Iman, taken aback, rose from the table. ‘Don’t get upset. It’s not a big deal. It’s nothing. I can ask him for you.’
Moni picked up the bowl and put it back in the sink. She wiped the spot of soapy water that was on the kitchen table because of her outburst and, without saying another word to Iman, finished doing the washing-up.
For this mission, Iman decided to wear something practical. There were even more outfits in the cupboard now than when she had arrived. Or at least there were ones that she had not seen before. Whereas on her arrival, there was an abundance of princess dresses, flouncy skirts and beautiful colours, a more pragmatic mood was now on offer. There was a sailor outfit, a nurse, even an astronaut! Now she chose to wear the trousers and top that Jessie the Yodelling Cowgirl wore in Toy Story. Iman hid her hair under the big hat and allowed the belt to show off her waist. After leaving the cottage, she took her time, not on purpose but because she was distracted by one thing after the other. There was a squirrel, which took up a good ten minutes, a rabbit she knelt to stroke and flowers to sniff. The sounds that the frogs made held her attention. She listened as if she could understand what they were saying. Most of what they said were prayers. Prayers for food and mates. At the edge of the loch, she found a tree trunk that had been shaped into a seat. She must try it out. Beneath her, the water was shallow and still. Further on, it spread deeper, with the mountains on either side. This was the southern end of the loch where it flowed into the river or the river flowed into it – Iman wasn’t sure. She noticed the sound of the wind in the trees and how it ruffled the water. A duck with a green head was swimming quickly to the shore. Near Iman it waddled out of the water and she could see under the simple white chain around its neck and its smooth brown breasts, the pink webbed feet navigating the pebbles on the ground. She could lose herself in all these details, colours of placenta and milk. She could become of these things and need nothing else.
Eventually she found herself at the monastery. It was too imposing for her, too masculine. The gargoyles were the colour of guns. The tall slim windows like ghostly sentinels hovering above the ground. She stepped into the cloister. An atmosphere hung all over the building, she felt it on her skin. Salma had raved about the architecture of the monastery, but Iman felt a kind of heaviness. Like a responsibility. Knowledge is heavy. One can gain hold of the treasure and then lose it, or memorise sacred words and forget them.
She was about to turn away when she saw something through the window. A figure in costume. It must be a costume, a brown medieval cloak, warm woollen layers with a rope for a belt. The figure evoked a memory, not of an experience, but of something she had seen on television, an image in a painting or in a book. She pushed open the door of the refectory and when she entered, her knees felt weak. She leant against the door and looked up to see the figure climb up the steps to the pulpit. Before he reached the top, he turned and looked at her. Fierce eyes, dishevelled hair, body tilted forward. She was reminded of the Hoopoe’s story about Nathan. That was how she had imagined him to be, intense and focused, someone who would be too busy for the likes of her. But here he was, stopping to give her a second glance; she had distracted him, delayed him from his prayers. She wished she was not wearing this ridiculous cowboy hat. In her own clothes, with her ordinary hijab, she would have better matched his medieval outfit. They would have understood each other, asked forgiveness from the same God, followed the Ten Commandments, experienced the trajectory of weakness, sin, regret, then redemption. But Nathan and his times were over, the monastery knew it, and the grounds; the silence because there were no more prayers, the blankness because no one knelt. The Nathan she was seeing now was a memory, his prayers did not count. Back out, she told herself. Already the air was thick with misplaced energy, the room closing in. This was a dead end.
Out in the fresh air, she caught her breath and walked towards the boathouse. A boat was moored on the lake. There she found Mullin.
‘Hi lassie,’ he said. He was crouching down in the boat, folding the canopy. ‘How’re ye getting on?’
It was clear that he liked her more than he did either Moni or Salma. Both had come across him in the past few days and complained afterwards that he was rude and gruff.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a little boy. He doesn’t talk. We see him on his own, never with his family. Do you know where they’re staying?’
‘There’s a fair number of young lads here. I don’t mind which one you’re talking about.’ He stood up and walked towards her. ‘Has he caused ye any trouble?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘There are families in the cottages at the other side of the monastery, near the start of the walking trails.’
She turned to go, following the direction he pointed to. Salma had mentioned the walking trails. They were graded in difficulty. Some more challenging and longer than others. They took you up through the woodlands and the scenery was meant to be breathtaking. Hiking was an activity Salma was determined the three of them would do before they left.
Iman walked slowly. This was partly from reluctance and partly a response
