Читать книгу Called to Song - Kharnita Mohamed - Страница 6

Qabila ran. Just ahead, a rivulet of golden words streamed from a great glowing worm that rushed down one tunnel and then another and then another. Each letter birthed another word. Each word birthed swirling universes of words that floated up the dark walls and dissipated in the worm’s wake. A swelling chorus reverberated off the walls and echoed in the space between Qabila and the worm. She ran, the words sinking into her, singing on her skin. She wanted to get to the worm. Ride the worm. She wanted to flee the press of deep, dark silence behind her. Flee the words pulsing their way through her skin to riddle her brain with their litany.

Qabila woke and groped for her to-do list on her bedside table:

Pick up shoes

Onions

Coriander

Work on article x 1 hour

Vegetables

Bread

Swim

Underneath, she scribbled the dreamwords:

To live

is to be free

of the spell

To be free

of the spell

is to claim

a spell of your own

To spell

is to bespell

and to bespell

is to unmake the world

Unspell

Bespell

Spell

Qabila stared at the words. Softly, slowly, they found their way out of her mouth, falling into the quiet eddies of a morning not yet fully come alive. The saying loosened something … and so she said them again. Slowly. And then again. A little faster.

Until the list of things to do brought her back into the room. To the blue drapes with the little cramped flowers. She wondered, again, if those little flowers would survive the real world of wind and rain and trampling feet. She stroked the brown duvet’s rich cotton, her arms reaching across the bed’s empty expanse. Breathed in the familiar ache. The flowers would survive. She got up.

The bathroom still seemed lopsided: her side of the double basin crowded; just her old, familiar face in the too-large-for-one mirror. In the long corridor, the glossy white doors were all shut, relieving the deep red of the walls. The same bright paintings. She still wasn’t sure about seeing only the women’s backs in the brightly painted field, and she still loved the boy dancing on the side of a building. She didn’t look at the black-and-white photographs in their ornate gold frames.

Rashid had left his dirty dishes on the kitchen counter again. The eggshells, casually tossed next to the scorched pan, were already stuck to the stove. Why she’d bothered tidying last night, she didn’t know. She was looking for her phone when she remembered, with a sharp splinter in her stomach: she could never call her mother again. Almost two months now. Two busy months. For a few minutes she held onto the dirty counter and breathed. The ache didn’t go away, it never did. But she could move again.

She could get into her car and drive to the university, where she helped to mould the minds of tomorrow’s leaders. Like every day for the last two months, she wouldn’t notice anything en route. If she had to swear under oath what had been happening all that time, she’d only have her lists to testify to her days.

For the rest of the day, she gave herself over to the lists. Adding, removing; tick, tick, tick. And all the while, the words hummed a soothing backdrop: To live is to be free of the spell, to be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own, to spell is to bespell, and to bespell is to unmake the world. Unspell, Bespell, Spell. In the car, she found herself shaping the words to the tunes of Kfm’s golden oldies. They hounded and soothed her, followed her and dragged her along, sometimes softly in the background, sometimes roaring, silencing everything else.

Her mother would’ve had a ready interpretation for the dream, which would have made Qabila laugh as much as irritate her. She could just hear Mommy’s voice, talking about a world beyond a therapist’s chair, a world requiring faith – a faith that had been scoured and blasted and pinched and pulled and laughed out of Qabila. It might’ve been one of those moments when the gulf between her generation and her mother’s opened up like a chasm that could only be crossed by love’s generosity. To be modern was to deny the magic of dreams – the things that speak to you, that can’t be found on a list.

Qabila carried her longing for her mother’s counsel through the rest of the day – through meetings, calls, emails, consultations with students; through the quiet polishing of an academic career.

When she got home to Durbanville’s lush greenness, she put aside the list for a few minutes to call Zainab.

‘Salaam Qabila, algamdulillah,’ her sister answered. ‘How are you? How was the conference?’

Qabila smiled, feeling tears well up. ‘Algamdulillah. No complaints. I just miss Mommy. I had such a strange dream last night. I actually began to dial her number this morning to tell her about it before I remembered.’

Zainab sighed. ‘I also do that. And I tell myself, I must remember to tell Mommy. Allah must grant her Jannat ul-Firdaus, inshallah.’

‘Ameen,’ Qabila said, wiping away tears.

‘What did you dream?’ Zainab asked.

Qabila told her about the great worm and running to try to catch it, and the words that wouldn’t release her. She could sense Zainab on the other side, thinking.

‘Qabila,’ Zainab’s voice finally came, ‘why did you not just follow? Why try to ride the worm? Moet jy altyd alles control?’ Zainab’s laugh was short and strained.

