Broken Verses (17 page)

‘You were treating me like some no-account delivery boy. My ego objected.'

‘It wasn't about you, Ed.' I sat down on the sofa and glanced over to the papers on the low table.

‘That's what my ego objected to.' He looked into his wine glass and then up at me again. ‘You want to hear the amusing anecdote?' The sunset had been swallowed up in darkness and now a single beam of light from an unknown source came through the balcony window and lit up the wine in his glass to ruby, everything else in the flat existing in muted shades at the midpoint of colour and shadow.

‘No. Do you want to know what was in the envelope your mother sent me?'

He had brought the rim of the glass up to his face again but the question made him forget to tilt the wine into his mouth, so he just stood there, his lower lip adhered to the glass, looking like a man who has seen a gorgon at a cocktail party.

Then he blinked, sipped, and put the glass down on the coffee table. ‘I know it was more ... what did you call it ... calligraphy, if that's what you're going to tell me. I opened the envelope and looked inside before I brought it to you.'

‘Your mother didn't show it to you?'

For a moment he was silent as though trying to decide what exactly to tell me. ‘Let's just say I wasn't exactly pleased with my mother for giving you the first piece of calligraphy. So when that second one arrived during lunch she sneaked off without showing it to me and asked her driver to deliver it to you at STD. Fortunately the driver is a lazy bastard and decided just to wait until I was returning to the office and hand it over to me instead.'

‘Does she know...?'

‘That I'm aware of her deception? No.'

‘So it wouldn't be wholly inaccurate to say you have a somewhat strained relationship with your mother, Mir Adnan Akbar Khan.'

He smiled and looked just a little embarrassed. ‘I love her, I really do. And I'm close to her, more than most men and their mothers. But that's why it just drives me crazy when she acts like we're in some soap opera in which every tiny moment has to have secrecy and suspense added to it. Really.' He was laughing now as though it had just occurred to him that he'd been living in a joke. ‘The cook comes in with some
thing that's been delivered in the letterbox. My mother sees the familiar handwriting on the envelope. She leaps up from her chair and darts to get it. The unsuspecting son asks her what it is. She says, nothing important. She is clearly lying. Then she says she just remembered she needs the driver to run an errand for her. She rushes out. When she comes back, she is clearly flustered. Exclamation exclamation.' He smiled again and rolled his eyes. ‘It gets a bit exhausting.'

She had seemed so utterly different to me—too ironic about her profession to become the stereotype of the actress who cannot separate reality from drama. But I only said, ‘Mothers can be that way.'

He came to sit next to me on the sofa and touched the back of my hand, very lightly. ‘She told me about that code your mother and the Poet used. She told me she thought those garbled lines might be written in code. That's why I was angry with her for sending it to you. I thought she wasn't taking into account how you might feel about getting something you couldn't read and then wondering if it was your mother and the Poet's code. That's why, even with the second set of pages, I didn't know whether to give them to you or not. I was, I'll be honest, I was on my way to shred them when I heard a sound from your office and I went in to see if you were OK. I didn't intend for you to get those pages. I don't...' He ran his hand over his face. ‘Look, my mother told me you still think your mother is alive and,' he held up his hands before I could react, as though anticipating a blow, ‘I'm not saying she isn't. I don't know, I ... that's your thing, your situation ... I'm just ... I don't think getting pages of weird writing you can't read but which you imagine is written by her will help anything. I saw that covering letter. It's obviously some crazy fan of my mother's. They send her all kinds of oddball stuff, just to get her attention.'

‘Ed, I can read it.'

‘Oh.' He leaned back against the sofa cushions. ‘Oh. Oh, God. I really was going to shred it.'

I hadn't known until then if I was going to read the pages to him. I had no reason to trust him, to believe anything he might say about them. But right then it was clear—I needed to read them simply to give him a reason not to shred the next set of pages that might arrive at his house. With that clarity came such relief, as though all I had really wanted all along was a reason to have someone else share the burden of so inexplicable a secret. From the papers I had been holding, I pulled out the decrypted version of the coded pages and started reading out loud. He didn't say anything all the way through, just sat there sipping wine, first from his glass and then from mine.

When I finished reading, Ed said, ‘Lordalmighty.'

