The Translator

by Leila Aboulela

  ‘Come in for a while,’ she said, when Nahla stopped the car in front of the house.

  ‘No thanks, there’s no time.’

  ‘Come and show the cards to Aunt Mahasen.’

  ‘I’ll come in for a little while. But I might as well park the car at home.’

  While Sammar waited in the street so that she and Nahla could go in together, she spoke to Rae. She told him about the poster she had seen in the video shop, an advertisement for an American film, the actors’ names written in Arabic and English. She told him how the film’s name was translated in Arabic. ‘Look Who’s Talking,’ she said, ‘became in Arabic, Me And Mama And Travolta’. He laughed and said, ‘That’s a much better name’. He laughed and she saw Hanan driving round the corner, Amir in the front seat, Dalia in the back. When they saw Sammar waiting at the door, they started to wave.

  She pushed open the black metal door for them so that Hanan could drive into the shade of the car-port. The door was heavy and it dragged on the ground, making grooves.

  Hanan parked the car, switched the engine off. Amir and Dalia jumped out and the sounds of greetings was mixed up with the sound of slamming doors. ‘There’s a letter for you,’ said Dalia and hope was a reflex, as silly as blinking.

  Sammar reached for the envelope, the platinum face of the Queen, pearls around her neck. But she would know his handwriting. This was not his handwriting. She should not have hoped, this was not his handwriting.

  Instead her name was written in Arabic, the envelope stamped in Stirling. Intrigue and the feel of paper tearing, the children’s voices, Nahla greeting Hanan.

  The signature first. Fareed. Fareed Khalifa? Why would he write to her? The memory of meeting him in Aberdeen, Rae introducing them. Questions, he asked a lot of questions, he used to be a journalist and he was imprisoned by the Israelis. ‘They gave him a rough time,’ Rae had said, ‘they gave him a real rough time.’ Skim the lines of polite greetings, search and Rae’s name was there. At last after all the months of just wanting his name. Here it was, I am writing to you on behalf of my friend Rae Isles. Skim the lines down the page:… became a… about four months ago… at my house… how pleased I am that Allah had expanded his heart to this… Ramadan… your permission… if you accept…

  Again, go over it again to catch every word, to really believe. The rush of this new knowledge, the feeling of being lifted up. She could even see herself, her head bent over the letter, her smile. Red flowers on her scarf falling on her shoulders. The navy cardigan, buttons undone, her folded sunglasses sticking out of the pocket. Her skirt touched the faded straps of her sandals, was creased at the back from sitting in the car. And the easy way she moved away from the children, away from Hanan and Nahla, away from the car-port to the garden. For she was being honoured now, she was being rewarded. All alone, a miracle for no one else to acknowledge but her. The sky had parted, a little crack, and something had pierced her life. Under the eucalyptus tree and the sound of the birds, kneel down… the clean Vicks smell of the leaves in the shade and on the grass.

  22

  Later that same day, she wondered where she could find privacy in the house, away from the clamouring children, the questioning women. They had not seen her look like that before: lit up, transformed. They were used to her being a ghost, walking about doing chores, her mind elsewhere, listless, not particularly driven. Now they asked her questions, but she would give nothing away, her dreamy smile, her secret… When to find privacy in this house… a time of day when she wouldn’t be needed, wouldn’t be missed. Where to go? Somewhere cool, dim and peaceful.

  The television was her friend, the video of the talking baby came to her rescue. Everyone watched enthralled by the charm of Travolta, the beauty of the new mother, the wise words of the infant, translated in Arabic, white words across the bottom of the screen. Mahasen lay on the bed, propped up on one elbow, Hanan was on the opposite bed, a younger mirror image, her husband sat on the armchair with Hassan on his lap and the children were with their egg sandwiches scattered on the floor.

