Aliyyah Read online

  Aliyyah

  Chris Dolan

  with illustrations by

  Mark Mechan

  For My Family

  The street looks different though I imagine nothing has actually changed. I’ve subtly refashioned my image of the old house every time I’ve thought of it. The stone is redder, the road broader, and the door older and heavier than I’d remembered.

  The silence inside is new to me. A hush, like freshly settled dust. A taste in my mouth, of raw stillness.

  There’s the phone, and there’s the hallstand. A single old coat where there used to be a ruckus of anoraks and scarves and duffels and hats and brollies. Photographs on the wall.

  The kitchen’s unrecognisable. Was it really so small and dull?

  And there’s the wireless. “Zenith”. I say it before I see it. Etched in gold jagged lettering on mahogany. I knew the word long before I knew what it meant, or thought to ask. It didn’t matter. The word was enough. Zenith.

  The radio was ancient, and big, even for then. A magic cask. The dial is the only thing I’ve remembered accurately in the whole house. Helsinki. London. Moscow. A wheel behind glass, turning like the world on a secret axis. Paris. Berlin. Benghazi.

  I turn it on, and it lights up; grumbles, as if rudely wakened. Then it makes the same old noises it always made. Whirrings and stutters and yelps. A kind of gargle, like emphysema in its lungs. Spin the dial and you sprint across the earth: an opera of barks and babble. I stall for a second on a woman’s voice, like water running over pebbles. Istanbul.

  I used to stand between it and the window, letting all those sounds and voices and distances pass through me. I amplified them. I was the whole world. Little me. Full to bursting with hurried messages, world leaders intoning, orchestras and pop singers, all possibilities. Women with voices like water on pebbles, soft hands henna’d.

  And here I am again now. I close my eyes, try to pick up the past. Meg, Marco, Brenda, James. Fine-tune Mum soothing, hard hands hugging. Her distant voice, like me not quite on the station.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Tale of the Soldier and the Old Man

  The Maid’s Tale

  The Story of the Family Curse

  The Warrior Returns

  Acknowledgements

  Other books By the Same Author

  Copyright

  Tale of the Soldier and the Old Man

  Once Haldane woke everything was white. White ceiling, white walls, a white door open just enough to reveal a white corridor beyond. He moved his head and felt a murmur of pain somewhere. On the far wall the white was finally broken by an open window looking out on to a perfectly green tree with bright red buds. He dozed off and woke again to the same scene, several times over, until he was fully awake and strong enough to move his body. The same pain no matter which limb he moved. He pulled the white sheets back and saw that his left leg was bandaged from the ankle to the knee. He managed to sit up, and then stand without the pain becoming much worse. He hobbled towards the half-open door, and called out.

  “Hello?”

  Glancing back into the room he saw it contained only the bed he had been lying in and a chair, over which was a neatly draped uniform. Under the chair was a black box, about the size of a car battery, bent and battered. He turned and limped out into the long white narrow corridor.

  After about ten steps it opened out into a landing, at the left-hand side of which another window framed another green and red tree waving in a perfectly blue sky. The steps down into the rest of the house looked steep.

  “Excuse me?”

  Leading with the bandaged leg and holding on to the banister he made his way slowly down. There were pictures on the wall, portraits, of men mostly. But he had to concentrate on the steps, each of them of different depth, like the ones in the old manse.

  “Under the chair was a black box, about the size of a car battery, bent and battered.”

  The hall below had more portraits on the walls and a brightly patterned rug on the floor. There was a door to his left which must lead, he thought, out to the fruiting trees. A door behind the steps probably led to kitchens. In front of him were three more doors, one of which was open a crack and gave Haldane the impression of being occupied. On the flat he found he could walk more or less normally. He knocked and opened the door a little more.

  “May I?”

