Minaret: A Novel (22 page)

`Did you know,' he says, that when I first came in I was put in the hospital wing? They do that to everyone who is sentenced for more than four years. They want to make sure we don't try and kill ourselves.'

`How horrible.'

`What's horrible? That we would want to commit suicide or that they would stop us?'

`It's all horrible.'

His voice is soft. `You shouldn't visit me, Najwa. It upsets you. All these years you've been coming.'

`Don't be silly. I have to ...'

`You feel it's some kind of duty, don't you?' When he speaks like this, he is not Sudanese any more. He has forgotten the fusion of duty, love and need. It is impossible for me not to visit him. As long as he is in prison, I am punished too.

I say, `I phoned Uncle Saleh to say Eid Mubarak. He sends you his regards and asked why you've stopped writing.'

Omar shrugs. `It's not easy to write. I haven't seen him for years.' He takes off his glasses and cleans them with the edge of his shirt.

`Well, I asked him if he was going to come here or go to Sudan. He said he doesn't like travelling any more, especially such long distances. It tires him.'

Omar puts his glasses hack on. `How's your work?'

I tell him about Tamer's seclusion at the mosque. It amuses him. He laughs and calls Tamer a fanatic. I feel disloyal but I am pleased that he is laughing, listening to me. But I can't sustain his interest for long. We withdraw, I to my thoughts of Tamer, and Omar to I don't know what. I don't know what goes on in his mind.

`I'll be coming out soon,' he says, shifting in his seat. `Within a year, maybe after six months.'

He could have been out seven years ago. But he was discovered with drugs just before he was due for parole and lost his chance. Now I force myself to sound positive, to sound like I believe in him. `That's wonderful! What will you do?'

`Go to Burger King.' He laughs a little and looks away from me.

`I mean what will you do about work. Will you look for a job, will you train?'

He folds his arms. `Yeah, I'll be assigned to a probation officer. They'll give me advice.' He wipes his forehead and I realize he is wary, maybe even afraid of coming out. Perhaps it will hurt, the way light hurts after being too long in the dark.

I blurt out, `If I had the money, you could go hack to Sudan. There you can start all fresh. No one there knows what you've done or where you've been the past fifteen years.

He shakes his head. `I would only go back there for a visit,' he says, `to prove that Baba was innocent. They never had any hard evidence against him and I can prove it.,

I remember how Omar and my father used to argue. Yet now Omar is his staunchest defender. `I want to clear his name,' he says.

And what do I want for my father? Every day I pray that Allah will forgive him; every day I ask mercy for his soul. But I am not motivated to clear his name. A sentence was passed and we have to live with the consequences.

I ask Omar, `What good will it do him to clear his name?'

`It will do us good. We might get back some of our inheritance that the government took - the house or the farm.'

`Maybe.' I imagine a long hitter fight and little gain.

Omar insists. `Just to prove that it was all lies against him, all motivated by malice and politics.'

`But for him, where he is now, it is better if we pray, if we give money to the poor. That's what matters when you're dead.'

`When you're dead, you're dead, Najwa, and nothing else matters.' He sits back in his chair and a world separates us in spite of genes and love.

`You're wrong; things are not what they appear. Why are you here?'

`What are you talking about? You know why I'm here.' He's annoyed now. I must not make him annoyed because he might stop sending me VOs and I will not see him again. But I feel different today and so I say, `You are here because you broke Mama's heart. A son shouldn't hurt his mother. She cursed you with bad luck and Allah listens to a mother's prayer.'

He looks down at the ground. `I didn't hurt her.'

`You pushed her. She was ill and you pushed her.'

`I didn't mean to. She wouldn't give me her purse. It was my money. She made me so angry!'

When Tamer asks me, `Why is your brother in prison?' I say, `Because he stabbed someone and almost got them killed.'

We are walking home from the zoo. The caged foreign animals weighed me down and only Tamer's company and Mai's joy made the outing pleasant.

I say, `It was one of the policemen who was arresting him. They were arresting him for selling drugs.'

`How, how did he do it?' He is excited by this violence; there is a ring in his voice. He is especially handsome today, the cold brightening his skin. It hurts to look at him.

`With a knife.'

`A penknife?'

`A Stanley knife.'

He breathes out as if to say `Wow', but reason takes over and he sobers down. `That's terrible.'

`Omar didn't know the man was police. He wasn't dressed like a policeman.'

`Plain-clothed,' he says, `that's what they call them.'

`Yes, there were two of them. They followed him to arrest him and he fought them.' Years of secrecy and now I am spilling all this out to a kid. I realize that I have never been able to visualize the violence I am describing. I am saying words without pictures coming to my head. It's denial. Denial of the harm my own flesh and blood can do. We leave the road and go down to the path along the canal. It is easier to talk away from the traffic, more gentle. Mai turns to gaze at the water.

Can I come with you next time you visit him in prison?'

I laugh. `Why would you want to do that?'

He shrugs. To see what it's like.'

I explain why he can't. He is clean and should not he fascinated by sin. I explain about visiting orders and his eyes don't leave my face. `I feel sorry for you,' he says. I need this from him. It feels right, nourishing. Then he asks me if Omar has ever tried to escape, like prisoners do in films. He flickers between soulful depth and immaturity. This flickering is attractive; it absorbs my attention.

ow come you're not married?' He is self-conscious now, avoiding my eyes like he knows he's stepping into new territory.

`I don't know.'

He raises his eyebrows.

'OK I'll try again. Fate.'

`That doesn't tell me anything.'

I shrug. `When I was your age, I imagined I would get married, have children, the usual things. I didn't imagine anything different. I had friends who wanted to be doctors, diplomats but I never had these ambitions.'

