I Can't Think Straight (17 page)

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked as she sat down. He remained standing before her, leaning against his desk, his hand reaching out to touch her hair, to stroke it gently back from her forehead. ‘Is it all getting too much?’

‘Yes.’ She was hanging inside a vacuum, the inside of an empty, comforting shell, facing an inexorable, relentless pull from the small window of opportunity she now saw before her. She wanted to turn and leave, but the inevitability of what was to come held her, and the pull of the rushing air from that window was sucking her towards what she had to say. She felt herself approach the sentence, felt her inner organs being dragged out of her as she put aside thought and just spoke.

‘I’m not going to marry you,’ she said. She stared at him, to see if he had heard. He had. His hand was removed from her head, and was held awkwardly against his stomach, as though shielding a gunshot wound. There was no room for maneouver amongst her words, no chink of daylight in the dark shutters she had just closed across his heart. The sentence was not ambivalent, the tone was not confused. She had decided, and it was already done.

‘Why?’ he asked, his voice hoarse.

‘It doesn’t feel right.’

He considered. ‘Do you need more time? I don’t even care about marriage,’ he continued. ‘We can leave this place and just live together, wherever you want.’

He was crying, he realised, and he blinked back the drops that were gathering thickly in his eyes.

‘I don’t want a wedding,’ he said. ‘I just want you.’

In these excruciating, elongated moments she found that she hated herself with a depth of feeling she had rarely experienced before. That her own self-deception and self-absorption, her own slavery to the society and family in which she had been brought up, had reduced this blameless man to a weeping wreck struck her as horrific. She saw more clearly than she had ever seen before that she must change, or keep hurting the people who truly loved her.

Like Hani.

‘Is there anything I can do to salvage this?’ he asked, the rationality of his question lost under the desperate cracking of his voice.

‘No. You haven’t done anything to ruin it. I have. It’s all my fault, and I am so sorry, Hani, so sorry that I couldn’t be honest with you – and myself – sooner.’

‘What is it? Have I done something?’

Tala looked at him. It would surely comfort him to know the true reason, to know that no matter what he did, he could never compete with the person she really wanted. But she could not bring herself to say it out loud, to admit it to anyone. There was still a sense of shame about the idea that clung to her like an old cobweb.

‘I love you, Tala.’

‘I love you too.’

‘But not enough to marry me?’ he asked angrily.

‘Not in the right way,’ she whispered.

She got up to hold him, and he submitted, but his grasp was hot and tense, until she pulled his head down to her neck, and he let out a ragged breath and stood there without moving for many minutes.

* * *

Reema was incandescent with a rage that, over the course of two hours, sublimated into hysterical grief at the demise of her own hopes. The air in the house now held the grey pallor of mourning. The sun still rammed with brilliant solidity against the glass; the crammed plant-life of the garden still let out the dense, vegetal smell of profuse growth. But within the rising walls of the home, all was death. The tight, angry shuffle that Reema used to ascend the staircase to her own room, the pursed, thin set of her lips, were the bitter signs of a woman forced to prepare for a funeral in the midst of a wedding.

Tersely, she ordered Rani to begin packing her daughter’s bags, and plenty of them, for she intended to take Tala with her to London the next day for a good, long spell. She could not allow her to remain here to embarrass them even more, and the idea of sitting through visits from pitying, prying, probing friends was too much for Reema to bear.

The other three engagements were bad enough, but this. To break it off, to embarrass them all, to ruin everything the day before was unacceptable, and she would not accept it. She had to allow it – that much she was forced to admit – for, as usual, Omar was the weak link, had always been gentle at the times when the full force of his male strength and power was needed. Omar always sided with Tala when a crisis came to its apex – he would never force her to go through with an actual marriage; if he had, Tala would have discovered that marrying someone was no worse or better than a hundred other things she could decide to do with her day. But it was over; the union between Tala and Hani – handsome, good, perfect Hani – had been severed. She would never forgive it. Today was the day of her daughter’s death, Reema decided, at least for the foreseeable future.

