A Deconstructed Heart (12 page)

Chapter 17

Mirza pulled up into the faculty parking lot and parked the car in his designated spot. They had been back in Trenton for two months since the trip to London, and a semblance of routine had entered their lives. Amal had asked him if it would be alright for her to transfer to his University and they had made a trip together to drive down some more of her things. He had not discussed the future with her, but the dark, empty house had made him feel the rightness of her decision. In Trenton, university had opened for both of them, and there was structure to their rising and sleeping, cooking and shopping and poring over essays and formulas in the evenings. He did not ask her about Rehan.

Mirza switched off the engine. Amal smiled at him as she looped her book bag over one shoulder. “I have some errands to do today, so I can’t pick you up after classes I’m afraid,” her uncle said as she opened the door to get out.

“Something fun?”

“That is not the word I would use,” he said. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Vanessa is picking me up this evening for a concert. Some of the friends are getting together afterward. Do you mind?” She was yawning and glanced at her watch.

“Enjoy yourself, beti. They are a nice group. Just please do me a favor, and don’t do anything that I have to explain away to your parents.” He winked at her. She chuckled, knowing that he was quite secure in the tame respectability of her life.

He watched her walk across the campus courtyard, a mass of pigeons fighting over their breakfast breaking up at the approach of her feet, closing ranks again as she passed.

He had a lecture to give first thing that morning and a seminar in the last teaching hour of the day. For a moment, he rested his forehead on the steering wheel before a swatch of red fabric passed the corner of his eye, and he straightened up quickly. Two young women, not his students, were cutting through the car park towards class. He sighed deeply and opened his car door, heading towards his office in the Schwartzman building. The lecture went overtime as the computer would not launch the slideshow for a while, until one of his students came down from his seat in the auditorium to help him. He heard a few chuckles from his students at the delay, but he did not mind. They were generally nice. There were a few time-wasters, but they did not bother him, even when he gave them ‘D’s, they still smiled at him in the corridors between classes. He knew his material inside out, and he felt like a recording of his voice would have sufficed today.

As he spoke, he looked out at his students. In the back row, he saw one of the time-wasters, Woods, who clearly was not long for this class, given the speed with which he was failing. He was sitting next to one of Mirza’s better students, with a hand on the inside of her thigh. Mirza sighed and looked away.

After the lecture, Mirza sat in his office, marking papers until Pete Winston invited him into his office, which once belonged to Stacey. They had coffee together, and discussed university politics for a while until winding back to Pete’s disintegrating marriage. It was a r
egular topic now since Mirza’s ‘breakdown’ had become common news at the university. Pete clearly saw his colleague as a natural confidant for the bitterness and frustration that was building in his home life, and Mirza was ready to oblige. For a moment, as Pete was talking, he thought of the children’s nursery rhyme, Humpty Dumpty, and imagined the two of them together, round and double chinned in plaid trousers, with fine cracks spidering up their shells. Before he left for the seminar, he placed a hand on Pete’s back by his shoulder blades and both men looked at the floor in silence.

The four o’ clock graduate class was surprisingly lively. There were a few live wires in this class and Mirza felt paternal pride in seeing them run the discussion with minimum prompting by him. They were discussing some of the great architectural failures in 20th century construction, aesthetic or engineering-related.

“It’s an ego trip,” Steven was saying, “it’s the triumph of capitalism over any kind of human concern.”

“But without artists’ individuality, how can you have progress? Do we have to limit ourselves at the functionality of Soviet-era design? Can't we have free ex
pression to pull us forward?” John was arguing.

“Who does it serve? Excessive individualism in architecture is like a session of masturbation—it only leaves one person satisfied.” Mirza winced. He never could get used to the way his students dropped sexual references into their language. “You have to put aside your individual urges to build community.”

“Can’t we have those who build works of art while others build for the masses?” This was no doubt the peacemaker, as Mirza saw him, Kenneth.