That seems as good a response as any I can think of. Did you follow all of it?'

‘All?' He put a hand to his head. ‘I don't follow any of it. It's not...' He frowned. ‘Did you read that it's been sixteen years the writer of that has been trying to figure out who his captor is?' I nodded. ‘And how long has it been...?'

‘Since the Poet died? Sixteen years.'

‘But you can't really ... I mean, it can't...' Those were the words, the ones I had wanted him to say and suddenly, passionately—I had to turn away so he wouldn't know—hated him for saying. Then he said, ‘Can it?'

There was a single drop of wine on the bottom of my tumbler. I tilted the glass, reached in and held my finger lightly against its surface. When I moved my finger away, the drop came with it.

Ed stood up. ‘There were all those rumours, weren't there? That he hadn't really died.'

‘Yes.' I didn't know any more what I wanted of him.

‘But your mother must have seen the body. Right? And she'd know if it was his body.' He turned red. ‘I don't mean that in any vulgar way.'

It was the oddest moment of propriety. ‘She never saw the body.'

‘But...'

‘But, it's still absurd. I know. And impossible.' There, I had said it, and as soon as I said it I saw it must be true. The flaw was not in his style, his voice, his anecdotes. The flaw was simply in the situation, so utterly ridiculous that no one could actually intend the whole fabrication to be taken seriously. ‘I mean, for heaven's sake. How can someone be kept prisoner for sixteen years, with shifting sets of lackeys looking in on him, without anyone else finding out about it? You're right, it's absurd.' I stood up, feeling nothing but embarrassed for having revealed too much of my own weaknesses to him. ‘I'm sorry for having taken up so much of your time.' I didn't mean for my voice to sound so distant, so formal. ‘I see that it's absurd.'

He nodded, and stood up. I held out my hand to him, unable to move out of formality or to find some way to ask him to stay and talk to me of other things. He took my hand. Outside there was gunfire, rapid bursts of it into the sky. His fingers pressed down on mine in surprise and I remembered that he'd been away for years.

‘It's just celebration,' I said. ‘The Ruhat-e-Hilal committee must have seen the new moon. Ramzan starts tomorrow.'

‘Of course,' he said, still holding my hand.

‘I suppose that means you'll be heading off to film that Ramzan special. Guess I'll see you in another month. Hope it goes well.'

I tried to pull my hand out of his but he held on, rotated his wrist so that his hand was covering mine, clasping it. ‘What would it mean to you?' he said. ‘If I said, no, it's not absurd. Believing those pages might be genuine. It's not necessarily absurd.'

‘How can it not be absurd?' My voice a whisper.

He smiled. ‘Oh, you urban girl in your modern world. Have you no idea of the kinds of things that go on in secret, for generation after generation, in parts of the country that exist outside the reach of the law? When people have power, land, opportunity and no one to say no to them, the only limits on what they can do is the limit of their own imaginations. Years of secret imprisonment may be absurd, but it's possible.'

‘Sixteen years, Ed!' I pulled my hand out of his.

‘Sixteen days, sixteen years. What difference does it make? Ask this question—' All at once he was fired up. ‘Why would someone imprison a man, and make his family believe he was dead?'

I stepped back and crossed my arms. It was as though we were in the office, talking about storylines for a proposed drama. ‘You make them believe he's dead so no one comes looking for him. That's easy. You imprison him, I don't know. For hatred, fear, vengeance. Any unpleasant motive will do.'

‘And how many people had cause to hate him, to fear him!' Ed said. ‘Think about that. God, he spat on the powerful with impunity. He was fearless, utterly.'

No. If he was fearless, he wouldn't have left all those times, taking my mother with him.

She left. She chose to go. He didn't force her, he never once forced her.

‘Once you imprison him and make the world believe he's dead, then what? You can't just let him go when you've had fun with the game. If you let him go, there'll be an investigation, there could be complications. He's too famous for there not to be complications. And really, why should you want to let him go? Once you've set everything up—set up the place you keep him, set up the loyal or terrified underlings who attend to him—you can just leave him there to rot. Leave him there, hidden away somewhere in your vast land holdings, until he dies.'

‘So you think it's a landowner who's behind all this?' I couldn't stop myself.

