Read The House of Djinn Online
Authors: Suzanne Fisher Staples
The House of Djinn (12 page)
T
he flight arrived on time. Crowds of people looking for familiar faces among the travelers jostled under bright lights at the metal barricade outside the arrivals lounge. Asrar waved to catch Jameel's father's attention and made his way along the barricade to its end. Asrar touched his forehead and bowed deeply, then turned and extended his elbows to clear a path for them through the crowd to the VIP lounge. The night air was hot and heavyâmuch warmer than the daytime air of San Francisco. The noise of the crowd and traffic from Airport Road added to the feeling of heaviness. The din disappeared as if by magic as the door to the cool, quiet lounge swung shut behind them.
he flight arrived on time. Crowds of people looking for familiar faces among the travelers jostled under bright lights at the metal barricade outside the arrivals lounge. Asrar waved to catch Jameel's father's attention and made his way along the barricade to its end. Asrar touched his forehead and bowed deeply, then turned and extended his elbows to clear a path for them through the crowd to the VIP lounge. The night air was hot and heavyâmuch warmer than the daytime air of San Francisco. The noise of the crowd and traffic from Airport Road added to the feeling of heaviness. The din disappeared as if by magic as the door to the cool, quiet lounge swung shut behind them.
Jameel tried to imagine what Chloe would make of the effusive formality that greeted his family everywhere in Pakistan's Punjab province. Everyone knew them. His grandfather was a tribal leader, and Baba and Uncle Omar were members of the Provincial Assembly. Amirzai tribal lands
spilled from Punjab westward almost to Baluchistan; he didn't even know how many thousands of hectares in all. Chloe's world was so different from hisâshe could never imagine how different, he thought.
spilled from Punjab westward almost to Baluchistan; he didn't even know how many thousands of hectares in all. Chloe's world was so different from hisâshe could never imagine how different, he thought.
He pictured her in all of the details that she'd described to him about her life: curled with her back against her mother in the double bed in the one-bedroom walk-up apartment on Turk Street; bumping into each other in the dark, narrow hallway outside the bathroom when she went to brush her teeth; sitting at a small, square table in a corner of the kitchen, drinking a glass of milk in one long chug. Some of the guys made fun of Chloe because she seemed to do nothing at all but skateboard. But she didn't care. She was better at it than any of them. Jameel's stomach ached at the thought of her.
Omar waited inside the airport's VIP lounge. He rushed forward and embraced Jameel's father and then Jameel, and held on to his sister Nargis's hand as they followed Asrar to a sofa with ornately carved wooden legs and love seats covered in silk to match the sofa. The furniture was arranged in a U at one side of the lounge. Asrar ordered tea for them, and hurried off to arrange for their luggage to be delivered to the car. Uncle Omar sat between his sister and Jameel's father and cleared his throat.
“Father died tonight,” he began. He covered his mouth for a second with his fingertips, cleared his throat again, and went on. “He never regained consciousness. The ending was peaceful. Mumtaz, Selma, and I were with him.” Tears welled along the rims of Omar's dark eyes, but he remained
composed. Nargis lowered her face into her hands. Jameel's father and Uncle Omar both gave Jameel a long look, but otherwise his father did not react at all.
composed. Nargis lowered her face into her hands. Jameel's father and Uncle Omar both gave Jameel a long look, but otherwise his father did not react at all.
“He left this envelope in his desk for Jameel,” Uncle Omar said, pulling a sealed parchment envelope from inside his vest and handing it to Jameel. Jameel turned the envelope over and saw his grandfather's hardly legible, loopy scrawl on the front:
For Jameel,
it said. It felt like a single sheet of paper. He held it as he imagined his grandfather had held it when he put it in the desk to be found after his death: lightly between his fingertips. He folded it carefully and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.
For Jameel,
it said. It felt like a single sheet of paper. He held it as he imagined his grandfather had held it when he put it in the desk to be found after his death: lightly between his fingertips. He folded it carefully and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Aren't you going to open it?” asked his father. Jameel shook his head. He couldn't imagine reading Baba's final words to him with his family watching. They were quiet for a moment before Omar spoke.
“We have many things to discuss,” he said. They talked about details of the funeral, which would be before sundown that day. There was much to be done. His father and uncle seemed oddly restrained, Jameel thought. Perhaps it only seemed that way because Jameel felt so keenly that the world as he knew it had ended. It made him want to beat his fists on a wall and cry and scream.
