Kauthar Read online

  Praise for Meike Ziervogel

  ‘Meike Ziervogel is becoming one of the most interesting figures in the contemporary British and European world, not just because she is a publisher of imagination and daring, but a writer of grace, forensic precision, and power. Rarely has someone given so much from sheer enthusiasm, and talent, and been so worth watching.’ NICHOLAS LEZARD, Guardian critic

  Praise for Magda

  ‘This was by far the most intense, impressive and unexpected book on the shortlist. It’s the one that provoked the strongest emotional and intellectual reaction and more simply seemed to me to be the best written.’ SAM JORDISON, Guardian, Not the Booker Prize

  ‘Challenging, clever, and fascinating as an insight into how generations of Germans are summoning the courage to address the horror of the last century.’ AMANDA CRAIG, Independent

  ‘Ziervogel is the brave woman who set up Peirene Press five years ago . . . Her own debut novel displays similar nerve . . . This is an ambitious and queasily unsettling novel.’ DAVID MILLS,

  ‘Ziervogel explores this disturbing theory with haunting originality and real flair.’ CHRISTENA APPLEYARD, Daily Mail

  ‘Magda is a triumph of complex, cross-generational, feminist psychology, a spellbinding mix of fact and fiction . . . A daring and intelligent debut.’ PAM NORFOLK, Lancashire Evening Post

  ‘I felt for this woman in a way I would not have believed possible.’ JANE GARVEY, BBC Radio 4 Woman’s Hour

  ‘In her book, Meike uses the brutal story of Magda as a vehicle to examine the psychology behind familial murder and to explore deep-rooted and destructive relationships between mothers and their daughters.’ SIMON YAFFE, Jewish Telegraph

  Praise for Clara’s Daughter

  ‘This searching, beautifully written novel gets to the heart of woman’s attempts to step out of the role of her mother’s daughter, and make sense of the person she has become. Terrific.’ KATE SAUNDERS, The Times

  ‘The deftly arranged sequence of scenes gradually reveals the fears and needs of each protagonist and their relationships with each other, outlined with a careful, thoughtful style that creates an unusual atmosphere of charged bleakness. Strange, but oddly impressive.’ HARRY RITCHIE, Daily Mail

  ‘Ziervogel’s prose is generally superb, with true flair and an originality that is rare when confronting such an everyday subject.’ ROISIN O’CONNOR, Independent on Sunday

  ‘Stark and acutely observed realism . . . The result is visceral, bleak and moving.’ CLAIRE HAZELTON, Guardian

  ‘At a striking pace, the narrative switches between the perspectives of different characters, and the sense of emotional disconnect between them becomes ever more visceral and claustrophobic.’ ANNA SAVVA, The Lady

  Kauthar

  Meike Ziervogel grew up in Germany and came to London in 1986 to study Arabic. In 2008 she founded Peirene Press, an award-winning, London-based, independent publishing house. Kauthar is Meike’s third novel. Find out more about Meike at www.meikeziervogel.com

  Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

  12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Meike Ziervogel, 2015

  The right of Meike Ziervogel to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

  Salt Publishing 2015

  Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-1-78463-053-9 electronic

  ‘IT’S THE ENGLISH woman.’

  Razor-sharp, the voice penetrates my ear. Have they found my passport? Unveiled my face? Ripped off my clothes? I see dim outlines of bodies moving. Electric cables flutter in the wind, black smoke glides past. I hear screams. Why are they screaming? Yellow and red flames surround me. Shards of metal touch my fingers.

  ‘Jeez!’

  The same voice. Johnson?

  Why am I still here? Why are they still here? I wanted to take them with me. To show them the way. The only way. They can’t find it on their own. Because they are blind. They believe they can hide their blindness. From You. From me. Hide it beneath bullet-proof helmets. Behind dark sunglasses which reflect the country where once Your Garden of Eden flourished and grew. They destroyed it with their bombs and their unbelief; placed their tanks and their barriers in the way. But to no avail. Your garden will grow again and spread across the world. And the infidels will be punished. I have put myself to the test. All power is with You. You are the Creator of everything that is created out of nothing. You hold life and death in Your hands. God, I am ready. Lead me into Your mercy, into Your divine Paradise.

  I

  Hubb – Love

  ‘KAUTHAR.’

  I glance quickly to my left. A tall man is rising from the park bench. I’d already caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye as I left the building. It is a mild summer’s evening in Jumaada al-awwal 1421. The square is deserted. Only this man and me. The other students of the Arabic evening class left more than half an hour ago. I stayed behind in the language lab. I now lower my gaze, forcing myself to keep a steady pace. I don’t want to give the impression of being frightened. I’m heading towards the metal gates that separate the university from Malet Street. I am wearing an ankle-length cotton skirt and a dark-blue summer blazer over a long-sleeved blouse. My feet in flat sandals are covered by socks despite the warm weather. My hair, neck and shoulders are concealed by a dark-grey hijab. I am a muhajabah and he, an Arab judging by his complexion, ought to know that he shouldn’t shout after me in public. I have never seen this man before. Perhaps he is confusing me with someone else. Other women are called Kauthar too. Or maybe I misheard.

