I turn to look at him. ‘What a good idea.’
It is the first time Mike has made love to me this Christmas and I feel a surge of joy in being wanted again, and in the familiarity of our bodies fitting together as they always have. Sex, the wonderful glue of our marriage that means all is well. I stretch and glow with contentment. All is very well.
‘Think you might come to Karachi again?’ Mike asks, propping himself on his elbow and looking down at me.
I smile. ‘Thinking of asking me again? I’d love to come back and explore Karachi properly.’
Mike hesitates. ‘We both have demanding jobs so it’s not going to be easy to plan, but I think this Christmas has shown us both that we need to find ways of spending more time together. The boys are nearly off our hands and that’s when couples drift …’
His mobile bleeps. It is Shahid. I get out of bed to find the wine bottle. The danger of drifting is real. As I cross the floor there is a faint thud and I see a cloud of smoke rising out of the window in the distance. Mike jumps off the bed and comes to the window.
‘Yes …’ he says into the phone. ‘I just heard another explosion and we can see the smoke … No, we can’t risk it. It’s a shame; I wanted you and Birjees to meet Gabby before she went home … Really? If you’re sure it’s safe that would be wonderful, Shahid. Great. We’ll see you later.’
He hangs up. ‘There’s a demonstration going on at the other end of the city,’ he tells me. ‘It’s not safe to drive into the centre. However, Shahid’s going to book a table at a French restaurant this side of town. They’re going to pick us up early because the traffic will be bad later …’ He puts the bottle back in the fridge. ‘Let’s save the last trickle to see the New Year in …’
He adds suddenly, ‘Thank you for coming on to Karachi to see the New Year in with me. I know you wanted to go back to London with the boys. You always worry about them on New Year’s Eve …’
I look at him, surprised. ‘I do, but I’m glad I came, Mike. I can visualize you wandering round this faded apartment like a deposed potentate when I’m back in London.’
Mike laughs and I go to change. I am childishly excited to be going out into the city to meet his friends.
Karachi, New Year’s Eve 2009
The French restaurant has a courtyard with round ironwork tables covered in white tablecloths and chairs with white cushions. It is chic and very French, despite Pakistani waiters and no wine menu. The setting on the edge of Karachi feels a little unreal, like a stage set. Fairy lights are slung in a circle through small trees and the tables beautifully decorated for New Year’s Eve.
Shahid is a tall man with a bushy moustache and kind eyes. Birjees is small and neat with glossy hair and a sweet rather serious face. She wears a beautiful shimmering, pearl grey shalwar kameez and a long flowing dupatta that keeps slipping from her shoulders. The night is cool and we sit outside as guitar music strums softly in the background.
‘Welcome to Karachi, Gabriella.’
‘It’s good to meet you both. I’ve heard so much about you from Mike. You have transformed his life in Karachi.’
Their faces light up and Shahid apologizes for not being able to take me into the centre of Karachi.
‘It is bad luck to have a demonstration tonight of all nights.’
‘I’m just happy to be here. This is perfect,’ I assure him.
‘You’ve brought my wife to a French restaurant!’ Mike jokes. ‘Of course she’s happy.’
A haughty young Pakistani waiter produces huge menus and takes our order for cold drinks. Shahid and Mike exchange amused looks.
‘It’s an art form,’ Mike says. ‘French restaurants must insist on waiters with an innate ability to look down their noses …’
‘Then we will try not to be patronized, Michael,’ Shahid says.
Mike raises his eyebrows. ‘I would like to see him try with Gabby.’
I am already looking at the menu. It looks delicious. I am pleased to see that Shahid and Birjees take the ordering of food as seriously as the French. It takes us all a long time to make up our minds and the young waiter grows irritated, although the restaurant is nearly empty.
When I order our food in French the waiter stops being surly and beams. He tells me his brother is the chef. They both trained and worked in Paris for fifteen years. They were very happy there and only returned home to Karachi because their mother became ill.
As he hurries away with our order, I am struck by the fact that two young men gave up their careers to come home and look after their mother.
‘If a woman does not have husband then the eldest son must, of course, take responsibility for looking after her and family,’ Birjees tells me, looking at me surprised. I do not say that I would hate Will and Matt to give up their lives to look after me.
‘Did you grow up bilingual, Gabby?’ Shahid asks.
‘When I was a child my sister and I always spoke French with my mother and English with my father,’ I tell her. ‘We swapped effortlessly without realizing we were doing it. People would ask us what language we thought in and we never knew …’
Shahid laughs. ‘We Pakistanis do this too. We swap from Urdu to English without realizing it. Michael is sometimes completely lost in meetings!’
‘Very true,’ Mike says.
Our now-smiling waiter places small, decorated glass mugs of cinnamon beer on the table.
‘I should have anticipated some trouble on New Year’s Eve,’ Shahid says. ‘Trouble always comes when the streets are full of people celebrating and enjoying themselves …’
‘We have a son and daughter, both at university,’ Birjees says, her face lighting up at the mention of them. ‘Tonight, because of demonstration, Shahid has told them they must stay home. I have prepared food for them, but they are not happy to be seeing this New Year in with us.’
‘That is understatement, Birjees,’ Shahid says. ‘Samia and Ahsen should take up career in Bollywood. I am very pleased to be here in this peaceful garden for a little while …’
Mike laughs. ‘Don’t get Gabby going on New Year’s Eve dramas. We’ve had a few with our sons …’
When the food comes it is French cooking at its best and delicious. Mike and Shahid pretend not to talk about work. Birjees and I chat about our children and their increasingly electronic lives. Whatever the distance in our lives and our culture, some of our worries appear to be the same. The face of the world has changed forever but the fear of harm coming to our children never changes.
Birjees leans towards me. ‘It is hard for the young to grow up in Karachi at the moment, Gabriella. Each generation, they become more educated and frustrated with religious fanaticism and politics. They have talent and ambition, but there is much nepotism, threat of violence, demonstrations and random electric cuts that disrupt our lives …’ She turns her glass round and round in her fingers. ‘Shahid and I, we pray for things to get better for our children; that everyone will get jobs on merit and not given to son of corrupt official. I pray each morning when my husband and children leave the house, that violence, it will not erupt, that they will all come safe home to me. Each time they return, I give thanks to Allah …’
I stare at her, shocked. How terrible to wake each day to the possibility of violence, to the ever-present fear of something happening to the people you love.
Shahid turns to me. ‘I