Lyrics Alley (12 page)

Stan and Eddie ran into the sea. She walked forward until her calves were deep in the water, the hem of her dress soaked and heavy. Eddie and Stan lifted Nur’s arms and put them round their shoulders. He wouldn’t pull a prank on them. Not on them. They half-dragged, half-swam, half-carried him towards the shore and he wasn’t helping them in any way. His head was lolling to one side. She felt ashamed for him, because he looked bad and was so needy of help. The shame was visceral, as if it was hers, not his. When they laid him down on the wet sand, he spluttered and spat, raising his head but not sitting up or rolling sideways. He opened his eyes and closed them. Nassir was next to her now.

‘What happened?’ His voice was soft with concern. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

Eddie and Stan crouched on either side of Nur, pumping his chest, talking to one another over him. Their bodies dripped with water. Soraya and Nassir stayed back. When she heard Nur’s voice, when Stan sat back on his heels and Eddie stood up, she rushed forward, flooded with relief.

‘Nur, get up. Nur, let’s go home.’

She wanted the soldiers to go away, she wanted the day to be normal again.

Behind her Nassir was full of effusive thanks. The English words tumbled out of him. He was generous in his praise and his manners pleased the soldiers. They moved away from Nur. Stan smiled broadly; Eddie shook Nassir’s outstretched hand. Nassir moved next to Soraya and sank to his knees. He lunged forward, embracing his brother. Nur didn’t raise his arms to hug him back. One arm lay outstretched, entwined with seaweed; the other, motionless too, was at an awkward angle, the fingers grazing the sand.

‘Nur,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

‘He’s resting,’ Nassir said. ‘Let him rest.’

But she insisted, ‘Nur.’

He looked up at her as if he was distracted by a supreme heaviness that bewildered and absorbed him.

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t move.’

This was the day Nabilah, empowered by her native Cairo, started to contemplate divorce and the right to stay here forever, not go back with Mahmoud to Sudan at the end of summer. The day she started to contemplate the right to a normal life like that of her mother, the girls she had gone to school with, and the neighbour’s daughters. Enough of this African adventure, of being there while thinking of here, of being here and knowing it was temporary; enough of the dust, the squalor and the stupidity. Enough of buildings that were too low, gardens that were too lush and skies that were too close. Enough of his large family, his acres of land, and his connections, of money without culture, prestige among the primitive. She would put an end to it all: an end to being inferior because she was the second wife, and of being superior because she was Egyptian. Enough of these contradictions! Life should be simple: a man who goes to work and comes back the same time every day; a good climate and uncomplicated children; outings on Friday; a picnic or a walk – everything proper and understandable. Why did she not deserve this? Why had she, in the first place, been married off to a foreigner, a man old enough to be her father? Was something wrong with her? Did she have a defect?

These questions inflamed her with a sense of injustice. There was no defect in her. This was a fact. She was beautiful. She came from a good home. She was well brought up. If she was not beautiful, he would have not have stopped dead in his tracks that first time he saw her sepia-coloured portrait displayed in the window of the photographer. Indeed, that photographer himself, on Midan Soliman Pasha, would not have chosen her portrait out of
so many, had she not been outstanding. A man looks into a shop window and catches sight of something that is useful, special or visually pleasing. He says to himself, ‘I must have that.’ Perhaps other men, too, walking in downtown Cairo had also stopped and gazed at her picture. Other men too might have desired and thought, ‘That’s the kind of girl for me.’ But Mahmoud Abuzeid had gone further; he had put desire into action, had tracked down the name to match the pretty face, an address, a family history. He had engineered an introduction to her stepfather, endeared himself to her mother, and made his move.

Years ago, when they had first got engaged, she had loved that story, the search for the girl in the portrait. What girl wouldn’t be proud of such a story?

‘He just had to have her. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Would you believe how much he offered the photographer for that portrait? Based on this, you can extrapolate how much he paid for her dowry!’ It was the stuff of dreams and gossip, as magical as the cinema. She had, her eighteen-year-old eyes shining, swelled with a new sense of self-worth, the pride that she had made her mother happy. In those heady days of courtship and gifts, Qadriyyah would embrace her and say, ‘Look at the pearl necklace he bought you! Look at the diamond ring. You will be the most beautiful bride. To think that I felt you were a burden when your father died. To think that I was anxious day and night about your prospects as an orphan!’

