Black sparrow, p.24
Black Sparrow, page 24
“We'll talk about it in the morning.” Dad sighs. “It's late and we all need to rest.”
“But, Dad…”
“Enough, Khalid. We're all upset. And tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
Back in my own room, I undress and get into bed. I pull the duvet over my head so that I'm totally enclosed, and type another text message to my sister: Where are you? Please call, need to talk to you.
Again, it shows as sent but nothing comes back.
I can't close my eyes. If I do, I'll see Mum.
Only now do I realise that she was wearing her favourite shalwar kameez. Grandma's gold bracelets, too, and the heart-shaped gold locket with mine and Uzma's photos inside. I try desperately to think back to our conversation in the kitchen, the very last time that we talked to each other, thinking about what was said. Mum didn't seem so upset that she'd take her own life because of what I told her, but she was most definitely shocked. Maybe she felt more betrayed by Aunt Shazia than Dad. Men do have affairs sometimes, you read about it all the time, but my aunt was supposed to be Mum's best friend. I guess that's like a slap in the face, when your bestie does the dirty with your husband.
I lie awake, now and again drifting, but not quite sleeping. Mum was such a kind person. It's so sad that she died alone, in that cold water, with nobody there to talk her out of it. I want to blame my dad, he's the one who was unfaithful, but I can't. I'm the one who broke the news, I spilled the secret, I told her. My mother is dead and it's my fault. I caused her to take her own life, to slit her wrists, to lie in the bath with the water filling her lungs, nobody else. It was me.
MONDAY 4AM – SYLVAIN RENO
It's freezing out here and the smoke from my recently discarded cigarette lingers for a while before slithering off like a well-camouflaged snake. I rub my gloved hands together and pull another from the packet, inhaling deeply to keep warm, but not taking my eyes from Mama's house for one moment. The ground is crisp with frost, glistening on the cobblestones, reminding me that it's slippery underfoot. I must tell Mama to take care and wear sensible footwear and several layers when she goes out.
It's stupid of me to be so close, but force of habit took me in this direction. I wanted to see if Uzma had gone home yet, back to London, but it's impossible to tell as the lights are off and each window shrouded by tightly closed shutters. What if she's still there, anyway? There's nothing I can do. Mama is right again, of course. The sooner Sophia and I leave for the countryside, the better.
I turn away from the familiar building and head for the Church of Saint Pierre. Francis has kindly agreed to meet me, despite the ungodly hour. I need my friend to do something for me, the only favour that I will ask, and then this afternoon we will leave, straight after my wife's clinic appointment – the check-up that will confirm the sex of our child, to tell us that everything is going well.
“Sylvain?” Father Francis calls out as soon as the heavy oak door creaks open. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” I answer, closing the latch firmly behind me. “Where are you?”
The church is lit by just a few candles laid out along the altar, and I pick my way carefully down the aisle, my winter boots clicking on the flagstones as I move forward, eyes searching the darkness for the priest. Everything echoes, it seems, even my hurried breath. I call out again.
“Over here,” the priest calls from the vestry. “I have the heater on and some decent brandy.”
I turn towards Francis's voice, skimming my fingers over the pews for support in case I trip.
“Hey!” I hug my friend. “Thanks for coming. You're a star, you know that, right?”
Francis shrugs. I can see by his face that he's wondering in what capacity I called him out in such bitterly cold conditions, priest or confidante. In truth, I need both his friendship and his guidance.
“Here,” he offers, pushing a flask of brandy at me as I enter the little room. “Take a seat.”
There's a small electric heater warming the space, but it does little to take the chill out of the air and I notice that Francis still wears his padded jacket and woollen hat. No dog-collar or clergy's robe today. I ease myself down into one of the brown antique leather armchairs, which creaks under my weight.
We regard each other for a few seconds, each waiting for the other to speak. I decide to go first.
“Sophia and I are leaving this afternoon. We're going down to the cottage in Bordeaux for a while.”
