Nightingale

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Hazaar, try to be still. You are hurt.”

  It was as though Charlie’s words suddenly brought to mind all the pain she should have been feeling since she woke up. She groaned and closed her eyes. “I don’t remember what happened. How did I get hurt?” Has the battle already happened? Did I miss it? Who won?

  She could feel Charlie dabbing at the corner of her eye, wiping and rubbing gently at various patches of her skin, and Hazaar knew she was cleaning away dried blood. Well, apparently, it wasn’t me who won. Hazaar gasped at a particularly sore spot on her arm.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Hazaar tried to shake her head, but the movement hurt. “No, I’m sorry. It’s been so long and now you’re here looking after me.” She laughed sadly. “Not the reunion I imagined, my love.” Hazaar tried to reach for her again, but her hand gently held her down.

  “Be still now, Hazaar. You must rest.” Charlie’s lips moved, but the voice was wrong. Her accent, her words, even her tone was all wrong. It didn’t sound like Charlie in any way. In fact, it sounded more like Amira with every syllable she spoke.

  “Charlie, I’m so glad you came for me.” But even as she said the words, Charlie’s face changed before her eyes, fading, blurring, receding, as though she were moving farther and farther away into the fog. Hazaar’s heart raced, and the feeling of calm and tranquillity faded. She tried to focus on Charlie’s face, to bring her closer again, to keep Charlie with her. Always.

  “Charlie, I love you, please don’t go.” She tried to reach for her again, but the pain in her shoulder made her cry out. “Please don’t leave me. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m so sorry.” She lifted her head and opened her eyes.

  “Try to lie still,” Amira said, as she pressed her back to the ground. The thin woollen blanket she was on did little to insulate her body from the cold, hard concrete beneath her, but it was better than nothing. She closed her eyes again and pushed aside the disappointment at seeing Amira’s face instead of Charlie’s. The cellar was dark, lit with only a single bulb in the centre of the dank room. The smell of rotten wood, earth, and blood overrode the memory of cut grass. The soothing sound of the waves was replaced by the constant drip of water from a leaking pipe somewhere in the room.

  She slowly catalogued every ache in her body, trying to assess the damage that her fall had caused. Her shoulder ached with every breath, and she couldn’t move her arm at all, each attempt making her feel ill. Her head ached and her chest hurt, but otherwise she thought she was doing okay.

  “Your shoulder needs to be pulled back into place, Hazaar.” Amira grimaced as she spoke and pointed at her right shoulder.

  Hazaar nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Amira put a wooden stick between Hazaar’s teeth and nodded.

  Tazim stepped out of the shadows behind Amira and squatted beside her, a cruel smile twisting his face. He clasped her forearm with one hand and placed the other on her upper chest.

  “Who’s Charlie?”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Don’t lie to me. Who is this man?”

  Hazaar laughed bitterly. “There is no man.”

  “I heard you, you filthy little whore.” He squeezed her hand and she realized there was something wrong with her fingers. The knuckles didn’t line up properly and they didn’t lie comfortably next to each other. Each squeeze rippled waves of pain down the length of her arm. He lifted her hand a little higher and wiggled her arm. Fire shot through her shoulder and she couldn’t stop the scream.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know what I heard, you said ‘Charlie, my love.’ Who is this man?”

  “I don’t know a man called Charlie.” Tears ran down her cheeks as she tried in vain to pull her injured arm from his grasp, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “Liar!” He yanked her arm. The sickening crunch echoed in the chilly room as her shoulder slid back into place, and her consciousness fled, letting her fall back into blessed oblivion.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The North of England, then

  Hazaar let the final notes from the piano fade and Charlie’s voice ring out. She closed her eyes and tried to hold back the tears she could feel welling up at the purity of the sound.

  “You sing so beautifully, I could listen to you forever.” She smiled as Charlie bent down and kissed her cheek.

  “And I could listen to you play forever.” Charlie ran her fingers over the back of Hazaar’s hand, tracing the veins and tendons. “Such talented hands.”

  “You say that a lot.” Hazaar tugged her onto her lap.

  “I do?” Charlie wrapped her arms around her neck. “Well, it must be true if I say it a lot.”

  “Yes.” She leaned in for a kiss and let it linger. Charlie’s lips were soft and moved beneath her own with growing passion. “You usually say it when I’ve just made you come.”

  Charlie laughed. “You’re such a shit.”

  “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

  Charlie kissed her again. “It’s a good job. I wouldn’t have put up with you this long if I didn’t.”

  “You’re a saint.”

  “I’m so glad you noticed.” Charlie glanced at her watch. “I have to get going soon.”

  “What time’s your meeting?”

  “Three.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “I think so. Swallen’s gonna be a huge pain in the arse though.”

  “What makes you say that?” Hazaar stroked her hands down Charlie’s back, enjoying the way her muscles tensed as she spoke.

  “Well,” she said, scratching her head in mock confusion. “It’s my third and final year. It’s my honours thesis. And I’ve heard rumours.” She rested her head on Hazaar’s shoulder.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, baby.”

  “Really?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re the one who told me.”

