‘This is unbelievable.’ Ed put down the menus. ‘And weird.’
‘Weird?’
‘Why would someone go to the trouble of bringing in a VCR and television to show him Boond?’
‘To torment him with that glimpse of my mother. Ed, it was uncanny the way your mother did it. I mean, I don’t know if you ever saw Mama do that, but Shehnaz got it so right…’
‘So whoever’s keeping the Poet captive knew your mother. Knew her well enough to recognize my mother’s impersonation of her.’
‘Yes.’ It felt like a triumph. The first clue of any kind we had to the identity of the Poet’s captor.
‘It’s all happening very fast,’ he said. ‘It’s been hardly more than forty-eight hours since the show aired.’
‘There’s another question here. Whoever the captor is, why did he tape Boond in the first place? Was that just coincidence? He taped it, saw the impersonation and decided to give the Poet a viewing. Or…?’
‘Or?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I can’t think of an “or”. I guess that’s how it happened.’ I was lying. I could think of another way for it to happen. If Shehnaz Saeed was connected to the conspiracy, that’s how it could have happened. If she played the scene that way precisely in order to send it to the Poet and make him weep with longing for my mother. I ladled daal on to my plate and started spooning it into my mouth, just to have something to do.
‘What is it?’
I smiled at him. ‘Nothing. I’m just overwhelmed.’ If Shehnaz Saeed was involved, Ed knew nothing about it. I was sure of that now. Sure of him.
‘I’m having an idea,’ he said. ‘It could be crazy. But I’m distinctly having an idea.’
He called out to the waiter, gestured for the bill. ‘I have to get to STD. There’s something I need to do there. You can take the rest of the food home.’ I waved away the suggestion. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’m acting strangely. But there’s a reason. Promise. Tomorrow you’ll see. Or not. Once I think it through it may just be nothing. But I think it’s something. I think it may well be something.’ He was standing up now, almost hopping in his excitement.
I was more than happy to leave the restaurant and forestall any conversations that might lead to me airing my suspicions. Ridiculous, I was being ridiculous. Beema said I could trust her, and Beema’s instincts were always better than mine.
Although, really, my instincts were to trust her, too. When I was in her company I couldn’t imagine her involved in any form of deception. It was only away from her, when I looked at the evidence, and remembered the moments in which Ed had spoken of his mother as a creature of overwhelming narcissism that I wondered, was all that sweetness just an act?
If so, it was such a good act that even now I was far more convinced by it than not. It was easier to believe Shehnaz Saeed was being manipulated than to see her spinning webs of deceit in which she and her son and I were bound.
Ed paid the waiter, batting away my attempts to reach for my purse, and we left the restaurant. Both of us were quiet as we drove away, a distracted but comfortable quiet. My hand rested on his shoulder, and when his left hand wasn’t changing gears it reached up to caress my fingers. Soft music drifted out of the open windows — the artist was a singer I’d never heard before who threatened in every track to cross the line which separates mellow from soporific, but never actually did.
When he pulled up outside my flat, I said, ‘Will you come up?’
‘Of course. But not tonight.’ He pulled me into a swift kiss — there were neighbours walking down the driveway towards us and even that brief liplock felt risqué—and drew away, grinning like a boy who’s run through a stranger’s kitchen and stolen a hash brownie. ‘Ask me tomorrow. By then I may be your hero.’
‘All I really want is a toyboy,’ I said, stepping out of the car and blowing him a kiss.
He drove away with a screech that was entirely for the benefit of the neighbours.
I was smiling on my way up the stairs when I bumped into Rabia, Shakeel and Dad, headed down.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Rabia complained. ‘Dad’s plane leaves in an hour. We have to get to the airport.’
I looked guiltily at my father. Yesterday, after I’d locked myself in my bedroom, I hadn’t come out for hours, and when I did I refused to talk to Dad about anything to do with my mother. And so our interaction in the last twenty-four hours had returned to centring around cricket and home repairs. He’d spent much of the day correcting the imbalance of my bookshelf, oiling rusty hinges and doing something elaborate with the pipes under my sink which hadn’t yet given me cause to complain. In the evening he’d gone with Rabia and Shakeel to have a look at the renovations being done on the house, and I’d said I would cook dinner for the three of them when they returned. But then Ed arrived to whisk me away and I’d left a note saying, ‘Sorry. Forgot prior commitment. Rain-check?’
‘I didn’t realize you were leaving tonight.’
‘I can stay until tomorrow if you’d like,’ he said.
‘No. No. I’d just be keeping you from Beema. She needs you right now.’
‘Well, you’re coming to the airport, aren’t you?’ Rabia said to me, her tone belligerent.
I was still looking at my father. The boy who played ‘chicken’ on the streets of Karachi with Mama. One drunken evening, I had been talking to some friends at university and said, ‘Not that I’ve ever imagined my conception, of course, but I’m sure it occurred entirely by accident. My mother must have bumped into my father in the dark as their paths crossed somewhere in the vicinity of the linen closet.’
They never stood a chance as a couple, that had always been clear. But since talking to Dad the evening before I had been able to believe that for a moment they — not just he — might not have known that. And, in that moment, perhaps, I happened.
‘Airport goodbyes are horrible,’ Dad said. He came down the stairs until he was standing just beneath me and we were the same height. He put his arms around me. ‘We’re not done talking. I’m just giving you a pause.’ He kissed my cheek and released me. When he got to the bottom of the steps he turned around again. ‘If she were alive, she’d let you know. She loved you.’
After they’d driven away, I went upstairs and sat on the low cement wall that surrounded my balcony, my back pressed against the building’s edifice. The temperature had dipped sharply and there was nothing except a shawl between my short-sleeved cotton shalwar-kameez and the glass-and-tinsel air.
Yes, she loved me. All the years in which she went off with Omi, she loved me. But then he died and she broke that habit. I could never explain that to Dad or Beema or Rabia. I could never say — you want to know what I think happened to her? All right. All right. Here it is: she saw the falseness in everything she had believed. She saw the futility — in activism, in protest, in peaceful resistance, in all those things she had built her identity around. So she decided to un-become the woman she had been for so long. That’s what happened to my mother. She cast off her own skin, and became someone else, someone opposite. It took time, but she was patient, and determined. My God, was she determined. She would let go of everything that held her to her past self. Everything, including me. And when she saw that she couldn’t do that here, because this place and all of us had too many memories of the woman she used to be, she left. She and Omi, they knew so many people who had to vanish from the country, leaving no trace of where they’d gone. She knew it could be done. She knew how to do it.