  Sammar opened the door of the store room. The musty smell of a room not used, not aired, a smell of dust and rice. She switched the light on. A bulb dangled down from the ceiling, the dust that coated it gave the room a brownish, dull light. Among the large sacks of lentils and beans, among the huge cooking pots that were only needed in special occasions, was the suitcase where her winter clothes were folded up. Her duffle coat, her lined skirts, her gloves, all the clothes she had worn in Aberdeen, the clothes Rae had seen her in. There was dust on the suitcase, with her finger she could write her name through the dust in big loops. But she was here to write in response to Fareed’s letter. It was in her pocket now, she had carried it around all day. It was with her when Nahla showed the wedding cards to Mahasen, during lunch, while washing the dishes after lunch, struggling with Amir and his homework… It was her secret, she would put her hand in her pocket and feel it, she would take it out and read it at every chance. Every chance. Now it already looked worn out and crumpled: stained with kitchen water, egg from the children’s sandwiches, Amir’s fingerprints when he had tried to snatch it from her hands while she was helping him with his multiplication homework.

  She sat down on the suitcase. Four months ago, that was what Fareed had written, Rae had become a Muslim, he had said the shahadah in Fareed’s house in Stirling. Why didn’t Rae tell her before, why wait four months? To be sure, to make sure that he wouldn’t go back on this. He was cautious like that. And now asking… It made her smile. She had an airmail letter pad with her, a ball-point pen, two envelopes. She was going to write two letters in two languages. They would say the same thing but not be a translation. She wrote to Fareed first: long and cordial paragraphs, greetings, hoping that his wife and children were well, in good health. When she finished, she folded up the papers, put them in an envelope, wrote out an address in Stirling.

  She wrote to Rae. One transparent sheet of airmail paper, a few lines. On the envelope she wrote Aberdeen, Scotland.

  Television music came into the room, the voices of Me And Mama And Travolta. She unzipped the suitcase and looked at her winter clothes. She unfolded wool and out came the smell of winter and European clouds. She put on her gloves and then took them off, saw her tights, for a year she hadn’t worn tights. Her henna-coloured duffle coat, its silky lining. She would wear it again when she went back to Aberdeen, the toggles instead of buttons… In one of the pockets, she found the bottle of perfume, oval shaped, amber coloured. She opened it and breathed in, forgot the dust and the smell of dried beans and rice. She ran her fingers over a scarf that was too warm for wearing in Khartoum, its pattern of brown leaves.

  Tomorrow, early in the morning she would go to the post office. She would buy stamps. The stamps would be full of colours. A map of the Sudan or jungle animals: an elephant, a rhino, a hippopotamus. She would hold the letters in her hand and in the sunlight stand in front of the post box. Hesitate a little before dropping them in. Then live day after day, get involved in the preparations for Nahla’s wedding, and wait. Wait. She had written to Rae, Please come and see me. Please. Here is where I am…

  23

  Two weeks later when she dragged open the gate and saw him, they both laughed as if everything was funny. And she was not as shy as she thought she would be, not awkward. He looked older than she remembered and younger too. More white in his hair but looking young because he had travelled a long way and was not diminished or fatigued. He said, ‘I’ve spent all day searching for the house,’ and that was funny too. All day searching for the house, her house. All day looking for her and she was not hiding, not masking herself, she was wanting to be found. There were lots of questions for her to ask: what made him lose his way, where was he staying, but they all seemed not to matter, not to be urgent in any way. Just the present, the black metal gate under her hand, warm and streaked by sunlight, dragging it closed again. Their footsteps on the cement of the car-port, their clothes b
rushing the dust on Hanan’s car. They stepped over Amir’s bicycle, lying on the steps to the garden. She looked at him and the sun hurt her eyes because she had rushed at the sound of the bell, afraid everyone would wake up and she had forgotten her sunglasses inside.

  This was not the usual time for the door bell to ring and bring in visitors. It was after lunch, when the shadow of everything was equal to its height, and she had left everyone asleep, even the children. ‘Sleep or else you won’t go to Nahla’s wedding tonight,’ she had threatened them and eventually they had fallen asleep.

