by Shamim Sarif
“I want to surprise them,” she whispered. “Where are they?”
“Sir has gone to Pretoria,” he whispered back, and Amina feigned surprise and even a slight disappointment. “Madam is in the shop,” added Robert encouragingly.
Madam was indeed in the shop, sitting on a stool behind the counter. Her head was bowed and still and Amina crept inside and watched her, surmising that she must be reading.
“Is it love poetry, or the rules of the road?” Amina asked.
Miriam jumped, and then with a smile, she lifted her hand to show the book of poetry that Amina had given her.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” she said.
“It was sort of busy at the café this morning . . .”
“Was it?” Miriam asked, with genuine interest but Amina looked away.
“Well, no. It wasn’t. Not really. I just . . . I wasn’t sure if I should come.”
Miriam came out from behind the counter and kissed Amina on the cheek, a gesture that she made a little too carelessly, as though emphasising its role as a greeting.
“Of course you should have come. Who else is going to teach me to drive? I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
“Have you?” The idea seemed to please Amina.
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s start then. Before your husband returns.” The last comment was added with the timing of a question, and Miriam knew it at once.
“He won’t be back until tomorrow,” she said, and to cover the blush that rose to her face, she walked briskly out of the shop to where Amina’s truck stood waiting.
Robert had not been able to finish the blacking of the door, before his mistress had asked him to start preparing some soup for dinner. Although it was only three o’clock, and although there were already three pots of food sitting untouched on the stovetop, he thought it better not to say anything. Her voice was firm and her manner direct. He nodded and went in to wash his hands and start preparing the vegetables.
Miriam waited patiently by the truck while Amina tugged at the seat, trying to slide it forward. She managed to move it about two inches and then stood aside for Miriam to get in.
“Sorry. The seats are old and don’t move much anymore.”
Miriam climbed in and sat with her legs almost at full stretch, her feet over the pedals. She placed both hands on the wheel moving it gently from side to side and looking straight ahead of her, as though she were already in motion on the open road. Amina watched her with an amused air.
“It goes even better when the engine’s switched on,” Amina said as she walked around to the passenger side. The truck was old, but scrupulously clean, Miriam noted. There was no dust on the dashboard, and even the floor had brush marks where it had recently been scrubbed. She wondered briefly if the effort had been made especially for her, but she looked at the small stack of neatly folded maps and papers beneath the dashboard and she looked at Amina’s clothes as the girl got into the passenger seat. They were a little worn but spotless, as they always were, and she realised that the girl had an innate attention to surroundings and her person that reminded her a little of Omar.
“To begin, let’s show you the basic pedals,” said Amina, a slightly formal tone in her voice now that she had assumed the role of driving instructor. She reached across Miriam to point at the floor beneath her, and Miriam caught once again that now familiar scent of her skin and clothes.
“This,” said Amina “is the gas pedal. The accelerator.”
Miriam nodded.
“This,” she said, moving her pointing finger along, “is the . . .”
“Brake?” suggested Miriam. Amina looked at her.
“Yes. And this?”
“The clutch.”
Amina sat back in her seat and smiled. “Do you secretly know how to drive?” she asked.
“Why would I ask for lessons if I knew?”
Amina shrugged, her eyes dancing. “I don’t know. Maybe you just wanted to see me.”
Miriam looked down. “I don’t know how to drive, but my husband showed me the pedals when he started to teach me once. There are only three. It’s not difficult to remember.”
“Such confidence!” Amina commented. “Let’s hope they are not difficult to remember at forty miles an hour.”
After a quick tour of the gears, lights and ignition, the truck was started up, and trembled beneath them. The sun had dropped lower and hit the glass, so that when Miriam tried to look at Amina, her eyes were flooded with light and colour.
“Now. Do you know your way around each gear?”
Miriam did not.
“Okay. Around here is where first gear should be, which is the gear you use to get started. Try to find it.”
Miriam tried.
“You have to push down the clutch first,” Amina said. “Hold the clutch down with your foot while you find the gear.”
Miriam did this, and slid into gear. The truck shuddered.
“No. That’s third. It’s a difficult one to find . . .” Miriam shifted and pushed, without success.
“I can’t do it,” she said finally, sitting back.
“Yes, you can. Let me show you.” Amina’s hand closed over Miriam’s, and they slowly manoeuvred the gear stick together, sliding easily into first.
“See?” said Amina.
Miriam nodded, although in fact she did not see, because her heart had almost stopped in the instant that Amina’s hand touched hers, and all she had been aware of after that was the way the long fingers so easily took control of hers.
“You can let go of the clutch now,” said Amina, very softly, and Miriam removed her foot. The truck lurched forward and stalled.
“Sorry,” Miriam said and she looked across to find that she was being watched intently. She swallowed and looked away.