My friend takes the brandy flask from me and swigs hard, swallowing in one gulp.
“Your idea? Or your mother's? Running away from a messy situation, eh, Sylvain?”
“Mama's suggestion,” I confess. “But I think it's the best thing to do at the moment, don't you?”
“Is your mother going with you?” Francis questions, leaning forward slightly in his chair.
“No, why would she? I mean, the guest house has bookings still…”
There's a twitch, something niggling at the priest and I put my hand on his arm.
“What is it? Francis, tell me.”
“I'm worried about your mother.” I can sense by the sigh he gives that the admission is reluctant.
I pause, aware that pushing my friend may cause him to close up, his professional head clouding as he decides how much I need to know and which parts to confess.
He hesitates briefly. “She's involved in something,” he tells me. “It's connected to that Englishman.”
I'm confused. I'd asked the priest to come here to help with a delicate matter, not to talk about Mama. I sit waiting patiently as he tells me about the meeting with my father's old colleague.
“Who's the target? Do you know?” I ask, after having listened to what Francis has to confide.
He shakes his head. “No, but apparently a courier will deliver details this afternoon.”
“Shit.” I thought my mother had given up playing at the spy games, that she'd buried bureau business with Papa. How can I not have realised that she is still on the payroll?
“The Englishman, he's planning to retire after this one,” Francis adds, almost as an afterthought.
“Fuck the Englishman!” I shout, running my fingers through my hair. “I don't give a damn about him.”
“But somehow that's important, too,” my friend explains calmly. “Your mother made a point of telling the contact when they met. He didn't seem too pleased. I think it's significant.”
I'm confused. So what if that stuck-up Brit isn't coming back; isn't that a good thing for Mama? She won't have to put up with him fawning all over her again like a love-struck teenager.
Francis and I sit in silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts.
“Do you want some more brandy?” he offers, breaking the mood after a few minutes.
I shake my head. “Better keep a clear head. Who knows what today might bring.”
Francis watches me steadily. My face must be plastered with worry lines and frowns. He takes a short sip, licking his lips as the heat of the alcohol warms his throat, and screws the cap back on the flask. He looks weary. Maybe the burden of all these secrets is taking its toll.
“Why did you ask me to come here at this hour?” he murmurs, raising his eyes slowly upwards.
I'd almost forgotten my purpose and it seems like a ridiculous request, now that I'm aware of the danger that Mama might have found herself in. Being mixed up with a hired hit-man is not what I'd imagined for my dear mother and Papa would turn in his grave if he only knew. Foolish woman.
Still, I dig deep into my coat pocket and take out an intricately designed golden pendant.
“What is it?” Francis queries, pressing it gently into his palm and then holding the object up to the light.
“Apparently it's called an 'Ayat al Kursi' charm,” I explain, tracing the pattern with my forefinger.
“Pretty,” my friend comments, rolling it carefully between his cold hands, “And quite heavy.”
His eyes search for mine, confused, awaiting an explanation. I swallow hard, uneasy.
“Uzma, the Asian girl, she gave it to me. It was her grandmother's, some form of protection, I think.”
Francis has assumed the role of priest and advisory again, I can tell by the way his shoulders have straightened and his fingers start tapping. He gently passes the shining pendant back to me.
“I need you to give it back to her,” I tell him, “and to say that I'm truly sorry for everything.”
A low whistle comes out from between the priest's shining white teeth and his head goes back, eyes raised to the low vestry ceiling. A flush begins to redden his cheeks, though I can't be sure whether it's caused by anger or alcohol. It takes only seconds for his blood to boil, for me to find out why.
“So, I am to be your scapegoat? Is that it? Your simple errand boy? Your what, your cleaner?”
His voice has a sharp edge. He's wounded that I would force such a distasteful task upon him.
“No!” I snap, a little too harshly. “But can you imagine how she will be if I go myself? Please Francis, as my closest friend, I need you to do this for me. To let her down gently. She's just a young girl.”
