In the Orchard, the Swallows Read online

  I did not stay long this morning. I arrived too late, the dawn already forming around me. In the valley below, the muezzin had begun his call to prayer, the sound of it faint as it reached me, as though it came from a long time past.

  I had been too slow to get out of bed. Every part of my body seemed to ache, and when I rolled over I felt dizzy and sick. A terrible nausea curled me into a ball. But still I did not want to miss a day, so I made the walk despite the cramps in my stomach. Several times I had to stop to allow the sickness to subside. My legs felt weak and my breath was hard to catch.

  It will be like this for a while longer, I think. I am better than I was, but today even my bones feel ill, as though they have become soft and leprous. I try not to be disheartened by such days, but it is hard when the nausea comes. I tell myself that at least it does not come so severely every morning, and at least, while it does, I am still able to walk. I have come from worse places than this.

  In the orchard the irrigation channel is close to dry. It slopes gently down from the lake, higher up the mountain, and either the lake is lower than it has ever been, or, more likely, the narrow channel is blocked by debris accumulated during the winter. I felt distressed to see the meagre trickle of water. It should have been cleared as soon as spring arrived. This was one of my first jobs here, being dispatched up the channel to clear the way, and only if there had been a large slide, if the mud were too thick or the rocks too heavy for me to move alone, would I have to return, and call for my father.

  If I arrive earlier tomorrow, and am not so sick, perhaps I will go along and see if I can clear it, just for the pleasure of seeing the water flow.

  Beneath the blossom the crowns of the fruit are forming. I can see the beginnings of their flesh, slim and green. Through the summer their shapes will swell and their insides ripen.

  So much of my childhood, when my mother allowed, was spent among these trees. My father worked from prayers until noon, when the heat was too much. He moved from tree to tree with his knife, its blade curled like an eyelid, trimming a shoot or branch with practised ease. He saw shapes in the trees that I could not, and brought them forth, making corrections where I could see none that needed to be made.

  He owned a radio, which he was proud of – my uncle had bought it for him from the market. Sometimes he would pause from work to clean it of dust, holding it in one hand while he wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt. He listened to the talk stations, mostly. There were voices in the orchard when I worked there. Though I did not really follow the things they spoke of, they were a comforting presence. But still I loved those rare days when he would tire of the conversations and would call to me to change the station, to search the wide static space for some music. I remember dancing to the music one day among the trees, twirling round and round, thinking myself entirely alone until I saw that my father had been watching me. I thought I would be in trouble for not working, but, without altering the seriousness of his expression, he too began to dance, and wordlessly the two of us spun around. He looked so ridiculous that I was overcome by laughter and dizziness, and I collapsed to the floor. He mimicked my fall, throwing his legs above him as he went, and then played dead beside me, his legs rigid and sticking straight up into the air. And yet he was normally so quiet, so careful. When he turned the radio off he would hold it to his ear, checking that the faint electronic hiss had died, anxious to save the batteries.

  Even before I was old enough to help him work in the orchard, he brought me here. I remember him swinging me onto his shoulders to carry me proudly through its reach. Together, we were almost as tall as the trees. Often he would swerve beneath them and then stand up on his toes, tangling me in the branches, and causing me to cry out at his clumsiness. Again and again he would play this trick, and I, on his shoulders, with my ankles gripped tightly, could do nothing to avoid getting caught. I would cry with helpless frustration, but the repetition would eventually wear me down, and we would end up laughing. He laughed almost silently, my father; his face creased and his shoulders shook. Just a faint, delightful wheeze as the air escaped.

  How I miss him. This morning I reached for the leaves again, pulling them down to brush against my face. Beneath the dust they are glossy, smooth as polished leather against my cheek.

  The Market

  Are you waiting for me to tell you that I have missed you, too? Well, I will withhold the thought for a while, until I find words that are sufficient. Let me tell you another story instead; one you will already know.

  Do you remember how I introduced myself to you? I would discover, later, that I knew of your family – your father was an assistant political agent for the region, known well beyond the town. I had seen him and your brothers at Friday prayers. Perhaps I even knew there was a sister, though I did not know it was you. I must have seen you many times, when we were children, but all I remember is that first day in the market.

  A neighbour’s truck had driven me down the hill into town, and I was making my way through the fringes of the market. I carried two heavy bags of fruit intended for a stallholder, the plastic bags stretching beneath the weight, cutting into my hand. I knew to carry them without jolting them, for if the handles broke the bags became impossible to carry, had to be gathered in your arms without the fruit spilling over. I stopped for a moment on my way, placing the bags by my feet so that I could rest my arms. Around me, stalls swelled with walnuts and apples, with grapes and mulberries.

  Across the market, I saw you standing against a wall with your friends. You held the hand of your youngest brother, who stood a little over half your height beside you. You stood at a fruit stall, beside a tray of apricots – I remember because their colour was reflected onto the white silk of your dupatta, a strange trick of the market light. Your kurta, red as the fruits I carried, was embroidered with flowers around the neck.

