The Cry of the Dove: A Novel (27 page)

`Yes,' I said and nodded.

`You're hired. Come back tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp.'

At first I did not grasp what he had said then I realized that he had offered me a job. I was too tired and too hungry to smile. I bowed with gratitude and walked out before he changed his mind.

I put on a pair of clean jeans, a blue T-shirt and tied my hair back with a band. Apart from some cream I wore no make-up. After experimenting with an old computer Allan had in his office, I was slightly more confident about the whole business of learning. I wanted to show John that I was not an alcoholic, not a barbarian, and that I had been raised well by my parents, back there in Hima, and neither he nor the Pope could raise me again. When I opened his office door, he smiled a pale smile and asked me to sit down. I must be a chore for him by now, one of those housewives in part-time education. I smiled back and asked him directly, `What do you like about Margaret Atwood's book?'

I noticed by the twisting of the mouth to one side that he was caught by surprise. `Which book?'

The English were a precise race, not like us, we leave most of our sentences unfinished and they get understood from the gesture, the angle of the head, the choice of the words. `The Handmaid's Tale?'

`An interesting book, well written,' he said rubbing his chin.

`You should have recommended it instead ofJustine. It was very, very difficult. Good difficult.'

He smiled as if I were a child describing a day at the circus. They never say it, but most of them treat me as if I were a baboon climbing trees. Gwen told me why once. Because I use `very' a lot. `There was nothing that was very, very good,' she said. `You are very, very dark,' I once said to Parvin.

`I don't know how to knock "very" out of your English,' she answered.

John looked at me above his half-moon glasses, still rubbing his goatee as if I were a puzzle. I came from dark countries, with blood feuds and hostages. If I were him I wouldn't teach me.

He finally looked up, took off his glasses, placed them in a small old case, closed his newspaper, folded it slowly then said, as if talking to the back of the woman in the poster, `You lied to us.'

I was blushing and lost all the English I'd memorized. I felt hot and decided to give up the degree altogether. I looked at the Persian rug.

`On your application form it says single but whenever you're behind you claim that your daughter or your family are in trouble' He slapped the desk with his folded newspaper and continued, `You have no daughter and no husband.'

I had expected the attack to come from a different angle, from the direction of my lack of intellect and poor education, and me not knowing how to use a computer, but I did not expect to be hit directly on the nose like that. I sat up on the chair and straightened my back. I didn't know how to handle the attack. I must quit this degree or transfer to Sociology or Anthropology.

When he stood up and walked around the desk, I ducked, expecting him to hit me, but puzzled by my reaction he just sat next to me where I could smell the cleanness of his freshly washed shirt and said, `You have no daughter or husband.'

Looking at his Persian rug, the wildness of its patterns, the brightness of its colours, I whispered, `Just a daughter.'

MAHMOUD, MY BROTHER, WAS GIVEN A LOADED RIFLE TO kill Daffash's best stallion. My father's voice roared, `They killed our horse, we must kill theirs or else they will start shooting down the men of our tribe.' My brother was late that night, but when we heard the shots fired Mahmoud galloped back to the dark courtyard. `Bless you, my boy! The horse is a member of El-Musa family. His blood had to be avenged' And we congregated in groups, families, clans, tribes; our honour must be protected, our blood must be avenged; eating together, sleeping together ten to a room or a tent, our destiny shackled together in a chain. Welcoming the morning faint light on my face, the gentle drizzle, I realized that for better or worse I had broken the metal ring tying me to my family. Here was I in my new country, walking to work with a rucksack on my shoulders full of bits of paper, books, a coffee flask and a haloumi cheese sandwich. I had earned everything I had apart from the money Minister Mahoney had given me. I walked shackled to nothing but my nightmares. If you had no family, you killed no horses.

`So, please, where do you come from?' John asked then sipped some coffee. We were sitting in the staff club.

I looked at the grey peppering his receding hair, his tired blue eyes, his large ears, stocky fingers, the glasses case in the pocket of his ruffled shirt, his spindly arms covered with fine dark hairs and shook my head. `No, not me.You, where do you come from?' I asked.