The few seconds that followed seemed to expand in Miriam’s mind, filling up all senses, until she could hear nothing but a roaring and a pounding which she later realised had come from her own blood and her own ears. The scent of the girl next to her was no longer an ephemeral thing to be caught at passing moments, but had turned into the very air around her. It was all she was aware of, and the reason was that Amina was leaning over her, closely, so close that for a moment Miriam felt the soft folds of the cotton shirt brush her chin, and then her forehead, except that it was not the shirt that touched her head, but Amina’s lips. Miriam was no longer breathing and she waited with utter stillness as the lips moved slowly down, barely touching her cheeks before they were finally upon her mouth.
Miriam felt the searing sun on her closed eyelids, and the feather touch of the lips on hers. She jerked her head suddenly and pulled away as though she had been stung. Her hand went to her mouth and she stared at Amina.
“What are you doing?”
Amina opened her hands as though to say that Miriam already knew the answer to that question.
“We can’t do this.”
“We can,” replied Amina, with a sigh, “but we probably shouldn’t.”
Miriam swallowed and looked down. She felt as though she might cry at any moment.
“You wanted me to do it,” Amina said gently.
Miriam said nothing, and Amina reached out a hand to touch her shoulder reassuringly when something—a sound, or perhaps just an instinct—made her look out of the rear window of the truck and back towards the shop.
Robert had been surprised to see his boss home so early from his trip to town, and he had smiled at him and asked if he wanted some tea. Omar only glared and asked him where his mistress was. Robert had got as far as the words “driving lessons” when he felt the stinging weight of an open palm across his face, followed by the rough kick of a boot administered to his legs. He fell, and remained lying on the floor for a few minutes, held there more by fear and shock than by pain, and he went over and over in his mind the short exchange he had just had with his boss, trying to understand what he might have said wrong.
By the time Oma
r strode out to the truck, the women inside were sitting as far apart as possible, and seemed extraordinarily interested in the workings of the dashboard.
“Stay calm,” Amina ordered, as he tapped on the window. Miriam fumbled for the handle and began to wind it down even as Omar yanked the door open. His reddened face stared in at them, but he said nothing as he struggled to control the rage that had flared up within him. As he watched the two women, he was dimly aware that later he would look back at his behaviour in the last hour, at the careering drive back from Pretoria and at the violence he had used on Robert, and his logical mind would not be able to pinpoint what it was he had been angry about. He would not easily realise that his anger was not anger at all, but a combination of the tension he had felt at nearly being caught with Farah, the guilt he felt towards his amiable, trusting brother, and the fear that he was slowly losing control of his wife.
“Hello,” he said to them, in a polite tone so far removed from the one they had expected from his eyes and manner that they both looked at him in surprise.
“Hello,” said Amina. “We were having a driving lesson.”
Omar nodded, but did not offer the possibility of continuing. He held the door open and waited for Miriam to get out. Amina jumped out of the passenger side, then noticed that Miriam had made not the slightest movement, but was just sitting there, her right hand still on the wheel.
“Miriam . . .” Amina began gently, sensing the defiant attitude of the motionless body beside her. “Let’s go.”
“We haven’t finished our lesson yet,” Miriam announced, turning to her husband.
“Get out of the car,” he shouted.
“Come on,” said Amina quietly.
Miriam got out of the car.
Omar continued to hold open the door to the driver’s seat as Amina walked around. Her eyes moved to Omar’s hand, grasping Miriam’s upper arm, and she saw a bruise there; the first time she had seen it. She glanced at Miriam before she got into the truck, for she did not want to leave her in the hands of a man full of rage, and yet she did not see how she could reasonably stay. Miriam was looking down at the ground, however, and Amina could not communicate with her.
The girl put her hand on the wheel and a foot up on the running board and turned her attention to Omar.
“How has your day been?” she asked him.
The question was so unexpected and so out of place in the tense atmosphere that both Omar and Miriam looked at Amina. Omar’s expression as he watched the girl was strange, she thought, and Amina felt certain that she could see an edge of relief in his eyes, as though she had somehow offered him a way out of his anger.
“It was okay. It wasn’t the best day I’ve ever had,” he added.
Her eyes remained on his for a moment, and she gave a half-shrug of comradeship that again caught him off balance. Then she glanced again at Miriam, and this time, Miriam nodded just slightly, and thanked her for coming. Amina swung up into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key. She took her time turning the truck around, wishing she could be certain that she was making the right decision in leaving. When she finally drove slowly down the track she was simultaneously relieved and jealous to note that Omar had in fact put his arm protectively around Miriam’s shoulders.
Miriam’s first reaction was to pull away from her husband’s touch. She was tired of his anger and his coldness and in any event, any show of affection, even one as hesitant as this, was so out of character that it only made her suspicious.
He felt her withdrawal and pulled back his arm.
