What's wrong?' he said. `What's wrong, Mama?'
His voice was calm and normal. I looked out at the dark empty street, at Baba's abandoned car, at the watchman trying to close the gate and realizing that he couldn't. He couldn't move the car because he didn't know how to drive. It would have to wait for morning, for Musa to come.
`What's wrong, Mama?' Oniar's voice was patient. They both sat on his bed.
`There's been a coup,' she said.
Eight
ur first weeks in London were OK. We didn't even notice that we were falling. Once we got over the shock of suddenly having to fly out the day after Baba was arrested, Omar and I could not help but enjoy London. We had never been there before in April and the first thing we did was go to Oxford Street and buy clothes. It was fun to do all the things we never did back home; grocery shopping, pushing the Hoover around, cooking frozen food. It was fun to do all the things we usually did in the summer. Omar went to the cinema in Leicester Square and I don't know how many tapes he bought from HMV. I went through Selfridges trying the perfumes and getting my face made up at the Elizabeth Arden counter.
But Mama was not herself at all; she was in a daze, sometimes crying for no reason, muttering to herself in the middle of the night, immune to the excitement of London. She refused to go out shopping and constantly followed the news of the coup; surrounding herself with all the Arab papers as well as The Times and the Guardian, phoning round and leaving the TV on all the time. Our flat in Lancaster Gate was constantly filled with other Sudanese: businessmen passing through London, anxious Embassy staff who were awaiting the inevitable changes that would come about with the new government. They all reassured Mama about Baba. `They'll soon let him go and he'll join you here,' they said. `It will all die down,' they said, be patient, they'll flex their muscles at the beginning and then they'll slacken.' She listened to them quietly and I helped her serve coffee and tea. Her face was harsh without makeup, her hair out of the way in a bun because she no longer went to the hairdresser; the jumpers she wore under her tobe were in sombre colours.
Randa called me from her college in Wales. `I can't believe it, you're really here!' she shrieked.
'I can't believe it either - I was just saving bye to you a while back ...'
What are you going to do now?'
'We're waiting for Baba to join us - we're worried about him.' I swallowed and there was a burning in my forehead.
`And then what, how long will you stay here, what about your university?'
'I don't know Randa. I brought all my notes and books with me ...'
But this new government seems like it's here to stay, the coup was a success. I suppose you'll just stay here on political asylum . . .'
They might allow us to go hack. I don't know.' I had not thought things out.
You can come here you know.'
'Here where?'
Here in Atlantic College with me.'
The idea for some reason horrified me. 'Omar would love that - but Randa tell me about VOL]. Tell me what's it like for you. Do you like it in Wales? Is the work hard? Have you done the mountain climbing?'
`I'll tell you all about it in a letter. I can't stay on the phone for long.'
'OK. Give the letter to Samir, he's coming down to see us at the weekend.'
`Yeah, OK I will. I do bump into him frequently.'
`Randa I forgot to tell you - Sundari's pregnant ...'
`Whaaat!' she hissed.
`It's a big scandal; even the American Embassy is involved. This is not why marines are posted to Sudan.' I tried to laugh at my own joke but the sound that came out was more like a lumpy cough.
Samir came at the weekend, wearing faded jeans and a leather jacket. He had on a new pair of glasses. He hugged Omar hard and I felt again that burning in my forehead that had started to come to me from time to time. He kissed Mama and she started to cry, embarrassing us all.
`Any news?' Samir sat down in one of the armchairs, Omar in the other. I sat on the sofa with Mama. The TV was on, as we sometimes had it these days, pictures without sounds.
`They are going to try him,' Omar said. Mama dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her mouth stretched open.
`Insha' Allah it will all he OK.' Samir shifted in his armchair. He looked smothered by the deep, soft cushions.
But what if it didn't turn out to be OK, I wanted to say. What if they found him guilty, what if he was guilty, what then? As if I understood what they were trying him for ... Corruption. What did that mean? How could that word have anything to do with my father? We shouldn't have left him, we should have stayed with him. What were we doing here? It was Uncle Saleh who decided that we should come here. He had sorted everything out, all in a few hours, getting us on the last plane out before they closed the airport. But maybe he was wrong, maybe we should have stayed, maybe us running away would make Baha be found guilty. Weren't we acting as if he were guilty? But I didn't say anything; I stared at ITV - ads for chocolate biscuits, coffee, a new drama serial. Whenever I watched television, I forgot all about Baha, the had food he must he getting in that `special' house he was held in, the coming trial. The President was now in the US. He had called last night and spoken to Mama. `It's all his fault,' she said afterwards, `it's all his fault.' But on the phone she had been all nice, respectful in the same way she had always been with His Excellency.
`Samir, will you drink tea or something cold?' I smiled at him, happy to see a familiar face.
He said, `I've got a letter for you from Randa.' I took it from him and went to read it in the kitchen.
`Where's that tea?' Mama called out. I stopped in the middle of a description of Randa milking a cow (how absurd that that was part of her course!) and switched the kettle on.
