I Can't Think Straight (11 page)

Tala couldn’t have said what it was she heard that caused her to suddenly hold back as Leyla was pulling her down towards her. Perhaps a creak, the way that floorboard in the hallway outside always creaked when your foot hit it a certain way. But she stood up, her hand still entwined with Leyla’s, and turned just in time to see her mother standing in the doorway.

After she had calmed down, Reema had called Lamia back and they had spoken at length, after which Reema had at once formulated a plan and woken up early to take the flight to London that very morning, accompanied by reinforcements, including, as usual, her faithful housekeeper, Rani. It was Lamia who, of all her children, at least took the time to really communicate with her, to convey to her myriad details, precise images, thoughtful deductions. It made for more interesting conversation than Tala’s quick overviews, or Zina’s accusatory complaints. And among the deductions that Lamia had made within a few hours of her arrival in Oxford, was that her elder sister was once again in thrall to some unknown person, and that this person was not Hani, and far worse, was not a man at all.

It was immediately clear to Reema that she had arrived just in time. She took in the little tableau before her: Leyla on the sofa, Tala standing above her, clearly surprised. The sudden shift which they made away from each other was further evidence, if any were needed, that something untoward was in the air. Sweeping in, Reema kissed the air by her daughter’s cheek, brushing off her stuttered shock that Reema was in London, and shook Leyla’s hand. They all stood together for a tense moment, polite and awkward, until the telephone rang. A slow smile broke across Reema’s face and she nodded at Tala to answer it.

Unbalanced, confused, Tala reached for the phone and flicked it on. It was Hani. As they exchanged greetings, she tried to recover herself, for she could hardly believe the poor timing of her mother’s surprise arrival from Amman.

‘I just walked in from Oxford,’ Tala told him, trying to negotiate an early end to the call. Her eyes flickered between her mother and Leyla, who were speaking, exchanging pleasantries, which she was intent on lip-reading in case the conversation should deteriorate.

‘I know,’ Hani replied.

Tala frowned, her attention scattered. ‘What? How do you know?’

‘I can see you.’ She could hear a smile in Hani’s voice, and before any concrete thought could trouble her mind, her stomach dropped.

‘What do you mean?’ Tala asked, desperately. ‘Where are you?’

‘Right here,’ and she immediately became aware of a large shape lingering outside in the hallway, a shape that solidified into something, someone recognisable as it took two steps into the room.

Hani.

‘Your mother suggested it. A surprise for you.’

His voice was suddenly rich and real after the tinny distortion of the phone. He stood looking at her, tall, smiling, his eyes filled with excitement and adoration. His arms were open to her now, and automatically she moved forward, as she was required to, as she would have done without thinking had Leyla not been standing next to her. She was wrapped in a hug, in the honest, familiar scent of him, which enveloped her for some thirty long seconds.

‘I missed you, Tala,’ Hani was telling her. ‘Now we can go back to Amman together.’

Reema sat down and smiled at Leyla, a smile of companionship and conspiracy that they two should be witnessing this beautiful reunion of lovers. Leyla smiled back; she was smiling, an intense grimace, as though her life relied upon it, and she too sat down, collapsed down, into the forgiving leather of the sofa behind her. He was kissing Tala now, she could not help but see, on her head, on her mouth and holding her again. Leyla looked at Reema, for she had to look away from the couple in the doorway, and as the older woman reached for the cigarette lighter, Leyla imagined her response if it were she who was hugging and kissing her daughter on the other side of the room. She would kill me, Leyla thought, wildly. With her curved, manicured fingers she would hold the flaming palm tree lighter to my clothes and incinerate me. Then they would kill their daughter. An honour killing. She had read about them. It wouldn’t be a crime, it would be a duty, a necessity, a cause for celebration.

‘They’re so in love, it brings tears to my eyes,’ Reema confided, letting out a stream of cigarette smoke that seemed to solidify in the turgid air between them. Then she reached for a tissue and dabbed gently at the side of her eyes.

Aware of Leyla’s agony, Tala tried delicately to pull as far away from Hani as possible without actually having him notice. She took off her jacket, folding it carefully, taking her time, avoiding the moment when she must sit beside her fiancé and accept his touch of her hand, the way he always touched her when they were close together. She felt Reema’s intense, close interest as she observed them; she felt it like a cold breath on her neck. Her mother’s triumphant air had not escaped her either. She was certain that Hani had been made a pawn in one of Reema’s unsavoury games, but the disgust she felt at this was offset by her fiancé’s genuine excitement at seeing her. But her real concern was for Leyla. She was suffering, Tala could tell, and she could not think of a way to ease it.

