Page 6 of There Are Rivers in the Sky
—H ZALEEKHAH
By the River Thames, 2018
A young woman walks along the Chelsea Embankment, watching the Thames as it bisects London west to east. In her hands she carries a cardboard box, its base slightly damp. Inside there are books, a china teapot and mismatched cups, some randomly selected clothes and a Tiffany-style desk lamp, its domed shade poking out from under her arm. It has been drizzling since the early hours, clouds hanging over the city the colour of a neglected fish tank. She does not have an umbrella, but in her distracted state she does not seem to notice that she is getting wet. Drops of rain alight on her hair, which is abundant, curly and a chestnut so deep it looks black. Both her hair and her large, roundly arched, dark brown eyes are gifts from her ancestors, who belong in another land, by a different river.
Gripping the box close to her chest, she turns her back on the flats and houses where some of London’s wealthiest reside. She recalls reading in a book that parts of this exclusive neighbourhood were slum tenements and hovels at one time, though, looking at the manicured gardens and luxury developments, it is hard even to begin to imagine this. The river, once so polluted that it was called the ‘monster soup’, nowadays offers a coveted view for which plenty are happy to pay excessive premiums. But she is not interested in the high-priced mansions and blocks towering all around her. What she is interested in are the houseboats docked by the shore.
Anchored along the historic Cheyne Pier, bobbing up and down, they come in various sizes and colours, each with its own name. There are twenty-four of them on this side of the bank, though the moorings stretch all the way to Battersea Bridge, covering 3,500 metres of river frontage. It is an entirely aqueous settlement – a village buoyed on water. Some of the houseboats are no larger than a bicycle shed, others stunningly spacious with spiral staircases and rooftop lounges. All have pots of flowers on their foredecks, and a few seem to have managed to squeeze in chaises longues for the occasional ray of sun. Lined up neatly, they look peaceful and remarkably solid in contrast with the undulating waterway in front of them and the stream of traffic coursing behind. This, from now on, will be her new address. Although she cannot quite believe it yet, she is moving into a houseboat today.
The woman is called Zaleekhah – or, as she is known to her colleagues and students, Dr Z. Clarke – and it would be no exaggeration to say that she spent a considerable proportion of her life spelling out her name for others: at school to a teacher reading out an attendance list, in a coffee shop to a confused barista taking her order, or on the phone making an appointment. From nursery to university and throughout her career as a scientist, she has felt compelled to clarify and correct her name every step of the way, distinctly enunciating each letter and syllable, knowing that in the end people will still get it wrong. As recently as last month she heard the new lab manager say, with a casual shrug and a nonchalant smile, ‘I think I’m going to call you Zany instead. Your name is too difficult to remember.’ In that instant, Zaleekhah knew she ought to object and stand up for herself, but she let the remark pass, trying to keep away from the man as much as she could afterwards, though not so completely as to avoid being referred to in public as someone she is not.
It does not get any easier when people ask her what her name means, and someone always does. Then she has to bring up the story of Zuleikha. A conniving she-devil, as described by all Abrahamic faiths. The salacious wife of Potiphar, fiery and tempestuous; a combination of virago, witch and whore, if there ever was one. A seductress who lusted after the handsome and virtuous Joseph and, propelled by feminine wiles and unholy desires, tried to lure him into her bed. For her sins, God turned her into an ugly crone and wizened widow, and kept her like that until she repented of her ways. When sufficiently docile and obedient, she was rewarded with her former youth and beauty and given permission to marry Joseph, after which she never erred again.
Zaleekhah does not, and never did, like this parable. In her mind she traces her finger over Zuleikha’s wrinkles, each etched on her face as a punishment, branching out like the tributaries of ancient rivers, and she always imagines her as a liquid woman – assertive, bold, impatient, desiring something different, something better, until, diminished and defeated, she could desire no more.
What makes her name all the more complicated is the profusion of its regional, ethnic and cultural variations – Suleika, Zulaikha, Zalikha, Zuleika, Zuleikha, Zulaikhaa, Züleyha, Zuleikhah, Zulekhah, Zulekha, Zoleikha, Zuleyka, Zuleica, Zuleykha, Zoulikha … One will struggle to find two Zaleekhahs from different parts of the world who spell their names alike. It can all be a bit overwhelming. Sometimes she just wants to be Z.
It was her mother’s idea, this name with its complex combination of letters. It was her mum who wanted her to be called something that showed that, even though their family tree has grown and blossomed in rainy England, their ancestral roots are elsewhere, in the soil of sunny Mesopotamia, burrowed under the date palms of Nineveh, tethering them to a motherland they have not visited in decades but that still has a hold on them. Her father – a gentle soul, proud of his own Irish heritage – went along with his wife’s wishes, as usual. So they named their only child after a biblical femme fatale, all charm and wild passion.