  The room was huge, several rugs or carpets, intricately patterned, covered less than half the floor. There were low tables made of carved wood, numerous chairs and divans, cushions of many colours on the furniture, all set on the floor’s bright green tiles. On a table at the far end sat a samovar and two glasses, and at the window stood a small figure staring out into the sun and a garden.

  “Sir? I’m sorry but I…”

  The man turned around. He seemed to Haldane, perhaps because he was at the other end of such a vast room, tiny. Dressed in a long white robe, a light brown waistcoat over it, and an embroidered hat, the little man smiled and held both his hands in the air. Behind his little groomed beard his smile was welcoming. Haldane thought it the most perfectly uncomplicated smile he had ever seen.

  “Captain Haldane! What a wonderful surprise. And you came all the way down yourself?”

  “Sorry. Yes. I called but…”

  “Forgive me, my friend. I was listening for you but unfortunately my listening is not as reliable as once it was. Come in, come in. Sit. Here, let me help you.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  But the little man was already scurrying towards him, around chests and dressers and cushions. He took a hold of Haldane’s arm and led him gently, as if the younger and taller man were the older and frailer, towards the table with the samovar. He sat him down on a chair then sat himself at the other side on a large upholstered cushion.

  “Tea?”

  Seated now, Haldane took in the room around him. On the walls hung tapestries woven with rich blues and reds with gold threads gleaming. There were thick rugs on the floor and smaller ones on top of the carpets. The silver samovar in front of him was one of many. The cup and saucer seemingly waiting for him were elegantly painted china.

  “Cardamom tea. It’s all you’ve been drinking since you arrived.”

  Stained-glass lanterns and giant urns etched with Cyrillic script sat on the floor and on marble cabinets with filigree woodwork doors. Above, candelabras hung from the painted wooden ceiling.

  “Drinking?”

  “Well,” the old man giggled, “I administered it to you. I have great faith in cardamom tea!”

  Haldane reckoned that every colour known to man could be found in this room. There were four double windows on the left-hand wall, each of them open, letting in the cool breeze and the scent of fruit and blossom that mingled now, as he took the cup to his lips, with the spice of the cold tea.

  “Since I arrived. … I’m afraid I don’t remember exactly how…”

  “Yes, of course. You have plenty of questions. Plenty of questions!” The old man laughed merrily at the idea. “And all of them shall be answered. You have nothing to worry you. Nothing at all. All you must do, Captain Haldane my friend, is recuperate. Get back your strength. Cardamom!” And the old man drank deeply.

  Haldane felt that he did indeed recognise the taste of the tea though he had no memory of ever having had it before.

  “Are there others here?”

  “Others? Ah, you mean other soldiers. Like you. No no. Not at all. Just us.”

  “You and I? I’m sorry I don’t know your name.”

  “Duban. My name is Duban, Captain Haldane. Pleased to meet you…” and again he giggled, “now that you are awake.”

  “Please, call me Thomas.”

  “May I? Thank
you, Thomas.”

  “So, only you and I?”

  “And Ma’ahaba. You will meet her in due course.”

  “Ma’ahaba? Did she put on these bandages?”

  “Not at all, not at all. All my own work.”

  “You’re a doctor, Duban?”

  “Alas no. But I am old and have learned one or two tricks along the way. I do not think you are too badly hurt,” Duban laughed gaily. “At least not beyond repair. And now that you have made your way down here and are sitting comfortably drinking cardamom tea, I am altogether more convinced you will make a full and speedy recovery. But my advice is – the counsel of an old man, not a physician – rest! Peace breeds, strife consumes. Not too many questions. Till morning. Do not tax yourself, Thomas. I shall make you a little light supper, while you sit perhaps for a few moments in the outside in the shade.” He opened one of the French windows. “Some air, a simple dish of rice and lemon and cilantro, and you will be ready to face the world in the morning.”

  Duban smiled beatifically, his dark eyes glittering as he bustled towards the door. “Enjoy the garden. It is quite lovely at this hour.”

