The Language of Secrets Page 16

  Jamshed’s gaze probed Rachel’s face. She stared back with the same oblivious grin, her palms and her underarms damp. She wondered if he could smell the metallic tang of her fear.

  “I wouldn’t mind sharing with Paula,” she offered as an add-on.

  She flinched as Jamshed reached past her. He turned off the computer and moved away.

  “The computer is not for public use,” he told her. “Neither is the house. In any event, the rooms are all taken. We do not have space for anyone else.”

  He opened the door to the room, indicating that Rachel should go ahead.

  She wondered if he planned to push her down the stairs.

  The moment she reached the landing, she was swamped by an enormous feeling of relief. As she approached the main floor, she could hear voices. Jamshed left her and joined the small group of young men gathered in the prayer hall, none of whom Rachel recognized from the INSET list.

  Grace was in the kitchen. Instead of brewing qahwe for Dinaase, she was keeping watch over a saucepan of boiling milk. Her headscarf was tied around her waist over a long-sleeved shirt with the band logo “Rancid” stenciled across the front. There were several holes near the bottom of both legs of her black leggings. Based on what she had seen in the room she took to be Grace’s, Rachel didn’t think the holes were a fashion statement. Grace Kaspernak was one of the city’s invisible poor.

  Rachel drifted over to the saucepan.

  “That smells good,” she said.

  “Thanks. You want some? I thought you left.”

  “Roads are a mess. I can’t get home tonight.”

  Rachel found two mugs in a cupboard and set them upon the counter beside Grace. The mugs were imprinted with one of the sayings of the mystic poet Rumi.

  I looked in temples, churches and mosques, but I found the Divine within my heart.

  Rachel snorted.

  “What?” Grace asked. “What’s funny?”

  Rachel nodded at the mugs. Grace poured the hot chocolate mixture into them.

  “You believe that?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “If I had any answers inside myself, I wouldn’t be coming here.”

  Grace had opened the blinds in the kitchen. The snowfall outside was a white wall of noiseless fury, the symmetry of the stars eclipsed by a cataract of quiet.

  “How are you getting home, then?”

  Rachel sipped at her hot chocolate. It tasted as good as the aroma of the qahwe.

  “I was hoping to crash here. But Mr. Ali said the bedrooms are all taken.”

  The pan slipped in Grace’s hand.

  In spite of the heavy makeup, Grace was no good with a poker face. Rachel decided she’d never have a better opportunity to find out about the camp. Jamshed Ali was busy with the group of young men, leading some kind of Arabic recitation effort.

  “I’ll figure something out,” Rachel said. “No matter how bad it gets on the roads, I still love winter. I’m even a winter camper. But I’m guessing you’re not much of an enthusiast. You’re shivering inside the mosque, and it’s really not that cold.”

  Grace took up her mug. She wandered over to the windows, to the point farthest from the circle of young men. Rachel followed behind.

  “It looks so pretty,” Grace said of the snowfall. “But the truth is, it’s cruel and brutal.”

  Rachel dropped her voice. “You’re thinking of your friend? Up north in the woods?” And when Grace turned to look at her with those puffed-up, swollen eyes, Rachel went on, “The news is everywhere. Everyone was talking about it after that police officer left.” When Grace still said nothing, she added, “What did you think of him?”

  Grace pressed hard against the staples in her neck. She muttered her answer.

  “He should have come a long time ago.”

  The words stunned Rachel. But she had a much better poker face than Grace.

  “Why? Did you know your friend was in danger?”

  “No. I didn’t mean that. Look, forget it. Forget what I said. I don’t know how you can like this weather. I hate it. It never seems to end. It’s hard on people, you know?”

  Winter would be grueling for a teenage girl who was homeless. Sleeping on the heating vents of unforgiving pavements, passed over by a thousand strangers who refused to meet your eyes.

  “I guess so. I mean, the roads aren’t great, but it’s nice when you get out into the wilderness and just see the stars and the fields full of snow. You can snowshoe, or toboggan, or if there’s a creek nearby, you can go skating. I love to skate, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think the wilderness is all that it’s cracked up to be.” Grace flattened her voice. “That’s where Mo died. And they still want to go back. Pretty heartless, if you ask me.”

