Page 14 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—H ZALEEKHAH

By the River Thames, 2018

W hen Zaleekhah enters the dining room, following Uncle Malek, she finds her aunt sitting at one end of the lacquered table, with her middle grandchild by her side. They have pieces of card littered all about them, immersed as they are in constructing a Victorian doll’s house with pop-up furniture and lift-the-flap doors.

‘Darling! Why are you standing over there?’ Aunt Malek says, offering her cheek for an air kiss. ‘Helen took the boys to tennis and let me keep Lily for the afternoon – aren’t I lucky? She’s just about to go and have a bath.’

‘Hello, sweetheart.’ Zaleekhah kisses the child.

‘Hi, Auntie.’

‘What is this amazing thing you two have been working on?’

The girl smiles. There is a yellow tinge to her skin that stands out beneath her neatly combed fringe. ‘We’re building a home for my dolls – it has a secret room!’

But there is no time to hear more, as the nanny appears then, collecting up the pieces and sweeping the girl upstairs.

‘Come and sit with me,’ Aunt Malek says to Zaleekhah, patting the now empty seat next to her invitingly.

‘She’d better sit with me,’ says Uncle Malek. ‘We’ve things to discuss.’

Aunt Malek flicks a glance at her husband. ‘You promised me you’d stay calm.’

‘I am perfectly calm,’ Uncle Malek retorts. ‘If she has decided to end her marriage for no good reason, it’s her choice. We’re living in modern times.’

Quietly, Zaleekhah pulls out a chair in the middle of the table at an equal distance from each of them. She glances around. The place has had another makeover. The dining room is the most remodelled part of the Maleks’ house. Every few months, it undergoes change, redecorated in a different colour scheme. Suspended above their heads is a chandelier adorned with white lilies and translucent green leaves of tinted glass.

‘I haven’t seen this before – is this new? It’s beautiful.’

‘New and very old,’ replies Uncle Malek. ‘It was displayed at the Great Exhibition, so it’d have been seen by Queen Victoria herself – and millions of others, of course.’

The chandelier is not the only antique in the room. Across from the entrance, an Art Deco cocktail cabinet houses crystal tumblers, aged malt whiskies and decanters of vintage port. In one corner there is a marquetry chest of drawers with the master carpenter’s mark engraved on the frame – a hammer and anvil. Each piece has been meticulously selected by Uncle Malek. He is fond of collecting objets d ’ art , and he is fond of food, and it is here in this room that his twin passions come together and find their most perfect expression.

‘Darling, we missed you,’ says Aunt Malek, turning to Zaleekhah. ‘Why don’t you visit us more often?’

‘I’m sorry, it’s been a bit manic lately.’

The Maleks exchange glances but make no comment. Just then the maid walks in carrying a basket of bread. They wait silently as she sets a roll on each side plate.

‘Well, I might need your expertise,’ Aunt Malek says, laying her napkin across her lap. ‘I’m putting in a Zen garden. It’s a great way of reducing stress.’

Uncle snorts. ‘Or transferring it to me.’

Zaleekhah suppresses a smile. ‘I’d love to help but I don’t know anything about Zen gardens.’

‘Don’t worry, I already have a landscape designer. You just help me with the water bit.’

‘Water?’

‘Yes, there’s going to be a stream running through the garden and a rustic stone bridge … or maybe wooden, and miniature waterfalls, totally natural and relaxing. It’s like having a spa in your own garden.’

‘An expensive spa,’ Uncle Malek says. ‘The whole thing is going to cost a fortune.’

‘You say that, but when it’s done you’ll be out there day and night. You’re going to love it.’ Aunt Malek cocks an eyebrow at her husband. ‘As for the price, don’t get me started. Your hobbies are more expensive than mine. I don’t even know where we’ll find space for that ancient piece you’re bringing home.’

‘Oh, here we go again. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a Mesopotamian tablet. It fits into the palm of your hand!’

‘Right, I keep forgetting,’ Aunt Malek mutters to herself. ‘The price is high enough.’

They fall quiet as they wait for the maid to serve their first course – creamy asparagus soup topped with a poached egg and Brie croutons.

