She lowered her voice.
‘I am afraid of his wife. The Sudanese practise black magic and she might harm me or the children. She is jealous of me and, of course, she has every reason to be.’
The balcony was enveloped in the soft glow of sunset now. Her grandmother sighed.
‘This is the only thing that troubles me about your marriage – his wife. He is a lot older than you, but for many couples that is normal and successful. I don’t think of you as being far away; Sudan and Egypt are one country, so you are not like the girls who married Turkish men and moved to Istanbul, you are much closer. But Mahmoud Bey should have divorced his wife before marrying you. He is neither being fair to her or you. I should not say this, but your mother rushed and said yes to his proposal straight away. Qadriyyah was influenced by your stepfather – and you are not his flesh and blood. If your father had been alive, he would not have given his consent.’
This was poignant for Nabilah, but at the same time reassuring. Her father would have protected her. She told her grandmother about this morning’s conversation with Qadriyyah.
Her grandmother looked sad and sounded angry.
‘What does she mean, you will have nowhere to go? Shame on her! This house is your house, your father’s home. My door will be open to you – whatever happens.’
These words, spoken in the gold and green of the balcony, bolstered and pacified Nabilah.
Then, as if she had been paving the ground for a request, her grandmother’s voice grew soft and coaxing, ‘But why don’t you love your husband, my child? Why is your heart hard towards him?’
She could answer now. ‘There is a wide distance between us. I am something, and he is something else.’
‘Then try and get closer to him,’ was the advice. ‘Involve yourself in his affairs and concerns. Change, Nabilah, become different. Do it for your children’s sake. Do you want them to
be without a father, too? You, of all people, who know this deprivation, should not want it for them.’
They went indoors, and while her grandmother prayed maghreb, Nabilah gazed at her father’s portraits. In one he was standing, wearing his fez and his judge’s robes. He looked large and healthy, with a steady, confident gaze. In another, less formal, portrait, he was sitting down and she, a child of six in a pinafore and felt hat, was standing next to him. She could still remember the handkerchief protruding from the pocket of his jacket. It had a navy border and on that day, after the session with the photographer, she ate candyfloss and used that same handkerchief to wipe the pink sugar off her hands.
When her grandmother finished praying, they had tea and cakes. Nabilah caught up with all the news of her paternal family and she had to wrench herself away, knowing she had left the children too long.
‘Next time bring them with you. Or, better still, bring them and spend a few days with me. Now that your husband is away, why should you be by yourself?’ Such possibilities!
At night she had the luxury and space of a double bed all to herself. She stretched and turned to lie on her side, tucking the pillow under her chin. Her grandmother’s kindness had soothed her and given her hope. For weeks now, ever since they had arrived from Khartoum, she had longed to visit her. Every day there was an obstacle, and duties that had to be done. First, she had to quench her thirst for her mother, which was understandable. Then the Harrisons arrived and she was caught up in a whirl of daily outings and engagements. For Mahmoud, her grandmother was not a priority, many other people came first, but she did not want to think bitter thoughts about him now. She wanted the joy of the afternoon, the green curtain and wicker basket, and her grandmother’s support. She wanted this feeling of home to settle inside her until it gave her the sweetest of dreams.
He walked into a nightmare – the military hospital in Alexandria, with its disinfectant smell and muted atmosphere. There were Nassir, Fatma and Soraya, standing in the corridor, looking anxious and out of place. They were relieved to see him, Nassir not hiding his gratitude at being able to hand over the responsibility. He explained that Nur had been admitted here because Victoria College students were entitled to the same amenities as the British staff and Army personnel.
‘It was an accident, Father,’ Nassir blurted out. ‘It was no one’s fault. No one did anything wrong. No one was negligent.’ Then, remembering his manners, he offered his father a seat. ‘You must be tired after your journey. Have a rest.’
Mahmoud refused to sit down and wanted to see Nur straight away. But . . . enter a room and your son does not spring up to greet you. Walk to the bed and he does not even raise his hand to shake yours.
‘Is he asleep?’ Mahmoud’s voice was loud because he hoped to wake Nur.
