Zaki, summoned by Nur, came into the room still in his
school uniform. He took the envelope from Mahmoud, placed a large wooden board on Nur’s lap and, after showing Nur the envelope, slit it open. The letter was placed on the board within Nur’s range of vision. All this took time. So much patience to achieve such a trivial task.
I wouldn’t have put up with this, thought Mahmoud, I would have boiled over long ago.
‘It’s from Tuf Tuf,’ said Nur. ‘After Victoria he went to Trinity College.’
Mahmoud smiled. It was a pleasure to see Nur animated, even if these happy moments were few and far between. It was time now to head towards Nabilah’s quarters.
She would, Mahmoud thought, appreciate it that on the day Waheeba’s gold was stolen, he had gone and bought jewellery for her and not for Waheeba. Of course, what had been done to Ferial was awful. Of course, Waheeba had behaved abominably, but there was nothing he could do now. Nabilah would eventually simmer down; she would, sooner or later, be reasonable. He found her in Ferial’s room. The girl was sitting up in bed and Nabilah was spooning custard in her mouth. He greeted them and bent down to kiss Ferial. The girl smiled, but her mother was cool and withdrawn.
‘Look what I got you . . .’ He clumsily pinned the brooch on Ferial’s nightdress.
‘Thank you, Father, it’s very pretty.’
She turned to her mother, eyeing her for a confirmation, but only found a disapproving look.
Mahmoud squeezed Ferial’s shoulder.
‘In a day or two, you will forget all this pain.’
He slid the box with the necklace across the bed to Nabilah and went to sit in the armchair. He wanted to resolve the situation and eat so that he could have his much-needed siesta. Usually, at this time of day, Nabilah would be bustling around him, ordering lunch and prattling about her day or asking who
he had invited for dinner that evening. Today, she was giving him the cold treatment, and she was wearing a plain housecoat. She had not bothered to change her clothes or powder her nose in order to welcome him.
‘Aren’t you going to look at what I got you?’
She opened the box but hardly gazed at the necklace.
‘Is that all you can do? Stop on the way home and buy me a gift. Your own word, in your own house, has no meaning. You have been blatantly disobeyed and you’re doing nothing about it! Tell me, you have just come back from there, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I went to see Nur.’ He folded his arms across his chest.
‘And you didn’t divorce her?’
He didn’t reply.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Her voice rose to shriek. ‘Waheeba’s going to get away with what she’s done! Instead of standing by my side, you are going to let her off. Aren’t you indignant on my behalf? On your daughter’s behalf?’
‘Yes, I am furious. But what good will divorcing her achieve? She is Nur’s mother; he needs her now more than ever. I can’t kick her out of the saraya.’
‘Then I will be the one to go!’
‘Nabilah, don’t say that. You will feel calm in a day or so. Look, Ferial will get better in no time. Already she has passed through the first difficult hours with, thank God, no complications. Give yourself time. This morning’s robbery hasn’t made things any easier. That wretched nurse has let us all down.’
‘What are you insinuating? Are you blaming me for recommending him?’
‘No, I am not. But everyone will naturally ask did you check his credentials?’
‘I can’t believe it!’ she shrieked. ‘Look at your poor daughter, look at her suffering!’
He looked at Ferial’s peaked face, with the dark shadows under her eyes from the shock and the pain. She would recover and be like any other Umdurman girl. Nur was the one who
would never stand up again. Mahmoud felt his body heavy on the armchair, in the lash of her voice.
‘Divorce Waheeba or else I am out of here.’
Later he would reflect that he should have ignored her. He should have walked out of the room. But he was hungry and irritable, fatigued and restless.
‘Don’t threaten me, Nabilah! Don’t do that.’
‘Listen, it is either me or her.’
When he didn’t reply, she repeated, ‘It’s either me or her.’
‘Go!’ He waved his hand. ‘The door is wide enough for a camel to pass through. Go, I certainly won’t stop you.’
She was taken aback. He saw the confusion on her face and hoped that she would back down now.
But she jerked her head.
‘So this is how much I mean to you! No, I will not accept this situation. Never.’
She ripped the necklace from its box and threw it at his face. It hit him on the cheek. He blinked, and saw it skid to the floor.
