’s house. The children had been arguing, and had become boisterous with the baby, stroking her head and moving her arms, causing her to wake and start crying. Now Sam’s eyes were filled with tears, but Alisha refused to acknowledge her mother’s look, staring steadfastly from her window, her little arms crossed defiantly over her chest.

  “Come on,” Omar said, and he waited outside, straightening his tie as the children struggled with the door handles. Once they had all emerged, he took the baby’s cot in one hand, put the other on his son’s shoulder, and led them all into the house.

  At first glance, everything seemed to be as it always had been—Farah was in the kitchen, out of sight, but still somehow managing to emanate waves of discontent at having to cook even greater quantities than normal. Her children were running around upstairs, providing a background of shrieks and laughter. Only the sight of Jehan sitting in the living room was unusual. She was dozing in a chair, having been put into her best dress. Her hair had been washed too, Miriam noted, although no one had bothered to dry it. Omar’s brother walked over to the door to greet them, his frame tall and lumbering, his face smiling and harassed at the same time. He shook his brother’s hand nervously, pinched the new baby’s cheeks, and greeted Miriam with a gentleness that she appreciated, knowing that it did not come readily to his heavy body. He tousled Sam’s hair and in a smooth, swooping movement bent and picked up Alisha and tossed her up into the air like a bag of sugar. The child laughed hysterically and Miriam smiled as she watched, but her heart had skipped a beat, and it was only when her little girl was back on the ground that she relaxed again.

  “Farah!” Sadru called, ushering them to seats. Farah made no reply but they all knew that she had heard and would emerge when it suited her. Miriam guided her children towards the stairs, telling them to go up and play with their cousins. Alisha and Sam looked at her plaintively, as though willing her to reprieve them from this inevitable ritual, but she looked sternly at them and made them go. Then she went towards the kitchen to help her bhabhi with the food, but her brother-in-law stopped her, insisting that she sit. Omar ignored the chair that was offered to him, and paced up and down.

  “So, how’s business? How’s tricks?” asked Sadru, settling back into his armchair, from one arm of which tufts of stuffing protruded.

  Omar looked towards the stairs. The noise upstairs had suddenly ceased.

  “It’s fine. Everything’s fine, bhai,” Miriam volunteered. Omar spun around.

  “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Your sister.”

  Even Sadru had to smile at this.

  “She’s coming. She’s not here,” he added, following the impatient darting of Omar’s eyes. “Our sister went to meet her husband at his hotel.”

  “That’s a stupid thing to do,” Omar said. Miriam watched her husband. He looked angry and somehow helpless. “Are they trying to get caught? I can’t even believe they came back here together.”

  “His father is dying . . .” said Sadru, unhappily.

  Omar turned away. “So what? He’ll be dead in a week, and they’ll be in jail. Do you think the police care who’s dying?”

  Miriam looked at Sadru in the silence that followed. She had learned from Farah some time ago that Rehmat’s husband was white, and that this was the root of her family’s displeasure, but the realisation that since the 1948 laws Rehmat’s marriage would also be illegal only occurred to her now.

  “Which hotel is her husband at?” she asked finally, to break the silence.

  “The Royal, if you can believe it.”

  This information came from Farah, who came out of the kitchen adjusting her dress.

  “Who do they think they are?” She looked directly, almost accusingly at Omar, and what surprised Miriam was the was the way that Omar looked back at her, holding her glance with a casual intimacy that she herself had rarely experienced with him. She looked back to Farah, but by this time her bhabhi was continuing the story of Rehmat’s arrival and her unrelenting tone of sarcasm had caused both men to look at the floor, as though not seeing her might somehow block out her voice as well.

  Fifteen minutes later there came a knock at the door, and they all looked at each other until Sadru got up at last to open it. Omar also rose suddenly and stood awkwardly, waiting. The couple that was revealed as the door opened stood smiling expectantly on the threshold. The woman wore a pale pink skirt suit that covered most of her long legs but only by emphasising them. Her hair was fashionably swept back from a high forehead before curling down over her ears, and she wore lipstick that was several shades too evident for it to be at all acceptable in the conservative and predominantly Muslim Asiatic Bazaar. Her husband stood behind her, little more than a silhouette at present, but an impossibly sophisticated one, smartly suited, his hat worn at a rakish angle, his hands in his pockets. Miriam could hear that the noise in the street had died down, as though people outside had stopped to watch. She saw the woman walk in, kissing first one of her brothers, then the other, and she saw the good-looking man with the neatly slicked hair follow her, shaking hands and smiling. She realised that the very sight of a man following a woman into a room rather than leading the way, was alien to her. Who were these people? Was it possible that this woman, who seemed to have walked straight off a movie set, was actually related to her in-laws? And to her? Rehmat was hugging Jehan now, and then she went to Farah, who accepted her kiss with as much deference as Miriam could have imagined her capable of, as though she too were swept away by this vision. And finally Rehmat stood before her, smiling and holding out a hand that wore the most intricately worked, delicate ring that Miriam had ever seen.

