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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Karachi, 2009
The Shalimar lies on the edge of Karachi. The large windows of Mike’s apartment look across tree-lined roads that surround the hotel from two sides. There is the distant roar of traffic hurtling towards the centre of the city and I can glimpse cranes rising from the docks on the skyline where the sea lies invisible.
The hotel is having a facelift so half the floors have been modernized but Mike’s apartment is in the old wing at the top of the building.
As we come out of the lift and walk across the reception area for breakfast Rana calls out, ‘Assalam-o-alaikum, Mr and Mrs Michael! Good morning! Good morning!’
Two breakfast waiters are standing by the door of the restaurant like sentinels. They rush over to Mike and usher him to a table by the window.
‘Good morning, Naseem. Good morning, Baseer,’ Mike says.
‘Good morning, sir. Good morning, mem.’
I can see this is a morning ritual. Mike grins as both Naseem and Baseer shadow me around the abundant islands of food laid out on crisp tablecloths. Fruit cascades among glittering ice. Bread and croissants nestle in baskets. On a separate island there are heated containers.
‘This, halwa puri cholay, mem,’ Naseem tells me. ‘It is Pakistani breakfast. Sweet halwa, spicy chickpeas, hot crunchy puris …’
I smile at him. ‘I don’t think I’m quite ready for a Pakistani breakfast yet, Naseem.’
Naseem smiles back. Like Noor, he has the startling green eyes of a Pashtun. I choose fruit, fresh yogurt and order a delicious coriander omelette.
I seem to be the only woman in the restaurant this morning. I am conscious of curious eyes of both waiters and businessmen following me around. It makes me self-conscious. Mike glances at me.
‘Anyone new and foreign is interesting for the staff here. You’ll get used to it …’
The restaurant looks down on the garden where an empty swimming pool glitters invitingly. Small tables are dotted about under the trees in the shade.
I watch a pool boy below us fishing leaves out of the pool with a long net. The garden is empty and the scene as peaceful as a painting.
When we go down the steps into the garden the pool boy rushes over with towels to place on our loungers.
‘This is Zakawi,’ Mike says.
Zakawi beams at me. ‘Mem, you like shade?’
‘Please.’ I smile as he fusses with the towels and the angle of the lounger.
‘Let’s swim while it’s early and the pool’s empty. The garden will fill up later and I know you have reservations about baring your limbs.’
I walk across the grass to the changing room. I do have reservations. Mike has told me that although diplomats and embassy staff come to swim, Muslim women stay covered and out of the water. I bought a very conservative black swimsuit, not unlike the one I wore at school. I cover up again in my linen trousers and top to walk back across the grass. By the time I reach Mike I am so hot nothing would have stopped me jumping into the water.
‘Wrap yourself in your towel and leave it on the edge of the pool,’ Mike says, encouragingly.
I move as fast as I can into the water and sigh as it envelops me.
‘Bliss. Oh bliss.’
Mike swims away from me and turns on his back and looks at his watch.
‘It’s only nine fifteen and humid already. It’s going to be baking. You will have to be careful, Gabby.’
We swim contentedly up and down the small pool stopping to chat every now and then. All feels so well with my world. I close my eyes against the blue, blue cloudless sky and smile. I so nearly did not come.
Mike climbs out and stands on the steps of the pool and wraps my towel around me. Why couldn’t he have shown me these small acts of affection in front of Will and Matteo? It would have reassured them.
Mike says, ‘Dry off and then we should go inside. You need to get used to the heat slowly. We’ll come back down after four when the temperature has dropped.’
I last another half an hour and then we make a dash for the air-conditioning. Mike has a meeting with two of his colleagues in the coffee lounge and I answer work emails and Skype Will and Matteo.
It is New Year’s Eve and I see they have a houseful already. I check Emily is staying over, as we arranged. The boys do not resent this as they consider Emily cool.
‘What do you think of Karachi then, Mum?’ Matt asks.
‘The drive to the hotel was terrifying and fascinating at the same time, but I haven’t been out of the hotel yet.’
‘Are you partying tonight?’
‘We’re going into Karachi for an early meal with some friends of your dad’s. There will be no drinking, though.’
Will grins. ‘No danger of not drinking here. Stay safe, Mum. Say hi to Dad.’
I make my usual speech about the dangers of going out drinking in London on New Year’s Eve and send love to Emily and her new boyfriend who are in the early phase of mutual infatuation and are happy to stay in, house-sitting.
It is late afternoon and the garden is now almost deserted. Mike is on a lounger beside me reading a book. There is the rustle of a breeze against some palm trees and the sound of running water from a small fountain in the courtyard by the steps.