  “Excuse me? Sir? Where am I?” But Duban was already at the far side of the vast room and didn’t hear him.

  Haldane would have called it an orchard rather than a garden, and one that looked as though it had not been properly tended for a few years. But that only added to its beauty. Overgrown paths curling between trees heavy with foliage and fruit he couldn’t name, a little burn – or perhaps some kind of man-made irrigation canal – wild flowers rocking in the breeze, all combined to give the scene a picture-book effect. He noticed for the first time a slight blurring in his peripheral vision which only added to the fabricated effect of the orchard. The dull ache persisted and he wondered now if it wasn’t coming more from his neck rather than his leg. But Duban was right. Sitting outside in the dappled afternoon sun relaxed him. Finding out where he was and how he got there could wait.

  He woke again, this time facing the window and the tree. His hair was damp with sweat but the breeze from the window made the room fresh. He remembered waking in the middle of the night, after a nightmare, though he had no idea now what it was about. Nor could he piece together the events that had brought him here. He could bring to mind the army base camp, but only vaguely. If he concentrated, he was sure, he would remember everything, but he didn’t have the energy, or the desire, to do so now. This place brought back memories of another place, further back in time. His home, his childhood garden.

  He got up and thought that the pain had eased a little since yesterday. He realised that when he had gone downstairs before – yesterday? – and met Duban he had been wearing only a gown, longer and of thicker cotton than you would get in a hospital back home. He decided he should put on his uniform. A slower process than he’d hoped. Not so much the pain, rather that his limbs seemed to move slowly. He managed his trousers and shirt, and decided that boots and jacket would be too warm. He couldn’t see socks anywhere. He did see the box under the chair and recognised it now as a radio. Battered and scuffed, wires hanging loose and the back falling off. He knew nothing about radios. He turned the on-off switch but the thing was dead.

  Downstairs, the big room with all the tables and divans and samovars was empty. He called out for Duban but there was no reply. He wondered if the old man could only lip-read, that he was actually deaf. There was a jug of cool water and glasses on the table where he had first sat yesterday, so he poured himself a glass, drank it down, and took a refill outside to the orchard.

  In the morning sun the trees and the little gushing canal seemed in better order. He walked along one of the paths that coiled round the trees, stepped off into the grass and wild flowers, the fresh dew pleasant on his bare feet. He recognised a fig tree, and one he thought might be mulberry. Over there, walnut perhaps. And peach. A perfectly red, round fruit like a little apple. Then some cherry trees – just like in the manse garden. The orchard seemed to go on forever, until he spotted a line of tall palms and reckoned that must be the boundary. Getting closer, he noticed that behind the palms was a wall. A pale stone, almost pink in the morning light. As he approached it he realised it was extremely high, almost as tall as the palm trees. Craning his neck he saw barbed wire across the top. Haldane turned and walked back towards the house.

  He sat on the bench at the French window and sipped his water. He mustn’t dally too much. He was a soldier. Of some sort. He should find out exactly what his position was. Casualty, certainly. Prisoner perhaps? He hadn’t felt like one until he saw the wire. He would find Duban and sort out what’s what here. He laid his head back against the cool stone of the house and glimpsed, in the centre of the orchard, someone sitting. A woman, to his right, in a part of the garden he hadn’t investigated yet. The trees there looked smaller, pruned and cared for. She was sitting, almost lying back, on a chair in a clearing where the sun shone uninterrupted by branches. Her hair tumbled in black tresses almost touching the grass. Duban had mentioned a woman lived in the house. Haldane felt he should introduce himself, but she seemed so at peace that his presence even at a distance seemed an intrusion. As he stood up, still undecided whether to retreat indoors or announce himself somehow, the woman – Ma’ahaba? – stirred in her chair. She hitched her skirt up over her knees, to let the sun fall on her legs. Haldane stood still. He had expected the woman Duban spoke of to be a nurse. This woman wasn’t dressed as one. Perhaps it was her day off. Or perhaps she was the lady of the house. No doubt he would meet her later. As he walked barefoot back to the French window, he felt that she had noticed him and was watching him but, turning his head, she was still sunbathing sleepily.