  “And so, is this my new sister-in-law?”

  “This is Miriam,” said Omar.

  All four children were stunned by the arrival of this new aunt. They had come racing down the stairs only to stop abruptly at the bottom, bumping into each other and forming a tangled knot of wide eyes and awkward limbs. They examined Aunty Rehmat and her husband from a safe distance; and after each of them had come forward under duress to be introduced and kiss the goddess-like creature, they ran back to the banisters and sat crouched on the stairs. Only Alisha ventured to stay nearby, and Rehmat touched the child’s head and praised her beautiful eyes (“You must have your mother’s good looks,” she said) and then she laughed, embarrassed at such an awed reaction from the children. Their quiet did not last long, however—as soon as they saw that the new lady was talking and joking with their parents, they understood she might actually be one of them. When Rehmat’s husband James took some French centimes from his jacket pocket and proceeded to make them disappear, they moved closer still, until they were right next to him, where he could reach down to pull the missing coins from Sam’s ears and Alisha’s nose.

  Miriam was aware of very little of the opening conversation—she felt a wave of relief when drinks were offered, and Omar looked at her to go and get them. She followed Farah into the kitchen where they poured Coke and passion fruit juice into the best, gold-rimmed glasses, and Miriam looked at her bhabhi for some recognition of the wonder of this new sister, but Farah banged down the glasses irritably without uttering a word.

  “They are so nice,” whispered Miriam.

  “Yes,” Farah replied flatly, and picking up the tray she went back into the living room.

  When the time came to serve lunch, Rehmat followed Miriam into the kitchen to help bring in the food. They carried in bowls of aromatic lamb curry and rice, and plates of golden fried samosas while Farah followed at last with her centrepiece platter of chicken biryani. Sadru had started eating before the women had even sat down, and he met Omar’s look of annoyance with surprise. “Eat,” he told him. “Aren’t you hungry?”


  Although Farah was generally acknowledged to be a good cook, people expressed this opinion with a strange and almost imperceptible sense of hesitancy. It wasn’t that her food was not always delicious. It was just that she seemed to prepare it under a glowering cloud of discontent at having to be in the kitchen at all, and this infected those around her with a sense of guilt at having to consume what she had produced. Sadru always consumed his meals at high speed, as though he were afraid the food might escape from his plate if he left it there for too long, but others, including Miriam, tended to eat with care, lifting the steaming morsels gingerly to their mouths, as though the fragrant scents might somehow be hiding within them the poisonous fumes of Farah’s frustration.

  Rehmat, Miriam noted with frequent furtive glances, was tall, and light-skinned like Omar and bore an extraordinary resemblance to her brother.

  “You could think that you and my husband were twins,” said Miriam, so quietly that she went almost unheard. It was the first sentence she had ventured to say directly to her sister-in-law. Rehmat caught the words and smiled across the table at her.

  “We are,” said Rehmat, arching an eyebrow at Omar. “We are twins.”

  Miriam gave a gasp of surprise, and looked at her husband. Rehmat laughed, throwing back her head so that the thin string of gold that circled her long neck caught the light and shone in the room. She held out a hand and covered Miriam’s with it briefly, as though to reassure her that she was telling the truth. Omar merely gave a short movement of his head, not even a full nod, but an acknowledgement nonetheless.

  “Do you know then, each of you, what the other is thinking?” asked Miriam, conscious suddenly of the manicured hand on hers. Farah snorted at this comment, and Rehmat shot her a look.

  “Unfortunately, no. We’re not that close—for twins, I mean. My brother was always too quiet for me to read his thoughts. You probably know him a thousand times better than I.”

  Farah snorted again, and something in the sound made everyone stop and look. Omar stared at Farah angrily, and Miriam felt suddenly sick, as though she had been hit in the stomach. She glanced at Rehmat, as though the sight of her might somehow lift the feeling, but it only intensified it, because Rehmat’s eyes were moving wordlessly from Omar to Farah, as though she were trying to gauge something between them. Something between them, Miriam thought again to herself. Only Sadru seemed oblivious to any change. James cleared his throat:

  “Well, it’s good to be back. And here with my wife’s family.”

  “We were sorry to hear of your father’s illness,” Miriam said.

  “Thank you. Rehmat finally met him, and he finally gave us his blessing. Seven years after disowning me. I imagine death gives you a different perspective on what’s important.” He smiled at Miriam and took a drink from his glass of juice. “And now we’re here, eating with all of you. There was a time when that seemed impossible.”

  “It was impossible,” commented Rehmat. Omar shifted in his chair, and looked at no one.

  “It’s funny,” James continued. “I always told Rehmat that in the end my colour and hers just wouldn’t matter.”

  “It matters now more than ever,” Omar said tersely. “My father may be dead, but the South African government is much worse.”

  “What would happen if you got caught?” Miriam asked.

