Noor wants to move his hand to push his eyeball back in its socket but decides against it because that might remind Teddy that there is a trigger on this gun and probably a few dozen bullets in it, waiting for the slightest movement of his finger.
Noor starts to educate himself. Watch the finger on the trigger, forget about all the crap about the man behind the gun, all the nonsense about steady nerves; what he might say or how you might answer is all redundant. Because that slight movement of the finger can terminate the most persuasive argument in the world.
Teddy starts putting his guns in a bag like a plumber finishing his job. Then in a casual voice he asks Noor, “Do you love her?”
If somebody had asked this question during the day, without the presence of a gun, Noor would have laughed it off, he would have used the word ‘co-worker’, mentioned their camaraderie; he would have definitely invoked team spirit and family atmosphere. After all, he is Dr Pereira’s protege; he has learnt all the good manners and ultra-polite, pointless bullshit. He might even have said she was just like his elder sister. But now with an eyeball dangling out of its socket, his lip broken and a tooth lodged in his tongue, he knows that Teddy has asked the only relevant question: Noor knows that he loves her, whatever that means. It’s often said that love turns some people into martyrs and others into poets and philosophers. Obviously it turns many into downright liars and criminals.
“You are asking the wrong question,” he says calmly, as if he is taking the medical history of a stupid patient who doesn’t know what to ask his doctor. “What you should be asking is, does she love me?”
Teddy listens to him quietly, as if trying to decide whether what Noor has said might mean something else. “And last I saw her, she had a baby. A boy. Shouldn’t you be worried about that baby?”
“Baby?” says Teddy.
“A very cute baby. Everyone’s saying it’s a miracle. You guys need to communicate more.”
Teddy moves towards Zainab and pulls the pillow from under her head. Zainab sits upright for a moment looking straight ahead and then falls back on the bed and starts to snore. Noor has had enough; he lunges towards Teddy. But Teddy has drawn his pistol and moved its safety catch. He wraps the pillow around his left forearm and presses the gun into the pillow. For a moment he shuts his eyes and his face muscles clench in anticipation of pain, like a junkie a moment before the needle enters his flesh. The sound of the gunshot is strangely muffled, like someone coughing into a pillow. But suddenly the room is full of white little feathers flying everywhere. Some have blood on them.
Twenty-Seven
“Should we give him a name? I hate it when people call him ‘dead baby’,” says Alice Bhatti, sitting in the passenger seat of Hina Alvi’s tiny car. Hina Alvi is an awkward driver. She doesn’t drive so much as she carries out a running feud with her car, banging her fist on the dashboard, changing gears abruptly and promising to teach it a lesson when it stalls. It’s strange to see her outside the Sacred. Suddenly she is in a world where she doesn’t have total control, where she cannot expect each one of her wishes to be carried out. Her face is softer, even her hair looks a bit limp and real. She drives hunched over the steering wheel, and curses every time a vehicle passes her on the wrong side.
“Can we call him Little Yassoo while we think of a proper name and do the paperwork?” asks Alice.
“Is that a joke? Little Jesus? Does this world need another baby prophet? Do you want him to die young and single and misunderstood for eternity?”
“I had a neighbour who was called Jesus Bhatti,” says Alice. The car bumps over a speed breaker and the baby begins to cry.
“See, even he doesn’t like it. I think just Little is fine with me.”
Alice picks up Little from her lap, puts his head on her shoulder and presses him against her chest. His shaved head tickles her cheek. They travel in silence. Little falls asleep in Alice’s arms. She looks towards Hina Alvi and wonders if she should thank her for offering to put her and Little up, but then decides that it might be a bit early.
♦
Sister Hina Alvi opens the double lock on the door of her second-floor flat; the air inside is stale, as if trapped for a long time. Burgundy-coloured frayed velvet curtains are drawn, and even when Hina Alvi flicks on a light, the room stays semi-dark. She takes Alice Bhatti straight to a bedroom, as if she doesn’t want her to see the rest of the apartment. The bedroom is small but has a double bed on which Hina Alvi has already prepared a little nest for the baby, complete with a pink baby blanket and rows of plastic parrots on a mobile positioned over the pillow.
“Nestle formula is in the fridge, nappies in the cupboard. I am going to sleep for a while. If you need anything, just knock on my bedroom door,” says Hina Alvi before walking out of the room. Alice feels that Hina Alvi is already regretting her decision to invite her to stay.
As Hina Alvi shuts the door behind her, Alice sees a Bible Study Centre calendar from the year before hanging on the inside of it. This is probably her idea of making me feel at home, Alice thinks. Alice does feel at home and drifts off into a deep sleep with her hand on Little’s stomach. When she comes to, it takes her a while to orient herself. Little has wet his nappy; she changes it, cleans the drool on his face, comes out into the living area and goes straight to a window to draw the curtain.
“I don’t like to open the curtains. I have some really nosy neighbours.” Hina Alvi’s voice catches her by surprise.
Alice Bhatti looks back. It takes her a moment to locate Sister Hina Alvi, and when her eyes adjust to the darkness, she sees her kneeling in front of an open cupboard. First she thinks that Hina Alvi is looking for something in the cupboard, then she realises that she is still on her knees, hands folded at her chest, and she seems to be whispering something vaguely familiar. “Are you OK?” Alice asks. When she doesn’t get a response from Hina Alvi, she rushes towards her, suspecting that she has either pulled a muscle or is having a stroke. She stops when she is just behind her. In the cupboard, right in front of Hina Alvi, is an altar, a simple affair, plaster-of-Paris Yassoo figurine on a tin tray, some withered marigolds and a tea candle.
Alice Bhatti freezes; she feels as if she has walked in on a very private act, that she is witnessing something she is not supposed to, but she is afraid to move back now. Backtracking would mean that she had meant to spy on Hina Alvi, and now that she has discovered her secret, she wants to walk away with it. Next she does what she thinks is the only logical thing to do: she starts to go down on her knees behind Hina Alvi, but as soon as she bows her head and folds her hands, she hears Hina Alvi say, “… and the glory be yours, now and for ever”, more of a sigh than a prayer. Hina Alvi gets up, blows out the candle and shuts the cupboard. Alice Bhatti finds herself praying to a Formica panel.
“No reason to get excited. I am the same senior sister you have known all along,” Hina Alvi says, taking her dupatta off her head and sitting on a chair at the small round dining table.
“Do people at the hospital know?” Alice Bhatti is not excited, just flabbergasted. She has always felt ambivalent about faith-based camaraderie, she has never bought into we-are-all-His-sheep-type sentiments. In fact she feels a bit let down. Is Hina Alvi helping her because she considers her a sister in faith? What is Hina Alvi’s faith anyway? What kind of woman goes around insisting that everyone address her as Ms Alvi, a name only slightly less Musla than Muhammad, and then goes home and prays to a Yassoo hidden away in a wardrobe?