Asrar returned and they followed him outside to where the car waited at the curb nearest the VIP lounge. Jameel felt as if his eyelids were made of sandpaper as he squinted against the bright overhead lights. The air was difficult to breathe, so damp, hot, and heavy that it seemed to part like a curtain before his face as he walked.
Two thin men in blue shalwar kameez, servants from Jameel's grandfather's house, stood with Khoda Baksh beside the thirty-year-old blue Mercedes Benz sedan with six suitcases and a metal trunk lashed to the rack on the roof. It was difficult to grasp that here were his grandfather's much-loved car, his driver and lifelong friend, and servants who had worked for the family their entire lives, but his grandfather was no more. When it comes right down to it, Jameel thought, life is just a flimsy veil, one that can be worn, then tossed aside with surprising ease. He thought of the image of his grandfather slipping past the airplane window to take his place among the stars.
The servants saluted them gravely as they stepped into the car. Khoda Baksh held the door as Jameel and his mother climbed into the back with Uncle Omar. Jameel's father sat in front. The air conditioner blew chilled air over them as the driver put the car into gear and pulled into the traffic heading for the airport exit. Dozens of flights arrived and departed from Lahore in the middle of the night, and the roads and parking lots were more crowded than they were at midday. Jameel craned his neck to look at the saluting servants until they were out of sight. He was vaguely aware of the jumble of cars, motor scooters, trucks, and buses that shrieked and rumbled around them, the green Provincial Assembly emblem on the front bumper alerting traffic that they had the right-of-way. Everyone in the car was silent.
When they reached the Gulberg area the headlights swept over the lovingly kept lawns and the tranquil canal overhung
with willows that leaned to brush the water. Jameel began to feel the familiarity of the city where his father and uncles and grandfather had all lived when they were schoolboys, the streets where his mother and aunties walked to school every day when they were girls. Instead of the comfort he usually felt when he came here, he felt the cut of pain somewhere so deep inside him he couldn't identify exactly the place from which his grandfather had been excised.
with willows that leaned to brush the water. Jameel began to feel the familiarity of the city where his father and uncles and grandfather had all lived when they were schoolboys, the streets where his mother and aunties walked to school every day when they were girls. Instead of the comfort he usually felt when he came here, he felt the cut of pain somewhere so deep inside him he couldn't identify exactly the place from which his grandfather had been excised.
As the car turned into Number 5 Anwar Road, Jameel felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned toward Uncle Omar, but his mother's brother stared straight ahead. Jameel looked down at his shoulder. No hand lay there, although he still felt its weight and warmth through his shirt.
They drove through the arched gateway, into the paved courtyard, and stopped before the red sandstone façade of his grandfather's house. Auntie Leyla came out through the front door just after the car pulled in and stood waiting under the tall, pointed arch of the main entry.
Jameel thought of the folded envelope tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. He felt it with his right hand, the same pocket that Chloe had hooked a finger into as she walked him to meet Javed a day earlier in his other world, his other time zone. He fought an urge to excuse himself right at that moment so he might go somewhere to open the envelope in private, and find out what his grandfather had to say before he died. Jameel felt a surge of anger at Baba for leaving so unexpectedly, before he'd had time to say goodbye.
He waited while the luggage was unloaded from the roof of the car and his parents made their salaams. Jameel had slept little on the plane, but he felt alert, on edge.
Jameel's parents had their own bedroom in his grandfather's house. Jameel slept in the room where his mother had slept as a girl. He wondered where other relatives traveling to Lahore for the funeral would sleep. Servants appeared from their quarters behind the house to haul the suitcases and trunk up the winding staircase in the front hall to the second floor.
Jameel greeted Leyla warmly and waited while his parents asked questions. He was too distracted by the stiff envelope in his back pocket to listen carefully. After waiting what seemed an acceptable time he excused himself to go to his room and read Baba's letter in private. He bounded through the brightly lit entry hall and up the stairs. The walls were painted with almond blossoms and fruit trees, and melons on vines twined down the corners of the room. The ceiling was even more ornately painted, and the plaster was embedded with bits of mirror that sparkled and reflected light from the huge lead-crystal chandelier that hung in the center of the hall. The chandelier was exactly like the one in the dining room. Jameel remembered when his grandmother had ordered the chandeliers from Venice. They arrived almost a year later in a crate that was taller than his Uncle Omar, loaded on a wagon pulled by four white oxen.
Upstairs Jameel gazed around his room, which also was ornately painted and mirrored, and thought again how blown away Chloe would be. He changed quickly into pajamas.