  “Good morning, good morning, Captain Haldane!” Duban clapped his hands, standing just inside the glass door of the big room. “You are looking well and I think not limping so much?”

  “I think you’re right, Duban. I feel rested.”

  “Come in, sit down. I have breakfast for you. And now is the time to have all your questions answered.”

  They sat across the table from one another as they had done before. There was a samovar of cool cardamom tea and a plate readied for the soldier with flatbread, tomatoes, pomegranate seeds. Beside them a little glass jug of olive oil and a ramekin dish with a mix of dried herbs and spices.

  “You shall eat. I shall speak.” Duban looked up to the ceiling as if searching for inspiration while Haldane ate half a tomato, cool in his mouth.

  “You have been here several days. You were brought here by friends of this family. You are a very lucky man. First to have survived the crash, and second to be found by our ally. You come to us, Thomas, like the proverbial babe – and proof that a man only possesses whatever will not be lost in a shipwreck! Ha. Except in your case of course, it was an aircraft.” He paused and turned serious again. “You see, Thomas, you are among friends, but behind enemy lines. Were the insurgents to find you here…”

  The herbs, Haldane thought, were only recently dried. They tasted fresh, pungent, and together with the oil and tomato almost an assault on the senses.

  “Your base is over fifty miles from here. Beyond the border. Your regiment, I imagine, will have classified you as missing in action – MIA?” Duban seemed delighted by knowing the appropriate acronym. “But perhaps they believe you dead. Eventually we will be able to get word to them but that might take some time. The longer you stay here, the more dangerous for us all.”

  Haldane listened as he ate, but felt like a man hearing the story of some stranger. There were things Duban said that he recognised and others that made no sense to him. The old man beamed, his little angelic eyes sparkling:

  “You are recuperating well – even better than I had hoped! I think you are a strong and healthy young chap. And steadfast. You will make a full recovery, no doubt about it. Within a few days, God willing, you will be able to leave us. But of course you cannot simply walk out the gates. You will need to be collected by your r
egiment – that in itself is a perilous enough venture. Our best bet, my friend – I have tried to think this through while you slept – is the radio. The ally who found you – a cousin of this family – had the presence of mind to find the radio in the helicopter and bring it with him. I think perhaps it is broken?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “But you can make it work again?”

  “I’m sorry, but I know nothing about radios.”

  “Oh, dear. I had hoped… Well then we shall just have to study the contraption and see if we cannot use our combined wits to identify what is wrong with it and repair it. It shall be our pastime!”

  “We can try, I suppose. Duban, sorry but I don’t remember… a crash? Helicopter crash?”

  “I think this is to be expected. After trauma, short-term memory loss. I looked in some books. My collection is quite old but there is wisdom I think in old books. Do not worry. Everything shall fall back into place. All you need is more cardamom tea!” Duban laughed uproariously.

  “My injuries. You bandaged my leg…”

  “Yes, you were bloodied when you arrived. But miraculously once I washed you down I found only a bad gash in your leg. We have penicillin here. I mixed it with your tea and spoon-fed you the concoction as you slept.”

  “I think you saved my life.”

  “Not I, Thomas, no. You did. Youth, strength, pluck. That’s it, pluck! You and God – He must have a special use for you! The man who found you, he said you weren’t breathing as you lay on the ground. Only when he lifted your head did you begin again. And here, under my care, from time to time your breathing became very shallow and slow. You seemed to suffer headaches even whilst you were unconscious. When that happened I made the tea extra strong and mixed in a few peppery spices – it seemed to do the trick!”

  “The man… your ally. Did he find anyone else?”

  Duban looked directly at Haldane, his old eyes moist and soft. “I am afraid Thomas your comrades died in the crash.”