Qabila forced a laugh too, glad Zainab could not see how tight her jaw was. ‘From one control freak to another,’ she quipped. ‘Mummy would’ve had all kinds of explanations: babies, death …’ She breathed deeply as the word bit into her, and hurriedly continued: ‘Tall men, or something custom-fitted. And then when something happened, she’d reinterpret the dream to show that it had been a warning all along! Do you remember how it used to irritate us? I really miss her today. Always seeing the future in dreams …’

‘It never irritated me.’ Zainab paused. It was one of those dense moments where words have too little meaning. ‘Her room is so empty. The house doesn’t feel right without her.’ Her sigh was so heavy, Qabila’s belly tightened.

‘The psychologists say dreams are the subconscious working out things that have happened, and then sending you a coded solution.’ She tried to laugh, but failed.

‘I don’t know about this subconscious stuff. You must speak to Auntie Moenieba, she knows about dreams. She has one of those Muslim dream books. Do you remember how she and Mommy would talk about dreams for hours? They were so close.’

‘Shukran, I will get in touch with her. It’s so busy now,’ Qabila said.

‘Jy is altyd besig. You must make time for other things, you can’t just work. You couldn’t even come to the forty days. Everyone was there, all the family. To make dua for your mother, pray that Allah has mercy on her during this difficult time for her soul. They all asked where you were.’

‘I know, I’m sorry. I wanted to come. I couldn’t know my flight was going to be delayed. At least Rashid was there. Shame, he still feels bad about being on a flight when Mommy maniengald. He got a promotion last week, so he’ll be even busier now. We have so much catching up to do. Maaf that I haven’t come to see you yet. It’s been so busy. You know how it is.’ She cringed a little at her own familiar complaints. When would she stop masking the barrenness of her life with accomplishments, with constant busyness?

‘Qabila, Qabila. Always busy. Maybe the dream is telling you to change. Everyone is passing you by. Life doesn’t stop, waiting for you to have time. You and Rashid. Always missing important things, while running after things that make you look important. You’re even passing each other. How could you not know your husband was going all the way to America?’

‘Zainab, please,’ Qabila said. ‘I can’t, not now, please. Kanallah.’ She scrubbed the tears off her face and hoped Zainab could not hear her crying.

Zainab sighed and changed the subject. She gave Qabila all the news she’d heard at the forty days: who was sick and in hospital, who had a new baby, who was going to haj. She made Qabila promise to visit them all.

‘Give me a minute. I need to write it on my list.’ She pretended to scratch around for a notepad while she steadied her breathing. She pulled her face into a broad smile. It was supposed to fool you into feeling happy. ‘I’m back,’ she said, proud at how bright she sounded. Dutifully, she added the visits to her list. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, Zainab. I’ll go see them and come visit you. Shukran for the chat.’

‘Afwan. May Allah keep you safe, inshallah and give you shifa. Salaam. Don’t forget to go,’ Zainab said.

‘I won’t. I promise. I wrote it down.’

She was glad she’d called Zainab, even if her list had grown. Even if Zainab scolded. Maybe that was what the dream was for. That night as she cooked, she thought about babies and death, and tried not to think about some of the other things Zainab had asked. Zainab didn’t understand how her and Rashid’s lives worked. How could she?

Qabila lifted and peeled and cut and sniffed spices to the beat of the words that infused her cooking. The words came rushing over her and rewove her into their rhythm: To live is to be free of the spell. To be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own. To spell is to bespell. And to bespell is to unmake the world. Unspell. Bespell. Spell.

Rashid came in as she was eating. She’d missed lunch again, and the lamb curry’s coconut-milk-infused spiciness was starting to fill the hollow. He greeted her, his left eyebrow lifted in that way she hated.

‘There is food in the pot,’ she said. ‘Lamb curry.’

‘It’s okay, shukran. I already ate.’

Of course he had. She wanted to scream at him. Hurl her plate. Take one of the beautiful fucking ornate wooden chairs they’d spent six months deciding if they could afford and throw it at his retreating back. She bit the rage down and forced an ashy forkful of curry into her mouth. It needed more coriander and she would not cry. Her eyes flitted from the sumptuous cream silk drapes to the District Six artwork they had commissioned, and then skittered off to the sideboard laden with silver-framed photographs: mementoes of a seventeen-year-long farce. If only they treated each other with the same care they gave to choosing their possessions. Or maybe that’s why they brought only the most desired objects into their life: to offset the disappointment of living with each other.

The TV went on in his bedroom and a familiar heaviness settled in her body, slowing her movements. A list, she needed to make a list of things to do. She should check her master list, see if there was something she could do tonight. Maybe she’d spend some time on her article – finish the darn thing. She was a great believer in finishing things. But, no. She’d check the master list first. Soothed by organising her recipes into a folder, Qabila was humming contentedly by the time she got into bed, ready to make her list for the next day.