A Golden Age (26 page)

‘He thinks I can get Sabeer out,’ Rehana finally said. ‘You? Get a soldier out of jail? How?’

‘My husband’s brother. He has some connection with the army.’

The Major’s face closed up.

‘The thing is – Sohail is in love with Sabeer’s wife.’ It came out accidentally. Why did the words just fall out of her mouth in this man’s presence? Again he said nothing, and again she was grate- ful – probably because he appeared never to be shocked. To make herself feel better she told him to get up so she could change the sheet.

‘You told him you’d do it?’ he asked, not moving. ‘Of course I did.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

The suggestion irritated her further. ‘How can you?’ she said cruelly. ‘You can’t even walk to the gate.’

‘You could get caught.’

‘He’s my brother-in-law, he wouldn’t turn me in,’ she said,

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knowing it wasn’t true. ‘I can just be concerned for a neighbour. There doesn’t have to be anything suspicious about it.’

‘And when he asks you where you stand, with the war, if you believe in Bangladesh or Pakistan, what will you say?’

‘Whatever I have to.’ ‘You shouldn’t do it.’

‘You don’t have children.’ She felt her neck burning, and she smelled the wheel soap she had scrubbed into her face, and the remnants of the jobakusum oil in her hair, and the astringent sharpness of the talcum powder under her arms.

The Major’s ceiling fan was switched off. In the afternoon, though it was always hot, his fever rose and he would shiver under his blanket until the sun travelled low and dipped beneath the horizon.

Rehana, wiping the dampness above her lip, said, ‘Why don’t you play a record?’

‘This is a bad, a terrible idea.’

‘I’ve already sent a message to Parveen. They’re expecting me for lunch on Friday.’

I won’t tell Iqbal, she said to herself that night, watching a mos- quito trying to break into the net. If I tell him I’ll end up talking myself out of it. I know it’s dangerous, and it probably won’t work. And imagine the smug look on Parveen’s face. Those stupid, bulging eyes. No, it probably won’t work. Who is Sabeer to me anyway? Would he save my Sohail if he had the chance? Nothing doing. Phat-afat he would run the other way. Mrs Chowdhury? We both know the answer to that. And that girl, Silvi, she’s the cause of all this hangama.

By the end, she would have talked herself out of it. No, she would not visit Iqbal.

A black Mercedes-Benz came to collect Rehana. The driver was a man in a white shirt and a skinny black tie. He sat rigidly in his

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seat, blowing cigarette smoke out of the window. When he saw Rehana close the gate and turn to fasten the padlock, he shot out of the car and stood stiffly against it. He was dark and very thin. He crushed the cigarette with the heel of his shoe and waited for her to approach.

When she was within a few feet of the car, the man’s arm scis- sored into a clean salute.

‘Mrs Rehana Haque?’ he asked.

Rehana’s tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth. ‘Ji,’ she managed.

‘Quasem driver. Accompanying you to the Haque residence.’ ‘Thank you,’ Rehana replied.

The door slammed shut behind her. The inside of the car was enormous and smelled of kerosene. Quasem jammed his foot on the accelerator, and they sped away. Rehana felt herself slide uncomfortably on the leather seat, her sari getting crumpled as she was dragged from side to side. She had dressed carefully for her meeting with Parveen. She wore the most unflattering sari she owned – a starched, grey organza that would puff out at the pleats and make her look thick-waisted. She didn’t try to iron out the creases; she didn’t even smooth them down with her hand. She didn’t wear any make-up; she tied her hair into a flat, severe bun and fastened it with plain black bun-clips. Parveen always needed to be the more beautiful one.

They went through Mirpur Road and turned on to Kolabagan. They sped past the open fields of Second Capital and app- roached the airport. Rehana sank further into the inky space and tried not to panic.

The car took a turn and suddenly she didn’t recognize the street. It was a wide road, like a highway, and it stretched into a foggy, unfamiliar distance. Her thoughts turned to the torture centre Sohail had described. She craned her neck, to see if any of the low-lying buildings looked like places that held dirty secrets.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Not to worry, madam.’ Quasem found Rehana in his rear- view mirror and gave her a small wave. ‘We’ll be there soon.’

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A few minutes later, after crossing a set of railroad tracks, they turned and stopped beside a small booth. A man in an army uniform peered through the blackened window.

‘Window down!’ he barked, spraying spit on to the glass. Rehana was struggling with the handle when Quasem inter-

rupted.

‘Don’t you see the fucking plate!’ he called out from his side. The soldier stepped in front of the car and examined the number plates. Then he returned to Rehana’s window and con-

tinued to peer in. ‘Who is the passenger?’ ‘Sister of Barrister Haque.’

‘Who? I have to check the register,’ he said.

‘Don’t you know our own people, sister-fucker! We pass this checkpoint every day. Suddenly you don’t know the car? You want me to get out and teach you a lesson?’

The soldier paused for a moment; then he shrugged, as though it hadn’t mattered to him in the first place. ‘OK, go. But we have to report.’ And he rapped on the black windscreen with the wooden handle of his gun.

‘Don’t worry, madam,’ Quasem said as they sped away, ‘there’s no problem.’

