Текст книги "A God in Every Stone"

Автор книги: Kamila Shamsie

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

23–25 April 1930

Standing on the balcony between shards of earthenware Zarina watches Diwa charge through the crowd, straight towards the wounded man. The sun catches the mirrorwork on her sleeves, light leaps up from her arms. The man speaks to her and points, she nods in acceptance and, too far away to hear Zarina’s loud cries, pushes her way to the space between the troops and protestors. If Zarina tries to follow her onto the street she’ll lose sight of her just as she lost sight of her husband earlier in the day when she left the rooftop to call him back home. So there is nothing to do but watch as Diwa picks up a fallen turban – it has to be the one the wounded man had been calling out for earlier – places it on her head and disappears back into the crowd. For a few seconds Zarina loses her. Machine-gun fire rips the air; sprays of light; there she is, near the watch-shop awning, there she is.

Did she trip? Did someone pull her down below the line of fire? Did she veer away in the time it took Zarina to blink? The street is in chaos, a chessboard overturned. Some men run towards the side alleys, some fall, some move towards the bullets to help their fallen brothers. Diwa! She draws the name out from deep in her belly, but even so her voice is a thread falling limply onto the street where panic itself is a sound. She is barefoot, but there is no question of taking the time to find her shoes before running down the stairs and out into the alley, through which soldiers are chasing Peshawari men. The ground is hot, sticky; the men run past her as if she isn’t there. She rounds the corner onto the Street of Storytellers where the gunfire is so loud it’s as if each bullet is being fired into her ear. And the smell! Fresh blood, and hours-old blood, and something else, more rank – men, terrified, have been losing control of their bodies. The flies are thick, fearless.

So quickly, this end of the street is almost empty. The armoured cars are still in place, and troops guard Kabuli Gate but most of the noise of running feet and guns now comes from the alleyways and in the direction of Hastings Memorial. A man runs past, tries to pull her along, but she shakes him off. The ground is unpaired shoes, and men, dead and wounded, and near the watch shop a long-tailed white turban soaking in fresh blood. She runs to pick it up, touches the bloodied fabric and brings her hand to her nose. If it is Diwa’s some part of her will know it; how is it possible she can’t tell Diwa’s blood from a stranger’s? But it is only blood, it could be anyone’s. There’s a sound behind her and she turns to see a man in a red shirt with his back towards her, something strange about his posture which she doesn’t understand until she sees the tip of the bayonet protruding from his back. He falls backwards and an English soldier pulls his bayonet clear of the body, blood thickening the blade. Someone else grabs her arm and this time she doesn’t resist as a man wearing khaddar pulls her along with him, into an alley.

A doorway opens, women’s hands pull her in to safety. My sister, she says, and tries to walk back out, but they stop her, hold her with force until she stops struggling. There is nothing you can do, they say.

One of them will die. This sentence is a thought she can’t unthink. Her husband, her sister. One of them will die. She backs herself into a corner of the room and sits pressed against the walls, her head in her hand. Outside the bullets don’t stop.

Three years ago on a day when she thought she fully understood terror, Zarina walked unrecognised down the street on which she had grown up, her body hunched over so her height wouldn’t give her away. Her destination was the carpet-seller’s house which overlooked the Street of Storytellers. Entering the house, throwing off her burqa, she said the words her late mother had trained her to say when the time came to be married to a murderer in repayment for her father’s death: I come seeking the protection of your house which can only be given to me through marriage. The carpet-seller knew immediately who she was and she understood then that he and her mother had agreed long ago that she would come here and invoke Pashtunwali, allowing him to become responsible for her life.

It was only after the carpet-seller said she was welcome into his family that she thought to look around the room for her husband-to-be and, in the cluster of family members who were looking at her in shock, saw one adoring face – Diwa. It was Diwa who loved her first and who she loved first in the household. Zarina holds the turban close to her chest although the smell of blood is almost unbearable. Her love for her husband came later, but once she recognised it she was able to look back and understand that the seeds of it were already there when she woke up beside him on the first morning of her married life and knew that now there would always be this secret life, these altered selves, known to no one but the two of them.

