Gravel Heart(50)

That was how she did things, abrupt, unsettling, inviting outrage, all intended to demonstrate her wacky independence when to me she often seemed on the brink of sadness. Every time I left her, I thought that would be the last time. I smiled at the thought as I sat in the back porch on that mild Saturday morning, waiting for Rhonda to wake up. I smiled a little sad self-pitying smile because I was not sure which of the two of us was more in need.

*

My mother died on New Year’s Eve. I did not find out for four days because I only returned from Folkestone on Monday afternoon. By then my mother had been buried for that number of days and the khitma prayers and readings had been said. There was nothing left to do but grieve. It was Uncle Amir who rang on Monday night to tell me.

‘Salim, is that you? I have bad news,’ he said. Then after a short pause he continued, ‘Your mother has passed away.’

A wail ran unbidden through my body but no sound came out. When I said nothing he continued speaking, his voice solemn and deep.

‘I called your number on Friday morning from Delhi in case you could get back in time for the funeral, or at least for the readings in the days that followed, but there was no answer. I even began to wonder if Munira had given me the right number or if you had moved and changed it. I myself was able to get an Oman Air flight that got me in by late afternoon and so I was able to be here in time for the funeral. I called you every day, two or three times, but there was no reply until today. I even asked someone at the embassy to check that you were still listed as living there.’

‘I was at work on Friday,’ I said. ‘Then I went away for a few days. I’m sorry not to have been here to take your call.’

‘We buried your mother on Friday afternoon,’ Uncle Amir said, ‘and we had a khitma for her that evening at Mskiti Mnara. We added your prayers to ours because we knew you would have wanted to do so if you could.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It must’ve been very sudden.’

‘Alhamdulillah, we prayed for God’s mercy on her soul. Your sister Munira was with her until the last moment, and heard her say the shahadah just before her soul left her body. That was a great blessing. No one can die except by the will of God, and at the appointed time,’ Uncle Amir said, reciting a line from the Koran. Then he told me who had washed the body, and who had led the prayers, and how grateful he was to them for their kindness in the absence of her brother and her son. I was surprised by Uncle Amir’s distraught and pious language. I had not heard him speak like that before.

‘It was a blood clot in the brain, an embolism,’ Uncle Amir said. ‘You knew she had high blood pressure, didn’t you? And diabetes. You knew that, didn’t you? But then perhaps you didn’t. You never bothered to keep in touch. You hardly ever wrote to her and never thought to ring. How could you know? Well, never mind, nothing can be done about that now, but you could at least have left a number when you went away so we could do what we are obliged to do under such circumstances. Don’t you have a cell phone? Everybody has a cell phone.’

I said all the abject words the moment required of me: my regret that I was not there to mourn her as a son should, the anxiety I had caused them all because I was not able to take the call. I had always made sure I had the air fare in my savings in case, but when the call came I was not there and I had not taken my phone with me when I went away. I was not so used to mobile phones then and I was not a regular user and sometimes forgot it or forgot to switch it on. Instead I had been with Rhonda and the thought of her and her relentless games filled me with disgust at my needs.

‘Nothing can be done about all that now,’ Uncle Amir said, his voice gravelly and flinty again. ‘I assume you are well and that your life progresses in some fashion. Now that I have your number, maybe next time I come through London I’ll give you a ring and we can meet for coffee or something. Perhaps you’d better give me your cell-phone number as well, in case you’re not at home. There’s no need for you to worry about the funeral expenses, by the way. Hakim and I took care of that. All right, your family here send their regards. Look after yourself and keep in touch.’

I had been waiting for this news, dreading and expecting it in low-key resignation. All those tests had filled me with worry and my mother must have lied to me when I asked because she always said they found nothing. She was fifty-three, no age to die in this place and in these days and times. But she did not live in this place, and her times had been fraught. I waited until Uncle Amir hung up before I put down the receiver. I was distraught to have missed the funeral, but I did not feel tragic about it. There’s no need for you to worry about the funeral expenses, by the way. Hakim and I took care of that. It would have given them satisfaction to do what was necessary for her honour. In any case, it was not really her honour they were worried about so much as their own. Uncle Amir told me about the expenses in the way he did to remind me how derelict I had been in my obligations.

I took out the shoe-box in which I kept my mother’s letters, and for the rest of that evening and night I read through every one of them. There were dozens. Uncle Amir was lying again. We must have written to each other more than I remembered. Habibi, that was how all her letters to me began. Beloved. Mamako, that was how they all ended. Your mother.

Habibi,

I am so grateful to receive your letter and to have your news. I am so pleased that you are enrolled in a college and that your studies will begin in earnest so soon. I know you will be brave and do all that is required to make this journey into a great success, and that you will work hard and return to live a good life here with us. I have never travelled anywhere, and it is not easy for me to imagine how you live there and what you see. You must tell me about those things so I can picture them. Can you understand the people when they speak to you? I have heard that no one speaks the way they do on the radio and TV, and that when you get there you can’t make out what people say. The house is so still since you left us, although Munira does her best to make a racket. She misses you too.