* * *

The yelling hawkers and tradesmen of downtown Amman provided a constant, staccato backdrop of screams for Hani’s ears. He stood very still, with the sun casting its heavy heat onto the crown of his head, and listened as they shouted the names and remarkable qualities of the tired merchandise they tried to sell. He liked the souk, he liked this area of the city. He would not live here unless he had to – it was noisy, dirty and overcrowded – but he did not have the an-tipathy towards it that many of his peers had. West Amman, where he now lived, was a separate enclave, a faux town within the real city. It had beautiful homes built on its cresting hills, and appealing restaurants along its wider streets, but it lacked the life and heart of downtown. The raw, urgent bawl of everyday life. He had grown up near here before his father had made his fortune; his family not poor enough to be stuck in the rotting centre of the souk, but not yet rich enough to be very far removed from the competing wails of the mosques and the roaring races of the delivery trucks along the narrow roads where enough of the desert encroached to coat everything in fine dust. He loved this city, and she did not. He loved her and she did not love him, not enough to pledge herself to him for a lifetime. The world appeared simple for the traders out there; it was a matter of survival or demise, selling enough to buy food and old clothes, or starving. And it was now simple for him, who had no such immediate concerns of hunger or want. There was light and there was darkness, and where once, so recently, he had sat at his desk bathed in that light, now he was clothed in the black cover of heartbreak. He felt a pull at his sleeve. A young boy, thin and dirty, grinned and offered up a bag of figs for sale.

‘Fifty fils,’ the boy said. Hani’s eyes went to the fruit. Squashed against the clear plastic of the bag, the figs were already blackened, with soft patches where the skin had collapsed in against the dark crimson of the flesh. He could smell the rotting odour of them from where he stood.

‘Okay, okay, thirty fils,’ the boy compromised. He held up the bag again, bringing the corrupted fruit closer to Hani’s gaze. Hani reached for the bag and cradled it in his hands. The squelching, bad figs felt right in his hands. This was what he wanted to hold now that she had slipped through his fingers. This was all that was left to him, and he could not yet begin to imagine how to rescue the rest of his life from the festering ruins of the fruit. The boy held out a demanding hand. Hani dipped into his pocket, pulled out two dinars and placed them in the outstretched palm.

‘
Shukhran, Ammo,
’ the delighted boy said. ‘May Allah make you happy and give you all your dreams…’

Hani waved the child off, and the boy turned away, grinning. He watched as the thrilled child ran off towards his home, shouting and punching the air with delight.

Chapter Thirteen

Yasmin arrived back from her work trip a little after dinner time, but even at this hour, in a house not known for its late night bonhomie, she would have expected a few more lights on, and the low hum of the television. She walked in tentatively, half-expecting Maya to come at her with a rolling pin (that had happened once before, when she had tried to creep in at three in the morning), but there was nothing, no sign of life at all.

‘I’m home!’ she called out. But her voice echoed dully in the hall.

Heading up the stairs, she passed by her parents’ room, which was doused in complete darkness already, and stopped outside Leyla’s, where a line of lamp light eased out from under the door.

‘Hey!’ said Yasmin, knocking gently. She waited a moment then opened the door and walked in. Leyla was sitting, immobile, at her desk, correcting something with a pencil. She glanced up only briefly, Yasmin noted, as she stalked about the room and then threw herself on the bed.

‘What’s happening in this house? I’ve seen mortuaries with more life.’Leyla looked away from her work and out of the window. A man in a suit was getting into a car across the street; a cat jumped down into their front garden and padded softly over the grass. The gentle, suburban peace of the street felt calming and soothing. A street where no-one was gay. Or at least, no-one said anything about it.

‘What is it?’ Yasmin asked.

Leyla swung around in her desk chair to face her sister.

‘Last night, I told Mum I’m gay and she threw a fit.’

Yasmin sat up on the bed. ‘You’re gay?’

‘You knew,’ Leyla replied.

Yasmin ran a hand over her eyes and supposed that to be true. But hearing it confirmed, from Leyla herself, still held some shock value. She tried to put that aside though, for there was evidently a parental wrong to be put right.

‘Dad?’ she asked.

‘Dad walked in halfway through. He was sweet.’

Yasmin let out a low chuckle as she envisioned the scene.

‘It’s not funny,’ Leyla said. ‘Mum’s acting like I stabbed her.’