  She had to leave Rae and go indoors to fetch cushions for the garden chairs, a tablecloth. She had to move carefully so as not to wake anyone up. In the kitchen she hesitated, Pepsi or Miranda? Which would he like more, she should have asked, now she had to guess. Pepsi from the fridge. Ice cubes and she must not make a noise when twisting the ice tray over the sink. Standing in the kitchen with the tap running over the ice, thinking of the next step, a glass, a tray, carrying the ice outside… This was abundance after the meagre time, the scratchy, meager time.

  In the garden it was easy to talk. Pour the Pepsi into the glass and watch it froth, tiny sprays over the table cloth, then how it effervesced. Talk of the wobbly table, of the cooperative across the road, of Diane’s now completed thesis.

  Mhairi fell off her horse but she was alright, though she got a scare. He talked about his new students, where they came from, what they were working on. ‘I am writing a textbook,’ he said, ‘an introduction to the politics of North Africa. I’ve decided it’s time for me to write a textbook and not concentrate so much on analysing current affairs.’

  He drank his Pepsi and the ice cubes started to melt, their edges smooth and light. ‘Is this what you do here,’ he said, ‘offer guests drinks as soon as they come in and not have anything yourself?’

  She smiled and nodded, that was the custom, yes. ‘Which airplane did you come on?’

  ‘KLM. I changed planes in Amsterdam. Aberdeen, Amsterdam, then we landed in Cairo on the way, transit for about an hour. I got here at two in the morning.’ He smiled and looked at her, ‘You were asleep then.’

  Two o’clock in the morning she was fast asleep, not hearing the plane that landed in the airport nearby. But later at dawn she had heard the azan and got up to pray. Another dawn, asking for forgiveness, saying there is no will or strength except from Allah, and not knowing, having no idea what the day ahead held out for her.

  ‘Was it alright at the airport?’ Sometimes foreigners were given a hard time, their baggage thoroughly and slowly searched, a lot of questions asked.

  ‘Fine, no problems. The conveyer belt wasn’t working so it took ages for the luggage to come out but it was okay at the end. It was the smoothest trip I have ever done… It must be because my intention is good.’

  She smiled and they were quiet for a time. He held the glass in his right hand, as much ice now as Pepsi.

  ‘Why did you tell Fareed to write to me, why didn’t you write to me?’ She asked without complaint, without reproach. Fareed’s letter had been useful: formal, correct, what she needed. She had been able to show it to Waleed and Hanan and say to them, ‘You must speak to Mahasen, you must tell her because it would be easier for her if she hears from you.’

  ‘I wanted to do everything properly,’ Rae said. ‘I was afraid you were married. I would have deserved that…’

  ‘No. No, our next door neighbour is getting married.’ She still said silly things, unconnected things.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Nahla.’ It occurred to her that Nahla was a beautiful name. And it was beautiful that she lived next door and tonight was her wedding. The wide outdoor space of the Syrian club, noisy music and a light wind, everyone wearing cardigans over their best clothes. Rae could go too. She would introduce him to Waleed and everyone she knew.

  ‘And Nahla is your friend?’

  ‘Yes, though she is much younger than me. And she is going to Qatar where Yasmin is.’

  ‘Is Qatar a place you would like to visit?’

  ‘Someday yes.’

  Beaming, that was how she was, all over him. She should reproach him for the past, discuss with him practical things. Where was her brain? Yellow grass and the trees untrimmed, a smell she knew, of jasmine and mud.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘we should not prolong this torture.’

  ‘What torture?’

  He laughed and wiped his face with his hand. Torture for her were the days when she heard a worldly, logical voice saying, someone like him will never become a Muslim. The voice measured the distance between them, it calculated the probability that he was with someone else, a woman with lighter eyes, a lighter heart…

  ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘if we get married this week, we could go away somewhere. There would be time because I don’t have to be back in Aberdeen until the middle of January. I was thinking of Aswan, have you been to Aswan?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was a little subdued because she had remembered the bad voice.

  ‘I haven’t been there either,’ he said, watching her, the change of expression in her eyes. ‘The High Dam is near the town – Nasser’s big project. I’m told the south of Egypt is very much like here, in climate and terrain. It would be nice, what do you think?’

