says. I trust her. She understands everything.
Nobody understands everything.
She looks away from me. I had to, she says. I had to tell her. I want her to take care of my canary. And some other things too. I don’t want Karim to take him.
What did she say?
She understands. She won’t tell anyone.
She must have said something.
She just hopes you will be good to me. She looks up at the clock. I will come next week, she says. There will be last minute things you need to say to me. You may need me to do something for you? She glances around, at the other visitors. I won’t miss this place, she says.
Silence.
Avi, she says. Avi, you aren’t saying anything. Avi, what is it? Her fingers clasp her wrist and it becomes white under the grip.
I think of the beach. It’s not going to work, I say. I finger the leather strap of my watch, Father’s watch. I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve tried.
Avi, she says. It has to work. We have to do this. There are no other options.
There are always options.
She jerks back in her chair and stands, glances around her, at the people sitting and muttering in the surrounding cubicles. A moth is fumbling around the bare light bulb over her head, she turns to me. You know I have no other options.
Please go now, I say, but she laughs, a harsh laugh, and the couple in the next cubicle stare through the wire. I’m not going.
Well, soon you will have to leave, I say.
Why, she says. She looks straight at me. What is this about? Is it about Saleem?
She stands before me. A woman, not much more than a girl, dark hair, eyes that know things about the world, a mole on her forehead, over her right eye, lips that look better without lip gloss, small hands that I picture against my skin; she leans forward, these hands outstretched, pressed against the gauze.
It’s the only thing I will ever ask you, she says. I promise. Never again will I ask anything of you. Please.
She has no hopes or expectations, no dreams of a detached house by the sea, a large garden with a south-facing patio to sit out on in the summertime. Such dreams are beyond her, standing as she does in a dark prison in a hot place, a place she does not like. She stands as she is, in complete possession of this November afternoon, as if it belongs to her, this place, me, and everything in it. She stands in front of me with dust upon her face, and when she rubs her eyes, she leaves a black streak of mascara across her cheek, the way she always does when she wears makeup, so that I feel a smile inside me for a moment. She doesn’t expect absolute happiness, doesn’t believe in it and I like her for that, like that she takes what she can from life and runs with it, clasping it to her. I like how she moves so softly within her world, how everything about her reflects him so exactly; and I want her to talk to me, tell me her plans, because when she does I listen to her voice and it feels safe, like when I was a young boy and my mother lay beside me as I was falling asleep, that feeling just when sleep was coming and I was safe and she was there.
Her fingers scratch at her cheeks. She turns her face toward me. Avi, I’ll make you happy. I’ll do anything you ask. Anything.
Zaki coughs behind me. We need a few more minutes, Zaki.
That’s not your right.
I know it’s not my right. I’m just asking a question, okay. He is reaching for his keys that hang on the belt around his waist.
Avi, she hisses at me, for I have antagonised him.
Have yourself a smoke, I say. I reach into my pocket and take out a packet of Gitanes. Have one, I say. They are good cigarettes. Father used to smoke one every evening. We are not allowed to smoke them here. No foreign cigarettes.
I know the rules, he knows the rules, he takes one, and as he takes it he looks me squarely in the eyes. He points the cigarette at me. Five minutes, he says. Five minutes and then it’s goodbye. Goodbye. He makes a kissing sound with his lips and she recoils.
She is
Nobody understands everything.
She looks away from me. I had to, she says. I had to tell her. I want her to take care of my canary. And some other things too. I don’t want Karim to take him.
What did she say?
She understands. She won’t tell anyone.
She must have said something.
She just hopes you will be good to me. She looks up at the clock. I will come next week, she says. There will be last minute things you need to say to me. You may need me to do something for you? She glances around, at the other visitors. I won’t miss this place, she says.
Silence.
Avi, she says. Avi, you aren’t saying anything. Avi, what is it? Her fingers clasp her wrist and it becomes white under the grip.
I think of the beach. It’s not going to work, I say. I finger the leather strap of my watch, Father’s watch. I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve tried.
Avi, she says. It has to work. We have to do this. There are no other options.
There are always options.
She jerks back in her chair and stands, glances around her, at the people sitting and muttering in the surrounding cubicles. A moth is fumbling around the bare light bulb over her head, she turns to me. You know I have no other options.
Please go now, I say, but she laughs, a harsh laugh, and the couple in the next cubicle stare through the wire. I’m not going.
Well, soon you will have to leave, I say.
Why, she says. She looks straight at me. What is this about? Is it about Saleem?
She stands before me. A woman, not much more than a girl, dark hair, eyes that know things about the world, a mole on her forehead, over her right eye, lips that look better without lip gloss, small hands that I picture against my skin; she leans forward, these hands outstretched, pressed against the gauze.
It’s the only thing I will ever ask you, she says. I promise. Never again will I ask anything of you. Please.
She has no hopes or expectations, no dreams of a detached house by the sea, a large garden with a south-facing patio to sit out on in the summertime. Such dreams are beyond her, standing as she does in a dark prison in a hot place, a place she does not like. She stands as she is, in complete possession of this November afternoon, as if it belongs to her, this place, me, and everything in it. She stands in front of me with dust upon her face, and when she rubs her eyes, she leaves a black streak of mascara across her cheek, the way she always does when she wears makeup, so that I feel a smile inside me for a moment. She doesn’t expect absolute happiness, doesn’t believe in it and I like her for that, like that she takes what she can from life and runs with it, clasping it to her. I like how she moves so softly within her world, how everything about her reflects him so exactly; and I want her to talk to me, tell me her plans, because when she does I listen to her voice and it feels safe, like when I was a young boy and my mother lay beside me as I was falling asleep, that feeling just when sleep was coming and I was safe and she was there.
Her fingers scratch at her cheeks. She turns her face toward me. Avi, I’ll make you happy. I’ll do anything you ask. Anything.
Zaki coughs behind me. We need a few more minutes, Zaki.
That’s not your right.
I know it’s not my right. I’m just asking a question, okay. He is reaching for his keys that hang on the belt around his waist.
Avi, she hisses at me, for I have antagonised him.
Have yourself a smoke, I say. I reach into my pocket and take out a packet of Gitanes. Have one, I say. They are good cigarettes. Father used to smoke one every evening. We are not allowed to smoke them here. No foreign cigarettes.
I know the rules, he knows the rules, he takes one, and as he takes it he looks me squarely in the eyes. He points the cigarette at me. Five minutes, he says. Five minutes and then it’s goodbye. Goodbye. He makes a kissing sound with his lips and she recoils.
She is
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