“A woman. A woman whom you seduced, Sylvain. Not a girl. You had an affair with her. You had sex.”
The insult smarts, like a slap. I hadn't expected my friend to feel so bitter about my mistakes.
We regard each other closely, neither wanting to throw harmful words that cannot be unsaid.
Eventually he nods, holding out his hand for the pendant and I pass it over to him.
“This is the last time, so help me God. You are pushing our friendship to the very limit, Sylvain.”
I place my hand over the top of Francis's smooth knuckles, swearing to him that these circumstances will never occur again during our lifetime. This will be the last mistake on my part. I am certain of it.
“So, what time are you leaving?” he mutters quietly, raising himself from the comfort of the chair.
“Sophia has a clinic appointment at three,” I explain, “so we should be able to pick up Mama's car around four. We can be in Bordeaux by late this evening. I'll call you when we arrive.”
“Don't hang around,” he warns. “Leave as soon as you can. I'll talk to Uzma, I'll be gentle.”
“Thank you. I don't know what I would do without you, my dear Francis. I'll never forget this.”
Francis laughs, a bitter, nasal sound, reminding me that a man of God still inhabits his mortal body.
“Go now,” he says. “You'll have my soul for this. Goodbye, Sylvain and take care of your Sophia.”
We hug briefly before I head back out into the dark November morning, thanking my lucky stars.
I slip back into bed beside my wife, careful not to chill her with my cold feet as I slide under the covers. It's doubtful that I'll sleep now, but at least the closeness of Sophia's body is a comfort on such a freezing morning. She stirs slightly, rolling towards me and I feel the curved bump of our unborn child.
“Hey, where have you been?” she whispers, nuzzling fondly into my neck. “You're so cold, Sylvain.”
“Just for a walk, I needed some cigarettes. Go back to sleep, it's still too early to get up.”
“You should give them up when we get to Bordeaux,” she teases tiredly. “Enjoy the fresh air instead.”
I nod. “I will give up absolutely everything for you, Sophia. Anything you ask me to. Je t'aime.”
We lie together, me listening to my wife's shallow breathing, the beautiful woman next to me easily falling back into a contented slumber. I close my heavy eyelids, urging dreams to come quickly.
I imagine Father Francis walking towards the guest house, the golden pendant weighing heavy in the pocket of his cassock, his face taut and serious, striding purposefully towards Mama's home.
Uzma is there, watching him from an upstairs window. I don't know why, but she's all dressed in black, her face pale, eyes red and tearful. She follows the priest's progress as he navigates the cobbles and then disappears around the front of the building. In my dream, there's a bird on the window ledge. It looks like a common sparrow, but its feathers are black, not brown as they ought to be. The bird pecks at the glass of the window-pane, menacing the woman who stares out, trying to get her attention.
There's a loud bang, almost as if someone had fired a gun.
I wake with a start, perspiration beaded across my brow. I'm alert now. The noise must have been one of the other tenants banging the front door on their way out. Everything is still here, and my wife lies undisturbed. I resign myself to an early start and disentangle myself from Sophia's long limbs, the cold floor bringing me back to my senses.
I wander into the bathroom and gaze at the tired, unshaven face looking back at me. But I also hear tapping, the noise of a small, black-feathered companion, chipping away at the windowsill outside.
MONDAY 6AM – JAMEEL RAFIQ
Just as I'm about to put on my overcoat, Ali comes dashing downstairs waving his mobile phone at me.
“I've just had a text message,” he hisses, his face a strange combination of alarm and excitement.
For a moment, I don't comprehend what my brother is telling me, and I just stand, gaping at him.
“The thing, you know, the hit-man,” he whispers, looking quickly behind him to ensure that neither of the boys are listening. “It's really happening. Four o'clock this afternoon.”
I rub a hand over my brow, wondering if, after everything that's happened now, we should call it off.
“Cancel it,” I say, the icy words sounding as though they belong to someone else. “Call it off.”
