Her mother, of all people, yes. Speaking from within the family where she now found herself, he had made it clear she was remiss in not keeping a daughter’s contact with a mother. So there had been an exchange of letters. My crazy girl, I can imagine your papa’s horror … you’re like me, I’m afraid, you just can’t restrict yourself to tidy emotions! But don’t forget, darling, if it doesn’t work you can always get out. She had been amused to read the letter to him but skipped the last sentence. A few days later he asked whether she had answered the letter yet.
No of course not. It’s not going to be a weekly duty, like when I was at boarding school.
Her mother can get some references. From her friends, her husband. He’s an American, isn’t he. It’s necessary for our visas.
Canada, Australia — America too? Every possibility was being worked at through his contacts. The only country where she might have any of use was England; but he already had against him a record of illegal entry there.
The letters of recommendation she requested — at his dictation, he knew so well the form to take — so far had not come from California. But the book by door-to-door service prepaid at high cost did arrive — somehow — with the driver of the bus from the capital; whoever was supposed to take charge of the package there happened to know the man’s route. She hesitated to ask Ibrahim what the verses were that he had told her his mother knew by heart; Maryam would tell her. There was some difficulty in making her request understood, perhaps not because of language problems but of the girl thinking she must be misunderstanding: what would Ibrahim’s wife want to know these things for?
The Chapter of The Merciful, the Chapter of Mary, the Chapter of The Prophets.
He was out with men with whom he grew up, some friends said to be able to lead him to the hands open behind officials’ backs. There were no hours restricting his quest, no chances of pursuit too unlikely. She was alone with the goose-neck lamp he had bought, saying that at least she could read by the light of some amenity she was used to, while they were in this place. Suras, the footnotes said they were called. She read aloud to herself as if to hear in the natural emphases of delivery which had been the passages come upon — for life— in these choices out of so much advice and exhortation, inspiration, consolation people find in religious texts. She read at random; the verses did not come in the order in which Maryam had happened to name them.
And remember Job: when he cried to his Lord, Truly evil hath touched me: but thou art the most merciful of those who show mercy.
So we heard him, and lightened the burden of his woe; and we gave him back his family.
Turned away from the encircling light of the lamp.
She was beside the majestic figure statue-draped in black at the feast, the first meal. Her lover, the son, cast out by Nigel Ackroyd Summers’ world, given back to his family by that silent figure whose authority came from the thrall of his love. How had the girl-child known the verse she was learning to read was: for her. Known by heart.
And make mention in the Book of Mary, when she went apart from her family, eastward
And took a veil to shroud herself from them: and we sent our spirit to her, and he took before her the form of a perfect man.
She said: ‘I fly for refuge from thee to the God of Mercy! If thou fearest him, begone from me.’
He said: ‘I am only a messenger of the Lord, that I may bestow upon thee a holy son.’
She said: ‘How shall I have a son, when man hath never touched me and I am not unchaste.’
He said: ‘So shall it be, The Lord hath said: “Easy is this with me; and we will make him a sign to mankind, and a mercy from us. For it is a thing decreed.”’
And she conceived him, and retired with him to a far-off place.
Boarding-school scripture stuff.
And when one who was dubbed a Jesus-freak among the café habitués got herself pregnant and said she didn’t know how that happened, it had been the banter of the day … now which of you randy guys played Angel Gabriel …
What the story might mean to the one who still could recite it by heart; well you’d have to have a son of your own to understand.
The light fell again on the pages; turning, skimming; a pause:
The God of Mercy hath taught the Koran
Hath created man,
Hath taught him articulate speech.
The Sun and the Moon have each their times,
And the plants and the trees bend in adoration,
And the Heaven, He hath reared it on high …
… He hath let loose the two seas which meet each other:
Yet between them is a barrier which they overpass not.
Everyone knows, in texts like these, what is meant: for her. She left this book open on the last two lines.
She lay on the iron bed and waited for him, gone about the imperatives of his world, as he had awaited her, gone about hers, nights in the cottage.
Chapter 25
For a while Australia looked promising.
What’ll we do there?
Plenty. A country with opportunities, all kinds. Developing. It will be good, for you, you know, very much like your home place.
She shook her head, laughing. I’ve left that home place.
Julie went along with him to someone who had connections with someone else who knew the Canberra representative in the capital, to give particulars of her own background that might count favourably; wife a citizen of a fellow Commonwealth country, legal and fiscal provenance impeccable, standard of education high.
What about those people, the man at your father’s place, that time, who was going to Australia. He was the one who was even taking his black driver with him, you remember the talk.
I’ve no idea where they are.
There was the summon of his black eyes.
Your father knows.
She raked her hair up the back of her head through splayed fingers; he stood before her as he had when he emerged from under a car in a garage: here I am.
I can’t ask my father.
His silences distressed her more than any argument between them would have, they were retreats into thoughts that barred her; he who had been refused so often had unconsciously taken on for himself the response of refusal.
She went to him where he was suddenly rummaging in the canvas bag — he had never completely unpacked, not allowed her to do it for him, it was there ready for departure from this place, his home, standing week after week, month after month, in the lean-to room. She bent over him, her arms going around his waist and her cheek against his bare back. To her, the essence of him, the odour of his skin, overcame his silence and received her. She wanted to say, I will do anything for you, but how could this be formulated when she had shown there was something she could not?