Page 34 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—H ZALEEKHAH

By the River Thames, 2018

A s soon as Zaleekhah walks into Uncle Malek’s house with Nen as her guest she has a pang of doubt that perhaps it is not such a good idea to introduce them after all – a pang that turns into full-scale worry after they sit down for dinner.

‘So how much does a tattoo artist earn?’ asks Uncle Malek, as they lay their napkins over their laps.

‘Darling!’ Aunt Malek raises her eyebrows.

‘What? Can a man not make conversation in his own house?’

Nen looks amused. ‘I earn enough to make a living.’

‘And to own a houseboat in Chelsea Harbour, which can’t come cheap, I’m guessing.’

‘Darling!’

Uncle Malek leans back in his chair. It doesn’t take him longer than a heartbeat to come up with a new question: ‘Why don’t you live there yourself, if you love being on water so much? Is there something wrong with it? Does the boat leak?’

Nen seems neither fazed nor surprised by this intrusive line of questioning. ‘Nothing’s wrong with She Who Saw the Deep , I can assure you, Mr Malek. It’s just a while ago I moved in with my girlfriend – ex-girlfriend. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out, and we broke up. By the time I was considering returning to the boat, it had already been rented out.’

Uncle Malek’s eyebrows shoot up but he says nothing – until he takes a gulp of his wine. ‘So you’re gay?’

‘Darling!’

‘It’s okay,’ Nen says calmly.

Uncle nods. ‘Of course it’s okay! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything is okay. Everyone is something these days –’

Aunt Malek interjects, ‘Well any friend of Zaleekhah is welcome in this house.’

Nen throws her head back as she smiles at Zaleekhah. ‘We’re not exactly friends, though.’ But no sooner has she spoken than she realizes the implication behind these words by the way Uncle Malek’s face falls. So she rushes to add, ‘I mean, we’ve just met. We are becoming friends.’

‘Let’s all raise a toast to friendship, then, shall we?’ Aunt Malek chimes in. ‘But, Nen, you’re not drinking. May I offer you a different wine? I’m guessing this one isn’t to your taste.’

‘The wine is great, I’m sure,’ replies Nen. ‘I don’t drink. I’m eight years sober this month.’

The silence that follows is brief but loaded. For a moment they all stare at her – Aunt Malek with undisguised curiosity, Uncle Malek with disapproval and Zaleekhah with something close to admiration. She has never met anyone so at ease with herself, scars and bruises and all.

Nen glances from one to the other. ‘But if you’d still like to toast to friendship, I’m happy to join in with water.’

So they all raise their glasses.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hall. In a few seconds, Helen walks in, panting slightly. Clad in a designer jacket and a pleated midi dress, both in a powder blue that brings out her eyes, she looks glamorous.

‘I know, I know! I’m late.’

She makes a beeline for Zaleekhah, an instant smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘So how’s the birthday girl? I haven’t seen you in ages! Sorry I wasn’t at the gallery when you stopped by. Let me look at you.’

Enveloped in a perfumed hug, and then held at arm’s length for inspection, Zaleekhah awkwardly tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. In that second she cannot help seeing herself through her cousin’s eyes – her shapeless clothes, the lack of make-up, but, mostly, the uncertainty that always clings to her when she is in this house. Discomfort is not an emotional state but a doorway she easily passes through several times a day. Lifting her chin, she says, ‘I brought a friend – this is Nen.’

‘Hello, Nen,’ says Helen.

Zaleekhah watches the two of them shake hands. Only now does she notice that under the silver glitter eyeshadow, Helen’s eyes look tired, troubled.

‘How is dear Lily?’ Zaleekhah asks.

A sudden pallor to her features, Helen pulls out a chair. ‘They’re still running tests.’ There is a catch in her voice. ‘It’s been a tough week, I think I need a drink.’

Zaleekhah leans forward to stroke her hand. But she is a second too late. Unawares, Helen has already reached for her father. ‘Thank you for coming with me to the hospital, Dad.’

Zaleekhah recognizes the expression that crosses Helen’s face – a profound sense of gratitude. It is the feeling her uncle evokes in her all the time.

‘Look at this table: I’m a blessed man,’ remarks Uncle Malek. ‘My wife sitting across from me, my two daughters at my side. And a delightful surprise guest joining us. If this doesn’t call for a celebration, what does? Forget this bottle. Let’s open a good Napa. Does anyone object to Screaming Eagle?’

That evening Uncle consumes more than usual. Ignoring his wife’s interventions, he keeps filling his glass, not waiting for the maid. For some reason, after the third bottle is finished, all his words are directed at Nen. Steadily surrendering to Screaming Eagle, he launches into lengthy monologues, in which consistency is the first casualty, and coherence the second.

One minute he says: ‘I am proud to be from the Middle East, Nen. Our region has always been misunderstood. Ask a Westerner, “Do you happen to know where Syria, Jordan, Iran, Iraq, Lebanon and Turkey are on a map?” They’d draw a total blank. In their eyes we’re all from somewhere in the back of beyond. They don’t even know that Mesopotamia was a fount of civilization. We invented cities, maths, writing, astronomy, even the bloody wheel! And the clock, too. How would they measure time without us? They have no idea how much they owe us.’

