The Cry of the Dove: A Novel by Fadia Faqir

white dress?'
    I spent hours making that baby-girl dress. I spent hours trying to imagine what a white water lily would look like floating in clear water on a luminous jolly night: Layla. I tried to make the shape of the dress similar to that of a lily. I was willing the life of whoever wore it to be happier and whiter than mine. The zigzagged hem, the flowery collar, the small rose-like pockets, the tiny puffed sleeves, the satin belt and the glistening pearls stitched around the collar.
    I nodded my head ...
    The large steel hangar where the post was sorted was brightly lit. They sorted and delivered thousands of letters, but mine never came. What would it take to receive their letters or, even better, hear their voices? If I lay in the middle of the street like a sleeping policeman, then got run over by a big red Royal Mail van, would they notice me? Whenever I was about to have an attack I would look at the barred window and recite my mother's letter several times until my heart stopped beating and the sweat on my forehead dried up. I could read between the lines that my mother was advising me to start eating again, but could not say it openly, afraid of the men of the family. `Why don't you wear my bra," Noura said, `it might ease the pain.' I shook my head. I would press on my sore nipples gently to relieve my breasts of the unused milk, then change the pads. The dried-up milk felt like pebbles inside my raw breasts. My nipples became darker and longer with all that futile pulling and squeezing, with all that grief.

    The night was cold and dry but the Exe ran wild over the rocks that blocked its way down to the sea. It sounded like an ululation followed by a scream. The Turk's Head car park was full of cars with misty windscreens: smart cars, expensive cars, the kind of cars that I would like to be driven in. Over time the two floors of the pub were divided across age lines. The old went up the winding stairs to the ground floor and the young stayed downstairs in the cellars. Through the misty windows I saw the colourful disco lights and heard the hoarse voice of the singer. Tens of young English men and women were jerking their heads and swaying their hips to the music. Some were drinking, some were nuzzled against each other, some were kissing, and others were dancing alone.The sign on the door announced `A private birthday party'.
    `I want to help you get out of the country,' said Khairiyya then crossed herself.
    `Please introduce yourself to Salina" said Officer Salim.
    `I am a civil nun from Lebanon. I have saved many young women like you. I prayed for all of you for years, but now I only travel between prisons and smuggle out women. I cannot bear the thought of an innocent soul getting killed. Here it is. Driving around in the dark is my fate,' she said hurriedly.

    `Salma, you are in protective custody, which means you are here not because you have done something, but for your own protection. If I release you and you stay in this country you will get killed in front of the prison gates. If you leave the country you will be out of harm's way,' said Officer Salim and pressed his fingers on his shiny desk.
    `They will shoot me,' were my first words in weeks. I had lost my tongue and remained silent for days. The inmates called me `the pipe-mute'.
    `Look, I will make sure that they won't. We will be extremely careful and release you at night. By releasing you I will not be breaking the law As far as the state is concerned you are innocent.'
    Khairiyya ran her fingers round her collar and said, `The Lord knows that I am here to help. I'll pick you up at midnight and drive you to Lebanon.'
    `What about? What about my ... my family?'
    `My child,' said Officer Salim, `your teacher delivered that letter six years ago and we have not heard from your family since.'
    I would be in prison: the next day at two o'clock, when the visiting bell was sounded - they stopped ringing it since no one visited the women prisoners of