‘It should become a song,’ Fatma said, ‘and then it would be easy to memorise. Even children could memorise it.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Soraya repeated.
‘I wish I had composed it myself,’ said Nur.
Soraya smiled. ‘If you had written it or someone else did, what does it matter? The important thing is that it exists.’
‘But it isn’t mine.’
She remembered how, when he was younger, before going to Victoria College, he had loved to sing. He would sing at every family occasion, memorising poems and popular tunes, his voice sweet and hopeful. But when he sang at a wedding outside the family, the wrath of his elders descended upon him. He was shaming the Abuzeid family, they said, standing in front of strangers like a common singer; next, the audience would be tipping him! Soraya remembered him crying, when, as a consequence, his father punished him and forbade him from going out. She remembered his confusion and broken spirit, crying the way boys cry, with a lot of pain and little noise.
She said, gently, now, ‘You will write your own poem. And it will be even better.’
‘Come on you two, let’s go,’ said Fatma, standing up.
‘Wait, I have something to give Soraya.’ He took out a bulky packet from his pocket and opened it.
Fatma laughed as Soraya reached out her hand for the pair of spectacles.
‘Where did you get them from?’ Her voice was withdrawn because of Fatma’s laugh and because Nur had acknowledged the imperfection in her.
‘I had them made for you. Of course, you need to be tested yourself and you need a prescription that is especially for you but this will help for the time being.’ For the time being. Until they got married and she would be free of her father’s conservative restrictions. ‘Try them,’ Nur said.
‘No.’
‘Why not? Yalla!’ Fatma adjusted her to be, impatient to leave the garden and go back to the hoash.
‘Later,’ said Soraya. ‘When I am alone I will try them on.’ She touched the thick black rims. Later, in front of a mirror, she would try them on.
‘She doesn’t want you to see her wearing them,’ said Fatma.
‘Keep quiet!’ said Soraya.
‘Soraya’s pretty,’ Nur said to Fatma. ‘The prettiest girl.’ Fatma folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. He looked at Soraya, who sat with her head bowed, spectacles on her lap. ‘Nothing can take away from her prettiness. And actually, the glass of the spectacles is going to make her eyes look even wider.’
Soraya could not help but smile.
‘Yalla, try them.’ His voice was warm with encouragement. ‘Give them to me.’
He put them on her, his fingers playfully pinching her earlobes and brushing against her hair. The new heaviness on her face and a grip on her nose; everything seemed a step away and yet so much clearer. On the peripheries, sideways down and up, the familiar fuzziness, but in the centre everything was in focus. She looked across the garden and saw the bougainvillea, the camphor tree and closer, on the veranda, bright and clear, the huge pots of flowers. She looked up, and the stars were distinct and piercing. Oh, how she had missed this clarity! She turned and looked at Nur. He had a cut on his chin from shaving but she knew that smile and glowing eyes; that pride in her.
She turned to look at Fatma and asked, ‘How do I look?’
‘Ugly,’ said her sister, ‘plain ugly.’
The three of them were laughing as they walked back to the hoash. They could hear Waheeba’s voice call out.
‘Nur! Nur, your teacher is here.’
‘I can smell the fish.’ Fatma started to quicken her pace. ‘She’s started frying and I’m not there to help her!’
Allah Almighty will say on the Day of Resurrection: O Child of Adam, I fell ill and you did not visit me . . .
As he walked the dark narrow alleyways of Umdurman, on his way to the lighted saraya of Mahmoud Bey Abuzeid, Ustaz Badr assigned himself the task of reciting every verse from the Qur’an and every Hadith which pertained to the subject of illness. There were three benefits to this exercise. One, it refreshed his memory; two, it soothed the irritation triggered by the letter he had received this morning and three, it stopped his mind from wandering to the form and voice of his luscious wife, Hanniyah. He considered his obsessive desire for her unbecoming in a man of his profession and maturity. Their marriage was a constant challenge for him to maintain his dignity, as she devoted her talents – or so it seemed to him – to ruffle, tease, and provoke him. His ruse against himself worked, for when he reached the Qudsi Hadith that promised him that he would find his Lord in the company of the ill, his concentration was whole and his senses were steady to the extent that the words penetrated his being and tears filled his eyes.