Her gaze fixed on her bowl, Zaleekhah breaks the yolk with her spoon, watching the amber liquid ooze out. Uncle’s relationship with money has always puzzled her. He will not hesitate to spend a thousand pounds on a bottle of wine but baulks at what he regards as his wife’s addiction to anti-ageing creams. He can make eye-watering bids for a rare whisky, delights in treating his family to luxury holidays and will foot the bill gladly for his friends on an evening out, yet will quibble over the monthly kitchen expenses. He is incredibly generous with presents for his loved ones, though not, Zaleekhah suspects, when his workers demand a pay rise.

‘Is this the tablet you were telling me about?’ asks Zaleekhah.

‘It is indeed!’ Uncle replies. ‘A section of the Epic of Gilgamesh . We’re talking about the oldest poem in the world. That alone is remarkable. But this one is all the more extraordinary. A blue tablet from the library of Ashurbanipal.’

‘I thought things like that were kept in museums,’ says Aunt Malek.

‘Many are – but some end up in private hands.’ Uncle butters his bread and pops a piece into his mouth. ‘I’ve done my due diligence, of course. You can’t trust anyone these days. Items looted from Iraq and Syria are all over London, New York, Paris, Tokyo … Relics from the ruins of Palmyra are displayed in antique shops in Europe. But, rest assured, my dears, this tablet came from a reputable dealer.’

‘If it’s that special, why are the owners selling it?’ Aunt Malek asks.

‘It happens. The locals are poor, ignorant folks. They own things whose value they don’t fully grasp. When the elderly pass away, the young raise cash however they can. Can you blame them?’

Zaleekhah looks down at her plate. It is a source of endless contention between the couple: money. They both have it, except one was born into it, while the other made his own long and arduous journey towards it.

Aunt Malek, the daughter of an English family that amassed its fortune in textiles way back in the nineteenth century, finds it deeply distasteful when people prattle on about their finances, investments and profit. For his part, Uncle Malek never fails to get annoyed at those who are so privileged by birth that they have no idea what it is like to struggle to pay the bills. So when it comes to such matters, each despises the other in their own not so subtle way.

‘You’re too quiet, darling. Tell us about your life,’ says Aunt Malek, after the fish has been served.

‘Yes, tell us what’s going on!’

Zaleekhah inhales. She knows they want to hear about her marriage but talking about work is easier than talking about her private life and so she says, ‘You might remember, I’m part of this project – we’re collaborating with scientists worldwide to help restore lost rivers.’

‘Dodging the question,’ murmurs Uncle Malek under his breath.

‘If she wants to discuss lost rivers, we’ll discuss lost rivers,’ Aunt Malek says, frowning at her husband before turning back to Zaleekhah. ‘Now, how does a river get lost?’

‘Well, throughout the centuries humans have built cities on the shores of rivers. But when those cities expanded, the same rivers and tributaries were pushed away. Unwanted and culverted – hidden underground. At the moment we’re working with a French team who are trying to revive the historic waterway of Paris.’

‘The Seine!’ Aunt Malek says with a dreamy smile. ‘Isn’t that the most romantic setting? We spent a summer in Paris when we got married. We have such fond memories, your uncle and I.’

‘Actually, I meant another river,’ Zaleekhah says. ‘The Bièvre.’

‘The what?’ asks Aunt Malek.

‘The Bièvre – it’s buried under the French capital, and has been for a long time. It was an important waterway until the nineteenth century, when it became heavily polluted. They covered it over and basically forgot about it. The tourists who walk around Paris today admire the Seine, but they don’t realize there’s another river flowing beneath their feet.’

‘We’ve quite a few of our own here in London,’ says Uncle Malek.

‘That’s right,’ says Zaleekhah. ‘New York, Vienna, S?o Paulo, Sydney, Beijing, Moscow, Toronto … There are lost rivers almost everywhere on the planet. Not many foreigners are aware that Tokyo used to be a city of water. It’s still an incredible place, of course, but more than a hundred streams and canals have been filled in and used as a base for roads or just hidden under pavements. Or take Athens. You two were there this summer. Now that city, despite its splendour, has no waterway running through it. But in fact, historically, Athens boasted not one, not two, but three rivers.’

‘Oh, I had no idea,’ says Aunt Malek. ‘What happened to them?’

‘They were buried.’

‘Buried?’