  I did not have the nerve to tell you then. You would have been embarrassed, in any case, and you would have laughed at me. But I have no such fears now, so let me say it: you were so beautiful that I stopped, entirely dumb, in the middle of the street. Your eyes were alive with some inner illumination, a light I had never seen before. I did not know what it was, but it was so pleasurable to me, so exciting. A woman trying to move through the market complained about the obstruction I was causing, and because I was not able to reply, took me for an idiot. She shook her head and berated me loudly as she went past.

  I knew I could not say anything to you.

  I bent down to my bags, and took from one of them the finest pomegranate I could find. Then I walked up to you, and waited for you to look at me. Your friends stopped talking, and stared at me curiously. Then I held the fruit out at arm’s length. I placed its weight in your hand – which you had put out almost in surprise – and then I walked away. I gave you a pomegranate, then I walked away. Your friends, once they had recovered from their amazement, laughed and jeered after me, but I did not turn round. I am sure, I am sure, that you did not laugh with them. Perhaps only a small laugh to cover your embarrassment. I picked up my plastic bags and went on my way. And that was our first meeting.

  *

  Two weeks later you found me among the fruit stalls. You were carrying your brother. He looked huge in your arms, almost too big for you to lift.

  ‘What is your name?’ you asked, and I told you.

  ‘You own the orchard on the hill,’ you said.

  ‘It is my father’s orchard,’ I said, and you laughed, at either my pedantry or my pride. Then you tilted your head to the side, as though weighing something up.

  ‘I am Saba,’ you said, and the name seemed like a wonderful gift to me.

  It seems so, still. I have carried it for a long time, the most precious thing I owned. I spoke it rarely, so that it would not become tainted by my surroundings. I kept it buried deep inside, and when I had nothing else to cling to, with a single whisper in the dark I would name you, careful not to be heard, and in doing so, something of you would be resto
red to me, and something of myself would be saved.

  The Village

  For a long while now I have had no news of my family. You will understand if I say that it was much easier to find news of your father than of my own. His life has been blessed. He is a member of the National Assembly now, a powerful man, more than even he once was. I wonder: do you imagine I am disturbed by this news? It is true, I thought that it would trouble me more. There were times when I wished him to suffer greatly. But they are long gone, and his fate is unimportant to me, in the end. All I wonder is how it has affected you, where it has taken you.

  Still, I expressed perhaps too much curiosity about him to Abbas, who warned me that I should be cautious about asking. I could see him wondering what my interest was, but he withheld from asking me. I had wondered for a long time what I should tell him about my past. I was afraid, at first, that he would ask me to leave if I told him about the years in prison, but I came to trust that he would not, and found that my trust was rewarded. He has treated me so well. I am utterly unused to it, and am often at a loss to respond.

  He warns me, too, about my daily walks to my old home. He knows that there were old troubles, and thinks I should stay as far from there as possible, though of course he sees me leave every morning, and knows that I am not following his advice. I do not think he knows why I still go. This I keep secret, though I am sure in time he will guess. He is far more intelligent than anyone I have known. And though he is also a kind man, I am afraid he will see only the foolishness of it, the vanity of the act, and not its necessity.

  He has offered to help find my family, if I will be patient enough to allow him to look. He does not think it will be difficult. There are few secrets, little that remains unknown. But he warns me that it may take a while, that he will need to ask the questions quietly, and in his own time.

  ‘But we have time,’ he says. ‘Your family will wait until you are well.’

  Recovery comes, though tentatively. It is hard to chart. I do not always feel much better, but I acknowledge, certainly, that I am able to do more than I could even a month ago. In the last week I have begun to help around the house. I am pleased to be well enough, though I am embarrassed to say that I was rather shamed into it. I had been selfish, gathering my energy and hoarding it, expending it only on my morning walks. But now, among other chores, I go every evening to the village well, to fetch water for the house. Formerly, this was Alifa’s role, much as it had been my sisters’, when I was young. She performed the task uncomplainingly until she realised that I was no longer quite so sick as I had been. I think it came as a surprise to her – as it did, in part, to myself. I am sure she had thought that I was simply a sick person, and not particularly someone who was ever going to get better. But once Abbas had drawn her attention to my improvement, she latched quickly on to it.

  ‘Alifa,’ he called, one day, ‘isn’t our guest looking much better?’

  And then that surprise on her face, her mind ticking over. She did not need to think for very long.

  ‘If he is so much better, then what is he going to do? Can he cook? I already do most of the cooking.’ This was not entirely true, though she helped her father a great deal.

  I shook my head. ‘I can learn . . .’ I began to say, but realised that neither of them regarded me as a part of the conversation.

  ‘Alifa, my heart, this is no way to treat guests.’

  ‘Then the water!’ she said. ‘Isn’t that a good idea?’ she added, pleased with herself.

  ‘Alifa.’

  ‘What? He’s bigger than me, he can carry more.’ It was her final argument. At which point I stepped in to offer my services – it is embarrassing to be rebuked for laziness by a child – and she folded her arms triumphantly, and her father, annoyed, relented.

