Lyrics Alley (23 page)

Tears come to Nur’s eyes.

‘But it doesn’t feel good! I just want to be ordinary. To be like everyone else.’

‘Remember at school we set you examinations to see which one of you would excel and which one of you would fail? It is the same in life. Allah tests our patience and our fortitude. He tests our strength of faith. Be patient and there will be endless rewards for you, Insha’ Allah.’

‘You mean I will die and go to Paradise. Well, let it happen now and get it over with.’

‘No, no don’t say that, Nur. You are young and you don’t know what the future has in store for you.’

‘I don’t believe that I will get better. This miracle won’t happen.’

‘But there are other exits, a release of some kind. Maybe none of us can see it now or imagine it, but we have to pray for it and wait. Trust in Allah’s mercy, be reassured that you are safely in His hands.’

Nur feels like a child who has been taken seriously by an adult. Badr had looked him in the eye and had talked, really talked, about what happened.

‘Come and see me again,’ he says.

His teacher’s words stay with him. They blend with a line of
a poem he had studied at school.
The winds don’t blow in the direction the ships favour
.

Day four of the strike. He drinks soup, but will not have anything solid. He answers in monosyllables when questions are put to him. Zaki, thick skinned and unsmiling, comes home from school and barges into his room. He is wearing his school uniform and carrying a satchel. He reeks of the outside world, of sweat and the sweets schoolboys buy from the women who squat with their wares outside the school gates. Zaki clutches a paper cone full of peanuts and greets Nur the way he did the day before, grubby hand cupping elbow. Today Nur lifts his elbow in response, the little that he can, and Zaki does not expect more. To Nur he appears brave, away from home in a new city; his first day at school, and his presence in the room is not overbearing. There is no irritation radiating from the boy, or a desire to impose. He is blunt and matter of fact, but light, not weighed down by awkwardness and confusion.

‘Here take this . . .’ He pops a peanut in Nur’s mouth.

Nur should spit it out, but his teeth crush the fresh nut and the taste is strange on his fasting tongue. Zaki pops another one in.

‘Enough,’ Nur protests, and Zaki obeys, neither meekly nor grudgingly but as if it is natural to move on and do something else.

He takes his reading book out of his satchel and holds it up in front of Nur’s face.

‘Can you help me with my homework?’

Nur could tell him to get out of the room. He could taunt him and say, ‘Are you stupid? Your folks have sent you all this way to get an education and you can’t do your homework by yourself?’

But, despite his age, Zaki commands respect, and Nur does not want to be mean. Besides, the words ‘help me’ rally his inherent sense of honour. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the
crushed body, ‘help me’ reaches his real self, it chimes with his true voice, it touches his essence.

From across the room, Zaki collects three pillows from the other beds and arranges them on Nur’s lap in such a way that when he places the book on top of them, the words are in perfect line with Nur’s vision.

He opens the book to the first page.

‘See, now I don’t have to hold it up! When you finish reading this page, I will turn the page for you. Now read!’

Nur reads. He reads, and there is a reason not to die. This is an activity he had forgotten, a pleasure he can take up again. The boy, Zaki, has solved the problem of raising a book to eye level and he is willing to turn the pages. In a few days’ time, Ustaz Badr walks in, carrying a wooden easel dislodged from an unwanted desk in his school. He props it up in front of Nur like a table and other books, not just schoolbooks, are placed on it. Nur’s old books to read again, and now that his appetite is whetted he wants more, more words, more stories, more poems. Hajjah Waheeba gives Ustaz Badr money and Nur dictates the titles that he wants from the bookshop. Ustaz Badr recommends this author and remindes him of another. Nur is occupied; Nur is busy. Why has no one thought of this before? Why has the obvious taken so long? When he reads, he floats in a current of thoughts and images; he swims as if he is moving his arms and legs. This is a kind of movement, this is a momentum, a buildup, starting, strolling, wandering, exploring. He is blessed with literacy. Something has not been taken away from him. Something, like his family’s love and his family’s prosperity, is there to buffer him. The words on the page are like a breath that muffles his thoughts, tousles his sentiments, plays havoc with the arguments in his head. The words on the page are a mirror. They reflect his secrets and his beauty. He is more than an invalid; he is more than a tragedy.