‘Yes, under layers of concrete. Just like elsewhere in the world. Roads are more profitable than rivers; you can sell more cars. The property market also prefers it this way. But remember in Ancient Greece rivers were sacred. Humans didn’t always treat water like this.’

‘Okay, now, let’s not get carried away. There’s no need to turn this into a rant against capitalism,’ says Uncle Malek. ‘If these rivers are dead, they must be for a reason. You yourself said they were extremely dirty. A threat to public health, I presume. They must have been spreading all kinds of diseases. It’s not the wisest thing to hide them, but I imagine it was the best solution back then. The Victorians didn’t have that many options available; let’s not judge them too harshly.’

‘I’m not judging the Victorians,’ Zaleekhah says. She does not like to argue with her uncle, but nor can she keep quiet on an issue so close to her heart. ‘I’m criticizing us. Here we are, more than a century later, and we need a new approach. Those culverts were built at a time when cities were smaller. Now, with the climate emergency, their flood capacities are dangerously strained.’

‘What can you do, my dear?’ Uncle Malek steeples his fingers under his chin. ‘Are you going to demolish private property to rescue your lost rivers? Aren’t parts of Buckingham Palace built over one of those tributaries, now that I come to think of it? I hope you’re not planning to knock down the Queen’s walls.’

‘All I’m saying is that if we don’t find a new approach, we’ll have worse floods in our cities every year. It’s not an impossible task. They’ve done it in Seoul. It’s called “daylighting” – returning a lost river to the open air.’

‘Daylighting – that’s a nice name,’ chips in Aunt Malek.

‘A nice name means nothing if the figures don’t back it up,’ says Uncle Malek. ‘Now, I don’t know what they’ve done in Seoul, but I do know there are limits to what can be done in London. As a general rule, ghosts are better left alone. Why try to raise them from the dead?’

‘Because they’re still there.’ Zaleekhah lowers her eyes and pushes away her plate. ‘Things don’t disappear just because we wish them to. Even if we cover them with concrete and build over them and pretend they never existed, they’re still part of us, all those ghosts that we thought we’d buried deep inside, and, if we don’t face up to them, they’ll continue to haunt us.’

When she lifts her head, she finds her uncle and aunt staring at her, their expressions changed.

‘Darling, don’t get upset. Let’s not talk about heavy stuff.’ Aunt Malek pats her hand. ‘Tell me, did you enjoy the fish?’

Dessert is dark chocolate fondant with glazed cranberries. Declining her portion, Aunt Malek checks her watch. ‘I must make my excuses. The chauffeur’s waiting for us to take Lily home. I might actually spend the night there. Helen’s husband is in Singapore, again, on a business trip.’

‘Oh, please give them my love,’ says Zaleekhah. ‘I haven’t seen Helen in a while.’

Aunt Malek pauses, her eyes trained on her husband for a second too long. Then she says, ‘Well, I would if I were you.’

The comment, though made casually, prompts a silence that lasts after Aunt Malek has disappeared.

‘I should get going as well,’ says Zaleekhah. ‘Thanks for having me. Everything was delicious.’

‘Stay a little longer, my dear. We haven’t had a chance to chat properly.’

Leaning on his cane, Uncle rises to his feet, gesturing to the butler, who has appeared at his elbow. ‘We’ll take our coffee in the library, Kareem.’

Upstairs, the fire has been lit even though it is not cold. A clock on the mantel ticks softly. It feels peaceful, the heady smells emanating from the flowers blending with the scent of books and old manuscripts.

‘Is there something up with Helen?’ asks Zaleekhah, once the coffees have been served.

‘She hasn’t been herself lately. Lily’s not doing so well.’

‘Lily? She seemed happy.’ Even as she says this her mind drifts back to the child’s unusual pallor. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘We don’t know yet; they’re running tests.’

Zaleekhah’s eyes widen, confusion instantly replaced by guilt. She has been so preoccupied by her own troubles lately that she hasn’t stayed in touch with her cousin. ‘I keep meaning to arrange to meet up with Helen.’

‘Do it, my dear! She’s your sister. No need to call first, just go. If not at the house, you can always pop into the gallery – she’ll be there in work hours. You know how much Helen cares about you.’

‘I care about her, too.’

Uncle stirs his coffee, the spoon clinking against the china. ‘You sure you’ll be all right in that gondola?’

‘The houseboat? It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me – please.’

