A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar (2 page)

‘What can we do?’

Millicent began a soft prayer that I could not hear very well beneath the cries of the baby.

‘We should move her, find help,’ I said, but Millicent did not respond. I watched her lift the mother’s hand. She shook her head, did not look up at me.

‘Millicent, no.’

I spoke uselessly, but I could not believe it: a life disappeared in front of us, down into the desert cracks, as simple as a shift in the clouds. Immediately, there was uproar from our gaping spectators.

‘What are they saying Lizzie?’ I shouted. Blood kept coming from between her legs, a hopeful tide looking for a shore. Lizzie stared at the red tracks on Millicent’s wrist.

‘They are saying we have killed this girl,’ she said, ‘and that we have stolen her heart to protect ourselves from the sandstorms.’

‘What?’ The faces in the crowd dared to come close to me, rushing against me, placing their hands with black nails on me. I pushed the hands away.

‘They say we have taken the girl to give ourselves strength, and that we plan to steal the baby and eat it.’ Lizzie spoke quickly, in that odd, high voice. Her ability with this impenetrable Turki language is much better than mine.

‘She died in childbirth, natural causes, as you can all very well see,’ Millicent shouted uselessly in English, and then repeated it in Turki. Lizzie set about bringing water in our tankards and a blanket.

‘They are demanding that we are shot.’

‘Nonsense.’ Millicent took the blanket from Lizzie and they stood together; a lady and her handmaiden.

‘Now, who’, Millicent held the screeching baby high up as if it were a severed head, an offering, ‘will take this baby?’

There was not a sound from the disbelieving faces watching her.

‘Who is responsible for this baby girl? Is there a relative?’

I knew already. No one wanted her. None of that crowd even looked at the girl in the dust, just a child herself, or at the blood becoming earth. Insects walked on her legs already. Lizzie held the blanket out and Millicent wrapped the furious, wailing scrap of bone and skin into a bundle. Without saying anything she handed it to me.

We were then ‘escorted’ by the family elder and his son to Kashgar’s city gates where, through whatever magical form of communication, notice of our arrival had already been received. The Magistrates’ Court was open, despite it being early evening, and a Chinese official brought in, because, although this is a Moslem–Turkic area, it is ruled by the Chinese. Our carts were searched through, our possessions examined. They took my bicycle from the back of the cart and it, as well as us I suppose, attracted a large crowd. Bicycles are rarely seen here, and a woman riding one is simply unimaginable.

Millicent explained: ‘We are missionaries, entirely peaceful. We came upon the young mother as we approached your city.’ Then, ‘Sit as still as the Buddha,’ she whispered. ‘Indifference is best in situations like these.’

The baby’s skull was a curious hot thing in my hand, not soft, but neither hard; a padded shell filled with new blood. This was the first time I had ever held a baby so new, and a baby girl. I wrapped her in the blanket, tight, and held her against me in an effort to soothe the angry fists and the purple-red face of a raging soul howling with indignation and terror. Eventually, she swooned into an exhausted sleep. I checked her every moment, fearful that she would die. We struggled to sit as still as we could. There were murmurs and discussions in the fast local dialect. Millicent and Lizzie hissed at me:

‘Cover your hair.’

I quickly adjusted my scarf. Like my mother’s, my hair is a terrible, bright red, and in this region it seems to be a sensation. Along the last stage of our journey from Osh to Kashgar in particular men stared with open mouths as if I were naked, as if I were cavorting before them with wings on my back and silver rings in my nose. In the villages children ran towards me, pointing, then moved backwards as though scared until I was done with it and covered my head with a scarf like a Mohammedan. This worked, but it had fallen off during the scuffle in the dust.

Millicent translated: due to the accusations of the witnesses we were to undergo a trial, charged with murder and witchcraft (or the summoning of devils). Or rather, Millicent was. She was the one who had held the baby aloft and had used her knife on the girl.

‘We will have to bribe our way out of this,’ Millicent whispered, her face was as hard as the sun-charred desert earth.

‘We will give you the money,’ Millicent said, her voice quiet, but clear, ‘though we have to send a message to our supporters in Shanghai and Moscow, which will take some days.’

‘You will be our guests,’ the official responded. ‘Our great city of Kashi is pleasured to host you.’

We are, therefore, forced to remain in this pink, dusty basin. Not under ‘house-arrest’ exactly, though as we must have permission to leave the house, I confess I fail to see the difference.

2.
London, Present Day

Pimlico

Lighting the scented candles had been a mistake; now the room smelled like a synthetic pine forest. Frieda blew them out with an excessive puff-puff at each one. It was 1.20am. She closed the window, pulling the sash-frame down with a bang, and looked in the mirror. Her silk vest was the colour of the inside of a shell – cool, silver, shivery – and its pearl-shade faded and melted her down. She glanced around for a cardigan and tipped the bottle of wine she had opened – to let breathe – down the sink, watching for a moment the blood-swill of it drain away. It could breathe as much as it wanted now. From the smell it was rough stuff anyway.
At least I didn’t cook for him
. She looked at her phone on the table. Not a call, a text, anything.

She deliberated, vaguely, over the thought of running a bath, but didn’t have the energy for submergence, or the decision of when to get out. Mascara came off with a cotton pad. The last time she was in bed with Nathaniel, several months or so earlier, he had said, ‘I can’t believe you let grubby me lie beside you’. She rubbed her face with a towel. She couldn’t believe she let him, either. Three cacti stood along the windowsill like tired soldiers waiting for instructions. She put a finger against a yellow spike of the largest one and pushed on to it to get the sting but the spike was soft, and fell off at her touch. The cacti had anaemic patches all over them. They were in need of tending. She went to the kitchen.

