Page 50 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—H ZALEEKHAH

By the River Thames, 2018

I n a chic enclave of Chelsea, Zaleekhah punches the code into a keypad set into the wall, waiting for the double gates to open. Inside, the garden smells sweet, of blossoms and fresh leaves and newly turned earth, and a hint of jasmine rising from the trellis. In the setting sun the waters of the Andalusian fountain shimmer, multiple shades of blue.

Kareem answers the door, a look of surprise on his face. ‘How nice to see you! Was Mr Malek expecting you?’

The question rattles her a little. The niggling awareness that this is not, and never has been, her home. For a moment she considers telling him the truth: that she was so worried about Uncle that she had to come to check on him. But she dispels the thought, thinking of a less alarming-sounding reason instead. She pulls out of her bag a book – Nineveh and Its Remains .

‘I’m returning this. Finally managed to read it.’

Uninterested, Kareem nods. ‘Of course.’

Zaleekhah crosses the black-and-white chequerboard marble hallway and climbs the curved staircase, with its Chinese reverse-glass painted mirror at the entrance and portraits glaring down from both sides. She does not linger in front of her childhood bedroom; the door is closed and she leaves it like that.

Uncle’s study, at the end of the hall, is empty. Zaleekhah steps in lightly, scanning the exquisite objects and artworks arranged on the walls and shelves. There is a mellowness to the light in the room, as if a gauzy tulle has been draped over a lamp, softening the edges. Through the open window she can hear the workers out the back, hammering in the Zen garden, not yet an oasis of calm. She approaches the window, peeks out.

Uncle and Aunt Malek are there, by the azaleas and rosebushes, crouching in the dirt in their Burberry wellies, with Lily between them, her skinny limbs pale in the cold. They all seem to be examining some tiny creature on a leaf – perhaps a snail or a caterpillar. Craning her neck to the side, Aunt Malek wets her finger and wipes a trace of mud from her granddaughter’s forehead. Then she pulls the child close and gives her a hug. There is such tenderness in the gesture, such a total abandonment of formality and decorum rarely seen in her behaviour, that Zaleekhah draws back as if she has intruded on a private moment she was not meant to see.

Remembering why she is here, Zaleekhah abandons the window. She heads towards the coffee table to leave Nineveh and Its Remains . Instinctively, though, she glances at the chest of drawers, deciding, instead, to put the book in Uncle’s original place for it. She opens the top drawer. The elegant silver paper knife is here, as is the money from the other day. Next to them lies another envelope, also in Uncle’s monogrammed stationery, this one larger and unsealed. For a moment she stands still, staring at one corner, from which a photograph is poking out.

She pulls it out.

The photo shows a young girl, her slim, spectral shadow falling on the whitewashed wall behind her. It must have been taken indoors, in a place with cushions and carpets on the floor, and possibly at night, as the light is slanted, casting one side of her face into shade. The dress she is wearing is too big for her. She has a wide forehead, bow-lipped mouth and the most beautiful, saddest green eyes. She does not seem to look at the camera as much as through it, with such unmistakable pain in her face that she appears somehow older than her years.

Zaleekhah studies the image, not quite sure why it bothers her. It is so unexpected and unlike any portrait she has ever seen before. When she turns it over, she finds a note inscribed on the back in a neat, cursive hand, the letters tilting slightly to the right.

Girl X

Age: 13 years old

Blood type: AB+

Height: 1.52m

Weight: 42 kg

Organ-donor match: 96 per cent

Zaleekhah clasps her hand to her mouth in alarm. Her chest starts pounding rapidly. Trembling, she puts the photo back in the envelope, then changes her mind and takes it with her. She slams the drawer, but it is either stuck or in her panic she has trapped something in the runner, for it does not close properly. Leaving it like that, she hurries out of the room.

Downstairs, Kareem is busy giving instructions to the maid on how to dust the Victorian chandelier when he sees Zaleekhah racing towards the door.

‘Are you leaving already? I just told your uncle you were here. He’ll be with you shortly.’

‘I … I have to go.’

Kareem’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘What shall I tell him?’

‘Tell him I forgot an important appointment …’ Zaleekhah stops. ‘Actually, tell him I know what he’s doing, and it’s wrong.’

An hour later, Uncle’s claret Bentley pulls up in front of Nen’s tattoo shop, blocking the traffic trickling past the British Museum. The chauffeur rushes to open the door for him, watched closely by the drivers of the cars queueing behind. Uncle Malek gets out, reads the neon writing in the window.

THE FORGOTTEN GODDESS

He walks in, the bells on the door announcing his entrance. ‘Where is she?’

Nen, busy cleaning and disinfecting her equipment, looks up, continues with her work.

‘Where is she? She’s not in the houseboat.’

‘She doesn’t want to see you, Mr Malek.’

Uncle sucks in a sharp breath. The pouches under his eyes seem swollen and darker today. ‘What did she tell you?’

‘Nothing. She doesn’t speak.’

‘Like when she was little.’ Uncle sinks into the sofa. ‘You don’t have a drink, do you?’

‘I have coffee.’

