Minaret: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  Back in the kitchen, she announces, `It's time for my coffee,' in such a way that I move to make it for her, but she is already pressing the button on the kettle and scooping Nescafe into a mug.

  `Now it's time for Mai's nap. I give her juice and take her to the bedroom and she sleeps for about an hour and a half, sometimes two. While she's asleep, you should do the cooking. Later in the afternoon she gets a hit troublesome and you won't have time. Also in the afternoon, if the weather is good, you must take her out to the park. She enjoys playing on the swings and seeing other children. What can you cook? Tamer loves macaroni.' She says her son's name with fondness.

  In the afternoon, the three of us go to the park - Doctora Zeinab grand in a dark coat and bright lipstick, her hair the perfect autumn colour; Mai bundled up in her pushchair. I had thought park meant Regent's Park and that we would cross the big roundabout with the statue of St George slaying the dragon, pass the mosque, and turn left into Regent's Park. But by park Doctora Zeinab means the small park across the road. It also has a children's playground, but is quiet, more relaxed. We walk under the same trees that are visible through the sitting-room window. It is slightly windy but not too cold. The early morning sun has given way to greyness, but still the autumn leaves on the ground are dry and crunchy.

  I have been trying to draw close to Mai and win her trust. It is difficult because of the presence of her grandmother. They are attached and Mai does not even let me push her pushchair. So Doctora Zeinab pushes and I walk along feeling sheepish and anxious that come evening time, the verdict to Lamya will be, she wasn't any good with Mai'.

  Are your family here or in Sudan, Najwa?'

  'I have a brother here.' I try to sound open, natural. Yesterday I received a visiting order from Omar. He is allowed to write letters but he rarely writes to me.

  Do you have children?'

  No, I'm not married.'

  Were you living in Khartoum?'

  `Yes, in Khartoum.'

  `Lamya was horn in Khartoum,' she says. Her father is Sudanese.'

  `Really?' My heart starts to pound as it always does when there is the threat that someone will know who I am, who I was, what I've become. How many times have I lied and said I am Eritrean or Somali?

  `My children are Sudanese in name only,' she goes on. They don't remember the Sudan. We spent years in Oman - my son, Tamer, was horn there, and now we're in Cairo.'

  'Do you go hack to the Sudan for holidays?'

  `My husband doesn't have any brothers or sisters, maybe that's why we don't go back often.'

  Her words reassure me. Their ties to Sudan are obviously fragile. Even if I were to reveal my last name, they might not know it. They might not remember my father. At any rate, Doctora Zeinab is much younger than my father's generation. She must he no more than ten years older than me - even though I feel she is older. If I feel young it is because I have done so little. What happened stunted me.

  Who were you working with before us?' She stops walking and silently gives me the pushchair to push. I am grateful to end the embarrassment of walking next to her, swinging my arms while she pushes. However Mai is sensitive, she looks back, sees me and starts to holler. Doctora Zeinab takes hold of the handle of the pushchair again.

  `I worked with a Lebanese lady who lived near Swiss Cottage tube station. She had two children. She was a second wife to a Saudi businessman who lived with his first family in Riyadh. He came for visits and it was then that she needed me most. They entertained regularly or they went out in the evening and she left the children with me. Her husband eventually got her a Sri Lankan maid from Saudi Arabia.'

  An elderly couple smile and stop to admire Mai. I look beyond the park and see, between the trees, the Humana Wellington Hospital. I have never seen it before from this angle. It looks unfamiliar, yet I had stayed there with Mama for weeks. I remember the colour of the carpet, the telephone in my hand, the way the television was high up on the wall. If I tell Doctora Zeinab that my mother died in such an expensive hospital would she believe these words coming from her granddaughter's new nanny?

  Near the children's playground, Mai sees the swings and starts to get excited. She points and babbles and wants to be taken out of her chair. I undo her seatbelt.

  `Shall I take you to the swing Mai, shall l?' I sound desperate as I crouch near her chair trying to meet her eyes.

  `Mai, I will go for a walk,' the Doctora says, `and Najwa will take you to the swing. OK?'

  The plan succeeds. The pushchair is parked near a bench, Doctora Zeinab strides off and Mai allows me to put her on the swing and push her. We are soon having a fun time.

