Page 22 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—H ZALEEKHAH

By the River Thames, 2018

Z aleekhah turns the corner into Great Russell Street, listening to the distant whirr of the rush hour traffic in the background. This morning she went to see Helen at the gallery that the Maleks have been subsidizing for their daughter. Located on one of the side streets surrounding the British Museum, the shop offers a range of art and collectibles, specializing in acquiring, authenticating and selling artefacts and works of art. But her cousin was not in, the receptionist told her, so she wrote a message and left.

On the way back, she walks fast, her mind full of thoughts she can neither ignore nor silence. A group of schoolchildren are jostling each other in front of the museum gates, making a joyful ruckus. As she steps aside to make way for a mother pushing a pram, she raises her head briefly to scan the shops on the opposite side. Only then does she remember what her neighbours had said about the owner of the houseboat. The tattoo parlour must be somewhere around here.

Slowing down, she scans her surroundings. To her surprise, the place is easy to spot. There, between a brasserie and a souvenir shop, is a tattoo parlour. On its window glows a sign in neon blue:

THE FORGOTTEN GODDESS

Being short-sighted, she moves closer to read the smaller inscription beneath, also in neon blue.

Our tattoos last longer than most marriages

After that, she cannot resist peeking inside.

Zaleekhah has never visited a tattoo parlour before and half expects to find a squalid dive, raucous music, shabby furniture, flickering bulbs and the obligatory contingent of unsavoury characters hanging around. Instead she sees an airy space with an elegant emerald-coloured velvet sofa, white armchairs and a floor laid with ceramic tiles in earthy tones. Bamboo pendant lamps, tall plants and plenty of flowers in terracotta pots give the place a homely air. Wooden shelves overflowing with books and magazines cover the opposite wall. It all looks warm, clean and quietly inviting.

Shading her eyes with her hands, she peers through the window. That is when she notices, to her slight embarrassment, that there is someone inside watching her every move with an amused smile. A tall, toned man with dark, wavy hair and wide eyes. As their gazes meet, Zaleekhah recoils, feeling like an intruder.

This has to be the owner of the houseboat – her landlord. He is still looking at her, still smiling. Now feeling obliged to present herself, Zaleekhah opens the door. A bell jingles.

‘Hello? May I come in?’

‘Sure!’ the man replies breezily. His arms are decorated with tattoos. ‘You made your mind up faster than I expected.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Tattoos. Are you not here for one?’

‘Oh, no, no … I was just passing by.’ Zaleekhah pushes her hair back. ‘Actually, I was hoping to talk to you.’

‘To me?’

‘Yes, I’m your tenant. I’m renting the houseboat in Chelsea.’

His face, confused for a second, brightens. ‘Ha! I wish … You’re looking for Nen.’

‘Oh, sorry, I thought you –’

‘No worries. She’s downstairs.’

She . Zaleekhah did not expect a woman to be the owner of the houseboat. Silently, she castigates herself for assuming it had to be a man.

‘It’s a lovely boat, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘We’ve had a few staff get-togethers there.’

Zaleekhah nods, though the thought of them drinking, smoking and doing tattoos in the place she now calls home is a bit unsettling. Good thing Uncle need never know. She says, ‘The view is amazing.’

‘Even better when it rains, which is pretty much all the time. Please make yourself comfortable, and I’ll go see if Nen is free.’

Alone in the room, Zaleekhah looks about, intrigued by the artwork on the walls. There are multiple drawings with detailed designs and mythic images, some framed, others pinned to a cork board. On the coffee table lies open a large notebook, crammed full of thank-you messages from happy customers. Next to it is an album with photos of people showing off their tattoos – people of every age, race and background. Many have their bodies inked with the same strange symbols. Zaleekhah tilts her head, trying to make sense of them.

‘Hello!’

When Zaleekhah turns around she sees a woman dressed in a flowing blue dress with black leather ankle boots. Her hair, shoulder-length and honey brown, is wavy and slightly wild, as if mussed by a gust of wind that has blown her here. She possesses the same tall and lean physique as the man, although she seems older, perhaps mid-to-late thirties.

