Luna dropped by after work each night to fix me some food and help look after the baby. Ali’s parents also came to visit once, with Ali’s younger sisters. At the same time that they were thrilled the baby looked so much like her father, they couldn’t hide their tears. Before they left, Ali’s father hugged me and whispered in my ear:
“Ali’s older brother is going to Pakistan to look for him this summer. He’ll send us good news.”
I just smiled and didn’t say anything; I knew Ali was still alive.
I didn’t go back to work at the salon until the baby was over a hundred days old, but I continued going to Lady Emily’s once a week. Most of the time she only wanted a massage, but some days she would tell me about her dreams instead, or confide in me about her communication with her deceased nanny, Becky. She had several psychic friends, and they all took turns meeting at each other’s houses. Lady Emily had offered to introduce me to the group, but I always found an excuse to decline. One day I arrived at Lady Emily’s house in Holland Park at our scheduled time, only to find Auntie Sarah looking grim.
“Madam is out. She’s gone to Brighton,” she said.
“Did something bad happen?” I asked.
Auntie Sarah lowered her voice: “Her husband’s dead. Shot.”
“What? How …?”
“That little bitch shot him three times.”
Auntie Sarah stopped there and wouldn’t elaborate. I was so shocked that I forgot all about my own worries, and felt bad for Lady Emily. I’d figured her preoccupation with psychics was because of her separation from her husband.
Luna, the baby and I were spending the evening together that night when Grandfather Abdul came downstairs. He stroked Hurriyah Suni’s tiny feet and rubbed his beard against her soft-as-water cheek.
“I need to tell you something,” he began.
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Luna said. She got up and started to head for the door, but Grandfather Abdul gestured for her to stay.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You two tell each other everything anyway. Ali’s older brother just got back from Pakistan.”
Luna and I exchanged a glance, and both looked expectantly at Grandfather Abdul.
“He confirmed that Ali went from Peshawar to Kabul in search of his brother. Also, Saeed’s uncle, who lives in Peshawar, said that Usman and his friends stayed with him for five days before leaving for Kabul. We know this much because Ali made one phone call from Kabul. But like his younger brother, he hasn’t been heard from since. According to reports, Jalalabad, which is near Kabul, and northern Kunduz were bombed by the Northern Alliance, and a lot of people died or were taken away. I can only hope that they’re still safe somehow.”
I thought to myself: Ali is alive. I can feel it.
It had been months since Ali had left for Afghanistan, with no contact and no trace of his whereabouts, so it was only natural that almost everyone assumed he and his brother were dead. Luna and Grandfather Abdul kept their heads down and wouldn’t look at me or say anything. Lately, everyone had been doing the same whenever Ali came up in conversation. They thought it was too late to try to comfort me by telling me not to worry, that he would be back soon. But I had seen Ali in my dreams. I’d seen Usman as well. Maybe because Ali was my husband, he was always talking or laughing or getting angry, just as in real life, but Usman would only stand at a distance and watch me, or would turn and walk away even as I called out to him.
One day, Auntie Sarah called while I was working at Tongking. It wasn’t Lady Emily’s scheduled day, but she asked me to hurry over. I took a cab. As soon as I walked in, Auntie Sarah gestured for me to follow her upstairs.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She shook her head and sighed.
“She’s asked me three times whether you’ve arrived yet. She’s a mess. Do whatever you can.”
When I entered the bedroom, the curtains were drawn and the lights were out. The room was completely dark.
Auntie Sarah called out timidly: “Madam, Bari is here.”
“Okay.”
Lady Emily’s voice was very faint. Auntie Sarah gave me a push and disappeared. I kept going in the direction of the push, and came to a stop at the side of the bed. I couldn’t see a thing, so I had to switch on the bedside lamp. A bottle of cognac sat on the nightstand next to a round snifter. Lady Emily was drunk. I crouched down near her pillow.
“Shall I prepare a massage?” I asked.
“That stupid man took three bullets to the back. They told me to ID his body, and then they pulled back the sheet. He’d grown so old in the last few years that I barely recognized him. He had lost so much hair too. And oh, that big belly of his! Hideous.”
I listened quietly. Outside, fat clouds drifted through a clear blue sky, and the leaves on the trees that lined the road were green and beautiful. But Lady Emily lay half-naked, covered only by an untied bathrobe, her limbs splayed. Her sagging breasts were like half-empty leather flasks.
“Turns out that whore had a lover back home in Thailand,” Lady Emily said. “She flew back three or four times a year to see him. Probably stole a lot of money, too. I bet she got sick of sleeping with an old man and was out of her mind when she shot him. The police asked if I wanted to see her. Why would I want to see that murdering bitch?”
Lady Emily covered her face with her hands and began to sob hysterically. She turned on her side and pulled her knees up to her chest. I tried to console her as I straightened her limbs out, covered her with a towel, and began to massage her shoulders.
“Okay,” I said. “Forget about the awful thing that happened. Just let it go. The memory will fade in time. Don’t let it consume you.”
Her knotted muscles began to soften as I rubbed and kneaded. I made my way down the backs of her thighs to her calves and down to her feet. As I squeezed and stroked her feet, my eyes closed automatically. I shivered and my shoulders trembled; my body seemed to grow colder and lighter much more quickly than usual.
*
Someone is standing in the dark: a figure dressed in a loosely draped, dark brown garment made from a rough fabric. I recognize the apparition as Lady Emily’s nanny, Becky.
Please help her, I murmur.
In a hoarse voice, she says: You’re in no position to be worried about others.
I say that we speak, but in fact we use no words. No sooner do she and I think of the same place than the furniture in the room vanishes and the darkness lifts. We stand in the middle of a parched land rough with rocks and dry grass. Wrinkles crease the corners of Becky’s dark eyes as she gazes out over the windswept expanse.
Aren’t you looking for your husband? she asks.
Where are we?
The middle place, between the world of the living and the world of the dead, where shamans like you and I can come and go. Even after death, we can traverse this place.