The Blind Man's Garden Page 2

  ‘Mikal.’

  If love was the result of having caught a glimpse of another’s loneliness, then he had loved Mikal since they were both ten years old.

  Mikal looked up and Jeo went forward and they placed their arms around each other.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Jeo asked when they separated.

  Mikal embraced him again. ‘I was delivering some guns I mended for them,’ he said eventually, speaking as always with a gravity to his words, a minute shifting of those eyebrows that joined in the middle. ‘I work at a gun shop.’

  Around them the madrasa was noisy with the voices of children who, knowing little but life’s deprivations, prayed the way they ate, with a deep hunger.

  Jeo did not hesitate in telling Mikal about Afghanistan. This almost-brother. This blood-love in everything but name. Mikal was ten years old when he and his older brother came to live at Jeo’s house, Mikal carrying a book of constellations under one arm, the large pages full of heroes and beasts caught in diamond-studded nets. The puppy he held in the crook of the other elbow would have to be given away within two months when it became apparent that it was a wolf. Mikal and Jeo were the same age and had soon become inseparable, a dedication in Jeo for Mikal’s watchfulness and self-containment, the grace that shaped his every move, though it was interrupted by short spells when something would madden in him and he would refuse to be found.

  ‘You are going to Afghanistan?’ Mikal said when Jeo finished speaking.

  ‘Just for a month. Later I might go for a longer period.’

  ‘What about your studies?’

  ‘I’ll catch up.’ Rohan had taken Jeo to watch his first surgical operation at the age of twelve, and he knew at thirteen some of the things that were taught to his first-year class at medical school.

  As the motorcycle sped through the traffic – he was taking Mikal to the gun shop – he said over his shoulder, ‘You still haven’t told me why you completely disappeared last year. Missing my wedding. And nothing but a short visit to the house since then. I wonder if you even remember my wife’s name.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were getting married,’ Mikal said.

  Mikal’s parents had been Communists, and his father was arrested around the time Mikal was born, never to be seen again. It was the mother’s death a decade later that led to Rohan taking in Mikal and his brother. People fallen on hard times would come and ask Mikal to say a prayer for them, because orphaned children were among those beings whose prayers Allah was said never to ignore.

  At the gun shop, AK-47s were stacked six high on the shelves. If genuine, these rifles would cost eighty thousand rupees each, but these were replicas at a quarter of the price. The day after the West invaded Afghanistan, a ‘piety discount’ was introduced for those who wished to buy the weapon to go to the jihad. There were reproductions of older guns too, of rifles to be found in the armouries of the Tower of London, .30 calibre Chinese pistols, Argentinian Ballester-Molinas. On the wall was a large photograph of a flock of eagles that had been trained to fight in human wars, the wings outspread at a slant like living book-rests – a dream from the land’s past.

  The proprietor gave Mikal instructions regarding various repairs and left to answer the muezzin’s call. The trigger was stiff on a shotgun and the owner of a revolver wished it to make a louder sound when fired. Prising off the forearm, Mikal unbreeched the shotgun and lifted away the barrel. ‘So. Afghanistan,’ he said.

  ‘You are the only person I have told.’

  ‘What if something happens to you?’

  ‘Will you come to the house before I leave?’ The ties between them had strengthened – Jeo’s sister was now married to Mikal’s brother.

  ‘Jeo. Something could happen to you out there. You could be killed, or come back without your sanity, your limbs, or your eyes.’

  ‘What if everyone began to think that way?’

  Mikal’s glance remained on him and then he returned to his work. Jeo could sense the careful mind addressing the task. Anything mechanical, Mikal had to know its secrets. Once he almost stole a helicopter. ‘They should never have left the keys in,’ he said. ‘But I thought better when I saw the number of gears.’ By the age of fourteen he had driven a bulldozer, various cars, a boat.

  ‘You used to make toys,’ Jeo said.

  Mikal leaned back on his stool and, without looking, opened the cupboard behind him and took out a small windup truck. He turned its key several times and placed it on the glass counter. Jeo held the palm of his hand beyond the edge for it to arrive and fall onto.