He was relieved to be out of the collar of his shirt and the heaviness of jeans in the stifling heat and humidity of late monsoon season in Lahore. He took the envelope from his pocket and sat on the bed. Instead of tearing the envelope open, he smoothed it flat and retrieved a silver-handled letter opener from the desk in the corner of the room and slid it neatly under the flap, slitting the paper. He spread the letter from his grandfather flat and read it. It was dated three years earlier.
He was relieved to be out of the collar of his shirt and the heaviness of jeans in the stifling heat and humidity of late monsoon season in Lahore. He took the envelope from his pocket and sat on the bed. Instead of tearing the envelope open, he smoothed it flat and retrieved a silver-handled letter opener from the desk in the corner of the room and slid it neatly under the flap, slitting the paper. He spread the letter from his grandfather flat and read it. It was dated three years earlier.
My Dear Jameel,
Now that I am gone, the first thing you must know is that beginning immediately you are my successor as leader of the Amirzai tribe. Your uncle and your parents and I decided the issue of succession long ago, almost immediately after your birth, and they will support you with their lives. We have kept this determination from you in order that you might live your life as normally as possible, unencumbered by the cares of leadership. I hope you will be finished with university before having to bear the weight of this responsibility. Other arrangements will be made shortly, and you will learn of them in due course.
Your Uncle Omar will hand over a ring containing the seal that has been the emblem of Amirzai leadership for hundreds of years. It is said to have been passed by the Holy Prophet Muhammad to our forefather Mahmet. Guard it carefully and use it wisely.
As leader of the Amirzai tribe you must act judiciously
to control all aspects of the lands, from the Lahore house to the farm at Okurabad, to the remotest small village of Amirzai tribesmen. Your Uncle Omar has full written guidelines, and he and your father will educate you as to your duties and responsibilities. You have traveled with me throughout Amirzai lands, and have seen how I go about doing things. I hope that also will guide you.
to control all aspects of the lands, from the Lahore house to the farm at Okurabad, to the remotest small village of Amirzai tribesmen. Your Uncle Omar has full written guidelines, and he and your father will educate you as to your duties and responsibilities. You have traveled with me throughout Amirzai lands, and have seen how I go about doing things. I hope that also will guide you.
We have been blessed with peaceful times in the past. While patches of turmoil have disrupted life in parts of the country because of Islamist insurgents, our tribesmen have remained levelheaded. We have always treated them fairly and they have responded with loyalty.
Let Allah be your guide. Never lose sight of who you are and what you represent. Have courage and know I will be keeping watch.
Your loving grandfather,
Mahsood Jameel Muhammad Amirzai
Mahsood Jameel Muhammad Amirzai
Jameel's heart beat so hard his chest ached. He felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He couldn't quite comprehend all at once what his grandfather's letter meant. Certainly that his life in California was over. It meant that he and Chloe would never get to know each other well enough to see where their romance might lead them. Once he'd taken that huge first step of kissing her, life seemed filled with possibility. But now the future he'd imagined was impossible.
S
habanu greeted the monsoon sunrise standing beside the doorway of the pavilion watching another pigeon she'd released as it disappeared past the domes carrying another message for Ibne. The message asked him to meet her at the bus station in Bahawalpur and take her to her family in Cholistan. Dark clouds had fallen low over the Old City, and even in the dim light the domes of the Badshahi Mosque were luminous.
habanu greeted the monsoon sunrise standing beside the doorway of the pavilion watching another pigeon she'd released as it disappeared past the domes carrying another message for Ibne. The message asked him to meet her at the bus station in Bahawalpur and take her to her family in Cholistan. Dark clouds had fallen low over the Old City, and even in the dim light the domes of the Badshahi Mosque were luminous.
When she heard a footfall on the stone tiles that covered the roof, she expected to see Samiya with her breakfast. But something about the sound of the feet moving toward the doorway of her pavilion let her know it was not the familiar tread of either Selma or Samiya, and she stepped behind the painted wooden screen that separated her bed from the sitting area.
The carved, lacy panels that enclosed her living space had several magical qualities, one of which was that Shabanu
could see out through the pavilion walls, while no one outside could see in. When she saw the tall, slender form of Omar, her mouth went dry and she felt faint.
could see out through the pavilion walls, while no one outside could see in. When she saw the tall, slender form of Omar, her mouth went dry and she felt faint.
“Shabanu?” he called softly, and she could not find her voice to answer. “Are you there?” She felt her feet were planted in the floor like the palm trees in the large Chinese wine pots in the courtyard downstairs. Omar was only a few feet away from the doorway to the pavilion when she moved out from behind the screen and he saw her.