  She finished her hot chocolate and dumped her mug in the sink.

  “Go back?” Rachel asked. “To the same place?”

  “Yeah. They said it would be a personal memorial. Something they couldn’t do at the mosque. Din is all for it. He’s like you—loves the snow, loves the cold. Even though neither of us can skate. But I wish he wouldn’t go. I asked him not to.”

  “What did he say?”

  Grace’s watery eyes met Rachel’s. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not like we’re friends or anything.”

  Rachel shrugged. “We’re both bored. And we’re trapped here for a bit.” She waved a hand at the study group. “Unless you want to join them. It’s up to you. If you want to talk, I mean. I’m usually a good listener.”

  She continued to sip at her chocolate, keeping her attention on the blanked-out pond. The monotonous sound of the memorization swelled to fill the room.

  “Yeah, whatever.” A piercing in Grace’s left eyebrow appeared to be bothering her. As she spoke her hand fiddled with it, massaging the skin above and below. “When Din’s with these guys, it’s like I don’t exist. Like he can’t hear anything I say. It was the same with Mo. Mo was always with him—big-brother stuff, I guess. Like they’d be talking their private bullshit, and whenever I’d want to join in, they’d drop the subject and go their separate ways.”

  “But you said Mo was the one who made you feel welcome.”

  “Yeah, I guess. One-on-one. He was friendly and fun. But he just kind of—got in between me and Din. Like when he was around, I was the afterthought. Not like how it used to be. And then sometimes I thought, maybe Mo didn’t want me here either. He kept asking if I was sure I wanted to stay at the mosque. He said there were a lot of other places that would take me.”

  Grace made a despairing gesture at her attire.

  “I mean, look at me. Look at this.” She pressed a hand to the tattoo at her throat. “Who do you think wants to hang around this?”

  “What’s that for?” Rachel asked gently. “Does it stand for something?”

  “Yeah.” Grace’s pale skin flamed. “It’s an in-joke between me and Din. He calls me his personal grace, I call him my pirate. The star is for the Somali flag, ’cos Din is really proud of his identity.”

  “Sounds like you’re really close to each other.”

  Grace dropped her hand. “We used to be. We’ve been at school together since we were little kids. Two misfits. The only place we ever fit in was with each other. Until Din found this place. And now I don’t know.”

  “But you’re staying at the mosque,” Rachel reminded her.

  “Yeah. It’s not a big deal, but Din told them he’d have to head back to the West End unless they found a place here for both of us. Jamshed doesn’t like it, but who gives a shit?”

  The expletive sounded staged on her lips.

  “Then he’s not as far gone as you think. If he made sure you have a place to stay.”

  Though she didn’t smile, Grace’s eyes brightened.

  “If you can’t get home, you can crash on the floor in my room,” she offered.

  It touched Rachel deeply that a girl with so little to give would give this. But she was consci
ous of the tape she had stolen, a hidden bulk in her pocket.

  “That’s really kind of you, Grace. Thank you. But I’m going to give it another shot, if I can dig out my car. Tell you what, though—I’d love to teach you and Din to skate, if you’re ever interested. I have a couple of extra pairs of skates.”

  Now the smile broke through on Grace’s lips. It was every bit as lovely as Rachel remembered.

  “Yeah, maybe. Maybe it would be something we could do up at the camp. Once I get these studs out. It was freaking cold last time.” Grace ran her hand over the back of her skull.

  Rachel needed to know about the camp—the timing, the details. She had no way of knowing what the INSET team knew about the plan to return to Algonquin.

  She was just on the brink of a much closer confidence.

  “I’ve got an extra Maple Leafs toque. I know it’s not Bad Religion, but it might be of more use. And you wouldn’t have to switch allegiances.”

  Grace actually laughed, a quick choked-off sound.

  “Maybe you should come with us, since you love to camp.” And then, in case Rachel thought there was too much undiluted welcome on offer, she added with a trace of sullenness, “It would be great to get Paula off my back. She can attach herself to you instead.”