  ‘Keep it. It’s yours.’ Mikal slid the key towards him along the counter. ‘What if I said I’d come with you?’

  ‘I don’t need to be looked after.’

  Mikal had thumbed open the gate of the revolver and put the hammer at half cock but now he paused and looked up. ‘I didn’t mean that.’ He turned the cylinder and ejected the round from the chamber with the ejector rod.

  He lit a Gold Flake and said with a grin, ‘I smoke five a day. My five prayers.’

  Jeo was forced to smile. ‘You’re going to Hell.’ Then he said, ‘Are you serious about coming with me?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll go back later today and give them my name.’

  ‘What will you do there?’

  ‘I’ll carry the wounded to you from the battlefield.’ And after a while without looking at him he added,

  ‘And I do remember her name, Jeo. Her name and the fact that she is descended from the Prophet.’

  *

  Naheed lifts Jeo’s arm from around her waist. He’ll leave with Rohan to catch the train for Peshawar in just under two hours but for now he has closed his eyes in shallow sleep. She buttons the neck of her tunic and is walking away from the bed when a small jolt makes her look back. He is lying on her veil. Moving closer through the candlelit air she sees that he has in fact tied a corner of it to the index finger of his right hand. She releases the knot and her glass bangles rattle as she gently slaps his bare shoulder. He smiles with eyes still closed, the inch-long dimple materialising in each cheek. He had stunned her one day by saying, ‘I’d like to die watching you.’

  She looks out of the window, past the low rosewood bough from which a sheep is hung every year to be disembowelled and skinned just minutes from its last conscious moments, to mark the Sacrifice of Abraham. It is bought fully grown a few days earlier but ideally should be raised from a lamb, given love, and then killed.

  She turns to see him gazing at her. Rising on one elbow he picks up the toy truck from the stack of books on the bedside table. It comes towards her between the clothes he had shed on the floor earlier and goes past and is soon out of sight under the armchair, the sound of its tin gears vanishing suddenly where it must have met the wall.

  ‘Mikal gave me that toy,’ he says, lying down again.

  She collects his clothes and places them at the foot of the bed. She had made this shirt for him – in great secrecy, not revealing to anyone how it is possible that not a single seam or stitch can be discovered upon it.

  She takes a lamp from a ledge in the hallway and steps out into the cold darkness. Looking up into the trees. After Rohan and Jeo leave for Peshawar tonight, she will walk to her mother’s place a few streets away, but she will return early tomorrow morning to wait for the bird pardoner. Rohan has instructed for all ensnared birds to be set free. ‘And he must take down the wires. I do not recall giving him permission.’ She raises her arm and the light from the lamp breaks up into sharp glints on several high wires above her.

  She wonders where Mikal is at this moment. In some respects, grief for the lost and missing is worse than grief for the dead, and sometimes just for a fraction of a second its intensity makes her wish Mikal would cease to exist, so she wouldn’t have to wonder if she will ever see him again.

  ‘Let’s just leave,’ he had said to her a week before she was to marry Jeo. He had pointed into the night. ‘Let’s just disappear out there somewher
e.’ She had been shocked by the suggestion, but had then agreed, suddenly fierce in her determination.

  But on the agreed hour, he hadn’t come for her.

  She moves along one of the many red paths that wander in the garden.

  The crescent-shaped house was the original building of Ardent Spirit, the school Rohan and his wife Sofia had founded. When the number of pupils outgrew it, a new building was constructed on the other side of the river that flows behind the house. This building then became Rohan and Sofia’s home.

  Decades ago when they formed the idea of Ardent Spirit, Rohan had used matchsticks to explain the layout to Sofia.

  It is divided into six pairs of rooms, arranged in an elegant curve, a screened corridor linking them all. Each pair of rooms is named after one of those six centres of Islam’s bygone brilliance.

