‘I have never heard so many champagne corks popping,’ remarked Sue, and her husband laughed and looked at her fondly.
They got up to dance, clearly in love, clearly happy. It made Nabilah envious but also confused. She was not sure what she was longing for, what it was she wanted and didn’t want.
The entertainment’s highlight was the belly dancer Samia Gamal.
‘She is superior!’ Mahmoud proclaimed, delighted to be the one to introduce Mr and Mrs Harrison to their first experience of oriental dance. ‘She danced at our wedding, didn’t she, Nabilah?’
‘Yes, she was a new star then.’
Nabilah was feeling sleepy because she had missed her siesta. She would have liked Mahmoud to wrap up the evening, but he was just beginning an anecdote.
‘During the war, King Farouk freighted one hundred kilos of
Groppi chocolates to Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret. I am not exaggerating. I know about this because the airplane came to Khartoum.’ He moved his wineglass out of the way and jabbed an imaginary map on the tablecloth. ‘This was the route the airplane took, a roundabout route because of the necessities of the war: Cairo – Khartoum – Entebbe, then Dakar, Lisbon and finally Dublin.’
The conversation started to seem to Nabilah like splotches of paint; bright colours of similar shape that didn’t connect or make a whole. She made an effort to keep her eyes open. Mr Harrison mentioned something he had read. Sue made an observation.
‘Our room has an absolutely marvellous view of the Nile.’
‘He has been exiled, is living comfortably, very comfortably if I may say so, while his family back home are destitute.’
‘Life here is not as good for the British as it is in the Sudan. There are too many restrictions regarding their post and their travel.’
In contact with this couple every day, doing things and going places, eating and laughing, would they draw closer and become intimate friends? Would they build a liaison that would last? Nabilah sensed in herself a loneliness, a fractured spirit that no one could share or understand. And early the next morning, in a hurried visit to her mother before taking the Harrisons to the museum, she sat in that kitchen she was fond of and for the first time said out loud the word divorce.
The Cairo museum was even more of a success with their guests than the Pyramids. Their main interest was the treasures found in the tomb of Tutankhamen.
‘We have read so much about these relics,’ said Nigel Harrison. ‘How extraordinary that all this wealth was unearthed by accident!’
The four of them gazed at the solid gold coffin, the heavily decorated throne, the vases, alabaster and gems, at the beauty of
the golden mask that had covered the head of the mummy. Tutankhamen, a boy king, not more than nineteen: such a short, tragic life, yet his name would live forever. They stood, awed by the sight of so much wealth, craft and hard beauty. Afterwards, Nabilah felt drained, and it seemed that she was not alone for the others, too, were subdued over their lunch on the Shepheard’s roof garden.
‘What would they have done without you?’ she praised her husband as they drove home. ‘They would have been quite limited in their activities and restricted in their movement without a car.’
She had said the right thing. He was pleased, even though he didn’t say so. She ventured to share her observations with him.
‘There are two things I’ve learnt these past days about the English. They have a long breath.’ He smiled and this encouraged her to elaborate. ‘They could go on and on, without breaking down or even resting. It is not excessive energy or greed but an innate, steady longevity, a lasting strength. Secondly, and that was more surprising, they believe everything they are told. Their style is to ask a direct question and expect an honest reply.’
‘Whatever you say, they are better than many.’
If he were less proud, he would have said ‘better than us’. If he were less diplomatic, he would have said ‘better than you’.
When they walked into the flat, the telephone rang. It was clear from the extended ring that it was a long distance call. Mahmoud picked up the receiver and spoke to the operator.
‘It’s Alexandria,’ he said to her with a smile. He liked receiving telephone calls. Connecting with people was vital to him.
He greeted Nassir in a loud voice and then listened. His face became grave.
‘When did this happen? Has he been seen by a doctor? Yes, I will come now.’
