A Golden Age (28 page)

Faiz had sent a message to say he would arrive at ten. At six, just after the Fajr prayer, when the sun was still rising up behind Shona, Mrs Chowdhury and Silvi appeared at the door. Rehana did not ask them why they had come so early. They didn’t ask her why she was already dressed. Mrs Chowdhury held Rehana’s hands in hers and smiled gratefully, her pale yellow eyes lined heroically with kajol.

‘Let’s have breakfast.’ Rehana said.

‘Yes, what a good idea. Silvi, help your khala-moni in the kitchen.’

‘What shall we have? Egg paratha?’ Rehana knew how to crack an egg in the middle of a paratha without breaking it.

They had just settled themselves around the table when there was a hesitant knock at the door. Rehana went to answer and found Mrs Rahman, wearing a pink cotton sari and holding a few stems of rojonigondha in her hands. The flowers smelled innocent. The grey at Mrs Rahman’s temples stood out like steel wings. All this time she’s been dyeing her hair, I didn’t know! Rehana smiled at the new knowledge. It all felt like such a long time ago.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Mrs Rahman asked. She looked wounded. ‘I didn’t know you were so involved.’

Rehana didn’t know what to say. ‘I could have helped.’

‘I rang them,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, approaching from behind Rehana. ‘Aren’t you going to invite her in?’

‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ Mrs Rahman said, shifting in the doorway, still looking hurt.

‘No, please, we’re just having breakfast.’

‘Oh, here, these are for you. They’re from my garden. I didn’t know what else to bring.’

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As she was closing the door, Rehana saw Mrs Akram approach- ing. She was getting out of a rickshaw with another woman. Who else had Mrs Chowdhury told?

‘Rehana,’ Mrs Akram said, as she made her way up the drive- way, ‘Mrs Chowdhury told us you were going to rescue Sabeer. This is Mrs Imam. Her husband was also taken.’

Rehana taught Silvi how to plunge the paratha in the hot oil, wait until it was almost crisp, then tip the egg into its centre. Mrs Imam was bringing the egg paratha in batches from the kitchen. The guests sat in a circle in the drawing room and said very little. After serving the tea, Rehana realized they were waiting for her to say something. Something brave and defiant, something to temper the images of horror stored in their hearts – the deaths of strangers, the sounds of tanks rattling through the city, the rap at the door, the rap of the bullet, the dull, heavy sound of a lover, a son, falling to the ground.

‘I can only hope,’ she said, ‘that if my son were in danger, someone – perhaps one of you – would come to his rescue.’

The egg-paratha finished, Rehana passed around a plate of wrapped betel. The party quieted down into a lazy mid-morning hush. Now would be a good time to make her escape.

‘Time to go, I think,’ she said to no one in particular. Mrs Chowdhury, red-lipped and drowsy from the betel, was sprawled across the sofa. Eggy plates and empty glasses were scattered around the room.

Rehana was about to bid them all farewell when a car sounded in the distance and fired its horn.

Mrs Chowdhury was suddenly galvanized into action. ‘He’s here!’ she cried. ‘Hurry up, your brother is here. You should go now. Get ready and stand by the gate so you don’t keep him waiting.’

The women roused themselves and shuffled towards the door. Rehana waited for them to say their goodbyes, but they just moved into the driveway and stood looking at her.

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‘Please,’ she said, feigning politeness, ‘don’t wait for me.’ ‘Nothing doing,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, ‘we’ll see you off.’ The

others nodded in assent.

‘We’ll wait.’ Mrs Rahman said. ‘It’s the least we can do.’ ‘But I – please, don’t trouble yourselves.’

‘We’re staying,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, relishing her own mag- nanimity, ‘don’t argue, girl.’

‘All right; I just, I just have to change my shoes.’ ‘Go, go! Hurry up!’

Rehana hesitated. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

In the bedroom she regarded the shoes absurdly, finally settling on a brown pair with a short, square heel. She had put on a navy- blue cotton sari and, at the last minute, a pair of gold jhumka earrings.

‘All right,’ she announced brightly, ‘I’m ready.’

‘Go on, then, you don’t want to be late,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, a heavy hand upon her wrist.

Rehana made her way to the gate, the small party trundling behind her. Silvi took Rehana’s arm and began to mutter softly in her ear:

La te huzuhu sinetun wala nawmun, Lahu ma fissemawati wa ma fil’ardi.
(No slumber can seize Him, nor sleep, All things in heaven and earth are His.)

They were at the gate. ‘I’ve – I’ve forgotten something.’

Rehana slid past their surprised faces; she heard Mrs Chowdhury say, ‘Poor thing must be nervous,’ and she thought she heard Mrs Akram ask, ‘Has she changed her mind?’ And then she was too far away to hear the answer. She fled, past the driveway and through the drawing room, unlatching the small veranda gate, hurtling through the wet sheets hanging like sur- render flags. She fumbled with her keychain, cursing her slow fingers, and finally pushed open the lock of Shona’s back door.

*

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The Major was waiting, dressed in the uniform in which he had arrived; she had stitched the trousers back together with bottle- green thread. He stood up, his gaze fixed on her as though she had been there before she arrived.

She had rarely seen him standing. She had always hovered above him. She had known the top of his head, the dense thick- ness of his hair, the meandering seam of his hairline. She had known his face – at least, as far as she had dared to know it.

But, since that first day when they had met and he had taken her palm in his big hand, she had not been confronted with the full, standing presence of him.

The grey flints of his eyes. The horizon of his chest.

If he had been sitting, she could have pretended he was still her patient, her charge. Standing up, he was a stranger.

