Lyrics Alley (21 page)

In the twilight between illusion and sleep, an evil pocket claimed her with authority and strength. The pocket held her snug, caught up in a single, jumbled thought, churning with no release; situations, conversations and dilemmas repeating themselves with no outlet or resolution. The sides of the pocket,
meaty and crimson, prodded and squashed her. She was pinned down, unable to move her legs, unable to wave her arms, like the day she was six years old, when she was tricked with sweets and new clothes before the slash and tear of the midwife’s knife.

Fear made her scream. Then she could turn over, she could move. The sounds of sobs from the next bed were real. Fatma was crying out for her mother, the mother Soraya could not remember.
Yumma, Yumma
. Soraya cried about Nur, not understanding why he wasn’t getting better, or why the accident happened in the first place. Stand up, Nur! Run and play football again. Hold a book in your hands. Write with a pen. Go to poetry readings and debates, which girls can’t attend, and come back and tell me about them.

His voice was clear on the telephone, surprising and precious. She knew it was him, straight away. He knew it was her, straight away. He said her name and she forgot last night’s bad dreams, forgot even that he was ill. She forgot the accident and the hospital in Alexandria, the months he went to London and left her all alone. She smiled and said, ‘This is the first time ever that we’ve spoken on the phone.’

‘It’s good that my Uncle Idris finally relented and installed one.’

‘We must be the last house in the country to be connected.’

He laughed. ‘You are exaggerating. But yes, Idris Abuzeid is a conservative man.’

‘But believe it or not, Nur . . .’ She spoke quickly. They would not have privacy for long, someone or another, family members, guest or a servant, would come in and bring the conversation to an end. ‘Today, of course, I didn’t go to school, and my father surprisingly said, “You must go tomorrow. You can’t miss too many days of school.” ‘She mimicked her father’s voice, his coarse accent.

Nur chuckled. He, too, adopted her father’s accent to do an even better impersonation.

‘My daughter, I have become an enlightened man. Education is a priority. We are on the brink of a new dawn of self-determination and independent rule. I read this in the papers.’

She giggled. ‘Does he read the papers?’ The hostility to her father was always around the corner, ready to pounce.

‘Soraya, my dear you are being too harsh.’

She liked him saying ‘My dear.’ It softened her.

‘I miss you so much and there is no way I can come and see you. I can’t leave Fatma.’

‘I know. How is she now?’

‘She’s fine. The doctor came to see her and said not to worry. Is that why you telephoned, to ask about Fatma?’

‘Of course, she’s my sister-in-law. If I could, I would have come to see her. Tell her I was asking after her.’

She put her hand on her hips.

‘And here I am thinking you called to speak to me.’

He laughed. ‘Yes, I want to complain that I don’t see you enough. And when I do, you sit all quiet and not inclined to chat.’

‘Only because we’re never alone. You are always surrounded by visitors.’

She felt a sense of urgency, a fear that if her father overheard this conversation, he would be furious.

‘I get bored when I’m alone.’ Nur’s voice was higher, thinner.

‘Soon you will get better.’ Her voice didn’t waver, it trilled with confidence. ‘While we’re speaking now, a scientist in America is in his laboratory working out a cure for you. I just know it.’

She sensed him snatch the hope she was offering, his unspoken thanks.

‘An American scientist, you think?’

‘Yes, Nur.’

‘He would look like Errol Flynn?’

‘Oh no! He would be bald and grumpy but exceedingly clever.’

‘He would have a degree from Harvard?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Come and see me.’

‘I will. As soon as I can.’

‘Soraya . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Every song I hear on the radio reminds me of you.’

When the euphoria of that conversation subsided, she repeated his words to herself time and again, treasuring the memory of his warm voice, the hint of a smile, the lilt and playfulness with which he had said her name. After she hummed the tunes he had hummed and dwelt on the lyrics he had quoted, she asked herself, ‘Who dialled our number for him? Who held the receiver to his ear while he talked?’

Someone else had done all that, she realised, another pair of hands, another’s body, another’s movements. One of the servants did all that.