Pizza Hut was warm and they played all the latest songs, songs we were just getting to know. The three of us shared a large seafood pizza and Samir ordered something I had never had before - garlic bread with cheese. It was very nice. Outside in the cold, Leicester Square was full of lights and so lively that I forgot it was night. People were coming out of the theatres heading towards the restaurants and the tube station, bouncers stood in front of nightclubs wearing check waistcoats. In one of the smaller cinemas Saturday Night Fever was still playing. We stood in front of a disco. We could hear the heat of Michael Jackson's `Billie jean' and the glimmer of red and flashing lights.
`Are you mad? How can we go to a disco?' I glared at Omar.
`Why not?' He did his imitation of a moonwalk. It was good but I was not in the mood to praise him.
`Tell him why not.' I looked at Samir but he shrugged and moved away from us. He seemed guarded, stiff with a new formality.
`We can't go to a disco because of Baba,' I said to Omar. `What do you want people to say? The man's on trial for his life and his children are dancing in London.'
`What people? Who do you think is going to know us in there? Don't be silly.' He turned to Samir to get support but he was busy examining a shop window.
`There just might he someone in there who knows us. It might just happen. Why take the risk?'
`You're obsessed with what people think of you!'
`I'm not obsessed. I am just sure that if we were in Khartoum, we wouldn't be at a disco.'
`We are not in Khartoum. Look, just go home.'
`Right, I will go home.'
Omar turned and started to walk towards the disco. 'Sarnir, come on,' he called out.
`Look, I'll take you home first,' Samir said. He didn't want to take me home. It struck me that he was bored with us. As if something had happened to make us less than him. As if he was all grown up and we were still little.
`No,' I said, `stay with Omar. I'm OK by myself.'
Our flat was only a few stops away by underground. The floor of the train was littered with cigarette butts and empty cans. The passengers were sleepy and tense, I felt as if we were moving in stale, unfulfilled time. Baba was going to be found guilty. Why else would they
try him? That would he the justice the papers were crying out for. The new regime was supported by the Democratic Front. It was a populist regime, a regime of the people: no more old feudal ways, no more accumulation of wealth and power in the hands of an elite. Members of the Front were now offered places in the new government. My communist lecturer who had taught us about Rostow's take-off was now the Minister of Finance. I read all that in the papers, after Mama discarded them. I read an article about Baba's trial written by a student - because the students were the vanguards of the revolution. The article said that justice would be met and nothing was a fairer punishment for corruption than sequestration and the noose. The article was written by a student I knew well. The article was written by Anwar.
There are all kinds of pain, degrees of falling. In our first weeks in London we sensed the ground tremble beneath us. When Baba was found guilty we broke down, the flat filling with people, Manna crying, Omar banging the door, staying out all night. When Baba was hanged, the earth we were standing on split open and we tumbled down and that tumbling had no end, it seemed to have no end, as if we would fall and fall for eternity without ever landing. As if this was our punishment, a bottomless pit, the roar of each other's screams. We became unfamiliar to each other simply because we had not seen each other fall before.
Part Two
London, 2003
Nine
amya, my new employer, stands holding open the door of her flat. There is a light above her head and she is more relaxed than when I saw her at Regent's Park mosque. Her voice, when she returns my greeting, is thick as if she has just got up. She is wearing jeans and an attractive cardigan. Her face is not pretty but her figure, clothes and hair compensate. I keep my eyes and head lowered like I trained myself to do. This is not my first job; I know how deferential a maid should he. I take off my shoes and leave them near the door. I take off my coat, fold it and put it over my shoes - it wouldn't be polite to hang it over the family's coats on the coat-rack. I know I must he careful in everything I do; I mustn't slip. The first day is crucial, the first hours. I will he watched and tested but, once I win her trust, she will forget me, take me for granted. This is my aim, to become the background to her life. She closes the door behind me and I hear the television; the sound of a toddler and an older woman's voice.
I follow Lamva down the corridor towards the television sounds. The flat is modest, subdued - I had expected it to he more luxurious given the posh area and the fine building. Lamva pushes a door open, a thick wooden door. It is stiff and rubs against the wool of the carpet. The living room is spacious, with large windows overlooking the autumn trees of the park. Shadows of leaves flicker over the carpet and the light in the room is orange. It glows on the green upholstered furniture, on the mahogany dining table and sideboard. I try and stop my eyes from wandering too much. Surveying is disrespectful and likely to give the impression that I am the type who steals. I take in as much of the room as I can with lowered eyes. A little girl with soft curly hair is sitting on the floor surrounded by bricks and dolls, her eyes fixed on the television. A large middle-aged lady is sitting on one of the armchairs, eyeglasses sliding down her nose; she is reading the characteristic green pages of Asharq Al-Awsat. She looks up and studies me, her eyes bulging and serious above her glasses. The newspaper rests on her lap. Her hair is short and severely cut, but softened with the colours of henna.
`Salaamu alleikum,' I say
`Mama, this is Najwa,' Lamya says, and then to me, `Doctora Zeinab,' introducing her mother.
`Ahlan, Najwa,' the Doctora says lightly, `I'm leaving tomorrow for Cairo, insha' Allah, and the responsibility of all this house is going to be on you.'