“That’s an illusion. Yes, people build schools and hospitals and other necessities. But the big plans, the leading thinkers, it’s all about egoism at the price of connection. One project does not talk to another, it’s like the impulse of Babel, with its end result.”

Mirza held up his hand. “I’m not familiar with this Babel?”

John answered. “It’s a Bible parable, the Tower of Babel. Humans were said to have one language and built a tower to the heavens, but God felt that they were achieving too much unified power, and instead, scattered the people across the face of the earth and made them speak in different languages so they couldn’t understand one another.”

Mirza turned to Steven. “So you think that architecture today is about pride?”

“Pride and alienation all in one. Who thinks about compatibility within the built environment, anymore, forget about the natural environment.”

Mirza heard Kenneth say, “You’re forgetting about the Native American Museum in Washington,” as he looked out of the window and then at his watch. It was five o’ clock and time to wrap things up. He still had time on his hands and headed back to his office to finish his marking until seven when he poured a cup of water into his ficus plant on his desk, turned off the light, locked the door and walked to his car.

The art gallery was a boutique affair, hedged between a shop selling expensive crystal decanters winking like kaleidoscopes in the sunlight and an organic greengrocers, complete with muscular men with trendy facial hair wearing green aprons. Mirza had gotten lost trying to find this place, and he was already an hour late for the opening. He had purchased a ticket to the preview show, and he pulled the printed email from his pocket to show the greeter. There were couples and groups of three moving from one exhibit to another, holding wine glasses. The vases stood on tall marble plinths, the smaller pieces, the jewelry boxes and plaques, lay on beds of velvet that lapped and surged in stylized waves that cascaded over the functionary stands which supported them. The work was finer than he remembered, smaller, like the handicraft of Mughal tilers. A Jamaican waiter came by with a tray of seafood canapés that did not look remotely appetizing, and he shook his head with a polite smile. He walked close to a group of attendees standing close to a green and purple vase, and loitered there, busily studying his program leaflet.

“The wine is just so-so. Had better at the McCoy showing, but then again, he’s got Hattie on his team, what more do I need to say?”

“It was a bloody coup to get her from Smithfield’s,” said a woman in the group, “I heard she was managing the best horses in their stable, so to speak. Brought some over with her, as I hear. This gallery still has the up-and-coming mystique about them, but if they don’t pull something out of their arses soon, they’ll have wasted their moment.”

The first speaker turned to the third member of their group. “Well, is this the tipping point right here? What do you make of it? Thumbs up or thumbs down?”

“Ask me again after a few drinks,” he said. “I’m not quite pissed enough, and I’ll need some better alcohol to take the edge off my incisive critique.” The others laughed as he threw his arm up in the air for the server, like a flamenco dancer.

Mirza walked away. The pamphlet was getting sweaty in his palm, so he folded it carefully in two and tucked it into his breast pocket like a serviette, then thought twice of it and slipped it into his trouser pocket. He found a low windowsill and sat there for a few minutes, looking out at people walking by in the street.

When he looked back, he saw Naida at the doorway of the gallery. S
he was ushered in with a twenty-something woman with red hair pulled back in a bun like a ballerina who was introducing her to potential buyers. Naida had cut her hair into a sharp bob, which was still streaked with gray, and wore a black cocktail dress with tights and glossy, patent high heel sandals that reminded Mirza of a little girl’s fantasy of what a lady’s shoe should be. She wore a large chunky bracelet on one arm. Mirza flushed.

A tall white-haired man with sharp cheekbones was now walking to Naida’s side and kissing her on the top of her head, leaving his arm around her waist. She leaned into him, and they walked to another small clique of visitors. The man was gently rubbing her back, and she was laughing and talking, reaching up to twist his earlobe in mock anger. Mirza stood up. At that moment, two little girls, in taffeta dresses and clips in their hair, ran up to the man and Naida and squeezed between them. They looked like the man, who said something that sounded gruffly affectionate in German to them.

