The Cry of the Dove: A Novel (17 page)

I was reading a leaflet about a store credit card when Parvin walked out. She raised her thumb and winked at me. I knew that she had got the job. When we walked through the glass doors, she screamed, `Yes! Fuck it! Yes!' and jumped in the air. `My Bedouin friend, this calls for a celebration.'

`Great, great,' I said and hugged her.

Hand in hand we walked to the best cafe in the city.We sat down on the stools where you could see the main street through the high glass windows. Parvin said to the waiter, `I want a hot chocolate with cream, marshmallows and a flake bar.'

He lowered his tray and said, `And you, madam?'

`Me want milk, with honey and butter.'

`We don't do that, madam.'

Parvin pulled her short skirt down and said, `Surely you do flavoured milk.'

`Yes we do. Which flavour?'

`Make it caramel,' she said and smiled.

I held her hand and said, `I happy for you.'

She pulled her hand away and said,'Don't hold my hand or touch me in public. They will think we are from planet lesbo.'

When the hot chocolate arrived it looked so large, with a twirl of white cream on top, small pink pieces like cotton wool floated in the long glass and a chocolate bar lay in the saucer. She took the bar and began eating it and it instantly crumbled over the white cream and napkin.

The cafe was warm, bright, clean, elegant and full. Sunbeams lit up the counter and shone through the water jugs. The aroma of coffee and the scent of caramel, hazelnuts, walnuts and hot milk filled the air. I had a sip of my milk and honey and it tasted like Islamic paradise. We looked at the passers-by and smiled; the whiteness of our teeth was accentuated by our dusky brown skin. Before every sip Parvin raised her glass saluting an invisible audience and I couldn't help but join in. We sat there, dark, employed, with white creamy moustaches, winking and waving at passers-by.

That morning Max took one look at me then said, `You look exhausted this morning, girl. What have you been up to?'

`I had a late night," I said and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

`Who was it? One of them Arabs?'

I shook my head.

`You know what bugs me about them. They come here like an army, buy houses and cars then sell their houses and cars without us hard-working English people making a sodding penny out of it. They don't go to estate agents or dealers, no, they buy off each other.'

`I don't know any Arabs here," I said and sat down.

`That's strange. Why not?'

I was taking in the sides of a crushed velvet ball gown. It was purple but when it caught the light it turned light then dark green like peacock feathers. I could picture its owner: a tall blonde, with an immaculate figure and long legs tucked in flat satin ballerina shoes, her hair tied with a velvet band, her lips crimson, her earrings a waterfall of pearls. She would be reclining on an antique sofa in a country mansion, sipping her champagne, surrounded by Europe's most eligible bachelors, who would dutifully kiss her hand. Her flushed cheeks were the only sign of her excitement. She would smile like a goddess made of pink porcelain, misty, smooth and expensive.

`You're not listening to me. Are you?'

Max held a needle between his fat lips, his eyes looked tired and swollen under his double-vision glasses and his grey hair was thinning. A photo of his family was stuck on the wall. He had a foot on the sewing machine and his lunch of sardine sandwiches and oranges was in a brown paper bag on the floor right behind him. The pungent smell of sardines preserved in oil filled my nostrils. He would say proudly, `None of this brine business for me.' Sometimes when I was steam ironing legs of trousers the smell of Max's sardines was released.

`I've finished this dress, shall I hang it?'

`Yes, with the tag, girl. Write "Sharon" on it.' The goddess's name was Sharon! Not Sofia, Alexia, Nadine or even Natasha. It shouldn't be Sally, Salina, Sharon or Tracy, who were birds of a different feather, a feather restricted to certain width and height. The dress belonged to a Sharon!