‘Hi, I’m Nen. I heard you’re going to take care of the houseboat – thank you!’

Her handshake is firm and steady.

Not expecting to be thanked for being a tenant, Zaleekhah says, ‘Sorry for barging in unannounced. I was just passing by. I wasn’t planning to come in, but one of your staff saw me peering in –’

‘My brother,’ Nen says, smiling. ‘The youngest. I have four more.’

‘You have five brothers?’

‘Yup, all younger than me. We’re a big clan.’

Always intrigued by large families, Zaleekhah can’t help asking, ‘What was that like growing up?’

‘Depends which stage of growing up we’re talking about. It was pretty terrible when I was little – the boys were loud, always quarrelling. And it was worse when we were teenagers. Dirty socks everywhere … Yet, somewhere along the way, it became an amazing blessing. How about you?’

‘Oh, I’m an only child.’

‘And what was that like growing up?’

‘A bit lonely,’ says Zaleekhah. ‘But my cousin Helen was like a sister to me, if that counts.’

‘Cousins, friends, books, songs, poems, trees … anything that brings meaning into our lives counts.’

Outside the window a group of tourists files past on their way to the British Museum, their chatter spilling into the shop.

‘So is everything okay on the boat?’ Nen asks.

‘Yes, yes, all good,’ Zaleekhah says. Feeling the need to justify a visit prompted by nothing more than idle curiosity, she then adds, ‘Although the sink is leaking.’

‘Which sink?’

‘The one in the kitchen.’

‘Oh, is it? I’m so sorry, I wasn’t aware,’ says Nen. ‘That’s no excuse, though. I should be up on these things.’

Zaleekhah hesitates. ‘It’s okay. Nothing major.’

‘Still, we must get it fixed.’ Nen tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She has an easy smile, one that warms her whole face and lights up her fern-green eyes, which are framed with thick, long eyelashes, coated in an indigo mascara. Responding to Zaleekhah’s curious gaze with a beam, she asks, ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t trouble you –’

‘No trouble at all. Our coffee is rightly famous, if I say so myself.’ She walks over to a machine on top of an Art Deco cabinet and lifts out the pot as if in proof. ‘I’ve just brewed it.’

‘Sure, thank you – black please. No sugar.’ She realizes she hasn’t introduced herself. ‘I’m Zaleekhah, by the way.’

‘Nice to meet you, Zaleekhah,’ Nen says, pronouncing her name in three, clear syllables.

‘A bit of a mouthful, I’m afraid. Don’t worry if you get it wrong – most people do.’

‘It’s a lovely name,’ Nen says and hands her a steaming mug. ‘Mine is short for Brennen.’

‘Irish?’

‘Yup, from a “little drop of water”.’

Zaleekhah nods, her fingers tightening around the mug. She says, almost by reflex, ‘I study water for a living.’

‘Really! That’s impressive. A scientist has rented my boat. How brilliant!’

A small smile blooms on Zaleekhah’s face, more out of awkwardness than pleasure. She does not expect to hear what Nen says next.

‘Plus you’re named after an extraordinary woman, the legendary Zuleikha – I think that’s all very cool.’

Not knowing how to respond to that, Zaleekhah takes a quick sip of her coffee. Strong and rich but not bitter, with a hint of something she can’t immediately identify.

‘Lavender,’ says Nen, watching her reaction. ‘We put dried lavender flowers in our coffee. Balances out the caffeine, makes you calmly awake.’

‘It’s very good.’ Zaleekhah glances around the room. ‘The symbols on the walls, what are they?’

‘Cuneiform – a thousands-of-years-old writing system from Mesopotamia. I tattoo in cuneiform – as one does.’

‘That’s very … interesting.’ Zaleekhah falters. ‘Umm, so what kind of things do people ask you to tattoo?’

‘All kinds. Their names, their lovers’ names, words that matter to them … or lines from a poem or a song. You can basically write anything in cuneiform. Here, let me show you.’

