Zainab sighed. ‘We need tea,’ she said and tucked Qabila into her side, their heads close as they moved to the kitchen. Her sister was praying softly as they walked. Her hands rhythmically stroking Qabila’s shoulder to the salawat. An oasis of grace in a week that had tried her endurance.
In the kitchen, Zainab led Qabila to a chair and put on the kettle. Her movements slow and deliberate, she set out cups. Hunted for cookies and filled the air with sonorous Arabic praises to the Prophet and beseeches for the relief of pain. Every time she passed Qabila, face intent, she’d touch her gently, as if applying a healing balm. The part of Qabila that had stopped believing in such things wanted to scoff and sneer. Instead, she closed her eyes, leaned back and let her sister’s voice wash over her. When the room fell silent, the swirling thoughts she’d begun the day with had been gentled. A deep sorrow seeped to the surface.
They drank their tea, no words passing between them. Every now and then they would find each other’s faces and speak that language too large for syllables.
When their tea was done, Zainab carefully packed the teacups and crumbed plates into the dishwasher, and then asked, as she resumed her seat: ‘Do you want to come home with me?’
And with those few words, Qabila accepted she was not the only one who knew her marriage had been over for a very long time. She started to cry. Her brief bubble of peace pierced by humiliation and exhaustion; the pretence that had taken so much effort still left her nowhere to hide. Her sister held her like she was one of her children. Zainab was praying again, and that made her cry too. She wished she had a God to believe in. Maybe she wouldn’t need to be held while she cried if she had a God to cry to.
When she could speak past the lump in her throat, she told her sister of the week, the dream and yesterday’s drive to the dark past. She let it pour out of her. God’s unlove and punishment. And Thandi. And every hurt, small and large, that had festered in the years of silence. Her talkative sister listened, made tea and plied her with cookies, and when she was done talking asked her again if she wanted to go home with her. Qabila wanted to say yes. But knew that exchanging one person for another who treated her as not good enough was not what she needed. Zainab would preach. Tell her she needed a relationship with Allah to be happy. To work less. Do the things that Zainab did to be happy. She needed to get back to work, too, and doing so from her sister’s house was not a good option.
When her sister left, Qabila went looking for her phone to see who else might have gotten in touch with her. There was a backlog of calls and emails. Mostly work. She was exhausted just looking at the messages that had piled up. She knew it would be a good distraction to get lost in ephemera – for a few minutes at a time, to have small solvable problems that could be ticked off a list. If only the problems she needed distraction from could be ticked off as easily. Tomorrow was soon enough.
Rashid found her in the dark on the patio, staring at the swimming pool. Purging to her sister had left her with a strange peace.
‘Hi,’ he said into the dark. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
From the wary lines of his body to the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he exuded awkward bravado. His body language tried to tell her: it’s okay, I forgive you, everything is normal. How many times had she been coaxed like this? Not again. She sighed and slowly turned back to the soothing water lapping the side of the pool.
‘No, it’s okay. Not cold. How was your day?’ She looked over her shoulder quickly.
‘Same old,’ he said.
‘I’m going back tomorrow. I saw the backlog of emails and messages this afternoon.’
He sat down on the wicker chair, his features obscured in the dark. ‘You don’t have to, I told them you were ill and needed at least two weeks. When last did you take sick leave?’
Qabila shrugged. He knew the answer was: who remembers? ‘I’m going in tomorrow, it’ll be unmanageable by next week. You know how it gets. If you don’t deal with things as soon as possible they just pile up. I have a conference in Zurich next month. A book chapter due in two weeks. If I don’t get some of the smaller things sorted …’ She made a strangled sound that they both chose to ignore. The end of her marriage would go on her list too. She let out a deep breath and gave him a quick look. His mouth was moving, or maybe it was just shadows in the dark. They sat in silence for a while.
‘I have to get out of these clothes,’ he said. He pulled his favourite red tie over his head as he rose. He wore a suit and tie every day. She used to find it sexy. Very few of their contemporaries did. They didn’t need to. Modern universities liked to pretend they were liberal now.
‘Do you want to eat?’ she asked without looking at him.
‘Er, yes, some food would be good.’
‘Okay,’ she said, not moving.
‘Why don’t you stay there? I’m up already. I’ll sort something out.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ If it had been in the time of deep pretence, she might’ve made a joke and pretended to faint at his offer. He was trying.
It was cold out. She got up to get a blanket in the living room, and heard him on the phone. Tonight she preferred the cold dark to being inside the big warm house, so she settled back into her sphinx-like reverie. What was he trying to rescue? It just didn’t make sense. Maybe he thought she was having a nervous breakdown. He always accused her of breaking down. She snorted at the idea. She’d never felt saner. Not in control perhaps, but sane. Like she’d awoken from a very long dream. Her mind flitted through the detritus of the past. The hobbies she’d taken up at first to fill his frequent absences, then later discarded as she threw herself ever more into her career. Universities sure appreciate women who don’t need to balance work and family.
She heard the doorbell ring and nearly moved to open the door.
‘I’ll get it,’ she heard from inside. ‘I ordered food.’
Of course you did.
He bustled onto the patio, his false bonhomie disrupting the solemnity of her reflections. He was fussily arranging the dishes whilst heartily expressing appreciation for the pizza. She nodded and smiled in all the right places.
‘Yes. Nothing beats the smell of a pizza. You got to eat it while it’s hot. But it’s great when it’s cold too.’
Nod. Smile. Nod.
His fussing was interminable. She wanted him to shut up and leave her to her memories and regret. She snorted when she realised a few weeks ago she would’ve felt grateful at this concern. If only she knew that threatening to leave would make him want her more. Helluva time for her to realise that her marital strategy of over-availability was the opposite of what worked. And maybe that was the core of his love for Thandi – unavailability. Their divorce might end up being a disaster for his affair. She thought she should laugh but couldn’t feel any mirth. They’d both been prisoners. Rashid was still in the grip of Stockholm syndrome. He’d learned to love his captor – not her, but the marriage.
He was telling her some story about a visiting professor who’d kicked up a fuss about not being treated like the world’s greatest intellectual.
‘Zainab was here today. She asked me if I wanted to stay with them until I’m settled,’ she said.
‘What?’ he said, a tight furrow between his brows. ‘You’re not making sense.’
She enjoyed the sensation of shocking him out of his empty prattle. ‘Our marriage has been over for a long time, Rashid.’ She looked at him then. They held each other’s eyes and whatever he saw in hers made him drop his pretence. He looked out at the pool. She watched the lines of tension ease as his body sunk into his chair.
‘Are