Beyond the wall the distant traffic growls, but the garden is a small place of calm. I close my book; a huge sun is dropping theatrically from a sky turning dusky pink. Kites wheel and hover overhead, dark shadows circling and swooping in an elegant dance of dusk.
I have sudden, dislocating déjà vu, as if I am watching a film reel of myself. I struggle to hold onto a scent, a sound, a thread of a memory. For a fleeting second I feel a sense of a place lost, a homecoming: a sensory moment before dark when the world falls still.
When birds call out and fly low into the tamarisk trees on the edge of the coastal path. When the sun sinks behind streaks of clouds, making a golden path from sea to land. Where, just for an instant, primitive shadows rise from the earth and hover between light and dark and the sliver of lives long gone slip away on the air and evaporate.
In this warm, tropical garden, as a bird calls out a shrill warning and flies into the ivy on the wall, I am standing, a child in the dark by the scarlet camellia tree that sheds its blooms on the lawn like a ruby carpet. I am on the outside looking up at lighted windows where the shadows of people I love move about inside.
I shiver. Mike looks up from his book. ‘Did someone walk over your grave?’ he asks, swinging his legs to the side of the chair.
‘Something like that.’ I turn to him. ‘I had this disturbing feeling I’ve been here before. A flashback, a lost memory that came from nowhere.’
‘Déjà vu.’ Mike smiles. ‘With me, it’s sometimes a place or a building that seems familiar in a country I’ve never been to before. I expect the heat triggered some familiar smell or sense. Do you want another swim before we go up?’
I shake my head. The sun has gone and the poolside is filling up with businessmen staying in the hotel and young Pakistani men showing off to each other.
The lift from the garden basement takes us straight up to our floor, avoiding the foyer. I look at myself in the large lift mirror as the lift takes us up. I look flushed and hot and relaxed. Mike grins at me over my shoulder and pats my wild hair down.
‘You look sexy and happy, Mrs.’
I laugh. Inside the apartment we find a bottle of white wine sitting on the table in a cooler. There is a note from Charlie Wang wishing us a Happy New Year.
‘Charlie must have sent one of the waiters up with a bottle. He’s in Kuala Lumpur with his family for Christmas.’
‘How sweet of him.’
‘Let’s have a quick shower and start our New Year now.’ Mike grabs two glasses. ‘We won’t be able to drink with Shahid and Birjees.’
We stand by the long window looking out at the sun dropping over the rooftops. Mike stands close to me so our shoulders touch.
‘Shall we take our wine to bed?’ he asks softly.
I turn to look at him. ‘What a good idea.’
It is the first time Mike has made love to me this Christmas and I feel a surge of joy in being wanted again, and in the familiarity of our bodies fitting together as they always have. Sex, the wonderful glue of our marriage that means all is well. I stretch and glow with contentment. All is very well.
‘Think you might come to Karachi again?’ Mike asks, propping himself on his elbow and looking down at me.
I smile. ‘Thinking of asking me again? I’d love to come back and explore Karachi properly.’
Mike hesitates. ‘We both have demanding jobs so it’s not going to be easy to plan, but I think this Christmas has shown us both that we need to find ways of spending more time together. The boys are nearly off our hands and that’s when couples drift …’
His mobile bleeps. It is Shahid. I get out of bed to find the wine bottle. The danger of drifting is real. As I cross the floor there is a faint thud and I see a cloud of smoke rising out of the window in the distance. Mike jumps off the bed and comes to the window.
‘Yes …’ he says into the phone. ‘I just heard another explosion and we can see the smoke … No, we can’t risk it. It’s a shame; I wanted you and Birjees to meet Gabby before she went home … Really? If you’re sure it’s safe that would be wonderful, Shahid. Great. We’ll see you later.’
He hangs up. ‘There’s a demonstration going on at the other end of the city,’ he tells me. ‘It’s not safe to drive into the centre. However, Shahid’s going to book a table at a French restaurant this side of town. They’re going to pick us up early because the traffic will be bad later …’ He puts the bottle back in the fridge. ‘Let’s save the last trickle to see the New Year in …’
He adds suddenly, ‘Thank you for coming on to Karachi to see the New Year in with me. I know you wanted to go back to London with the boys. You always worry about them on New Year’s Eve …’
I look at him, surprised. ‘I do, but I’m glad I came, Mike. I can visualize you wandering round this faded apartment like a deposed potentate when I’m back in London.’
Mike laughs and I go to change. I am childishly excited to be going out into the city to meet his friends.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Karachi, New Year’s Eve 2009
The French restaurant has a courtyard with round ironwork tables covered in white tablecloths and chairs with white cushions. It is chic and very French, despite Pakistani waiters and no wine menu. The setting on the edge of Karachi feels a little unreal, like a stage set. Fairy lights are slung in a circle through small trees and the tables beautifully decorated for New Year’s Eve.
