Inevitably, that day they saw the Bird-man again. It happened while Zindi and Alu were wandering along the Avenue de France trying to find a doctor for Boss. They shot across the Avenue with his claws almost digging into their shoulders. They managed to lose him in the maze of the Medina and later, somehow, they dragged themselves to the Souq al-Attarine where Kulfi was buying perfume. That was the end of Tunis for them. But there he was again at Kairouan. This time it was he who spotted them, Alu and Zindi, bargaining at a taxi-stand, and he chased them all along the city walls, shouting.
What was he shouting? Zindi asked Alu later.
Alu said: He was shouting — Come back, I only want to talk to you.
Yes, snorted Zindi, come back to be tear-gassed.
After that Zindi would hear of nothing, stop for nothing — fever, chest pains, anything short of death. But mysteriously, just then, chance began to play at puppetry with them; trains left moments before they arrived at the station, buses were full up, taxis had flat tyres … And no sign of the Bird-man all that while. Where was he? Where was he waiting? Or had he flown away at last?
Never again, Zindi swore, would she say those words, those deadly, poisonous, son-of-a-bitch words. There was only one hope now: the border. The border it had to be; safety lay on the other side, in the vast welcoming emptiness of the Sahara.
So there they were, ten days after they left Virat Singh, sitting in a café in the desert. And now?
And now, said Zindi, you’ve said it again.
She looked up at the sky and a flash of hope sparked in her eyes. Perhaps, she said, we are safe after all. There aren’t any birds in the desert.
But a moment later she saw the vulture again, circling patiently above.
As they walked down the Avenue, Kulfi was still wondering, with gnawing apprehension, what exactly Mrs Verma had meant when she remarked: It sounds rather as if you were running away from something. She couldn’t help shooting a few quick sidelong glances at her.
Mrs Verma saw Kulfi looking at her and instinctively her hand rose to cover her protruding upper lip. She knew what her profile was like. She tried to think of something to say, but nothing occurred to her. It was always like that: since her girlhood she had never had the defences to cope with those particular looks.
It would have been different if her father had listened to her while she was still at school. There was still a chance then. She knew, because when she was twelve two girls in her class had had braces fitted by the Parsi dentist who had his clinic near the Odeon. Their cases were much worse than hers; their teeth fell like weighted curtains over their lower lips. But six months after they got their braces you could see the difference, and after a year you could hardly tell.
She talked about it to her father, all the time, hinting, hoping. He had prominent front teeth as well; she got hers from him. It gave her a right to hope that he would understand; after all, he had suffered the name Dantu through all his college years. Surely he had once felt something of what she went through every time the teacher told her to stop staring and cover her teeth, and the whole class exploded into laughter? It wasn’t the money; she knew that. It didn’t cost much; he could have raised the sum if he’d wanted. It was only a question of making him understand. He had always listened gravely and attentively to everything she had ever had to say. But when it came to this subject he never seemed to notice.
Actually, of course, he did notice; had noticed all the time. She discovered that when she couldn’t bear it any more and said to him, weeping: Ba, if you don’t take me to that dentist I’ll die. I know it. Even if I don’t die right now, no one will marry me so I’ll die as soon as I grow up.
There was a strong practical streak in her even then, so she added: And think of all the trouble you’ll have trying to find me a husband.
He took her into his lap then and dried her cheeks with the hem of his kurta. My love, he said, do you think I don’t know what it’s like?
Then, take me to that dentist, she sobbed.
I can’t, he said helplessly. I can’t — not for this. Don’t you see: it’s not important. If it was to do with your health, we’d go this very minute. But this is just a thing of appearances.
But it’s important to me. And it would be so easy.
No, my love; it wouldn’t be easy at all. What do you change if you change your face? Those are things of the outside; if we wanted things like that, where would we stop — jewellery, cars, money, houses? That’s not how I’ve lived, and that’s not how I want you to live. As for marriage, if no one wants you, why, you’ll be free. Anyway you’re going to be a microbiologist, a scientist; you’ll be too busy with your experiments to think about such things.
I will think about it, she cried. I think about it all the time — in school, walking down the road, everywhere. It’s the only thing I think about.
Then, he said, that’s the best reason for not doing anything about it. As you grow older, it’ll matter less and less. You’ll see. And the day it doesn’t matter at all you’ll know you’re a woman at last.
She shrank back, frightened by the finality of his tone. Then, choking on her sobs, she pounded on his chest: It’ll always matter; it’ll always matter. How can you know? You don’t have to live with it.
He caught her hands and kissed them. I’ll show you, he said. He turned and pulled a book out of his old bookcase. I’ll translate something for you. When I read it to you, you’ll see that things like these don’t matter.
She pushed herself angrily out of his lap and didn’t talk to him for a week. A translation. What difference would a translation make to the laughter in her classroom?
But the old man had been right about one thing: almost imperceptibly every passing year dulled the wounding edge of those glances. Nowadays it took her only a few minutes to recover.
So, after a while, almost cheerfully, she said to Kulfi: It’s a small town, isn’t it? One day I’ll take you to the top of a minaret and you can see it all spread out below you. Actually we’ve been here just two years ourselves. We’re leaving soon. Our children won’t let us stay away any longer. They’re back home in Dehra Dun.
Oh, said Kulfi, glad to have the silence broken. So you’ve come here with only your husband, then? I suppose there aren’t any other Indians here?
Oh, no, Mrs Verma laughed. There are five of us. There’s Miss Krishnaswamy — she’s a nurse. Then there’s Dr Mishra. He’s the seniormost among us. He’s a surgeon. He’s very good; some people say he’s brilliant. He looks it; you’ll see when you meet him. Then there’s his wife, but she’s not a doctor. They’re both from Lucknow.
It must have been lonely, Kulfi said thoughtfully, coming to a foreign place; having to work with people you didn’t know. You know, in al-Ghazira, I must say, in the beginning, though there were all his colleagues in the firm, I really—
People I didn’t know? Mrs Verma interrupted her. You mean Dr Mishra? Yes, I suppose it’s true that we didn’t know him, but it didn’t feel like that. You see, I’d heard about him for years. My father knew his father quite well once upon a time, and he talked about them quite a lot. So in a way, when we first met him at the interviews in Delhi, it was like meeting someone we’d known for a long time. Besides, he talks a lot …
Her voice trailed off. You’ll see, she added lamely. You’ll meet him this evening. I’ll ask them over so that we can make arrangements for …