I don’t go to the top oval. I spend lunch as a stone in the girls’ bathroom. I haven’t been going to the roof since Vivian found me there, in case she catches me mid-change. I don’t know what I look like when I’m changing, because I’ve never been able to change and watch myself in a mirror at the same time. Bonnie used to watch sometimes when we were kids, but we got shy about being naked in front of each other when we were about ten. Anyway, even if I didn’t have to be naked, I’d still be embarrassed to have Vivian watch me do it.
‘You know that phrase, making memories?’ Lyss asks. ‘Well, if I was going to make a memory. I’d knit it.’
‘It depends on the memory,’ I say. Some memories are still and certain; some are as alive and as impossible to catch in your hands as water.
‘It depends,’ says Jessame, ‘whether you want to remember or forget.’
‘I’d draw on a blackboard. The most amazing, vivid, beautiful picture, my whole life in one big swirl,’ says Bonnie. ‘Chalk dust flying everywhere.’
Lyss smiles.
‘Then I’d rub it all out again,’ Bonnie says. We are all quiet for a minute. She asks, ‘What do you think will happen to them, my memories? I mean, what a waste. Don’t you think? What’s the point of them?’
Jessame walks out of the room. Sometimes it gets too much. Sometimes one of us just can’t handle it, but we never break down in front of Bonnie.
‘I’d knit it,’ Lyss says again. ‘I’d knit the whole history of human memory. And if I made a mistake, I wouldn’t frog it. I’d just keep knitting. I’d make the knots and holes part of the fabric.’
Jessame comes back, pink around the rims of her eyes. She clinches Bonnie in a fierce hug and says, ‘Memories are old news, babe. Over and done with. Who cares? You can’t hug a memory.’
‘You okay?’ Bonnie whispers to Jessame and the question kills me. Jessame holds her and holds her.
‘What colour?’ I ask Lyss.
‘Black,’ she says, knitting. ‘With silver sparkles. Stretching out forever, like a night sky.’
‘I’d wear that,’ I say. ‘I’d totally wear that.’
That night I think about the promise I made to Bonnie. I am not even sure if it’s possible, if I’ll be able to keep it. I get up, pad silently through the house to the kitchen.
In the ghostly light of the fridge, I hold an egg in my hands. At first it resists me, or perhaps I resist it. And then – pop – I am in. I am the egg: the shell, the phlegmy white, the rich yolk. The egg tumbles through the air, smashes against the lino and I burst out, whole and sticky, the taste of it thick in my throat.
Words aren’t objects. They aren’t sturdy things you can shelter inside. You never know which conversation will be your last.
‘What do you think happens after you die?’ Bonnie asks.
‘Heaven,’ Lyss says, with certainty.
‘Boring,’ says Jessame, painting her toenails electric blue. ‘Everyone knows all the cool people go to hell.’
‘What do you think, Vega?’ Bonnie says. She asks as if I might really know, as if all along this one was intended for me. But all I know is how to enter the cold, hard substance of a stone. I feel this makes me less qualified than anyone to answer Bonnie’s question.
I shake my head, knowing I’m failing her.
‘I think when you’re gone, you’re gone,’ says Bonnie. ‘The matter of you breaks up and is redistributed.’
‘What about your soul?’ Lyss asks.
Bonnie shrugs. ‘An illusion of consciousness. Which is just brain activity.’
‘And you find that comforting?’ Lyss asks.
‘Not really. No.’
But I do. I find the idea of Bonnie scattered through the physical world unspeakably comforting. I lean back in the vinyl chair, watching rain slide down the window outside.
I walk up to the bus stop after school. The road is shining wet, light has broken through clouds and everything is rich with colour. Vivian is at the bus stop too. She’s not alone; there’s a guy in a St Francis uniform with her. He has blond, perfectly straight hair with a side part. He’s the kind of guy Bonnie would fall for. Me too, once, but not so much any more.
‘Adam,’ Vivian says. ‘This is the girl I was telling you about. Vega, this is Adam. Adam’s special. Like me.’
