Maps for Lost Lovers

needles stuck in my arms every waking hour, and my groin was all bloody and butchered after the operations.” But she had kept quiet lest the witch double her efforts to find a new wife for Suraya’s husband.
    “I’d heard England was a cold country but it’s so hot today,” says a young woman who’s standing next to Suraya. She moves her bangles up her arm to scratch her wrist. She’s wearing one of those lockets which contain miniature Korans a third the size of a matchbox.
    Suraya smiles politely and makes a non-committal sound.
    “It’s my first summer here. I came from Pakistan last November.”
    “A cousin born here in England went back to get married to you?”
    The young woman replaces on the shelf the tub of cream she’s been examining. “I am not married. I came to England on my own.” She lowers her voice. “I am an illegal immigrant.”
    Suraya nods.
    “I need somewhere to live for a while. You don’t know any place, do you?” The girl points over her shoulder, through the shop’s glass front. “Do you see that tall tower block in the distance? It’s completely empty so me and a friend broke in last night and are staying there. He’s nineteen and is almost like a brother to me, reminds me of my own, in fact.” Her eyes begin to smile at the mention of the boy. “And that impression has got stronger over the past few days because he has been very ill of late and I have to take care of him, the way I used to take care of my brother when my mother and me were trying to wean him off heroin.”
    Suraya looks at the distant tower—no bigger than the locket around the woman’s neck—and nods.
    “He was in pain all night and nodded off at dawn. I think it’s TB. When I left he was fast asleep. I’ll take home some fruit for him this evening.” She turns and looks at the tower. The smile escapes from her eyes and settles on her lips like a butterfly.
    Suraya says, “You could say that you are keeping an eye on him even from here.”
    The girl gives a small laugh. She opens the locket with its hinged lid and shows it to Suraya: hollow inside, it contains—instead of the usual Koran—four strands of gold. “The boy has a single gold hair amid the black ones on his head. He plucks it every other month and I collect it in the locket for safekeeping. It’s real gold. We’ll sell it when we have enough.”
    Suraya looks at her wristwatch. “I am afraid I have to go. You should ask the shopkeeper for help in finding you new accommodation.”
    She goes out to her car, towards her meeting with Shamas at the Safeena. She should try to remember a story about her son to tell to Shamas, some clever observation or humorous comment of his, to make sure it would endear him to Shamas, with the result that, when the time comes, he would feel sympathy and pity for him and then he would want to do anything he can to unite the child with his mother. Yes: this would do—last week he said that snails look like jelly that has come alive in its mould and is trying to escape.
    She’s hoping to take the servant girl in the house in Pakistan into her confidence, in order to ask her what her mother-in-law and husband are planning. Turn her into a spy. She should try to coax her on to the line the next time, promising her a gift or two from England, a pink cardigan with golden buttons, perhaps; or bright hair-grips shaped like strawberries, butterflies, daffodils, tartan bows; or high-heeled sandals with rhinestones on the straps.
    She must protect her son (and herself) whichever way she can.
    Chanda’s sister-in-law puts into a plastic bag the tube of beauty lotion that a woman is buying—a Pakistani import. The lines on a man’s hand foretell how many wives he will have—one, two, three or four—but according to the slogan on the tube, It’s not the lines on the palm of your husband’s hand that indicate a second wife — it’s the lines on your face. The woman departs, counting the change she’s been given.
    “Are you going to sell those strawberries to me at a cheaper rate, sister-ji?” says a young girl approaching the counter, a beam of light from the window striking the locket around her neck to produce a prismatic flash. Chanda’s sister-in-law is about to refuse politely when the girl continues in a low tone: “I am a poor illegal immigrant, sister-ji, and Allah will reward you for helping me.”
    Chanda’s sister-in-law immediately smiles at the girl, but looks around too, because