Читать книгу Called to Song - Kharnita Mohamed - Страница 9

Qabila floated through her morning rituals. Rashid must have woken quite early to avoid her. Once, her need for his love would’ve weighted his absence. Now, an undiscovered life without him lay before her. She could live in Paris for a year or go for singing lessons or buy a little cottage in a forest. She could go on road trips to nowhere without his sullen presence.

Early in their marriage, they’d often driven up to Joburg to visit Faghria. They always went in secret. Mummy Kayna and Boeya would have disowned them if they’d known – might never have spoken to them again if they knew they went to Faghria’s wedding. But Qabila wouldn’t have missed it for anything: that wedding was one of the warmest unions she’d witnessed. Caroline was an academic too, a literary scholar who specialised in queer theory. She and Qabila frequently attended the same conferences. Faghria used to enjoy telling them all not to talk shop, particularly when they complained. ‘Be an artist,’ she’d say, ‘like me – and not the troubled kind. Then you don’t have to worry about all this institutional stuff.’

She hoped they would still be sisters. Faghria was the only Fakir she was completely comfortable with, and she didn’t want to lose her or Caroline.

The house phone’s shrill ring startled her. ‘I’ve been trying to call you for the last two days,’ Zainab’s voice accused. ‘Your phone’s turned off. Where’ve you been, what’s going on? Are you okay? I’ve been dreaming of you every night.’

Her sister’s worry was palpable, but instead of making Qabila feel smothered and impatient, she felt something she’d forgotten how to receive. Love. Not the movie kind. Not the Rashid kind. The kind that was rough and unrestrained and spiked a room with need and fear and tenderness and memories. The love brought by the chaos of being tied to unpredictable beings. Beings we barely understand but who we depend on for the fullness of our days. Love. Qabila folded into the chair next to the phone.

‘I’m sorry you’ve been worried,’ she said.

‘What’s happening with you? Rashid said you were sick last week and needed space. What’s going on? Did you have a breakdown?’

‘I really miss Mommy. I think it’s only hitting me now. It was a difficult week. I was remembering so much.’

‘Memories of Mommy?’ Zainab asked.

Qabila sighed. ‘Everything. How did I get it so wrong, Zainab? For so long, I’ve just floated along … I was so unhappy, but I wouldn’t acknowledge it. Never mind try to change it. But I’m getting well. That’s where I was: getting well.’ She knew she wasn’t making sense, and yet this was the most sensible she’d felt in a long time. ‘I’m divorcing Rashid.’

‘What? No wonder I’m dreaming of you. Rashid warned me that something is off. Stay there, I’m coming over.’

The phone clicked off. It was just like Zainab to issue a command and expect to be obeyed. Her homemaker sister was one of the most intelligent women she knew. Over the years, Qabila had tried to convince her to do something with her brilliance. Zainab would sigh and tell her that she was doing exactly what she wanted. That there was more to life than accumulating possessions and strangers’ respect.

‘What’s wrong,’ Zainab would say, ‘is not that I am doing something that doesn’t show I’m brilliant, but that the world doesn’t reward the brilliance in small everyday acts of love.’

Qabila would usually shake her head. ‘But you don’t have to struggle the way you do! And what will you do when the kids grow up?’

‘Allah Kadir. God is capable.’

Qabila was stunned by the fatalistic surrender, but had learned to respect her sister’s faith. It usually won the argument. God, after all, had given her three children and a husband who loved her. Qabila couldn’t argue with that.

She bustled about, clearing some of the mess that had accumulated in the last few days. This must be what young people felt when their judgemental parents came to visit. She smiled wryly as she imagined Zainab wiping white-gloved hands over the furniture. And what did she mean about Rashid warning her? She would have to call Ntombi to come and clean again. Rashid had asked her not to come for the last week.

Her sister was dressed in a bright floral hijab. Her scarf wrapped a little carelessly, evidence of the haste with which she must have left the house. They kissed and exchanged greetings. Zainab held Qabila’s face, looking her over slowly, methodically, like a psychic reading tea leaves at the bottom of a teacup. They hadn’t looked at each other like this for many years. What Zainab saw, Qabila didn’t know.

Zainab sighed. ‘We need tea,’ she said and tucked Qabila into her side, their heads close as they moved to the kitchen. Her sister was praying softly as they walked. Her hands rhythmically stroking Qabila’s shoulder to the salawat. An oasis of grace in a week that had tried her endurance.