  I am fortunate it is not far. Two walks each day would be beyond me. I go through the small village, then along the road beside the terraced fields. There are goats and cows, sometimes singly, sometimes in a herd. The people here are mostly farmers. There is however a potter along the street. His workshop is a small open room of the building, with a tarpaulin drawn across the front. By the time I return from my morning walk, the tarpaulin is pulled back, and I can see him at work in the shadows, the steady beat of his foot against the pedal that turns the wheel. Outside the door are lined bowls and tiles, drying in the sun, the clays orange and pink, their grooves perfect, as though the surfaces had been combed.

  Only the women of the village collect the water, and if there is anyone there before me, I keep my distance until they are finished. Sometimes I think I see them laughing at me, perhaps making jokes about my presence there. Once, I was greeted by my host’s name, and I was puzzled until Abbas admitted that he has told people I am a distant relative of his, come to the mountains to convalesce after a long illness. So at least here, because of this lie, I do not feel unwelcome. The village becomes familiar to me, begins to feel as though it is some kind of home.

  How much I have missed village life. I have missed the countryside, the freedom of these surroundings. I have missed the people, and I have missed their goodness; indeed, I had almost ceased to believe in it. And though I had no privacy in the years away, not a moment of solitude, it has only occurred to me lately how lonely I have been.

  The Market

  How many times did I come to the market to look for you? I took every chance I had to visit the town. After bringing deliveries of fruit I would linger in the places where I had seen you and your friends, would haunt the alleys between your neighbourhood and the market, hoping to intercept you on the way. Once, taking the opportunity to ride on the footplate of a neighbour’s truck, I left the orchard without my father’s permission. It was a wasted journey – I did not find you that day – and I was beaten when I returned home, but it was not enough to stop me making the trip.

  And yet how many times did we meet? Beloved – it cannot have been many. There were days when I found you, and my excitement rose, but the worried look on your face told me that an older brother of yours was nearby, and I should not come to talk to you.

  Perhaps our time together amounted to only a few minutes of my life. But they were the most important events I had known, and they expand in my memory to fill the days. Everything was richer for you; the air around us seemed to have some extra colour or intensity to it.

  I felt frustrated that we could not be alone. Always, there was your baby brother and your friends. They made jokes about your new peasant friend, said that I came to the market and gave a pomegranate to every girl I liked. It was clear they looked to you for their lead, accepted me only because you did. But they were not unkind.

  I felt light in your company. It brought from me a character I was not familiar with. I worked hard to entertain you, to make you laugh. Anything that would cause you to desire even a minute more of my company.

  I told you about the orchard. I boasted about it, if I am honest. I told you that it was the most beautiful place on earth.

  ‘Have you been everywhere, then?’ you asked.

  And of course I had been nowhere.

  ‘No, not everywhere,’ I said, attempting to imply that I had seen my share of the world.

  ‘Then where have you been?’

  How easily you teased me! So early was it established which of us was the smarter. But I was beginning to learn, and would not be drawn.

  ‘Until you have seen it,’ I said, ‘you cannot say I am wrong.’

  You paused at this. I thought that you were a little impressed by my insistence, though you may simply have been amused.

  ‘Then I suppose I will have to see it,’ you said.

  The idea seized me.

  ‘Why don’t you come now?’ I asked.

  One of your friends, listening in, gave a sudden, mocking laugh. You looked at me pityingly. I must tell you: before meeting you I had never worried that I was not intelligent. Yet around you, when I most needed it, my mind would not work, and I became q
uite stupid.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean . . .’

  But, kindly, you had already changed the subject.

  Was this how we came to talk about the wedding? Perhaps I had regained my confidence and was boasting, once again, about the richness of life in our small hamlet. Our neighbour’s eldest son was getting married, and they were having a great party at the house. They were the wealthiest of our neighbours, owning the best of the farmland.

  ‘It is such a shame you will not be there. Everyone from the village is invited. There will be musicians.’

  ‘Who says I will not be there?’

  ‘You don’t even know them! How could you be invited?’

  ‘I am coming, with my mother,’ you said.

  I scoffed, sure that you were teasing me.

  ‘My father is the guest of honour.’

  ‘Your father? Who is your father?’

  You watched me carefully as you told me, as though it were a test. But my surprise was not faked, and you shook your head at me, bewildered by my ignorance, and perhaps too, in this one instance only, a little pleased by it. And it was in this way that I came to know who you were.

  The Wedding

  I walked to the wedding party with my father. From the town, guests came up the stream, its bed rocky and dry in the summer, making it a shorter route than the road. We needed only to walk through the trees, and then cut across the field. The corn at head height. I lifted my arms and ran my hands through the ears. As night fell, we went towards the tall mud wall surrounding the house, its gate open. The sky was darkening behind it, a rich blue glow at its heart turning to black. We entered the walled courtyard, and greeted the man of the house. My father was serious in his bearing, earnest and heartfelt in his congratulations.