It was obvious to Leyla that Hani’s eyes sought only Tala, that his whole being gravitated towards her, happily, willingly, helplessly.

This made his immediate attention towards Leyla herself all the more remarkable and kind – he sat opposite her and spent several minutes enquiring about her background, her work, the general terms of her life. Under the warmth and openness of his gaze, Leyla began to feel less lost, less panicked.

‘Oxford must have been beautiful,’ he said, genuinely interested.

‘The buildings. The river.’

‘It was wonderful,’ Leyla replied, with a stab of guilt. She would not, could not look directly at Tala. Hani smiled and reached for Tala’s hand, which held his for a moment. She was grateful for his interest in Leyla; it was typical of his kindness and openness, and she felt guilty towards him, that she was hiding from him certain feelings; that he knew so much less of her than he realised. With relief, she turned to the doorway where Rani stood with the news that lunch was on the table.

Leyla got up, quickly, sensing an opportunity to fashion a hasty exit, for she could not imagine having to sit through a meal with the woman she was in love with, her terrifying mother and her kind fiancé.

‘I really have to go, I…’

‘I won’t hear of it,’ Reema interrupted firmly. ‘A quick bite. We can all get to know each other.’

With assertive elegance, she blocked off the door to the hallway and ushered them all into the cavernous formal dining room, where four places were set at one end of a table that was long enough to seat a small banquet. Reema indicated their places, which she had chosen strategically, positioning Leyla next to herself, so she could fully enjoy the view of Hani and Tala opposite, together.

‘This looks amazing,’ Hani said, looking at the food. ‘I’ve been learning to cook myself, you know.’

‘Why?’ Tala asked.

‘Because you don’t,’ Reema answered. ‘And I tried to teach her,’ she assured Hani, as if she were offering him a mule with which she had done her best but which retained a stubborn temperament all the same. ‘I know we have cooks and staff, but one has to know what should be going on in the kitchen, if you want to give the right orders.’

‘That’s how my boss justifies giving me the worst jobs to do, Aunty,’ Hani laughed. ‘He tells me its good experience.’

‘Hani works in the Jordanian government,’ Reema told Leyla.

She was pleased that her son-in-law (for she already considered him as such) had underscored the value of her cooking analogy, but could not understand why he would draw attention to the fact that he worked under so many people. He didn’t need to work at all, except to watch over his father’s wealth, but since he insisted on it, Reema made a note to train him out of his habit of self-depreca-tion after the wedding, or to make sure he rose up the ranks more quickly. Although exactly how far he could go would be hindered by two facts, ironically the same two that made him such a marvellous catch as a husband for Tala – that he was Christian, and that he was Palestinian. Never in Jordan’s history had a Christian made it to the post of Prime Minister. But perhaps Foreign Minister? Reema brightened. It was unlikely, but not, she calculated, impossible.

Particularly if he could be persuaded to stop drawing attention to the fact that he was of Palestinian origin. Although the vast majority of Jordan’s population was Palestinian, there was always underlying resentment from the true Jordanians, Reema thought bitterly.

‘Hani works in the foreign office,’ Tala added. It was the first comment she had made directly to Leyla since her mother’s arrival, and she allowed her eyes to rest on the girl opposite for a few moments, during which she tried to convey all the remorse, uncertainty and concern that she felt. Leyla looked away, to Hani.

‘Does that cover relations with Israel?’

‘Yes, it does.’

‘Must be hard work.’

‘The hardest,’ he smiled. ‘But I have hope we can come to resolution in the end. The Palestinians, I mean.’

There he went again, Reema noted with annoyance. He worked for Jordan, not Palestine.

‘How can you have hope?’ Leyla asked, a question which was less a political concern than a direct articulation of the crushing sensation in her chest. ‘Half the Palestinians don’t want Israel to even exist,’ she continued, ‘and the other half are being trampled by Israeli settlements and tanks anyway.’

There was a moment of silence, which Reema had geared up to fill, when Hani spoke quietly.