I decided to spend two pounds on lunch today and went to a department store cafe, ordered a soup, two portions of bread and a glass of orange juice. It all added up to two pounds seventy. I took my tray and sat upstairs overlooking the entrance. I pulled out my Marie Claire, which was dog-eared, and started reading a piece about protecting your skin that summer when you were on the beach. The model's hair was long, very long and blond and it shone in the sun like rivers of molten gold. Her skin was even, taut and tanned, and her nipples nowhere to be seen. Which beach was she on? The sand was as white as sugar and the sea was light turquoise. The Mediterranean for sure. I sipped my carrot soup and then looked up and saw them. Dr John Robson, my university tutor, walked in with a petite woman with short blond hair, big beautiful blue eyes and a slim figure hidden under a loose T-shirt and blue jeans. She clung to him while he was choosing food off the counter. I had met him only once when I went to register for my part-time university degree. I concentrated on my soup and continued sipping. They sat down each with a tray decked with fruit and salad. I continued looking at the model, shot in mid-air, legs and hands splayed like a suspended bird. I pretended that I was reading. With the corner of my eye I saw that they had settled down and begun eating. I wrapped what was left of the bread in a napkin, put it together with the magazine in my bag then rushed out of the sliding glass doors. It was raining a gentle drizzle. The cathedral was quiet, apart from the sad sound of an organ; I pulled my scattered self together and looked at the bright colours of the window where blood was dripping down the forehead of the enamelled blue and red Christ. I walked to the altar, put a cushion on the floor, knelt down and repeated, `May Allah have mercy on Salma! Alleviate her distress, God, lighten her load, widen her chest! Bless her with the gift of forgetfulness!'

I blew my nose then walked out of the cold cathedral. It was still raining a gentle drizzle that you'd normally ignore and end up soaking wet. The pavements were wet, the streets were wet, the windows were wet. Looking at the warm glow of table lights behind the steamed windows of the hotel in the corner, I psyched myself up to face the wrath of Max. I was half an hour late. The minute I entered the door and shook the water off my hair, Max surprised me by saying, `You were crying? Weren't you?' No angry telling-off, threats of being kicked out of this fine establishment and this great country, no you have no respect for your employer, no hundreds of white English kids would give an arm and a leg to have your job. Nothing except, `Stitch this for me, will you?' I could not look Max in the eye. I could handle angry words, but kindness I could not bear. Kindness I did not deserve. He should have shouted at me, called me a foreign tart, kicked me in the stomach until I blacked out. Kindness I did not deserve.

I went back home, had a bath, shaved my legs, washed my hair, rubbed my body with cream, sprayed myself with deodorant and powdered myself with perfume. I dried my hair enhancing its body, put on black tights, a short black skirt, black high-heeled shoes, a sleeveless frilly white shirt and painted a rainbow around my eyes. I looked at the mirror and saw a clown looking back at me. I might be attacked tonight. I might be gang-raped then killed. They might find my body under the yew tree by the river. When Elizabeth saw me she said, `Sally, you are hustling these days, aren't you?'

Allan ran his hand over his sticky hair. `Salina!' He cleared his voice. `You look very nice.' Last night he summoned me to his office and lectured me on my appearance. `Our customers want to be surrounded by beautiful women; they all go to the cinema and see those Bacardi girls.You must try to look presentable like ... like an air hostess. Whenever I take a flight, I get tucked in, taken care of by girls with lined eyes, tight skirts and full red lips'

How can I become a Sandy, a white beautiful doll? I am only a Shandy, a black doll, a black tart, which was heavily made up and quick with her straps and suspenders. I slept with Jim, didn't I? But Gwen advised me to look like a lady.

`I see,' I said.

`Allan. Please call me Allan.'

`Yes, Allan.'

Allan liked the frizzy wild hair and the short skirt. With a stretch of his imagination he could see me now as an air hostess, cooing and flirting, tucking him in, getting him his drinks, kissing him with a lipsticked mouth. I realized from the way Allan was following me with his eyes that I had stopped being an incomprehensible foreigner and had become a woman, a body neither white nor olive-skinned nor black. My colour had faded away and was replaced by curves, flesh and promises.

Since Parvin started her job I saw very little of her. Our alarm clock was set at 6:30 in the morning. We would get up and chase each other to the communal bathroom, join the queue outside the door and wait. We would get dressed quickly and eat some cornflakes with milk, brush our teeth, comb our hair, make sandwiches and put them in our bags. Parvin would listen to the morning news and would punctuate it with, `What a wanker! He is a dick- head.What a prick!' I did not understand much so I would chase the cornflakes around in my bowl and listen to her getting more and more agitated. She put on some weight so the suit I made for her looked really good now Just before walking out of the room she would look at me and say, `Have you seen men with rifles lately?'

'No!' I would lie.

`Are you taking your pills?'

`Yes,' I would say.