  Rachel didn’t ask any questions about the destination or the specific makeup of the group that would be heading to the camp. She didn’t want to scare Grace off. Suppressing her excitement, she said, “I’d love to come. It would be the perfect time to teach you both to skate. If you’re still interested. Do you want to ask Din?” She scanned the room. “I don’t see him.”

  “He went to the convenience store. Hassan needed supplies for the trip. And I asked Din to get me some tapes—Hassan keeps borrowing mine. Punk sounds better on a cassette deck. I like to record my own stuff. And the spoken word that Din does.”

  Which reminded Rachel that this was something she wanted to hear for herself. Maybe it was a connection to the tape that was buried in her pocket. Al-Nahda Hip Hop.

  “When do we leave?” she asked Grace.

  Grace took Rachel’s empty mug from her and stacked it beside her own in the sink.

  “The Monday after the halaqa.”

  “Won’t Mr. Ali mind if I just show up?”

  “Who gives a shit?” Grace demanded. “He doesn’t own me. And he doesn’t own Din. If I say you’re coming, Din will back me up.” All the same, she spoke in a whisper. “Just show up here ready to go, first thing Monday morning. We’ll sort it out from there.”

  17

  When Khattak returned from meeting a friend Sunday night, the family home was lit by Christmas lights that swung in loops of crimson, yellow, and green. A second set of lights festooned the doors of the carriage house a little distance back from the garden.

  The roads had been cleared, the blizzard had passed. Khattak had been with his friend, a professor of modern Arabic poetry, for just over two hours. In that brief time, the character of his parents’ house had changed. The Khattak family had never hung Christmas lights before. They borrowed the tradition, much like the Chinese New Year, and illumined the house on the festival days of Eid. Now the house shimmered in the dark like its neighbors.

  The lights weren’t meant for Christmas.

  The streamers of lights were a signal sent to him by his sister.

  In the tradition of the Indian subcontinent, the house had been lit for a wedding.

  * * *

  There were two other cars parked in the driveway of the Khattak home; Khattak recognized the plates from the INSET file. Jamshed Ali’s. And Hassan Ashkouri’s. He was engulfed by a feeling of despair, as he understood what his sister had done.

  She’d moved Ashkouri’s halaqa to their home.

  Coale would have known. And he’d said nothing, waiting for Khattak to fall into the trap.

  Khattak was not given to self-pity or melodrama; to acknowledge his duality was also to accept it. Yet inexorably, he felt the tightening of the noose. He parked his car to block Hassan Ashkouri’s. His cell phone rang. It was Laine, calling to warn him.

  “It’s too late, I’ve just found out. Why didn’t Coale tell me about this?”

  Laine paused. Khattak let the silence build.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m just the Outreach Coordinator. I’m not privy to everything he knows. I would have told you if I’d known sooner.”

  Khattak gripped the phone. He wasn’t impervious to Laine’s blandishments. He was about to cross a line with her.

  “What’s Ashkouri doing at my house? What’s his game? The last thing he should want is my undivided attention. Or for me to have any reason to focus on his group.”

  Laine answered carefully. “He’s engaged to your sister, Esa. Perhaps he realizes that it’s more than time that the two of you were introduced.” She gave Esa time to absorb that, before continuing, “But personally, I think it’s something else.”

  Esa waited for more.

  “I think he’s gotten cocky. He thinks he’s untouchable, and that we haven’t the faintest idea about Nakba. It’s his coup de grȃce. Seducing your sister under your nose, dragging her into his mess. He’s showing you that you’re vulnerable. He’s using Ruksh as leverage.”

  Khattak exhaled, the sound harsh in the confines of his car.

  They were both silent for a moment. Then Laine said, “I offered to talk to Ruksh.”

  “I know you did.” It was hard for him to get the words out. “And I’m grateful.”

  He caught Laine’s small gasp. And took it for the encouragement to proceed.

  “Will you tell me something, Laine? Something I’ve no right to ask. Is my house under surveillance? Has Coale been watching me?”

  There was a longer pause this time before Laine answered. At last she said, “Yes. From the day that Ruksh first met Ashkouri.” The sound of her voice was muffled. “You know I can’t tell you anything else.”

