Tahmima Anam - A Golden Age

Sohail spoke first. ‘We’ll have to wait till the curfew’s lifted.’

Sabeer looked down at his uniform. The green was dark, almost invisible, but the sickle, the grin, shone whitely against his chest, the crimson sky, the blinking horizon. ‘I’m an officer of the Pakistan Army,’ he said at last.

‘What will you do?’

‘I’m not sure.’ The scar above his lip rippled as he twisted his mouth.

‘Desertion is punishable by death,’ Sohail said.

‘I don’t care about that. I just never thought it would come to this.’

Sohail did not rebuke Sabeer for not knowing better.

They returned to the party. Mrs Chowdhury was still supine on the dining chair; Mrs Sengupta was at Mithun’s bedside with her hand on his chest. Maya took the radio to the kitchen to see if she could get a signal. Rehana was with her; she was putting ice into a glass for Silvi, who was nervous and thirsty.

There was nothing to do. They waited. Maya crouched stubbornly in front of the radio; Sabeer paced the drawing room, pulling aside curtains, opening and closing windows. Silvi perched on the sofa, rocking back and forth on her hands. Mr Sengupta lit a thin brown cigarillo.

Finally Mrs Chowdhury rose from her chair as though she had just had a revelation.

‘There’s going to be trouble, lots of trouble,’ she said to Sabeer. The pitch of her voice told Rehana she was about to make an announcement. ‘You know it. I want you to make sure nothing will happen to my daughter.’

‘Your daughter will be safe.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ He turned to Silvi, who nodded silently into the floor.

‘But what if something happens to you? What if they come for her?’

‘Who?’

‘Who knows? People! The army!’ And she collapsed again into the chair.

‘Ma,’ Sabeer said, ‘nothing will happen to Silvi.’

‘There’s only one way to be sure. You must marry her tonight.’

‘ Marry?’

‘You don’t understand, you’re just a child, but I’ve been through things like this. The thing to do is to make sure all the unmarried girls are safe. You think this gate will keep the hoodlums out?’ Mrs Chowdhury’s voice climbed to a shaky trill.

Rehana saw her whispering something to the Lieutenant. She pointed to Silvi, hung her head, raised it, raised her finger, brought a handkerchief to her eyes. The Lieutenant nodded distractedly, patting Mrs Chowdhury’s shoulder.

By midnight the shelling had slowed to a few staccato beats in the distance. Mrs Chowdhury ushered Sohail and Rehana to the kitchen. ‘Sohail, I need you,’ she said. ‘Silvi needs to get married right away. You have to witness. There have to be two men. Mr Sengupta will be the other witness. It isn’t exactly right, but we’ll have to make do.’

‘Mrs Chowdhury,’ Rehana said, ‘is this really the time?’ Her head spun with the absurdity of it.

‘Of course this is the time. What better time is there? There may be no other time. No time left! What if the Lieutenant doesn’t return for months? What if he dies ?’ And then: ‘Why don’t you select a few verses, Rehana? You read so well.’

As soon as Mrs Chowdhury left to change Silvi into a fresh sari, Maya muttered, ‘This is ridiculous — you’d think Silvi would have more sense.’

Rehana reached for the shelf where she knew Silvi kept the Holy Book. ‘Help me get it down, Sohail.’

‘I don’t love her any more,’ Sohail said, as if she had asked him a question. And then he said, ‘I stopped loving her the moment I heard about the soldier.’

Rehana kept silent but Maya looked up sharply, a challenge in the set of her mouth.

‘I don’t believe in violence,’ Sohail announced, as though the two women he was addressing were new acquaintances. ‘I can’t support any kind of violence. And anyway it’s her choice. Women must be allowed to choose for themselves.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Maya said; ‘you know she just buckled under the pressure. Really, the girl is very weak.’

‘Shut up,’ Sohail said.

Maya rolled her eyes and returned to the radio. ‘You go. I’m not having anything to do with this charade.’

Rehana opened the Holy Book.

Again Silvi and Sabeer were seated on the double sofa. Again Silvi looked down into her lap. Rehana could see her lip trembling, and she wanted to run over to the girl and ask her if she was sure, very sure she wanted to marry the Lieutenant, but just as she was about to cross the room, Silvi, in one of those rare interruptions to her sobriety, flashed a wide, toothy smile. The smile was for her mother, Rehana knew, but it worked to silence the doubts that were circulating around the room.

‘Sohail,’ Silvi said, louder than she needed to, ‘why don’t you take a photograph?’

‘Do you have a camera?’ Sohail asked.

‘I still have yours,’ Silvi replied, opening a drawer next to the sofa; ‘you let me borrow, it, remember, because I wanted to take a photo of Romeo and Juliet?’ She handed him his most prized possession, a Yashica Electro 35G Rehana had bought him for his eighteenth birthday.

‘Of course,’ Sohail said, taking the Yashica out of its case and hiding his face behind the lens. What did he see, Rehana wondered. Did he see regret on her lips, in the way her hands were arranged, in the brightness of her cheeks, in the ragged quickness of her breath? And what about Silvi? Would she miss the long silences between them, the love notes delivered through slats in the shutters?

Sohail pointed the camera at the couple on the sofa.

‘Smile!’ And there was a snap.

Just as Rehana was about to open the Holy Book the lights went out. She had to recite the marriage verses from memory: He created for you mates from among yourselves, that you may dwell in tranquillity with them, and He has put love and mercy between your hearts.

Silvi and Sabeer exchanged rings. Then Mrs Chowdhury said, ‘Let’s have a poem, Sohail!’

‘No, khala-moni, really, I couldn’t.’

‘Come on, not even for an old friend?’

‘Maybe music would be a better idea,’ Rehana said, trying to rescue her son. ‘Why don’t you ask Maya to sing a ghazal?’

But Maya kept her back to them and pretended not to hear.

Under the veil, Silvi’s shoulders shook violently.

‘Sweetheart, don’t be afraid,’ Mrs Sengupta soothed. Silvi didn’t look any more or less unhappy than any other bride.

‘We are all family now. We must have a poem,’ Mrs Chowdhury insisted.

Sohail faced the couple, closed his eyes and recited:

When you command me to sing it seems my heart will break with pride.

I look to your face and feel the wet salt of my tears.

My adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.

It is only in this, my voice, that I am witness to you.

Drunk with the joy, sublime, of singing, I forget myself and call you friend who are my lord.

You have made me endless; such is your pleasure.

And that was it. They lingered in Mrs Chowdhury’s drawing room, listening to the rat-tat-tat of the machine-guns. The night passed like a dream, no movement, no words passing between them.

With dawn the bullets quietened. The sun was making a slow rise in the east, preceded by blurred sky-stripes of pink and orange. Dust was settling on trees and rooftops. They decided to go home. Mrs Chowdhury was asleep on her chair, her hand under her chin. They slid open the front door and found Juliet pacing around a prone Romeo. Her head was bent; her ears brushed his face as she circled him. She grunted quietly, her nostrils moist and flared. Romeo didn’t stir. Sohail put his hand on the dog’s belly. ‘He’s dead,’ he said; ‘he must have had a heart-attack.’