She turned to novels for comfort. Nancy brought her a selection from the Christmas bazaar and Soraya would make sure her father was out of the house, then safely put on her glasses and lie down in bed to read. Outside, she could hear the distant sound of a radio and Fatma talking to the servants. She was back on her feet now and getting stronger every day. Soraya propped another pillow under her head. She took a bite off her pink mawlid doll, from the cone-like base; it was as sweet as candy floss. Of course, Soraya had refused to attend the celebration for the Prophet’s birthday; the colourful tent that was erected in the square behind Uncle Mahmoud’s saraya, where horses pranced and singers chanted, but she could not resist the traditional mawlid doll, with its colourful paper-tissue dress and its delicious body made of solid pink candy. She read while chewing.
Lorna Doone
,
Rebecca
,
Liza of Lambeth
,
Emma
and
The Woman in White –
these she all enjoyed, but a novel about a woman whose husband returned crippled from the war, disturbed her. She abandoned
it, but then went back to it, fascinated and, at the same time, repelled. She wanted happy endings, she wanted things to work out, she wanted Fate to comply with human desires.

She heard her father’s voice and her blood froze. Fear made her unable to move. As he opened the door she sprang up, shocked that he was home from the office so early.

‘What are you doing?’ He stood in his long jellabiya, his eyes wide, incredulous. ‘What’s this? You’re wearing glasses! Who do you think you are?’

He walked forward and slapped her. The glasses crashed to the floor. She screamed and covered her face.

‘Do I have no say in this house?’ Idris bellowed. ‘I forbade you from wearing glasses, which means no wearing glasses. Can you hear me?’ He hit her again, a blow that landed on her shoulder.

‘Yes, I can hear you. Yes!’ she bawled.

Pain throbbed on the side of her head and that other, inner pain, that she was of no worth, insignificant, dirty and small.

‘Keep silent! I don’t want to hear your voice.’ His voice was level now, as if he had rid himself of most of his anger.

Fatma hurried into the room. She did not need to ask any questions, but stood helplessly at the door with her hands down her sides. Soraya could not see the expression on her face. Her vision was blurred. She couldn’t see where the glasses had fallen.

‘Do you think you are a boy? Answer me!’ He gripped her arm.

‘No. No I don’t think that.’ Her voice was flat. ‘These glasses are especially designed for women.’

‘Keep quiet, Soraya. Enough,’ said Fatma coming closer.

‘You dare defy me?’ His face was close to hers now and the spit that flew from his mouth smacked her forehead.

It occurred to Soraya that he would forbid her from going to school, that any minute now the penalty would fall. But Fatma’s presence must have restrained him. He turned to her and said,

‘You, her older sister, should guide her, instead of leaving her to do what she likes.’

‘I will, Father.’ She gently pulled Soraya away from him.

He walked out of the room hissing, ‘You disgust me!’

‘You disgust me, too,’ Soraya mumbled to herself.

She ignored Fatma’s platitudes and refused to cry. She picked up her glasses; one of the lenses was broken and she still refused to cry. She checked her face in the mirror to make sure there were no marks, bruises or cuts, then she curled up in bed and closed her eyes. Fatma sat next to her and stroked her arm.

‘Don’t worry about the glasses, Nassir will get them fixed. In the meantime, wear the pair Nur got you, we still have them. Didn’t you realise that with all the strikes this week, he’s been leaving work early? Today the police had to break up a demonstration with tear-gas. Gordon’s College’s been closed and the shopkeepers are afraid to open for fear of looting. And it’s good father didn’t confiscate your book; you can finish reading it later.’

Fatma’s voice reached her from far away. She was already sinking into a state close to sleep, being sucked back into the pocket, that place where she could not move her body. Red flesh was closing upon her. What was this small, mean world of the pocket? Madness? Or empathy with Nur? Or was it being buried alive? In Alexandria, on the beach, they used to bury each other in the sand, the whole body underground and only the head sticking out free. Was this how Nur felt? Perpetually restrained by heavy sand. Someone was calling her name. It was Fatma of course.

‘Soraya my love, did you fall asleep?’

She rolled over. The movement felt good. She stretched her legs and arms out. There was an ache on the side of her head from where her father had hit her. It will go away. She was wide awake now, and could make out the details of the room. Her schoolbooks were on the dressing table, reflected in the mirror.
This was where she did her homework, looking up to make faces at herself in the mirror.