  Mecca House is situated amid Arabian date palms that release their fruit onto the roof throughout summer, the dates that are like sweet chewable leather in the mouth. A tablet carrying the name is affixed beside the entrance, reading, It was in order to determine the exact direction of Mecca that Muslims had developed an interest in geometry and mathematics, and had eventually invented trigonometry. The words were intended to remind the children of their legacy, Islam’s long inheritance of knowledge and achievement.

  The calligraphy is in Sofia’s hand and its grace makes the reader aware of, and even feel responsible for, the soul of the calligrapher.

  Climbing roses curtain Baghdad House, spreading on the walls in lean assessing tendrils, and the undone petals lie on the tiles to return loaned light deep into the evening. The children were informed that in Baghdad there was a ‘House of Wisdom’ as early as the year 830.

  Spanish almond trees and carnations grow around Cordoba House. According to the tablet outside it, the flower the king of djinns presented to Solomon, to give to the Queen of Sheba, was a carnation. She would wear it in her hair. The tablet records that the Muslims of Spain had manufactured the first paper in Europe around 1150, and also that in 1221 the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II had declared all official documents written on paper to be invalid – paper having become associated in Europe with Muslims.

  Egyptian blue lotuses stand in crystal-tight arrays in a triangular pool before Cairo House, the blossoms closing at night and sinking underwater to re-emerge in the morning. Cairo, where the ‘House of Science’ was created in 995 and where the Fatimid palace library had comprised forty rooms, its collections including eighteen thousand manuscripts on the ‘Sciences of the Ancients’ alone, the staff comprising mathematicians, astronomers, physicians, grammarians, lexicographers, copyists and readers of the Koran.

  Beside that, sheltered by a century-wide banyan, are the two rooms named after Delhi, and next to that is Ottoman House. According to Mikal’s book of constellations, in the sixteenth century the clergymen had convinced Sultan Murat III to destroy Istanbul’s first ever observatory, telling him that the lenses were peering too far into the secrets of Allah’s heavens in the name of progress and science, and would result in divine wrath being visited on his kingdom.

  Mikal.

  One afternoon just over two months into the marriage, Jeo brought him home, thinking they were meeting for the first time.

  She heard him whisper something when Jeo briefly stepped out of the room. He was sitting on the edge of the chair, looking down at the floor. She still had the letters he had written to her in the months before she learned she was to marry Jeo. Several times she had taken them to the river but had failed to relinquish them.

  He looked at her and said, more clearly, ‘I couldn’t betray him. He is a brother to me.’

  She remembers nodding. Concentrating on remaining composed.

  They were both silent and eventually, listening out for Jeo’s return to the room, she had said, ‘Nothing can be done now.’

  ‘Yes.’ He had to attempt the word twice and it came out unshapely as though a bone was broken somewhere inside it.

  He stood up. ‘Tell Jeo I had to go.’

  ‘It might make things easier for me if I don’t see you. I must learn to love him, none of this is his fault.’

  ‘I won’t come again. I’ll try to leave the city.’

  It was the sixty-sixth day of her marriage and the last time she saw him.

  She looks up at the sky. He said Orion was shaped like the cow’s hide from which he was born nine months after it was urinated on by Zeus, Hermes and Poseidon. He told her that some Arab astronomers saw a woman’s hand dyed with patterns of henna in the constellations Cassiopeia and Perseus, while others said it was the hand of Fatima stained with drops of blood – Fatima, the daughter of Muhammad, Naheed’s ancestor.

  She hears the two-note call of a bird and, bending into a tunnel of foliage, sets out to search for it, the moonlight pale as watered ink. She stops beside the citrus tree whose branches filled entirely with white flowers Sofia had mistaken for an angel as she lay dying. From their faultless portraits painted by Sofia, Naheed can recognise almost all the trees and plants in this garden, the seedpods and leaves and the berries dense with sugar.