The irony never escapes Zaleekhah. Whenever she glances in the mirror the woman that looks back at her is the opposite of the seductive Zuleikha. With her oversized cardigans, flat loafers, baggy shirts, loose-fitting trousers, absence of make-up and slightly chipped glasses that she never finds time to get repaired or replaced, she could not be more unlike her namesake. Did her parents never notice the incongruity? But she does not blame them. It is hard to blame the dead.
Speeding up, Zaleekhah now approaches the waterfront, the ground wet and slippery beneath her shoes. Upon reaching the pier, she pushes open a rickety gate that leads to a narrow, wooden walkway straddling the entire dock. With every step she takes, the bridge shakes a little, and the porcelain cups in the box clatter, as if they have things to say. As she passes houseboats tugging softly at their moorings, she casts furtive glances, hoping to catch a glimpse of other people’s lives, but then she quickly lowers her head, not yet ready to meet any of her neighbours. Thankfully there is no one outside.
Her boat is berthed at the river’s edge, tethered next to an aged oak, whose crooked trunk throws its canopy out over the water. Zaleekhah knows that trees bent in this way often snap or break from their roots, but this one has managed to survive, despite its quirky shape and inhospitable location. She wonders how old the tree is, and what strange things it may have witnessed in its long life – but, then again, she is used to asking questions that have no apparent answers.
Tearing her gaze from the warped oak, she inspects her houseboat, which is visibly smaller than all the others and painted in a shade of blue so saturated that the Thames pales next to it. On two sides of the wooden hull in large, curved, white letters it reads:
She Who Saw the Deep
It is this unusual name that charmed her the first time she visited the property with an estate agent in tow. Zaleekhah has no idea what it means, and has not tried to find out; she just happened to like the sound of it. It prompted her to imagine that the houseboat is female and has experienced its – her – share of storms and doldrums, which it – she – survived with considerable damage but perhaps improved resilience. It warmed her up to the idea of moving here. Not a logical deduction in any way, but, after being invariably rational and mostly predictable all her adult life, she felt entitled for once to deviate from reason.
Having never lived in floating accommodation before, Zaleekhah was surprised to discover how expensive it is to rent a houseboat in London. Early this week she signed a contract and paid a hefty deposit, which blew a hole in her budget. Orphaned at an early age, she has learnt that she needs to be frugal, but now she is dipping into her savings, amazed at how easy it is to spend what has taken her so long to accumulate.
There were more than three thousand houseboats on the River Thames in London, the estate agent had informed her. She was lucky to have found a place, as demand outstripped supply, he hastened to add. In the past few years there had been a sharp rise in the number of people inquiring about renting or buying waterborne homes. Thousands of Londoners were taking up residence on the border between river and land, putting down roots in liminal spaces. From now on, she will be one of them, he commented cheerfully. She will have to learn the movements of the tides, the habits of the winds and the variations of weather patterns. She will have to secure all her appliances, including the TV. Floating moorings are affected by tidal fluctuations. Her house may shake a little when large vessels sail past in the distance, rocked by the waves they leave in their wake. All the while Zaleekhah listened quietly. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she didn’t own a TV and was not planning to purchase one. And, as for walking on unstable ground, she was used to that.
‘Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all that we didn’t have kids. God knows how they would have ended up.’
That is what her husband said to her last week – hours before she thrust a few belongings into a cardboard box, left the house key on the kitchen table and walked out.
‘So you think I’d be a bad mum?’
‘Honestly? Don’t act so offended. You never even wanted to be one!’
‘Yes – but, if I had, if we had … Can you tell me why you think I’d be a bad mum?’
‘Do you really want me to spell it out?’
‘I do, actually.’
‘Because … cheerfulness isn’t your strong point. You just don’t have the capacity for happiness.’
It has been a long, messy break-up, months in the making. And maybe it isn’t over yet – maybe they’re still breaking. When she closes her eyes, she can hear a noise like the cracking of ice, the fracturing of bones. The past few months have been either excruciatingly quiet or embarrassingly loud – the hurtful words that once said cannot be unsaid, the slamming of doors and banging of cupboards in silent rage, the crash of a wine glass hurled at the wall, leaving slivers so tiny that, even after being hoovered up, they still find a way to cut.