There was a policeman standing outside his house, and the neighbours were gathered. Badr pushed his way through the crowd and found his household in disarray. Two policemen were stomping about, overturning the family’s belongings in their search for the stolen jewellery. Hanniyah was standing holding the new baby in her arms, pleading with them to stop. The children looked curious and confused. In the middle of all this, Badr’s father was standing, unsteady and drooling. A damp patch spread from his crotch down the leg of his long johns. He was watching the scene, but clearly not understanding its implications. Shukry was nowhere to be seen. Badr followed one of the policemen into the room. He tried to stop him from ransacking the cupboard but the policeman pushed him away. Even Badr’s books, his precious books, which he kept up high out of reach of the children’s grubby hands, were hauled down and tossed onto the floor. Badr was on his hands and knees, picking up the volumes of
The Revival of the Sciences of Religions
. When he looked up, he saw the policeman grunt and grab what he had been looking for: Hajjah Waheeba’s bangles and gold coins wrapped in a brown paper parcel. They were wedged between the books and the wall.
In triumph, the policeman pushed Badr out into the courtyard and called out to his partners.
‘You have the wrong man!’ Badr struggled to free himself, but now both policemen held him in a vice.
Hanniyah screamed, ‘Let go of him!’
She followed as Badr was dragged through the courtyard. He dug his heels in, but his small frame was no match for their
strength. It was impossible to believe that they could be making such an error! Hanniyah put the baby down and started to beat her face, the children began to wail. His father was sitting on the floor, gazing down at the children’s marbles, oblivious to his surroundings. For once Badr was relieved that he understood nothing.
The policemen barked at the neighbours who were crowding the doorway. They fell back, and Badr was pushed out into the street under their gaze. He continued to shout out his innocence. It was his cousin Shukry who had stolen the jewellery and hidden it in Badr’s house! He, Badr, had had nothing to do with it. Ask the owner of the stolen gold, he pleaded, ask Mahmoud Bey.
‘I would never take what doesn’t belong to me,’ he repeated. ‘Never! I work all day for my daily bread. I would never reach out my arm to take what isn’t rightfully mine. Every bite I put in my children’s mouth is halal.’
But the policemen paid him no heed, and none of the neighbours defended him or tried to intervene. What were they thinking of him now? The venerable teacher of Arabic Language and Religious Education, the man who never missed a prayer at the mosque, had turned out to be a thief!
At the station, the English police inspector could not understand Badr’s Egyptian accent. Weren’t the stolen items found in Badr’s house? It was straightforward, Badr was incriminated. Besides, the inspector was more interested in returning the jewellery to its rightful owner. Badr would have to appear before a magistrate. He was taken into custody.
The room he was led into was large, with a high, barred window on either side to maximise ventilation. It had two occupants who looked like archetypical villains and their close proximity made Badr nervous. They smirked at him and their eyes were bitter and knowing. They were the kind of men Badr avoided in the streets and the tram, the kind of men he never met at the mosque or at the school. He felt the cold pinch of
fear. This was real, not a nightmare. He did not belong here. He was not a criminal! He was not one of these men. When one of them offered him a cigarette, he declined, and sat further away. He leaned his head against the filthy wall and closed his eyes. Images came of Hanniyah slapping her face, her eyes wild with anxiety, of the frightened children, the lump and responsibility that was his father. A curse on you, Shukry! All this is your fault. Stolen goods in my house! My own house. Bringing sin into the home that sheltered you and fed you. Where was the bastard now? The police must be looking for him. The police will find him, Insha’ Allah.
He told himself he must be patient, that the truth would be revealed. Shukry would be found, the police would admit that they had made a mistake, and he would return home in time for supper and, like any other ordinary day, he would devour Hanniyah’s cooking, supervise the children’s homework, and give his father a bath. The house would need tidying up after the damage the policemen had inflicted. There would be things that needed fixing, but he would take all that in his stride. Everything must be put back to order so that they could put this episode behind them and forget all about it. Tomorrow morning he would go to work and none of his colleagues would ever know what happened.