In the kitchen, Zainab led Qabila to a chair and put on the kettle. Her movements slow and deliberate, she set out cups. Hunted for cookies and filled the air with sonorous Arabic praises to the Prophet and beseeches for the relief of pain. Every time she passed Qabila, face intent, she’d touch her gently, as if applying a healing balm. The part of Qabila that had stopped believing in such things wanted to scoff and sneer. Instead, she closed her eyes, leaned back and let her sister’s voice wash over her. When the room fell silent, the swirling thoughts she’d begun the day with had been gentled. A deep sorrow seeped to the surface.

They drank their tea, no words passing between them. Every now and then they would find each other’s faces and speak that language too large for syllables.

When their tea was done, Zainab carefully packed the teacups and crumbed plates into the dishwasher, and then asked, as she resumed her seat: ‘Do you want to come home with me?’

And with those few words, Qabila accepted she was not the only one who knew her marriage had been over for a very long time. She started to cry. Her brief bubble of peace pierced by humiliation and exhaustion; the pretence that had taken so much effort still left her nowhere to hide. Her sister held her like she was one of her children. Zainab was praying again, and that made her cry too. She wished she had a God to believe in. Maybe she wouldn’t need to be held while she cried if she had a God to cry to.

When she could speak past the lump in her throat, she told her sister of the week, the dream and yesterday’s drive to the dark past. She let it pour out of her. God’s unlove and punishment. And Thandi. And every hurt, small and large, that had festered in the years of silence. Her talkative sister listened, made tea and plied her with cookies, and when she was done talking asked her again if she wanted to go home with her. Qabila wanted to say yes. But knew that exchanging one person for another who treated her as not good enough was not what she needed. Zainab would preach. Tell her she needed a relationship with Allah to be happy. To work less. Do the things that Zainab did to be happy. She needed to get back to work, too, and doing so from her sister’s house was not a good option.

When her sister left, Qabila went looking for her phone to see who else might have gotten in touch with her. There was a backlog of calls and emails. Mostly work. She was exhausted just looking at the messages that had piled up. She knew it would be a good distraction to get lost in ephemera – for a few minutes at a time, to have small solvable problems that could be ticked off a list. If only the problems she needed distraction from could be ticked off as easily. Tomorrow was soon enough.

Rashid found her in the dark on the patio, staring at the swimming pool. Purging to her sister had left her with a strange peace.

‘Hi,’ he said into the dark. ‘Aren’t you cold?’

From the wary lines of his body to the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he exuded awkward bravado. His body language tried to tell her: it’s okay, I forgive you, everything is normal. How many times had she been coaxed like this? Not again. She sighed and slowly turned back to the soothing water lapping the side of the pool.

‘No, it’s okay. Not cold. How was your day?’ She looked over her shoulder quickly.

‘Same old,’ he said.

‘I’m going back tomorrow. I saw the backlog of emails and messages this afternoon.’

He sat down on the wicker chair, his features obscured in the dark. ‘You don’t have to, I told them you were ill and needed at least two weeks. When last did you take sick leave?’

Qabila shrugged. He knew the answer was: who remembers? ‘I’m going in tomorrow, it’ll be unmanageable by next week. You know how it gets. If you don’t deal with things as soon as possible they just pile up. I have a conference in Zurich next month. A book chapter due in two weeks. If I don’t get some of the smaller things sorted …’ She made a strangled sound that they both chose to ignore. The end of her marriage would go on her list too. She let out a deep breath and gave him a quick look. His mouth was moving, or maybe it was just shadows in the dark. They sat in silence for a while.

‘I have to get out of these clothes,’ he said. He pulled his favourite red tie over his head as he rose. He wore a suit and tie every day. She used to find it sexy. Very few of their contemporaries did. They didn’t need to. Modern universities liked to pretend they were liberal now.

‘Do you want to eat?’ she asked without looking at him.

‘Er, yes, some food would be good.’

‘Okay,’ she said, not moving.

‘Why don’t you stay there? I’m up already. I’ll sort something out.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ If it had been in the time of deep pretence, she might’ve made a joke and pretended to faint at his offer. He was trying.

It was cold out. She got up to get a blanket in the living room, and heard him on the phone. Tonight she preferred the cold dark to being inside the big warm house, so she settled back into her sphinx-like reverie. What was he trying to rescue? It just didn’t make sense. Maybe he thought she was having a nervous breakdown. He always accused her of breaking down. She snorted at the idea. She’d never felt saner. Not in control perhaps, but sane. Like she’d awoken from a very long dream. Her mind flitted through the detritus of the past. The hobbies she’d taken up at first to fill his frequent absences, then later discarded as she threw herself ever more into her career. Universities sure appreciate women who don’t need to balance work and family.