  Hazaar laughed. “Then you should totally believe everything you hear.” She squeezed Charlie’s backside, just to make her squirm. “Want me to make dinner while you’re out?”

  “That would be wonderful.” Charlie kissed her quickly before getting up. “I’ll catch you later, sweetheart.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  She hated how quiet the house was after Charlie left. She hated that she couldn’t hear her moving around the apartment, or just look up and see her working on her laptop, tapping away at some paper or other. She let her fingers find the piano keys just to fill in the silence, and the music began to pour out of her soul.

  The doorbell ringing shocked her out of her musical escape, and she shook her head as she walked to the intercom.

  “Forget something?”

  “Hazaar?”

  “Baba?”

  “Yes. Are you going to open the door or should your brother and I wait out here?” He laughed a little and she buzzed the door open, quickly putting on her head scarf. He gave her a quick hug when she opened the door to the apartment, and she couldn’t help but notice how much older he looked. His beard was almost entirely grey now, and his shoulders looked a little slumped. There were more lines around his eyes than she remembered and the hair she could see from under his topi was silver too. She nodded at Hatim as their father left for the bathroom, his gait slow as he favoured his left leg.

  “So where’s blondie?” Hatim sat down and scowled at her, almost daring her to challenge him.

  “Charlotte is at university. She has a meeting with her tutor about her third-year thesis.”

  “I still can’t believe the old man lets you get away with living with that.” His lip curled and his nostrils flared as though he smelled something rotten.

  “Are you brave enough to ask him about it, Hatim?” She smiled slyly and enjoyed the flash of humiliation that skittered across his face. They both knew the answer to that question.

  “You’ll be laughing on the other side of your fac
e later.” His smile was cruel, just as it always had been.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She didn’t expect him to answer, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking anyway.

  “You’ll see, dear sister.” He stared at her without saying anything more.

  She adjusted the scarf over her head and swung the tail over her shoulder, fidgeting with the corner that had rested over her chest. It didn’t matter how many times she told herself not to listen to him, not to let him get the better of her, sometimes he managed to get under her skin like a splinter, a worrisome, irritating splinter that just wouldn’t come out, no matter how much she squeezed or picked at it.

  She shrugged and tried to play it off. “So how is Fatima?”

  Hatim’s face clouded again, the smug smile replaced by a grimace. “She is cursed.”

  Hazaar laughed. “What?”

  Hatim jumped to his feet and slapped her across the face. “Do not laugh at my misfortune, sister.” His voice dripped venom as he spat the words down at her.

  She covered her cheek with her hand and stared at him. They had fought as children, but as a grown man he had never struck her. She was shocked into silence as he ranted, her cheek on fire.

  “My wife’s curse is not a joke.”

  “Hatim, not getting pregnant is not caused by a curse. It’s a medical condition, or just bad timing. There are many reasons, and being cursed is not one of them.”

  “You think you’re so smart, sister, so well educated.” Spittle flew from his lips and landed on her cheeks. “You know nothing of the real world.”

  “I know enough to know that believing in curses is superstitious nonsense.”

  “And I know that in our world there is something wrong with you. And our father. He should have stopped this nonsense long ago, not let you go on with this ridiculous studying. He should have arranged your marriage, and I would be rid of you by now. I wouldn’t have to live in the shadow of the wonderful Hazaar and the honour she brings to the family. The great, soon-to-be Dr. Hazaar Alim. It’s a kafir instrument. Not even a proper Muslim instrument. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

  “Says who?”

  “Me. The imam, the Holy Quran, our culture, our laws—”

  “We don’t live in Pakistan, Hatim. We live in England. It’s the twenty-first century, and we don’t have to live by a set of antiquated rules that are inapplicable to the society we live in and aren’t even enforced by half of the Muslims we grew up with.”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know that I can walk down the street our parents live on and pass half a dozen Pakistani women. Half of them will be in Western clothing, just like everyone else. They won’t even be wearing a head scarf. Two will wear a scarf with a pair of jeans, or a skirt, or some other style of Western clothing, and the last one would be your wife. Wearing a full burqa and cursing your name. The only curse your wife suffers from is being married to you and your ridiculously conservative views of Islam and what it means to be a good Muslim.”

  He lifted his hand to strike her again.

  “Do not do that, Hatim.” Her father’s voice was little more than a growl as he entered the room.

  “Father, she was disrespecting me. She is laughing at Fatima’s curse.”

  “She was doing no such thing.”

  “You were not here. You did not hear her.”

  “I heard enough. No one laughs at Fatima’s curse. Because there is no curse. They laugh at you for believing and repeating such nonsense. That is not disrespect, boy, it is education.” He grabbed Hatim’s shoulder and pulled him away from Hazaar. “Your wife is not yet pregnant. That is not a curse. That is a medical issue, and it may be you that is the cause, just as easily as it could be your wife.”

  “Father, how can you say such a thing?”

  “Because it’s the truth. We aren’t some backward, uneducated tribal folk who know no better. I paid a lot of money for the education you threw away. Had you half your sister’s brain we would not have the problems in business that we do now.”

  “You cannot blame me for the business failing.”

  “Yes, I can, and I do. And you know exactly why.”

