Moni said, ‘Maybe you’re tired, Salma. You do too much. You’re always pushing yourself. Maybe you’re just exhausted and need a break. There is nothing wrong with that. A lie-in. You certainly deserve it.’
Salma nodded, ‘Thank you, Moni. Maybe I could have a cup of tea.’
‘Sure,’ said Moni and she went to the kitchen to make it for her.
When she came back, Salma was sitting up in bed. She had smoothed down her hair and tied it up in a scrunchy. ‘Have you seen her in public, Moni?’ She was talking about Iman without her hijab.
Moni sighed. ‘Yes, briefly. I almost didn’t recognise her. I don’t know why she wasn’t content with our garden here which is secluded.’
‘I saw her,’ said Salma. ‘I was walking back from the monastery and I came across her talking to Mullin. It was a shock, seeing her standing there with her hair showing. If she had the hood of her rain jacket up, it would have looked natural given the weather. But there she was, as if she was being defiant. I didn’t know what to do. I dodged away from them. I just couldn’t face her.’
‘I wonder what Mullin said to her,’ said Moni. ‘Or if he even noticed.’
‘Of course he noticed.’
‘But people here never comment on appearance. They’re very polite.’
‘It doesn’t mean they don’t notice,’ said Salma. ‘My mother-in-law loves a good gossip. She doesn’t interfere though. She wouldn’t say why are you wearing this or that, not even to her own son, there is a distance. But she does notice things.’
Moni shrugged. ‘It’s pointless talking to Iman. She’s made up her mind. We have to accept it.’
Salma felt, again, the wash of sadness. Iman mattered to her and she had thought, and all the evidence pointed to the fact, that Iman was dependent on her. Now this was an illusion. And if their old relationship was untenable, was there anything left that could replace it? ‘She is not good at articulating her thoughts,’ said Salma. ‘I’ve learnt not only to listen to the words that she’s saying. With her, actions speak louder than words.’
‘She’s praying again,’ said Moni. Yesterday Iman had a bath and washed her hair. Her period had lasted six days.
‘Yes, I noticed,’ said Salma. ‘And that reassured me.’
‘It happens,’ said Moni. ‘Friends on social media. Suddenly there’s an updated photo and they’re not wearing it any more. The pressure, I guess, especially in the US or France.’
‘Iman doesn’t have that excuse.’ Salma was surprised at herself. Why could she not be more forgiving? It was not as if she was blameless herself, immune to temptation. When it came to Amir, she could find a thousand excuses for herself. Another thousand for not giving him up.
‘I have something to tell you,’ Moni said. ‘It’s a deadlock now between me and Murtada. I won’t go join him in Saudi and he’s not accepting any other arrangement. I have to do what’s best for Adam’s health.’
This sudden announcement, though not surprising in itself, caused Salma to snap back to herself. ‘Don’t rush this, Moni. It’s hard enough caring for a disabled child without being a single mother as well. Try and see things from Murtada’s point of view.’
‘I’m already a single mother,’ she said. ‘Considering his input and interest.’
‘I don’t think divorce is a good option for you of all people.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t take this wrong, but how many men are going to marry a woman with a disabled child? If you give up Murtada, there will be no substitute for him. You’ll be a divorcee for the rest of your life.’
‘So what?’
‘You mean this? You’ll be fine with celibacy? Fine with not having any more children?’
‘Isn’t this exactly what my life is like now?’ Moni gave a bitter laugh.
‘But you can reverse it. It’s in your hands. What Murtada wants from you is not unreasonable.’
Moni picked up Salma’s empty teacup and took it to the kitchen. Was she rattled by what Salma had said? Maybe, maybe not.
Salma took out her phone from the sealed plastic bag. This was Moni’s idea, a compromise to keep the phone in the room while at the same time hemming in its smell. The smell which Moni was imagining, as mobile phones do not smell. And yet somehow Moni had convinced her of this and she had dunked it in the water. Now, drawing the slim, smooth object out of the bag, Salma too caught a whiff of something. She pushed the phone back into the plastic bag, sealed it and lay down on the bed again.
When she closed her eyes, she saw the envelope. It was meant to be white but had gone beige with handling. There were smudges on it and it was crumpled at the edges. It was addressed to her, her full name including Miss, written in Amir’s handwriting. She saw with less clarity the documents that were in the envelope. They were both official. Originals, not copies, stamped and authenticated. There was a doctor’s report on Amir’s mother’s mastectomy. There was the registration of the court case involving the convoluted sale of the piece of land which belonged to Amir’s father and his cousins. The envelope contained proof to Salma and her mother that Amir had not lied to them. Yet Salma had torn this proof up. In fact, had not even bothered to tear it up properly but scrunched it and shoved it into the kitchen bin. Pushed it among onion peel and chicken bones, the smear of tomato
