Un livre, une page. The saffron kitchen, by Yasmin Crowther

London

A solitude then thousand fathoms deep

Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear

Although I love you, you will have to leap

Our dream of safety has to disappear.

(…) Along the hall, the house was full of the smell of her cooking, the soft starchy scent of basmati, the saffron and roasting lamb. I went through the kitchen with steam on its windows and along the narrow blue corridor with its long cupboards full of henna, herbs, dried figs and limes from her last trip home. The air was cool above the terracotta floor, before the step down to the back door and into the garden.

I could hear my old tape player from behind the yew edge and beyond the rose garden, the tiny sound of tombok drums and sitar. I passed the greenhouse, figs and jasmine growing up one side, overhanging the path, and found her at the bottom lawn, kneeling quickly, eyes concentrating on her hands, weeding and tidying. She was still beautiful over sixty: high cheekbones and dark hair to her shoulders. “Salaam Maman” I spoke quickly but she turned quickly startled, breaking into a smile as she saw me, yeas full of tears. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of mud on her check. “Hello”. She pushed herself up, a little stiff. “I have been thinking of Mara; how I wish she was here. We spent so little time together”.

I hugged her and she felt small and fragile. I remember you and Mara both dancing out here to this music a few summers ago.

Yasmin Crowther lives in London. She grew up in an Anglo-Iranian household. The Saffron Kitchen is her first novel.