Page 79 of The Mismatch

‘You never want to talk. Sometimes you have to, even if it doesn’t feel good,’ he said quietly.

She pretended she didn’t hear him, and eventually heard his soft breathing lull into sleep.

The next day, when he had gone to work, last night’s events not mentioned, Neda washed herself more slowly than normal, basking in the act. The water was a touch too cold, but she enjoyed the clear-headed feeling it gave her. She laid her prayer mat on the floor, put on her chador, and beganpraying. With each prostration she felt relief, as though she was exhaling all her worries. She prayed for Hossein. For all his family and her own. She thanked Allah for everything he had given her. She asked that Hossein be given the strength to do better, be better.

Prayer time was her favourite part of the day; it was when she felt most connected to the world. And when she’d finished, she could continue her day with clarity, all her worries and fears gone.

For now, at least.

**

Weeks later, on the anniversary of Hossein’s father’s death, they went for a picnic in Sefton Park.

Laid on a blanket were sandwiches, crisps and fruit. As Neda anxiously set everything out, Hossein was quiet, not himself. The only reason Neda knew the significance of the date was because his mum had told hers, who then told Neda.

They found a spot under a tree, in the shade, slightly apart from the other groups of people, some smoking weed, some dressed in a similar way to the Beatles, all shaggy hair and round sunglasses. Whilst Neda disapproved of drug use, she couldn’t deny the way everyone who took them seemed more relaxed, less hostile.

Hossein had let his moustache grow. He blended in well with the others; it was only Neda with her hijab who stood out.

A few days previously a group of teenagers had shouted, ‘Go back home, you fucking Paki!’ at her. If she had not been with Hossein she might have burst into tears, but his strength, and the fact that he outright told them where to go, prevented her. She had been so concerned about stopping a potential fight that she forgot about the insult.

Neda handed him a cheese sandwich and began biting into her own.

After a period of silence he said, ‘It’s been three years since my baba died.’

‘I know. I’m so sorry, Hossein.’

Another long silence.

Hossein gazed into the distance, she assumed reminiscing about the past. Was he thinking about the last time he spoke to his father? The last words they shared? Or was he picturing the good times they’d had together – or, alternatively, the bad ones, and realising how on reflection he would rather have had them than this?

‘At least Allah’s looking after him now,’ Neda said, and then uttered a small prayer. Hossein repeated the same words under his breath. She noticed prayer beads in his hand, which he rolled between his fingers. When he saw her looking at them he stopped praying momentarily.

‘These are my baba’s,’ he explained. ‘Were my baba’s. He would sit in the living room, sliding the beads around and around for hours.’

Neda gave him a small smile. ‘What was he like?’

‘Strong, quiet.’ Hossein shrugged. ‘This will be the first year I haven’t visited his grave.’

Neda felt guilty then, despite it not being her fault. She put her hand over Hossein’s, caressed his palm. He gave a faint smile.

‘I wish he could have met you,’ he said.

‘I wish we could have met too. I wonder if he would have liked me.’

‘He would have loved you, Neda. I know that for sure. He was always the religious one in our house, always encouraged me to find a good Muslim wife.’ Hossein smiled at the memory. ‘And I found one. I found a woman who is decent and good …’ He touched her face lightly with his fingertips. ‘A beautiful, sexy woman.’

Neda was speechless. He had that effect on her.

‘I’m sorry if I’m sometimes distant. I’m trying to get used to this new place. It’s amazing, but so different … I hope you understand.’

‘I do, Hossein.’

They continued eating for a while, the silence comfortable. Until he suddenly said, ‘Do you ever think about death?’

Her chewing slowed. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘It scares me. When I think about it too much, I start not being able to breathe. I’m physically incapable, and then I think I’m having a heart attack.’ He shook his head as though just remembering would inflict the same pain on him. ‘That’s why I sometimes drink.’ The tops of his ears were pink as he confessed. ‘Since moving here, I think about it more and more, and I want to forget. Being away from home makes you realise how insignificant you are, in the grand scheme of things.’