She packed a suitcase for him and watched as he opened the safe and took from it a huge wad of cash. He gave her more
than enough for the household expenditure and put the rest in his pocket. For the next hour she was absorbed in the drama of his hurried departure. The unplanned journey, the many instructions and tasks he set her, overshadowed in her mind Nur’s accident at the seaside. She was excited by the unexpectedness of the day’s events, and how they would impact on her. When he finally left, she found herself alone, and it was as if a prayer had been answered, a gift bestowed on her, the responsibility lifted from her shoulders. She was here, in Cairo, and she could do whatever she wanted.
She was out of breath when she reached the bus station. She had been walking fast, clutching her purse, aware of the swish of her dress and the tap of her high heels. Now she felt at ease because she was just another Egyptian lady, attractive and elegant, waiting for the bus like everyone else. A truck full of English soldiers passed and several of them waved; one blew her a kiss. When she was younger, she used to giggle and wave back. Now she only smiled and looked away.
A familiar sight, the bedraggled seller – it couldn’t be the same man – who stood at bus stops and sold all sorts of little delights – hairpins, sweets, marbles and matches. She opened her purse. Yes, she had enough money, more than enough. Mahmoud had taught her this. Sometimes he didn’t carry enough change and he depended on her.
‘Give me a shilling,’ he would say or, ‘Give me a franc.’ The first time he made this request, her purse had been empty. ‘Never, ever leave the house without money,’ he reprimanded her. ‘You never know when you will need it.’
She needed crystal sugar from the street-seller now, a little bag of it. How much sweeter it tasted than any of the fancy desserts she had shared with the Harrisons.
The bus came and she boarded it. Anticipation. This was
her
outing,
her
treat.
Why didn’t she say to Mahmoud days ago, ‘Take me to see my grandmother’? It had not even occurred to
her to ask him, as if he and her grandmother lived in different cities. Her grandmother was a link to her father, a link to the past. She had fallen out with Qadriyyah when she remarried. They were no longer on speaking terms, which was why Nabilah visited her grandmother behind Qadriyyah’s back. These were precious visits, stolen moments, because her mother always wanted to know her whereabouts.
Nabilah sucked a lump of sugar and, from the bus window, watched the people in the street. It was a quiet time of day, the streets almost empty with so many families away in Alexandria for the summer holidays. Some employees were heading home. So few wore their fez these days, keeping it for formal occasions, not as it was in her father’s time. How different her life would have been, had he been alive. They would not have moved to Cairo so soon, for he would have continued to be a provincial judge for some years. And she had loved Cairo, even before she came to live in it. When she was young, all the vacations were spent with her grandmother; joyful days when her father was no longer solemn and important but a cheerful, boastful son. Qadriyyah always spoke of Cairo and wherever they were posted, whatever location or status, Qadriyyah would remind her daughter that Cairo was better. Cairo was bigger; the mother of the world.
She spotted the green curtain billowing in the balcony of the second floor. It was time to get off. This was her stop. She crossed King Street and entered the side road. The grocer with the strong smell of Rumi cheese and the pails of olives, the butcher with the meat swinging on hooks, and her favourite, the juice shop with pyramids of fruit displayed in its window and sticks of sugarcane propped against the doorway. How often had she stood in her grandmother’s balcony, pushing away the heavy green curtain and gazing down at this row of shops? Why, right now her grandmother might be sitting behind the curtain, not knowing that in a few minutes Nabilah would ring the bell! She quickened her pace. The staircase was stone-cool after the
heat of outdoors. Each landing had two flats, arranged around a central gallery. The gallery was a perfect, wide circle, so that, looking up, she saw circles upon circles bathed in sunlight. This had fascinated her as a child, and she would skip around the gallery, completing the circle and returning to her beloved Nenah’s flat.
The maid opened the door for her, a new maid who did not recognise her, but this did not dampen Nabilah’s spirits. She strode across the hall and the sitting room to the balcony, and in the shade of the green canvas curtain, in her grandmother’s arms, it was the fulfilment of a dream, the sweetness of a long separation coming to an end. Nabilah did not cry – she was not prone to sentimental tears, but she brimmed with pleasure, kissing her grandmother’s cheeks, breathing her scent of lavender as if scooping back her childhood.