  She smiled, ‘It would be nice.’

  ‘You could leave Amir with your aunt and then we can come back here and all go back together to Aberdeen.’

  She nodded but it seemed to her complicated, going north and then coming back to Khartoum. ‘It would have been easier that day in Aberdeen, the day of the snow… ,’ her voice trailed. It was the wrong thing to say. He would not want to talk about that day.

  When he spoke, his voice was quiet, ‘In the Qur’an it says that pure women are for pure men… and I wasn’t clean enough for you then…’ He looked up towards the house and Sammar turned to look too. Dalia was walking down the steps of the porch, looking sleepy, her hair sticking out of her braids. She came and sat on the arm of Sammar’s chair and put her head on Sammar’s shoulder. She stared at Rae, too sleepy to be fully curious.

  ‘Are you still asleep?’ Sammar asked her, changing from explaining to Rae who Dalia was, into speaking Arabic. Dalia nodded and rubbed her nose.

  ‘Aren’t you going to shake hands?’

  Dalia shook her head.

  ‘He knows Arabic,’ said Sammar. ‘You know Arabic, don’t you?’ she said to Rae.

  ‘A little, not very much,’ he said.

  ‘He can’t speak properly,’ Dalia whispered in Sammar’s ear and made her laugh.

  ‘He needs to practise more,’ she whispered back, ‘but you should be nice and say salamu alleikum.’

  Dalia did, looking more awake, raising her hand a little.

  ‘Alleikum al-salaam,’ he replied. She smiled and sat up a little straighter. Her eyes caught sight of Amir’s bicycle, lying unwanted and available.

  They watched her as she walked away from them, her housedress crumpled and too small, the zipper at the back a little undone. She rode the bicycle slowly, out of their view, round to the back of the house.

  ‘She will miss you,’ Rae said, something final in his voice. Clear to Sammar that she was really going to leave Khartoum and go back with him to Aberdeen. She was going to leave Dalia and not be close to her anymore, the day by day closeness, the eating, sleeping, closeness. She was going to take Amir away from his cousins, his grandmother, his house. She was going to take him to a place that was all grey, its noises muffled by clouds, a new school where they might not like him much, look at him in a surprised way. And she was going to leave this city, its dusty wind and smells.

  ‘If I was someone else, someone strong and independent I would tell you now, I don’t want to go back with you, I don’t want to leave my family, I love my country too much.’ Her voice was teasing and sad.

  He did not look taken aback. ‘You’re not someone else,’ he said.

  A fly
dived silently over the tray and perched on the rim of the empty glass. Sammar leaned and waved it away.

  ‘It’s too late now,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’ She had been given the chance and she had not been able to substitute her country for him, anything for him.

  ‘Ours isn’t a religion of suffering,’ he said, ‘nor is it tied to a particular place.’ His words made her feel close to him, pulled in, closer than any time before because it was ‘ours’ now, not hers alone. And because he understood. Not a religion of pathos, not a religion of redemption through sacrifice.

  He said, ‘I found out at the end, that it didn’t have anything to do with how much I’ve read or how many facts I’ve learned about Islam. Knowledge is necessary, that’s true. But faith, it comes direct from Allah.’

  It was a miracle, she thought. Since getting Fareed’s letter she had been waking up in the middle of the night, smiling in the dark, stunned by what had happened, and finding herself unable to go back to sleep.

  ‘When you left,’ he said, ‘I thought if this isn’t enough incentive for me to convert, nothing is, and I felt sick, going around, here and there, no balance.’ Once, he said, he missed a flight to Paris. Another conference, another paper to present. He misread the gate number and he was late. He ran, out of breath, along corridors full of people coming back from holidays, cheerful suntans and children holding up big Mickey Mouse balloons. By the time he reached the correct gate, it was too late. He collapsed into a chair and took out his inhaler, to breathe, just to breathe and he watched his plane from the window, reversing and moving away.