He is Nur Abuzeid and he is reading again.

‘He was doing well for a while, busying himself with his books and then suddenly he deteriorated again.’ Waheeba addressed herself to the ladies sitting with her in the hoash, but deliberately ignored Nabilah. She had received her co-wife coolly but her agitation at this unprecedented visit was obvious.

Nabilah sat on the opposite bed, with her children at either side. She felt them pressing against her, both sullen in their best clothes and with their hair brushed and neat. She, too, had taken special care with her appearance. She was dressed modestly, for why should she put on a show when she was only walking down a dusty alley to sit in Waheeba’s courtyard? But she had made a point of wearing a new cotton dress and having her hair done. A visit to the hairdresser in Khartoum always uplifted her spirits and increased her confidence, while a new dress, however simple, was gratifying in its very newness; crisp, uncreased and smelling of fresh cotton. The children stared at Nur. He was asleep, sedated as Waheeba had explained, but it was a restless sleep for he moved his head from side to side and occasionally mumbled. Was he ever going to stabilise or were these migraines psychological? Did Mahmoud want Farouk and Ferial to see their half-brother before it was too late or was this too dramatic an assumption? It was not something to be proud of, but actually the children had never been to see Nur since the accident.

This morning over breakfast Mahmoud had confronted her.

‘How could you, Madame, have overlooked this! How could you not have taken them all these past months?’

‘You didn’t tell me,’ she snapped back.

‘Must I tell you everything? Can you not think for yourself?
Such a simple social obligation – is it not obvious to you?’

Nabilah was unruffled by this criticism.

‘You told me I need never set foot in Waheeba’s quarters. So how, then, can I accompany the children? You are their father.
You
are the one who should have taken them.’

He frowned and pushed away his plate. He never took the children out unless Nabilah was with him.

‘Send them with the nanny.’

‘The nanny won’t be able to protect them if Waheeba pulls any tricks.’

‘Nonsense! You are being fanciful. Today,’ he insisted, standing up to leave to the office. ‘Today they must go to him. We’ve left it too long, and now he’s had another setback. Either send them with the nanny or go with them yourself.’

Now that she was actually sitting in Waheeba’s hoash, curiosity gripped her. She had always wanted to see Waheeba’s quarters. Not that she had any doubt that they were inferior to hers, but still, she craved the small details. The hoash was large, with the string beds arranged in a large rectangle. Nur’s bed was one of them, but his was a proper hospital bed with wheels. Coffee tables of various sizes were arranged in the middle of the rectangle, and the smallest of them were pulled near the beds, within arm’s reach. It was as traditional, and as crude, as expected. Yet Nabilah could not help but admire the linen, the embroidered pillowcases, and the charming tablecloths. This was where, in addition to the gold bangles gripping her arm, Waheeba’s wealth manifested itself. The level of cleanliness was high, too. Nabilah sat on fresh-smelling, ironed sheets and the glass she drank from sparkled, though it smelt faintly of clay from the zeer where the water was stored. The tea glass smelt of incense and the tea itself was spiced with cardamom. It was sunset, and the floor of the hoash had been watered. A cool, gentle breeze carried the earthy, cloying scents of Umdurman, these scents that Nabilah could never get used to.

Apart from a neighbour and some family members, the hoash
was busy with servants and those poor relations who helped out, even though their status was above that of the servants. Nur’s nurse Shukry, the cousin of Ustaz Badr, came over specially to greet Nabilah, thereby acknowledging that it was through her that he had obtained his post. He then kept at a distance, and it was the young boy, Zaki, who sat on Nur’s bed. Batool, newly married and living with her husband, was, nevertheless, in close attendance, as she was the one who had offered Nabilah the tea and water. There were children, too, running around, and there was certainly enough room for that. Nabilah recognised Zeinab, Fatma’s daughter. She was the same age as Ferial, but while Ferial was sitting politely next to her mother, the other girl was roaming around, her hair unkempt and her feet bare. All this chaos around Nur, with no respect for his condition! He should be alone in his room, entitled to peace and quiet.

‘I don’t know what happened to Nur today,’ whined Waheeba, addressing Fatma and Halima. ‘Yesterday he was chatting with me and laughing, just like his old self. He was in his room reading, and I said to him, “My boy, you will hurt your eyes. Besides, there are no pictures in these books. What is grabbing your attention so much?”‘

Nabilah smiled at this admission of ignorance. Only an illiterate woman could harbour such a thought, only a stupid one would voice it.

