dear son.
Zulfi, she called him.
He remembers her English as well, the language spoken onlyby Pakistan’s elite, from which Mother came. She taught poetry and English atthe university in Quetta, in the Baluchistan province. He remembers her Englishas much as Urdu, the language the government was trying to push as the onlyofficial language, the language Ram’s father spoke almost exclusively. Ram’sfather, Ghulam, tried to converse with his wife in English but could rarelykeep up; Mother often referred laughingly to his attempts as “Urdlish.”
He remembers that Mother read. He remembers that she debatedwith Father, not in intemperate tones, about politics and society. “You haveone parent who is brilliant and one who is clearly the inferior,” Ram’s fatherwould say, as Mother smiled. Neither would confirm which was which.Ram-Zulfi-would direct his finger from one to the other intermittently andguess, leaving them laughing uproariously.
He remembers when his sister, Benazir, was born, theearliest memory he has. He cannot recall specifics except for his mother’ssingings even when Beni was born, the neighbors coming to the house and singingpoems late into the evening. He remembers holding Beni in his arms awkwardly,her tiny, splotchy, contorted face, under the watchful eyes of his parents.
He remembers the day, four years later, when his mother andBeni did not come home. He remembers playing with other children in thestreets, returning home expecting to find his mother and baby sister, insteadseeing only his father sitting on a carpet, his hands over his face. He recallsthe paralysis he felt, never having seen his father as vulnerable, not making asound until his father finally became aware of him.
“Sit down here, Zulfi,” Father said, extending his arms,revealing a face wracked with pain, wet with tears.
Ram Haroon brings a hand to his face and sighs. It ispainful but helpful to remember his mother and Beni. That’s what his fatherdid, he said, and so will Ram. He will do this for them.
Ram takes a final look at the letter, handwritten in Arabic.
Ram folds the letter carefully and places it in an envelope.He licks the flap, seals the envelope, signs his name over the seal with theornate pen his mother once used to write her poetry. He takes a bus to the postoffice about a mile from the university campus.
The wait in line is excruciating. Not the time that ittakes; a Pakistani is accustomed to longer lines than this for such things. Hesimply wants this out of his hands. He removes his notepad and checks theaddress against the one he has written on the envelope, checking andrechecking. He realizes he is being ridiculous-he has been educated at thefinest universities and now he is worried that he has not accurately copied asingle address in Tashkent, Uzbekistan onto an envelope.
He makes it to the front of the line and walks up to apostal agent.
“I’d like to speak to Raoul,” he says.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
She sees Sam’s eyes, notices him because he was talking tosome clients before his attention was suddenly diverted. His client’sperceptions of him are paramount, it is the whole reason for the cocktailparty, but he is overtaken by her, by pure lust, his gaze running up and downher body, his imagination running wild. It is, she is sure, the most memorableexpression she has ever seen on a man’s face.
“Mother, you’re blushing.” Jessica Pagone drops her backpackon the opposite side of the table in the restaurant where they have agreed tomeet, on the northwest side, within the distance permitted by the terms of herbond.
And then Allison thinks of Sam’s fateful words. This isn’tgoing to work out. Mat-Mat’s a friend. You know this is crazy. It always was.
Jessica remains standing and watches her mother, almostaccusingly.
“Jess, c’mon.” Allison lifts a bang off her forehead. “Sit.”
“You cut your hair,” Jessica says, taking the seat acrossfrom her mother and not elaborating on the observation.
And Allison will not ask for elaboration. She will not seeka compliment from her daughter. If pressed, Jess would probably commentfavorably. But the whole thing would be so forced, so unlike them now, soawkward. As if things aren’t awkward enough.
There is a truce. They are not fighting. They have not somuch as bickered since Sam’s murder. It is not as if things are openly hostile.Things are simply tense.
Allison divorced Jessica’s father and, not long afterward,began an affair with her father’s colleague in the lobbying business-a man forwhom Jessica worked. That is all, apparently, that Jessica needs to know tochoose sides. The murder of Sam Dillon has complicated things, makes it harderfor Jessica to hold her grudge; she no doubt realizes that her mother has moreurgent things on her mind right now. And so she has reacted with all the rightwords. She has shown concern. Given words of encouragement. But it is all stillthere, simmering beneath the surface, Jessica’s intense resentment, even if shetries to mask it with a comforting expression.
“You’re losing weight,” Jess says. “You have to eat.”
True enough. With the nerves keeping her stomach in knotsand all of her exercise to still those nerves, Allison has lost close tofifteen pounds in a little over two months.
“The trial starts soon,” Allison says.
“I know.”
A waiter takes their order for drinks-just water forAllison, iced tea for Jessica. The server is cute, Allison thinks, probably acollege boy, and she sizes him up as she has sized up every man of hisapproximate age-Jessica’s age-wondering, however improbably, whether this willbe the man Jessica finds. She has envisioned the perfect man for her daughter.Caring, passionate, strong. She wants a man who makes Jessica feel loved, whochallenges Jess to be a better person, supports her unequivocally. This, shesupposes, is what every mother wants for her child.
“It’s okay to tell them,” Allison says.
“I don’t have a choice.”
No, Jessica doesn’t have a choice. She did once. She had anumber of options the first time the police paid her a visit. She probablycould have gotten away with it, too. The police probably wouldn’t have chargeda young woman who failed to give incriminating information about her ownmother. But Jessica didn’t know that, and it probably wouldn’t have mattered,anyway. By then, the police were pretty sure who they liked for the murder. Andthat is all history. The prosecution has subpoenaed Jessica Pagone and she willhave to testify against her mother. However hard she may try to equivocate,they will make her answer the questions the same way she answered them in thepolice station.
“Mother?” Jessica asked, when Allison came home at close totwo in the morning, her hands and face dirty. “What have you done?”
Allison wants to hold her daughter. She wants to caress her,kiss her, talk to her intimately again. She wants to ask her about boys, aboutschool, about her hopes and ambitions.
But they don’t talk about such things anymore. They haven’tfor some time. Because the marriage didn’t break up overnight. The descentbegan-oh, it’s so difficult to pick a starting point, but what Allison means bythis is the first time that the problems were on the surface-about three solidyears ago, their anniversary dinner, after a bit too