  ‘Please wait.’

  He has raised his voice so I can still hear him. He hasn’t moved.

  ‘I would like to propose to you.’

  There is a brief pause. I take another step.

  ‘I would like to marry you.’

  On the road a black cab drives past. I put my left foot forward. Then I stop. But I don’t turn around. Lydia would have laughed out loud now. No man with serious intentions chats up a woman on the street in the middle of London. No sane man asks a woman he has never met before to marry him. This man must be backward in some way. He has picked up the phrase, knows roughly in which context to use it, but has no idea of its emotional connotations. Basically, a little boy who is playing his games – cowboys and Indians, for example. And he chooses a bride and takes her into his tent.

  ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata. ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata. ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata.

  Rushing wind fills Lydia’s ears. She can barely understand what Marcus is yelling. But she can hear him calling out these names and she can hear the rattling of the beer mats he has fastened to the spokes of his wheels. He is circling the playground on his bicycle. Lydia is hanging head-down from the highest monkey bar, swinging back and forth. Marcus’s blonde hair appears and disappears above the wooden fence to the rhythm of her movement.

  ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata. ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’
Ratatata. ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata.

  Lydia doesn’t like Marcus. His constant chatter about willies gives her the creeps. And when they play spin the bottle with the others in the trees behind the church he always insists on tongue-kissing. At school he is one of the cool boys – denim jacket, jeans, hangs out with the likes of Charlie – and would never be seen anywhere near Lydia and Kathy. But in the holidays he’s often alone.

  ‘Then show us your willy. Come on,’ shouts Kathy.

  She is sitting sideways on top of the middle monkey bar, coy, one leg bent, one straight. Kathy is Lydia’s best friend. She is already twelve and last year she had a boyfriend from the fourth form.

  ‘Do you think I’d show him to just any girl?’ Marcus calls back.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think.’ Kathy’s straight leg is kicking the air playfully. ‘I think—’ she pauses for dramatic effect – ‘you have a teeny-weeny one.’

  ‘You must be joking. I’ve got the biggest dick ever. You’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Show us. Come on. You’re a coward. You won’t even get off your bike. Why don’t you stop, climb up that tower and show us what you’ve got?’

  A high wooden fence encloses the rectangular playground and in each corner there is a tower, like in a fort.

  ‘Show him to your ugly face? The very thought makes me feel sick!’ He pretends to throw up, then continues his monotonous song.

  ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata. ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata. ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata. Like the howling of a lonely wild beast.

  Lydia is happy that she doesn’t need to participate in this exchange. She is watching the ends of her two pigtails floating above the sandy ground. They are not flying through the air yet because she is still swinging with care. Sometimes she would love to cut her hair as short as Nadia Comăneci’s. Nadia’s hair is not really short, but shorter than Lydia’s. Her mother says short hair only suits dark-haired girls. Dark-haired girls always have very thick hair. Lydia’s hair is ash blonde and thin.

  If she had hair like Nadia Comăneci she might be good at gymnastics. But Lydia is not good. She is scared of the bar, the vault, the beam. She is scared of stumbling, falling off, breaking a bone, knocking out a tooth. She doesn’t want to hit her head so that it bleeds. Most girls in her year can do the back hip circle on the bar. Kathy can. Lydia can’t. She can only hang head-down. Of course she would love to be able to do the hip circle, but she will never learn how to because she is scared. And really, to be scared of gymnastics is silly. Especially since her father used to be a leading gymnast and almost became a member of the 1960 Olympic team in Rome, and then again in 1964 in Tokyo. However, that was long before Lydia was born. And now he loves running, and runs every day for an hour or two when he is at home, with a stopwatch in his hand. Lydia, meanwhile, tries to cheat her way through the sports lessons. She puts on a stoical face, pretending it doesn’t matter that everyone is better than her, while encouraging her classmates to have their go ahead of her in the hope that the school bell will ring before her turn comes around.

  This man, however, is not backward, and he doesn’t play games, especially not in relation to something as sacred as a marriage proposal. He knows that marriage is a sacrament. He’s a Muslim. He obeys Allah’s will. And Kauthar doesn’t play such games either. Now Lydia, yes, she would have wanted to play. She would have laughed, or carried on walking with a smile. She might have hoped that the man would follow her; not chase her, but attempt to get her attention. Would she have stopped? She couldn’t have, because she would have run the risk of becoming a laughing stock. Did you honestly think I wanted to marry you – just like that? Who do you think you are? A film star? A supermodel? And if she had gone with him – to the pub, of course, to have a drink and lose her inhibitions – and they’d ended up in bed together, the next morning he would have said, What, marry you! Which century are you living in? We had a good fuck, that’s all.