Adam waves his hand, all false modesty. ‘Vivi is sensational. My talent is not so … showy.’
Vivian flushes. I don’t know if she has heard what I heard – a backhanded compliment, a dismissal of Vivian’s power. It’s hard to tell.
‘I think Vega might be special too,’ says Vivian. She sees me looking at her ring and touches it gently, cocks her head, looks at me, sharp with curiosity.
Adam looks at me appraisingly, as if deciding whether or not to buy me or … or recruit me. His blond hair swings over one eye. ‘So are you?’ he asks me. ‘Special?’
For weeks I’ve been harbouring the same fantasy. ‘The thing is,’ Vivian will say again, ‘I know how I got onto the roof. But I wonder, how did you?’ Instead of saying nothing, blushing with shame and secrecy as I did at the time, in my fantasy I turn to her and say, ‘I want to show you something. In private.’ We walk out of the classroom together and I take her to my toilet cubicle; we lock ourselves in together. In my fantasy, I ask for her ring and she hesitates. I say, ‘Do you trust me?’ She slips it off her finger and puts it in my hand. My clothes fall away and the ring tumbles spiralling to the ground as I disappear inside it. Vivian gasps. She picks up the ring from my cast-off dress, and we (the ring and I) feel the heat of her spread through us. She slips her finger through us. She wears us down the hall, out into the air. Outside, she springs away from the ground, flying us up, up, and it is me and Vivian and a boundless curving sky.
‘Are you special, Vega?’ Adam asks me. I see the bus trundling down the road towards us.
‘No,’ I say. I feel Vivian’s disappointment seeping through her and into me, but I don’t look her way. I say, ‘I’m not special at all.’
Lyss calls me. She says, ‘We are all here, saying our goodbyes. I know Bonnie would want you to be here too.’
I enter that tight circle of family grief feeling like an intruder, but Lyss, who is holding it together, hugs me, and so does Jessame, who is not holding it together, and so does Bonnie’s mum. ‘We’ve been here all day and none of us have eaten,’ she says. ‘We’ve all had some time alone with Bonnie. We’re going down to the cafeteria. Do you want to sit with her? She specially asked me to let you, but you don’t have to. Just if it feels right.’
I nod tightly.
I enter the room and name the objects: chair, bed, teacup, water jug, Bonnie. I close the door behind me. I sit next to her and hold her hand. It feels cool and stiff, not like Bonnie at all. The blue polish on her nails has almost chipped right away. My jaw aches with the effort of not crying. I stand up and put my forehead to Bonnie’s, put my hands on her face and will myself inside her, the way Bonnie asked me to do.
I will not cry yet. Later I will lie here, curled on the bed beside her, naked in my grief; only then will I allow myself the excruciating relief of tears. And later still that grief will make me strong, for this is only the beginning of what I can do and what I will be. All my life I will look for Bonnie in every object I enter. I will taste the salt of her in the marrow of the universe. I will listen for her voice in the whispering of things.
But for now, Bonnie is here: holding me with a promise, keeping me in this moment, for just a little time.
Now, into the substance of her, I descend.
Memory Lace
Payal Dhar
I can see myself in the mirror. There are soft curls falling to my shoulders, jewelled hair ornaments that catch the light if I move, beads that clink with every turn of my head. Only a soft, sheer veil separates me from the world. But it’s a small world.
There is a rustle of
canvas as the tent flap lifts and Veda ushers in another prospective buyer. A richwoman, well-rounded, prosperous-looking, clad in silks and silver. I’m guessing a landowner, or perhaps a merchant. She’s trailed by a teenager. From the resemblance, I’d say daughter. The girl is about seventeen, the same age as me. Maybe her mother wants to buy me for her. I can hope.
One of Veda’s assistants lifts my veil so the richwoman and the girl may lean forward to study the goods.
I have had a week’s practice of blanking out at this point in the negotiations. Veda has never failed to find a buyer, but with just a day left before the fair winds up, I can see she’s a little jumpy.
