Dadi finally went to sleep a little after ten, and Meher Dadi came to sit by me on the window seat.
‘I’m glad the two of you have resolved your differences,’ she said. ‘She can be a harridan, but there’s no one more remarkable in the world.’
‘Oh, I think it’s down to a penalty shoot-out between the two of you.’
She hugged me fiercely. ‘I miss my family. You all drive me mad, but coming back to Karachi is like stepping into the sea again after months on land. How easily you float, how peaceful is the sense of being borne along, and how familiar the sound of the water lapping against your limbs.’
‘Do you know any Pakistanis in Greece?’
‘Oh yes. There are desis in every corner of the globe. There’s even a chap from Dard-e-Dil who comes to visit me. Haven’t I told you about him?’
‘No.’
Meher Dadi laughed. ‘First time I saw him I thought, Oh God! Funny looking, bearded chap, clearly not Mediterranean, who cycled up my path and knocked on the door just months after I’d left Karachi. He said he was a mechanic, had lived in Turkey all his life, but his parents were from India. He married a local who was half Greek, half Turkish, so they’d hop across the border every so often. I’ll never forget this; he said to me a few years ago, “My father moved here at the time of the Khilafat Movement. First World War, that was. So we missed Partition, but somehow it was my destiny to live between two neighbouring countries who are enemies.” The first time we met I asked him where in India his parents were from and he said, “Same as your parents. Dard-e-Dil.” I wasn’t surprised he knew. I’d already met a couple of Pakistanis there, so I knew word would spread through the community. But it was a joy to meet someone who … Well, it’s an ego thing, isn’t it? Even though he’d never lived in Dard-e-Dil, I was his royal family. And not just in some distant way. His father found his first job in Istanbul via that Dard-e-Dil relative of ours who went to Turkey and learnt the language. So we were, in a very real sense, the mechanic’s father’s patrons.’ She laughed again. ‘I told him we were living in a democratic age, but it took several visits before he and I were comfortable with him coming into my drawing room and sitting down for a cup of tea.’
I could almost hear bells going off in my head. Turkey again, and now it appeared there was actually someone there who might be able to find out if Taimur had ever lived there. ‘He comes often to visit you?’
‘Oh, no. Once, maybe twice a year. For the first few years I knew hardly anything about him. He just wanted me to tell him tales of Dard-e-Dil, and I was so pleased to have someone around for whom all those names had meaning that I rattled off all sorts of indiscreet things. When Samia came to visit she was amazed at how much he knew about her. And he’s so involved in our lives, because of those stories. I remember when I told him Akbar had died — I thought he was going to cry. And Mariam he used to be quite fascinated by. Who wouldn’t be? Although he hasn’t asked anything about her since the elopement. I think he thinks I’m embarrassed by it.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not, you know. Just in case you were wondering.’
‘He sounds like someone whose company you value.’ I was holding myself in, almost unable to breathe, although I wouldn’t have been able to articulate why exactly that was.
‘Oh, yes. He has all sorts of tales about Dard-e-Dil himself. His parents kept in touch with their relatives there, and every so often he’ll mention some lovely detail he found in his father’s letters. And he and Apollo get on wonderfully. As do his wife and I. Now when he visits he brings her along. Sometimes the children and the grandchildren, but I’m afraid they regard me as a foreign relic’
‘Do you cook vats of your murgh mussalum to give him a taste of Dard-e-Dil?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes. But the last time he came to see me, just a few months ago, he brought over, oh my mouth waters at the thought of it, shami kebabs that were positively Masoodian.’
‘Impossible.’
‘I’m not joking. He said they were from a new restaurant in Istanbul that is driving everyone mad! Apollo tasted them and suggested we move to Turkey.’
I was trying very hard not to clutch at straws and pull them together as though they were jigsaw pieces which would form a clear picture if I just got the edges right. I was trying very hard.
‘What’s the name of the restaurant?’
Meher Dadi shrugged and stood up. ‘Don’t know. Suppose I could find out.’
‘Please.’
She looked at me sharply. ‘Why?’
‘Please.’ I thought my heart might explode.
‘All right. If you insist.’
I handed her Dadi’s mobile phone.
‘Now? And on a mobile? That’ll cost absurd amounts of money.’
‘Bonnets. Bees. What can one do? I’ll reimburse Dadi.’
She checked her watch and calculated the time difference, took the phone and dialled. ‘Apollo?’ she said, and reeled off strange syllables. For some reason I’d always imagined they spoke English to each other.
Why is it that when people speak in a language you can’t understand they think all meaning is lost on you? If she’d been speaking in English she’d have lowered her voice, kept it steady, but in Greek she allowed all emotions to write themselves across her face and in her tone. That she missed him, that Dadi’s fall had given her a fright, that she and Dadi had spent the evening reminiscing with tears and with laughter, that I had some strange notion in my head which required him to find out the name of a restaurant — all this I heard without understanding a word.
She said goodbye, repeated how much she missed him, and handed the phone to me.
‘He’ll make enquiries. But in return he wants you to promise to come and visit.’
‘Definitely.’
She kissed me on the cheek and left me alone with Dadi. I tried not to think absurd thoughts. It didn’t work. I enumerated all the reasons why I shouldn’t pole-vault to the conclusion which suggested itself to me, but that entailed thinking about the conclusion, and my heart couldn’t bear it. I walked around, hummed, tried to remember as many songs from the eighties as possible, took out pencil and paper to help me work out which movie I knew more lines from: The Wizard of Oz or Casablanca. Oz won hands down, even after I excluded all the musical numbers.
And just as I was about to give up and allow myself to see that jigsaw picture, the door opened.
An old, slightly stooped man walked in. His hair was white, but thick; his face was a mass of wrinkles, though his jowls were only beginning to droop. His sherwani was exquisitely cut and, together with the silver-handled walking stick in his hand, conferred on him an air of great dignity.
‘Abida.’ He hadn’t even seen me.
Dadi, who had slept soundly through her sister’s chatter, woke up with a start.
Her hand went to her mouth to stifle a scream.
‘Akbar?’
The man shook his head.
‘Taimur, Taimur. You’re not dead, you’re not.’
The man shook his head again and walked forward into the moonlight. ‘I was always third on your list, Abbie.’
‘Sulaiman …’
Chapter Twenty-Two