He wanted to reassure himself that the boy was well, that nothing serious or drastic had happened to him. His head was lolling to one side and his neck was bandaged. The rest of his body, including his arms, was under the stiff sheets. He looked peaceful, only his hair was uncombed.
‘The doctors gave him painkillers,’ Nassir explained. ‘When we moved him here he was in pain.’
Mahmoud walked over to the window. The orange sun was halfway into the sea. He was lucky to have arrived before dark. The fatigue of the journey was catching up on him, and the
siesta he had given up to drive north. He slumped in an armchair near the window and looked round. The room was spacious and immaculate, the bed looked new and modern. Yes, his boy was in a good place, in safe hands; the English doctors would make him better. Here was one now, as evidenced by his white coat and stethoscope, entering the room followed by a nurse. Mahmoud stood up and introduced himself. He found the words slow to conjure; his English was sluggish today, his accent more pronounced.
Dr Hempster was a large man with spectacles and fair hair and his blue eyes reminded Mahmoud of descriptions of General Gordon.
‘Your son is lucky to be alive.’ He said each word clearly and sounded confident and calm. ‘When Mr Abuzeid dived, he must have hit his head either against a sandbank or a rock. Several vertebrae in his lower neck and upper back have been smashed. This is why he is unable to move his limbs. We will need to operate.’
Mahmoud felt confused between the doctor’s matter-of-fact tone and the words he was hearing. He wanted to slump back into the armchair, but had to keep standing because it would not be polite. ‘If we operate, we can save his life, but it is major, high-risk surgery.’
The room darkened and Mahmoud sank back into the chair, apologising in a faint stream of Arabic. The boundaries of his vision shifted. This situation was new and repulsive; he was in unfamiliar territory, grappling with strange rules and different consequences. Someone held out a glass of water . . . Fatma. He gulped, and immediately felt better. When he looked up, Dr Hempster was not there. Instead, there was Nassir’s frightened face and Fatma’s anxiety. Soraya was crying; the tears streaking her face, her handkerchief covering her mouth. It distressed him to see her like that. He held out his hand. She took it and burst into fresh tears.
‘Why are you crying?’ He pretended to scold her, but his
tone was gentle. ‘Stop it. Insha’ Allah he is going to be all right.’
His words made a visible impact on her. She gulped, took a deep breath, and wiped her face with her handkerchief.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Let’s go outside so as not to disturb him.’
Both the Cecil and the Windsor were full. There was not a single suite or even a room available – it was the height of summer and the peak season, after all. This irritated him, and he shouted at Nassir to
do something
, meaning find a place for him to stay. Naturally, he did not want to join them in the flat. It would be noisy with the children and the service not up to his standards. After an hour’s search, he settled for a pension in Gleem, across from the Paradise Casino. Its Greek proprietor, Madame Marika, recognised him, despite the fact that he hadn’t stayed with her for many years. She was respectful and solicitous. Yes, she had a suite for Mahmoud Bey on the second floor, with a bedroom overlooking the sea. Her smiles and golden hair raised his spirits. He did not negotiate the rent with her – whatever she asked for he would pay. She would overcharge him, most likely, but on a day like this, he was not in the mood to barter.
Madame Marika showed him to his rooms. She waddled over to the window, her satin dress tight against her hips and her plump feet overflowing from her slippers. She drew open the violet curtains to prove to him that he had a view of the Corniche. He glimpsed the sea, dark and brooding, a backdrop to the glamour of Alexandria by night; the young dressed up after a day at the beach making their way to the cafés and the cinemas. He told her about Nur’s accident. Her green eyes clouded with pity and she offered him a glass of whisky. How thoughtful of her! How well he would be looked after!
‘If I were in your place,’ she said, pouring cold water from a pitcher, ‘I wouldn’t let these army doctors operate on him. Take your son abroad, Mahmoud Bey. Take him to Athens or London
or Switzerland. There they will make him stand on his feet again.’
He reckoned her hostility to the doctors was nothing more than Alexandria’s impatience with the lingering British army, but he still warmed to her optimism. Yes, Nur would recover. Dr Hempster, perhaps, was too pessimistic.