Naida bent down to talk to one of the girls and was absentmindedly pulling the little girl’s blonde ponytail through her hand as she spoke and when she straightened up she saw Mirza across the room. A spot of color came into her cheeks, and she smiled hesitantly at him. The server was passing by and Mirza reached for a glass of wine, raised it in Naida’s direction with a tip of his head and placed it gently back on the tray and walked to the gallery door. Behind him, he heard someone tapping a microphone and a woman’s voice (the red-haired woman?) call out “Welcome!”, the authoritative metal ringing dousing the chatter of the gallery attendees like a bucket of cold water.

Chapter 1
8

Amal’s parents were coming that winter for two
weeks over the semester break. On the weekends in the months before, she helped Mirza add a few redecorating touches around the house. They threw out the old curtains and installed bright new ones and painted the first guest bedroom. “Sorry, beti, I should have done this earlier for you,” he said one Saturday morning. “We’ll spruce up the second bedroom before your parents come. You’ll like it there—I know that’s hard to imagine right now with the ironing board in it! It’s only for two weeks.”

“Don’t worry about me, Uncle,” Amal bit her lip. “I’ll be perfectly comfortable there. I wanted to tell you something: when university wraps up next year, I’m thinking of moving in with Vanessa. You know, she’s closer to London where the jobs are more likely to be. Commuting from here adds up, and I won’t be getting paid much for a long time. I plan on talking this over with Ami, Baba, when they come.”

Mirza’s hand moved more slowly on the brush stroke, but he did not turn around. “I wish you would stay here, save on rent, but you must think about your future.” He was quiet for a long time, his hand moving slowly up and down, although Amal could see there was no longer any fresh paint on its bristles. “You are a good girl, Amal. You must come back from time to time.” He turned around and put the brush down, “I have been an old fool and you have given up enough of your youth for me. But you must think of this as your home. I’m counting on it.”

She smiled at him and thought of the dark house, which she had not visited in six months, since her trip with Rehan. Her parents were taking care of the bills online, but she would have to persuade them to think about selling. “I have
not been happier in any other.”

She looked out of the window at the spot where the tent had stood last spring. There was no sign in the lush grass. From where she stood, she could see Frank and Ella Minton raking up leaves in their back garden. They had dinner together the past weekend, Frank teasing Mirza Uncle about whether
he had any other stunts in him, and he had laughed heartily.

“Next time, it
’ll be in your garden.”

Amal found the key under a fake rock in the front garden, where Vanessa had told her where it would be. Her apartment was on the ground floor of a terrace in North London. Her current roommate, Amy, was moving out to live with her boyfriend. “Are you going to do that to me?” asked Amal, half-jokingly. “Are you joking?!” Vanessa had replied, “Sven is great and all that, but come on. He’s hardly marriage material yet. Give him about five years of growing up, and I might actually consider it.” Amal was fairly sure that they would
be together for the rest of their lives, but had just smiled.

She had visited the apartment before and knew how to find Vanessa’s room, where she dropped her overnight bag and sleeping bag. The building dated from the Victorian times, and she looked up at the slightly chipped paint on the crown moulding. This would be her bedroom next year, Vanessa having dibs on the larger bedroom where Amy currently slept.  She did not mind. There was a large bay window
 that looked out onto the street and let in a soft honeyed light in the late afternoon. She made her way to the kitchen. The pale blue tile was reminiscent of a hospital, but it was spacious, with a high ceiling and a series of potted plants that threatened to overtake the house. She poured herself a bowl of cornflakes and sniffed the milk carton in the fridge, before topping up her bowl. There was a buzz on her phone and she answered. It was Vanessa.

“Everything OK?”

“I just got here.”

“Alright, love… just checking on you. I’ll be home at four.”

Vanessa was out at her Saturday job, working the lunch shift at the local pizza restaurant. “I mess it up all the time,” she had once confided in her friend. “Honestly I’m the worst. Last week I gave the salami pizza to the vegetarians. I swear I’m going to get fired soon. Hassan shakes that knife at me from the kitchen and says “Any day now, sweetie, any day now.” Before I leave, I tell you… I’m going to take that knife of his…”

They had plans to cook a meal together that evening and head out for a late film. It was only eleven now.