‘I have to leave this house,’ she said to Fatma. ‘I have to get away from him. I will marry Nur and then I will be free to do what I want. I will have a husband and Father will not have any say over my life.’

Fatma sighed. ‘This is not a time to talk of Nur and marriage.’

‘You mean because he is ill? He will get better.’ She stood up and said, ‘I am going now to Uncle Mahmoud. I am going to complain to him about Father.’

Fatma gasped, ‘Have you gone mad, girl?’

‘Tell me, what other choice do I have?’ She was already finding her slippers and smoothing her hair. She wrapped her to be around her and headed for the door. ‘There is no one in the world Father will pay heed to except his elder brother.’

She found herself navigating lunch with a knife and fork. Her uncle and Nabilah were having veal escallops, stuffed vine leaves and yoghurt salad. An extra plate was set for Soraya next to the two children. A family sitting around a dining table sharing a meal – it was like walking into a film or stepping into a novel! The servants, in embroidered blue jellabiyas, with red sashes around their waists, collected the main course and brought in dessert, a creamy trifle as well as a selection of apples, oranges and pears.

After the meal, sitting sipping mint tea with her uncle, she told him what happened.

‘I need those glasses, Uncle. I have exams in a few months’ time, final exams. I have to see the blackboard properly, I have to be able to read with ease.’

Uncle Mahmoud looked grave but not surprised. He smoked his cigarette with its black, slim filter. There were crinkles of white in his hair and he looked solid and important. Now he spoke slowly.

‘If Idris finds out that you have complained to me, most likely
he will be even harsher with you. I will have to proceed with tact. I do support you, Soraya. I want you to sit for the Cambridge School Certificate and I want you to go to university. There is nothing wrong with a girl wearing glasses. If you need them, then you must have them.’

‘Thank you, Uncle, I knew you would not let me down.’ She leaned and kissed his forehead. ‘I am sorry if I disturbed your siesta.’

‘Don’t worry. I only need a brief rest today, as I’m not going back to Khartoum. I decided it would be safer to close the office this evening.’

‘Did you hear, Uncle, about the girls in Umdurman who left their school and went out in a demonstration?’

‘Yes, and now the whole school has been shut down.’

‘Oh no! All this because Egypt abrogated the Condominium Treaty!’

He smiled at her instinctive response.

‘The move shouldn’t have come from the Egyptians. It’s humiliating for our national movement, and it’s put those of us who support a unity with Egypt in an awkward position.’ He took a draw on his cigarette. ‘And, naturally, the British are angry; they claim Egypt wants to swallow the Sudan!’

‘Maybe she does, Uncle?’

He smiled. ‘My, my! You are questioning me, too! Idris is not going to subdue you as he subdued your sisters.’

She flushed, wishing that he would talk to her more about politics, about trade, about the ways of the world. His opinion would be the right one, his information the most accurate.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I have something for you.’ He stood up and from a cabinet brought out a box of chocolates. ‘Have a piece.’

She reached for the diamond shape, wrapped in a purple foil when suddenly there was a vivid flash and a whizzing noise. She squealed and started to laugh. It was a trick, and the thrill revived her spirit and dispelled what was left of her earlier gloom.

‘I thought they were real chocolates, I did!’ she squealed.

He chuckled. ‘I am taking this trick, as well as a real box of Groppi chocolates, to my friends Mr and Mrs Harrison, who are having a Christmas party. You must come with me, Soraya.’

Her instinct was to wrap her arms around him in joy. Gone was her stance of not attending any celebrations until Nur recovered. It was swamped by the magnitude of the opportunity, the unexpectedness of the invitation. Mr and Mrs Harrison were newly married and romantic. It would be a proper grown-up party, not one for children.

‘Thank you, Uncle. Thank you!’

‘Can you speak English well and impress these people?’

She answered him in English.

‘Of course, Uncle, of course I can.’ She tried to sound as proper as she could. ‘I graciously accept this invitation.’

She would wear a new dress that day, something glamorous and ladylike; she would have it specially made, there was still time.

Pleased with her reaction, Mahmoud switched to English.