Beneath another sky. In another land. How tender she could be then. Many years ago, she sent me a Valentine: Mehran and Marvi/Sitting on a tree/K-I-S-S-I-N-G, with a sketch of stick figures and a tree, and a pierced heart scribbled below that, which she had coloured a deep scarlet. I might have thought it sentimental, but I remembered how I’d told her about a little girl who’d written that in my autograph book when I was ten, and I laughed. ‘But trust you, Marvi, to over-egg the cake with the heart.’ ‘Oh, your mixed metaphors!’ she protested.

On a summer evening Marvi said: ‘I’ve become a liar: I lie all the time to doctors to get my painkillers. I make my friends lie. I feel like a thief. I fought Umar for custody of the boys and now I seldom see them. They’re better away from me. But if it weren’t for the thought of seeing them I’d just jump out of the window. I can’t live like this any more.’

1998

Late January. She was in hospital: we were only allowed to see her with plastic gloves on. She was wired to all sorts of contraptions and bottles. She smiled when I walked in, and soon seemed to fall into a gentle sleep. Then she took away the piece that covered her mouth and spoke.

‘Marco …’

‘Mehran, Marvi. It’s me. Mehran.’

‘I know it’s you, darling. I just want to tell you I only stopped seeing Marco two years ago. He even visited me in Karachi. He wanted me to tell you that. But after that I never saw him again. When he calls I want you to say …’

I didn’t know what unresolved fantasies her mind was replaying.

‘Rest, darling.’

Against hospital rules, I squeezed the hand she extended in my gloved hand, and took it to my cheek.

‘Love you lots. Don’t leave …’

‘Me too. Now go back to sleep. I’m not leaving.’

‘Forgive …?’ Her voice was weak, and slurred.

‘Nothing to forgive,’ I said. I think I meant it.

Dear R,

Years ago, one of the last times I saw you, you told me a fable by a Senegalese sage, about all men being like walls full of holes in which birds nested, white birds and black, ravens and doves. ‘If you send out the white birds to someone else they return to their nests with blessings, but the ravens of rancour are always in search of empty spaces to occupy and will pick holes in the wall they perch on. Don’t send your ravens to anyone.’ I can’t remember exactly when, but one day I told Marvi your story.

Your loving M.

On the last evening of the year, Marvi rang to ask what I was doing. She was on her way to dinner at a friend’s.