Black Sparrow, page 13
“Of course. Lead the way, Father Francis, I am ready to repent.”
My old friend insists that I leave by the vestry door which opens out onto a small side street. I'll need to walk in a wide loop to get home without being seen from my mother's guest house, but I don't have any classes waiting for me today, just a half-finished canvas that is awaiting inspiration.
I hurry home, smoking a cigarette and thinking about my future. Francis is right, as he undoubtedly always is, much to my annoyance. I owe it to Sophia and our unborn child to turn my life around.
As I open the apartment door, a bottle of red wine in one hand and flowers in the other, I can hear my wife softly humming in our tiny guest bedroom. The smell of paint, emulsion if I'm correct, wafts into the hallway and alerts me to her activity. She's painting the walls for our baby's room.
“Hey.” I smile, poking the flowers around the open doorway but hiding my face. “Ooh, yellow!”
“Buttercup yellow, to be precise,” Sophia replies, waving the wet brush at me teasingly. “Like it?”
“Love it,” I lie, wishing that she hadn't chosen my least favourite colour. “How about I paint a mural on one wall? Maybe some trees and some wild animals?”
My wife turns and gives me the half-smile that she has perfected so well as she pretends to consider my proposal. “Rabbits and foxes?”
“Why not?” I grin. “I can't think of a better way to spend the weekend.”
A short time later, eating salad and a crusty baguette, I watch Sophia across the table as she sips her mineral water. I take a good glug of wine and reach for her hand.
“This baby is going to be the best thing that ever happened to us,” I tell her, tickling her palm with my forefinger. “I can feel it.”
“I know,” she returns, unaware of what a cad she has married and, in that split second, I feel so nauseous that I could throw up right here. I don't deserve Sophia's love, but I'm going to start afresh from today. My confession to Father Francis has me feeling as though I can turn things around, wipe the slate clean, look after my family.
“Is there something wrong?” her soft voice asks. “You seem different somehow.”
I shake my head and touch her lustrous auburn hair. It reminds me of the soft walnut veneer in the priest's vestry, the sheen almost mirror-like in its gloss.
“Everything is perfect, Sophia,” I say, praying that it will be as soon as the Asian girl has gone home. “Now, shall we make a start on that mural?”
My wife kisses me, a long and lingering sensation that arouses me instantly. “Mmm, it can wait.”
SATURDAY 2PM – UZMA RAFIQ
I'm getting frustrated sitting up here in my room. All the television channels seem to be in French, except for one showing old black and white films, and the battery on my phone is now completely dead. It scares me to think that most of my money is inside the suitcase, together with all my clothes and my laptop, and I still haven't done anything about trying to locate it.
I've been waiting for my only set of underwear to dry on the radiator, having washed them in the sink with some lavender soap, but I can't keep doing this every day. I feel grubby already, having to wear the same clothes as yesterday.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I get dressed, lace up my Converse trainers and make up my mind to stop being a fucking wimp about everything. Madame Joubert might be able to help me and I should have asked earlier instead of sitting up here brooding like a spoilt brat.
At least, not having my phone charged has saved me from the thousands of messages that I know my father will have left there. I dread to think what's been going on at home, but it also makes me feel really helpless not having any outside communication. It would be good to speak to Maryam at least and see if she's heard anything. I bet my dad's been giving her a right roasting.
I check myself in the bathroom mirror and curse that I didn't put a few make-up items in my handbag. I look awful. God, I don't want Sylvain to see me like this. I'll have to buy a few things this afternoon. I pull my comb through my tangled locks but there are too many stray hairs sticking out at all angles for my hair to look tamed. At the last moment, I grab the beanie hat that I bought for Sylvain, pull off the tag and put it on my head. Without my straighteners, my hair feels really messy and a few tendrils hanging down either side of my face looks quite edgy.
