Lyrics Alley (15 page)

After she had rested and calmed down, he said to her, ‘They are going to operate on him. We were waiting for you. I would not let them perform surgery on him until you arrived.’

This gratified Waheeba. She became her usual alert self, scolding Fatma for not bringing enough food from the flat, and snapping at Nassir for bringing the wrong suitcase to the hospital, not the one she had requested. When she made a sarcastic remark about Soraya’s bare arms, Mahmoud knew that the worst was over. His wife was no longer in shock. She had accepted Nur’s accident and was ready to play her part.

‘I am not afraid of any operation,’ she said. ‘Everything is in Allah’s hands. Yes, let them go ahead with the surgery. I want my son well again, and I want him back with me in Umdurman.’

Nur, himself, became more communicative. His appetite revived as his mother fed him. It was as if he was a baby again.

‘Open your mouth. Take another sip of milk.’

She was not awkward or reserved, popping grapes in his mouth with gusto, and combing his hair with care. In contrast, Mahmoud found himself embarrassed in the face of his son’s helplessness. He would bolt out of the room every time the nurse came to change Nur or give him a bath and was more comfortable greeting the visitors and keeping them company. Their good wishes comforted him, and he did not mind the pity in their eyes. And now Idris was by his side, a steady, mostly silent companion, but Mahmoud drew strength from the sheer physical presence of his brother. Nur’s schoolmates spent time with him in the room, but Mahmoud’s friends would only stand for a few minutes exchanging formal greetings with the patient before joining the gathering in the waiting room outside. The conversation would drift from the state of the patient to the state of the world, and Mahmoud found this soothing as his mind followed the sequence of another story or a gripping piece of gossip. Several times he laughed out loud when one of his friends cracked a joke.

On the day of the operation, they all gathered at the hospital early in the morning. Today Nur might die – but no one said these words out loud. Mahmoud felt heavy with the responsibility of the risk he was taking with his own flesh and blood. Dr Hempster had explained to him that the neck was a sensitive area; that all the nerves that went from the brain to the limbs passed through the neck. Mahmoud tried to understand. He was not a scientific man and he only held a preparatory school certificate. He knew the ways of the market, but the human body was a mystery.

Hours of waiting, one cigarette after the other. The room felt
odd without Nur. They were gathering around someone who was not present, who dangled between life and death. Soraya sat on Nur’s bed, hunched forward and biting her nails. Waheeba, stretched out on the extra bed, was muttering prayers. Idris dozed in an armchair, while Nassir flicked through the pages of a magazine then took to leaving the room and coming back in again. Mahmoud gave them his back and stared out the window. He watched waves approach, with varying strengths but one destination, to curve and unfurl against the shore. The white froth was attractive, decorating the endless blue. He wanted what Waheeba wanted – the boy to live and return home to Umdurman. They all wanted Umdurman now. Alexandria was not a place for the unhealthy. The holiday season wrapped itself around them like an unsuitable costume. The young ones no longer went to the beach, the cinemas, or the fun fairs. They were inside this glumness together, absorbed and waiting. He turned and spoke to Nassir, his voice odd in the hush and anxiety.

‘I want to contact the English soldiers who pulled Nur out of the sea.’

Soraya stopped biting her nails.

‘One was called Stan and the other was Eddie.’

‘Eddie is Edward and Stan is Stanley,’ said Nassir.

‘I want to meet them,’ said Mahmoud.

He would thank them for saving Nur’s life. Would a gift be in good taste? What kind of gift? Would they take money? How much? These questions of etiquette occupied his mind until the nurse came in to say that the operation was finished. They crowded the corridor until Nur was rolled out of the operating theatre.

Relief that he was alive, and unspoken dismay that there was no movement, no movement or sensation in either his legs or arms. ‘The operation was a success. Nur is making good progress.’ This was the wording of the telegram Mahmoud ordered Nassir
to send out. In reality, the only progress was from the grogginess of the operation to the boy becoming alert and responsive. The nurses cranked up the bed, propped him up on pillows and his bright eyes roamed the room, as if doing the moving for him. He chatted to his family and visitors, cracked the occasional joke, and asked of news of the outside world. Often he would seek his father’s eyes and ask the silent question: what next? Hope. Hope was the nourishment, the drug, the saving grace. After the anticipation of the operation and the acute days following it, there came a lull. Nur and the hospital were enmeshed in the fabric of the family’s Alexandria life. The patient was in a stable condition. No one needed to hold their breath any more. They could let their gaze wander, could surreptitiously, but not without restraint, start to live their lives again.