She’s talking now in that deceptively low, soft voice she keeps for sales pitches.
‘ … fine bone structure … rare this side of the Tapakoor Mountains … infallible pedigree … ‘
She makes a little sign with her hands, and her helpers turn my head first this way and then that. I fix my gaze upon the twinkling lamp near the tent flap and concentrate on it. There’s a movement at my shoulder and a gasp escapes my lips as the cold strikes me. Veda’s assistant steps back, letting the robe drop to the floor in a silky rustle.
‘… strong limbs … good posture … straight back … fine breeding stock … ‘
‘I want to see the memory lace.’ The richwoman’s sharp voice cuts through Veda’s hard sell.
Veda beckons and a slender box appears in her hands. She opens it to reveal a velvet-lined interior on which lies a roll of fine white lace. I forget to breathe as the richwoman lifts it out and runs her fingers expertly over the intricate pattern. A shiver runs down my spine, but this time it has nothing to do with the chill air.
It’s the fact that she has my life in her hands and, clearly, she knows how to read it. I don’t know why they call it memory lace – it isn’t just about the past. I asked Veda once and she replied that the future is just memories we haven’t had yet.
I wonder what the richwoman reads about me. Does it say where I was born? Who my mother was? What my skills are? When I will die?
What would happen if I were to lean forward, snatch it up and throw it into the fire? Would that make me free? Or would I just stop existing?
Veda leads the richwoman to the table. The assistants pour drinks and serve sweets. The negotiations have begun.
A soft touch makes me start. It’s the daughter. She has picked up my robe from the floor and put it back around my shoulders. I’m so startled that I look around and catch her eye. Nobody has ever done this for me before.
She looks back at me, head tilted slightly upwards. Her eyes are frank, friendly. Not sizing me up, just looking. She smiles ever so slightly. Nobody has done that before either.
Her name is Fazal, the Grace of the Almighty. She is the richwoman’s oldest daughter and now she owns me. I suppose I am privileged.
It is only after the long journey to her home that I am formally presented to her. I stand in the centre of her day room as she approaches, and even though my head is bent down respectfully, I can see her coming closer in my peripheral vision. She puts a finger under my chin and lifts it. It is a curious gesture because I am taller than she is. It is difficult for me to keep my eyes modestly on my satin-sandalled feet.
For the second time in my life, I meet her eyes. The same open, genial look greets me.
‘Do you have a name?’ she asks.
I blush furiously. My sort don’t have names till we are given them by owners; she should know that. ‘I used to have a number,’ I say.
‘I see,’ she thinks for a while. ‘A number. I’ll call you Sifar – zero, the number that means nothing, yet is the most important of all.’
‘You’re too kind, Grace of the …’
She interrupts me. ‘When we are alone, you can call me Fazal.’
Then she bursts out laughing at my startled face. I can’t help smiling too, even though I don’t know what the joke is. I just feel like smiling.
‘Here.’ Fazal hands me a ball of yarn and a peculiar wooden implement, smooth and smaller than my palm. ‘This is a tatting shuttle. I want you to wind it for me.’
She shows me how. There are a couple of small slits on the two ends of the shuttle, each leading to a larger hole. I wind the yarn so it passes through the slits into the holes. Soon the middle of the shuttle is thick with yarn.
‘Like this?’
She examines it critically. ‘It’ll do. Come sit here, I’ll teach you how to use it.’
I gather the folds of my flowing garment and sit cross-legged beside her on the cushioned bench. She leans forward on the table to consult a number of thick books. ‘Can you read?’ she asks me.
‘A little,’ I reply, looking doubtfully at the massive tome she is holding.
‘All right, don’t worry, I’ll teach you.’
She shows me how to wrap the yarn around three fingers of my hand and hold it closed in a circle with my thumb and index finger. Next she teaches me how to take the trailing thread with the shuttle in my other hand and pass it over and through the ring, pull tight … I blank out a little bit till she says, ‘There, and that’s a double stitch. Now you try.’
I blanch. ‘I … can’t!’