  So Lydia would have kept on walking, would have gone home, into the lonely silence. And in order to bear it she would have drunk one or two or three glasses of wine. Then, in the following days, she’d have gone into work, taking the bus, the Tube, while all the time fantasizing, hoping, that she would see the man again; that he would be looking for her, waiting for her, because he wanted to meet her again just as much as she wanted to meet him. And while she walked down the road, she’d look out for him. Sometimes she’d be convinced that he was coming towards her, only to be disappointed. Or in the library, when someone came in, she’d be sure she could feel their gaze on her back. She would not turn around immediately, pretending not to have noticed his presence. Eventually of course she would look over her shoulder, only to find herself staring into a void or at someone she had never seen before. Her heart would be in a permanent state of erratic expectation, her body wired. But nothing would happen. And she’d regret not having stopped.

  That’s how it would have been with Lydia.

  But she is not Lydia.

  I am not Lydia. I am no longer Lydia. I have never been Lydia. I should never have been Lydia.

  Lydia died at the age of eleven, the summer after Nadia Comăneci won the gold medal in Montreal.

  The girl is now swinging more vigorously. Her pigtails are flying through the air. Perhaps it’s the rushing wind in her ears that excludes everything else, even the fear. Anyway, suddenly she knows that no one and nothing will disturb her practice, that finally she has all the time in the world and one day, perhaps even in the next sports lesson, she will be able to swing and straddle and perform a front flyaway. And she will finish her routine like Nadia Comăneci; pelvis pushed forward, a beautiful curve in her back, both feet firmly rooted to the ground, legs slightly apart, arms stretched up high, head thrown back, mouth laughing. The audience applauds. She has accomplished the impossible. It’s amazing. Lydia feels the cold metal of the monkey bar in the hollows behind her knees. She becomes even more courageous, swings further back. She watches her fingertips skimming the hard, sandy ground before they once more lift up towards the sky. Her pigtails have disappeared. Instead she now sports a beautiful short haircut and her hair blows softly in the wind, gently brushing her cheeks. She sees Kathy’s blue jacket, hears her giggles. Once again she spots Marcus’s blonde hair gliding above the fence. Individual images, disjointed, fading into the distance with each swing. Lydia is now the brave, poised gymnast. The newcomer. The rising star. No one has paid much attention to her up to this moment. She has been inconspicuous. Overlooked. Underrated. But suddenly, literally overnight, she has turned the corner. All the hard practice and training and discipline has been worth it. Her progress is unbelievable. But will she succeed? Will she be courageous enough to try a full twisting flyaway? No. That’s impossible. Only yesterday she was a mere schoolgirl. And today the eyes of the country, of the whole world, are upon her. One more push. Her body flies backwards. She is still feeling the cold metal bar behind her knees. Her back is straight, arms extended above her head. Her body is at the same level as the bar. She has never swung that high. For a moment she is in limbo. No gravity is pulling her. She is floating. Then her heart begins to race. She knows the moment has come. It’s now or never. When she swings forward she will jump and land, legs slightly apart, with both feet firmly on the ground. Her head tipped back, she will throw her arms up into the air, her back beautifully curved. And then a smile, a happy, tired smile, will appear on her lips. She sees it all in her mind’s eye. Her body already carries the memory of the image inside her, a future that has already happened, a future that has been programmed to happen.

  The forward swing has begun.

  ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata. ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata.

  The hollows behind her knees peel away from the bar. Flip, tuck, pike, hecht, salto, swing, straddle. Beautiful words that she knows from the television. They sound rounded and full;
their mere utterance gives the illusion that the exercise has been performed faultlessly. A perfect 10 without doubt. The crowd is ecstatic. Will Lydia McArthur be the first ever to achieve 10.1? The nation’s hopes are pinned on her. She is airborne.

  But.

  Her legs aren’t straight. They should be straight, not tucked. She won’t achieve the 10.1. For an incomprehensible, fleeting moment Lydia knows that she has failed.

  And she hits the ground. Her knees slam on to the hard floor. A jolt travels through her body. Then it moves no more. For a split second she struggles to comprehend. Her mind can’t process quickly enough what has happened. Without understanding, in total ignorance, she is kneeling on the floor. Waiting. A moment of mercy and grace. Then her brain begins to receive and decipher the signals. She can’t breathe! Panic grips her. She bends forward, presses her hands against her chest. Her mouth is open, but no air enters her lungs.

  She hears the blood rushing in her ears and Marcus is still circling the playground. ‘Willy, willy. Dick.’ Ratatata. And Kathy is still shouting: ‘Show us your willy, show us your willy. Coward. Show-off. Loser.’

  And then suddenly.

  Silence.

  And Lydia knows she will die.

  A vast, peaceful feeling has now taken possession of her. It fills her, is all around her. A white, clean blanket has been spread over her. The panic has gone. Kathy and Marcus have gone. The playground, the monkey bar, Nadia Comăneci – all gone. Nothing matters any longer. There is only that beautiful, wonderful, all-encompassing calm. Around her, inside her, she is part of it, at one with it. Her hands are resting in her lap, she is surrendering to the inevitable. There is no more running, no more fighting, no more longing. That belongs to a world in which she is no longer present.