‘Yes, your famous coffee!’ Uncle’s shoulders drop as he stares vacantly at the images on the walls. When he speaks again, it is in a low, slow rasp. ‘There’s been a terrible misunderstanding. Zaleekhah has got it all back to front. She jumped to conclusions without knowing the full story. I need to talk to her urgently.’

Nen stands still, her face unreadable, save for a telltale flicker of her eyes. Catching the change in her gaze, Uncle turns his head to find his niece staring at him, having just ascended the stairs.

‘My dear …’

He leans forward as if to rise to his feet but sits back down again. ‘Please, reserve judgement until you hear everything I’ve got to say. Allow me to explain.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Right …’ Uncle throws a curt glance at Nen. ‘I’m afraid this is private.’

‘I want her to stay,’ says Zaleekhah.

‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ Nen drops her needles and grabs her jacket. ‘I’ll be at the British Museum. I’d better finish sketching the lamassu .’ Briefly touching Zaleekhah’s shoulder, she smiles at her. ‘Call me if you need anything.’

The door closes, the jingling echoing for too long in the tense silence. Uncle scans the room as if to make sure there is no one around.

‘Our little Lily is very sick. You have no idea how serious it is. It might be months, if not years, before they find her a compatible donor on the NHS. Even if we go private, there are nationwide shortages and huge waiting lists. I’ve searched everywhere, believe me. And then I came across something unexpected … a chance encounter. When I was making inquiries to buy the blue tablet, I was put in touch with some people who had heard of Yazidi girls in a dire situation. And one of them, it turns out, was a perfect match for our Lily.’

Zaleekhah shakes her head without looking at him.

‘You must understand, no one cares about these girls; they’ve been completely forgotten. They are basically dead to the world. A few lucky ones get saved, but the rest? Not even their poor families can trace where they are.’

‘So you think you’re doing her a favour!’

Uncle lifts up his palms. ‘In an ideal world none of this would happen, but we don’t live in that world. Let’s be realistic – if I hadn’t found her, she’d remain captive forever, there is no doubt about that. She has no one.’

‘That doesn’t mean –’

‘Please – think about it. Who would have rescued her, tell me. Who would have spent a penny to save her? This girl is deaf, I’m told. They don’t want her. They see her as a burden. My understanding is that she’s already been sold on from a house in Mosul to a house in Antep … She’s been starved, beaten, tortured and most probably raped.’

Zaleekhah presses her fingertips on the corners of her eyes, unable to open them for a moment.

‘Her enslavers believe the girl is descended from a cursed line. They think she brings bad luck. Someone will kill her one way or another. But I can help. I can take care of her. Her whole life. She won’t be abused any more. She won’t be mistreated. She’ll receive the best care. She’ll go to school. I will provide.’

‘You seriously believe you’re saving her, don’t you?’

‘I’m making an arrangement that benefits all sides. If a deal leaves you better off, can it really be a bad thing? And the girl will definitely benefit. She will be free. She will have a new life, she is young, and she can start over. People live just fine with one kidney.’

‘That doesn’t make it right!’ A gasp escapes Zaleekhah’s lips. ‘Don’t you understand how unethical this is? The only reason you’re interested in this girl is …’ She stutters, struggling to find the right words. ‘Organ-harvesting, that’s what this is.’

‘My dear, don’t you care about Lily?’

‘Of course I do!’ Zaleekhah cannot stop her voice from breaking. ‘Does Helen know?’

‘No. Your sister doesn’t know the particulars. She’s just happy and relieved that a good donor has been found for her child.’

‘Uncle, this is madness! I can’t believe you’re making it all sound so rational and logical. It’s illegal!’

‘Perhaps … but you’re not the one taking that risk. I am.’ Carefully and deliberately Uncle Malek reaches for his cane. ‘I must go. Your aunt is expecting me home for dinner – she’s trying out another fish recipe.’

An icy jolt runs through Zaleekhah’s body then. ‘You hate fish …’ she murmurs, slowly. ‘But you always listen to her, don’t you? How did I not think of this before? It was the two of you. You used your connections in the region, but it was Aunt Malek who came up with this … solution .’

Shifting his cane from one hand to the other, Uncle stands and walks towards the door.

‘It was her handwriting on the back of the photo,’ says Zaleekhah. ‘She insisted on this plan and you gave in, like you always do. But it bothered you, and still does – it nags at your conscience. That’s why you’ve been in a terrible state lately. And that’s why when you had a few drinks on my birthday you shouted at her. You said she never dirties her hands, always the saint, while you’re stuck being the sinner.’

Uncle Malek stops, staring out at the street.

‘You are clever, my dear. You always were. But does it really matter whose idea it was? We arranged everything together – the doctor, the hospital in Istanbul, the paperwork … we’ll do this for our daughter and our granddaughter.’

Zaleekhah tries to hold back the tears. ‘Of course – your family always comes first.’

‘They are also your family, my dear – or have you forgotten?’

And there it is, contained in those few words, and in the constraint with which Uncle Malek utters them: the expectation of gratitude for everything he has done for her, the sum of her debt to him.

She starts crying. ‘But now that I know your secret, how can you be sure I’ll go along with your plan?’

‘You will, my dear. We are all you have. We are your blood.’