14. At the fortune teller’s establishment, Farzana calls Aslam a “little shit, a first-rate fucking twat.” I am taken aback by how British her anger sounds. She charges at her brother and tugs at fistfuls of his hair. I know I should intervene, but I’m not sure how.
Farzana grips Farishta the Angel by the shoulders and flings her onto the bed. I expect a second volley of British curses that taste like blood pudding and hurt like Harold Larwood’s bowling, but there isn’t one. Aslam has managed to scrabble to his feet and wrap a sheet around himself. I wonder if Farzana will have another go at him, but she doesn’t. She backs into the wall and slides to the floor, her face in her palms.
“You bloody bitch,” Aslam says, slurring. “How—how dare you. As if this is any of your business.”
I help Farzana to her feet.
“Let’s just leave, Bela,” she says, taking my hand. Her body is limp, the fight whipped out of her. We reenter the room with the thick drapes and make toward the door.
“No, wait—” Aslam lumbers behind us, reaching for Farzana and missing. “Tell me, what do you care where I am or what I do?”
Farzana turns around. “Ammi cares, Aslam. And Abbu—”
“Fuck Abbu. He probably just misses telling me what a failure I am. And as for that stupid wife of his—”
“Aslam—”
“No, really. What do you know? You were always their perfect little child, weren’t you?”
Farzana’s fingers stiffen around mine. “I was their perfect little child?”