Hours later the women lift her up from the corner of the room because her unmoving limbs have stiffened into their cross-legged posture. One of the young sons of the household says he’ll walk home with her, but when he asks his mother to give this stranger a burqa the older woman says it’s safer to be uncovered so the English don’t think it’s a nationalist trying to hide.

They walk all the way to the Street of Storytellers before an English soldier stops them and tells them to return home. When the boy explains the soldier says the woman can cross the road without any help; he won’t be fooled by trouble-makers using women as shields to allow them to move around the city freely. Zarina barely hears this exchange. In the twilight gloom she looks up and down the street, trying to make sense of it. The bodies have gone, and even as she watches there’s a roaring sound and water jets out of the hose of a fire-engine at Kabuli Gate, and then another hose, and another. Where is your house, the soldier asks. She points, and he says, Go there directly, I’m watching.

She goes as quickly as possible, bare feet splashing through the bloodied water while shoes of different sizes race past her in the opposite direction. The front door of her house is ajar, and as she enters and starts to climb the stairs she hears her husband’s voice. He must be talking to Diwa – they are both here! Here, and worrying about her. But the other voice is a man’s voice, coming from the balcony. She is just a few feet away when she hears him say he can’t express his regret sufficiently, but he had to put her body down in order to help the wounded, and now she’s gone, along with all the other corpses on the street.

Zarina runs the stiff-blooded fabric of the turban between her fingers, and swears that she will kill the man who sent Diwa into the bullets.

When her husband returns home from his fruitless attempt to get past the soldiers and look for Diwa’s body she takes him into his bedroom and shows him the frock-coat with the bullet hole and the business cards lying beside it on the bed. His voice is unfamiliar with grief as he reads out what is written there: Najeeb Gul, Indian Assistant, Peshawar Museum.

– What will you do to him?

– Zarina, don’t.

– Don’t what?

A banging on the front door interrupts them. There aren’t any servants in the house – they’re all either in Kohat or still taking a few days to visit their families, unaware that some members of the household have returned – so there’s no one to answer the door. It will be neighbours checking that everyone is all right and when they find out what’s happened the house will fill with mourners and she and her husband will be pulled apart into the men and women’s sections of the house. Pretend we’re not here, her husband says. I just want to be with you tonight.

But the hammering on the door goes on and on, and finally he stands up and says, I’ll take care of it. He’s been gone only a few seconds when the presence of Diwa in this room, in those last seconds they had together, catches her by the throat. Diwa is dead. Diwa is dead, and she is still living, and will go on living without her. This surge of pain, this rushing sense of enormity. She is dead, she will never be any less dead than she is now. How can Zarina survive even this moment – right now. She will not survive it. She opens the shutters, there’s no air in her lungs. On the balcony, shards of earthenware, spilt water. She kneels, picks up a jagged piece of fired earth. From her throat, rasping sounds. And through them her husband’s voice calling her name. When she turns he’s standing there, gripping the upper arm of a man in a bloodied shirt, who doesn’t flinch or try to move: Najeeb Gul.

– This is my fault, he says.

When he speaks she sees the point in his throat where she can jam the tip of the earthenware shard, pushing through skin and cartilage. She grips the shard, walks up close to him.

– Why have you come here?

– I saw her fall, but I didn’t see what happened after. I came to see if she was –

He can’t say either the word ‘alive’ or ‘dead’, and she can tell her husband wishes he had sent away this young, open-faced man instead of bringing him up here. Her husband has lived his life in a world abundant with good fortune where softness is given the name refinement. Grief is making his heart flood with tears instead of blood.

– Zarina, it’s the English who killed my sister, not this man, whatever he did.

– What do you know of what he did?

She picks up the frock-coat and brings it close to her husband.

– He violated the sanctity of our home and came into our bedroom with your sister, she says. She sees her husband flinch at that and presses on. He took off his clothes. And where was she when this happened, when this man undressed himself? Ask him if he touched her, and how? What did he do to her, what promises did he make, to send her flying through a crowd of strange men towards him when he was injured?