As I get to the bottom of the stairs, I notice how quiet the guest house is. No music or talking anywhere. It's almost as though the rest of the world has gone to sleep. Maybe the French are like the Spanish in their habits and take an early afternoon siesta. Tentatively, I ring the brass bell on the desk, which 'pings' loudly, echoing up to the high ceiling, an intrusive noise that embarrasses me.
I hear a rustling sound in a back room and then Madame Joubert appears through a side door. She's dressed in black and looking effortlessly chic, with just a pearl bracelet and expensive watch accessorising her outfit. I wonder whether French girls have lessons in how to look this good, or does it just come naturally?
“Oui?” she says, smiling at me but instinctively speaking in French. “Can I help you, Miss Rafiq?”
“I was wondering if you could do something for me, please?” I start, realising that I probably sound as though I'm rambling. “It seems I picked up the wrong suitcase at the airport last night.”
The Frenchwoman frowns, placing a manicured finger on her pink lips. “Oh dear. And so, you would like me to telephone the airport for you?”
“Yes please.” I nod. “My suitcase has everything inside.”
I could kick myself for saying that, it sounded so dumb; of course my case would have everything in it!
“Perhaps you could describe it?” Madame Joubert asks, her pen already poised over the notepad.
“Well, it's just black,” I tell her, unable to think of any distinguishing features. “With a Globe logo on it. It did have a pink tag, but it fell off…”
I watch her write down the colour and the name, underlining them twice.
“Let me see what they can do.” She smiles at me, then punches some numbers into the phone while I wait nervously. I don't know why, but the guest house owner makes me feel quite inadequate.
I wait, unable to understand the conversation fully but alerted to the fact that the landlady is getting increasingly annoyed as she speaks to the clerk.
“Lundi, à quelle heure?” she finally says, writing down a number. “Merci. Au revoir.”
Turning back to me, she says, “It seems that the lost luggage office is closed until Monday.” Madame Joubert sighs sympathetically. “They open at nine. I'm so sorry, but nothing can be done until then.”
Feeling the tears well up inside, I take a deep breath and bite my lip. Can nothing go right for me? I think the French lady feels sorry for me, as she comes around from behind the desk and opens the door to the communal lounge, inviting me to sit down.
“Please, come and join me for a coffee,” she says and, not knowing what else to do, I follow.
“So,” Madame Joubert begins, setting down two cups and a cafetière of hot coffee on the table, “what brings you to Paris, Miss Rafiq?”
Her English is perfect, with just the slightest accent, enough to confirm that she is a native of France.
“Please, call me Uzma,” I say, feeling strangely uncomfortable in the woman's presence, but unable to carry my burden any longer. “I've come here to be with my French boyfriend.”
The older woman doesn't look surprised at all. Fixing me with her twinkling blue eyes, she says softly. “And this man of yours, where does he live? Perhaps we can call him?”
“He was in the middle of moving to a new apartment,” I admit, my voice trailing off as I realise how pathetic this sounds. “We usually Skype, you see, but now my laptop is in my missing suitcase.”
“Skype,” she repeats. “How very modern. Gone are the romantic days of letter-writing, oui?”
I'm not sure why but it almost feels as though Madame Joubert is mocking me. Perhaps I'm just being over-sensitive due to my circumstances. I watch her closely as she pours the drinks.
“Tell me, Uzma, how long have you and your Frenchman been together, if you don't mind me asking.”
“Since July,” I say, without hesitation. “We met through the art scene here in Paris.”
As the woman lifts the delicate china cup to her lips, I see a slight tremble in her fingers which emboldens me to say more. “Perhaps you remember him, Madame Joubert? You see, we stayed here in the summer for a few nights. His name is Sylvain.”
I think my words have caught her off guard and some of the coffee spills over into the saucer. She puts her cup back down, avoiding my gaze.
“No, I don't think so,” she says confidently. “Although I have so many guests here in the summer, it's impossible to remember them all, especially at my age.”
She offers me a ginger biscuit, taking one herself, but I decline.