Shahid is a tall man with a bushy moustache and kind eyes. Birjees is small and neat with glossy hair and a sweet rather serious face. She wears a beautiful shimmering, pearl grey shalwar kameez and a long flowing dupatta that keeps slipping from her shoulders. The night is cool and we sit outside as guitar music strums softly in the background.
‘Welcome to Karachi, Gabriella.’
‘It’s good to meet you both. I’ve heard so much about you from Mike. You have transformed his life in Karachi.’
Their faces light up and Shahid apologizes for not being able to take me into the centre of Karachi.
‘It is bad luck to have a demonstration tonight of all nights.’
‘I’m just happy to be here. This is perfect,’ I assure him.
‘You’ve brought my wife to a French restaurant!’ Mike jokes. ‘Of course she’s happy.’
A haughty young Pakistani waiter produces huge menus and takes our order for cold drinks. Shahid and Mike exchange amused looks.
‘It’s an art form,’ Mike says. ‘French restaurants must insist on waiters with an innate ability to look down their noses …’
‘Then we will try not to be patronized, Michael,’ Shahid says.
Mike raises his eyebrows. ‘I would like to see him try with Gabby.’
I am already looking at the menu. It looks delicious. I am pleased to see that Shahid and Birjees take the ordering of food as seriously as the French. It takes us all a long time to make up our minds and the young waiter grows irritated, although the restaurant is nearly empty.
When I order our food in French the waiter stops being surly and beams. He tells me his brother is the chef. They both trained and worked in Paris for fifteen years. They were very happy there and only returned home to Karachi because their mother became ill.
As he hurries away with our order, I am struck by the fact that two young men gave up their careers to come home and look after their mother.
‘If a woman does not have husband then the eldest son must, of course, take responsibility for looking after her and family,’ Birjees tells me, looking at me surprised. I do not say that I would hate Will and Matt to give up their lives to look after me.
‘Did you grow up bilingual, Gabby?’ Shahid asks.
‘When I was a child my sister and I always spoke French with my mother and English with my father,’ I tell her. ‘We swapped effortlessly without realizing we were doing it. People would ask us what language we thought in and we never knew …’
Shahid laughs. ‘We Pakistanis do this too. We swap from Urdu to English without realizing it. Michael is sometimes completely lost in meetings!’
‘Very true,’ Mike says.
Our now-smiling waiter places small, decorated glass mugs of cinnamon beer on the table.
‘I should have anticipated some trouble on New Year’s Eve,’ Shahid says. ‘Trouble always comes when the streets are full of people celebrating and enjoying themselves …’
‘We have a son and daughter, both at university,’ Birjees says, her face lighting up at the mention of them. ‘Tonight, because of demonstration, Shahid has told them they must stay home. I have prepared food for them, but they are not happy to be seeing this New Year in with us.’
‘That is understatement, Birjees,’ Shahid says. ‘Samia and Ahsen should take up career in Bollywood. I am very pleased to be here in this peaceful garden for a little while …’
Mike laughs. ‘Don’t get Gabby going on New Year’s Eve dramas. We’ve had a few with our sons …’
When the food comes it is French cooking at its best and delicious. Mike and Shahid pretend not to talk about work. Birjees and I chat about our children and their increasingly electronic lives. Whatever the distance in our lives and our culture, some of our worries appear to be the same. The face of the world has changed forever but the fear of harm coming to our children never changes.
Birjees leans towards me. ‘It is hard for the young to grow up in Karachi at the moment, Gabriella. Each generation, they become more educated and frustrated with religious fanaticism and politics. They have talent and ambition, but there is much nepotism, threat of violence, demonstrations and random electric cuts that disrupt our lives …’ She turns her glass round and round in her fingers. ‘Shahid and I, we pray for things to get better for our children; that everyone will get jobs on merit and not given to son of corrupt official. I pray each morning when my husband and children leave the house, that violence, it will not erupt, that they will all come safe home to me. Each time they return, I give thanks to Allah …’
I stare at her, shocked. How terrible to wake each day to the possibility of violence, to the ever-present fear of something happening to the people you love.
Shahid turns to me. ‘I would like to believe that things will indeed change for my children’s generation, but the truth is, it will take longer. So, Gabriella, I must hope for a safer, less corrupt, less feudal Pakistan for my grandchildren.’