`I come from a small village in the north-east of England called Aycliffe. My mother has a small stone house by the river,' he said and pulled his glasses out of the leather case.

`Do you have cliffs, sheep?' I asked John.

`It is almost flat, but we have plenty of sheep, dogs, hens. It's rural,' he said and placed his hand on top of mine.

Minister Mahoney's mother used to use a Victorian coal-powered iron to iron her husband's shirts. It must have been very hot and heavy. I suppressed a gasp. `Scorching hot, John. Plenty of goats where I come from. Vines and olive and plum and almond and fig and apple trees.'

`It sounds paradisiacal,' he said and put on his reading glasses.

`In some ways.'

`Why are you here?' he asked.

`Why are you here?' I asked.

`I am here because I couldn't find a job in the north. So here I am marooned in this humourless south.'

`Marooned?'

`A person isolated in a desolate place, unable to leave.'

`Good. I marooned on this island UK,' I said and looked away through the glass walls of the cafe. It was raining and the white flowers of the dogwood tree glittered in the sunset.

Dark pink and red oleanders lined the stream all the way to the mill. My mother and I walked to the next dwelling to visit her cousin. It was so hot you could see the cracks in the ground teeming with black ants carrying dry husks.That afternoon my mother said,'Let us sit down by the cold spring to rest our limbs.' She walked through the dense field looking for a ripe watermelon. When she found one she freed it from its vine then hit it hard repeatedly against the sharp edge of a rock until it split open. We sat, legs in the cold water, eating the red flesh of the watermelon and chewing at the small black seeds. My mother spat them out and I chewed then swallowed them. She plunged my hands into the cold water to wash off the sticky liquid then washed my face. `Mother, the water is cool. Can I swim?'

`If they see you they will kill me. Only a loose woman takes off her clothes and swims in public. Men might see you,' she said and pulled up her black face mask, hesitated then added, Be quick!'

I took off my long orange shirt but kept my green pantaloons on, then jumped in. The water was so clear and cold my legs seemed broken as soon as I stepped in it. I plunged my head into the water right above the glistening pebbles and swam towards rays of light. The cold water against my hot skin was such a shock that I cried out with excitement. My flesh was so alive with wanting.

`Shush, broken-neck! We don't want the men of the tribe to hear you,' she said.

She should have said no, but she said yes.

`Why didn't she say no?' I asked John.

`Who?' John asked.

`My mother,' I said.

`Sally? Are you all right?' John asked.

I pulled my hand out of his grip, turned my head, looked at his blurred eager face and said, `I am fine. It must be the coffee. It's very, very hot.'

Pressing my hands on the windowsill I looked through the dusty glass at the mill in the distance and the dim sheen of the river. I normally meet John in Reed Hall after work, but today he was back in Aycliffe village visiting his mother. While watching the trees bloom we would talk and talk about literature, types of wild flowers, kinds of birds, and about being ill at ease. He did not feel comfortable in the south and I felt `like a fish out of water', which was one of Parvin's favourite phrases, in this new land. One day he had a phone call from a neighbour telling him that his mother had bronchitis. `She coughed so much we took her to Casualty.'

My fingers slowly slid across the coarse tablecloth and held his rough thumb. His hand was trembling when he said, `I must go to see her.'

`Yes, you must. Waste no time. See your loved .. .' I choked.

`You must miss her terribly,' he said and held my hand.

`Me miss her horribly' l said and wiped an irrepressible tear.

He held his nose with his thumb and forefinger, cleared his throat and said, `I want to tell my mother about you, if you don't mind.'

I relaxed my shoulders, placed my hand where my ribcage met, and nodded.

The trees in the distance looked like thin, dark limbs extending upwards towards the sky. Hamdan refused to marry me and disappeared. He said that I was a slut, cheap, `damaged goods', which is what Parvin said describing herself, and a liar. Jim might be thinking, Sally foreign slapper. Sleeps with everyone and offers them sage tea. His mother might warn him against foreign women carrying disease. The trees seemed like hands extending towards dark clouds. I sighed. John's northern heart might be warm enough, spacious enough, to take on a Bedouin woman with `baggage', as Parvin would say. And what about me, tired and all? Could I offer him an oasis with a pond full of fresh water and palm trees laden with sweet dates? Perhaps not. Some shade for his tired heart might be enough, I thought, and let go of the windowsill.

