‘ “I haven’t seen any money belt,” said the elderly man.
‘The knight drew out his sword and killed him.
‘You would think that the elderly man was innocent and unfairly killed. You would think that the young boy stole what did not rightfully belong to him. But there is a backstory to this tale. One that even the protagonists didn’t fully know and would never have been able to put together. For many years, the knight had employed the services of a loyal hard-working couple. The labourer looked after the knight’s stables and his wife worked in the scullery of the castle. The couple worked faithfully for twenty years, but the knight never ever paid them their wages. They did not have the means to challenge him and get their rights. The young boy who ran off with the knight’s money belt was their son.
‘As for the elderly man. A long time ago, in the arrogance and strength of youth, he had cruelly killed the knight’s father.’
Chapter Ten
When Iman took off her hijab, Salma took it personally, as if Iman was rejecting her, turning away towards another ideal, ditching all that they had shared. Alone, she found herself in tears, shocked and speechless as if betrayed. She did not fight back or try to argue with Iman. Instead she caved in and, quite unlike herself, experienced for the first time what she would have identified in others as low-grade depression. The reluctance to get out of bed, the disinterest in jogging and the constant dragging down of anxiety and guilt. Glimpsing Iman in the grounds of the monastery among other people caused a surge of envy. Iman’s hair was shining and luxuriant; with the new haircut, the ends bounced round her ears. Instead of approaching her friend with a greeting, Salma ducked out of the way to avoid coming face-to-face with her.
Careful to avoid Iman even in the cottage, she found herself turning more towards Amir, towards their shared past, a time of certainties and hopes. The regret that she had married David and moved to Britain began to gather into an emotion, almost a fact. She had made a mistake. Amir was her ideal mate, her home city the true beloved, medicine her rightful vocation. She was forty-five and her life was a mistake. A mistake that could be rectified, or perhaps it was too late and it could not be rectified. That was what she considered as she lay down staring at the ceiling. Pull out now or go on knowing that you are living out a sentence. Which option was doable, which option was the right one? Then the sound of Iman up in the attic would bring her back to the loch and she would register how Iman now came and went without telling her, without urging her to join her, without checking up first on what she wanted to do.
Moni clashed with Iman. Right was right and wrong was wrong, and Moni was confident of her position. She lectured Iman on the need to be mindful of Salma. In this country, who else did she have to look after her, except Salma and David? Whatever she did, Iman must not jeopardise her relationship with them, and taking off her hijab wasn’t helpful. Moni surprised herself by caring. It had been a long time since anything had penetrated her bond with Adam or was even able to distract her from him. Briefly, she was released and found herself sounding like her old self: the Moni who worked in the bank, who followed and gave orders, who understood the legal structures, the stock options and the fluctuations in interest rates. This was the same Moni who now faced Iman. It mattered little to her that Iman was not responding, not budging from her position; she was not even following Moni’s arguments. Moni was flexing a muscle she had thought long atrophied. It made her feel better.
When she did come across Iman in public, riding Mullin’s bicycle on the path leading to the forest, Moni’s reaction was completely different from Salma’s. She found Iman without her headscarf indistinguishable from other women, one and the same. The special aura of vulnerability and preciousness that had surrounded her was gone. She was another glossy, wind-tousled head of hair, bland and common. And because Iman was small, there was even less reason for her to stand out. When she whizzed past and waved at Moni, who was on the phone to the nursing home, it took Moni a beat to recognise her.
Iman avoided her friends. She no longer cosied up to Salma or hovered around Moni while she cooked. Instead, she stayed out most of the time or up in her attic room. The cupboard continued to yield costumes. One was a US army marine. Iman put it on and rummaged in the cupboard for a gun. It was not there. She sat on the floor of her room and waited. The idea of a loaded heavy gun excited her. She did not want to harm any person or animal but walking about with a gun would indeed grant a sense of power and protection. No one would dare hurt her. They would be afraid. No one had ever been afraid of Iman. She attracted others and did not repel. But she was tired of all that. The emphasis on her beauty. It had not given her security or allowed her to understand herself. Beauty itself was a mask, a barrier, all that other people could see of her. They did not want to listen to her, they did not want her skills or her opinions. They were content with her presence, like a flower in a vase, pleasing and uplifting, a lovely scent