Najeeb Gul hangs his head. I’m sorry, he says, his voice an admission of everything that she had only half believed to be true. Her husband catches him by the shoulders, places a foot on his backside and kicks him to the ground. He lands hard, and his bellow of pain suggests that the wounds he received in the day have re-opened. Her husband lifts him by the collar and drags him through the corridor and down the stairs, a trail of blood smearing the floor, and steps, the man screaming in pain. Zarina follows all the way to the storage room on the ground floor, watches her husband – this man who has never raised a finger in anger – kick Najeeb Gul inside and step in after him, closing the door behind him.

And now she is terrified. It is his gentleness she loves most. Once taken out of him how can it be put back? She bangs on the door, calls his name, and it’s only a few seconds later that he walks out, his face drawn, pale.

– What do you want me to do to him?

All this blood, the trail on her floor. She wants the smell of it gone.

– I don’t know, she says, and his relief is unmistakable.

– We’ll keep him there until my father comes back. He can decide.

Her husband bathes and binds the prisoner’s wounds, takes him tea and dried fruit which is all the sustenance there is in the house, but will not say a word to or about him. Although there’s a lock on the storage-room door he insists on sitting outside it, a rifle across his knee. He tells Zarina to sit with him but she can’t find a way to leave Diwa’s room, the girl’s scent still on her pillowcase, her clothes. Somehow she sleeps, and even in her dreams Diwa is already dead.

By morning her husband’s face has aged. Zarina tries to go in to see the prisoner but her husband says no, and won’t give her the key. But there is something she wants from Najeeb Gul – she wants the last hours of her sister-in-law’s life. How did she grow so brave, what allowed her to run through a street of men as if nothing could touch her?

– No, her husband says, and lays his head on his knees. I’m so tired, I’m so hungry. Where did they take my sister’s body?

The only thing she can attend to is hunger. She leaves the house, nothing but a chaddar to cover her head so the soldiers will think she’s only a woman, incapable of making trouble. The world is empty without Diwa, no life, no sound. And nothing to buy, nothing to eat. At Kabuli Gate an English officer tells her she can’t leave the Walled City, and she says it doesn’t trouble her but when her employer wants to know why his children’s ayah didn’t come to work she’ll tell him who was responsible. Who is her employer, he asks and she gives him the name of an Englishman who is a valued customer of her father-in-law, with two young children and an important position in government. The English officer speaks Urdu but doesn’t know enough to tell an ayah apart from the daughter-in-law of a merchant, or perhaps all Peshawaris look the same to him today just as every Englishman is a murderer to her. Either way, he waves her through. On the railway bridge leading into the Cantonment she sees the domes of the Peshawar Museum, and then it’s impossible to keep herself from going towards it.

Inside there’s an Englishwoman. That’s almost reason enough to leave, but the Englishwoman walks away, and Zarina can stand and look around the silent hall of idols. This is where he works, and this has something to do with the blackened metal band hidden in his turban which Diwa retrieved for him from beneath the wheels of an armoured car. She walks up to the two largest of the stone idols, wants to smash them. There’d be a satisfaction in watching them shatter on the ground, these giant unchanging figures which look onto the world with indifference, even today. But instead she turns to leave and as she’s going she sees a carving on a grey panel which draws her to it – a woman neither alive nor dead, neither entombed nor in the world of the living. Gone for ever. Zarina repeats those words to herself, tries to force them into meaning.

When her mother died she learned that when the living touch a corpse they understand, through their fingertips, that the dead are truly dead; no life is left in that coldness. This the fingertips understand, but without that touch the brain flounders. How is it possible that a whole universe of habits, humour, taste, tics, loyalties, loves has gone spinning into randomness, freed from the magnetic force of Diwa’s personality? Where is she lying now, has anyone said a prayer over her body, will Zarina for ever see her from beneath each burqa in the Walled City? If she must be dead let her be dead, but where is the body?

She returns home and the cook and his two sons are there, sitting outside the storage room with guns across their knees. There had been a moment in the Museum when the Englishwoman had said, Najeeb! and Zarina thought her husband had set him free. But it was the man who had come up to her balcony yesterday, and he said he was Najeeb’s brother. Why had he come to her balcony? What conspiracy is there between the brothers? She shouts through the door at Najeeb Gul but he doesn’t answer, and the cook says her husband has given him the key to the lock and made him swear on the Qur’an not to give it back to him or to let Zarina have it, and whatever the cook might personally believe to be the right choice in this matter the Qur’an is the Qur’an.