Ed held up his palms to the ceiling in a gesture that encompassed all the strangeness of the universe. ‘It's possible. I'm not saying it's true, but it's possible. Stranger things go on around here every day. There are vast parts of this country, Aasmaani, which are still mediaeval in both their mindsets and their rules. And if these pages aren't some kind of forgery or game, well then, his jailer could be anyone, really, with enough money to pull it off. Can you pinpoint a location it's coming from? Postmarks?'

‘The first from Multan or Mardan. The second from Quetta. And, anyway, the cover letter, I don't know, it...'

‘Seems false. Yes. And why would someone send all that to my mother in the first place?' He looked suddenly unconvinced.

‘I don't know. But there are things in there which sound so much like him, Ed, that it would be uncanny for someone to have made it up.'

There was a moment of silence in which we simply looked at each other.

‘Aasmaani, do you really think it's him?'

I shook my head. ‘I don't know. I don't know. It's too often, Ed, I've slipped into believing things only to find they weren't true. I can't keep doing it. And yet. If it is true...' I closed my eyes and leaned back against the wall.

I felt his hand brush my cheek. ‘What can I do?'

I shook my head, my eyes still closed. ‘Will you be offended if I ask you to leave?'

‘Don't be silly. How could I be offended at anything you might choose to say right now?' My eyes were still closed, and I felt his breath on my mouth before his lips followed. I put my arm around his neck, and for a few seconds we stayed like that, our lips just resting on each other, the only movement my fingers stroking the nape of his neck.

When we moved apart, he said, ‘I don't have to leave until tomorrow afternoon. So I'll see you in the morning, OK? Come and find me when you get to work.' He kissed my cheek. ‘I'll let myself out.'

As soon as I heard the door close behind him, my body slid down to the ground. I pulled my legs up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.

The Poet—my almost-stepfather—was being imprisoned somewhere by an unknown captor. He had been there sixteen, nearly seventeen, years. Sixteen years during which he'd had no human contact except for his captor's lackeys who broke his fingers and erased his poems. He'd been told my mother was dead. He'd lost the ability to write Urdu. But he was alive. Omi was alive.

For a moment I felt something surge up inside and I had to clasp my hands against my chest as though that could push it down. I would not do this again. I would not move back into that seductive place which promised answers, that place which could only lead to despair each time an expected resolution revealed itself to only be a mirage. The Poet was dead. Omi was dead. Somewhere in the world there was proof. Where? Who knew the details of his death, who could give me the proof I had never before felt the need to search out?

Mirza the Snake. He went to the morgue and then to the funeral. He would have seen the body. Yes, he had the proof. Mirza had the proof. Whoever was playing this sick game with Shehnaz Saeed, and for whatever purpose, it had nothing to do with me.

I carried the pages to the bookshelf, paying no attention to the Fata Morgana shaking its head behind me as I placed them between the covers of
War and Peace
, two-thirds of the way through the book, and knelt on the ground to push the tome into an empty space on the bottom shelf.

When the phone rang at five the following morning and woke me out of a dream about dreaming I thought it could only mean someone must have died.

‘Are you coming over for sehri, or what?' Rabia said when I answered, panicked.

‘Oh, bugger.'

Rabia laughed. ‘It's the Holy Month. Be good. No abuse.'

I rolled out of bed and when my feet hit the bare ground in the space between my bed and the rug there was a thrilling sensation of cold. That promised winter had arrived, though it would probably be gone by dawn. I pulled on my dressing-gown, opened the window and leaned out. Over the loudspeaker of the nearby mosque came the impassioned chanting of Arabic. I felt a moment of irritation on behalf of the non-fasters who would have to put up with a sustained guilt trip for the next four weeks. Ramzan was a month when the holier-than-thous were in their element. We used to have one of them as a neighbour, and every year she'd make a list of people who weren't fasting, and every day of the month before daybreak she'd call someone on the list and recite Qur'ānic verses down the phone, hoping to affect a change of heart. She made the mistake of calling the Poet once and, with his limited knowledge of Arabic, he realized she was reading, at random, a verse about inheritance laws: being well aware of both the woman's identity and her family scandals, he responded by pointing out that under the God-ordained laws she had just read out she and her husband had cheated her sister-in-law of her rightful share of the family fortune.