‘The world is becoming increasingly violent and corrupt, so it’s impossible not to fear for the young,’ Mike says. ‘We’ve lost faith in the quality of our leaders. Governments no longer appear to have the will or ability to prevent war and atrocities anywhere …’
‘Come on,’ I say as the mood takes a dip. ‘We all have the capacity to change things and make a more peaceful world. We have to believe that or we may as well jump in the sea. We might not be here to see that better world but our children will …’
I lean towards Birjees. ‘I read fantastic books written by the young from all over the world. They are crammed full of hope and depth and imagination. They are passionate and positive where we have been complacent. They won’t make the same mistakes …’
‘And the truth,’ Mike says, ‘lies somewhere between Gabby’s jolly optimism and my gloomy pessimism …’
Shahid smiles at me. ‘If you do not mind, Mike, I think I will go with Gabriella’s jolly optimism …’
‘I too choose Gabriella’s words, they are the most comforting,’ Birjees says, smiling at me.
‘Can’t think why.’ Mike laughs and raises his glass of cinnamon beer to them.
As we’ve been talking the restaurant has been slowly filling up. Beautifully dressed women float past greeting each other. Young men follow in a wake of perfume. There is noise and laughter and a sudden buzz of excitement in the small courtyard garden.
‘Pakistanis, they love to party,’ Birjees says, taking a keen interest in what everyone is wearing.
‘I can see that!’
She laughs. ‘Oh, Gabriella, I hope you will come back to Karachi. Shahid and I would love to show you many beautiful places in our city …’
She leans forward with sudden intensity. ‘Then you can explain to people in England that in Pakistan it is not all violent extremists but happy, family people who shop and party and create music and art and beauty, just like everyone else …’
How must it feel to live in a country that is so often depicted negatively? How must it feel to long for your country to be defined by the warmth of its people and the beauty of its landscape, not by violence?
I look out at the courtyard blazing with lights and flowers. The air echoes with the rise and fall of excited voices. The evening is pervaded by the simple delight of people happy to be together despite the unrest in their city. Simple joys are so easy to underestimate.
‘Inshallah,’ Birjees says softly, ‘you will come back to Karachi, Gabriella.’
‘Inshallah,’ I reply. ‘I hope so.’
At midnight Mike and I toast the New Year in with a last half glass of wine back at the Shalimar.
‘I think this is one of the nicest New Year’s Eve we’ve had for a long time,’ I tell him.
‘It’s certainly the most abstemious New Year we’ve had for a long time,’ Mike replies as both our phones bleep with Happy New Year texts from our sons.
‘That’s probably ten quid each,’ Mike grumbles.
‘I suppose it’s just as well there isn’t another bottle of wine,’ I say, wistfully. ‘Or I’d be flying home tomorrow with a hangover.’
‘It’s been fun, hasn’t it?’
‘It has. I love Birjees and Shahid. I’m so glad you have them as friends.’
‘They loved you, Gabby. I think they’re already planning your next visit …’ He smiles. ‘We’ll have to juggle round our various work commitments to try to make it happen, won’t we?’
He picks the wine glasses up to take them to the kitchen.
‘Actually, I’m back in London sometime in February for a meeting at Canada House. I’m planning to take a week’s leave. Let’s go somewhere. I’ll send you the dates. Hopefully you can take a few days off. After that, I’ve no idea when I’ll get a break. I’ve got endless conferences in the UAE …’
I smile to myself. It amuses me; Mike’s assumption that his business commitments are sacrosanct while mine can be dropped whenever he gets home. It is partly my fault because I nearly always accommodated him.
In the night I hear Mike’s phone bleep. Then bleep again. After a minute he gets out of bed and pads across to his desk to look at it. When he does not come back to bed I push myself up on my elbow to see where he is.
He is standing very still by the window looking down on the city. I can’t make out his expression but I notice the stress in his shoulders. He looks so alone. I would like to go and place my arms around his waist, lean my head on his back. But I don’t. Mike can be emotionally unpredictable. One minute you think you are close to him, the next he will gently shut a door in your face. I learnt early in my marriage not to be hurt. In a way I understood. I shy away from too much emotion. I never wanted the sort of exhausting marriage my parents had. I used to wonder if my father felt suffocated by Maman’s love and that was why he sloped off to the pub so much.
Mike turns from the window to his desk, picks his phone up and begins to text. After a second he makes an angry noise in the back of his throat and throws the phone down and comes back to bed.
He sees that I am awake. ‘Sorry, did my phone wake you? I should have turned the bloody thing off.’
I smile. ‘You know you never can.’
‘Come here. I’m going to miss you.’
As we lie in the dark, Mike says, ‘It’s silly, but now you’ve been here, in this apartment, in my bed, in Karachi, you’ll feel much nearer to me when you’ve gone …’
I wonder, for a second, if he is trying to convince himself. Then, I think about him standing alone in the window of a foreign city. Something he has done most of his life. I roll towards him. ‘I always miss you,’ I say.
