Read Online Kartography by Kamila Shamsie - Free Book Online

‘So save it for later. Now go to sleep. Both of you.’
    Uncle Ali turned off the light above Karim and my bunk bed and lay down to read his newspaper under the remaining light. When my father read the papers it was a noisy affair; paper rustled and crinkled, supplements fell out, the most interesting columns concluded on pages which could not be found until Aba lost interest and moved on to the next article. But with Uncle Ali, all was silent and orderly, and newsprint never smudged on to his fingers.
    My leg dangled over the edge of the top bunk but Karim did not kick up his foot to protest the presence of my limb in his airspace. One of the women from the village had waxed my legs and massaged them with coconut oil that morning. I withdrew my leg from Karim’s line of sight and wondered how I could get Zia to see me bare-legged before the ugly stubble appeared.
    â€˜We should go to the beach in the next day or two,’ Karim said.
    â€˜Certes, my lord,’ I whispered down to him. Certes. An anagram for secret. I swung myself off the top bunk and lay down on his mattress, my body turned towards him, head propped on elbow, so that Uncle Ali wouldn’t be able to see the shapes of the words leaving my mouth. Something unfamiliar—confusion? incomprehension?—flashed in his eyes, and I found we were both shifting backward, widening the space between us. No, no, no, I thought. Karim and I can’t be awkward with each other.
    â€˜You’re about to fall off, aren’t you?’ Karim said.
    The bed was absurdly narrow. I nodded, considered getting up, realized that would only make things more awkward, and started laughing instead; I would have fallen off then if Karim hadn’t shot his hand forward and pulled me away from the brink.
    â€˜What’s the secret?’ he said, releasing my wrist. As strangely as it appeared, the constraint between us had gone and we were now just lying beside each other as we had done all our lives.
    â€˜What does Zia say about me?’
    Karim rested his head on the pillow and folded his arms across his chest. ‘God, I’m sleepy,’ he said and closed his eyes.
    â€˜In other words, Zia couldn’t be less interested and there’s no way you’re going to be the one to tell me that. Breathe if I’ve guessed correctly.’
    He kicked me and turned his face to the wall. I poked him in the spine and he started snoring.
    â€˜Raheen, I think my son’s trying to tell you to leave him alone.’
    I kicked Karim in one final attempt to get a reaction, and then turned to face Uncle Ali. ‘So why didn’t you marry my mother?’ I said.
    Uncle Ali looked at me the way someone wearing half-moon reading glasses might peer at something in the distance. I once heard Ami teasing him about that look, saying he only did it to draw attention to the fact that his eyesight was superb. Aunty Maheen never teased her husband, but Ami teased him all the time.
    â€˜The music changed,’ he said.
    I think the four of them chose that bit of imagery—the waltzing couples changing partners—long ago to avoid having to answer the kind of question I’d just asked. It was obvious why, though I hadn’t given it much thought before. Off the dance floor, synchrony cannot exist. What I really wanted Uncle Ali to tell me—what he really wasn’t going to tell me—was who was the first. Of the four of them, who was the first to decide to twirl away; who was the first, and who was the last?
    â€˜Good thing the record got stuck on “repeat play” after that?’ It was meant to be a statement, but it came out as a question.
    Uncle Ali folded up his newspaper—rather hastily, it seemed—and switched off the light. ‘Very good thing. Otherwise you and Karim wouldn’t be. ‘Night, sweetheart.’
    I wanted to ask him what made them think everything had worked out for the best before