Gravel Heart(51)

Mamako Habibi, I have just read the letter you sent me at the beginning of the month. It was sitting in the post-box all these days and I did not know about it. It is such a long way to the Post Office and I can only go there every now and then. I am sorry to be so long replying. I loved the picture of you in the snow. It made me wish I could touch it, although of course I have seen pictures. Unlike you, I have not stood on ice! What an adventurer you are.

You must not complain about the angry crowds or about the noise. Nothing comes easy in life, only you must stay alert and do your best, and don’t get into any trouble. All we hear about here is the drunkenness and violence of young people in Europe. Your uncle will be there to advise you whenever there is need, so don’t do anything without asking him. Please give him and Auntie Asha my regards.





Mamako

Habibi,

There were two letters waiting for me today. If you go on like this you will make me greedy. I am so happy to hear that your results have been so excellent. I know you will succeed and make me feel very proud of you. Here the rains are over now and the weather is perfect. It’s not too hot, everywhere is green, and the breeze is constant and mellow. You would have loved to be here.

Today we moved to our new flat. It is very comfortable and has all kinds of modern equipment in it, as well as a bathtub! There is a balcony at the back where I will grow plants in pots. I have always wanted to have plants in the house but we never had the room. It was sad to leave the old house, in some ways, but it was fortunate in others. What a relief to get away from that champion backbiter Bi Maryam!

You must send us a photograph. I want to see you in the big ugly coat you say they force you to wear. It’s probably for your own good, you ungrateful wretch. Munira sends love, as I do too.





Mamako There were several such letters during my first year, cheerful and encouraging, mildly hectoring. The tone changed in the ones that followed, when I was struggling with my studies and with Uncle Amir and Auntie Asha. I read through the later ones as well, after I left Holland Park, and felt her disappointment at my failures, and heard their forced encouraging tone. I must have written less frequently after that because most of the letters that followed began with her complaining about not having heard from me in a long time. Every now and then, a letter would begin with an apology for not having replied sooner, or with a cry of joy at a recent letter. I should have done better. When I finished reading my mother’s letters, I read through my notebooks. There were three of them, filled with what started off as incomplete or abandoned letters, but the later entries read as if they were never intended to be sent. My mother was the absent reader, the unsent letters a conversation I was having with her in my mind. Two of the notebooks were full but there were still some blank pages in the third for me to compose another letter to my dead mother.

Dear Mama, Salamu na baada ya salamu. It looks like snow is on the way. I know how much you like the weather reports. I haven’t seen the forecast, but from the chill and the stillness I would guess snow is imminent.

Why did you not tell me about the diabetes and the blood pressure? Did you know about the risk of the blood clot? I have been waiting for you to go, I think. Not because I wanted you dead (do you mind my using that word about you?) but because I dreaded that I would never be able to say to you that this torment is over, that I have done well and found some good that I can tell you about. I would’ve come if you had told me. I haven’t found anything much here to tell you about, little bits and pieces to string a life together, but it’s not hopeless. It’s just not anything to make much of.

Love,





Salim

*

Two days later – I needed that time to prepare myself – I rang my mother’s number. I expected Hakim to answer, the man whom I now decided to call by name. I thought my mother would smile to see that my petulant resistance was over. She would think that my rejection of Hakim and his gifts was intended as a rebuke to her, but she would be wrong. I felt a mild repugnance as I rang the number. It was fear perhaps, an involuntary helplessness in the face of such violent appetites. But I wanted to speak to Munira, who had also lost her mother. I wanted to hear her voice, and to wish her well and to leave matters there. I wanted nothing from her and could give her nothing. That was what I thought. Munira answered the phone but I heard my mother’s voice.

‘Munira,’ I said.

‘Salim,’ she said instantly. ‘Salim, Salim! How nice to hear your voice, you sound just the same.’

‘Munira,’ I said.

‘I recognised you. As soon as I heard that empty noise a long-distance call makes, I knew it was you.’

‘I am sorry I did not hear in time,’ I said. ‘I would have come.’

‘It happened so quickly,’ Munira said. ‘She was taking her medicine for the pressure as normal and looking after herself, but then that day she had a very bad headache. She had been having headaches for several days but she did not think it was anything serious. We did not know that it can be a symptom. That day she also started feeling dizzy and was numb in her right leg. They told us later that it was an embolism, a blood clot had moved from another part of her body and blocked an artery in her brain.’

‘I am sorry,’ I said.

‘I know you would have come back if you could. It would have been wonderful to see you,’ she said, ‘even for such a sad event. We missed you so much. She spoke about you often, nearly every day, as if she had seen you earlier that morning. Do you know her word for you? She said you were loyal, ana amini, and that one day you’ll come back. But this is how things have turned out and we can’t do anything about that.’