Badr was distracted from his thoughts by the clamour of the door opening. Three young men were pushed in, protesting and cursing. From their elegant clothes and the disdainful way they shook off the guard, it was safe to guess that they were not the usual criminals, but, most likely, the sons of the rich, painting the town red, pulled in for rowdy behaviour or just one prank too many. One of them was large and fair-looking, his shirt loose and pulled out of his trousers. He moved away from his companions and slumped against the wall, calling out, ‘You don’t know who I am, you sons of dogs! One telephone call and I’ll be out of here. You’ll see!’
He slid to the floor, eyelids drooping. With a shock Badr recognised Nassir Abuzeid. Oh, what a scandal for Mahmoud Bey! Badr felt indignant on his behalf.
Nassir was now staring at Badr across the room with a blank look on his face. Badr hurried over to him.
‘Mr Nassir, this is not your place.’
‘Here’s a fellow who recognises me!’ bellowed Nassir in the direction of the door. ‘You sons of dogs, you’ll rue the day you insulted an Abuzeid.’
Badr went over to the zeer in the corner, filled a tin mug with cool water and threw it over Nassir’s head. Nassir spluttered and groaned. Badr wiped his face and started to pat his cheeks.
‘Sober up – and shame on you. If your father found out about this!’
Nassir opened his eyes. He recognised Badr and spoke steadily.
‘Neither father nor Uncle Idris will ever get a wind of this. Dear, trusted Victor will get me out of here.’
‘You think your father’s secretary has such influence?’
‘Yes, he knows what to do in these kinds of situations. I’ve already called him. What are
you
doing here?’
Badr explained and all Nassir did was laugh.
‘Rotten luck, isn’t it.’ He stretched out on the floor, taking up considerable space.
Badr moved a little and leaned his back against the wall. He did not know Nassir as well as he knew Nur because Nassir had never been his student. These days, when Badr went over to Idris’s house to give Zeinab her lesson, Nassir was usually having his siesta or already out, and all Badr’s dealings so far had been with Fatma. He had, naturally, heard the unfavourable rumours about Nassir, but this delinquency was worse than he had imagined.
‘What did you and your friends do to end up here?’
Nassir made a dismissive gesture and wiped his face with the edge of his shirt.
‘When Father refuses to pay my debts, I’m forced to seek entertainment in the most sordid of places. So what if I rented a villa in Khartoum in the company’s name? I can use the Abuzeid name to get doors opened, it’s mine after all.’
Badr felt himself hardening.
‘I am sure your father has been fair with you. He is one of the most generous men in the country.’
Nassir snorted. ‘Not with his son.’
‘Shame on you! You’re a grown man, Nassir. You shouldn’t be dependent on your father.’
‘Well, I work for his company, don’t I? And all I get is a pittance.’
‘Many would be grateful for what you regard as pittance. If you are ambitious for more, then you must work hard for it. For a building to rise, for harvests to be reaped, for wars to be won,
some kind of sacrifice must be made. If you strive you will find success. Listen, young man, you are responsible for a wife and children, your brother Nur needs you . . .’
‘Nur is the one who cared . . .’ Nassir’s voice dropped. ‘He would have cheerfully gone to that office at the crack of dawn every day and he would have worked hard. Such a bloody waste!’
‘Yes, and it makes it more urgent that you step up and support your father. What happened to Nur could make you a better person, could cause you to reassess your life and leap forward in success.’
Nassir shook his head.
‘It’s not happening. Not any time soon.’ He covered his face with his arm and closed his eyes. His voice was thick when he spoke. ‘It still hurts to see him, day in and day out. Sometimes I can’t bear it and I want to wipe his misery out of mind. But I go back to him again because I love him so much and I try my best to amuse and distract him. I moved from Medani specially to be close to him – and I would give him my blood, if it helped. I would give him one of my arms or one of my legs.’
Badr was touched by these sentiments, but troubled by the inertia. It was a goodness that neither translated itself into useful action nor helped rein in indulgence.
‘Nassir, what we view as a setback might be a mercy in the long run, or a shield that deflects an even greater misfortune. We don’t know. Sometimes suffering in this world is a substitute for suffering in the Hereafter. Do you know Maulanna Abdullahi Ed-Dagestani?’
There was no reply from Nassir. He continued to lie with his arm across his face.