  Rain drives the three of us hack home. The flat is cosy and, with the curtains drawn, the light in the sitting room is mellow. I read Mai a story while I)octora Zeinah goes to her room to finish her packing. But Mai's concentration is limited and she wants to run out of the room to her grandmother. It becomes a hattle between us with me doing my utmost to keep her in the room and she wanting to leave. I try the television, a make-believe game with her teddy bear and her Rugrat doll, a snack, but all these things succeed for only a few minutes. She is very irritable.

  The sound of the key turning in the lock is a relief. Lamya is home, a little breathless, her jacket splashed with rain but her eyes merry. She kisses and hugs her daughter, saddles her on her left hip and walks around with her. Mal is beaming now and Lamya is livelier than she was in the morning. She asks me lots of questions, inspects the dinner I cooked, lifting up saucepan lids. She seems impressed, her heavy features alive. Is this how a young affluent woman feels, fulfilled in her work, coming home to a young child? I owe myself an absence of envy; I owe myself a heart free of grudges.

  Ten

  t being a Monday, I have my Qur'an Tajweed class at the mosque. So, instead of going home, I go to the halal restaurant on the other side of the road from the mosque and eat my dinner there. Their dal tastes good and the pitta bread is warm. Always new places and new people make me tired. It is a good job, I tell myself. Once I get into the swing of things, it will not be too much work. They seem to be nice people. Tomorrow Doctora Zeinab will leave and I will have more control over Mai. I will be alone and that will he less stressful. I eat quickly so that I can get to the mosque and lie down a hit before the lesson starts. I need to stretch out.

  The ladies' area is empty when I arrive. It doesn't surprise me. Soon the others will come for the class, and later more sisters will come accompanying their husbands for the Isha prayer. I put on the lights and pray two rakas' greeting to the mosque. Then I roll my coat like a pillow and stretch out. My legs burn slightly; my hack aches but not too badly. I roll my ankles, stretch my toes and flex them. Alhamdullilah, it's a good job, I tell myself and people take ages to complete their PhD. It is a job that can last me a number of years, insha' Allah.

  I close my eyes. I can smell the smells of the mosque, tired incense, carpet and coats. I doze and in nay dream I am small and hack in Khartoum, ill and fretful, wanting clean, crisp sheets, a quiet room to rest in, wanting my parents' room, wanting to get up and go to nay parents' room. Men's voices come from downstairs, a low rumble, a cough. I wake up and the cough reminds me of my father, the dream of my parents' room. I don't want to he vulnerable today. Fatigue does this to me. I sit up and feel utterly relieved to see Shahinaz come in, carrying her baby, surrounded by her three children.

  I stand up to hug her, bend down and kiss her children, help them take off their coats. The eldest girl sits away from us with a Game Boy. The two boys run off, the whole mosque is their playground.

  `Are we the only ones?' asks Shahinaz. Her eyes are bright black, round. She hands me her baby, takes off her coat, and underneath it she is wearing green.

  `You're starting to get your figure hack.' Her face is still puffy from pregnancy, her stomach still bulging, but every week she is slimmer, more and more like her old self.

  She pulls the material of her dress against her stomach. `Not
yet,' she says, `it's taking longer this time.' She sits cross-legged next to me, our backs against the wall.

  `Shall I take off Ahmed's coat, it's warm here?'

  She nods and I begin to unzip the baby's jumpsuit.

  `I should have got his chair,' she says.

  `Don't worry, I'll hold him for you.' I put him sideways on my knees. He is so sweet, fast asleep with a finger against his cheek, as if he is serious and thoughtful. I push his hood away from his head. His hair has recently been shaved, but it is growing thick again, straight and black. I run my finger over it.

  `Ya habibi ya Ahmed,' I say to him. I feel that I know him. I've known him since Shahinaz was pregnant, I saw him at the hospital the day he was born. Every week I see the changes in him.

  `Ya habibi,' says Shahinaz rummaging in her bag, `you Arabs always say that.'

  `Wait till Um Waleed comes,' I say, `she says it more than me.' Um Waleed is our Syrian teacher. Everyone is `ya habibi' or `ya habibti' to her. Even the Prophet, peace be upon him, is, `ya habibi ya Rasoul Allah', said in such a heartfelt way.

