We created man from a drop of semen so that We may test him . . . And verily, We shall put men to the test with fear and suffering and loss of wealth and lives and children . . .
— Qur’an 76:2, 2:155
If men divide into those who have suffered and those whose suffering awaits, this was the year of my graduation. I sit now by my open window, leaning my cheek on my hand, watching the breeze blow the cherry blossom, and can embrace neither the Allah whose suffering winnows the unbelievers, nor the Christian suffering that strengthens and ennobles. It is several months since I was in Pakistan; the things I saw there have settled in the silt of my mind. I took the manuscript of my book to my editor and explained that there may be stylistic inconsistencies. I wrote the first part – the events that happened before my brother’s death – before my brother’s death. There was a hiatus while I staggered; and when I picked it up again my life and my voice had changed. ‘This book has been the journal of your plague year,’ she said.
The day after I came back from Karachi I sat with Ayesha; we tried to draw the lessons of what we had discovered. I hoped the common endeavour of our quest, with its lowering disappointments and meagre successes, might outweigh our differences. I hoped we might come together in mutual acknowledgement of the other’s grief. But we argued. Over trivial things. I walked out and we didn’t communicate. I understood that she was unhappy – my investigation had brought her little cheer and no catharsis – and unhappiness mixed with frustration made her run from comfort. It took me a while to understand that I was the same. Always at the end of a project I feel empty. This time, because the dangers had been survived, the research done and the book written without any of the emotional redemption such stories are held to generate, it was worse. The plague year and Tom’s loss had disturbed my balance. The gloom descended. I had to get away. I travelled to avoid thinking, ran to escape from myself. It took time – months – but it helped. The voyage lifted my spirits. I returned to England with new energy, resolved to make good the mistakes I had committed.
I determined to put things right with Ayesha. She had a new address; she invited me to come and see her. I found the house in the long terraced streets of Fulham. She opened the door and pointed to the number on it.
‘Look, Martin – 786! That’s a lucky number for Muslims!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Because that’s what the letters of Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim add up to; In the name of Allah, the most Merciful . . .’
‘You seem happy . . . Happier than when we last met.’
‘I am, Martin. Come in.’
In the kitchen she showed me the cradle and the pram. Wrapped in a pink blanket, her week-old baby was sleeping. We hugged and the hug was long, each of us trying to hide our tears behind the other’s back. I thought of the bar in Piccadilly long ago when her heel snapped and she first told me her story.
She went to make tea; it gave us time to compose ourselves. Leaning over the tiny form in the pink blanket I understood that for Ayesha hope had triumphed. Denise’s life force, Freud’s Eros, had vanquished Thanatos. When she returned, she told me how the resolution of the mystery of her father’s death had freed her to marry. His inhibiting shadow had lifted; she had thrown her mind and her body into the union with Peter, and in the months that followed Peter had made her happy. The baby was confirmation that she had done the right thing.
‘My father would have disliked me marrying an Englishman. He would have given his blessing because he loved me, but he would have worried about it . . .’
Ayesha bit her lip.
‘I can’t believe he’s dead . . . I still can’t believe it . . . And the most terrible thing is that he died to protect me. He died because of the stupid Pakistani code of honour, because Tariq and I should have married our cousins . . .’
‘Don’t regret, Ayesha. Ibrahim died because he loved you. You should treasure that memory. And you should love your children as he loved you.’
For a moment, neither of us could speak.
‘Did you see that Saulat Mirza was executed?’ I changed the subject. ‘The government held a commission of inquiry to examine the revelations he was promising about the MQM – stuff he hoped would get him reprieved – then they said thank you very much and hanged him anyway!’
Ayesha had news of her own.
‘Did you hear about Ahmed, Martin?’
‘No. What?’
‘He’s dead . . .’
‘Really?’
‘You remember he told you the UF was going to get him released? Well, he was right. He got out while you were away on your odyssey. And a week later he was found murdered by the Karachi-Orangi highway. They’d cut off his right hand and stuffed it into his mouth . . .’
‘God!’
‘Apparently it’s the dacoits’ sign that he was caught stealing . . .’
‘So it was Javed Shafik who did it? Because Ahmed had kept the land with the oil on it?’
‘Yes, probably . . .’
‘What do you mean, probably?’
‘It’s just that . . . you remember you told me on the phone from Quetta how Ahmed was boasting he was going to get the land for himself? How he was going to sort out Asma’s claim to it by murdering her or marrying her?’
‘Yes. He was bragging. He had a big mouth . . .’
‘Maybe. Anyway, I told Tariq about it and he went apeshit. He went to Pakistan . . .’
I burst out laughing. The vision of Tariq as Hamlet avenging his father by killing his uncle was so glib that pulp fiction would spurn it. Ayesha looked puzzled.
‘Why are you laughing? He hasn’t come back and he isn’t responding to my messages. I’m worried . . .’
There were other mistakes I needed to put right, other people I had hurt or neglected. I wrote to my brother’s children: ‘Your dad’s death is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me. The deaths of Nana and Papa were sad, but they were in the order of things. Tom dying was wrong in every way. I have found it hard to speak about this, and I think you have, too. I hope you will tell me when you want to talk.’
I could not replace their father, but I wanted to be there for them. I wanted it for me, too. They were the last flesh and blood that linked me to him.
I had spent a year among the dead, looking for answers about the past, driven by the compulsion to understand in order to forgive and be forgiven. But I had discovered that the dead keep their secrets; no one will tell us if and how we could have saved them. My thoughts were turning to the living. Ayesha told me that Ibrahim’s dream house in Kahin Nahi was to become a school, offering education to poor as well as rich, girls as well as boys. It would be Ibrahim’s gift and Ayesha’s. Her joy over her baby daughter had brought her new hope. I could see her life was restarting and I was happy for it. Now I must restart mine.