  But she did give him one piece of information essential to his investigation.

  Esa thanked her, his voice gruff. He was now desperate enough to take the step that Rachel had urged. He called Nate. There was a click on the line before the call connected him to his friend. His summary was brusque, conveying as little as possible. When Nate consented to speak to Ruksh, Esa found his determination renewed.

  He walked through scaffolds of snow to his house.

  * * *

  The living room in the Khattak home was a gracious space, well-proportioned, lit with porcelain lamps. It was painted a pale shade of blue above the white wainscoting that ran the length of the room. Hyacinth drapes in heavy damask shaded Palladian windows. The pattern was edged with silver thread that shone in the room’s lamplight.

  Khattak was grateful that no family portraits or photographs had been placed in this room. There was a white recessed bookshelf that echoed his parents’ taste in art and literature, and a selection of mother-of-pearl curios that his mother had collected from Lahore. Persian ceramics in turquoise and white gleamed from alcoves in the corners of the room. Tables of white glass fronted Venetian sofas in duchess blue.

  Hassan Ashkouri was seated in the Egyptian chair that had been a favorite of Esa’s father. Khattak took it as a personal affront. And he thought he had never understood his sister less. Why had she held the halaqa in their home, when he had done what he could to warn her?

  She was stubborn, obstinate—all those things. But she had never been blindly belligerent.

  Or had he spent too little time with her after their father’s death? Drifting away, shutting everyone out. For a while, that had included Nate. Khattak hadn’t realized he had also rejected Ruksh.

  Rachel watched from a seat in the corner. She was crammed into a love seat, not designed for either of their proportions, with Paula Kyriakou. She shook her head, a silent apology for not warning him about the halaqa’s change of venue.

  Khattak took a chair across from Ashkouri. He nodded at the other
man, introducing himself. At first glance, Ashkouri seemed pleasant enough, polite without being presumptuous. He was dressed in a navy suit, with a crisp shirt and matching tie—dressed to make an impression, with an elegance that enhanced his preternatural good looks. Dressed to win the favor of a prospective brother-in-law.

  But what Ashkouri said to Khattak was, “Ah. The thin bureaucrat himself.”

  Beneath the words, the insult was obscured. Rukshanda didn’t catch it.

  Ashkouri had just paraphrased the opening line of Agha Shahid Ali’s elegiac poem “Muharram in Srinagar, 1992.” The “thin bureaucrat” to fly in from the plains was Death.

  On the table was a copy of the slim volume of poetry, The Country Without a Post Office. It was a book that belonged to Khattak’s father, an ardent admirer of the Kashmiri poet, who was also the author of Rooms Are Never Finished—the book Ashkouri had given to Ruksh, a book Ruksh had failed to discover on the shelf in her father’s library.

  Since meeting Ruksh, Ashkouri must have acquainted himself with Agha Shahid Ali’s works. But something else intrigued Khattak about Ashkouri’s reference to “Muharram in Srinagar.” The poem’s principal metaphor for the violence enacted against the people of Kashmir was the historic Battle of Karbala, a paradigmatic moment on the calendar of Islam, dividing forever the houses of Shia and Sunni.

  Khattak knew the subtext as well as he knew the poem itself.

  Ashkouri viewed himself as a martyr to his cause.

  But Khattak didn’t think that Ashkouri’s own death was a part of his calculations, or his idea of martyrdom. However the Nakba plot was meant to be carried out, there was no evidence that Ashkouri had sought a place on the front lines.

  Once introductions to the circle had been made, Khattak gestured for Ashkouri to continue. Like Rachel had before him, he found the style of the halaqa strange and disjointed, while also unable to deny that it possessed a certain hypnotic appeal. The themes were as Rachel had described: Justice for the victims of tyranny. Solidarity with the oppressed. Vengeance upon the unrighteous. And then, out of nowhere, love poetry. And when he quoted it, Ashkouri’s black gaze would dwell on Ruksh’s face. Whether the feeling was real or simply the means to an end was impossible for Khattak to discern.