Badr continued, ‘He is a Sufi sheikh from Turkey. He said that everything in this world, small or large, was created for a reason. Even the smallest mosquito that bites people and makes them itch. There is wisdom behind that itch, in that it can be a substitute for a corresponding irritation in Hell. He said that
every trouble we land in comes from a sin which would not be forgiven without that trouble.’
Such purification Badr knew from personal experience. When he was ill with a fever, he would feel as if he were being blasted by the fumes of Hell. Then, afterwards, when the fever abated and left him weak, he would feel cleansed and grateful.
Nassir had fallen asleep.
Why do bad things happen? For pedagogical reasons, so that we can experience the power of Allah, catch a glimpse of Hell and fear it, so that we can practise seeking refuge in Him and, when relief comes give thanks for His mercy. Darkness was created so that, like plants, we could yearn and turn to the light. Badr had observed this in himself whenever one of the children were ill, or when he faced difficulties at work, or when his plans suffered a setback, or when he was thwarted or in pain. He became more receptive to the words of the Qur’an; he became more ardent in his supplications and more eager in his pleas. Now was such a time. In this lowliest of places, where his natural talent to impart a lesson had dimmed, it was time to lift up his palms and beg.
The door swung open and the guard called out Nassir’s name. Badr shook him awake. Nassir staggered to his feet, leaning on Badr for support. He was dazed and relieved, eager to get away. His companions were ushered out with him and, although he did not give Badr a backward glance or a promise of help, Badr was comforted by his release. He stretched out on the floor and let his body relax.
The cell seemed wider and airier now. Badr repeated to himself the verse, ‘. . .
And give good tidings to the patient
…’
He was less agitated than before. Soon he was even able to let pleasant images come to his mind. Hanniyah feeding the new baby, her breast taut and larger than the baby’s head, her face radiant because she had so much wanted a girl.
‘Now I won’t be lonely,’ she had said. ‘Now I will have someone to help me around the house.’
He smiled in the dark; the girl was only a few months old and already her mother had plans for her. Another image: Osama boasting that he had studied so hard for the end of year examination that he would come top of his class. The utter joy on little Ali’s face when he saw Badr come home from work. Such total trust. Little Ali was jealous that his older brothers went back and forth to school with Badr.
Badr dozed and dreamt that he was back in Egypt, in the fields of Kafr El Dawar. Palm trees rose high, and all around him was green. His father was ploughing the land, strong and healthy, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Badr was young, but not a child, holding the results of his baccalaureate in his hand. He had walked down to the fields to show the diploma to his father, but now he paused to watch his father’s deft movement, the muscles on his forearms and neck, the sweat gathering on his brow. Then his father turned and drew him close. They hugged, and the paper wasn’t necessary any more. His father knew that his studious son had passed with flying colours. He was going to the Teacher Training Institute, he was going to become an effendi and wear a clean suit and a fez. People would treat him with respect because he was a learned man.
Badr and his father walked arm in arm to the canal. His father was beaming and proud. My son, Badr, my son got his baccalaureate, he boasted to passers-by. Men congratulated them and moved away. The two of them sat at the edge of the water but in the strange way of dreams they were now in the water, without having moved towards it. His father splashed, his father ducked his head and raised it, the water matting his hair and turning it a darker colour. Badr sat quite still, feeling the warmth lap around him, through to his skin and up to his chin. Water. . . Someone was nudging his shoulder, shaking him awake. Badr remembered where he was and sat up straight.
‘Cousin.’
The voice was unmistakable, but the face was a distorted approximation of Shukry’s. One eye was swollen to the extent
that it was completely closed. The lips were cracked and bleeding, the cheeks were bruised.
‘What happened? Who did this to you?’
‘Your neighbours. I went home and your family raised a hullabaloo. The neighbours rounded on me and brought me here.’
His neighbours believed in his innocence. The Sudanese rallied at the end, though they were dumbstruck when he was taken away! Good for you, Hanniyah, that you roused them and didn’t let the culprit get away.
‘How could you, Shukry?’ His voice was thick. ‘How could you bring stolen goods into my house?’
Shukry spat out blood and phlegm.
‘Don’t get all pious on me now. I’m in no mood for your lectures and I curse the day I ever came to this country.’