Uncle shakes his head. ‘When you told me about your plans, I was shocked, frankly. I’d have thought you’d want to keep your distance from waterside residences.’

Her throat tightening, Zaleekhah straightens her shoulders. They rarely talk about what happened to her parents.

‘Must be an age thing,’ says Uncle Malek. ‘I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately.’

Zaleekhah watches his expression darken, his eyes glinting in the way she has grown to recognize. She does not tell him that she, too, thinks about them more often these days.

‘Definitely an age thing,’ Uncle Malek carries on. ‘I’ve been thinking about my mother, too.’

Uncle was eight years old when he was sent to board at a prep school in England, the first in his family to get an education abroad. At that age he had no sense of how much his family had sacrificed to give him an opportunity that he saw as a penance. After three summers, when he was finally permitted to travel home, he was told that his mother had left his father for another man, bringing shame on the entire family. His persistent questions as to her whereabouts were met with cold silence. At the end of the holidays, the boy returned to boarding school to start preparations for the Winchester College entrance exams, and never asked about his mother again.

He excelled in his adopted country. At school he was known for his debating skills, sharp wit and sardonic humour. After university, he launched a fast-food restaurant and expanded it into a franchise, earning huge profits, not only because he was shrewd and inventive but also because it was an era when political influence and advancement could be bought with few questions. Donating large sums to political parties and campaigns, he befriended politicians and celebrities. His name regularly appeared in the newspapers; he advised the government and wrote opinion pieces in the financial press. Recently he achieved his dream of being appointed to the House of Lords.

Uncle likes to call himself a ‘self-made man’. While that may be true, Zaleekhah suspects that the making of a new self requires the unmaking of an old one. It seems to her that her uncle has left a part of himself behind in Iraq – the part that was tender, trusting and optimistic. She believes that even after all these years he still has not forgiven his mother.

Zaleekhah’s own mother – Uncle’s elder sister by four years – was a kind, compassionate woman with an easy smile and warm eyes. She came to England much later and always carried with her the shadow of another land. She had no interest in titles or gains. What she loved was nature.

Both of her parents held a deep appreciation for the great outdoors. Most of her childhood memories feature vast landscapes. Her father, her mother and their camping in the middle of nowhere, hiking in the woods, admiring the arc of a rainbow stretching over a succession of cataracts … The crunch of pine needles under their boots, the powdery efflorescence coating the rocks, the blackthorn sloes they collected after frost spells, the silver flask that her father attached to his belt and let her drink from when she was thirsty … No other water ever tasted so good. Yet, in the end, it was water that killed them, leaving Zaleekhah all by herself.

‘Before you go, my dear, can you put my reading glasses in that drawer?’

He wants her to reconsider her decision. It’s his not-so-subtle way of reminding her of the envelope. But when Zaleekhah opens the drawer, what she sees is that book again: Nineveh and Its Remains .

This time she reads the subtitle: An Inquiry into the Manners and Arts of the Ancient Assyrians and an Account of a Visit to the Chaldean Christians of Kurdistan and the Yazidis, or Devil-Worshippers.

These last words intrigue her. She has heard in the news about the plight of the Yazidis when ISIS attacked and drove them out of their homes, though she knows little else.

‘May I borrow this?’ Zaleekhah asks, prompted by an impulse.

‘The envelope?’

‘The book. I’ll bring it back when I’m done.’

Uncle Malek sighs. ‘Take it, my dear.’

‘Goodnight, Uncle.’

Kareem is waiting for her downstairs, holding her jacket. He opens the door for her. They stand side by side, inhaling the cool air.

‘Thank you for everything,’ Zaleekhah rushes to say. She wants suddenly to leave this house and the hold it has over her. ‘I think I ate too much. I should walk a bit.’

‘But your uncle called a cab for you.’

No sooner has he finished speaking than they hear a car pulling up to the kerb outside the gate.

Zaleekhah breathes out. ‘I guess I’m not walking, then.’

Quietly, as if not to disturb the garden with its neat lawn and pretty plants, she makes her way towards the gate. As she passes the Andalusian fountain, she knows Uncle Malek will be watching her from the window, a grainy silhouette against the heavy, silk brocade curtains. She half turns to glance over her shoulder, about to wave goodbye, but to her surprise there is no one there, only a shadow from the Victorian lamp.