“I'm sorry,” he said, “I didn't mean to frighten you ⦔
“Come in, Omar,” Shabanu said, hardly trusting her voice. “How did you know ⦔
“I overheard Mumtaz tell my father you were here, safe after all this time,” he said. “Baba was unconscious. I don't think Mumtaz even knew she was telling him. She was trying to make him hear her, to let him know how grateful she was for his keeping her safe. Selma didn't want to let me come up, but I told her that I knew you were here.” Shabanu said nothing, and Omar moved closer to her.
“Why?” he asked. “We were friendsâwhy couldn't you let me know just that you were alive?” Shabanu studied him. His lips quivered and she could see a pulse beating in the side of his neck. Friends? she thought. And then she remembered that Omar couldn't know that she'd seen him wailing beside her graveside. He'd hardly changed at allâperhaps a few lines around his eyes, a few gray hairsâand he looked at her as he'd looked at her years before: as if he couldn't quite believe she was real.
“Because Nazir tried to force me to marry him after
Rahim died,” she said after a moment. “He threatened to kill Mumtaz and me. Zabo and I escaped and Nazir shot at us. The bullet hit Zabo. I would gladly have died in her place.”
Rahim died,” she said after a moment. “He threatened to kill Mumtaz and me. Zabo and I escaped and Nazir shot at us. The bullet hit Zabo. I would gladly have died in her place.”
“But why did you let me believe it was you?”
“It wasn't only you, Omar, it was you and Mumtaz and my entire family,” she said gently. “Mumtaz would never be safe if all of you knew where I was. And youâyou were about to marry Leyla and become heir to the tribal leadership ⦔
“And you thought it would be easier for me not to know you were alive?” His voice was strained, and tears stood at the rims of his eyes.
“I watched when you came to Zabo's grave,” Shabanu said, “and by then it was too late!”
“I never told you how I felt,” Omar said hoarsely.
“You were just like your Uncle Rahim,” she said. “You would never have been able to live with yourself if you hadn't done what was expected of you. I used to resent Rahim's dedication to the family and the tribeâbut I would never have respected him if he'd been any different. And youâyou were the same.”
“But I didn't live up to Uncle Rahim's honor!” he said miserably. “He died in my armsâthe best man I ever knewâand then I thought you died for the same senseless reasons. Vendetta. Land. The family honor. It was enough of deathâI didn't have the stomach for it. Perhaps I'd been in America for too long. When I told my father I couldn't be his heir as tribal leader I thought he'd never speak to me again. But he
agreed. He and Nargis and Tariq and I met and decided that we could start all over again with Jameel.”
agreed. He and Nargis and Tariq and I met and decided that we could start all over again with Jameel.”
“But Jameel is an American boy ⦔
“We need someone who can change the way people think,” said Omar. “When I look into Jameel's eyes I can see that he's torn. He is very American in some ways. His view of honor is all Pakistani, but his sense of justice is American. He sees everyone's life to be of equal value to his. I hope the time is right to introduce that way of thinking here, and that he will be good for all of us.”
“Haven't you had enough of manipulationâusing people for political reasons? What if he doesn't want to lead the tribe? He's just a boy! What about his education?”
Omar's face colored. “What?” said Shabanu, sensing there was something else. He didn't answer immediately. He reached for her hand, but Shabanu pulled back. They were sitting on the Swati chairs facing each other.
“The details haven't been worked out,” he said, “but I may as well tell you what else Baba's will says.” Shabanu sat very still. “Shortly after the funeral, Jameel and Mumtaz are to marry. He's a fine young man. They will be good for each other.” For a moment longer, Shabanu said nothing. “It was planned to give Mumtaz security as well as to bind the family together,” Omar added.
“You can paint it however you choose,” said Shabanu. “What about their education? What about letting them matureâgiving them the chance to discover what they want for themselves?”
“We all thought Baba would live a long time,” Omar said.
“Isn't this the kind of manipulation you and your father wanted to end with your modernization?” Shabanu asked.
“I must get back to Number 5,” said Omar. “There's so much to do. The funeral will be late this afternoonâbut I had to come to see you with my own eyes. May I come back?”
Shabanu shook her head. “I'm going to Cholistan, to my family,” she said. Omar hesitated a moment. He looked as if he wanted to tell her things, and she wanted to tell him so many things that had grown in her heart over these many years.
“Will you come back?” he asked.
Shabanu nodded. “As long as Mumtaz is here I'll always come back.”
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