‘So he started reading out loud,’ Waheeba continued. ‘I liked his voice, sweet and lifting, but I couldn’t understand a single word. He said “It’s English poetry, Yumma!”‘

Nabilah laughed. It was the wrong thing to do, for no one else had even smiled. Fatma and Halima looked sombre, while the neighbour was listening avidly, as if there were more to come.

Waheeba glared at Nabilah, and then turned to her audience.

‘Look at that Egyptian woman! She is coming here to laugh at my misfortune.’

‘Oh no, Hajjah,’ replied Nabilah, but still she did not sense
danger, still she felt safe. ‘Your misfortune is mine as well. We are all one family. I was just admiring Nur’s wit and intelligence. He is a fine, educated boy. His father is proud of him.’

‘Don’t fool me with your clever tongue. You! What can I say about you? The truth is out. You yourself have exposed yourself. Months, months after Nur’s return you are bringing his little brother and sister to visit him!’

Nabilah protested, ‘Their father, Mahmoud Bey—’

‘Don’t blame anyone else! You deliberately keep your children away from their relatives. They don’t know anyone. You, girl.’ She glared at Ferial. The girl shrank closer to her mother. ‘You, Ferial, do you know that girl who is playing here? She is the same age as you!’ Waheeba pointed at Zeinab, who twisted to look at them. Her arm hung on the headboard of Nur’s bed. ‘Speak up, Ferial, can’t you speak? Don’t you have a tongue to speak with?’

Nabilah whispered to her daughter, ‘You must answer Tante Waheeba.’

Children must be polite. When addressed by adults they must respond.

Ferial and Zeinab stared at each other. Two six-year-olds assessing each other. The distance that separated them was defined by cultures, constructed by adults.

‘I don’t know what her name is,’ said Ferial. Her Egyptian accent was pronounced, foreign in this setting.

Waheeba mimicked Ferial’s accent, ‘I don’t know her name.’

Mocking laughter from the neighbour, and even Fatma and Halima smiled. Nabilah held her daughter’s hand. Zeinab’s face lit up and she moved closer to Ferial. Waheeba continued, ‘Her name is Zeinab and she is very closely related to you, but maybe you don’t even know who her father is? If Nur is bedridden for months before you come and see him, then maybe you don’t even know your older brother, Nassir?’

There was so much hostility in her voice that Nabilah
intervened, ‘Hajjah Waheeba, the girls go to different schools, that’s why they don’t see each other.’

‘Oh no!
You
are the one to blame. You are the one keeping them apart, as if your children are better than ours.’

The accusation startled Nabilah, not because it was true, but because such fierce pride was unexpected.

Waheeba looked more aggressive now, leaning forward, her hands on her knees.

‘You yourself, how have you behaved? What have you done for Nur?’

‘I did as my husband commanded,’ said Nabilah, provocatively. ‘I went with him and Nur to London—’

The word ‘London’ infuriated Waheeba even more.

‘God curse London and London’s useless doctors! Did they help us in any way? Sucking our money, the thieves! What was the use of that journey? Did you want to have a vacation? Did you want to see the sights? I heard all about it. You were out and about. You spent the nights in my husband’s arms in a fancy hotel, not at the hospital.’

Nabilah was taken aback.

‘Every day I visited the hospital, every single day.’

‘Only for a few hours. Sitting in a chair like a guest. Did you lift a finger to nurse my son?’

‘For a fortnight on the ship, I nursed Nur. Day and night I did the best for him that I could. When we returned here, I was the one who found him the nurse he now has. I asked around and Ustaz Badr said his cousin, Shukry, had nursing experience. And
I
was the one who asked Ustaz Badr to come and see Nur on a regular basis. I explained to him that Mahmoud Bey didn’t expect Nur to sit formal examinations, but that literature was something he had always been keen on, and he could do with some mental stimulation. Hasn’t Ustaz Badr been coming regularly?’

Waheeba didn’t reply but Fatma nodded.

‘He comes after he goes to your place to give Farouk and
Ferial their lessons. I’ve also spoken to him about giving Zeinab lessons.’