The Jewish Neighbor (6 page)

“Sure,
let me check,” he said as he took the phone from her. He fiddled with the menus
for a while then nodded. “This is a fairly new smart phone. So yes, you
certainly can. It has a powerful voice recording function. But why would you
want to just record the audio, instead of using the camera? You have a pretty
good one there.”

Umayma
panicked for a few seconds as she tried to fake an answer. And then it came to
her.

“Her
father has a real camera. I just want to record the songs,” she said, hoping it
sounded convincing enough.

“I
understand,” he answered with a professional smile.

“Would
it be too much trouble if you showed me how I can record sounds? I am not very
good with technology.”

The
young man proceeded to give Umayma precise and simple instructions on how to
user her smart phone to record audio.

“The
microphone is at the bottom part of the phone, so make sure to point it towards
the stage, and not to cover it with your fingers,” he cautioned. He confirmed
her phone had an additional memory card, which meant she could record for many
hours, while the battery lasted. Umayma rehearsed the steps in front of him
until she was certain she had the hang of it. She thanked him and rushed back
home.

Kamal
and his parents were taking a nap when she tiptoed
back in the house. Umayma slipped into the study where the band of warmongers
would convene later that night after they stuffed their faces with the delicious
food she had cooked. She scanned the room to figure out a place she could plant
her phone, but couldn’t think of one.
Kamal
had
banned her from coming in the study alone. He only allowed her to clean it in
his presence and locked it when he left home.

The
home phone erupted like a siren. Depending on the nature of the call,
Kamal
sometimes took it in his bedroom. But on other
occasions he took it in the privacy of the study.
Which meant
there was a fifty percent chance he could storm in any second now.
She
broke out in a cold sweat and her stomach started to rumble. With every ring,
Umayma felt
Kamal
breathing down her neck.

It
was now or never, she decided. Umayma grabbed a chair and stood on it in front
of the bookshelf. She clicked on the audio record button then tucked the phone
between the thick, bounded books on the top-most shelf. She returned the chair
to its place and fled the study, every part of her body trembling with fear.
And the phone still ringing.

§

They
came in the middle of the night, as they usually do. They were civil and
compassionate. Female officers attended to Umayma and Layal, and
Kamal’s
parents were handled with care like glass objects.
Even
Kamal
himself was
spoken to cordially like a suspect who could potentially still be innocent,
rather than the terrorist bankroller he really was. But with recorded evidence
in their possession and
Umayma’s
testimony, neither
Kamal
nor any of his rotten accomplices were going to get
away with what they had done, and what they were sill plotting to do.

Kamal
shuffled out of the house in handcuffs, his head
stooping. He turned back and looked at Umayma and whispered, “Forgive me. Look
after Layal and my parents.”

She
saw something in
Kamal’s
eyes for the first time
since she had laid eyes on him.
Humility.
Umayma
feigned distress and rushed to him like a loving wife. She looked at one of the
female officers with broken eyes, appealing to their shared womanhood.

“May
I?
Just one last time?”
The officer hesitated briefly,
then nodded and granted
Umayman
permission to embrace
her husband.

With
a tight hug she pulled him closer to her and kissed him on the temple. The
smell of tobacco smoke on his skin nauseated her. Everything about him was
sickening. She held his hands firmly and squeezed them.
Kamal
seemed bewildered. Before she let him go, she moved her lips close to his ears
and whispered, “Beware the wrath of the meek.”

Kamal
and his fellow defendants were convicted of
conspiracy to commit terrorist attacks on British soil. The family court deemed
Layal’s
brothers too young, and her grandparents too
old to care for her. Umayma became her sole custodian and the guardian of
Kamal’s
legitimate business interests and massive financial
assets. The informed opinion of social workers, psychologists, and numerous
interviews with the young girl deemed it in the best interest of Layal to be
under the care of her stepmother. To acknowledge her valor and service to her
adopted homeland, Umayma was naturalized as a British Citizen by the Home
Office a few months after
Kamal’s
conviction. Was it
stupid to reveal to
Kamal
she was the one who turned
him over?
Perhaps.
But with Layal in her custody,
Kamal
would never risk conspiring to harm her because Layal
would end up in foster care.

§

When
the ‘for sale’ sign went up on the front lawn of Felix’s house, Umayma began to
think of him again every day. Throughout
Kamal’s
trial and the ensuing process of taking over, Umayma hardly had any time to
dwell upon her yearning for Felix. She figured he must have moved or left the
country. It was a much better reason for why he hadn’t responded to the two
letters she had sent him, even if he was married or seeing someone.

On a
few occasions a pretty real estate agent in short skirts and high heels would
come by Felix’s house to show it to potential buyers. One sunny Monday morning
Umayma finally mustered the courage to go up to her to ask what became of
Felix.

“Has
Mr.
Susmann
left the country?”

“I am
sorry, who are you?” the agent asked with a modicum of suspicion.

“I am
his neighbor,” Umayma said with disarming innocence as she pointed to her house.

“So,
you don’t know then?” the young woman sighed and tilted her head to one side.

“Don’t
know what?”

“Mr.
Susmann
passed away eight months ago.”

§

The
colors of autumn were spreading like fire for a second time since she had first
met Felix. Umayma was sitting in the garden sipping mint tea when she heard the
door bell. Instinctively she touched her hair to tighten her scarf but
remembered it had been a while since she had removed the veil. She had figured
if God had wanted it concealed, he may as well not have given her
any hair to start.

