Brian say, “And Jim’ll back me up, because otherwise I’ll tell them how he lets me rescue people on his shifts and takes all the credit.”
“That was one time,” said Jim. “The girl was so out of it I didn’t even know she’d already been rescued. I spent two hours talking to her.”
“Yeah, I heard she almost decided to kill herself all over again,” came the faint reply, and then the Major reached the outer rim of the bank of gorse and scrub trees and their voices disappeared.
Behind the scrub, he saw Jasmina’s small Honda half buried in gorse; a great furrow of mud behind it indicated that it had slid and swerved before coming to a stop. Perhaps Abdul Wahid had planned to simply drive to Mecca.
Abdul Wahid was kneeling close, but not dangerously close, to the edge of the cliff some two hundred feet away. He seemed to be praying, bending his head to the ground as if unaware of any drama in his surroundings. Closer to the Major, two islands of gorse created a narrowing of the grass and here the old lady stood guard, her face as hard as ever but now animated by the sharp in and out of her breath as she pointed her knitting needle toward Jasmina. She held it professionally—pointing down from her fist and ready to thrust like a dagger—and the Major felt sure she was very capable at using it.
“Auntie, what are you doing?” called Jasmina, speaking into the wind and spreading her hands in a gesture of placation. “Why must we be out here in the rain?”
“I’m doing what none of you knows how to do,” said the old lady. “No one remembers what it is to have honor anymore.”
“But Abdul Wahid?” she said. Then she raised her voice and called out to him, “Abdul Wahid, please!”
“Don’t you know better than to disturb a man at prayer?” asked the old woman. “He prays to take the burden on himself and restore the family honor.”
“This is insane. This is not how things are resolved, Auntie.”
“This is how it has always been done, child,” said the old woman in a dreamy voice. “My mother was drowned in a cistern by my father when I was six years old.” She crouched on her heels and traced a circle in the grass with the tip of her needle. “I saw. I saw him push her down with one hand and with the other he stroked her hair because he loved her very much. She had laughed with the man who came selling carpets and copper pots and handed him tea from her own hands in her mother-in-law’s best cups.” She stood up again. “I was always proud of my father and his sacrifice,” she said.
“We are civilized people, not some rural peasant family stuck in the past,” said Jasmina, her voice choked with horror.
“Civilized?” hissed the old woman. “You are soft. Soft and corrupted. My niece and her husband are weakened by decadence. They complain, they make their little schemes, but they offer only indulgence for their son. And I, who should be eating figs in a garden of my own, must come and set things right.”
“Did they know you would do this?” asked Jasmina. The old lady laughed, an animal cackle.
“No one wants to know, but then I come—when there are too many puppies in the litter, when a daughter has something growing in the belly. And after I visit they never speak, but they send me a small goat or a piece of carpet.” She ran her fingers slowly up the shaft of the needle and began to creep forward across the grass, waving the tip of the needle as if to hypnotize. “They will cry and rant and pretend to be ashamed but you will see, they will give me my own small house now in the hills and I will grow figs and sit all day in the sun.”
The Major stepped from behind the bushes and planted his feet firmly apart, resting his right hand on the stock of the shotgun still broken across his arm. “This has gone quite far enough, madam,” he said. “I’ll ask you to throw down your needle and wait quietly with us for the police.” She fell back a few steps but regained her composure and a leer crept slowly up the left side of her face.
“Ah, the English Major,” she said. She waved her needle like an admonishing finger. “So it is true, Jasmina, that you ran away from your family in order to fornicate and debauch yourself.”
“How dare you,” said the Major, stepping forward and snapping the shotgun together.
“Actually, you’re quite right, Auntie.” Jasmina’s eyes flashed with anger. She stepped forward and held her chin high, her hair whipping about her face in the wind. “And shall I tell you how delicious it was, you with your shriveled body and your dried-up heart, who have never known happiness? Would you like to hear how it is to be naked with a man you love and really live and breathe the sensuality of life itself? Should I tell you this story, Auntie?”
The old woman howled as if racked with pain and leaped toward Jasmina, who planted her feet and held out her arms and showed no intention of dodging. Quick with fear, the Major swung up his gun with a shout and, running forward, butted the edge of the stock against the old woman’s head. It was only a glancing blow, but her own momentum made it enough. She dropped the needle and crumpled to the ground. Jasmina sat down abruptly in the grass and began to laugh, an ugly robotic laugh that suggested shock. The Major bent down to pick up the fallen knitting needle and slid it into his game bag.
“What were you thinking?” he said. “You could have been killed.”
“Is she dead?” asked Jasmina.
“Of course not,” said the Major, but he was anxious as he felt the old lady’s leathery neck until he found a pulse. “I do try to avoid killing ladies, no matter how psychotic they may be.”
“You’re a useful sort in a fight,” said the now familiar voice of Brian. He advanced from behind a bush and bent down to peer at the old woman. “Good work.”
“Where’s the other chap?” asked the Major.
“He’s radioed the other volunteers but he’s still waiting for backup,” said Brian. “Shall we go and have a bit of a chat with your nephew and see what he wants?”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” asked the Major.
“No, can’t say I do,” said Brian cheerfully. “I must’ve talked about fifty people down off this bloody cliff in the last ten years, and for the life of me I couldn’t tell you how. Bit of a gift, I suppose. Main thing is to act casual and not make any sudden moves.”
Together they walked cautiously down the slope toward Abdul Wahid. He had finished his prayers and was standing with unnatural stillness, gazing out to sea. He did not hunch his shoulders or fold his arms against the cold, although he wore no coat. Only the embroidered hem of his long heavy tunic snapped in the wind.
“He put on his wedding clothes,” said Mrs. Ali. “Oh, my poor, poor boy.” She stretched out her hand and the Major reached to catch her arm, fearing she might run the last hundred yards or so.
“Easy, now,” said Brian. “Let me get his attention.” He stepped forward and gave a low whistling sound as if, thought the Major, he was calling a gundog to heel. Abdul Wahid turned slightly and saw them.
“Hullo there,” said Brian. He held a hand up in a slow wave. “I was just wondering if I could talk to you a minute.”
“I suppose you want to help me?” asked Abdul Wahid.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Brian. “What do you need?”
“I need you to get my aunt away from here,” said Abdul Wahid. “I don’t want her to see.”
“Abdul Wahid, what are you doing?” shouted Jasmina. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“I want her taken away,” said Abdul Wahid, quietly refusing to look at her. “She should not have to endure this.”
“So you don’t want to talk to her?” asked Brian. “That’s fine. If I have the Major here take her away, will you agree to talk to me—just for a bit?” Abdul Wahid seemed to consider this option carefully.
“Please, Abdul Wahid, come home,” said Jasmina. She was crying and the Major reached out a restraining arm, fearing she would try to rush at her nephew. “I won’t leave you.”
“I would prefer to talk to the Major,” said Abdul Wahid. “I will not talk to you.”
“So I’ll get your aunt away to somewhere dry and warm and you’ll sit tight and chat with this gentleman?”
“Yes,” said Abdul Wahid.
“He’s got a gun, you know,” said Brian. “You sure you can trust him?”
“What are you doing?” whispered the Major in fierce anxiety. “Are you trying to provoke him?” Abdul Wahid, however, actually produced one of his short barking laughs.
