She closed the gate behind her and ran the last few steps to the entrance. Up close, the building was imposing and unwelcoming. It was the grey exterior and official look that made it like that. But if he was inside, she would find him. It was already too late to turn back, to retrace her steps. Iman didn’t want her. And if Amir did, enough to travel all the way, enough to put his life on pause, enough to take such a risk, then he had earned her. She owed him. Why else had she given him her address? And here she was doing the chasing, running and running, calling out and pushing open doors to ruffle up the past and dig her way deep into it.
It was how she had imagined Lady Evelyn’s hunting lodge. Victorian, with eleven bedrooms on an estate of 15,000 acres. The kind of home a lady came back to after a day of brown-trout fishing on the River Carron. Walls on which hung one stag head after the other. But no, this place could be a museum, unlived in, with the carpets and paintings of long ago. With the faces of the Scottish aristocracy gazing down at Salma, viscounts and earls, their clans and tartan. All around her was silence. No attendants or guides. The lights were off, and the curtains were drawn. Perhaps they had all gone but forgotten to lock up. It was not right that the valuable past be left without protection. A thief could come in and take these antiques. She, for sure, would not take anything, neither would Amir. Stealing? It reminded her of the time in the car when she asked Moni and Iman what sin they would choose to commit if it would never count against them, a sin that would not have repercussions either in this life or the next, a sin that would go unpunished. Iman said something confusing about freedom from accountability. Moni said she would kill someone. Murtada probably. Then Salma had sent a message to Amir asking him what he would do, and he had said exactly what she was thinking of saying. He wrote that he would steal what didn’t belong to him – such as another man’s wife. She wrote back that she would steal what didn’t belong to her too – perhaps another woman’s husband. It had made her laugh that Amir and she were thinking along the same lines, that their thoughts were in harmony. It was all tongue-in-cheek and disingenuous, reducing adultery to theft, twisting a major sin into one that carried a lesser punishment. They were flirting. And now the time for flirting was over. Here they were in this stately home at the edge of the forest, both foreign and free to roam. If she called out his name now, he might answer her. She took out her phone, but the screen was a complete fog. Even if there was a recent message from him, she would not be able to read it.
In another room, there were floor-length tapestries, scenes of hunting and ceilidhs, picnics and battles. One, of a Scottish queen with her only child, reminded Salma of Norma and David. The reddish tinge in their hair, the pale, heavy-lidded face of the woman. The way she was holding her son, his feet balanced on a table – in a black and white photo at home, there was a photo of Norma, her hair in a beehive, balancing David in the same way but on top of an armchair. It surprised Salma that she could make such a connection, and it struck her now that through her children she was part of the history of this country. No matter what happened, even if she did leave, and now she had every intention of leaving, this connection would always be there, stretching back generations through glens and cottages, through woodlands and coastlines. No matter what happened, her lineage would remain, bits of her DNA. She might be forgotten but her mark would have been made. In the far future, a great-granddaughter would wonder about her black hair or how easily she tanned or where her full lips came from.
Salma walked from one room to the next. Her heartbeat was settling, her sweat cooling, but she was still on high alert, waiting to turn a corner and find him. Any minute now, they would be together at last. In a further room, there were the stuffed animals that presumably the family had hunted. There were guns on display. A trophy and then suddenly a tribal mask from another continent. Here were the acquisitions, what had been bought from far away or won, what had been looted or stolen. To her surprise, she found herself standing over an Ancient Egyptian coffin. A man whose skin was gold, with a large, heavy black wig, a white shroud. But of course, it was not a shroud, it was a casket with four gold bands drawn around the lid and the base. The collar around his neck was green, black and red. The combination and tone of the colours were perfect for Salma to wear. It would not look out of place if she had a dress in these beautiful hues. She lifted the lid of the coffin. It was empty, of course. Did she really expect a mummy? Here was where death had served time, year after year. Now all that was left was a light layer of dust, a musty smell. She put the lid down and stared at the black eyes heavily lined with kohl, the magnificent eyebrows.
She was conscious that she was getting distracted, that she had come to find Amir and was instead roaming around. Perhaps fate was giving her the chance to reconsider, to back out before it was too late. But already it was too late.
