‘Not yet but it is something I look forward to.’
‘Then you must come to our farm in Gezira and see for yourself the cotton fields!’ Mahmoud raised his arms and turned to look at Idris to include him as a host. Idris nodded and reaffirmed the invitation. Mr Harrison must certainly enjoy their hospitality. He must partake of the celebrated Sudanese breakfast. He must bring his wife – no wife yet? Of course, he was too young for the shackles of matrimony. Laughter, and Mahmoud was liking this young man more and more, his wide-eyed innocence, his cotton suit slightly, only slightly, crumpled and his attractive modesty, because modesty in those with power and position was especially attractive.
Nigel Harrison looked and sounded his age now, his eyes bright with thoughts of leisure activities and a life outside work. ‘I have always wanted to come to the Sudan,’ his voice was more relaxed and confessional. ‘My grandfather was with Lord Kitchener’s army and often told me stories of the campaign. I grew up with a keen interest in the history of Sudan.’
‘Your grandfather would have told you about the invasion, but those days of war are over now, Mr Harrison. We are now in the days of commerce, profitable commerce for you and for us. This country has vast potential but I need not tell you. You know already.’
‘True, true . . .’ Mr Harrison faltered slightly. He sat upright in his chair and became businesslike. ‘And what can I do for you today, gentlemen?’
It was the cue they had been waiting for. Out came the proposal, the facts and figures carefully calculated and the large loan they were aspiring to. The cost of setting up the first cotton ginnery in the private sector. Abuzeid cotton would be ginned by the Abuzeids themselves. The proposed location would be Hamad Nall’ah in Sinnar. Yes, the governor of the Blue Nile province, Mr Peterson has welcomed the idea. Mahmoud explained that Idris was the farmer while he was the businessman. Idris was the one who knew just how much more
cotton the Gezira fields would be able to yield in the future. The future was promising and their business history was impressive. Two years ago, under the previous Barclays Bank manager they had been granted a loan to acquire the agency for Perkins motors, specifically the pumps for irrigation. The result was that the Abuzeid cotton fields were now irrigated by Abuzeid pumps. They no longer needed to buy or hire pumps from someone else. Idris explained the significant difference the pumps were making, their efficiency in irrigating the fields and how much acquiring the Perkins agency had cut costs. The Abuzeids were able to repay the loan in no time and it was with this confidence that they were now expanding into cotton ginning and asking for another loan.
Young though he might be, Nigel Harrison had done his homework and was canny enough to question his clients. ‘There are capitalists in this country, some of them foreign and some of them local, who would be honoured to ally themselves with you. They have the finances you need and you have the base and experience they lack. Why aren’t you allowing them to invest in your projects?’
The reply was confident. ‘We are a family business, Sir. We do not want outsiders to come between us.’
‘This possessiveness might do you harm in the long run.’
Mahmoud smiled. ‘We do not need anyone else, only Barclay’s Bank.’
Harrison responded with a small smile and went on, ‘But given the more than healthy profit of last year’s cotton yield, Sayyid Mahmoud, you cannot have any liquidity problem. Why are you seeking a loan?’
Mahmoud crossed his legs.
‘I have invested my cash in a building, Sir. The very first high rise in Khartoum. It will be a big building on Newbold Street, a building similar to the ones in Cairo.’
Nigel Harrison, like every traveller from Europe, had passed through Cairo on his way to Khartoum and he knew what
Mahmoud meant. The brothers started to describe the building and its exact location.
‘Next to Hoash Boulus,’ said Idris.
Mahmoud rebuked him in Arabic, whispering, ‘What would he know about Hoash Boulus!’ Then he turned towards the desk, raised his voice and switched to English. ‘I will take you to see it, Mr Harrison. It will be a fine piece of architecture when it is ready.’
A week later Mahmoud met Nigel Harrison at a reception in the palace. He introduced him to Nabilah, proud that she was next to him in her jewels and cocktail frock, her fair skin radiant in the lamp-lit garden. In his dinner jacket, with a drink in his hand, Mahmoud was satisfied that they made a favourable impression. But it seemed an inappropriate occasion to talk to Mr Harrison about the loan or to ask for a response.
‘Is this a typical palace function, would you say?’ It was Harrison’s first.
Mahmoud was pleased to be asked this question.