Children come first. That’s how it is. If there were a contest or a selection process or a ranking system then children would always win. Top priority: the boys. Afflicted, apparently, with disrupted nights, perpetually waking up to check that Daddy is there, to make sure he is breathing in the room, that his hand is near to their head and that they will never be left alone in the dark. Their dreams come scarily – monsters, pirates and loneliness – as do thoughts they can’t control or articulate properly, yet. The last thing they want is for him to disappear to the garage for cigarettes for a few hours in the middle of the night.

Her palms were itchy, hot then cold. It had all worked well with Nathaniel for a while, the balance of freedom and intimacy.
You’re a free spirit, Frie’. You come. You go
. The travelling and the landing; the hot, profound, close impulsiveness of him. It used to leave her body light and her daily existence unreal and immaterial, so that it did not matter that he wasn’t in much of it. She was in control, back then, when Nathaniel suggested that he leave his wife to come and be with her, but she refused. She did not want three little boys’ battered hearts upon her conscience. Though there was more to it. He was one of those men who needed tending, like her patchy cacti. She wanted none of that.

She stood at the kitchen sink.
Her first night back and he’d missed it
. Cool fingers of September air came in from somewhere. Outside a train appeared, heading for Victoria Station. Electrical lines above the tracks linked and flashed, creating a line of light that sliced Frieda’s face and neck like a laser so that she was exposed for a second, a hung x-ray in white light, and then thrown immediately back into darkness. It was a relief to be home. That last trip, the last hotel, was not at all fun: a four-star, but with no room service and an empty mini-bar. Police and military vans moving around the square outside the hotel and loudspeakers booming instructions. The internet had been turned off by the authorities across the entire region and the streets were empty apart from packs of soldiers jogging in groups of eight holding riot shields. She had stood at the window staring at her phone as if it were a broken heart in her palm. It flashed up disconnect every time she tried to make an international call. Some sort of civil unrest, but she had no way of knowing what was happening; she just knew she wasn’t meant to be there. Where? It didn’t really matter. The cities were blending into one, now. It was just yet another place that was no longer safe for her to be in, being English, being a woman. Actually, it was the English part that was the problem. In taxis she always told drivers she was Irish. Nobody hates the Irish any more.

She had booked the first possible flight home and all through the long journey had thought of Nathaniel. In the airport lounge – that existential zone for the lonely traveller – it occurred to her that lately the balance of control was ambiguous. Nathaniel’s unreliability brought out a brutal, almost paralysing frustration in her. She was feeling something new in herself and with horror realised that it was neediness, or worse, a craving for consistency. For the first time, her work was not enough.

There was a cough at the door. Damn. Just as she had taken all of her make-up off. She walked towards the door, but stopped. There it was again. It wasn’t Nathaniel. She waited several moments and then walked quietly to the spy-hole. The night light was on in the stairwell and a man was sitting on the floor just outside her door with his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes were closed but he did not look asleep.

Frieda jumped backwards with her heart whacking against her chest, but she could not resist peeping out again. He was facing her now, as if he could see right through the door. She thought he was going to stand up, come towards her, but he glanced down at his hand and did not move. He was holding a pen.

She went as quietly as she could back into the kitchen. There was a number on the pinboard for the City Guardians, a group of volunteers responsible for cleaning up streets and clearing off the homeless; she could always phone that, or the police? There was the double lock on the door, but if she put that on now he would hear it and she would only draw attention to herself. She moved into the living room, instead, and returned to the window. In the street the group of kids with their mobile phones had gone and there seemed to be nobody left out there, just the rain, and the concrete swelling in the wetness and the shake of trees sagging under water. At intervals she heard the cough from the stairwell. A city fox, scrawny and barely coated, flashed underneath the skip bins. Frieda looked down the empty, wet street and made a decision. From a cupboard she pulled out a pillow and a blanket. She took another look. He was curled up on the floor now; she could just see his bent back, his leather jacket, the black scruff of his hair.

It was undoubtedly inadvisable to let him know that there was a young woman living here, probably alone, but she opened the door anyway. The man immediately scrambled himself up into a sitting position and looked at her. He had a moustache, and sleepy-looking eyes, not an unpleasant face. Frieda didn’t say anything, didn’t smile, but handed him the pillow and the blanket and quickly closed the door. Five minutes later she looked again through the peephole. He was sitting with the blanket wrapped around his legs, leaning against the wall with the pillow propped behind his head, smoking a cigarette.

In the morning she found the blanket folded up with the pillow balancing on top of it, and on the wall next to her door was a large drawing of a bird: long beak, peculiar legs and a feathery tail. It was not a bird she could identify. There were some words in Arabic and although she actually had elementary Arabic, she wasn’t up to understanding what it said. Below, in English, was written:

As the great poet says you’re afflicted,

like me, with a bird’s journey
.

Next to the bird was a swirl of peacock feathers, and alongside that an intricate drawing of a boat made out of a flock of seagulls, the seagulls floating off and forming a sunset. Frieda walked out of the doorway to have a proper look. She touched the black marks with her finger, then leaned over the railing to look down the spiral of the receding staircase. The cleaner was on the ground floor, with his mop. He looked up at her and nodded.