“Registered
mail for Umayma
Yaghshi
” the postman said, peering up
from behind his glasses, seeming confused how a woman living in this house had
not only opened the door, but with her hair exposed.

It
was her finalized divorce papers from
Kamal
.

§

After
dropping Layal to school one morning in November, Umayma conceded to do
something she had been avoiding. She finally accepted she would never be fully
liberated unless she made her way back to
Fizroy
Park, sat on
the swing and faced her demons. She had never returned to her ground zero since the day Felix had
rescued her.

 It
was exactly one year ago that two men tried to rape her, spurred into an
aggressive sexual frenzy by a racial hatred she could hardly understand back then.
She had lacked the courage to shout out or scream or even fight for her life.
Kamal
had already killed her many times before, so surrendering
seemed like the only honorable thing to do. Except there was no honor in giving
up and playing dead.

She
made her way to the swings, scanning the park but found no one. Bitter cold air
was penetrating through her clothes and
aching
her
bones. Still the skies were open and the sun beamed down generously. She closed
her eyes and listened to every sound she could make out.
The
hum of the motorway.
Birds singing melodically.
Crickets chirping industriously.
And
her own
lungs inhaling and exhaling air rhythmically.

§

Umayma
must have dozed off on the swing. When she opened her eyes the sun had been
swallowed by thickening, ash-grey clouds and the sky was spitting out light
rain. But it wasn’t the sun’s disappearance or the misty drops of water gently
caressing her face that woke her up. Something else, she realized as her heart
ricocheted back and forth in her chest. Someone was standing behind her, with
their hand on her shoulder.
It’s them again.

What
had started out as gentle rain exploded into a torrential downpour with thunder
crackling ominously above her
head.
Yet the hand on
her shoulder remained there, firm, resolute. This was it. This was the moment
everything in
Umayma’s
life had been leading to.
A final opportunity to fight for her dignity even if she was killed
in the process.
A chance to stand up to the next man
who wanted to rob more of her self esteem.
She will scream
her lungs out in one loud, resounding ‘No!’ Never again would a man plunder from her what was not
his to take.

Umayma
shot up to her feet with the fire in her belly countering the iciness in the
air. She turned around to face whoever was standing behind her.

 Even
though Umayma was staring at a ghost, he wasn’t white as white can be and his
eyes were not ice-cold. The man standing before her was smiling from inside,
although his lips weren’t. His soft curls were brown for the most part but she
could also make out hints of grey. Near invisible glasses on his face and the
rain splashing against them didn’t obstruct his olive eyes fixed on her.
His was a smiling, knowing spirit.

She
made her way around the swings separating them and rushed into his arms. Umayma
ran her hands through Felix’s hair before her hungry lips were drawn to his. He
squeezed her body tightly with strong arms and for a brief while she prayed
they would merge into one entity. If Felix was a ghost, then she too wanted to
die. Her tears competed with the endless rain tumbling from the heavens.

At no
point did it seem necessary to stop and question how she was kissing a dead
man. Because whatever the explanation, supernatural or hallucinogenic, it
couldn’t possibly be any more important than what Umayma was feeling right now.
Love flooding her heart. The taste of Felix’s lips, the smell of his hair, the
warmth of his
stubbled
face, the firmness of his body
against her soft curves. And knowing she was finally home. All these things
were exactly as she had dreamed them to be. Right here under the rain, secure
and protected by Felix, alive or dead, was the only thing that mattered.

In
time, when his tongue inside her mouth tasted like it truly belonged to her,
she finally understood.

“You’re
not a doctor,” she whispered in his ears, as she held his face, while
interspersing kisses on his delicious lips. As if letting go or stopping for
air could risk her losing him again.

His
eyes beamed. “But I am able to give pain killer shots,” he echoed, in between
returning her kisses.

“You looked after your father,
didn’t you? It was your dad, the other Mr.
Susmann
,
who died.”

She
hugged him tighter to console his loss and tasted his salty tears.

“You ignored every letter I sent you,” Umayma
said, as a pang of uncertainty stabbed her fluttering heart. Images of her in
the supermarket waiting for him flashed shamefully in her mind.

“I only got them today.”

She pulled away not entirely
understanding his proposition.

“What do you mean?”

“After my father died, I left
England. I took a one-year teaching position overseas.”

“And the woman I saw inside your
house?”

Felix
smiled as he held her hands tight.
“My sister.”

“And do you not think of me as a
crazy woman?
To have felt these things for you after just a
brief encounter?”

“I did. I thought you were
completely insane.”

Once again that stabbing pain
tearing through her heart.

“But—”

“But what?” she begged, hoping for
the right answer.

“I am just as crazed as you are. I’ve
loved you for even longer.
Ever since you arrived.
Every day when you took your step-daughter to school I would see you through my
window. A rush of uncontrollable desires would pump through my body. I wanted
to come out and speak to you. And ask, ‘Why are these beautiful eyes so broken,
so damaged? Can I help fix you? Can I do something for you?’ Demand to know, ‘What
melancholy flows through your caged heart?’ Urge you to tell me, ‘What dark
secrets are you harboring about what exactly goes on in that house?”

Umayma’s
knees were wobbling and her lungs starved for air.