Colleagues before they became lovers and long before they got married, they both dedicated their lives to scientific research. It was not only a profession they shared but a passion. She always believed that nothing – not even great sex or fiery love – could bring a couple closer than having a common ideal to fight for, and that is what they had. They were both devoted to the study and conservation of the earth’s water. While it might not sound much to others, for them there was no stronger bond. How their relationship had soured like this, Zaleekhah cannot possibly say. All she knows is that at some point in their marriage she looked back and realized they had long since left the track they had set out upon, like a tram that derails on sharp corners. Although they had found their flat together and split the rent and expenses equally, when it became clear that they were parting ways, neither had any doubt as to who would stay and who would leave. For the past few days she has been sleeping in the office.
Her face concentrated in thought, Zaleekhah strides the remaining distance to her new home. She balances the cardboard box against her hip and reaches for the key in her pocket. The rain has slackened to a sprinkle, and there is a faint stir in the air as the tide rises and the river swells. It crosses her mind, and not for the first time, that her uncle will not be pleased when he finds out what she has done. Not about the money – Uncle Malek is always embarrassingly generous and God knows what a rock he has been to her ever since her parents passed away. He is the only relative she has in England, and, since she has never met her distant kin, scattered all across the Middle East, South Asia and North America in a global diaspora, as far as she is concerned he is the only family she has in this world. When he hears the news he will worry about her choice of residence, arguing it is not safe for a single woman, which she now is. Uncle has never been fond of her husband, wishing she’d married someone wealthier and more famous and generally more exciting, but he will be sad to learn that her marriage, however dull in his eyes, has dissolved.
As Zaleekhah steps on to the front deck her phone begins to buzz. Her whole body goes tense. She has no intention of speaking to her husband. Maybe later but not just yet. What can they say to each other that hasn’t already been said? What good can there be in talking, when all this time, their words, like waves lapping at a castle of sand, eroded the foundations of their marriage, leaving behind a crumpling heap? But then it occurs to her that it may be her uncle calling. He had tried to reach her repeatedly earlier in the week, recording anxious messages. Zaleekhah can let it pass, ring him back later when she’s had a chance to settle in, but she already feels guilty for not having answered any of his previous attempts.
Carefully, she puts down the box, hearing the teapot rattle against the lamp. A quick glance at the screen reveals that it is indeed Uncle Malek.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, thank God and all His regiment of angels, there you are!’
‘Hi, Uncle.’
‘Hi, my dear. Your aunt and I were starting to get worried. I called the lab several times. I was about to contact the police. Didn’t you get my messages?’
‘Sorry, I was going to ring you back. I got sidetracked.’
‘I tried your landline, too,’ Uncle carries on. ‘I managed to get hold of your husband. He sounded sleepy, at this hour? You guys need to start going to bed earlier; it’s not good for you to be working so late.’
Her jaw tightens. ‘What … what did Brian tell you?’
‘He said you weren’t at home. I asked him when you’d be back, and he said he had absolutely no idea. Not very helpful, is he?’ Uncle pauses, a hint of suspicion entering his voice. ‘Why, what was Brian supposed to tell me?’
‘Oh, nothing. I’m glad you two had a chat.’
‘Well, if you can call it chatting . It’s like pulling teeth with that man.’
In the background, a River Thames sightseeing boat full of tourists passes by, blasting its horn. Zaleekhah covers her phone with her hand to block the sound, but it is too late.
‘Where exactly are you, my dear?’
Zaleekhah sucks in a lungful of air. ‘I’m in Chelsea – by the river.’
Uncle chuckles. ‘Having a stroll in this gorgeous English weather?’
‘Actually, I was … I’m moving into a houseboat.’
‘A what?’
‘Remember those lovely boats by the Embankment? I’ve rented one of them.’
Silence descends, lying as heavy as a water-logged blanket.
‘I was going to tell you,’ Zaleekhah says, the words rushing out now. ‘It just happened so fast, I didn’t get a chance to mention it earlier.’
‘A houseboat, for God’s sake! I thought you guys were fond of your place. What was the problem? Was it the neighbours upstairs –’
‘Oh, no … it’s not like that,’ Zaleekhah interjects, a softness to her tone, like she’s explaining something complex to a child. ‘It’s only me moving out. I’m renting the boat on my own.’
‘As an extra office?’
‘As my home.’
A sharp intake of breath is heard at the other end of the line, then a sigh. ‘Are you telling me you two broke up – after three years of marriage?’
‘Three and a half,’ Zaleekhah says. ‘I’m sorry.’
She does not know to whom she is apologizing: to her uncle, for not sharing the news with him until now; to her husband, for not trying harder to save their marriage; or to herself, for not leaving him before.
When Uncle Malek speaks again, there is a tenderness to his voice. ‘Listen, habibti , let’s talk. Will you join us for dinner?’
‘I really can’t.’