`At the end of my tutorial he gave me a box, tied up with thick red satin ribbon. "It's for you," he said, "open it!"'

The sunlight coming through the large cafe windows turned Parvin's hazel eyes into clear honey. She looked radiant and contented.

`When I opened I almost cry. It was full of sweet things from the Middle East: a packet of dates, baklava with pistachio nuts, halva and Turkish delight. He said that he knew little about the Levant, but he happy to learn.' I ran my hands over my frizzy hair, rubbed my chin and said, `Parvin, John want to marry me.'

`How sweet,' she said and meant it.

`He also said that he happy to become Muslim. He no believe in God, but it will be "nominal". What means?'

`Not true. In name only,' she said.

`I told him Muslim is difficult.You don't want Muslim.'

`Muslim is fucking complicated,' she said and sipped some coffee.

`But he read so much about it and he knew what he was doing. I said that I damaged goods, which what Elizabeth said. I said warning: I wounded animal. I might flip'

`Did that put him off?,

The sunlight seemed as if it were woven in Parvin's dark hair, her eyes were luminous, her skin healthy, the engagement solitaire ring and wedding ring shone on her fine finger.

'John has his own problems too. No saint. He wants to marry me. That's that.'

`What about you? Do you fancy him?' she asked.

`Not capable of love. Too tired, too much past,' I said.

`You never stop talking about him. I bet you'll marry him,' she said.

`No, I not marry him,' I said and drank some caramelflavoured milk that Parvin had ordered for me.

She stopped folding and unfolding the napkin, looked me in the eye, and said, `Salma, I bet you'll marry John.'

`My brother brought me bag full of biscuits and Turkish delight,' I said.

The florist smiled when I asked for scarlet musk roses. Carrying a bunch of English red roses I took a taxi to the crematorium to attend her funeral. She died suddenly in her sleep hugging the silver box full of rancid butter. Liver failure. A shiver ran all the way to my toes when I got out of the car. It was a 'glorious' day, warm in the sunny spots, but cold in the shade.

Her relatives arrived in shiny black cars and her friends followed the procession. The women were all dressed in black: black dresses, suits, black hats and big black sunglasses.The men looked uncomfortable in their grey or navy suits. A young woman stood by the entrance shaking hands, tall, back bent, in a black dress-and-jacket suit, her blond hair tucked neatly under a black cap with a net covering her forehead and puffy red eyes. She must be Natasha. Her mother's wheelchair blocked the entrance. I approached them and introduced myself. Liz's sister, tiny and flushed with suppressed grief, held my hand tight and said, `Thank you for taking care of her.'

`Don't thank me for upholding my duty,' I said, translating from Arabic.

When we were ushered to the small chapel for the burial service I saw the bunch of red roses in a glass vase over the polished mahogany of the piano. The sunbeams lit up the room and were broken by the glass vase into numerous little rainbows. I sat down, leant on the small rail cushion and moved away the Bible.

Very few pairs of eyes were uncovered, the rest were hiding behind big dark sunglasses, hats or nets. Lips were tight. Tears were shameful.

When my aunt died, women in black madraqas, veils, headbands, removed their face masks, wailed and swayed for three days. They washed her in the storage room among the wheat and barley, wrapped her in yards of gauzy white cotton, placed her in a makeshift coffin and the men carried her on their shoulders all the way to the mosque. My mother and grandmother refused to stay at home and followed the procession all the way to the top of the hill. Other women remained behind, skinning the slaughtered goat, breaking the jamid: dry yoghurt pieces against clay jars, cooking the meat, their tears sputtering on hot baking tins. The synchronized banging of chests and rending of garments could be heard in the mosque across the valley. When she finally came home in the evening my mother was covered in ashes, her robe split all the way down to her waist, her vest smeared with snot and mud, her head uncovered. She had lost her voice so she pointed to the clay jar in the corner. I brought her a cup of water. She drank it and went out again. Under the moonlight I could only see the outline of her dark body rocking back and forth with grief.