I smile, slightly taken aback by her husky smoker's voice. I go towards my prime responsibility. I kneel and sit next to her on the floor.
`Mai,' I say, `Mai, how are you, what are you watching?' She doesn't respond.
Lamya's sleepy voice. `Mai, say hello to Najwa. She's here to play with you.'
The little girl looks at me once without interest and then back to the Teletubbies. She has her grandmother's eyes.
`Leave her,' the Doctora says, `she's concentrating on the television. It's a sign of intelligence when a child concentrates so well.' And as if to demonstrate concentration, she goes back to reading her paper.
`Come, let me show you the rest of the flat before I leave,' says Lamya.
Another room, a bedroom also overlooking the park. It is in ivory with two beds and a cot. This is my room and Mai's,' says Lamya. `My husband works in Oman and comes every six weeks or so for a holiday. He just left so it will he some time before he comes again.'
Were you living before in Oman?' I venture, curious but aware that I have no right to ask her questions. She intrigues me, as does her mother. The mother's accent is clearly Egyptian and she is going tomorrow to Cairo but Lamya's accent has traces of the Gulf and she is much darker than her mother.
`Yes, we were in Muscat ... Let me show you Mai's clothes.'
She shows me Mai's clothes and where the nappies are kept. `Change her on the bed,' she says. `I'm trying to toilet-train her but she still wears nappies. She just turned two, she really should be toilet-trained.' Her voice trails in a dreamy way as if she is thinking of other things. She must he clever, I think, to he doing a PhD.
`Here is the kitchen.' It is slightly dark, with a large rectangular table in the middle, cluttered with Mai's highchair.
`You have to put on this tape for Mai when she eats, otherwise she won't eat.' She gestures vaguely towards a tape recorder on the kitchen counter. `Unfortunately we don't have a dishwasher.' A pile of dishes stands up in the sink.
She shows me the washing machine, which is also a dryer. She shows me how a slim kitchen drawer opens out into a folding ironing board. Underneath is a cupboard full of clothes waiting to be ironed.
She shows me where the vacuum cleaner is kept, the brooms and mops. `This floor,' she trails her toes on the clay-red plastic tiles, `is so difficult to clean. Me and Mama are fed up with it.'
We walk down the hall. There is a washroom and a bathroom. The bathroom is all in brown tiles, `These brown tiles are troublesome,' she says. `We have to wipe every drop of water, otherwise the stains show.'
At the end of the corridor is a small dark room. We need the light to see. There are two beds, a dressing table and a small washbasin in the corner. `Mama's room and my brother Tamer's,' she says. `You won't see him much. He has lectures early in the morning and he comes home late.'
Something in her voice makes me guess that her brother is younger than her, rather than older. I wonder if he is the youth I met in the lobby.
`When Mama leaves tomorrow, Tamer will probably turn the dressing table into a desk. So far we've both been using the dining table in the evening. He's so untidy,' she says, her eyes falling on a T-shirt discarded on the floor. I smile, remembering a young Omar, the Omar of Khartoum, not the one he became in London.
When she leaves to go to her university, I spend a long time in the kitchen, washing the dishes, tidying up and then tackling the ironing. Doctora Zeinah and Mai remain in the sitting room until eleven o'clock.
`Oh, you've done a lot of ironing, very good,' she says when she sees the ironed clothes draped all over the kitchen chairs. `Go get hangers from the cupboards, so you can hang them up.' I go hack and forth between the bedrooms and the kitchen in some confusion, until all the clothes are in the correct cupboards. Tai's clothes are of course the easiest to sort out. I can tell which are Lamya's clothes and which are Doctora Zeinah's, but the men's shirts confuse me. It turns out that some belong to Lamya's husband and need to go to her room. Some belong to Tamer and need to go to his room. And a few shirts belong to the father who had not been in London for several months. Their ironing has certainly been piling up!
Doctora Zeinah shows me the airing cupboard where clothes, damp from the dryer, are hanging up. It is right outside her room, in front of the bathroom. She stands
with the cupboard wide open and starts to pull the clothes out while I sit on the floor folding them as fast as I can, sorting them into piles. They fall around me as she pulls them out one by one. Mai has trailed after her grandmother. She messes up the pile of clothes I have folded. I smile at her and move the clothes out of her way. Doctora Zeinab scolds her but I know better than to object to anything the little one does. I know from experience that employers don't like maids scolding their precious children, no matter what damage the child does. So I keep on smiling and folding. 'Look Mai, this is how you do it,' I say. I show her how to fold a T-shirt.
'Ta-ma, Ta-ma,' she says urgently, patting the shirt on the carpet.
'Yes, it's Tamer's shirt,' her grandmother says. 'You're a clever girl. And whose is this?'
'Ma-wa, Ma-wa,' she says reaching out for her own red jumper with a picture of a hear on the front.
'Now that pile, which needs ironing, goes to the cupboard in the kitchen. Take it there but you did enough ironing today, leave it for tomorrow.'
Minaret: A Novel Page 5