“He's very tall and handsome,” I continue, determined to find out if she might recognise Sylvain, “with thick curly hair and quite tanned skin.”
Having quickly recovered her composure, she nibbles at the ginger snap and shakes her head. “No, my dear, I'm fairly certain that I don't know your gentleman friend.”
As we finish our coffee, I sit waiting for Madame Joubert to say something. She's been deep in thought for a few minutes now, but I have no idea what's occupying her mind.
I cough politely. “I was wondering…” I begin, shy once more, “would it be alright if I stay an extra couple of nights?”
It would be hard to miss the steely glare with which the Frenchwoman appraises me as I speak and, at that moment, I wished that I could scoop the words back up into my mouth.
“Mmm, well, how long were you thinking?” she asks, tapping her long nails on the empty cup. “I have a lot of guests arriving on Monday. Would just two more nights suit you, Uzma?”
“Great. I mean, yes, thank you,” I tell her. “Although, can I pay you when I get my suitcase back? Most of my cash is in there and I think I'll have to buy a few clothes to see me through the weekend.”
I feel my face flushing. What an embarrassing situation to be in! If only I hadn't followed my dad's advice about putting your travel money in different places.
“I should think so,” Madame Joubert says softly. “How do you plan to spend the rest of your weekend, my dear? I can recommend an affordable shopping centre not far from here.”
“I'm going to find Sylvain,” I tell her. The words tumble out and I am confident that everything will turn out fine, despite the nagging doubts that are tugging at my conscience.
My host stiffens, pushing herself back into the seat of the chair. “And where do you think would be a good place to look? Paris is a vast city.”
“He teaches here in Montmartre, at the art school,” I offer, proud that at least I shall have somewhere to look for my beloved Sylvain on Monday. “He should have classes next week.”
“Really?” the woman says, putting a hand to her forehead as though she were in pain. “Well, that's good, isn't it? I'm sorry, my dear, but I feel an awful headache coming on. I fear I must lie down.”
“Of course. I hope you feel better soon,” I say sympathetically, getting up to leave.
Ushered out into the hallway, I thank my host for her kindness and ask if there's anything I can get her to help with her discomfort, but she assures me that a rest will do the trick.
“An hour on my bed should work wonders,” Madame Joubert mutters, holding her head and leaning on the heavy oak reception desk. “I'm probably just a little tired.”
As I begin my ascent, the French woman calls to me again, something obviously bothering her. “Uzma dear, do you still have the suitcase that you picked up accidentally?”
“Yes, I didn't realise that it wasn't mine until I got all the way here,” I admit.
“But you haven't tried to open it?” she asks mischievously, looking all of a sudden much better.
“No, of course not.”
“Well, enjoy your day and I hope you find your young man.”
Nodding politely, I thank her again and make my way upstairs to fetch my denim jacket. I might as well go for a walk and see if I can find Sylvain in one of the bars or cafés around Montmartre. I feel confident that I can find some of the places he took me to and it seems the obvious place for him to hang out at the weekend.
As I enter the bedroom, the first thing that catches my eye is the black suitcase. It's still locked, untouched, but now Madame Joubert has planted an idea in my head and, in desperation, I make a mental note to buy a pair of pliers. I'm going to open it later.
Then the strangest thing happens. As I tread softly on the thick carpet, locking my door and starting to go back downstairs, I hear someone. Instead of retiring to her room, I distinctly hear Madame Joubert pick up the telephone in the hallway and speak abruptly to someone in French. I stand deathly still, afraid to move in case she catches me listening in.
“Un problème,” she says clearly and, by those words, I take it that between us drinking coffee and me fetching my jacket, something must have happened.
SATURDAY 4PM – ALI RAFIQ
As soon as he catches my eye across the crowded arrivals hall, my brother rushes to greet us, hugging me tightly and offering to carry our bags. It's great to see Jameel again, it's been far too long, although I sense that he's stressed due to circumstances beyond his control. Perhaps my news will set his mind at rest. But more about that later. We've got all weekend to go over the details.