Nen nods. ‘I agree, there are many negative stereotypes –’

Impatiently, Uncle cuts in, ‘Our people, Nen, we are never the heroes. Always the villains in their stories! And, if not, the sidekicks. Sancho Panza to Don Quixote. Friday to Robinson Crusoe. Huckleberry Finn to Tom Sawyer.’

‘Dr Watson to Sherlock Holmes …’ Nen offers helpfully.

‘Precisely! As long as we know our place in the background, it’s fine. They might even tolerate some of us. I’m fed up.’

‘I get it,’ says Nen. ‘You have every right to feel –’

‘But don’t get me wrong, I’m not Middle Eastern,’ Uncle interrupts. ‘I’m from the Levant! A proud descendant of Hellenistic culture. The Mediterranean and the Near East were one. No one talks about this any more, but it’s a fact. Smyrna, Alexandria, Beirut – they were profoundly cosmopolitan. We weren’t in separate boxes, the Greeks here, the Syrians over there. We constantly mingled. How would the Western classics have survived if they had not been translated into Arabic?’

‘True, our debt to –’ Nen tries.

But Uncle has already moved on. ‘Yet nothing gives me more pride than being British. Did you know about my maiden speech in the House of Lords? It was passionate, a real tub-thumper. I said mingling as one is what makes us the great country we are. In Britain difference lends us strength, and tolerance gives us unity.’

And so the night drags on.

By the time the passionfruit-and-mango birthday cake is served, Uncle has come to the end of his geographical tour. Now, as he swirls his wine, he squares his shoulders and says, ‘Zaleekhah is very precious to us, Nen. No different from our own daughter. She has been through so much at a tender age. No child should have to endure that kind of loss and grief. And still she was always a delight. An exemplary student. Hard-working. Determined. Top of her class every year. Never a rebel … Even when she chose science against my wishes, I respected her decision. A part of me understood. That’s fine, I said to myself. Not everyone has to study business or finance, although she clearly had the brain for that. But she was an idealist.’

Nen says, ‘I understand.’

‘You do? Because I don’t!’ says Uncle Malek. ‘I don’t understand how someone who has been so stable and solid all her life could end her marriage for no reason at all, leave her nice flat and move to a rickety boat on the Thames, which might be full of holes and leaking, for God’s sake, and then show up with a new friend who turns out to be an alcoholic gay tattooist –’

‘Darling!’

‘Uncle!’

‘Dad!’

Uncle Malek throws his hands in the air. ‘We’re all grown-ups here, are we not? I’m just stating facts. Am I offending anyone? Are you offended, Nen?’

‘I’m fine,’ says Nen, a flicker of amusement in her face.

Uncle takes another gulp of his wine, his mind drifting. Then, with a sigh, he looks sideways at Nen again. ‘Zaleekhah tells me you like the Epic of Gilgamesh .’

‘I do.’

‘And you tattoo its characters?’

‘I do.’

‘Lord, heavens!’ Another sigh. ‘It’s a great poem, though.’

Nen nods. ‘It is – and it has fans from all over the world. You should see the tourists coming to my shop – from Japan, Norway, Canada … The ancient poem unites us across borders, but also, in some strange way, we can never seem to agree on how to interpret it. That’s why it’s been treasured by dictators and dissidents alike, the mighty and the weak. It can be read in multiple ways.’

‘And how do you read it?’ asks Uncle Malek.

Nen takes a second to reply. ‘For me, the epic is primarily about both the fragility and resilience of being human, and, also, it is about the possibility for change. Learning to care for others, not just yourself. Gilgamesh, let’s admit, is an awful person in the beginning, and it is only through love and friendship and loss that he becomes more humble and gentle. So it is a story in which there is no hero in the traditional sense, and everything is either fractured or fluid – like life itself.’

Uncle purses his lips. ‘I beg to differ, my dear. I believe the poem is about the fear of death. We all must shuffle off this mortal coil, so to speak; we’ll all push up the daisies. Can’t be avoided. What is its moral lesson? Simple. The epic tells us that, since we cannot attain immortality, or even prolong youth, we must eat and drink and make merry and always prioritize family and friends. Our own people. That’s its universal message. Family comes first.’

Nen sips water, puts the glass down. ‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, why?’

‘Why should family be above everything?’

Uncle Malek frowns. ‘Interesting question. I can only assume you haven’t started a family of your own yet. You’ll come to think differently when the time arrives.’

Nen stands her ground. Her tone is placid, but it now has an edge. ‘Not everyone has to get married or have children.’

‘Well, then, I’m sorry, you’ll never know the kind of devotion that I’m talking about.’

‘Darling!’

Uncle Malek turns to his wife, a hardness in his eyes. ‘You keep berating me. You’ve been having a go at me all evening, but at least I’m honest. I speak my mind – unlike you! You make me do your dirty work for you, so your hands stay clean. You always act the saint, and turn me into the sinner.’

