`How did we learn how to skate? I can't remember!' I laugh - children from hot Khartoum coming to London every summer - walking into an ice-skating rink in Queensway as if they had every right to be there. Money did that. Money gave us rights.
`I wanted to stay here the whole year,' he says, `I wanted to stay in London for ever.'
I am relieved that he is relaxed today and talkative. Sometimes he never unwinds, stays moody until the end of the visit. I say, `You used to get ill on the last day of the holiday when we were due to fly back to Khartoum.'
`Did I? I don't remember.' There is pleasure in his voice as if he admires his childhood love of London.
`You would get a stiff neck. You wouldn't he able to move your neck. Mama said it was psychological.'
He laughs a little and starts to tell me the prison library has improved and he spends more time reading books. He likes books about pop music and the biographies of film stars. I tell him he should read the Qur'an. It is the wrong thing to say. He shrugs and says, `These religious things - they're not for everyone.' He takes his glasses off to clean them on the edge of his shirt. One of the guards turns to look at him and then away.
I start to speak but he interrupts me. `Don't nag me, Najwa.' There are dark shadows under his eyes.
'I'm not nagging.'
`Every time you visit me you go on about the same thing.' He is right. For twelve years now I have been trying to tell him the same things in different ways. Ever since I started to pray and wear hijab, I have been hoping he would change like I've changed. He puts his glasses back on. The guard's eyes flicker over him again.
'Look,' I say, 'I know how you feel. We weren't brought up in a religious way, neither of us. We weren't even friends in Khartoum with people who were religious.'
`The servants,' he says, `I remember them praying. Musa, the driver, and the others - they would be praying in the garden.'
Our house was a house where only the servants prayed. Where a night-watchman would open the gate for our car arriving late after a night out, then sit reciting the Qur'an until it was time for the dawn prayer. I remember him sitting cross-legged in the garden, dark as a tree.
'If Baba and Mania had prayed,' I say, `if you and I had prayed, all of this wouldn't have happened to us. We would have stayed a normal family.'
'That's naive ...'
`Allah would have protected us, if we had wanted Him to, if we had asked Him to but we didn't. So we were punished.' I cannot talk fluently, convincingly. Always I come on too strong and fail.
'Don't he daft. You make it sound like Baba did something wrong. They lied about him. Where were the millions they claim he embezzled and took abroad? We came here and there was nothing.'
`You're right but that is all in the past now. It's you I'm worried about. I care.'
`I know,' he says but he sounds distant.
`Those people who put you in prison - they don't care about you. You think that if they forgive you they will let you out of here, but it's more important that Allah forgives you. Then He will do wonderful things for you and open doors for you. Doors you didn't even know existed.'
`This is way over my head Najwa, way over my head.' He shakes his head from side to side. `I don't have a clue what you're on about.' He puts on an accent now, continues to shake his head, pretends to look awed. `Doors I didn't know existed. This is deep, man, real deep.'
`You're hopeless.' I can't help but laugh. He wants me to laugh.
Then he looks straight at me. `Najwa, listen, you obviously feel happy being devout - that's your business. But I'm fine as I am.'
How can he he fine as he is? His youth wasted and he tells me he's fine.
Thirteen
like my new job. As the days pass, ,Mai warms to me. She takes my hand as we walk from her room to the bathroom, she smiles when she first sees me in the morning. The days follow a rhythm. Lamva's grumpiness in the morning, her barely whispered greetings, and how she comes hone in the evening radiant, refreshed. She must love her studies. I take pride in ironing her elegant clothes, in arranging the bottles of lotions on her dressing table. She has many necklaces, which she hangs on a special stand shaped like a tree with hare branches. I hold up a string of multi-coloured heads and admire them. I hold her pearl necklace in nay hand. I once had one too but Omar took it and sold it to buy drugs. Her silk scarves are for her neck not her hair - but sometimes I try them on as headscarves, look at my face in the mirror. There was a time when I looked good and it didn't matter whether I was ill or not or what time of the month it was. Now my looks are inconsistent as if they are about to slide away.