‘You! And what should
I
say?’
‘Don’t be self-righteous, Badr. You think you helped me! Was that a job you got me? I hated it! Cleaning that boy’s shit and getting up at night to turn him over so he doesn’t get bed sores. He’s a useless pack of bones and it’s disgusting. He blubbers and expects everyone to feel sorry for him. Not me! I’d gladly put a revolver to his head. I’ve seen worse in the war, and those unlucky bastards had nothing to fall back on. Our prince, though, doesn’t even have to lift a finger to earn a living. This family has so much money, they don’t know what to do with it. That mother of his had more gold than what I took. Double the amount. I saw it—’
Badr interrupted him. ‘Stop this chatter and tell me what’s going to happen now. Did the police tell you anything?’
‘You only care about yourself! You’re incriminated, though. They think we were in this together.’
Badr did not rise to the bait. ‘Mahmoud Bey and the family know I have nothing to do with this.’
Shukry snorted. ‘The police won’t disturb the Bey in the middle of the night.’
Neither would Nassir. There was no hope in expecting any help from his direction. Badr stood up and looked out of the window.
‘I need to get to the school.’
‘You’ll wallow here for days till someone remembers you. Listen, cousin,’ Shukry’s voice became sharp, ‘I have an idea. We’ll tell them that Waheeba
gave
us the jewellery.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Badr scanned the sky. It was not yet dawn.
‘Yes, yes! We’ll tell them that she arranged with us to get a cure for her son – we were to recruit a special spiritual healer from Egypt who’s been known to perform miracles. She’s desperate, she’d do anything! And then, when the healer couldn’t fix the boy, she got angry and said I stole her jewellery.’
Badr sat down again. He listened to Shukry’s desperate plan, his shrewd stupidity, and he felt no anger towards him, only disappointment. When he was first dragged here, he would have beaten Shukry, if he had found him. Now he was sitting calmly next to him, listening to him prattle and fabricate. Perhaps this was forebearness and turning the other cheek. With an ache, he remembered the flat he had wanted from Mahmoud Bey. A dream, an aspiration that had kept him company for over a year. It would be sensible to bury all hope now, here in the floor of this Khartoum jail.
Evening withdraws
…
The poem comes out of him in what is like a sneezing fit; expectation, tickle, build up, congestion, then burst, release, relief and, afterwards, that good tingling feeling. Structure and a play of words, his yearning for Soraya now has a shape. He tests the words on his tongue.
The stars know what is wrong with me
.
It is the dark hours before dawn. Everyone else in the hoash is asleep. Nur had been looking up at the clouds, watching the night sky pinned up with stars. He had been feeling sorry for himself, the tears rolling into his ears in the most irritating way, and then down to wet his hair. There is no need at this time of night to hold them back or blink them away. But when the poem comes out of him, they stop of their own accord. They dry up and do not leave a mark. These tears, he thinks, are like everyone else’s tears, identical. They do not express his particular anguish or narrate what happened to him.
Travel caused my tribulations
. It sounds good. It feels different. This is partly because of its mix of Sudanese colloquial and classic Arabic, a fusion of formal language and common everyday words. He had written poems before, juvenilia, imitations of grand words striving awkwardly to rhyme. But now this, in his mother tongue. The colloquial words squeezing out of him, out of the accumulation of the past months, all that he knows so well and didn’t know before. The words are from inside him, his flesh and blood, his own peculiar situation.
In you, Egypt, are the causes of my injury. And in Sudan my burden and solace
.
He hears the dawn azan from the nearby mosque, yet there is
no sign of light, no birds singing, no cocks crowing. The prayer foreshadows the day, a challenge to believe that this darkness will soon be chased away by light. The first inkling of dawn is reminiscent of white moonlight, but soon the sky moves from navy to grey, the stars disappearing one by one. Yet still the birds are silent and he waits for them to sing, knowing they will sing. He can now see the neem branches and the corner of the saraya’s rose beds, jasmine trellises and eucalyptus trees. He can hear men walking down the alley, coming back from the mosque. The sky becomes pale blue. One bird sings and the others follow. They become loud and insistent, frenzied, as if they had forgotten that they sang yesterday and will sing the next day. The hoash stirs into life: the same noises, the same sights. Someone spitting out water . . . they are making wudu or brushing their teeth.