  `I smell of oil, don't I?' Shahinaz sniffs at her sleeve. `I was frying and there wasn't time to change.'

  `No, you don't, you're imagining it.' I am mesmerized by her baby. I hold his hand and his fist curls around my finger. He is so deeply asleep. `His hair is growing.'

  `I know. We didn't really give him a close shave. A zero with the hair clippers.'

  Un1 Waleed bustles in now with her twins. She always looks alarmed, I don't know why. I've stopped expecting her to impart any dramatic news, as her excitement seems to come from within her or from perhaps a turbulent domestic life I know nothing about. Her twin daughters are neat, pretty-looking girls, their brown hair fashionably cut. They copy their mother and automatically hold out their cheeks for me to kiss. I am taken aback at how businesslike they are.

  `Two of you only for the class - where are the others? What am I going to do? What happened to them?' Um Waleed glares at the two of us as if the absence of the others is somehow our fault.

  Shahinaz rolls her eyes.

  I shrug my shoulders. `It's still early.'

  `No, it isn't early. This is the time. And I'm in a hurry thinking I'm late.' She starts to take her notes and hooks out.

  Suddenly five young ladies stroll in.

  'Masha' Allah,' beams Um Waleed, transformed. 'I thought you'd never come'.

  The next few minutes are taken up with more kisses and laughs, squeals of admiration for Shahinaz's baby. He is taken from my arms and passed around. One of the young girls, who is still holding her car keys, says sonle- thing about 'pass the parcel' and laughs. Another conl- ments on the new way Unl Waleed has tied her headscarf. Always the teacher, she unties and starts to demonstrate. 'The usual square folded into a triangle but when you put it over your head leave one end longer than the other. See. You pin it under your chin. Then you take the longer side - hold it like this under the pin, lift it sideways over the pin and tuck it under your ear.'

  'It's that simple?'

  'It's how the Hizhullah women tie their scarves,' says Um Waleed. 'I see them on the satellite.'

  'Cool,' says the girl next to tile. She has rosy cheeks, drearily eyes. I like the way she wears her hijah, confident that she has the kind of allure worth covering. Usually the young Muslims girls who have been horn and brought up in Britain puzzle me though I admire them. I always find myself trying to understand them. They strike me as being very British, very much at home in London. Some of them wear hijah, some don't. They have individuality and an outspokenness I didn't have when I was their age, but they lack the preciousness and glamour we girls in Khartoum had.

  I leave the gathering and go downstairs to the bathroom because I need to renew my wudu. Sitting on the row of stools that face the taps, there are a few women whom I never met before. They look Malaysian but one looks like she is Sudanese. She reminds me of a girl I once knew in Khartoum University. A girl who was not my close friend, but only a mild acquaintance, someone I said hello to as we passed each other to and from lectures. She was cute, with dimples. I don't know if I ever told my father how much I loved the university he chose for me. I don't think I spoke to him much. I know he didn't think a lot about me, not because he didn't love me but because I was a girl and Mama's responsibility. He had detailed, specific plans for Omar's future, while I was going to get married to someone who would determine how the rest of my life flowed. I am glad Baba didn't live to see what happened to Omar. Or even to me.

  There's the sound of rushing water and I realize that I am alone in the wudu area. I am staring at my wet feet, facing a gushing tap. I close the tap and, not finding any paper towels to dry myself, walk upstairs, leaving damp footsteps on the carpet. The lesson has already started; everyone is sitting in a large circle. Um Waleed in sitting on her knees, which makes her a little hit higher than the others; her voice is clear and loud. She is someone else now, someone I love, my teacher, specific in everything she says, sharp and to the point. The Qur'an is open on her lap; she pulls her scarf over her forehead, and pushes back strands of hair that have escaped. She is in her element and she doesn't look alarmed any more.

  I take a copy of the Qur'an from the shelf and Shahinaz shuffles sideways and makes room for me. She is breastfeeding Ahmed and, with a free hand, helps me find the correct page, points to the verse Um Waleed is now discussing. The Tajweed class is my favourite. I learn how to pronounce the letters correctly, when to blur two letters together, when to pronounce the n in a nasal way, for how many heats to prolong a certain letter. This concentration on technique soothes me; it makes nee forget everything around me. Um Waleed is a qualified teacher, with a degree in Sharia Law. Many of the sisters say that her other classes on Law and History are more interesting - they generate a lot of discussion and the sisters, especially the young British-horn ones and the converts, like to discuss and give their opinions. But I become fragmented and deflated in discussions; I never know which point of view I support. I find myself agreeing with whoever is speaking or with the one I like best. And I become anxious that someone's feelings will get hurt, or worse take serious offence, as sometimes happens, and stop coming to the mosque. Here in the Tajweed class, all is calm and peaceful. We practise and practise until we can get the words right. I want to read the Qur'an in a beautiful way.

