Why was he leading her through this house which held remnants of the past? She crossed an atrium with a glass ceiling, the sun shining through, and it was as if she were in another continent. A place that was hot and bright. She quickened her steps. To go back in time is like diving into water. The body is out of its natural habitat, an intruder in the home of fish. Salma gasped as she walked into one of her favourite memories, the one in which she was wearing her green dress. She was in the corridor of Amir’s flat now, heading towards his room, her back to the kitchen where she had just been sitting with his mother. He was ill, and she was carrying the notes to the lectures he had missed. Because of his mother’s cooking, Salma’s dress smelt of coriander and garlic. Her heart was beating because she was in his flat and she had never been in his flat before. She was seeing what he saw every day, what he touched and smelt. Behind her in the kitchen, the lids of pots wobbled over a high flame and Umm Kulthum was singing on the radio. There was nothing particularly unusual about Amir’s flat or his mother, not much different from her own flat and mother, but she felt an added closeness to him. Now she knew about him what the outside world didn’t need to know, because she was special to him, she was his love and worthy of his privacy.
In the real past, the past that had taken place, she had not entered his room. She had stood at the door, clutching the notes. She had stood at the door because it was the proper thing to do, because she had promised her mother, because his mother was there in the background and even though she had said to her, ‘Go in, my dear. Amir is still running a fever, he’s not eating, do go in,’ she would judge her if she did so. She could hold it against her in the future and Salma wasn’t stupid enough to fall into such a trap. So, she had stood at the door and when he saw her, he jumped out of bed, completely taken by surprise, dishevelled and sweaty in his pyjamas. Handsome, she had thought, and she was flooded with dread, thinking, oh no, oh no, what if he did not have influenza as his mother said but one of those deadly diseases they had been studying.
In the real past, she had giggled and not returned his hug. She had averted her face and said, as primly as she could, ‘Do you want to pass on your flu?’ In the past she had behaved as one behaves when there is everything to be gained. But now this was not the true past, the past that had happened, it was only an echo of it, a mirage to dip in and out of, her chest constricted, her body knowing full well that it did not belong in this fantasy, that it could not last long and soon she would pop back into the present. When the dead are brought back to life, they are not brought back to live. When the dead are brought back to life, they do not linger. The miracle is in the resurrection; it is not a reversal of destiny.
Now, Salma the woman entered Amir’s room. She did not hesitate, she did not giggle. Like the diver and the mountain climber, she knew that her time in these depths and these heights was limited. She must make her mark and leave, there was no time for preamble, no time for shyness or playing hard to get. She would not avert her face, she would not be prim. But the bed was empty and that came as a shock. He was not here. He had led her that far, all the way to his bedroom, and then he was not here. The anger made it even more difficult to breathe, the gasp of disappointment an unyielding attempt to suck air in. She must back out, to search for him elsewhere, in another version of the past.
His room led to another room, a heavy door to push and suddenly she was outdoors on a university campus where she was surrounded by students coming and going, their loud clamour, their youth brushing past her with its uncertainty and deceptive promise. She squeezed her way through the throng. There was hardly any room for her here; she was not welcome. A voice from a loudspeaker announced the start of an event or a rally, the latest graduation photos up for sale. Salma could not make out the words. If he was here, embedded in this crowd, how could she ever find him?
She was shoved and pushed out the way. It was congested to the extent that the students would trample on her if she fell. And yet she had to keep going. She had ventured further than intended, covered more ground than she should; already it was too late. The portals behind her had shut, she could not retrace her steps even if she wanted to. Perhaps that portrait of the Scottish noblewoman and her son should have been sufficient for her, that tapestry which recalled her husband and his mother. Gratitude should have held her in check, made her reconsider. Perhaps that Ancient Egyptian coffin should have reminded her of the temporariness of life. Staring death in the face, she should have felt awe and remorse, or at the very least caution.
On she went, fighting to reach him, crossing a busy road where there was no provision for pedestrians. She zigzagged her way through jammed cars and buses, impatient motorcyclists and children selling boxes of tissue paper. Car