When Nabilah said the word ‘divorce’, she was in her mother’s kitchen with its smell of fresh mint and coriander. All year in Sudan, she had missed this kitchen, with its little balcony cluttered with baskets of onions and potatoes. On the shutters, garlic hung from a net and the bird cage was there, too, a large one with two parrots. From where she was sitting at the kitchen table, Nabilah could see the neighbour’s balcony and their washing hanging on the line. A young boy in his pyjamas was leaning over the edge as if he were talking to someone in the street below.

Qadriyyah, in her navy blue dressing gown, was kneading dough. She had taken off her rings and was pressing down on the pastry mix, folding it, and pressing again. Her hands were small and plump, but strong, the nails manicured. She was a solid, compact woman who looked as if she was wearing a corset even when she wasn’t. Her hair, which she dyed, was a glistening, unnatural black. It was thick and wavy and she considered it her best feature. Nabilah expected her mother to be alarmed at the mention of the word divorce. She wanted her to be concerned.

‘Why?’ Qadriyyah did not look up. ‘What has he done to upset you?’

‘Haven’t I explained in my letters? It is everything about my life there, and nothing specific.’

‘Do you think marriage is a game? Have you forgotten you have two children?’

‘Our life there is not like here,’ Nabilah replied. ‘He is so much a part of his family, of his wife and all the customs. He is Sudanese like them and I’m just not happy with that.’

‘Not happy!’ She slapped the dough back in the bowl. ‘You live in a palace, waited upon by a drove of servants. You said that Mahmoud Bey entertains a lot and you wanted a chef from here, so we got you one. You said you want a nanny from here, and we sent you one. Every single summer, you come here and spend three months. All of this and you are complaining?’

Nabilah did not know how to answer. Sometimes unhappiness seemed like the symptom of a malady that had no name, but flared up and calmed down on its own accord.

Qadriyyah looked her in the eye.

‘Does he hit you?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Are there other women?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Well, what is it then? Because he certainly isn’t being stingy with you!’

‘He is more than generous, Mama,’ she sighed.

‘Then shut up and thank your Lord! Look around you and see what other wives are enduring. If he divorces you, who will support you and your children at the high standard your highness is used to? Do you think your stepfather and I will take you in? Think again.’

Nabilah didn’t reply and there was a tense silence between them.

Qadriyyah pushed the dough into a ball and turned to look for the roller.

‘You will make me ill with your complaints.’

‘I’m sorry, Mama. I just want to be with you all the time, to see you all year round.’

‘Grow up, Nabilah,’ Qadriyyah sighed. ‘You are not a little girl any more. It disgusts me how ungrateful you are.’

When Nabilah walked out of the kitchen, she felt chastened and unsteady. But she also knew that she had not been given a fair trial and that she had not said everything she wanted to say. This was not Qadriyyah’s fault; it was hers, for not having the right words, for not presenting a convincing grievance or sufficient evidence.

Entertaining the English couple was hardly a burden she could complain of. They were staying in the Semiramis and not with Nabilah and Mahmoud in their Garden City apartment, yet she regarded them as an intrusion on her precious summer in Cairo. She still hadn’t visited her grandmother and was longing to see her. She had not taken the children for cakes at Groppi’s, and she had not seen an Egyptian film in the cinema.

‘Why must we be with them every day?’ she asked Mahmoud when they first arrived.

‘Because,’ he finished combing his moustache in front of the mirror, ‘he is the manager of Barclays Bank.’

‘But we never go out by ourselves, just you, me, and the children. We could go to the zoo.’

He made a face. ‘The zoo? Be reasonable. It would be dull.’

‘My father always used to take me for outings. He didn’t think it beneath him.’

Mahmoud grunted as he tucked his handkerchief into the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘We’re all going to Alexandria next week. The children will have all the enjoyment at the beach. Come on, let’s go. We mustn’t keep them waiting.’