Setting her mug on a shelf, Nen takes out a pair of chopsticks and some modelling clay. ‘So this is my practice dough. I make it myself – flour, water and a pinch of salt. Now look …’ She presses the end of a chopstick into the soft surface, turning it this way and that. Her moves are deft, her concentration absolute. When she is done, a cluster of wedge-shaped marks is impressed neatly on the pale slab.

‘What does it say?’ Zaleekhah asks, craning her head.

‘It’s your name.’

Zaleekhah looks closer, inspecting the shapes, like arrowheads pointing the way. She says, ‘Such a strange language.’

‘Cuneiform is not a language, though,’ says Nen, speaking softly. ‘It’s not exactly an alphabet either, since it doesn’t have letters. It’s more like a collection of syllables – a logo-syllabic script that was used by many civilizations – Sumerians, Akkadians, Babylonians, Assyrians, Elamites, Hittites …’

Her words are cut short as the front door opens with a jingle. A woman and a man, dressed head-to-toe in black, walk in hand in hand, grinning.

‘Hello, Nen!’

‘You two back already?’ Nen says, returning the grin. ‘I thought we’d agreed you’d not show your faces for at least three months.’

‘Don’t be heartless,’ says the woman. ‘We can’t wait that long.’

‘Yeah, we were wondering if you could write Eat the Rich in cuneiform?’

‘Actually, he wants Eat the Rich ,’ says the woman. ‘And I want Eve was Framed .’

Nen laughs, shaking her head. ‘You guys are bonkers.’

Zaleekhah grabs her bag and rises to her feet. ‘I’d best be going. Thank you for the coffee.’ She leaves the dough on the table.

‘Keep it, if you like, it’s your name,’ Nen says. Glancing over her shoulder, she gestures at the couple. ‘How about you two go downstairs and wait for me? I’ll be with you shortly.’

‘Hooray!’ exclaims the woman.

‘About the kitchen sink …’ says Nen, turning now towards Zaleekhah. In the changed light the green of her eyes deepens. ‘You could have it fixed and send me the bill. Or I’m happy to pop in this weekend with a plumber and take a look.’

‘I wouldn’t want to bother you.’

‘No bother at all. On Saturday mornings I go mudlarking by the river with my friends, so we’ll be down your way anyway.’

‘You go mudlarking?’

‘Yes, at low tide,’ Nen replies. ‘Like in Victorian times – luckily with less sewage.’

‘Have you found anything interesting?’

‘Oh, heaps! Every time it’s different – you never know what the river will offer each day. I’ve a pile of turtle bones at home – did you know the Victorians loved turtle soup? I also have shards of pottery, tobacco pipes, Neolithic plinths, Celtic coins … So many civilizations have left their mark on London. I once stumbled on a hand grenade from the Second World War. That was a bit of a hairy moment. We had to call the police and watch them detonate it.’ Nen pauses, musing to herself. ‘But I love rooting around in the river mud for things that have been lost or ditched.’

They walk towards the door and stop. Zaleekhah shifts on her feet. ‘So I guess I’ll see you on Saturday, then.’

‘Sounds good.’ Nen half turns, facing Zaleekhah, a directness to her gaze. ‘Funny, when I saw you, I thought you didn’t look like the person who’d want this kind of life, you know, “messing about in boats”.’

Zaleekhah winces, recognizing the reference to a children’s book her mother would read to her – The Wind in the Willows . Her face closes as she says, ‘Yeah, I’ve never lived on water before.’

‘It’s really special,’ says Nen. ‘Once you wake up on a houseboat to a rainy morning or watch the sunset over the river, you’ll probably never want to go back to dry land.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes! So, yeah, welcome to the water tribe.’

That evening, hours after she leaves the tattoo parlour, the taste of dried lavender lingering in her mouth and a slab of dough marked with the cuneiform for her name cradled in her palm, Zaleekhah sits by the window in the houseboat. Outside the sky slides into darkness. On her lap rests the little porcelain lamassu . She glued the broken wing as best she could, but the tip is missing and, however tiny the piece, its absence is noticeable. Now she presses lightly on the mended edges, as if trying to gauge whether the join will hold. She knows she should stop, or it might come apart again, but her finger keeps returning to the crack, the fracture, as if testing how deep is the hurt.