Faiz and Parveen lived in Gulshan. It was at the opposite end of town, edging across the northern periphery of the city, past the airport and the army cantonment. Gulshan was newer and even less settled than Dhanmondi; the plots were bigger, the fields between them vast and waterlogged. There was a lake. Faiz’s house was off the main road on a street lined with old trees. The house itself was invisible behind a high gate and solid brick fencing. A darwaan opened the gate, and then they were in the half-circle of the driveway, which led them to the front door, a wide, dark purple teak against a black-and-white chequered patio.

Rehana rang the doorbell. A tinny, fake-bird sound echoed through the house. Then the clatter of shoes on an expensive floor. A few seconds later the door swung open, and Parveen appeared, presenting Rehana with a warm, open-mouthed smile.

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‘As-Salaam Alaikum,’ she crooned. She wore a gauzy, canary- yellow chiffon. Around her neck was a string of fat, rolling pearls. Her lips were shiny and parted with lipstick. With a start Rehana realized that she had pulled up the achol of her sari so that it covered her head. The chiffon headdress made her look like Grace Kelly. Has there been some sort of decree, Rehana wondered, no more bare-headed ladies in Dhaka?

‘Walaikum As-Salaam,’ she replied.

‘Please,’ Parveen said with excessive tenderness, ‘come in. I’m just so happy to see you.’ They began to walk through a brilliant white corridor. ‘It’s been – so busy – I’ve been meaning to call, and when you did I was just thinking of you and won- dering why you sent the children to Karachi – they’re perfectly safe, with Faiz’s influence, no one would ever harm them – and anyway, this will blow over in no time – tea? Abdul! Abdul!’

Abdul, the old servant, wore a pair of smudged gloves and a hand-me-down suit. The trousers were rolled up to reveal the twin twigs of his bare feet.

‘My bhabi is here,’ Parveen announced when Abdul appeared. He nodded with his eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Bring some tea – the English tea – and the biscuits in the round tin – not the crackers, the
biscuits
– he always confuses them.’ She led Rehana into a sunny sitting room and sat her on a large, sinking armchair. At the back of the room a wall of windows overlooked the garden, a tangle of trees and bushes that stretched back into the distance, blocking out the city.

‘I knew you’d like the view,’ Parveen said, pleased with her own forethought.

‘It’s a beautiful garden,’ Rehana replied.

‘I can’t take any credit. The trees must have been here since the British. I didn’t think I’d like living so far from town, but it’s very peaceful here. And lots of new houses going up. This one was just finished.’

Rehana registered the astringent smell and the bluish tinge of the walls. Aside from the armchair she sat in and its matching

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sofa, on which Parveen was birdily perched, there was just a round brass-topped table.

‘We’re still moving in,’ Parveen said, noting the swivel of Rehana’s gaze, ‘it’s still in such a state.’

‘It’s lovely. Very spacious.’

The empty walls reverberated with Abdul’s scattered foot- steps.

‘Have you had any news of Sohail?’ ‘Yes, he’s well mahshallah.’

‘Is he staying with one of your sisters?’

‘No.’ Rehana had rehearsed this. ‘No, he’s with a school- friend. You know how children are – always preferring their friends. A friend from Shaheen School. They haven’t seen each other in years but always exchanged letters.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Parveen said. ‘That Sohail. Such a popular young man. Always surrounded by people. Who would have thought, na, he was such a quiet little boy.’

It was always a dangerous thing, their shared past, but Rehana wanted to sweeten Parveen. ‘Yes, you’re right. He was very quiet. He’s changed – once he discovered books, suddenly he couldn’t stop talking.’

‘I’ve heard he gave some pukkah speeches at the university!’

Rehana was wary of being baited. Sohail’s speeches had titles like ‘Peking or Moscow? Third World Socialisms’ and ‘Jinnah: Statesman or Imperialist Demagogue?’

‘And his poetry!’ Parveen gushed.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he does have a knack for recitation.’

‘What was that Ghalib he did for us?
Na tha kutch tho Khuda tha
. . .’ she began in broken Urdu. She proceeded with a blun- dered rendition of the poem.

‘Excellent. What a wonderful voice you have.’

Parveen’s gaze descended from the distance and landed on Rehana. ‘Thank you. People often say that – it was all those years of acting study.’ Rehana was always amazed by people who managed to multiply, rather than deny, compliments to them- selves.

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‘And what about Maya?’ she asked, and again Rehana conjured the speech she had practised.

‘Maya is in Calcutta,’ she began. ‘Oh? Why?’

‘I still have some relatives there – my father’s people. And they were eager to see her.’

‘I thought you’d sent her to Karachi.’

‘No – well, it was closer,’ Rehana grimaced a little to indicate it also had something to do with money, which Parveen pounced upon.

‘But you should have told us—’ ‘I couldn’t impose.’

‘We’re always here to help.’ ‘Actually, there was something—’

‘Abdul – the tea, what’s keeping you?’

Abdul entered the room sleekly and set the tray down on the brass table-top without a rattle, for which he was rewarded with a nod from Parveen.

‘Pour,’ she said, handing the biscuits to Rehana. Rehana chose one from the proffered tin and admired, through crumby lips, the buttery crunch.

‘Now that your brother is . . . in a
position
, we are allowed these small indulgences. And well deserved, wouldn’t you say? In times like these?’

Rehana realized that in this house, the war would be referred to with phrases such as ‘times like these’ and ‘troubled times’, as though God had sent these times to them without warning and through no fault of their own.