Mahmoud took Idris out to lunch at Abu Qir for a change. They tucked into grilled fish and shrimps, fried boulti and tahina. The restaurant was surrounded by cliffs, and there were mossy hard rocks instead of a sandy beach. Drinking mint tea after their meal, they discussed business – all the things that had been put on hold, all the transactions awaiting approval, and how to make the most of their temporary presence in Egypt. Then Idris asked, ‘Did you manage to contact the two soldiers who pulled Nur out of the water?’

‘I found out their names, but they are no longer in Alexandria. They’ve been transferred to the Canal Zone.’

‘I’ve heard from more than one source,’ said Idris, ‘that more and more forces are being stationed in Suez.’

‘I will write to them,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I would have preferred to meet them, but a letter of thanks should suffice.’

Idris had to be his negative self. He had to sigh and say, ‘Young people are nothing but trouble. Why did Nur have to go swimming? What connection do we have with the sea? Nothing! We are neither sailors nor divers. Who taught him to swim anyway?’

‘The English. At school they taught him. All the students were taken to Sidi Bishr where they would camp at night and swim during the day.’

‘What kind of school is that? Instead of lessons, taking them for outings!’

‘Victoria College is the Eton of the Middle East.’

‘What is this Eton?’ Idris stuck a toothpick in his mouth.

Mahmoud didn’t bother to answer. After such a meal, he needed his siesta.

With the cream of Cairo holidaying in Alexandria, and Nur’s accident a high-profile event, Mahmoud’s social life continued to flourish. Loose ties were strengthened and old alliances were cemented. Even strangers, brothers of so-and-so, and friends of so-and-so, were taking time away from the beach to drop in at the hospital or at least telephone. Mahmoud pushed his personal sadness down – he had had such hopes for the boy – and presented his usual amiable self to society. It touched him that so many important people were standing by him in his hour of need. Best of all was when they said, ‘You are an upstanding, generous man, and you do not deserve this.’ Or, ‘Nur is a fine young man, he doesn’t deserve this.’

Mahmoud knew that such personal warmth was excellent for business, and even though no one spoke of work, he could sense, not without irony, that in these solemn hospital corridors, seeds were being sown for a profitable, thriving future. However, sometimes, when guests probed him excessively about Nur’s condition or offered conflicting advice, he would become defensive and insecure. It was important to save face. He must be seen to be doing the best for his son. He must be seen to be sparing no expense. No one would esteem him and he would not forgive himself if he cut corners, or was negligent or impatient, too rash or too cautious. Or worse, simply did not care enough. Never had he loved his son more, and never had he been more uncertain of the future. At the end of each day, which always
seemed long and stifling in the hospital, he would need Madame Marika’s platitudes and Cyprus wine; need the cool, shady interior of the pension to soothe his ragged nerves.

Waheeba, everyone agreed, was spending too much time at the hospital. They persuaded her to go home on the pretext that she, and only she, could cook Nur’s favourite dish of assida. Mahmoud drove her to the flat because Nassir was not yet at the hospital. They were silent on the way. He sensed her reluctance to leave Nur – she was as attached to him now as she had been when he was an infant.

‘Look around you,’ he said. ‘Look out the window at this magnificent city.’

She obeyed him, but quickly returned to staring straight ahead, fidgeting with the gold bangles on her arms.

‘Ignorant woman,’ he sighed. ‘What is the point of your travelling anywhere?’

‘Travel hurt my son,’ she said. ‘If he had stayed in Sudan, none of this would have happened. He would have been well.’

Did she want to blame him for the accident? His fault for insisting that Nur studies at Victoria College.

‘All the Sudanese boys studying in Alexandria, all the ones swimming and holidaying – have they been injured?’

She didn’t reply and, as he turned the corner, he said to her, ‘Answer me. Why don’t you have an answer for that?’