He slept deeply but woke up too early. He started to think about Nur and could not go back to sleep again, so he dressed and left the pension, stepping into the morning light and noise of the sea. The Corniche was deserted and so was the beach. The salty air was bracing and his stomach rumbled. He had not had dinner the previous night – his last solid meal had been lunch at the Shepheard’s, with the Harrisons. That was only yesterday, but Cairo and Nabilah seemed far away. It was as if he had turned a corner, all by himself, and was not certain where to go next.
He crossed over to the Paradise Casino and walked down the steps to the entrance. The restaurant was as empty as he expected. Two waiters were cleaning the floor and most of the chairs were stacked upside down on top of the tables. He made his way to the terrace and sat under an umbrella. The cash he had taken out of the safe in Cairo was intended to pay for what those in the building industry named the ‘erasure’ of the new building, materials that were unavailable in Khartoum, which included the tiles on all the floors, and the paint as well as the bathroom and kitchen fittings. He had already struck a deal with the agent and the next step was to pay the first half of the instalment; the second he would pay on delivery. But now he would not be able to part with the money. He needed it to finance this crisis. It was impossible, now, to gauge Nur’s medical expenses, and he must, at the very least, be with funds. The building would just have to wait until he was liquid again. This was annoying, not just the delay, but the fact that he had given his word to the agent; he had shaken hands on an agreement and now he would break his word. It had never happened before. He lit his first cigarette of the day. How empty and stale the casino was. At
night it would be lively with music and dancing; with young people and pretty girls. He had had his fair share of enjoyment; he had lived life to the full. Nur was too young to suffer. The first tears came to his eyes. He blinked them away and ordered a full breakfast as a long day lay ahead of him. He would make decisions and set wheels in motion, but, first of all, the family in Umdurman must be informed.
He touched Nur’s hair and the boy opened his eyes.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong, Father . . .’ He sounded drugged and distant. ‘A big wave knocked me over.’
‘Don’t worry, Nur. It was an accident. Everyone knows you didn’t do anything wrong. I am here, now, and your mother is on the way.’
Nur’s eyes brightened. ‘When will she arrive?’
‘In a few days. Your Uncle Idris is bringing her, and Halima is coming, too, to join her sisters.’
The stillness in the boy’s body was excessive and odd. He did not fidget, he did not raise his hand to scratch his chin or touch his nose, he did not bend his long legs under the sheet. It was as if an invisible power had pinned him down to the bed.
The following days were full and empty at the same time: static and busy, monotonous but edgy. Visitors started to appear; other Sudanese in Alexandria – their numbers swollen because it was the holiday season; Nur’s friends from Victoria College as well as those members of staff who had not gone away for the summer; Mahmoud’s Egyptian friends and business acquaintances. The news spread, and there were telephone calls from Sudan and Cairo, a few from London and Switzerland, as well as several telegrams. Some visitors travelled up from Cairo – they included the staff from the Abuzeid office – spent the day, and returned by train in the evening. Some of them needed to be met at the station, given lunch and refreshments and another lift back to the station. These tasks became Nassir’s responsibility, and he started to look haggard, deprived of the beach and the
nightlife, but he seemed excited, too, roused by the number of friends and acquaintances he was meeting every day.
At the hospital itself, the Abuzeid family took over the waiting room and ordered extra chairs in Nur’s room. They befriended the nurses, cleaners, and kitchen staff deliberately, giving them gifts and extra tips. Nur’s room filled with flowers, with chocolates from Groppi’s and lively conversation. This generosity flowed over to the patients in the adjacent rooms and total strangers received chocolates and pastries, cigars if they were men, and visits from Mahmoud Bey.
Waheeba came straight from the train station, her to be incongruous in this most cosmopolitan of cities. She threw herself on Nur’s bed and made a scene. Fatma and Halima had to restrain her while Mahmoud turned his back in disgust and stared out at the sea. Her wails and anguish grated on his nerves. She turned on him.
‘Do something! You can’t leave him like this. Spare no expense. I want my son well again.’
She had never left Sudan, except for the time she went to Mecca and returned a Hajjah. Now she was traumatised as much by the journey as by the cause of it. At the end, after she had worked herself into a state, slapping her face and gnashing her teeth, he managed to get a nurse to give her a sedative and he ordered a spare bed to be brought into the room so that she could lie down opposite Nur.