When her husband returns he’s found out who was responsible for putting the bodies in lorries, but no one knows where they were taken. He bangs with the flat of his palm on the door of the storage room, tells the cook he’ll fire him unless he gives the key back, and it is Zarina who pulls him away, tells him to be calm. The day crawls by, endless, pointless. There is a man imprisoned in the house and his presence is driving them both mad.

Another night passes. Soon, her father-in-law will return. With the withdrawal of the British the gates of the Walled City have opened and this morning the cook’s older son left for Kohat to give the family the terrible news. Zarina’s husband has gone to buy a grave plot in Shahji-ki-Dheri, and for now it is only Zarina, the cook and his younger son in the house. She’s upstairs in Diwa’s room when she hears the cook calling out to her from the hallway. He never comes to this part of the house, but the world is different now.

– They’ll all be here soon, he says when she comes outside to see what he wants. He’s been with the family longer than her husband and any of his siblings have been alive, and Diwa has always been – always was – his favourite.

– Yes. And?

– I’ve sworn I won’t give you the key to the room. But I haven’t sworn I won’t unlock it myself.

When the carpet-seller arrives he will set the captive free. Zarina knows it, her husband knows it, the cook knows it.

– I don’t know, she says.

– I’ll do it. I want to. How can we let him walk out of here after what he’s done?

– Let me think.

– I held her in my arms when she was a baby. I don’t need your permission.

He says it in kindness, lifting from her the burden of this responsibility, ensuring no one’s displeasure will fall on her.

– I want to talk to him, she says.

– You talk. I’ll do the rest.

They are partway down the corridor when the cook’s son runs up the stairs, breathless, to say two people have arrived: a man with a glass eye and an Englishwoman in a burqa who says the begum-sahib asked her about the lorries. How can they know he’s imprisoned here? It’s impossible. But they must be looking for him, and someone will have said he was here during the massacre. The cook has already told her that the neighbours have been asking about the man who went up on the roof when the women and children were there. Get your gun, she commands the cook and goes to find the frock-coat with the bullet hole which will convince Najeeb Gul’s brother and the Pashto-speaking Englishwoman from the Museum that the man they’re looking for is already dead. Let them think the lorries took him away.

And then, they don’t ask about Najeeb Gul. They are here to tell her about the lorries, tell her what she already knows. It’s as if they want her forgiveness for the crimes of their people. How little her grief means to them if they can come here seeking a salve for their own conscience. Where is Diwa? That is the only question in the world. She pushes the frock-coat into the man’s arm and steps out of the room.

The cook is in the study on the other side of the door, a gun in his arms. What do they want, he asks, and before she can answer all the weight of a tall man crashes against the door.

– Najeeb! Where is my brother? Najeeb!

His body is a battering ram against the heavy wood door. The cook holds the rifle in a firing position and tells her to unlock the door and open it.

– No, Zarina says. She hears the glass-eyed man’s sorrow, the agony of it. The echo of her own heart.

– Enough, she says.

In the courtyard, the brothers embrace. They hold each other so close, so uncaring of those who are watching that the cook and his son and Zarina turn their faces away, and then have to look back because joy is something they know they won’t witness again in this household for a very long time.

The Englishwoman says the younger brother’s name, so softly only Zarina, standing beside her, can hear. They are facing each other – the Englishwoman and Najeeb Gul – but his eyes are closed as he grips his brother’s back, his face pressed against the older man’s shoulder. Soon though, he will open his eyes and see the woman studying his face, her hand pressed against her heart.

The Englishwoman pivots on her heel, walks towards the front door. No one but Zarina is watching her. In the doorway she turns, holds up her hand to shoulder height, fingers together, palm facing outwards. Zarina doesn’t know what the gesture means, and yet she finds herself replicating it. The Englishwoman ducks her head in acknowledgement, covers herself in a burqa, and walks out into the street.