He looks at me and says nothing. Mai turns around from the television and asks for crisps. I get her a packet from the kitchen and when I sit down it is an opportunity to change the subject. `While you were out, Hisham, Lamya's husband, phoned.'

`He's probably confused about the time difference.'

`I asked him if he wanted to speak to Mai but he said no need.'

Tamer makes a face. `Typical.'

Hisham's voice had not inspired sympathy. I didn't think, `Poor man, abandoned by his wife while she does her PhD.' He seemed well in control, hardy.

`He's not at all like you.'

Of course not.' The words come out of him stiff. `I told Lamya not to marry him because he drinks. But she doesn't mind. And neither my mum nor my dad listened to me. They thought I was just a kid.'

I imagine him young, twelve or thirteen, voicing an opinion that seemed to his listeners irrelevant. He is not happy today; he is not himself. I ask him why.

He says, At dawn I didn't get up to pray. I just couldn't. When the alarm went, I put it off and went back to sleep. Now I feel the whole day's gone out of balance.'

`Well, you did set the alarm last night. You can't blame yourself for not trying.'

`I know. It's just that I feel I've missed out.' He pauses and says, `If I were married, my wife would have made sure I got up to pray.'

I smile. It depends on what type of girl you marry.'

`Oh, I would only marry someone who was devout. And she would have to wear hijab.' There is an upbeat youthfulness in his confidence.

I change the subject. `How are your studies?' It is the wrong thing to ask because he becomes gloomy again.

`I don't care any more. Maybe the world will end and it won't matter what I study.'

`Maybe it won't.'

`Maybe,' he says without interest. He stretches out on the sofa. It crosses my mind that Lamya would disapprove of this. She would say that the sofa is for guests to sit on. He stares straight up at the ceiling; his face is tired, a little drawn. He lost weight in Ramadan and has not yet regained it. He is carrying a burden, studying a subject that does not interest him, insisting that strong faith would make it lighter. I overheard him yesterday pleading with his father on the phone to allow him to transfer his studies to another university, where he could study Islamic History instead of Business. Afterwards he locked himself up in his room. When I knocked, carrying coffee and cake, he said, `Leave me alone, I don't want anything.' He didn't want me to know that he was crying.

`I spoke to my dad yesterday,' he says as if he can read my mind. `He said it was still early days and.I will get used to the course soon and start to enjoy it.'

`Maybe he is right.' I wish the television didn't have to be on but it is the only way to keep Mai quiet.

`I don't think he was listening to me. He will never change his point of view.' He mimics his father's voice, the accent. `If you study Business you will get a good job. Studying Islamic History is for losers. Where will it get you?'

`You could teach.' I close my eyes and imagine him older, teaching.

`There isn't much money in that - that's what he says.'

`Maybe you can study both.'

`No.' He pauses and then says, `My mum is coming soon - just for a few days on her way to a conference in the States.'

`That's nice,' I say and I mean it. `It will be nice for you to see your mother.'

`It won't make a difference, she's on his side.'

`But they've already paid the fees. How can you just drop out? Then you'll have to pay fees in another university too. The sensible thing would he to finish your first year here and then transfer.'

`And suppose I fail this year?'

`Why should you fail?'

He is irritated. `Because it's difficult stuff we're taking.'

You should ask for help, talk to someone about this.'

'Tell my adviser I was In seclusion in the mosque and missed days of classes. Fat chance she'll he sympathetic!' He laughs. I see him being sarcastic for the first time. It doesn't suit him.

But she should know that you are having difficulties.'

'I can't talk to anyone. I can only talk to you.' There is resentment in his voice as if talking to me happens against his will.

`I am not in a position to advise you. What do I know of universities or careers?'

He swings his legs and sits up. 'It annoys me when you put yourself down like this. You're better than a lot of people; you've just had bad luck. I bet so many men wanted to marry you!' It is like there is a jolt in the room, the sting of that last sentence. He persists. 'I'm right aren't I?'

I stare at him and he repeats, 'Aren't 1?'

To think that Anwar is still here, a couple of underground stations away, still waiting for the Khartoum government to fall. He married his cousin after all; he brought her over when his career took off.

There was someone, yes.' HIV Voice sounds thick. He was an atheist so I didn't marry him.' I look down at the carpet so as not to see Tamer's reaction. I don't know why I put It like that - It's true but not a hundred per Cent true. There are many other ways I could have put it. Anwar didn't want my genes; he didn't want my father's blood flowing in his children's veins.

Tamer's voice is harsh, and so is the way he looks at me. 'How could you:'

'I loved other things about him, not that he was an atheist.'

He winces at the word love, punishes me for it. `Well, that wasn't very clever of you, was it? Can't you spot an unbeliever the first time they open their mouths?'

I shrug and look down at the floor. `I regret the whole thing. I often wish I could go back in time and erase what I've done. But it doesn't matter whether I forgive myself or not. I only want Allah to forgive me.'

`I'm sorry,' he says.

`It's OK.'

`No, I upset you. I'm sorry. I mean it.' His large eyes are all worried and looking at me. He says, `You're not upset are you?' as if he's coaxing me.

No, I am not upset, not upset at all because I see a gleam of jealousy in his eyes, sense possessiveness.

pass by the closed door of Lamva's bedroom and hear her say, He can't now - three months into the semester - say it's not working.' 1 strain to hear Doctora Zeinab's reply but I can only make out the tone, soothing, diplomatic. Then Lamya again. He promised he would come for visits - he never did. He even phones at the wrong times.' They are not talking about Tamer. I lose interest and continue on my way to the kitchen, Lamva's voice in my ear. 'Hisham agreed that I would come here to do my PhD, he can't grumble about it now ...' I miss Tamer. He was out before I arrived. Perhaps his mother's arrival yesterday urged him to he more serious about his studies.