  Hazaar watched the verbal volley and wondered why her father was allowing her to see him berating Hatim.

  “If I ever see you hit a woman again, any woman, Hatim, I will transfer you to the packing floor in the warehouse, and you can give up the hope of ever leaving that position in my company.”

  “Father, you wouldn’t do that to me. I’m your only son.”

  “Try me, boy.” He stared at Hatim, and Hazaar could feel the resolve from where she sat.

  Hazaar wished she could be anywhere else. She didn’t want to witness Hatim’s humiliation, certain that she would pay some sort of price for it later, but there was no way to escape the scene.

  “Get out. Wait for me in the car while I sort out your mess. Again.”

  “But I—”

  “Now.”

  Hatim glared at him and then Hazaar before he stormed out of the room. Her father’s shoulders slumped as the door slammed, and he let himself fall into the chair behind him. He closed his eyes and she could see his lips moving, but she couldn’t make out the words. Was he praying? She didn’t know. Her father’s pain was obvious, and she wanted to help him, to take it away if she could.

  “Baba?”

  “A moment, Jugnu.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Perhaps some more tea.”

  “Of course, Baba.” She hurried to the kitchen and arranged the tray. So many questions ran through her head that she felt dizzy, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answers. Her father hadn’t moved when she entered the room and put the tray on the coffee table. She poured the tea in silence and knelt beside him. He covered her hand as he took the tea cup from her. His eyes were damp as he looked down at her.

  “This world cannot always be what we want it to be. We are delivered blessings and hardships, sometimes in equal measure and sometimes not. There are dreams we can achieve and others we must learn to let go of. I had dreamt that my son would be a good man, a better man than I. Now I hope he will at least be a decent husband and father, but I don’t expect it.”

  “Baba, he is young. He’ll learn.”

  “You do not need to defend him to me, Hazaar. I know his heart, and it is a black and withered thing that wishes for more than he can achieve, wealth he has not earned, and respect he will never secure.” He looked at his teacup and placed it on the table untouched. “But still, he is my son.”

  “It’s not your fault, Baba.”

  “No?” He smiled sadly as she shook her head. “If not my fault, then whose?”

  “You were away so much when we were younger. He simply didn’t learn.”

  “Exactly. I shouldn’t have been. The boy needed me. But enough of that. It is the past and it cannot be changed. Now I must do what I can and I must ask you to forgive me, Beti, because I cannot give you the life you had hoped for.”

  Hazaar’s pulse raced. She struggled to pull air into her lungs as it felt thick, wet, and dense, like she was trying to breathe through water. No. This can’t be happening. Not yet. I’m not ready to lose them all. I’m not ready to let go of my family. The muscles in her jaw tightened and clenched as she tried to think of something to say. She wanted to run. She couldn’t face what she knew was coming.

  “Since you were a little girl, I knew that the music was your love, your passion. And you wanted a life where you could play. You have brought me nothing but joy and pride, Beti. You have been a good girl, and I was hoping to allow you a life with your music.”

  “You have been very good about my studies, Baba.”

  He smiled sadly. “Yes, but I know you wanted more. A future playing in front of audiences, no?”

  “I don’t know what to say, Baba.”

  “You don’t need to say anything. I know you. I know all my children. The good and the bad and all those wonderful
colours in between. Your sisters were happy enough to marry, to become wives and mothers. You never wanted that life. I know this.”

  “I’m sorry, Baba.”

  “There is no need to be sorry, Beti. I understand your passion, and the position you will be in with a husband to care for. As much as it goes against our traditions, I had hoped to give you your dreams. I wasn’t looking for a husband for you.”

  “You weren’t?” Was he saying what she thought he was? Did he know? “I’m confused. I thought that was always the plan?”

  “I know. I felt it best to keep your mother happy for a little while longer, to at least let you finish school before we told her that you were going to be a concert pianist.” He smiled widely, wistfully. “I wanted to see you play on the grand stages of the world. To wave at you and smile and tell all the world who you were, my beti, my daughter Hazaar Erina Alim. Sorry, Dr. Hazaar Erina Alim. My child.” Pride and pleasure radiated from his eyes.

  “You are my greatest achievement, and I’m proud to have had a hand in shaping the woman you have become. And I wanted to see you happy and smiling and to hear all the wonderful music you would make. That beautiful music comes from your heart, from the passion in your soul. And from the pain you try to hide. The one you think I don’t see.” He patted her cheek. “I see. And I love you still.” He whispered the words. “I have seen everything you have done for your family. The sacrifices you’ve made for us all. And I love you more. You, my Beti, my wonderful daughter, have made me so proud.”

  “I love you, Baba.” He knew and it didn’t matter to him. He might not know she was a lesbian, but he knew she didn’t want a husband, that she didn’t want to follow tradition. And he still loved her. Relief and shame waged a war inside her. Relief that she need not fear him any longer, and shame that she had ever doubted him. He believed in the Holy Quran—peace, acceptance, equality, and understanding. These were the qualities he had embodied all her life, the qualities he had tried to teach them all. And it pained her that she had ever expected anything less of him. “I only ever wanted you to love me, to be proud of me.”