Page 46 of There Are Rivers in the Sky
—H ZALEEKHAH
By the River Thames, 2018
E arly in the morning, the sun still low, Uncle Malek arrives at the houseboat unannounced. He strides on to the deck, and stares at the river for a moment before he rings the bell. He has never done anything like this before; paying a visit without calling is not his way.
‘Uncle!’
‘Hello, my dear. Did I surprise you? I was driving by, and I thought I should come to see this water dwelling of yours. Good thing I knew the name of the boat; it was rather easy to find.’
Her expression curdling to panic, Zaleekhah steals a glance at the road beyond the towpath, where Uncle’s claret Bentley is parked, the chauffeur waiting inside. She turns towards him, casting about for a polite excuse to send him away. But something in his face gives her pause. Uncle Malek’s eyes are bloodshot, as if he hasn’t slept at all, and he has a hint of grey stubble. In all these years, she has only ever seen him immaculately shaved.
‘Are … are you all right?’
Uncle Malek appears to be about to say something, but instead manages a flippant gesture, a perfunctory wave of his hand. Peering over Zaleekhah’s shoulder, he assesses the houseboat.
‘So this is your bolt-hole? Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
And, just like that, Zaleekhah steps aside.
‘Interesting,’ Uncle remarks as soon as he walks in. ‘Are you not planning to buy any furniture for your raft, my dear? Is this a trend now – empty home, empty mind, Nirvana on the river, that kind of thing?’
‘I might get a few things eventually, I don’t know. I’m trying to take each day as it comes.’
He regards her, bemused.
‘Please have a seat.’ Zaleekhah offers him the armchair and sits opposite him on the stool.
‘The view is something, though, I must say.’ Uncle looks about him, the fatigue in his eyes now deeper than his judgements are swift.
‘Is everything all right? You seem a bit –’
‘Cream-crackered? Probably. It’s been stressful these past days with Lily’s illness, as you know.’ Uncle waves his hand. ‘But that’s not why I’m here. I came to address this muddle that you’ve created, which I hope to untangle so you can save your marriage.’
‘That’s not going to happen. Brian has filed for divorce,’ says Zaleekhah.
‘Is that right? Even so, if you make an effort I’m sure you two can find a way forward. Men are feeble creatures – he has to hear from you that you need him. Look, I know this isn’t an easy subject. I’ll tell you what. You probably don’t have any food in that monastic kitchen. Let’s leave this hermitage on the water and go somewhere nice for breakfast or brunch. Just you and me, a chin-wag and good grub – like the old days.’
‘I’d have loved that but –’
The sound of the toilet flushing downstairs invades the space between them.
Uncle’s face crumples. ‘Oh, you have a guest?’
It is not really a question, and Zaleekhah does not attempt to answer. She inhales sharply, her cheeks burning as though she were a teenager caught by a parent kissing on the street. She tries to say something that sounds casual, and fails.
‘I’d better go, terribly sorry for disturbing, my dear.’
As Uncle leans on his cane, they are both startled by a cheerful greeting from downstairs.
‘Is that you, Mr Malek?’
In a second Nen appears, wearing Zaleekhah’s pyjamas. Her feet are bare, and her hair wet from the shower.
‘Hello!’ she says, beaming.
So many emotions pass across Uncle’s face then: shock replaced by irritation replaced by something akin to anger and, finally, defeat. He sinks into the armchair again and mutters more to himself than to anyone else: ‘I should have known it was you.’
‘Did I intrude on something?’ Nen drops her voice. ‘Shall I leave?’
Zaleekhah says, ‘No, please stay!’
Nen sits on the floor, cross-legged, her eyes jumping between the two of them.
For an awkward moment no one speaks, and the only sound in the houseboat is the slapping of waves against the hull.
‘There is fresh coffee,’ Zaleekhah says tentatively. ‘Nen just made it. Would you like some, Uncle?’
Uncle Malek nods, too listless to decline. As Zaleekhah hands him a steaming mug, her sleeve rides up.
‘You have a tattoo now? Don’t tell me that’s permanent, my dear.’
‘It is. You like it?’ Zaleekhah says. ‘It means “water” in Ancient Sumerian.’
A sigh. Uncle takes a sip, sighs again. ‘At least the coffee is good.’
‘Dried lavender flowers,’ says Zaleekhah. She cannot help smiling at Nen. ‘Balances out the caffeine and it also smells divine.’
His certainty returning, Uncle stares at Nen. His expression is as ambiguous as his words are direct. ‘You did all this.’
‘I did what?’ asks Nen, placidly.
‘You confused our Zaleekhah. All her life she has been exemplary. Not even once did she upset me. But then you came along and swayed her and turned her into a tattooed beatnik with no furniture. It is a phase, I get it: when you are in the midst of divorce and your husband does not want you any more, it makes you feel unloved and you hold on to the nearest person.’
‘Uncle …’ Zaleekhah speaks slowly but with conviction. ‘I’m the one who invited Nen over. I asked her to stay. Why do you assume it was the other way round? Is it because you think I always do the right thing or is it because deep inside you find me timid and meek and incapable of doing anything … unconventional ?’
Nen clears her throat. ‘I can make myself scarce if you two need –’
‘No, stay,’ says Uncle Malek. He pushes his glasses up his nose before turning to Zaleekhah. ‘I just don’t recognize you now. Where is the little girl waiting for me in a police station in Turkey? The girl I wrapped in a shawl and took back to England? The girl who was top of her class and never caused me any trouble? At your parents’ funeral, it was raining hard, so many umbrellas that when you stood under them it felt like the entire sky had turned black, and maybe my sister wouldn’t have wanted to be buried in soggy England, we had never talked about it … That afternoon, I held your hand, and there was mud on your shoes, and I realized your shoes were mismatched – how was it that we hadn’t noticed before leaving the house, neither your aunt nor I? They looked sad, those mismatched shoes, as if they were pulling you in opposite directions, and I promised myself I’d always be there to take care of you.’
‘And you have been. I’m very grateful.’
‘I don’t want you to be grateful. I want you to be happy,’ says Uncle. ‘So do you have anything in that empty kitchen of yours to improve this coffee? A bottle of whisky somewhere? I had a terrible night and now this.’
‘Why did you have a bad night? Is it Lily’s surgery that’s troubling you? You can tell me, you know.’
‘No, no. That’s all taken care of. Lily will be fine. We’ll all be fine.’ A crease appears between his eyes. ‘I’d do anything for them. And for you, too, my dear. Anything.’
Zaleekhah tries to swallow the uneasiness that comes over her.
‘You probably find me old school, a dinosaur frozen in time. Lord Brontosaurus …’ Uncle breaks off, unable to develop the joke. His hand cradling the mug shakes a little. ‘I only want to protect my loved ones. All my life I have fought for my family – unlike my mother, I would never abandon my own. Ever.’
Zaleekhah stares in astonishment, unable to believe he is crying. She has never seen him this emotional before and it takes her a few seconds to react. ‘Uncle …’
But he is already on his feet, his chin up.
‘I shouldn’t have come unannounced. I apologize. Thank you, though, for the coffee. Dried lavender flowers, who knew.’
‘Uncle, don’t leave like this please –’
‘Have things to do, my dear. Busy day ahead.’ He pauses, but doesn’t turn around, as though addressing his next words to the River Thames. ‘Come to dinner. Bring your friend Nen. We’ll continue our discussion of Gilgamesh over wine and water. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m not going to mention any of this to your aunt. You think she is open-minded and totally laissez-faire , and I’m the old stick-in-the-mud, but, believe me, appearances can be deceptive.’