A Deconstructed Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

garden. She sat at the table and worked on an essay, looking up from time to time as he walked past the kitchen door, carrying planks. Uncle Mirza was waving his arms in the air as he spoke to Rehan, and she heard hammering. When she looked out of the back window a little later, she saw a wooden platform in the center of the garden and Frank Minton was sitting on the grass threading cord through the holes in a pile of gray canvas. It was a few hours work before the tent was standing. As she was pouring water into the kettle, and she saw her uncle stoop to drag some blankets and a chair through the two canvas flaps that hung down at the front. While she watched him, Rehan entered the kitchen.
    He opened the fridge, and she saw the bony ridge of his spine as he bent over to peer inside. He closed the door, leaving a black smudge on the door, which he wiped off with his elbow. He washed his hands at the sink and then held his dripping hands up as if he were under arrest as he swiveled to find a towel. She tore off a napkin for him.
    “Will it be enough?” She tipped her head towards the tent.
    “For mountaineering, no.” He smiled. “For a Trenton monsoon, just about. The platform should keep the ground water off him. The top is sturdy, should be fine if the wind picks up. I’ll be back to check on him. Salam alaikum,” he said as he ducked out of the doorway.
    She made a pot of tea and was about to carry out the mugs for her uncle and his neighbor, when she changed her mind and pulled out the tea tray, laying out napkins and Danish butter biscuits. She had bought the tin at the shops, imagining, at the time, a late-night feast on one of those nights when she stayed up watching repeats on the television.
    They sat outside in plastic chairs, waiting for the first drizzle. “You know, the emperors of India had tents made when they traveled or went into battle,” said Mirza. “Exquisite things, made of silks and brocades, lit with beautiful lamps and decorated with their collections of paintings. And each night that they moved forward, the tents were dismantled, and a whole legion of servants would carry the fabric, the décor, with them until they reached the next camp. And another work of art would be created in the middle of the wilderness, just like that.”
    Frank held up his teacup in salute, “Nice place you’ve got here, Sultan.” Mirza looked pleased, and they sat again in cordial silence. They heard Ella’s voice calling her husband from deep within their home, and Frank stood up and bowed slightly, “I’ll be visiting again.” He paused, “Next time I’ll bring some of Ella’s butterscotch tart, and we’ll make a picnic of it.”
    “Sounds too delicious,” said Mirza, “Invite your good lady wife, too. Tell her you’re taking her out for dinner.”
    After their neighbor left, Amal watched the clouds knitting themselves over their heads. Her uncle was staring into the distance, the white of his kurta gleaming through the thin brown sweater stretched over his belly. She looked at the slice of pure darkness between the trembling flaps of the tent doorway and her heart sank. At least I can find a torch at the DIY shop, she thought. A rug would be too large, but maybe a few nice doormats could fit in side by side.
    A cold raindrop hit her hand, and they looked at it together in silence.
    “Will you be ok?” she asked.
    “Yes,” he said quietly.
    “Are you sure you won’t…?” she looked towards the house.
    “Go in, beti. I know you are taking good care of things there, care of me,” he faltered. “More than I should be asking of you.” His hands lay loosely on his lap, palms upward. She touched him gently on the shoulder, and his head dropped to his chest. They sat there for a while as the raindrops began tapping at the canvas, and then she rose and gathered the tea things and took them into the house. As she switched off the kitchen light to go up to bed, she looked out into the darkness