  “People like that don’t win, Miriam.” James met her enquiring look with a clear gaze. Before Omar could formulate a retort, Rehmat turned to Miriam and asked that she tell her about her life at Delhof and the shop. Was it very quiet and lonely, or did she like it? Miriam spoke a little, reddening under the weight of Rehmat’s kind glance, and then she fell silent, waiting for a moment when she might ask her new sister-in-law about life in Paris.

  “You must come and visit us there,” Rehmat told her. “It is so beautiful—the streets are all cobblestoned, and the buildings . . . they are like nothing I had ever seen before.”

  “I would love to see it,” Miriam replied.

  With an abrupt scrape of his chair, Omar stood up from the table and paced about, his lips pursed together, followed by Sadru, who appeared relieved to be able to sink back into his armchair. Miriam continued to talk with Rehmat, her shyness slowly lifting, while Farah met her glamorous sister-in-law’s attempts at conversation with an undertone of sarcasm. Sadru alone seemed to be enjoying himself, explaining all the details of his fruit and vegetable business to James, who listened with great politeness, his head leaning towards Sadru, while his eyes darted towards his wife. Rehmat smiled at him from the table, where she stacked the dirty plates.

  Between them the three women cleared the table, while their husbands waited for tea. Rehmat was the first to return to the living room, ushered out of the kitchen by Miriam. She looked at her brother.

  “Do you want your tea now, or can we have it later?” she asked him.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Because I thought we could go for a quick walk. Around the old neighbourhood,” she said, glancing from the streaked window. “Is the Bazaar Café still around?”

  Omar nodded. “It’s not owned by the Patels anymore.”

  “No? Who owns it?”

  “The Harjan girl. And a Coloured man. Williams.”

  Rehmat looked blank.

  “You wouldn’t remember her,” Omar told her. “Her parents are in Springs. Anyway, she is only a girl. I don’t think they came till after you left.” His voice was hard, and Rehmat wondered if she imagined the subtle emphasis on the last words he had spoken.

  “No, I don’t remember,” she said. “It’s been a very long time. Another lifetime. Everything always changes,” she added, lightly. “Maybe we can go anyway, and have a look around.”

  Omar nodded his agreement and waited while his sister moved back to the kitchen, emerging at last with Miriam, insisting that she come with them. She wanted, she said, to get to know her sister-in-law a little better. Omar was relieved that Farah had not managed to include herself in this outing. He smiled for the first time that afternoon, and conscious of James’ quiet presence, held open the door for the two women. As they left, Rehmat turned and glanced back, blinking, and for a moment she saw that room as it had been on the day she had left, nearly eight years ago. It had been her father’s house that she had left then; their mother having died some years before while they were all still in their early teens. She had been a grown woman when she had left that day, but she had been treated like a wayward child. She had emerged from her family home with heavy bruises leaching out across her arms and legs, bruises that her father had given her the night before with the rough side of his belt, for he had finally heard the rumours about John and herself.

  She had known then that her father would marry her off at once, probably to a cousin, or some other relative that she hardly knew, and so she had left silently in the early hours of a chilly April morning, and she had never been able to return. She could still recall the shock of the cool morning air on her reddened skin as she crept out, and the weak sun that had looked so welcoming that she had managed without too much effort to hold back her tears. James had been waiting for her and had taken her away to Cape Town and then on to Europe. They had needed to get out of reach of the group of thugs, all of them her relatives, that had spread out at once across Pretoria, trying to locate her by means of rumours, sightings and whispers. James’ rooms at the university had been broken into and searched by men carrying knives and sticks. If she had been found within a day, she would have been dragged home alive but beaten. After two or three days, they might have just brought her home dead, for by then it would have been too late to pretend that she had never left; the damage to her reputation would already have been done. On the boat out of Cape Town she had had plenty of time to consider this, and to wonder whether her own brothers and father had been amongst those searching for her.

  “Come on.” Rehmat jumped slightly at Omar’s voice. When she looked at him she saw the even features of h
er mother, the same features she saw in herself each day when she looked in the mirror, and the sight relieved her in some way. Silently, she turned to follow her brother and sister-in-law along the street, towards the café.

  Chapter Seven

  Rehmat smiled to see Amina walking around the café with a quiet air of ownership.

  “Is that the Harjan girl?” she asked Omar.

  “Yes.”

  “My god, you’re right. She is young. And she owns the place?” Omar nodded.

  “She must have been just a girl when she started,” Rehmat added, her tone full of admiration.

  “She’s still a girl,” said Omar, but Rehmat ignored him.

  “Good for her. Imagine running a business at her age.” She noted the filled booths and the filled plates moving back and forth across the room. “A good business, too.”

  “Sunday is always their busiest day,” said Omar.

  Rehmat rolled her eyes. “That’s my brother,” she said. “Heaven forbid he should actually give credit where it’s due.”

  Miriam smiled a little, but inside, she was amazed at the way in which Rehmat spoke to Omar. For the first time, it made her imagine her husband as a little boy, as one of a pair of twins. She had always considered him, as he considered himself, the most intelligent, the most reliable in the family—the one whose decisions were law. Now this twin sister of his arrived with a spark of energy and wit and life, and made him seem no more than average.