Every morning I face a mess in the kitchen. It has worsened since Uoctora Zeinab's departure and a considerable part of my day is spent cleaning up the kitchen from the misuse of the night before. It saddens me when they leave cooked food out all night. More often than not it spoils and I can't eat it. I have been eating their leftovers ever since Lamya said, `We don't eat food unless it's freshly cooked - you can have it.'
The light in the sitting room changes every day as the trees in the park become more hare. When Mai has her nap, I sit on the armchair where Doctora Zeinab used to sit and enjoy the light in the room or watch the Arabic channels on TV. I see the Ka'hah and pilgrims walking around it. I wish I were with them. I see teenage girls wearing hijab and I wish I had done that at their age, wish there was not much in my past to regret. The religious programmes make me feel solid as if they are telling me, `Don't worry. Allah is looking after you, He will never leave you, He knows you love Him, He knows you are trying and all of this, all of this will be meaningful and worth it in the end.' I learn from these programmes. Bits and pieces: everyone in Paradise will he thirty-three years old regardless of what age they were when they died. Eve was the most beautiful woman Allah created; the second most beautiful woman was Sarah, Abraham's wife. The Prophet Muhammad, peace he upon him, stopped in the street to chat to a mad woman. They spoke for a long time and everyone was surprised that he had time for someone as insignificant as her.
This kind of learning makes sense to me. That's why I go to talks and classes at the mosque. It surprises me that what I learn stays with me. At school I used to forget everything immediately after the exams. Once at an Eid party in the mosque there was an Islamic knowledge quiz - I got all the answers right and I won a box of Cadbury's Milk Tray.
There are books about Islam in Lamya's flat but I doubt that they belong to her. She does not strike me as religious and there is not even a prayer mat or tarha in her room. The hooks are in Tamer's room so they must he his. Books about Sufism, early Islamic history, the interpretation of the Qur'an. He reads them; they are not just there to fill shelves. I can tell that he reads them because he sometimes leaves them open on his mother's dressing table, which has now become his desk, or they are stacked on the table next to his bed.
His room disturbs me. It is dark; the only window looks out over the service stairs and brings sounds of cluttering on the metal steps, voices of workmen and the garbage collector going about his work. I have to put on the light in order to clean the room. He folds his prayer mat neatly on the chair but leaves the bed unmade. Empty cartons of juice and chocolate wrappers lie around the wastepaper basket as if he has thrown them and missed. I pick up his clothes off the bed; they smell of him and make me feel self-conscious. I wipe his desk. I stack his university books in one pile, his other books in another. I put his Amr Khalid tapes in order. I always leave cleaning his room last, after all the other chores. I read that piece of advice long ago in Slimming with regard to exercise. Save your favourite stretch for last so you can he motivated to start with the ones you don't like and get them over with. Sometimes, I take one of his books out of the room to read. While Mai naps, I read what he has been reading. The flat becomes quiet without the TV. Not all of the books are easy for me to read. I sift through them and if I understand them I keep reading, if I don't I put them away.
I hardly ever see him in
the mornings. He is out before I arrive. It is in the evenings that we usually meet. Sometimes he arrives just I am leaving. In the hallway he takes off his shoes while I put on mine. He is always polite, always smiles when he says, `Salaamu alleikum'. There is a modesty in him which his sister doesn't have. Sometimes I meet him on the stairs. He takes them two at a time and perhaps I walk too softly because he always seems taken aback to see me. I step to the right to let him pass, while at the same time he moves to his left. I then step to the left only to block him again and we both laugh. The silliness of it and the laugh stays with me until I reach the bus stop.
Sometimes we meet on the landing, our reflections in the mirror making it seem as if there are four of us. The mirror in the landing is compassionate: it makes me look young, makes me look better than I feel though I always feel uplifted when I see him. It is natural; a beautiful, devout youth with striking eyes.
