Songs Of Blood And Sword: A Daughter'S Memoir by Fatima Bhutto Page A
Authors: Fatima Bhutto
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Murtaza sharing stories from his own fight against his father’s imprisonment and Della speaking of her mission to free her husband. She knew they were treading on delicate ground; if anything, their experiences should have made them adversaries, each fighting against the other’s allies, but it didn’t. Della noticed that Murtaza listened when she spoke fondly about her imprisoned husband, not criticizing or judging. And for her part, she felt a tenderness for him as he talked about his father and the junta in his country. The next day they went dancing at Annabel’s and on the third day after a fast and frenzied courtship, Della had to return to Athens.
Murtaza and Shahnawaz took her to the airport but it was clear that the couple were not ready to say goodbye. Della walked through to the departure lounge feeling sad about leaving Mir behind. It was an unfamiliar feeling for her, this affection, after the last four years of frustration and isolation. By the time she made it to her flight she was distracted and annoyed to find a man sitting in her seat reading a newspaper. She cleared her throat to tell him that the seat was hers when he lowered the paper. It was Murtaza. ‘How did you do this?’ she asked him, incredulous. But he would have done anything to be with her.
Della was an unexpected relief for Murtaza, who had missed living his own life since General Zia ul Haq’s coup. She understood his work and how draining it was on the spirit and together they created a small shelter from the fear they had grown used to living under. Murtaza would surprise Della many more times. He would call her in Athens and tell her that Shah was passing through town on his way somewhere and that he would call on her to drop a letter or a book off for her. After sitting home patiently waiting for Shah to call,the doorbell would ring and Della would answer it to find Mir, suitcase in hand.
During his first trip to Athens, Mir stayed at the Caravel Hotel and he and Della would spend the afternoon at Colonaki Tops in Kolonaki Square reading the Herald Tribune and chatting to other tourists and Greek friends of Della’s who happened to be passing by. Two days into his stay, Murtaza took Della to see a friend’s father – Milbry Polk’s father, who worked at the US embassy. William Polk’s brother George was killed in mysterious circumstances in Greece and the Polk family still maintains a journalism scholarship in his name. On the ride to the embassy, Murtaza gave Della a ring with green and blue enamel as a birthday gift. They had known each other for less than a week.
On 5 June Murtaza returned to London. He and Shahnawaz were trying to get a documentary made about their father’s trial – a work that would take many years to finally complete – and they had to meet various producers and directors back in London. He wrote to Della the following day, ‘My dearest Della, I have been involved with a lot of work here since I arrived, but that has not stopped me from thinking of you. I miss you dearly. I intend to be with you in Greece by the 15th of this month. Your embassy people better give me a visa.’ 5 (They did.)
When he was travelling, Murtaza often wrote to Della. He sent her postcards and love letters, scribbling on the back of air mail envelopes ‘with all my love, all my sleep, all my drinks, all my white hair, all my thoughts . . .’ I’d never known that my father wrote love letters. After Papa was killed, I turned to the boxes of correspondence he kept in his room, among his books and magazines, poring over every letter and envelope. I would scour the pages hoping to find something romantic and passionate, but I never did. I don’t think he knew how to write them then. I don’t think he knew until he met Della. From the New York Hilton he wrote to her on hotel stationery: ‘Maybe our relationship is tragic. It is, in a way, very sad. We love each other and are very happy together, but what obstacles we
Murtaza and Shahnawaz took her to the airport but it was clear that the couple were not ready to say goodbye. Della walked through to the departure lounge feeling sad about leaving Mir behind. It was an unfamiliar feeling for her, this affection, after the last four years of frustration and isolation. By the time she made it to her flight she was distracted and annoyed to find a man sitting in her seat reading a newspaper. She cleared her throat to tell him that the seat was hers when he lowered the paper. It was Murtaza. ‘How did you do this?’ she asked him, incredulous. But he would have done anything to be with her.
Della was an unexpected relief for Murtaza, who had missed living his own life since General Zia ul Haq’s coup. She understood his work and how draining it was on the spirit and together they created a small shelter from the fear they had grown used to living under. Murtaza would surprise Della many more times. He would call her in Athens and tell her that Shah was passing through town on his way somewhere and that he would call on her to drop a letter or a book off for her. After sitting home patiently waiting for Shah to call,the doorbell would ring and Della would answer it to find Mir, suitcase in hand.
During his first trip to Athens, Mir stayed at the Caravel Hotel and he and Della would spend the afternoon at Colonaki Tops in Kolonaki Square reading the Herald Tribune and chatting to other tourists and Greek friends of Della’s who happened to be passing by. Two days into his stay, Murtaza took Della to see a friend’s father – Milbry Polk’s father, who worked at the US embassy. William Polk’s brother George was killed in mysterious circumstances in Greece and the Polk family still maintains a journalism scholarship in his name. On the ride to the embassy, Murtaza gave Della a ring with green and blue enamel as a birthday gift. They had known each other for less than a week.
On 5 June Murtaza returned to London. He and Shahnawaz were trying to get a documentary made about their father’s trial – a work that would take many years to finally complete – and they had to meet various producers and directors back in London. He wrote to Della the following day, ‘My dearest Della, I have been involved with a lot of work here since I arrived, but that has not stopped me from thinking of you. I miss you dearly. I intend to be with you in Greece by the 15th of this month. Your embassy people better give me a visa.’ 5 (They did.)
When he was travelling, Murtaza often wrote to Della. He sent her postcards and love letters, scribbling on the back of air mail envelopes ‘with all my love, all my sleep, all my drinks, all my white hair, all my thoughts . . .’ I’d never known that my father wrote love letters. After Papa was killed, I turned to the boxes of correspondence he kept in his room, among his books and magazines, poring over every letter and envelope. I would scour the pages hoping to find something romantic and passionate, but I never did. I don’t think he knew how to write them then. I don’t think he knew until he met Della. From the New York Hilton he wrote to her on hotel stationery: ‘Maybe our relationship is tragic. It is, in a way, very sad. We love each other and are very happy together, but what obstacles we
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