‘If I don’t have hope, then I might as well give up.’ He took a drink of water. ‘As soon as the more radical Arabs accept that Israel does exist, that it’s not going to disappear, that they can’t and shouldn’t be trying to blow it up, then we can move to the next step.’

‘How many models of democracy do we have in the Middle East?’ Tala asked suddenly. ‘Israel isn’t perfect but it’s the closest. Maybe we can learn something.’

‘What do you want to learn?’ Reema interrupted. ‘How to shoot children?’

‘I’m not defending Israel’s actions, far from it,’ Tala replied, grateful for the chance to snipe at her mother, even over the wrong cause.

‘But let’s not forget that our own Arab leaders have often not treated their own people well either.’

‘That doesn’t make what Israel does right…’ Hani said quietly.

‘I don’t think that’s Tala’s point,’ Leyla said. ‘Is it?’

For the first time, they looked at each other.

‘I don’t know what I did,’ Reema growled, ‘to give birth to such an Arab-hater.’

Tala flinched slightly, then threw her mother a disgusted glance that focused onto Reema all her anger, all her confusion, all of her distaste and dissatisfaction for everything that was happening – from the politics of their region, to the subterfuge of Hani’s visit, to her mother’s refusal to stop meddling in Tala’s personal life. Hani put a hand on Tala’s back, and Leyla saw that the movement reached something within her; that it stimulated a pause, a breath.

‘Aunty,’ Hani said, his tone polite but firm. ‘Your daughter is one of the proudest Palestinians I know.’

The boy was clearly head over heels in love, Reema thought. She was irritated beyond belief, but she would not risk arguing back until the marriage contract had been signed. The following silence held only the alternately crisp and liquid sounds of tense mastica-tion.

‘The food is delicious,’ Leyla murmured at last.

‘Do you cook?’ Reema asked.

Under the laser gaze, Leyla sat up slightly in her chair. ‘Yes. I love food. And cooking.’

‘Curries?’ Reema enquired.

Tala sighed irritably. ‘Why do you assume that someone of Indian descent can only make a curry?’ she asked.

‘Mama, what is the matter with you today?’ demanded Reema.

‘We’re having a conversation, over lunch, like civilised people do. If you don’t want to take part, then don’t.’

Hani smiled at Leyla. ‘What do you like to cook?’

‘It depends on the day.’

‘And your mood, right?’ Hani asked.

‘Yes.’

‘For me too.’

Leyla took a breath. He seemed intent on creating links between them, little bonds and commonalities, and she could not stand it.

Her throat felt clamped now, the narrow, hard muscles were constricting her breathing, her speech, everything. Behind her, Reema’s housekeeper appeared, bearing a silver salver. She deposited a glass of fizzing medication before Reema.

‘Are you feeling okay?’ asked Reema, the gleam in her eye obscured by the smoke that surrounded her head. Even at mealtimes the biting urge for a cigarette would seek her out, requiring fulfillment, even if Tala and Zina never understood the pressure and always complained.

‘Just a headache,’ Leyla said hoarsely.

‘Here,’ Reema offered her the fizzing liquid, sliding the glass across the table. Leyla felt the housekeeper shift uncomfortably behind her.

‘No, thank you. I just need the bathroom.’

Reema smiled slightly. ‘Upstairs. Ninth door on the left. Rani!’

Rani nodded and hurried to hold the door open for Leyla and waited a polite moment before allowing it to close behind her, after which she glided back to the table and unobtrusively slid the tainted medicine back towards Reema’s plate.

The bathroom itself only increased the overwrought feeling which had its roots in Leyla’s stomach. All around her, the tiles held a relentless pattern, of yellow and green twisting vines that rose up the walls into a tangled mass that spread around the base of the ceiling. Every small section of space around the basin, each little shelf, was crammed with exquisitely carved soaps, with flowery candles and with perfume bottles. Combined, they created an overpower-ing and uniquely fake odour of sweetness in the confined space of the room.

Leyla turned the tap on, in case anyone should be listening, and also to enjoy the relief of watching the fresh stream of cold water.

She leaned her head, defeated, against the cool glass of the mirror, then splashed her face. The touch of the water was restoring, a relief to her burning anguish. Abruptly, she turned off the tap, dried her face briefly and walked out and down the stairs where she found that Tala was waiting for her. Tala took her hand before she had even stepped into the hallway.