‘Please don’t say no. Come have a bite with us, my dear. How about tomorrow at seven – is that good?’
‘All right,’ Zaleekhah says, yielding.
She carries her sense of gratitude to him like a long-held breath inside her chest, one that she cannot fully release but can let out only in occasional short bursts.
‘Excellent!’ Uncle says. ‘See you soon, my dear.’
Zaleekhah tucks the phone back in her bag. Suddenly, she has a sense of being watched. Upon looking up, she meets the stares of an elderly couple standing on the deck of the next houseboat, wearing matching yellow raincoats. Lifting their hands in tandem, they wave at her, and, not knowing what else to do, she returns the gesture.
‘You must be our new neighbour,’ shouts the woman.
‘Yes, hi.’
‘Blimey, you’re young,’ says the man. ‘We were expecting someone older when we heard a scientist was joining our riverside community.’
‘Don’t be rude,’ says the woman, before fluttering her ringed fingers in Zaleekhah’s direction. ‘Will your husband or partner be joining you, dear?’
‘Now look who’s being rude,’ the man says.
‘No, it’s just me,’ replies Zaleekhah. Eager to change the subject, she rushes to ask, ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Twenty-two years,’ says the man, straightening his shoulders. ‘People come and go, like the tides, but we’ve stayed put. Cast anchor!’
Zaleekhah nods, acutely aware that she cannot say the same about her own life.
‘We know pretty much everyone around here – don’t hesitate to ask,’ says the woman. ‘Including the owner of your boat – such an odd fish! Runs a tattoo parlour.’
Zaleekhah’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘A tattoo artist owns this place? I had no idea. I did everything through the letting agent.’
The man says, ‘Apparently it can be quite the money-spinner. The shop’s just opposite the British Museum, we’ve heard. It’s not somewhere we ever go, frankly. Far too many tourists! Doesn’t feel like London any more.’
Sensing a rant coming on, Zaleekhah bends down to pick up her things. But as soon as she lifts the cardboard box its now completely sodden bottom gives way, sending all the items inside tumbling out.
‘It’s okay. I’ve got it!’ Zaleekhah says, louder than she’d intended.
She stares at the mess by her feet. Thankfully the porcelain teapot and mugs are unscathed, but the books are not so lucky. Some are lying open, face-down, with their pages getting soaked; others have damp covers. The Science of Water ; Aquatic Ecosystems and the Uncertain Future ; New Concepts in Hydrogeology and the Earth ’ s Waterways ; Chemical and Isotopic Groundwater Hydrology ; The Global Water Cycle and Climate Change ; The End of Water: Environmental Destruction and the Implications for the Hydrological Cycle … She notices the couple are also peering at the soggy heap.
‘Oh, is that what you’re working on?’ asks the woman, pointing at the books with her chin. ‘Are you a water scientist?’
‘It’s called a hydrologist,’ says the man.
Zaleekhah nods. ‘Yes … right … sorry, I’d better get this lot inside.’
She grabs the lamp and gathers up as many books as she can into the crook of her arm. Under the last book, lying in a puddle, is a little porcelain figurine. An Ancient Mesopotamian creature – it has the head of a human, the body of a bull and the wings of a bird, one part now broken off. A lamassu , a protective spirit, a childhood birthday present from her uncle. She has always liked the look of it. Quickly, she collects the pieces, and, with a curt nod to her neighbours, she stumbles towards her new home.
‘Use a hairdryer to fan out the pages,’ yells the man behind her.
The latch, stiff with damp, does not yield immediately. On the second attempt she wrenches open the door and hurries in, closing it behind her. She knows she should go out to fetch the rest of her items, but she has no intention of doing so under watchful eyes.
She enters the small space that will from now on be her living room, dining room and kitchen. Her sleeping quarters are below deck – a single bed, and a tiny bathroom with a compact shower. There is no furniture save for a wooden stool and a single, turquoise velvet armchair left by the owner. Dropping the books in a heap, Zaleekhah sets down the lamp.
Carefully, she puts the lamassu on the kitchen worktop, its chipped wing next to it. Maybe she could glue it back on. Maybe it won’t be visible, the fracture.
The tap in the kitchen is leaking, which she did not spot when she visited this place earlier. Rust stains cloud the basin, and these, too, she failed to notice previously. A pot of rosemary is wilting in the corner, and next to it is a mug with a missing handle. She washes the mug, fills it with water and drinks it in one draught, realizing only now how thirsty she has been. It tastes earthy and slightly metallic, with an aftertaste of iron. The flavour has less to do with its intrinsic qualities than with its biophysical environment, the set of conditions that brought it about. Water hardens in adverse circumstances, not unlike the human heart.