‘I should have stayed at the hospital. Talk to the administration and get me permission to use the hospital kitchen. Then I can cook Nur’s meals there for him.’

He went up to the flat with her. She did not know where it was and could not be trusted to read the number on the door. Nassir was still in bed when they walked in. Mahmoud walked into his bedroom and opened the curtain.

‘It’s noon,’ he bellowed. ‘Noon! And you’re still asleep!’

Nassir sat up. He was bleary-eyed and downcast and looked like he had a hangover.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘I went out with some friends.’ He avoided meeting his father’s eyes.

‘Well, that’s fine behaviour! Your brother in hospital and you are out gallivanting till the small hours! I am mighty proud of you.’

Nassir shifted from one foot to the other. His daughter, Zeinab, walked into the room, shook hands with her grandfather, and walked out again.

Mahmoud pulled the chair from the dresser and sat down. The flat was not to his taste. It was disorganised and basic, typical holiday accommodation. He had bought it for the family and it fulfilled its function, while he always opted for a hotel.

‘Listen, Nassir, you have to become more responsible. Stop this staying out late. Is this what you want your reputation to be? A drunkard? A womaniser? And at a time like this, the circumstances we are going through!’

Waheeba walked into the room. Seeing Nassir sitting unkempt on the bed she exclaimed,

‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’

‘No, he is not sick,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Nor does he have any respect for the one who
is
sick.’

‘Every day since the accident, I have been at the hospital,’ said Nassir, emboldened by the presence of his mother. ‘Every single day, all day. For how long is this going to continue? When is Nur going to get better? They don’t know how to cure him, do they? The operation wasn’t a success. He is still as he is.’

‘Don’t talk like that!’ snapped Waheeba.

‘But I can’t bear to see him like this.’ Nassir was getting more heated. ‘All the time, he’s just lying down. How is he going to go to university? How is he going to get married? I would rather not live if I couldn’t get up to take a piss. I’d rather die.’

Waheeba slapped him.

‘Don’t you dare!’ Her lips quivered and her to be fell and hung
low. ‘Don’t you dare wish your brother dead.’ She straightened her to be, turned and walked out of the room.

Mahmoud felt sorry for Nassir. He was taller than Waheeba and his little children were milling around the flat. That crazy woman. Nassir put his head down in his hands and Mahmoud moved to sit next to him. He patted him on the back. In the silence, he could overhear Waheeba talking to Halima in the kitchen. She was saying she wanted to get Nur to Umdurman so that she could take him to a faqih. Someone, for sure, had given the boy the evil eye. Vulgar, stupid woman. Mahmoud squeezed Nassir’s shoulder.

‘There are other operations that can be done. I am considering taking him abroad for treatment. I’ve been making enquiries. Don’t lose hope. He can be cured, I am sure.’

On the way out, he looked in at the women in the kitchen. It was good that Halima had come from Umdurman. She had a calming, matronly presence, and was a restraining influence on the younger ones.

‘Greet your grandfather, Zeinab,’ she said, turning from the sink.

The little girl walked towards him and he said, ‘She already did. She came especially into the room and greeted me.’ He put his hand into his pocket and bought out a piece of bubble gum. ‘Here, this is for you, Zeinab.’

It was his habit to carry sweets for the children who came his way. When he didn’t have sweets, he gave them coins.

Waheeba was sitting at the kitchen table, occupied in some task that held her attention.

‘You should rest, Hajjah,’ he said to her. ‘You are tiring yourself these days.’ Then he lowered his voice and continued, ‘No respectable woman raises her hand against a grown-up man, even if he is her son. Your nerves have been under a lot of strain these past days. Take care of your health and rest.’

Instead of the expected conciliatory response, she flared up.

‘We are all tired. I am working day and night to tend to your
son and serve your guests, and where is your Egyptian wife? Sitting comfortably in Cairo with her mother, spending your money—’

He interrupted her and his voice was cool, ‘Nur is your son. It’s your duty to be with him.’

‘Yes, he is my son, and I know what is good for him. I was just telling Halima. The English doctor had got it all wrong; there was no connection between Nur’s neck and his limbs. This is black magic, believe me, I know it when I see it. And no one can lift this curse except certain faqirs in Umdurman!’