But an hour passed, two hours, four. He prayed maghrib, and a meal was pushed through the door. The room became dark. He prayed isha and the night deepened. The door was unbolted and he jumped up, expectant, but it was an addition to the cell, a drunk, railing and flagging his arms. He vomited, and the stench rose in the darkness, panning itself over the long night. It occurred to Badr – and the realisation was like a slap in the face – that the police would no longer be looking for Shukry. They had found the stolen jewellery and they had taken a man into custody; from their point of view, their work was done. So he was going to spend the night here in this degradation. And
what about tomorrow morning? He would not be able to get to work.
Alarm rose in his throat. It was the end of the year examinations and tomorrow the Arabic paper was due for Senior Year Two. Badr had already set the exam and, as was the policy of the school, placed the questions in a sealed envelope. The document was locked in one of the staffroom cupboards. There was only one key and he carried it in his pocket. If he didn’t show up to school tomorrow, and he was now likely not to, there would be pandemonium. The headmaster would send one of the clerks or messenger boys to Badr’s house because they would assume that he was ill (though he had never in his life taken sick leave and always dragged himself to work no matter what) and come to collect the key.
What would Hanniyah say and not say? What would the neighbours describe? He banged the back of his head against the wall in frustration. What a scandal! Supposing he lost his job? Supposing he never got out of here, how would Hanniyah manage? Four boys and the newborn baby girl, his father . . . all of them in a foreign country, no uncles or cousins to help out. A curse on you, Shukry, you were the cousin I took in, but you bit the hand that fed you! At school they would have to break the lock on the cupboard to retrieve the examination paper. Or would one of his colleagues hastily set another paper? One of his colleagues, who envied him his lucrative private lessons and his standing with the Abuzeid family . . . Oh, they would be gloating at his downfall. Lord, why was this happening? What if Shukry was never caught? Could he, by now, be on the train, heading for Egypt?
Badr could not sleep with all this anxiety, though the thugs and criminals around him snored as if they had easy consciences. He wished that he had kicked Shukry out of the house long ago. When Madame Nabilah asked him if he knew of an Egyptian nurse for Nur, he should not have nominated Shukry. Shukry was not even qualified – he had only trained a few
months and then went off to join the army. But Badr had been eager to find work for his cousin, eager to get him out of the house and the position of nurse came with board and lodging. It was a good opportunity for the lad and yet, like a fool, he squandered it.
Badr was worn out with anger. Earlier this morning, he had been full of optimism, visiting Mahmoud Bey in his office and asking him for a flat in the new building. It was shameful to recall this encounter. You have made my face black in front of others, Shukry. Yes, he had started the day with aspirations and now even the basics were out of reach. But what was the use of all this agitation? What did the Prophet Jonah do when he was in the belly of the whale? He called out to his Lord saying, ‘There is no god but You, subhanaka, I was one of the transgressors.’
The dark belly of the whale – that was where Badr was now. Imprisoned and at the bottom of the sea, darkness upon darkness. Why do bad things happen?
Nur had asked him the same question. Why do bad things happen to good people? On that day, Badr had made an effort to bolster the boy’s morale and fortitude. Such a young lad, imprisoned in a cell of disability. But Allah does not burden us with more than we can bear. The boy must have hidden reserves that only the All Merciful knows about. And of course ‘. . . with each difficulty comes ease’. The Abuzeids were in a favourable position to support their son, and the boy had remarkable intellectual abilities. Perhaps these factors were Nur’s ‘ease’. It had been gratifying for Badr to continue as his tutor, informal though the arrangement was. The boy was a natural learner, bright and quick, and his appreciation for literature was a joy. Badr always looked forward to these sessions, and once he was there, forgot that he was working or helping.
He sighed. After what Shukry had done, would it be possible to face Nur again and continue as his teacher? Anxiety gripped him. Nur had wanted to know, ‘Why did the accident happen?’
And now Badr too wanted to know, ‘Why am I here, unfairly imprisoned?’
Because Allah is compassionate, there would be, Insha’ Allah, a release, and it would be wrong to despair. But now, in these moments of distress, the mind drew a blank. Perhaps the shortest journey to Allah is through the disliked, uncomfortable routes. The seeker asks, ‘Where shall I find the Divine?’ The answer is, ‘Come close to illness, poverty and oppression. Dwell for enough time (too long would be counter-productive) in those shadows where laughter does not come easily to the lips.’