Chapter 3

FATIMA RETURNS

9th of Rajab 1416

(December 2, 1995)

Fatima inspected her swollen belly in the creases of sunlight which glowed through her small hovel. She had been told by Mama Khadija that she carried a child. Through the tender months of feeding herself extra rice borrowed from her friends, she sometimes stopped her cleaning work and took walks above the slum area. She imagined living in a household with servants of her own and giving her child, be it male or female, a place and home on the hills. She knew the key to this arrangement rested with the father of the child. Even though she banged on the gate of the Drakni Drive home for a week straight, Shrika would not let her in. Her belly grew, and she cursed the father and how he rolled on top of her in the middle of the night and imposed what she never wanted to offer.

Fatima’s life had been rearranged, but not the father’s life. She could feel the resentment sweep through her like a hot flush of wind funneling through a slum trail. She reluctantly thought that with patience and a bit of persistence she could get the father to accept responsibility for the child, even though the balding servant shut her out.

Sometimes she sat on a cool spot overlooking the slums, hung her head, and wept with anger and bitterness. Then she would see something beyond her anger. The father presented an opportunity. Maybe he would miraculously change his attitude, and the servant would change his mind, and all would be well under Allah, and the boy or girl would have a father and food to eat.

She caught herself imagining too much. She spotted a small child along the road following a man from the hills. She wondered what possessed such a child. All children dreamt, she thought, and children and adults connected in their capacity to dream.

Banging on the Drakni Drive home became a routine of constant rejection. She undertook the extra work for the small child growing within her.

She rang the bells at the Drakni Drive home just after midday prayers. Shrika slammed the door on her again. This time, however, she refused his answer. She tugged at the bells repeatedly.

“What is it you want?” seethed Shrika.

“To speak to Shabbir,” said Fatima.

“What could you possibly want with him?”

“We have personal business to discuss.”

“Haven’t you caused enough trouble for me?”

“I don’t mean to cause you trouble. I just want a word with him.”

“You can’t, do you hear me? You can’t. Now get out of here before I call the authorities.”

“I’m not leaving until I see him. Something is happening, and it’s his fault!”

Shrika slammed the door, but she still tugged at the bells. Shrika returned shortly and with a strong heave ripped the bells from the door. He led Fatima through the wide courtyard. He showed her to Shabbir’s bedroom.

“Oh dear Allah, what has happened to you?” she asked.

Shabbir’s health had deteriorated. He had grown thin and pale. He lay in bed supinely like a living corpse, hands to his sides.

“I might ask the same of you,” he said weakly. “I got your message the last time, and I guess that wasn’t enough. I do admire your tenacity.”

“I have to be. I have been treated so rudely by your servant. They think I’m invisible, when I’m carrying your child.”

“How do you know it’s my child?” he asked.

“You are the first person I’ve ever been with. The only person.”

“Come closer to me.”

She noticed the darkness, the grungy smell, the bed with layers of sheets, his sunken cheeks where the swelling had been. She sat beside him.

“Please, take it off,” said Shabbir.

“Take what off?”

“Your cloth. Take it off.”

She thought it unusual but untucked the red cloth and sat on his tired waist while his hands ran gently over her full stomach.

“I will support this child of ours,” he said finally. “It is an important child. Your belly is beginning to show. Plump and firm. We are blessed with this child.”

Fatima envisioned her child in the hills with his father, and she a second wife. The reminders of slum living would be flushed. She arched her back while sitting on his tired waist, letting his hands free.

“Take me as your wife,” she whispered. “It’s the only way. The slums are no place for a child.”

“Can you tell it’s a son?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I need a son from you.”

“Then you shall have one.”

“I feel my son inside you. It’s living inside you.”

“And we should be married then?”

“I don’t want to make commitments. I am very ill.”

She kissed him, sure she had caught a vulnerable point. She tucked her cloth into her chest and left Shabbir’s home. She said nothing to Shrika on her way out.