“What?” My brother laughs incredulously at my comment. “It's too late to go back now, Jameel.”
I can't deal with this now. What difference will it make, anyway? My daughter has lost her mother. Why make the heartache worse by getting rid of her so-called French boyfriend as well?
“Call the airport,” I tell him, “see if we can get a cancellation to Paris today. I need Uzma home.”
Ali stands staring open-mouthed while I search in my coat pockets for the car keys.
“Are you serious? Jameel, where are you going? Wait, I'll come with you.”
“I'll be back soon,” I snap. “Just get that flight. There's something I need to do now.”
The drive to the twenty-four-hour café is the longest of my life. It's as though my whole body is going through the motions on auto-pilot while the voice of reason in my head drifts in and out of various emotions. Fatigue, grief, love, anger, self-pity, disbelief. I need to pull myself together. I have to focus.
When I arrive, Shazia is already sitting in the far corner booth, hugging a mug of frothy coffee. I order a tea and then slide across the seat on the opposite side of the table. This isn't going to be easy.
She smiles and reaches for my hand under the wooden surface but I don't reciprocate the gesture.
“Hey there, my love. You look tired. Haven't you slept, Jameel?”
I shake my head, trying to push the sentences together in my brain, to tell her what needs to be said.
“Shazia, listen. It's Farida,” I begin. “She's –”
“Is she ill?” Shazia interrupts, her brows furrowing slightly. “Can I help?”
“Please, let me speak,” I murmur, lowering my voice as the waitress brings my drink. “I need you to listen and please don't say anything, not a word, until I've finished.”
My lover watches my lips moving as I tell her of how my wife has taken her own life. Shazia brings both hands up to cover her mouth. Perhaps she's afraid that she might shout, or cry.
“Poor Farida. But why? Jameel, why would she do such a terrible thing?”
“I don't know. Maybe she convinced herself that Uzma wasn't coming back…” I say hopelessly. I don't believe that this could possibly be a good enough reason to commit suicide, but then I guess I never really did know what was going on in my wife's head. Obviously, nobody did.
“You don't think she could have found out about…”
Typical woman, I think to myself, always thinking about themselves, forever conniving.
“No, she couldn't possibly, we've been so discreet, so cautious.”
Shazia glances around the room as though she's willing someone to see us together, just to disprove me. I sip my tea in silence, allowing her to take in the enormity of the situation.
The silence between us is hanging thickly in the air like a dust sheet. I'm tired and weary, still mystified by my wife's death. Shazia is understandably in shock, they were best friends after all.
“I saw her on Friday,” she suddenly tells me, her voice no more than a croak. “Farida was at my house. She was laughing and joking, we had afternoon tea.”
“And did she give you any reason to think she was unhappy? Anything at all?”
Shazia shakes her head, “No. We chatted as usual. Everything was fine. Do you think all this business with Uzma tipped her over the edge? Maybe she thought her daughter was gone forever.”
I sigh. “I really don't know. She was upset, but I thought we were dealing with it.”
After a minute or so, Shazia touches my sleeve with her beautifully painted red nails. “Jameel, don't be angry, but there's something I need to tell you. It's about Farida…”
I don't say anything, allowing her to go on and her open confession is unexpected.
“I think Farida was planning to leave you. She was putting money away in a bank account, an account which I helped her to open. Just a little every week, not much, but she'd been saving for years.”
Shazia can tell by my face that this is old news, as I give no reaction, not a single twitch.
“I know. Uzma took some of the money to set herself up in France.”
She's shocked, I can see it in my lover's eyes. She is searching my eyes for answers, excuses.
“Maybe that's why Farida… I mean, perhaps it ruined her plans. She must have been upset about it.”
I turn my face away, gather my thoughts, try to quell the rising emotions.
I stop her in her tracks. “For goodness' sake, we may never know the reason. I have to focus on bringing Uzma home now, making sure that she's safe. I've obviously failed my wife, so the very least I can do is take care of my only daughter. Be reasonable, please.”