‘And you did,’ Yasmin confirmed. ‘You stuck a knife in her bal-loon. She had you down for a wedding next year…’

‘Who with?’

‘Who cares?’ Yasmin shrugged. ‘Can you marry Tala? Maybe that’ll keep her happy.’

Leyla turned away, surprised by her sister’s perception but also by hearing that name spoken aloud. She studied the pens and paper that were scattered over her desk.

‘Tala has nothing to do with this. Anyway,’ she added brightly.

‘Someone else asked me out.’

‘A girl?’ gasped Yasmin.

‘Yes, a girl,’ said Leyla irritably.

Yasmin lay back on the bed to absorb this. ‘I’m really happy for you Leyla. Seriously. I’m proud of you.’

Leyla swallowed, trying to push down the tears that edged up to her eyes. She was grateful for her sister, she realized, and releived to have grasped the chance for honesty with her parents. Overwhelmed with a sentimental feeling of affection for Yasmin, she got up to go and hug her, but was halted mid-motion by a throaty laugh that emanated from the bed.

‘What is it?’

Yasmin’s shoulders shook as she tried to speak. ‘All my life, as I snuck around with boyfriends, broke curfews, left home, took all that heat, I wondered. Will Leyla EVER do anything to piss off our parents?’

She reached up to wipe away tears as she rolled over, laughing so hard that for the first time in two days, Leyla smiled.

* * *

Tala’s guilt over her treatment of Hani was tempered by an uncontrollable sense of release, of relief at having escaped, but as pleasurable as that was, she found herself feeling only more guilty for experiencing it. She had kept herself very busy during these first days back in London, had pushed herself back into her work, in order to lessen the time she had to feel anything at all. But when she walked across the park to meet Ali for a drink before a business dinner, she felt a light veil of shame wrap itself about her, even before they had greeted each other. Watching his lanky frame quicken its step towards her, watching his slow, spreading smile, it occurred to her for the first time that she had betrayed not just Hani but Ali too, ruth-lessly. Those long, languid days of insanity that had occurred with Leyla had happened without Tala stopping to consider that she was attracted to – that she had slept with – Ali’s girlfriend.

‘Hey!’ He greeted her with a customary hug, and then stopped to look at her intently. ‘How are you? This must have been a tough few days for you.’

Tala swallowed and tried to smile.

‘I’m fine. It’s Hani I feel bad for.’ She looked up at Ali, her eyes filled with dismay and pity, pity for him, that he must have misread, for he quickly put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed them reassuringly. They started walking. Their footfalls on the quiet path echoed into the clear night.

‘You know you did the right thing, Tala. If he wasn’t the one,’ Ali said.

‘I should have told him sooner,’ she replied, and her voice was harsh, rough with anger at herself and with Ali for being so understanding when he should hate her. She looked up and noted a few stars glimmering gently. It was a rare sight in this city, so often pressed beneath a layer of cloud, and she stopped and looked up for a long moment, gathering herself. She took a breath, turned to him and smiled.

‘What about you? How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’ he told her. ‘Young, free and single!’ He laughed.

‘Single?’ Tala hesitated. ‘You’re not seeing Leyla?’ The taste of her name on Tala’s tongue was soft and delicate, a fragile utterance that she did not want to give up to the cool night air.

‘She dumped me.’ Ali took in the shock on Tala’s face and shrugged. ‘I know, hard to believe,’ he deadpanned, ‘but at least it wasn’t my fault. She told me she’s gay.’

Tala stared at him, then looked away, remembering to close her mouth, which she realized was open in slack surprise. Ali nodded, sympathetic to his friend’s reaction.

‘I know. I was shocked too. Apparently, she even told her parents.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Tala whispered.

‘No. There’s not many people in our community willing to do that. Got to admire her guts.’ He gave a half-laugh, and when Tala looked at him, his eyes seemed wistful. ‘She’s always had a fierce streak. I liked that about her.’

He glanced at Tala for understanding, and she nodded slightly, an affirmation that he was right to feel the loss of Leyla. With a sigh, he started walking again, holding out a hand for Tala and she clasped it firmly, squeezing into her touch all the solace and all the silent apology that she could.