  She had also made pictures of living things but Rohan had burned them during her last hours, fearing she would be judged for disobeying Allah, who forbade such images lest they lead to idolatry. The black smoke of the fire had sidled up to her deathbed. The sketch of a bull’s skull and that of a fossil from the Bannu hills were destroyed too – these creatures were already dead when she drew them, but they had lived once, and he wished to eradicate all doubt to ensure her salvation. He asked her to tell him where the rest of the paintings and drawings were, to tell him the address of the friend for whose home she had designed several murals. In his fear he had cleansed the house of every other image too, every photograph and picture, even those not created by her.

  And then a decade after her death, he saw her looking in his direction through a high window. It was the last day of Ramadan: a group of distinguished citizens had been invited to climb the minaret of the Friday mosque in the city centre, to view the new month’s crescent moon. As the binoculars passed over the city he recognised her eyes among the rooftops, the face turned three-quarters towards him, the pattern of her aquamarine tunic. It took him some time to bring her back into the glass and the distance between them was in miles – too many streets and at least three bazaars. Beside her was a giant bearded head, and in her hands she held several flower bulbs with lilies sprouting out of them, and curled up inside each bulb was a very young human infant, perhaps a foetus.

  Rohan hadn’t known that she had included her own portrait in the mural for the eight walls and two ceilings of her friend’s home, the coloured skin of the rooms. Rohan would set out across the city to locate them, systematically entering the narrow lanes and alleyways, arriving at his destination several weeks later. ‘I have permission to speak about one of the eight angels that hold up Allah’s throne,’ the Prophet had said. ‘So large is he that the distance between his earlobe and shoulder will require a journey of seven hundred years.’ And the giant head next to Sofia’s portrait belonged to one of the eight angels.

  Naheed takes a gulp of air and extinguishes the lamp, standing perfectly still in the night, the smoke withering around her.

  She listens, determined to locate the trapped bird that had called out from within the madness of suffering. But there is only silence now, not even a halting fragment. Ali! Ali! A dervish, having renounced dealings with all words except that one, never utters another, in any circumstance … The sentence enters her mind from a book she had been looking at earlier. Her gaze is drifting across the sky where the moon sits in a great cold ring as she recalls more and more words. Only one thing matters, only one word. If we speak, it is because we have not found that thing, nor shall find it.

  *

  Mikal has never stopped being surprised at how heavy a bullet is, given its size.

  He is in the high room he rents in an alley winding off the Grand
Trunk Road. The first time he dreamed of Jeo dying, he woke up to find the air of this room full of his frightened shouts. It was just before the wedding, and the nightmares had continued over the following months.

  He takes a bag of bullets and various other items from the cupboard and places them in a canvas rucksack, getting ready to catch the same overnight train as Jeo and Rohan. A Monday evening during a world war. He is wearing a navy-blue sweater and over it the black jacket of a Western suit, and in a holster under the sweater is the M9 Beretta handgun.

  His parents had lived in this apartment, and he himself had lived here until the age of ten. Almost two months after his mother’s death he had opened the door to a dignified and imposing stranger who wore a sherwani frock coat and a Jinnah cap. Mikal remembers him saying that he had come to look at the pictures on the walls, remembers staring at the man wordlessly and then stepping back to allow him in. The stranger was transfixed by one painted woman in particular, the face situated between a high wall of books and a chair. He stood before her as though he wished to memorise her. And then his clothes rustled as he lowered himself into the chair and gently began to question Mikal, asking his name, asking him where the adults were. Mikal, who hadn’t spoken since the funeral, told him that he and his eighteen-year-old brother were living there by themselves.

  ‘Mikal, my name is Rohan,’ the man said. ‘I am here to take you and your brother home with me.’ He pointed to the woman on the wall. ‘She sent me.’

  Mikal looks at his wristwatch. He heard the word ‘death’ thirteen times in the half hour he spent at the charity headquarters when he went to sign up, and ever since then he has felt himself move closer and closer to the unknown. According to a newspaper a brick from the pulverised home of Mullah Omar has been flown to the United States as a war trophy for the White House. And, according to another, on 19 September a CIA paramilitary officer was told by his chief at Langley, Virginia, ‘I want bin Laden’s head shipped in a box filled with dry ice. I want to show it to the President. I promised him I would do that.’