She would say, `Good,' snatch her briefcase and rush out.

Madam Lamaa sat on the rubber mattress leaning against the wall and looking at the barred window It must be summertime because it was hot that night and the sound of the shrill cries of the cicada filled the air.

`Madam Lamaa, are you thirsty? Here you are, some water,' said Noura and gave her a tin cup full of water fresh from the clay water jar covered with wet sackcloth.

`Thank you. God bless you,' she said, drank, then wiped her mouth with the end of her sleeve. She pushed herself up, adjusted her scarf to cover her grey hair and said, `My bra size is not available in the market. One of my friends made my bras for me. I saw you the other day swinging it in the air.'

`We were just messing about. We have so much respect for you," said Noura.

`They found me standing naked under the lamppost in the main street. They thought I was a prostitute. I am not a prostitute.'

`We know that.You look like a real sits: a lady, but why were you standing in the street naked?' asked Noura.

`I gave birth to five sons, kept his house clean and cooked him a fresh meal every day. Whenever he turned round in bed I opened my very heart for him. All of this was not enough," she said and wiped the sweat off her forehead.

`Men are insatiable, aren't they?' said Noura.

`A few years later I began putting on weight. I developed a tummy first then fat gathered all over my body. I also began losing my hair, the sheen in my eyes, the lightness of my step.'

`What was it? Sin it ya's: the age of despair?'

`The doctor said yes it is sin it ya's: the menopause. Sleeplessness, palpitations, night sweats, and dark hair everywhere, my upper lip, around my nipples, on my tummy.'

`So?'

`He stopped sleeping with me. "You are disgusting," he said and never turned towards me ever again. Then I heard the old tongues wagging, "He is looking for a second , we.

`Here is some more water,' offered Noura.

Madam Lamaa drank and wiped her mouth and face with a handkerchief. She clutched her large breasts and said, `What if he chucks me out of the house? What if she comes and lives with us under the same roof? What if he makes me become her maid, her servant after all these years? What if my boys begin to like her? Fear took hold of me and I would spend all night looking for stones and bad grains in rice, searching for migrating birds in the sky, pursuing answers.

`That fucking cicada!' said Noura then added, `They threaten us with taking on a second wife to keep us in our place.'

`One night I went to the storeroom, opened each sack and scattered the rice, the flour, the sugar, the lentils, the dry fruit all over the place. I took my clothes off and walked out of the house as Allah had created me and stood under His vast sky looking for stars. The judge said that it was a lewd act and here I am without a friend, a loved one or a companion,' she said and turned away.

'I wish I were rounder, fatter like you," I said.

She covered her face with both hands.

`That fucking cicada!' shouted Noura.

When my dark hair almost fell in the drinks of customers they would look up with their puffy eyes, wet their lips and smile. I would smile back and collect the empty glasses. There were very few women customers, and they were all better covered than I was. Come and have a look at my cleavage, at my round bottom, my long dark hair and thin ankles! Why don't you? Allan saw me pushing the hand of an elderly man away from my backside. He didn't like the liberties the old man was taking. When I went back behind the bar to feed the glass washer Allan said, `Stay behind the bar, Barry will collect the glasses.' I gave Allan a thank-you look. Behind all that groomed look, sticky hair and bowties, Allan was a real gentleman. At the end of my shift I helped myself to a cup of coffee, sat down on one of the upholstered chairs, took off my shoes and put my feet up. Allan was bolting the heavy wooden door. He rubbed his hands together, pulled up another chair and sat down.

`You don't need to wear high heels.'

`Thank God!ff

He smiled and said, `If it were down to me I would have just let you wear whatever you want. It's the manager of the hotel, Mr Brightwell. He goes on and on about our image.

`It does not seem right when I am walking among drunken men. I like something more modest.'

`If Mr Brightwell comes to the bar and sees you looking scruffy he won't like it.'

I sipped the dregs and pulled my trainers out of the bag. The walk back home took me thirty minutes. I normally enjoyed it, but tonight it seemed like a heavy chore. I wrapped my mother's shawl around my shoulders, zipped my bag and put my hand on Allan's arm. I was grateful to him for giving me the job and for keeping me behind the bar beyond the reach of the drunken eyes and hands. `Goodnight Barry. Goodnight Allan.'