The stranger said, ‘Don’t look anyone in the face.’ She nodded at the stretched-tight fabric of his shirt.

‘In fact,’ he said, raising his voice, making a little space between them, ‘don’t say anything. Don’t speak at all.’

‘All right,’ Rehana said.

‘Doctor sent a message,’ the Major began. ‘What?’

‘I’m cured. Leg is healed. Time for me to go.’

She felt the weather stirring. She pressed it down. ‘Goodbye, then.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll stay till you return.’ She shrugged, a show of bravery.

‘If you’re not back in three hours I’m coming for you.’ ‘I’m late,’ she said, ‘everyone is waiting.’

‘Khoda Hafez.’ ‘Khoda Hafez.’

‘Fiamanullah.’ Godspeed.

Quasem did not get out of the car this time. Nor did Faiz. The black Mercedes swallowed Rehana. ‘Good morning,’ Faiz said solemnly. He wore a coal-coloured suit with a shiny handkerchief

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tucked into the breast pocket. A lemony scent whispered from the suit. The slicked black hair, thinning at the temple, revealed the rake of a thin comb.

Don’t look anyone in the face
. Rehana averted her gaze, so that it landed on the back of Quasem’s head, square and coconut-oily.

Faiz remained silent. He wore his dark glasses and sat close to the window, holding a newspaper. Rehana was relieved; she didn’t feel like talking. She concentrated on what she would find at the police station. Mrs Imam had said her husband’s body had never been returned. She tried to school her thoughts.

I’ll come for you
.

Minutes passed, the city sailing by, washed by the morning’s rain. Faiz sat so still and quiet Rehana forgot he was there. Instead she tried to think of old film tunes she used to sing with her father. She couldn’t remember any. For some reason ‘God Save the King’ was circulating in her head, and
Send him victo–rious!

Faiz was still reading the newspaper. He must have been reading very slowly, because he didn’t turn the page.

Hap-py and glo–rious!

At the Tongi light Faiz turned to Rehana and said quietly, ‘You lied to me.’ His voice was a reedy tremble. She could feel him frowning behind the glasses.

There were so many things he could mean. ‘You lied to me. You’re a liar.’

‘There must be some sort of misunderstanding.’ ‘You’re a liar and a traitor.’

Rehana straightened to face him. He knew something. She ran through the list of possibilities in her head. She determined which would be worst (knowing about Shona), which best (nothing, nothing would be best).

‘You’re a traitor and your children are traitors. What do you have to say for yourself – do you deny it?’

Rehana didn’t deny it.

‘You come to
my
house . . .’

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It wasn’t what’s mine is yours any more.

‘. . . you nod your head when I talk about Pakistan and inside you’re stabbing your country in the back!’ There were two white points of spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rehana said. ‘You’re going to deny it? To my face?’

‘What I mean is, there must be some sort of misunderstand- ing,’ she repeated.

‘Misunderstanding?’ He shook his hand at her. The news- paper flapped in his fist. ‘I’m reading the paper this morning. I’m reading this traitorous rubbish, about how brave, how valiant, are the muktis, and how corrupt the Pakistan Army is – then the heading catches my eye – and what do I see – what? My niece – that girl of yours – it’s her! Sheherezade Haque Maya, that ridiculous name my brother gave her – the name of a
storyteller
, you said. Well she certainly has made up a story – lies, full of lies—’

The hand with the newspaper continued to shake.

Rehana pressed her back against the seat and resisted the urge to close her eyes.

‘LIAR!’ He hurled the newspaper so that it landed at her feet.

She thought he meant to throw it, but when she left it there he said, ‘READ!’

She picked up the newspaper and read. ‘Chronicles of a Young Woman in Wartime. By Sheherezade Haque Maya.’ It isn’t her, Rehana wanted to say, but a smile, unbidden, crawled into her lips. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘I shouldn’t have lied to you,’ she said.

‘I won’t begin to count the things you
shouldn’t
have done.

You should have controlled your daughter.’ ‘It’s not her fault.’

‘How do you explain this? You let Maya join the resistance? At least your son had more sense.’

So he didn’t know about Sohail.

‘What have you done with my brother’s children? We should never have let you take them. You ruined them.’ He leaned into

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her, so that she could see her own reflection, her forehead bulging in the sunglasses.

Rehana felt guilty at the mention of Iqbal; she realized she hadn’t thought of him in some time. A long time. It’s been so busy, and so strange, she told herself. And then she wondered if there wasn’t something more to it. Would she be here if Iqbal were alive? Would she be here, asking Faiz to release Sabeer? Would she be allowed to want something dangerous? Or would she have learned to want what her husband wanted?

She was relieved she didn’t have to know. She wouldn’t have to know if Iqbal would have had the strength to stay in Dhaka, or if the children would have inherited his small, anxious world. Her head began to spin with the thought of all the things that might have been different. Now she was remembering the cloud of his fears, the orbit of worry, the nervous, scared man who had tried his best not to upset fate, to live without danger, without risk. Had she ever wondered what life would have been like without him, and had she rejoiced, even a little, when he had died? Despite the bone-breaking grief, had there also been release?

She wanted to pretend it wasn’t true, but it was. ‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Faiz was saying.

What could it be that moved Faiz to believe the opposite of what she believed? How could he be on the other side of her black-and-white? She could imagine herself believing nothing else; it was as plain to her as God.

He was not a bad man.

It was time to tell the truth.

‘I sent her there. To Calcutta, to join the muktis.’

The spittle points grew. ‘You
sent
her there?’ He let out an angry breath. ‘You tell me everything. Right now.’