Badr’s eyes were large and protruding. In his spare, energetic body they looked a little out of proportion, as if they were a muscle overdeveloped from consistent training. And he had trained his eyes. He had trained them to read without effort, to suck in information, and then to act as a valve, preserving everything in his memory, keeping knowledge within and then letting it out at will, smoothly and professionally. Studious from an early age, he had been the only one of his brothers to complete secondary school and graduate from Teacher’s College.
Now he was on a secondment to Sudan, to teach those less educated than himself, who needed his skills and were ready to pay extra money for his time. He was also being sought, more and more, to give lucrative private lessons. It was an opportunity to make the kind of savings he would never have made had he stayed in Upper Egypt.
‘Doors have opened for you in this country,’ he told himself. ‘Thank your Lord and kiss the palm and back of your hand.’
Ahead was Mahmoud Bey’s mansion, with the grounds and all three storeys lit up. It was elegant because of its fine design, and splendid because it decorated the entrance to Umdurman, positioned in such a way as if it guarded the secrets of this city so close to the Nile. Five fine motor cars were lined up on the broad asphalt road coming from Khartoum. They intimidated Badr, and so he bypassed the main entrance. He also hesitated in front of the gate that led to Madame Nabilah’s extensive quarters. When he came in the afternoon to give her two young children their lessons, he usually banged on this gate, but tonight it was locked and this section of the saraya looked dark and unwelcoming. He therefore headed down the back alley, towards the gate from which he was used to entering, which was known as the women’s entrance, but was also used by intimate family members, tradesmen, beggars and servants.
His clapping, his cries, ‘Ya Satir’, to announce himself so that unveiled women could either flee or cover their heads, went largely ignored. The wide, open-air hoash was lined with beds, little stools and tables. It was a massive kitchen, sitting room and bedroom in which women, servants and children cooked, slept, ate and socialised. Eyes lowered to avoid seeing anything forbidden, Badr waiting to be noticed.
Hajjah Waheeba, squatting on a stool frying fish, looked at him, at first vaguely, and then started to call out, ‘Nur, son, your teacher is here!’
She shifted and settled her to be around her stout body. She was more African in features than her husband, and on each side
of her cheeks ran three tribal scars, like cracks on a dry riverbed, which made her face look broader and more open. With her wide eyes and excellent teeth, her colourful to be and the bangles of gold that glittered from her wrist to her elbow, she was attractive in spite of her age.
‘Nur, where are you? Someone go fetch Nur. Come in, Ustaz Badr. Welcome, come in.’
The hoash, always busy, was today over-filled with visiting women. The timing, just before serving the evening meal, added an excitement to the gathering. Large round trays were laid out, ready to be filled and sent to the men. The delicious smell of sausages mixed with the tart smell of fried fish ruffled Badr. He felt awkward, even though his presence did not bother the women. True, they covered their heads, some of them in earnest and others reluctantly, but they continued their chatting or with the repetitive task of laying out the trays with appetisers: little dishes of pickles, white cheese, boiled eggs, and red chilli mixed with lemon juice, salt and cumin.
‘Come in Ustaz Badr,’ Hajjah Waheeba insisted.
She was, Badr could not help thinking, the wife, or more precisely, the first wife of one of the richest men in the country, and yet she was content with the traditional semi-outdoors life of the hoash. His own Hanniyah had aspirations for a flat in a tall building, for a salon and a balcony. Why else had they left Egypt, if not to better themselves? She hated the Sudanese-style house they had been allocated by the school and complained about it day and night. It was something that rankled in their marriage.
He was rescued by Nur, who had been his pupil before he was sent to Victoria College. They had not seen each other for some time, and Badr noticed the changes in the boy. He had always been taller than his teacher, but now he was lean and muscular. Without the fat cheeks and unsteady, adolescent bearing, Nur had become more solid, more self-conscious and formal, but the quick, friendly smile was still there, as were the
intelligent eyes, which gave him an almost impish look. ‘My best pupil,’ Badr said and extended his hand.
Nur hugged him in return, a spontaneous gesture, cavalier and unexpected. He smelled of perfume, a scent fresher than his casual clothes suggested. Still holding Badr by the arm, Nur started to lead him indoors.