Out of nowhere a memory surfaces – the words Uncle Malek uttered the day she had graduated from university with honours. I ’ m so proud of you, habibti . I want you to be very successful. Remember, people like us cannot afford to fail.
‘People like us’ … immigrants, exiles, refugees, newcomers, outsiders … Too many words for a shared, recognizable sentiment that, no matter how often described, remains largely undefined.
Children of uprooted parents are born into the memory tribe. Both their present and their future are forever shaped by their ancestral past, regardless of whether they have any knowledge of it. If they flourish and prosper, their achievements will be attributed to a whole community; and, in the same way, their failures will be chalked up to something bigger and older than themselves, be it family, religion or ethnicity.
While the journey of life may be full of reversals of fortune, children from displaced families can never allow themselves to fall below the level at which their parents started out. Yet she is doing precisely that. Falling. Failing. She cannot help but feel that, in letting herself down, she is letting her ancestors down.
Zaleekhah sinks into the lone armchair. She runs her hand through her hair, which springs up in frizzy, dark curls now that it is dripping wet. For a moment, she sits still, watching the Thames. A ship passes on the horizon, bright red as in a child’s drawing, sending its wake in her direction. As she waits for the waves to hit the hull of her boat, her new home, she starts to cry.
A tear falls on the back of her hand. Lacrimal fluid, composed of intricate patterns of crystallized salt invisible to the eye. This drop, water from her own body, containing a trace of her DNA, was a snowflake once upon a time or a wisp of steam, perhaps here or many kilometres away, repeatedly mutating from liquid to solid to vapour and back again, yet retaining its molecular essence. It remained hidden under the fossil-filled earth for tens if not thousands of years, climbed up to the skies and returned to earth in mist, fog, monsoon or hailstorm, perpetually displaced and relocated. Water is the consummate immigrant, trapped in transit, never able to settle.
The tear has disappeared, but it will find a way to emerge again, in some other manifestation. It will take a while, though. Smaller droplets vaporize more slowly than their larger counterparts. Even after all these years of studying it, water never ceases to surprise her, astonishingly resilient but also acutely vulnerable – a drying, dying force.
There is a tautness in her throat that makes it hard to breathe. Her chest constricts; a swelling pressure inside her ribcage struggles to break free. She has tried so hard to be someone else, a happier and lighter version of herself. It hasn’t worked. Melancholy, an invisible noose that periodically loosens but never fully relaxes its grip, tightens round her neck, yet again.
She has not exactly planned it this way, but it makes sense the more she thinks of it, and thinking of it is all she has been doing lately. It makes sense that someone like her would want to die by water. A part of her is tired, and it is this part that keeps telling her it doesn’t have to be this way, that she doesn’t need to feel so drained any more. She can stay in this houseboat for about a month – one day for each year of her life. Then she will do what she needs to do – calmly and without a fuss. She will numb her mind with pills. She will stuff her pockets with stones, like her mother’s favourite author. Being a good swimmer, she has to find a way not to rise to the surface. She trusts the currents of the Thames will help her succeed, the way they have helped so many others.
She hasn’t made up her mind and maybe she doesn’t have to, just yet. Certainty is neither needed nor something she would trust. A month is long enough to prepare. It can be a humble and uncomplicated death – she will finish the article she has been secretly working on for so long, a controversial paper about ‘water memory’ that she was too scared to share for fear that it might draw harsh criticism and ridicule from the scientific community. Now it doesn’t matter any more. She will settle a few outstanding debts, eat in her favourite restaurants and probably drink a bit more than usual; spend more of her savings and donate whatever remains to charity … It will be especially hard to leave Uncle Malek and Aunt Malek, the people who raised her, and their daughter, Helen, who has been like a sister to her. She can only hope they will not blame themselves.
Dr Zaleekhah Clarke does not wish to live. She wants to excuse herself from a world where she often feels like an outsider, a confused and clumsy latecomer, an accidental guest who walked in through the wrong door at the wrong time. Unlike her namesake, the Qur’anic Zuleikha, she is not, and has never been, assertive. She is not a fighter. She does not even like to argue – not with her husband, not with herself, not with colleagues or friends or strangers, and certainly not with a God that as a child she has been repeatedly instructed both to fear and to love, even though He never cared to explain to her why He took her parents away; a God that punishes women with old age and ugliness, and rewards them with pretty looks and attractive spouses when they prove themselves to be sufficiently submissive; a God she could easily be furious with, yet whose existence she does not even believe in. All she wants, right now, is to retreat, a silent admission of defeat for someone tired of trying to survive – less a departure than a homecoming, a return to water.