Her grandmother was tall and thin, with wavy grey hair that she held back in a kerchief. She had a worldly air and yet a lighthearted disposition. Her late husband had been a police officer who had regularly confided, and sometimes even consulted her, in matters of his work. Although she rarely went out, she held an active interest in the affairs of the country and was an avid listener of the radio. Her talent for befriending the young and acting as their confidante ensured that she was never out of touch with modern times. She was delighted to see her granddaughter.
‘I did not even know you were in Cairo! How pretty you look! What elegance, what style!’
Nabilah would never hear such compliments back in Sudan. In Umdurman, her clothes highlighted her position as an outsider, and Khartoum high society was too competitive and capricious to ever voice its admiration.
‘I’ve missed you so much, Nenah!’
‘Alhamdulillah, you look well. But where are your children, Nabilah? Why didn’t you bring them with you?’
‘So that I could have you all to myself, my love. That’s why.’
Her grandmother laughed and leaned over to twist the knob
of the radio until it was switched off. They exchanged news and more talk of Nabilah’s fashionable blouse. The balcony was furnished with wicker chairs and a matching table; there was a woven rug on the floor, plant pots and jasmine trellises arranged on the wall. It was more luxurious than a typical balcony and more casual than indoors. Now, with the curtain drawn, it was cool and completely secluded from the street as well as the neighbour’s range of vision. The bustle reached them, though. A seller cried out ‘fresh tomatoes’ while another wanted everyone’s bric-a-brac. Nabilah walked over and drew the curtain open. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in and she could now see the tomato cart, and the donkey pulling the cart piled with all sorts of bric-a-brac. She picked up the wicker basket that was tied by rope to the ledge.
‘Do you want something from the shops, Nabilah?’ her grandmother asked.
She smiled and shook her head.
‘I just miss this basket. We don’t have anything like it in Sudan and here we don’t live near shops.’
The basket had fascinated her as a child. How her grandmother, from behind the green curtain, would call down to the grocer, the butcher or passing vegetable sellers. She would tell them what she wanted and lower the basket with the rope. They would place her order in the basket and she would hoist it up. Then she would put money in the empty basket and lower it again. The basket was so sturdy that Nabilah, as a child, would often plead to be placed in it and hoisted up and down.
‘You were a lively little girl,’ her grandmother said, ‘always wanting an adventure or plotting some mischief.’
‘Ferial is naughty too,’ Nabilah said. ‘Farouk is quiet and mostly well-behaved, but he can get up to lots of mischief, too, when everyone’s back is turned.’
‘May Allah protect them for you, my dear. You will find that the years fly and in no time they will grow up. Then they will
be like friends to you and you won’t feel lonely or bored because of their company.’
It was easy to talk to her grandmother. Thoughts that were complicated and suppressed took wing and became spoken grievances against the Sudan.
‘They have no sewage system and I am disgusted with the buckets and the men coming to empty them at night!’
‘The Sudanese circumcise their little girls in the most brutal and severe of ways. Waheeba wanted to circumcise her granddaughter, Zeinab, but Mahmoud explicitly forbade it.’
‘There are no hairdressers in Umdurman, I have to go all the way to Khartoum!’
‘Everyone is serious. They don’t laugh or joke. They take offence at the slightest rebuke.’
‘I get heat rash. If I don’t put on talcum powder my skin goes all red. I have to put chamomile lotion on the children, all over their arms and legs.’
‘There are things I can’t understand. There is no privacy. His eldest son, Nassir, once strolled into our bedroom! And the endless social obligations – they are continuous, really, so that there is no time to do anything else. You know how much I like to sew? It should be a simple pleasure to spread a pattern on the dining table and cut it with scissors or to sit at my sewing machine, but I am always being interrupted by visitors, who come without warning, and if they arrive at mealtimes, they stay and eat. So I must always be dressed for company, I can never stay long in my dressing gown. It is irksome. And how the windows and doors are open all the time! To let in air, but they let in dust as well, and the glaring sun. I feel as if I am roughing it up in a chalet on the beach!
‘And it is so hot for so long, like an oven. The winters are not cold enough for winter clothes; a cardigan over a summer frock is all that’s needed. I do miss my fur coat. I do miss knitting and crocheting.’