Kamila Shamsie - Kartography

Zia was particularly scathing about the gold taps. And about the general décor of Sonia’s house. ‘Let’s go over to Horror House,’ he’d often say. ‘I feel like a laugh. Let’s go and see the latest acquisitions. What will they think of next? Leopard-print cushion covers made of real leopard skin? A reproduction of the Sistine Chapel ceiling? Diamond-encrusted calligraphy on the nameplate, with an armed guard employed to shoot on sight anyone who ventures too close to it? Any and all of the above are possible when there’s enough money to buy everything except good taste. Come on, Raheen!’ He never just said, ‘Let’s go and visit Sonia,’ so perhaps I should have seen how hard he was trying to cover up his desire for her company, but I didn’t. I didn’t see anything at all in those days, least of all how strong a part Sonia’s conservatism played in my friendship with her. If she had been willing to entertain romantic notions, surely she would have entertained them about Zia, and how would I have forgiven her that?

We were still laughing when someone called out my name. It was the fast bowler who had remained unfazed by the football. ‘You want anything from the tuck shop, Raheen?’ he called out. I had known him all my life; his parents used to live next door to us. But he was two years older than I, and when he entered the Senior School and I was left behind in the Junior School he’d stopped acknowledging my presence. Among some of my classmates, he was something of a heart-throb. Too surprised by this turnaround after four years of silence to decide whether I wanted another Coke or packet of chilli chips, I just shook my head and raised my hand in a gesture that might have been a ‘thank you’.

Sonia poked me in the ribs. ‘What was that?’

I shrugged. Zia was struggling back into his blazer, flipping up the collar and then smoothing it back down again. Nothing like a fifteen-year-old fast bowler to make a thirteen-year-old look like a novice in the game of cool. I had to bite back the urge to say to Zia, ‘Oh, just give up.’

‘I think he likes you,’ Sonia whispered. The fast bowler had turned round to look at me again, and I swear he winked. ‘He’s really cute.’

I didn’t agree with that latter assessment at all, but Zia was not looking happy so I said, with all the casualness at my disposal, ‘Maybe I’ll go out with him.’

‘What?’ Karim turned to me. ‘Don’t be so stupid.’

‘What’s your problem?’ I said. He had turned quite red.

‘He’s right, though. It would be really dumb to go out with that guy,’ Zia said. I almost didn’t hear him; I was too busy trying to figure out what was making Karim so upset. Surely he knew I was joking? And if he didn’t, that still didn’t explain his attitude.

‘He doesn’t respect girls.’ Karim was sounding positively huffy.

‘Respect isn’t what I want from him.’ I tried to smile in a knowing way.

‘Shut up, Raheen,’ Karim shouted.

‘Oho!’ Sonia put a hand on both our wrists. ‘Raheen’s not that kind of girl, Karim. Don’t worry about her.’

‘What kind of girl am I not?’

‘The kind of girl Betty is,’ Zia said.

‘Huh?’ The three of us turned to stare at him.

‘Yeah,’ Zia said. He had tied my dupatta into a bandanna around his forehead, and was lying back on his elbow, lord of all he surveyed. ‘Betty who I met in London last summer. I didn’t mention it before because, you know, I do respect girls. I don’t kiss-and-tell.’

‘That’s because you don’t kiss,’ Karim said. ‘Where did this Betty suddenly come from?’

Zia raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t get jealous, Karim. She was this girl I met last summer in London. We…well, a gentleman doesn’t talk about that kind of stuff.’

He was really such a terrible liar that I couldn’t even begin to feel jealous. Or was it that I didn’t even begin to feel jealous and decided that was because he was a terrible liar?

‘Zia!’ Sonia said, appalled.

‘Oh, rubbish, rubbish, rubbish.’ Karim started laughing. ‘OK, go on, describe her to us. What colour was her hair?’

‘Golden.’

Karim and I shrieked with laughter. ‘You could at least—’ I said, and burst into laughter again.

‘—At least say blonde,’ Karim finished.

Sonia scrunched up her face and looked from Zia to Karim and me. ‘Blonde Betty? Archie comics?’

‘Archie comics!’ Karim was bent double, his face almost touching my knee. ‘Show some originality, man.’

Zia stood up, and flung my dupatta to the ground.

‘Oh hey, Zia, come on,’ Karim said. ‘We’re just joking around. Sit down, yaar, come on.’

Zia was looking at Sonia. I was looking at Zia and trying not to notice that I thought he was being ridiculous.

‘Don’t be angry,’ Sonia reached a hand out and lightly touched his sleeve. ‘I’m sure there really are blonde Bettys in London. Aren’t there?’ She turned to Karim and me, a fierce look on her face, daring us to contradict her.

Karim and I nodded. Karim nodded a little more fervently than I did. The bell rang, and so Zia was saved from having to decide whether to sit down again or not. Karim held out a hand, and Zia pulled him up. Karim turned towards me, and I started to hold my hand out to him, but found I was turning the gesture into something else, pretending I was only reaching up to pat the top of my own head. Sonia stood up and pulled me up, and we walked towards the school building, Sonia’s arm around me, and the two boys close in conversation, a gap between them and us that seemed right somehow, seemed comfortable, and at the same time was quite new.

If Karim moved to London, would he meet Blonde Bettys?

It was probably soon after that conversation in the school yard that Zia called me up, late one evening, proposing a visit to Sonia’s.

‘I can’t,’ I said, rather feebly. ‘There’s school tomorrow and it’s already after ten.’

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Your parents are at Runty and Bunty’s beach party, aren’t they? Mine are too. And, guess what, so are Sonia’s parents. Aunty Runty told Mummy this morning that Bunty had invited them; he’s such a loser, he’ll invite anyone with a bank balance that goes into seven digits. OK, eight digits maybe.’

‘I suppose I could call my parents and ask them…’

‘Raheen! There aren’t any phones at the beach. Besides, even if there were, you know your parents would say no. Come on, sneak out. Just once. I’ll have you back within an hour.’

‘Well…’

‘I’ve got my neighbours’ Merc.’

‘What do you mean you’ve got it?’

‘I have the keys. They’re out of town for the next few days.’

‘And they gave you the keys?’

‘Details, details. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Call Karim. Tell him we ’11 be at his place in thirteen minutes and tell Sonia we’ll be there in eighteen.’

I dialled Karim’s number and hung up after one ring. Then I did the same with Sonia’s number. When Zia walked into my room, twirling unfamiliar car-keys, I said, ‘Called the other two but no one answered their phones. I think Karim’s at his cousin’s place and maybe Sonia’s gone to sleep already.’

‘We’ll stop at her place to check.’

Oh, great.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘This is going to be the ride of your life.’

He really did have his neighbour’s Mercedes. It was red and it was cool. ‘Wow!’ I said out loud, forgetting that I had to be as quiet as possible so that none of the servants would know I was leaving and report me to my parents the next day.

Zia winked and flipped up the collar of his shirt. He opened the passenger side door for me and then slid across the bonnet to the driver’s side. I thought I would faint with delirium.