‘You are here to see Father? Let me take you to him – we are so busy these days, with all the visitors.’
They walked through the small, familiar room with the white table where Badr used to give Nur his lessons, then under arches, through sitting rooms furnished in the French style, and a massive, breathtaking dining room. Nur asked politely about how his half-brother and sister were getting on in their Arabic lessons with Badr. Were they memorising their poems, were they sitting attentively for the whole hour?
Mahmoud Bey’s suite was as large as Badr’s house. Badr stood unnoticed at the door and tried to take it all in. It overwhelmed him, not only because of its opulence but because of its European character. The smell of cigar smoke and expensive perfume made him alternatively gasp and then hold his breath. He looked at the double bed where Mahmoud Bey reclined on large pillows and exquisite linen, but instead of concentrating on the patient, Badr’s eyes wandered to the large mahogany desk, the two wardrobes, the sofas and armchairs that seated nearly twenty men, each two or three sharing a small table on which there was an ashtray, glasses of water, fruit juice and bowls of nuts. He heard the murmur of conversations, which were important because these were the country’s most important men. And with his crumpled suit, his ink-stained fingernails and his haggard face, it was clear that he was not one of them. He was someone for whom the conversation need not pause, nor should anyone rise up to greet him.
Again Nur came to his rescue, attracting his father’s attention, prodding his memory.
‘Ah, yes . . .’ Mahmoud Bey removed the cigarette with its black, slim filter from his mouth, transferred it to his left hand and extended the right towards Badr. He was a handsome man, with a finely trimmed moustache, full lips and an open, steady look. He was wearing a wine-coloured silk dressing gown and his voice, when he spoke, was weakened by illness. ‘Thank you for coming. How are you? How is your family?’
Badr launched into prayers for his speedy recovery, good wishes and praises, all the time standing up. It would be preposterous to sit down and join such a gathering. Unthinkable. A burst of laughter from the end of the room distracted the patient. Badr paused in mid-sentence when he caught the words ‘building’ and ‘flats’. The word ‘flat’ in a city where everyone lived in houses – villas for the rich and mud houses for the poor – rang in the room, distinctly Egyptian, distinctly related to him, as if it was said for him and meant for him. He understood it as if it were the only Arabic word to be spoken in the midst of a foreign dialect. These men’s world was so removed from his that he could not easily fathom the conversation he had walked into. Yet that word ‘flat’ was clear and right, a good place to live in, a proper home, Hanniyah’s dream. He tried to follow the conversation but was distracted by what he was seeing all around him. He lost his sense of decorum and stared openly, his eyes darting around the room. This glimpse of Mahmoud Bey’s bedroom would not be repeated. It was a one-off, something he would remember all his life, something that would enter his dreams. Not far from the head of the bed, he saw the door to another room, slightly ajar. It was a bathroom, all tiles and a modern toilet. To possess one’s own bathroom! Badr’s imagination could not stretch that far – to such a place, further even than the span of envy.
There was no longer any point in talking to Mahmoud Bey. Badr had lost his attention. Mahmoud Bey was listening to one of his friends, his face turned away. There was no good reason for Badr to linger, and again Nur was by his
side, this time to accompany him in his exit. Outside the room both were silent until they reached the terrace, which overlooked the garden. A gust of wind blew; a promise of winter and Badr needed a cigarette. He rummaged in his pocket but Nur was quicker. He took out a packet of Peter Stuyvesant and they lit up.
‘Does your father know that you smoke?’
Badr appreciated the good quality tobacco, a brand he could not afford.
Nur leaned against a pillar.
‘No, and even if he did I would not dare light up in front of him.’
Badr chuckled. ‘Tell me about Victoria College.’
Nur’s eyes lit up.
‘It is the best school in the world! I am now the captain of the football team. And we play against other schools. My swimming is getting better, too, because we go swimming in the sea, except when it’s very cold. And oh, Alexandria is beautiful.’
Badr had never been to Alexandria, even though his province, Asyut, was not that far. But he only smiled, distracted by other thoughts and half-baked schemes. ‘Do you still write poetry?’ he asked.