‘Of course, you can. Even my little sisters can do it.’
Two hours later, it turns out I really can. We laugh as we make colourful chains and little loops that she says are called picots.
I might go to the devil for saying this, but I think Fazal and I are becoming friends. The summer goes by and the days become shorter and cooler. Every evening at dusk, we lie on the grass, our heads touching, looking up at the sky.
‘I read that there are machines that can take you up to the clouds,’ she says one day.
I laugh at the notion. ‘That would be flying. That’s impossible.’
‘You should learn to read properly,’ she responds. ‘Then you’ll be able to read the stories for yourself.’ She gets up and looks down at me. ‘We should start you on lessons.’
‘Then what about the tatting?’
She waves an arm carelessly. ‘You’re clever, you can handle both.’
I sit up. ‘Why are you doing all this?’ I ask her. ‘All this playing around with threads and reading? One day you will run your mother’s business empire. Don’t you want daughters of your own?’
She looks at me curiously. ‘Of course I do.’ She studies me for a while. ‘Or maybe I’ll have sons.’
She gets up and runs inside. Her choice of words baffles me. Why would she want sons? Sons can’t carry the family forward; they would be of no use to the business.
I meet Fazal’s youngest siblings the next day. They are back from visiting their aunts for the summer. We are having a reading lesson when the door bangs open and two whirlwinds rush in.
‘Sister! Where is it? Mother said we could meet … ‘
They come to a sudden halt in front of us. I can’t help smiling at the pair of them. They are about six years old, too young to go away to school like their other sisters. They are twins, though they don’t look much like each other. Their heads are shorn, like all girl-children of upper families, and they’re dressed in identical linen playsuits. Their eyes are green–brown, like their sister’s, and alive with mischief.
They study me with naked curiosity, as one nudges the other and says in a loud whisper. ‘Don’t say “it”. Mother says that’s rude.’
Fazal gets up and approaches them. They kiss her hand formally and then hug her tightly. I suddenly wonder if I ever had any sisters. Or brothers.
She puts an arm each around the two and turns towards me. ‘Sisters, this is Sifar.’ To me she says, ‘Meet Idraak, the Wisdom of the Ages, and Azaad, the Freedom of the Skies.’
I bow to them. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Wisdom and Freedom.’
‘Idi,’ says the Wisdom shyly. She points to her twin. ‘And that’s Aza.’
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‘Sister, can we borrow your companion to play with?’ Idi bounces up and down on her toes.
‘No,’ says Fazal, catching the fidgety child by the shoulders. ‘We’re working. You can work with us. Do you want to practise your letters?’
Aza, apparently the quieter one, but not at all shy, has come up to me. She fingers the curls on my head. ‘I love your hair,’ she says and turns to Fazal. ‘Sister, do you think I could have curls when I grow up?’
Idi makes a face. ‘Curls are for boys.’
‘But I— ‘
‘Enough,’ Fazal cuts in. ‘Get your books if you want to work with us.’
One day Fazal asks me: ‘If you could have anything, do anything, what would you want?’
I think for a moment. ‘I want to fly – in those machines you mentioned that take you up in the sky.’ After a pause, I add, ‘And I want to wear trousers like you, instead of this ridiculous robe.’
That makes her laugh. I like how I can do that so easily. She takes away the intricate pattern I’m tatting and puts a new shuttle in my hands. ‘Hold on to those thoughts about flying and trousers, and make me something beautiful.’
That makes me laugh in turn. I can hardly hold the shuttle and yarn properly. It comes out uneven, but Fazal is inordinately pleased.
That night, after the evening meal, Fazal comes into my room. She holds a large parcel wrapped in brown paper, a smaller one covered in tissue, and a familiar wooden box. I have eyes only for the box.
I know that she owns my memory lace by rights, but I don’t want to be reminded of it.
She must read something in my expression, for she comes close to me, puts her hands on my shoulder and gently pulls me into a hug. ‘It’s all right,’ she says softly in my ear.
Eat the Sky, Drink the Ocean Page 10