“What are you doing?”

“Talking to you.”

“Yes, you said that.”

“Right. Yes. See you soon, ok?”

Amal was puzzled, but after she hung up, she switched on the television and watched a show about house makeovers for a while, before switching off again and walking aimlessly around the living room.

Later, she could not explain how she had not seen the note earlier. Next to the telephone in the living room was a small pad with an address on it and Rehan’s name. There was no telephone number. Amal stared at the address for a while, tracing the imprint of her friend’s handwriting for a while before picking up the phone and dialing.

“I’ve found him. Can you meet me in London today?”

The house was in East London. Amal was following the directions on her phone GPS while Mirza Uncle stopped to consult a dog-eared A to Z. He rang the doorbell, while she remained on the pavement at the bottom of the steps. After a few minutes, a man opened the door. He was short, with a neatly cropped beard and was wearing a shalwar.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“Assalamu alaikum. We’re looking for a Rehan Quadri. Is this is his house?”

“Walaikum assalam. In a manner of speaking, yes it is. But he’s still at work. He’ll be back in about half an hour if you don’t mind waiting. I don’t think we’ve met...?”

Amal
and Mirza looked at each other. “I’m from his university,” said Mirza, “Actually I was his professor for a while. We hadn’t heard anything from him until today, so I asked my niece to humor me and accompany me on the trip over. I hope we’re not intruding.” She looked at him, but the man was ushering them in.

“Please. Come in, come in.”

They were led through a narrow hallway to a small front sitting room. As they turned into the room, Amal noticed a woman through the partially open door to the kitchen at the back of the house. She was standing back from a stove, and Amal could see the soft curve of her stomach.

In the sitting room, Amal noticed that their furnishings were spare. A framed black and white photo of a very old woman was hanging above the mantelpiece, and there were a few watercolors of birds on the side tables.

“Shanoo did those…” said the man, smiling proudly. I am Mustafa, by the way,” he said reaching to shake Mirza’s hand. Mirza introduced himself and Amal, without further elaboration.

Mustafa called out, “Shanoo! Shanoo!”

A young woman stepped into the room, “Do we have anything for our guests? Uncle here is Rehan’s old professor. This is my sister, Shahana.”

She smiled, and Amal took a deep breath. She was pretty, with deep dimples and curved, black eyelashes. She greeted
the guests with a friendly salam.

“He’ll be glad to see you. I’ve been telling him to look up his old college friends.”

“You have?” Amal asked blindly.

“Oh yes. He has had to focus on other priorities
”—here she touched her belly lightly, “but I’ve been telling him to think about going back to college in a year or so. I’m sorry Uncle,” she winked at Mirza, “he is switching to computer programming. We don’t have time to wait for him to make it big in architecture.” She looked at her brother with a smile, “And by then, Mustafa Bhai will need to do some babysitting because I should be ready to look for a job.”

Amal could feel her u
ncle’s quick glance at her, but she did not turn her neck. “That’s great… and what are you studying?”

“I’m an accountant, but I want to take exams to be chartered. We’re sort of doing things in reverse order, I know, it won’t be easy after the baby, but well…” she trailed off with an easy smile. “Inshallah.”

Amal was smiling too, but she had to fight the urge to get to her feet.

“We can’t stay long, I’m afraid. Perhaps you can tell Rehan we were sorry to miss him?” began Mirza, but there was the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Mustafa jumped up, “No, no, what great timing, you can’t leave just yet. Here he is.” Shahana followed Mustafa out of the room. Mirza squeezed his niece’s hand as she took a deep gulp of air. There was talking just outside the room, and she recognized Rehan’s voice. The sound of frying came from the kitchen and a pleasant, slightly nutty smell of spice floated into the room.

Mustafa entered first and Amal and Mirza stood up. Rehan was just behind. He was even thinner than Amal remembered, his eyes seeming large, the hard angles of his jaw softened with a fine beard. He hugged Mirza in greeting and stepped back with a shy s
mile for Amal and a quiet “Salam.”

