‘A bit late for that, I think.’ I stood up, my face inches away from his. ‘I don’t… I can’t quite understand this, Ed, but I think you need to tell me the truth and I think I’ll know if you’re lying.’
‘Oh God, Aasmaani.’ He cupped my face in his hand, gently stroking my jaw-line with his thumb. ‘Why did you have to do that?’
I didn’t know how to answer except literally. ‘I wanted to leave you a note. I saw the computer before I saw the pen.’ I frowned, trying to make some sense of things, pulled away from him. ‘Are you one of the Minions?’
But he only looked at me more sadly.
‘No, of course not. That wouldn’t make sense.’
If the people we’ve buried walked back into our lives would we recognize them or would our brain be so assured of their deaths, and of death’s insistence on obliterating our corporeal selves, that it would make us glance at their faces and then turn away, thinking, I cannot look at this person who reminds me of what I have lost? As I stood there with Ed — the computer screen, the pen, the books all at the edges of my vision — I did not allow myself to see what I was seeing, I did not allow that information to overturn the certainty that had built up in my mind these last weeks. I think I would have believed any lie Ed told me, if it seemed even partially plausible.
He said, ‘All those encrypted pages you read, I wrote them.’
I waited for him to laugh. I waited for him to say, ‘And if you believe that one I’ve got a cloud to sell you.’ I waited, and while I waited I knew that I might not survive the inescapable truth that he wasn’t lying.
‘Please don’t do this.’ My voice was not something I recognized.
‘I love you, Aasmaani. This is all because I love you.’
‘What are you saying, Ed? I don’t understand what you’re saying.’
His hands dropped away from me. ‘You weren’t even supposed to see it, that’s the ridiculous part. That first message. The Minions came again today. You weren’t supposed to see it. I didn’t even know you when I wrote it. I wrote it for my mother.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I knew the code, Aasmaani. There was no need for your mother to keep it a secret in the end. One night she was here for dinner, and I was here, too. I was at university at the time, I didn’t live here, but…’
‘Ed. Please. I don’t need domestic details.’
‘She explained the code. She gave us the sentence. The jazz fugues sentence. I went away and wrote it down. Kept it all these years. I was sure my mother would do the same. There was no distinction in my ideas of love and obsession until you.’ He lifted a hand to touch me and then dropped it again. I could still smell him on me.
‘Put some clothes on, Ed.’
He walked past me to the wardrobe, and I watched in silence as he put on jeans and a T-shirt.
‘So why did you write it?’ I said at last.
‘For years I’d been wanting my mother to act again. I knew she wanted to, only she was scared to take that first step. So I thought, OK, she needs a reason to say yes after all those years she’s been saying no. So I got a job at STD, and I came home and said, Amma, enough of this retirement stuff, OK? And she said no.’ He pulled some tiny clinging thing off his shirt. ‘I was so angry. All these years everyone thought she stopped acting because of motherhood. She didn’t. She stopped because of Samina.’
He was looking at me as if everything depended on my response to that.
‘I know.’ I shrugged. ‘Conventional mothers are overrated.’
He nodded. ‘Well, I wish I could share your attitude, I really do. When she said no, again, all those years later, with me back in Karachi, working for a TV studio, I thought, if she were here, if Samina were here and she told you to act again, you’d do it in a second. It became important for me to prove that to myself, to have that evidence against her, that proof of how little she loved me in comparison. So I mentioned the code in passing to her one day, just casually, “Oh, remember that night when Samina told us…” and then a couple of weeks later I sent her the message in code. You know, to make it more authentic. Just four lines, with an absurd covering note saying, “Act again and I’ll send you more.”’
‘And so she agreed to do Boond?’
‘No. She thought it was a deranged fan and ignored it. She couldn’t read the code, she didn’t believe your mother was still alive. And I felt stupid for having sent it to her.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It should all have ended there. A few weeks went by and that actress dropped out of Boond and Kiran Hilal came to me and said, I think your mother should do it. Let’s all gang up on her. So a whole group of them came to dinner — Kiran, the director, her former co-stars, the costume designer, the sound guy. A whole bunch of people she’d worked with before, and they all said, come on, Shehnaz, take the plunge. And she said no and no and no and maybe and perhaps and then, at about four a.m., she said, OK, I’ll do it. OK.’
‘But she kept the encrypted letter.’
‘Yes, she kept it. And when she heard you were at STD she must have had a moment of wondering, what if it is that code of Samina and the Poet’s? So she sent it to you. And when you told me you needed to speak to her because she’d sent you some calligraphy I realized what she’d done, and suspected you were able to read it. And then everything became about you.’
He walked over to the desk I was leaning on and switched on a lamp. It had the effect of making it more difficult to see him, the dull yellow light shining at the periphery of my vision and Ed directly behind it, so that to look at him I had to see almost straight into the light. I swung my hand and the lamp fell to the floor, the bulb shattering. Ed barely moved, though there was glass around his feet.
‘It was the most extraordinary thing. There you were, walking around the office, bantering, joking, being witty and poised, and yet it was there. That same vacancy I used to see in your mother’s eyes. It was there, always. I started to ask people questions about you and they all said, Whatever you do, don’t try talking about Samina to her. Do you know the reputation you have around town for becoming ice-cold when anyone mentions her?’
‘It appears there’s a lot I don’t know.’
‘Stop it, stop it. Be angry, but not this.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do. Keep talking.’
‘I tried to get you to talk to me, just to talk, about anything. There was so much we had in common, so much we could discuss. But you just treated me like I was nothing. My God, you made me angry. I thought, watch it, girl, I’ll get a reaction out of you.’ He finally lifted his feet, shook the glass off almost daintily, and stepped away from the shards. ‘And instead, I went and fell in love with you.’
I had got so used to touching him. Even before tonight. I hadn’t realized the extent to which I would reach out for him, even if it was just to rest my fingers on his wrist or playfully slap his shoulder. I had to keep my arms hugging my chest because otherwise I didn’t know what to do with them. I suspected I would hit him, just for some physical contact. His hands were balled into fists, perhaps for the same reason.
‘When my mother said you’d asked her to send any more messages I felt sick. And then we bumped into each other on the stairs in STD and we were laughing together and something happened…’
That spark, that fizz.
‘I was going to tell you the truth. That I wrote it for my mother, that I was sorry if it had upset you. I practised a little speech, trying to explain it, and I came to your office to ask you out for coffee, so I could tell you. But you just pushed me away, with that vacant look again. You made it so clear that what had happened on the stair, that connection I had felt, meant nothing to you. You were so lost, you looked so lost. And I just wanted to do something that you couldn’t turn away from with that blank look, that look which told me I was nothing. So I thought, I’ll write another message. But I couldn’t write in your mother’s voice. I couldn’t put Samina’s voice on paper, couldn’t capture it at all. But the Poet was a different matter. I had been weirdly fascinated with him since I first found out about your mother and mine—’