  After the class, I have a new energy. Shahinaz's baby is awake and I hold him, my hand supporting his head. I talk to him, nod and smile. He rewards me with a lopsided twitching of his lips; he is only six weeks old, too young to smile.

  Shahinaz carries him when we all pray Isha. She puts him down on the floor whenever she bends down and then picks him up again. I stand next to her and I realize in the middle of the prayer that I don't know who is next to me on the other side, whose arm is brushing my right arm, whose clothes are brushing my clothes. I pull my mind hack and concentrate.

  Outside the mosque, the night air is cold and crisp. Shahinaz offers me a lift. `It's late for you to he going home on your own.'

  I shake my head. I think of their car. Shahinaz and her husband in front, Ahmed in his baby seat at the hack plus the other three children - it will he a crush.

  `I'm not on your way.'

  She protests but the children demand her attention. I leave her and walk to the bus stop. Cars swish fast on the relatively empty roads, taxis brake at the traffic lights with that peculiar whistling sound that London taxis make. The first bus I take is the old-fashioned kind with the permanent open door and a conductor. He is glum but I feel safer in his presence and in the knowledge that I can hop out at the traffic lights if I need to. The second bus has no conductor. I show my bus pass to the driver and the doors swing shut behind me. I stifle the feeling of being trapped. At the next bus stop, three young men stagger in. I know just by glancing at them that they are not reliable, they are not harmless. I start to recite Say: I seek refuge in the Lord of Daybreak. I recite it again and again.

&
nbsp; As they walk past to the back of the bus, one of them looks at me and says something to the others. I look away out of the window. I tell myself that Allah will protect me so that even if they hurt me, I won't feel it too badly; it will be a blunted blow, a numbed blow.

  Laughter from behind me. Something hits the edge of the seat next to me and bounces down the aisle; I don't know what it is. He has missed his target this time. Will they move closer, and what if they run out of things to throw? I look up at the bus driver's face in the mirror. His eyes flicker and he looks away. I stare out of the window but I see my reflection staring hack at me. It is best to look down at Iny shoes. The smooth night traffic means that the bus moves fast. It shouldn't be long now, a couple more stops. I hear footsteps come up behind me, see a blur of denim. He says, You Muslim scum', then the shock of cool liquid on my head and face. I gasp and taste it, Tizer. He goes hack to his friends - they are laughing. My chest hurts and I wipe my eyes.

  The bus stops and the doors swing open. A couple walk down the stairs and towards the exit. I make a quick decision and follow them out of the bus. The wind hits against my wet scarf, it makes my scalp feel cold. I use the dry edge of the scarf to wipe my face. I breathe in and out to make the anger go away, to let it out through my nose. My cheeks are sticky. I hire my lips and they taste sweet. It Could have been beer but I've been lucky. I blink and that's uncomfortable because my eyelashes are twisted and stuck together. I didn't know that eyelashes Could ache. I walk the rest of the way home thinking about my eyelashes and that I will have to wash my hair. I don't like washing it at night. My hairdryer doesn't work anymore and I don't sleep well with wet hair. It irritates me, damp and sprawling over the pillow.

  Eleven

  y second day of work and I almost arrive late. I reach the door of the flat to find Lamya already on her way out. Doctora Zeinab is at the door too, wrapped in a dressing gown, bright blue under the light of the hall. Lamya lifts her hair out of her jacket, bends to pick up her umbrella. I stand outside the doorway, waiting for her to leave so that I could enter. She has those same sleepy eyes and slow movements I remember from yesterday morning. Her eyes flicker over me, without expression. It must be that she is an evening person, not at her best in the morning. She kisses and hugs her mother, rubs her back in a friendly way. I remember that Doctora Zeinab is leaving this afternoon for Cairo.