“You're doing well for yourself, brother,” I comment, as he unlocks the Lexus and gets behind the steering wheel. “Nice motor, very classy.”
Jameel shrugs, but I can see that he's proud. Life in London suits him and even in his casual weekend clothes, my little brother looks polished and affluent.
“How was your flight?” he asks casually, glancing in the rear-view mirror at my son Tariq. “Did you manage to get some sleep?”
“No, Uncle.” My boy smiles. “There were too many great movies to watch.”
Jameel nods, concentrating on the road ahead, his fingers gripping the wheel like his life depended on it as he manoeuvres out of the car park and onto the open highway.
“How's Farida?” I venture, thinking of my brother's wife fondly, her excellent cooking skills and shapely figure. “Is she coping alright?”
“Coping?” Jameel repeats. “Why? What have you heard?”
I realise then that I need to keep my big mouth shut until we get to the house. I have a lot of explaining to do, which is not advisable whilst my brother is trying to negotiate the motorway traffic.
“You know, with the upheaval of having guests,” I quickly say, shooting Tariq a warning glance to say nothing about the events of the last few days. “She must have been quite busy.”
Jameel keeps his eyes fixed on the road. “Farida is fine. She'll be preparing a good meal for you.”
My stomach rumbles at the thought of my sister-in-law's chicken tikka and her amazing tandoori roti bread. What a talent she has for making a man's mouth water at the very thought of her cooking.
“Excellent!” I say with a grin, eager to avoid all mention of my brother's daughter until we arrive. “So, tell me, how's business in the city these days? Plenty of new cases to get your teeth into?”
Jameel forces a smile and visibly relaxes at the mention of work. “Ali, you wouldn't believe the workload right now. We're getting half a dozen new clients every single week.”
I listen intently as my brother begins to tell me about a particularly interesting legal dispute between two neighbours, but I'm feeling concerned at how the next twenty-four hours are going to pan out.
As soon as we pull up outside the house, Khalid rushes out to greet us whilst Farida lingers in the doorway. I can see that my nephew has grown since our last visit and now towers above his mother. Farida, though… well, she's certainly gained a few pounds.
“Uncle Ali! Tariq!” Khalid shouts, opening the car door and hugging me. “Great to see you.”
I notice that Jameel takes his time coming around to our side of the drive and a furtive look passes between him and his wife. It's not worry, more like a warning.
“So, you're finally home,” Jameel says to Khalid, putting a hand on his shoulder as he helps with the luggage. “About time, too.”
“Sorry, Dad.” The youngster grins. “If I'd known about Uzma, I would have –”
“Enough about that for now.” Jameel hushes him discreetly, but still within earshot. “Let's get inside.”
We sit politely drinking tea and I steel myself for the conversation that needs to take place. My brother and sister-in-law are under the impression that they need to confide in me about the whereabouts of their daughter but, for me, it's old news.
“Ali, there's something you need to know,” Jameel begins, setting his cup on the table and clasping his hands. “Uzma isn't here. She left last night and –”
“I know,” I interrupt, not wanting to drag this out any longer than I have to. “I'm aware of her leaving.”
“Dad,” Khalid whispers, “I didn't really think she'd go.”
Jameel turns on his son, unable to believe that there's been some kind of conspiracy behind his back. His face starts to turn red and I hold up a hand and put the other on my nephew's arm as he sits down quietly beside me.
“Jameel, let me explain,” I say, desperately trying to stop my brother from exploding. “Khalid overheard Uzma talking about her plans on the phone to Maryam and he told Tariq. You know how young men confide in each other. It was only after Tariq mentioned the marriage proposal to Khalid that things changed, and I became involved.”
“Involved?” Jameel repeats, staring at me in that confused way of his that makes him look like a schoolboy. “What do you mean, involved?”