Mustafa and Mirza began a conversation about the war in Iraq and Amal was grateful for her uncle’s chatter. She tried to look out of the room or around in interest, but she was aware of Rehan seated across from her and she could tell he was looking at her from time to time. When her uncle was engaged in deep conversation, Amal quickly said, “Congratulations. A wife and baby on the way. I didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry I have not been in better touch, with Uncle,” he added, glancing at Mustafa as he spoke. “I would have sooner, but then things got… complicated.”

“I see that,” said Amal, almost under her breath. “You must be very happy.” She hoped that the others would not pick up on the fierceness of her tone.

“I’m doing the best I can,” he looked at her directly, “trying to be the best man I can be.” He said this last quietly, and at that moment, Shahana came in with a tray of tea and some samosas. Amal jumped up to help her with the tea things, handing out the cups as Shahana poured them. Rehan took his without looking at her.

“You have a beautiful home,” Amal said to Shahana.

“It’s Bhaiya’s. We have some work to do,” she looked over at Rehan with a warm smile, “and then we’ll be looking for something close by.”

“No rush,”
said Mustafa. “My wife, Faiza—she’s out with my father-in-law right now—is so excited for the baby. I don’t think she’ll be letting anyone leave for a while. We have none of our own,” said Mustafa matter-of-factly. “It will be nice to have new life in this house. And then, there are always opportunities to buy on this street, something will open up.”

“And where are you working?” asked Mirza of Rehan, who
had put his teacup down, half-finished, and had not touched his samosa.

“With Mustafa Bhai’s construction company.”

“Ah, a man of business,” said Mirza jovially.

“What can I say? It’s been quite good to us, things are beginning to pick up what with the housing boom and all. When I met Rehan, he was with a shoddy group of contractors, but I saw his work and tempted him over to join us. He was too good to waste. He’s been family ever since.” He reached over and slapped Rehan’s knee. Amal actually saw color come into his cheeks, but he smiled.

He was still looking down when he said, “Mustafa Bhai has been very kind to me. I am very grateful.” He looked up at Amal, then at Shahana who was smiling at her brother, then back to Amal again. “I am grateful.”

As they said their goodbyes a few minutes later, Mirza looked at Amal and said to Rehan, “I met your mother a while back, a lovely lady, she was hoping to hear from you. Have you seen her lately?” Amal was confused for a moment, knowing that she alone had made that trip to Rehan’s
family home. Why bring this up? she wondered.

“Yes, I’ve been in touch in the past six months. A little delinquent there, as in all things, but I hope she has forgiven me. I have talked to my father too.” He looked at Amal.

“I wonder why she did not call to let us know?” asked Mirza.

“She must have lost your number. Do give her a call, here, let me give you the number again.” He wrote down a number on the telephone pad by the hall and gave the sheet to Amal. “I know she would love to hear from you.” He paused and then turned deliberately to Mirza and said, “It was very nice of you to go see her. I heard she enjoyed meeting you.” There was another silence and then, “It has been a while, but she still thinks about you.”

“I have dragged my poor niece all around London today,” said Mirza kindly, taking Rehan’s hand between his own. “She never complains, but I think I will be taking her back to her friend’s house now and let her get some well-deserved rest. She has been too good.” He looked over at Amal and took the sheet with one hand, the other still holding Rehan’s.

“I will take that number, Amal, please, I would like to pay my respects to Begum.” He folded the sheet roughly with his fingers and stuffed it in his pocket. “And now,” he dropped Rehan’s hand, “I will let you good people get back to your lives.”

As they walked away from Mustafa’s house, with the whole family seeing them off from the front garden, Mirza drew his niece to his side with an arm over her shoulder.

“Fate has a way of making decisions for us when we are not looking, beti. Are you alright?” She did not answer, but patted his back lightly and rested her head briefly on his shoulder. They walked in silence for a while until she could tr
ust her voice to speak levelly.