She heard the doorbell ring and nearly moved to open the door.

‘I’ll get it,’ she heard from inside. ‘I ordered food.’

Of course you did.

He bustled onto the patio, his false bonhomie disrupting the solemnity of her reflections. He was fussily arranging the dishes whilst heartily expressing appreciation for the pizza. She nodded and smiled in all the right places.

‘Yes. Nothing beats the smell of a pizza. You got to eat it while it’s hot. But it’s great when it’s cold too.’

Nod. Smile. Nod.

His fussing was interminable. She wanted him to shut up and leave her to her memories and regret. She snorted when she realised a few weeks ago she would’ve felt grateful at this concern. If only she knew that threatening to leave would make him want her more. Helluva time for her to realise that her marital strategy of over-availability was the opposite of what worked. And maybe that was the core of his love for Thandi – unavailability. Their divorce might end up being a disaster for his affair. She thought she should laugh but couldn’t feel any mirth. They’d both been prisoners. Rashid was still in the grip of Stockholm syndrome. He’d learned to love his captor – not her, but the marriage.

He was telling her some story about a visiting professor who’d kicked up a fuss about not being treated like the world’s greatest intellectual.

‘Zainab was here today. She asked me if I wanted to stay with them until I’m settled,’ she said.

‘What?’ he said, a tight furrow between his brows. ‘You’re not making sense.’

She enjoyed the sensation of shocking him out of his empty prattle. ‘Our marriage has been over for a long time, Rashid.’ She looked at him then. They held each other’s eyes and whatever he saw in hers made him drop his pretence. He looked out at the pool. She watched the lines of tension ease as his body sunk into his chair.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, giving her a quick look.

‘I am,’ she said with the soft solemnity of a vow.

‘Are you going to stay at Zainab’s?’

‘Uh-uh, no.’ She shook her head, surprised at how calm she felt. As if she was part of a scene she’d rehearsed so well that the certainty allowed for no wild feelings.

‘Do you want me to leave?’

She smiled at that. ‘We’ve lived separate lives in the same house for a long time. It doesn’t matter.’

‘You’re absolutely sure?’

The wary relief in his voice made her look at him. He sounded like a captive who did not dare believe that he just might be freed. She’d expected him to ask her to stay. To beg when he saw that final hardening of her resolve, so she’d know the years with him had been worth it. She wanted to weep – but not here, not now. He was watching her closely. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. Nodded. Tried to hold the tears inside, to contain the wave of regret. She kept nodding. Her mouth scrunching up. The breath catching inside her. She breathed it out, letting the moisture pushing against her eyelids fall.

He whispered her name. ‘Qabila, Qabila, Qabila.’ His voice catching. He was crying.

For the second time in the last few days, they cried together. Separated by cold pizza. This time, neither reached out to hold the other. Rashid put his head on the wrought-iron table and sobbed. She was shocked now. He hadn’t cried like this – like a wounded animal – when their babies died. His grief raw and dense and old, so very old, an ancient song that was deep and true. It pulled the weight of her own sorrow forth; threw her entire body into the breaking of the bond that had held them captive.

They acknowledged, through their wild grief that night, how heavy the mantle of their marriage had been. And yet they grieved that the marriage they’d spent so much time on, and suffered for, could so easily be undone. They cried for the unnecessary sacrifice. The honesty of their youthful desires. The wrong turns and the moments of grace. Sitting apart, they cried together. When they were spent, their throats hoarse, their faces burning and scratchy from sorrow’s salty fountains, they stared at each other, hollowed out like survivors of an apocalypse. It was an end.

The next morning she woke, her head pounding, eyes raw, limbs like rubber. She lay there listening to the wind howl and sweep the gardenia’s branches against the window. Her mind skittered over the night before. She didn’t want to go to work. Didn’t want to be home. She rolled over onto her side, hand rubbing the empty side of the bed, and smiled bleakly. How long would she continue the ritual of looking for someone who wasn’t there?

She listened carefully for Rashid. Hoped he’d left, so she wouldn’t have to see him. There was a confused bundle of feeling there that she didn’t want to probe. It was very quiet. As if he was hiding in his room again.

Finally driven out by her bodily needs, Qabila found his note in the kitchen. I won’t be home. I’m going to stay with my parents for a few nights. She looked at the note, the words making no sense. The coffee pot was gurgling, the coffee perfuming the air. Why would he not want to stay here? Liar, he was probably going to stay with Thandi. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to deal with him. She went back to her room, picked up the list with the poem and read the words. Yes, she was freeing herself from the spell.