One day the weather is exceptionally warm and Mai and I spend a long afternoon in Regent's Park. On the way home, in front of the mosque, we meet Tamer. He comes up to us, greets me and ruffles Mai's hair. For a few seconds, she does not recognize him. She has been dozing in her pushchair, tired out from playing in the sandpit and the slides. `It's me - Tamer,' he says bending down, sitting on his heels. He picks up her hand and kisses it. The three of us are blocking the pavement and around us people start to get irritated. I push Mai again and he falls in step with us.
`I wanted to take Mai to the zoo on Sunday,' he says, `hut it was raining.' His voice is a little loud and, as we walk towards St John's Wood, I sense the slight unease he inspires in the people around us. I turn and look at him through their eyes. Tall, young, Arab-looking, dark eyes and the heard, just like a terrorist.
He disarms me by suddenly saying, Your cooking is very nice. Thank you for cooking for us.' His sister has never thanked me. But she pays me well and on time, which is more important than words of thanks.
Instead of acknowledging his compliment I say, At night please put any leftovers in the fridge. Because the kitchen is warm, the food sometimes goes had and that's a waste.'
He looks ashamed. He ducks his head and says, 'Yes, it's a sin to waste food.'
Perhaps I have spoken too harshly. To make amends I start to speak to him as I Imagine all allllty would speak: 'How are you getting on at university?'
'I don't really know many people.'
'Well, you're still new. In no time you'll make friends.' We stop at the zebra crossing.
'I've joined the Muslim Society. They organize Friday prayer at the college so we don't have to go far and skip lectures.'
That's nice. And the course itself - how are you getting on with your studies?' I don't usually talk like that to my employers. I would never talk like that to Lanlya.
'I don't particularly like what I'm studying,' he replies. 'It's illy dad - he wants me to study Business.'
A silver Peugeot and a taxi come to a stop. We cross.
'What would you have liked to study?'
wanted to study Islamic History.'
`That's nice that you have this interest'. We start to walk down St John's Wood High Street.
'That's what illy moll and dad say - it's all interest, a hobby. They say I have to he practical and study something that would get me a proper job.'
any sure Allah will reward you for trying to please your parents.'
`Insha' Allah,' he says and smiles as if I had paid him a compliment.
My hands don't tremble when I make his bed, when I smooth his pillow, when I empty the pockets of his jeans before I put them in the washing machine. In his pockets I find receipts from the university cafeteria, a piece of gum, coins, a leaflet about a rally in Trafalgar Square for Palestine. I tidy his desk, pick up pencil shavings, wipe a smudge of ink. I unfold a piece of paper. It is his timetable with the room numbers of his lectures. Perhaps he has forgotten to take it or now knows where to go. On the corner he has written, `Studying sucks'. I smile as if I can hear him breathing the words. I leaf through the books he studies from: Economics, Accounting, Business Management. Once a long time ago in Khartoum University, I struggled with these subjects. I was in university to kill time until I got married and had children. I thought that was why all the girls were there too but they surprised me by caring about their education, forging ahead with jobs and careers. I surprised myself by never getting married.
Fourteen
t is rare to have Shahinaz in my living room. I prefer to go to her house, to he surrounded by her four children, her mother-in-law, the photos of cousins and uncles on the shelves. I prefer the voices of her children calling each other by their nicknames to my own dry flat. Mama bought this flat before she died. She sold the large one in Lancaster Gate and bought this smaller one, on the top floor of a house in Maida Vale. She hardly had time to live here. Some of her things are still in boxes and suitcases, not yet unpacked from the move. I would have liked to keep the television but the licence is a luxury.
`You're lucky,' Shahinaz says, `you don't have a television - it only brings horrible news.' Her children would not have agreed but only baby Ahmed is with her today. He is wide awake and holding a red rattle.
`Habibi ya Ahmed - you've grown!' I kneel on the floor to kiss him and kiss him again. He is too young to mind. I lift him off his chair and put him on my lap. He smells lovely.
Shahinaz takes off her headscarf and sits back in the armchair, running her fingers through her hair. It is a treat to see her hair, long and black like Pocahontas in the Disney film that Mai likes to watch. Shahinaz wants to cut it but her husband says no. I am on his side.