‘Everything is exactly the same as in previous occasions. Even the brass brand is as loud as ever.’
Harrison smiled and raised his voice, ‘Perhaps it’s a ploy to hamper any attempts to have a sensible conversation.’
Mahmoud did not understand the word ‘ploy’ and faltered a little. He changed the subject.
‘Unless you have already met them, I will introduce you to my friends from the Chamber of Commerce.’
‘I would appreciate that. I’ve noticed that formal introductions are not the norm here. Everyone of consequence expects to be known, but that can be puzzling for a newcomer.’
Mahmoud found this perspective interesting. It was true, he moved in circles where everyone knew everyone else. When in doubt, he was proud of his instinct to sort out who was influential and who was not. Sometimes he would sit in a gathering perplexed about the identity of another man and yet unable to
place him. A whispered query to the most trusted person next to him would suffice, but usually he would have to trust his instinct. A name could be picked up later, but how Mahmoud greeted or treated a stranger could not be postponed and, of course, he had to get it right. Treating a man with less respect than was his due could be disastrous, but also flattering, and raising up a minor could raise eyebrows or even attract ridicule. Because he was, by nature, cautious, and by instinct generous, Mahmoud often erred on this side. Minor officials, irrelevant acquaintances, and struggling merchants would find themselves showered with his cordial attention, only to be cold-shouldered when their true identity was revealed.
Nabilah touched his arm and he leaned closer to listen.
‘There are hardly any senior Egyptian officials. Very different from previous occasions.’
She was right. The government was keeping the Egyptian contingent at a distance. Instead, it was the aspiring Sudanese politicians who were milling close to the Governor-General. None of the conservative tribal sheikhs were here, though. They would shun such a gathering, which included women and alcohol. Here, with the garden lights and the waiters circling with trays of hors d’ oeuvres, was the British and Levantine core of Khartoum: cosmopolitan and opportunistic, confident and only recently vulnerable. Mahmoud spotted a merchant who had expressed interest in leasing office space in the new building. It was too early to come to an agreement, but Mahmoud strode across the lawn to reassure him that the construction work was proceeding according to schedule.
Ustaz Badr stood in the busy Abuzeid office facing Mahmoud Bey’s imposing desk. He took his time greeting the Bey, expressing with eloquence how grateful he was to Allah for restoring the gentleman’s health and returning him to his place of business. But something was wrong. He could tell from Mahmoud’s puzzled look and the way he frowned sideways at his brother and shook his head as if to ask, ‘Who is this?’ Before Badr could remind him that he was his children’s private tutor, the door of the office was pushed open and, as it seemed to Badr, the sun itself blasted through. The Coptic secretary, who had a minute ago carelessly waved him in, was now standing upright with the utmost energy and expectation, to usher in a tall well-dressed Englishman. To Badr’s astonishment, Mahmoud Abuzeid sprang to his feet and circled from behind his desk to greet his guest in the middle of the room.
‘Mr Harrison, what a pleasure, what a pleasure! Welcome, Sir, to my office. What an honour!’ He pumped the young man’s hand and the Englishman smiled with appreciation.
It seemed to Badr that he was pushed aside. Metaphorically yes, he was discarded but physically, too, he was pushed aside, though afterwards, when he looked back on this scene, he was not sure who had actually touched him and shoved him out of the way. Was it the secretary, Victor, who had a few minutes ago in the reception area, casually asked him his name and occupation without leaving his desk? Or was it Mahmoud Abuzeid himself, or his brother, or the other attendants in the office who had sprung to their feet, not as fast as Mahmoud Bey, but immediately after him? Badr did what was expected of him. He moved out
of the way. He shrunk himself, backed out, and slipped out the door, away from the enthusiasm between men who mattered and the exchange of these clipped, sparkling English words.
There was space for him in the streets of Khartoum. He blended with the pre-sunset liveliness when shops and offices re-opened after siesta. The December air was clean and invigorating and this should have been an afternoon of hope and new beginning, of action not delay. Subhan Allah, when something is not meant to happen, it will not happen, no matter what. Who would have thought that his mission would abort? Or that he would fail before even attempting?
‘Go to him at his office,’ Hanniyah had said. ‘You have been relying on his son and his wife to ask him about the apartment but his son has gone away and Madame Nabilah must have forgotten. Go to him yourself.’