The comment, unexpected and audacious, drops in their midst, generating ripples of discomfort. For a moment no one speaks. Aunt Malek dabs her lips with her napkin and lifts her head.

‘I think it’s time for coffee. Some of us have clearly had enough wine.’

After coffee – and a pot of chamomile tea – is served in fine china, Zaleekhah glances apologetically at Nen, worried that her guest might be having a terrible time.

‘So do you have a favourite quote from the Epic of Gilgamesh ?’

Nen smiles, both because she likes the question and also because she knows Zaleekhah is trying to soften the tension.

‘I have, actually. There’s this line that Enkidu says to Gilgamesh just before they set out on the road. I think it’s one of the most beautiful things you can say to a friend or spouse or lover.’ Nen pauses for a second, her eyes sparkling in the light of the flickering candles, and then she recites:

‘ Where you have set your mind begin the journey

Let your heart have no fear, keep your eyes on me. ’

‘It’s lovely,’ says Zaleekhah.

And to everyone’s surprise, Uncle agrees. ‘Lovely, indeed!’

It somehow changes the mood, these twenty words from an ancient world, and the rest of the evening goes smoothly.

Before the evening is over, the Maleks hand Zaleekhah their joint birthday present. It’s another large envelope – embossed with Uncle’s letterhead. For an instant she fears it is the money she rejected earlier, and the thought makes her uncomfortable, but instead she finds a travel agent’s voucher inside. Alongside is a cheerful birthday card in Aunt Malek’s neat, cursive handwriting, the letters tilting slightly to the right.

They have given her a week’s holiday for two to a destination of her choosing, at a time of her choosing, with business-class flights and five-star accommodation included. They say, as she is busy both at work and in her personal life right now, she can use it whenever is convenient.

‘Oh, this is wonderful … but it is too much … Thank you,’ says Zaleekhah, lowering her head lest they notice her discomfort.

On the way out, Zaleekhah and Nen walk together. Kareem waits by the door, holding their jackets and bags.

‘He called a cab for you again.’

‘Thank you, Kareem.’

A heady scent of earth and jasmine greets them when they step out into the garden.

Zaleekhah releases a long breath. ‘I managed to convince Uncle not to send me anywhere in his private car, with a uniformed chauffeur. But I can’t possibly stop him from arranging taxis for me. Can I drop you off on the way?’

Nen smiles. ‘The Tube will be easier, but thank you.’

They pass by the Andalusian fountain, the water tinkling peacefully.

‘Uncle can be difficult at times. He’s very set in his ways – I think it’s an age thing, too. He’s becoming more rigid as he gets older.’

Nen listens without comment.

‘I owe him so much, though. They raised me after my parents died. If it weren’t for them – for him especially – my life would have been much harder,’ says Zaleekhah. ‘Anyway, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I’m very sorry for his behaviour tonight.’

‘Don’t,’ Nen says, softly. ‘Don’t apologize for others.’

They wait for the electronic gates to open, and when they do, they stand side by side on the pavement, watching a black cab enter the tree-lined street, driving slowly towards them.

‘This was a lovely evening. Thank you for inviting me.’ Nen takes a little box out of her bag. ‘Didn’t get a chance to give it to you earlier. Happy birthday!’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have,’ Zaleekhah says. ‘Thank you!’

Nen tucks her hands into her pockets. ‘If you have ten seconds for a story, I remembered something tonight.’

‘Of course.’

‘When I first moved to London, my brothers gave me a fish. A tetra. I called her Ki-ang. It means “to love” in Ancient Sumerian. I didn’t know the noun for “love”, so the verb had to do. Anyways Ki-ang was very cute, but I thought she must be lonely and so I bought another fish to keep her company – and for a while things were fine, and the second fish grew bigger, but one morning, when I checked, there was only one fish in the bowl. Love had disappeared.’

The cab pulls over in front of them, and the driver pokes his head out of the window, nodding in their direction.

‘Was it an angelfish, the other one?’ asks Zaleekhah.

‘Yeah, you see, you know how these stories go. But I didn’t. It turns out you can never keep the two together for too long, because the chances are the angelfish will gobble up the tetra.’

They stride towards the car. Nen opens the door for Zaleekhah.

‘It’s just it got me thinking tonight … I never gave the second fish a name, but if I could now, I’d call it “Gratitude”.’

Zaleekhah gets into the cab. Through the open window she looks at Nen. ‘You’re saying Gratitude swallows Love.’

‘Yes, if it gets too big.’ Nen’s gaze is unflinching. ‘Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life. All I’m saying is, one needs to keep an eye on that Gratitude fish, I learnt to my cost.’

As the cab speeds towards the houseboat, Zaleekhah opens the box. Inside is a necklace made of a jagged, scratched piece of lapis lazuli, beautiful in its imperfection. There is also a note:

I found this celestial slice of blue buried in the river mud. Who knows how old it is, where it has come from. A mysterious time traveller in the water. I thought I should turn it into a necklace – for you.

May it bring you joy, clarity and love.

Nen