`I told him I had to go out,' she says. `I had to get out of the house. The kids have been driving me mad.'
`Were they on holiday today?' Ahmed drops his rattle on the ground. I pick it up and give it back to him.
`Teacher training. And it was raining so they couldn't go out to play. So as soon as Sohayl came in from work I said to him, please, let's leave the children with your mother and go eat out. Then we can go to that talk at the mosque. He said yes, that's a good idea but let's take Ahmed, he might he too much for my mother. And I said fine, we'd take Ahmed and leave the others. Then he goes off to her room to say goodbye.'
I can't help but smile at the way she talks, how pretty she looks and how unaware. I kiss Ahmed's head; hide my smile in his hair.
`I started to get dressed,' she continues, `then he came hack from her room and said we're not going out. I asked why. He said his mother doesn't want us to. Just like that.'
`What's her reason?'
`I don't know. She hates anyone eating out - she thinks restaurant food is a waste of money or she doesn't feel up to looking after the children today or just to spite me!'
`Shahinaz, you don't mean that!'
`I'm so annoyed.'
`Your mother-in-law is a sweetie.'
`She is, yes. It's just ... difficult sometimes.'
It is difficult with their house being small and the seven of them sharing one bathroom (though thankfully there is another toilet with a washbasin). They are the kindest people I have ever met in the mosque, kind enough not to ask me questions or expect confessions in return for their favours. Why Shahinaz chose me as a friend, and how Sohayl approved her choice, is one of those strokes of good fortune I don't question. We have little in common. If I tell her that, I think she will say, very matter-of-fact, 'Rut we both want to become better Muslims.'
Now I say about her mother-in-law, 'Look, we've talked about this before. If she lived somewhere else, Sohavl would spend hours away from you visiting her.'
`While I'm stuck home with the kids!'
'Exactly. It's so much more convenient for von all to live together. This way you and the children get to see him more. And think of all the reward from Allah you're getting.'
`You're right. Poor Sohayl, I shouted at him and he said, "Why don't you go to Najwa%" I know it is the Islamic thing for a man to obey his mother and I should suppo
rt him in this - but sometimes it just gets too much.' Her voice becomes soft. She is more herself now.
'Look,' I say, even though I feel that the day has already been long enough, we can go to that lecture at the mosque if you want to. What's it about
'An American has translated a really old book written by a famous scholar.' She sounds keen.
it might be boring, don't you think?' I stand Ahmed on my lap; he pushes with his feet, bounces.
'Oh no, the speaker's come all the way from the States; he must he good. I)id you eat:'
'I did at work. Lamva gave me the rest of a quiche she'd bought over the weekend from Harrods. I asked her if it was halal and she glared at me.' I glare at Shahinaz in imitation.
She laughs. 'Well, it was a hit cheeky of you to ask her that!'
'I know.' I laugh, remembering Lamya's face. 'Then she said to me Tamer ate from it as if that's supposed to mean it's all right.'
`Oh, Sohayl thinks so highly of him. He said to me, "I hope our boys grow up to be as committed to the Islamic movement as Tamer."'
`Did you hear this, baby Ahmed?' I tickle him and he smiles back at me, dribbles saliva down my shirt. `Why does Sohayl think that?' I ask Shahinaz. `What does Tamer do?' I want to know another side of him.
`Not much really. They play football together and every week Tamer brings a big container of juice for the whole team.'
I laugh. `You call this commitment to the Islamic movement?'
`Well, Sohayl says he's polite and respectful to people older than him - he hasn't got that "attitude" that so many of these young brothers at the mosque have.'
`That's true. I just thought, when you said that Sohayl thinks well of him, that he's active.'
`Well, he's had a cushy upbringing, hasn't he, so I guess he's not really used to active work.'
I can tell her about the way he leaves his bed unmade, the pyjamas he steps out of and leaves as a heap on the ground. But these are secrets.
Minaret: A Novel Page 8