For days it had been the same. She had watched him fawn on Mr and Mrs Harrison, wine and dine Mr and Mrs Harrison, chauffeur and amuse Nigel and Sue Harrison. When she questioned the amount of money he was spending on them, Mahmoud laughed and said, ‘This is nothing compared to the loan he granted me. I need to be on excellent terms with this man, and I want you to take good care of his wife.’

Sue Harrison, according to Nabilah’s assessment, was lacking in sophistication and beauty. The short hair was unbecoming, the clothes austere and the shoes too sensible. However, Sue’s enthusiasm, her
oohs
and
aahs
, her
darling
this and
darling
that, made her captivating. Her complexion was gorgeous, too; milky white, with the rosiest of cheeks. The young woman was optimistic about her future in the Sudan to an extent that made Nabilah spiteful. Her warnings of perpetual dust, infernal heat and a host of creepy crawlies fell on deaf ears. Sue was in love and happy that she was going to Sudan. The couple was on an extension of their honeymoon. They had already spent a fortnight in Devon and, en route to Sudan, were lingering in Cairo before a cruise down the Nile and a stay in Luxor and Abu Simbel. How fortunate it was that Mahmoud Abuzeid was in Cairo at the same time! What a charming and generous host!

Nabilah struggled to match her husband’s goodwill. Yesterday morning had been spent visiting the Pyramids, and Sue and Nigel wanted to climb the Great Pyramid. Although Mahmoud had long recovered from his illness of last autumn, he felt it prudent not to exert himself and, out of politeness, Nabilah accompanied the couple. The women did not get very far, each
stone was too large to surmount and the wind was dusty and irritating, so they sat together, waving down to Mahmoud and up to Nigel who was attempting to reach the top. Nabilah watched the other groups below, haggling with the photographers and those who offered donkey and camel rides. As a hostess, she must offer her guests the opportunity to have their photograph taken astride a camel with the pyramid in the background . . .

Afterwards, they strolled down to the Sphinx and she saved Nigel from buying an overpriced fake scarab. By then they were hungry and it was time to drive in Mahmoud’s Buick for lunch at Mena House. They could gaze at the pyramids while they ate, and Nabilah felt proud of her country in the company of the three foreigners. She even smiled when Mahmoud inevitably told the Harrisons the anecdote she heard every time they came to the Mena House.

‘When Roosevelt and Churchill met here at the end of the war, the RAF had an observation post above the Cheops pyramid.’

In the afternoon, back in the apartment, Mahmoud had his siesta while she punished the children for throwing their toys out of the window. Accustomed to the saraya in Umdurman, they did not understand that they were now in an apartment overlooking the street. However, their ignorance only increased her disappointment that they were not normal, well bred Cairo children, but half-castes, stigmatised by the boorish, backward Sudan.

In the evening it was time to meet up again with the Harrisons, this time for dinner at St James. While eating, they watched a cinema show, this being a specialty of the venue. Nabilah felt a pang of guilt that she had been so harsh with the children. She wished she were at home, putting them to bed and making amends. Now they would go to sleep believing she was still angry with them. She visualised her daughter’s arms around her neck. Ferial had thin arms, but a firm grasp. She heard her son’s voice calling out to her. Farouk’s voice was like no one else’s; it had a warble and she could never mistake it. But
Samson and
Delilah
soon absorbed her and she began to enjoy her excellent dish of Nile Perch and asparagus.

After dessert, they went to the Auberge des Pyramids. It was the first time Nabilah had walked through the red and gilt interior, and this made her feel close to Sue, sharing the same first experience. The band was outdoors and they sat in the garden close to the dance floor where a French singer crooned and made flippant remarks that amused the audience. Mahmoud, the only one who had been to the Auberge before, was pleased to point out the luminaries at the other tables. Over there was a Pasha, a confidante of King Farouk, and at the next table was Major Fitzgerald who owned an extensive collection of Islamic Art. Nabilah ran her eyes over the gowns of the ladies. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognised a House of Dior, and she began to talk to Sue about fashion, sharing her speculations and appraisals. It surprised and flattered her to discover that she knew the names of the famous fashion houses and their creations better than Sue.