“I want to talk to you,” he heard himself say, with a tremendous effort, but she kept on walking ahead of him and as he watched her disappear out of the aching sunlight into the cool depths of the shop, he realised that he had spoken so softly that she could never have heard him. He touched his forehead with a sigh, looked at his watch, and then at the empty landscape around him. His children—their children—would be back from school at any moment, and in the tiny block of time still left to him, he had to find a way to break the habit of a lifetime and talk to his wife.
In the empty kitchen, a pot of vegetable soup was simmering on the stove.
“Where is that boy?” asked Miriam, with some irritation.
Omar hung his jacket over the back of a chair and sat down.
“Probably avoiding me. I was angry with him earlier.”
The unaccustomed frankness of this answer caused Miriam to look her husband in the face for the first time since that morning. She remembered how she had seen him off; the excitement that had been coursing through her at the thought that Amina might come; the way she had genuinely wished him to have a good day. Why had she wished him well, when deep down she had known what he was leaving her to do? Perhaps because today, for the first time since they had been married, she had felt that her life did not have to depend on his.
She looked at him now and blushed as she thought of how Amina had kissed her in the car. She cleared her throat, trying to clear her embarrassment, and she went to stir the soup as she spoke to him:
“Why were you angry with him?”
Omar said nothing.
She finished stirring and he counted in his head as she tapped the spoon three times against the side of the pot, as she always did, and then she turned towards him and asked him again, her eyes not quite on his, but lingering instead over the legs of the chair upon which he was sitting.
“Why were you angry with him?” her voice was small and full of the tension that came of holding back tears. “Why are you always angry with all of us?”
Still he said nothing.
“It is I who should be angry with you.” It was the first time she had ever come close to mentioning his affair, and she knew she was treading upon dangerous ground, but she kept going because she did not care anymore what he might do to her.
“How can you keep doing this to me. With her!”
“It is finished,” he said.
“What?”
“It is finished. I am not going to see her again.” She stared at him in shock, and only after a moment did she register the sound of the school bus stopping at the end of the track.
Omar had heard it too and got up, taking up his jacket to cover his shaking hands.
“Don’t hate me,” he said to her, so quietly that she was not even sure she had heard him correctly. He turned and went quickly towards the stairs, and she did not have time to tell him that she did not hate him before her children ran inside, eager to tell their mother about their day.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I asked Miss Smith to have dinner with me,” Jacob said, smiling.
Amina regarded him with a confused air. It was early morning, and she had been awake for much of the night, with only a brief interlude of sleep that had come so full of nightmares that she had been glad to wake up again. At five a.m. she had risen, bathed, and prepared herself some strong tea in the kitchen. She sat then in a booth in the empty restaurant and sipped slowly while trying to read some of the local newspaper. There had been more arrests of demonstrators in the last week and, she noted, a black man had been detained in prison on suspicion of consorting with a white woman.
“You asked her to have dinner?” she repeated.
“Yes.” Jacob seemed uncommonly pleased with himself.
“What did she say?” Amina asked.
“She said yes.”
Jacob was smiling so broadly that Amina could not help but congratulate him. Her face became serious again, though, as she listened to Jacob describe the conversation he had had with the postmistress.
“Jacob . . .” She stopped and sighed and looked out of the window. Their waitresses were coming up the road, ready for the first breakfast shift.
“What is it?”
“Do you know what you are getting yourself into?”
Jacob frowned, and then nodded. “Yes, I believe I do.”
“I was just reading about this kind of thing in the paper
,” she went on. “It’s not a safe way to live, however nice she might be.”
Jacob stood up from the booth.
“This kind of thing?” he said, and she winced at the implication he gave her words.
“I’m just saying,” she answered, “that you should be very careful. We don’t live in a place where certain ordinary human relationships are acceptable.”
“Do you think I don’t know that already?” he turned away, but she called his name with an apologetic tone and he came back, to find that she could only look at him.
“I never thought I’d have to hear something like this from you,” he said simply.
“Something like what?”
“It’s not a safe way to live?” he repeated. “It’s not acceptable? Since when have you known anything about an acceptable way to live? If you lived the way you were supposed to, and only went with people you were supposed to go with, you’d be married to some nice Indian boy by now.”
Jacob’s voice had risen, and the waitresses who had just arrived stopped awkwardly at the door.
“Don’t, Jacob,” said Amina in a hushed voice. “Sit down. Please?”
Jacob sat, and Amina noticed his fingers tremble as he reached for his coffee cup.
“I know she’s a nice lady, and you like her, Jacob, but in the real world, you could get both of you into a lot of trouble. That’s all.”
“It’s not right,” he said.
“I know.”
“They have no right to keep us from seeing who we want to see.”
“I know, Jacob.”
He sipped at his coffee and said nothing until the waitresses had put on their aprons and gone back into the kitchen to get some breakfast. Then he looked back at her. To Amina’s surprise and relief, his eyes contained again something of their usual sparkle.