Her advice had seemed sound, remarkably solid for an uneducated village woman. But he should have followed his usual habit of doing the opposite of what she suggested. Here he was, now dislodged into the street, having not even mentioned the new building, let alone his request to rent an apartment. If he had gone in a couple of minutes earlier, he would have at least articulated his request before the Englishman blasted through the door. If. This ‘if’ would open the door to Satan. Quell your disappointment. Perhaps there would be another day, another opportunity. Badr felt tired. He had not really wanted to visit Mahmoud Bey in his office. The man could not even remember him! You have made a fool of yourself, Badr. But wallowing in self-pity and humiliation was a luxury he could not afford. What was next on his agenda of chores? Another private lesson? He must buy bread and olives . . . his mind was muddled.
He hurried down the road but the grocer closed the door in his face. Another door. No cheese and olives for the children’s supper tonight. Hanniyah was newly pregnant and craving olives. Now he would have to deliver disappointment without even a pickle to quench her need. But a believer does not despair in
Allah’s mercy. He needed to remind himself of that.
It was Shukry’s visit that had aggravated the situation. His cousin had been true to his threat of coming to Sudan to search for work, relying on Badr’s hospitality. But three weeks, one month, and Badr’s patience was beginning to strain. Food was not the problem, space was. One cramped room and a narrow hoash was all they had. They had all been sleeping outdoors in the hoash but now the weather was cooler. Last night Radwan had started to cough and Hanniyah had to take him inside. What to do if a cold spell descended? Put the guest in the room as well as the children and his elderly father? But then Hanniyah would catch cold outside. It was an awkward situation, one that made him feel helpless and ashamed. This morning was the worst; he had caught Shukry stealing a lustful look at Hanniyah as she squatted over the stove to heat water. Cousin or not, Badr was willing to pull his eyes out, but in a hurry to get to school on time, he had controlled his anger and avoided a scene. Besides, if he confronted him, Shukry would go back to Egypt and spread nasty rumours about Badr. It was better to be patient and pray that, insha’ Allah, the youth would find a job soon, a job that would provide him with accommodation. Badr couldn’t wait to see the back of him.
One room and a hoash. The difficulty of being with his wife, alone. Always having to be careful, to lower their voices and hide from the children. Night was the best curtain, but even though his elderly father was senile and nearly blind, Badr still felt inhibited by his sleeping presence. Poor Hanniyah! She had no privacy to change her clothes or beautify herself like other women. Always his father and the children were in the way and now, worst of all, his cousin with the roving eyes.
He walked home, but his step had lost its earlier briskness. He took his time, conscious of the swift descent of the sun, the softness and birdsong that accompanied it. He heard the maghrib azan, but it came from random prayer zawias, rather than mosques. There was only one functioning mosque in the city; the other, the Old Mosque, built during Turco-Egyptian rule,
had fallen into disrepair. King Farouk was now financing its refurbishment, but extensive work was needed and the project was taking too long. There should be more mosques, Badr thought. Khartoum had seven churches for its communities of Catholics, Greeks, Copts, Armenians and the Anglican British officials and their families. It was the Anglo-Egyptian invasion that had brought all these people in. They revived Khartoum after the Mahdi had neglected it and established his capital in Umdurman. Badr brought his mind to the present and joined a group of men washing themselves in preparation to pray. The water was still warm from the heat of the afternoon. His sons should have been with him. At home, Hanniyah would remind them to pray, but they would evade her and run out to play in the alley. He smiled, thinking of them, mischievous and lively, needing his guidance.
The men lined up in the garden on King Street, near the building site of the Farouk Mosque. Badr liked praying in Sudan. There was something spacious and welcoming about these prayers in the open air and it seemed to him as if they accommodated more of Allah’s creatures. This feeling, when he first arrived in Sudan, had seemed to him fanciful, but he had grown used to it and accepted it. As a child in his village of Kafrel Dawar, he had been terrified of the ghouls and djinns that inhabited the darkness of alleyways and the most deserted of fields. This fear had turned to caution when he was older, and whenever circumstances compelled him to take these haunted routes, he would arm himself with verses of the Qur’an and hurry to his destination. In Sudan, though, he had come to experience more benign spirits.