She shrugged. ‘I didn’t really think about it.’
‘Maybe he’ll take us with him one night.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes. You and I. We’ll go to a cabaret. You’ll like the show.’
A cabaret. Did she have anything to wear for that? She imagined wine-coloured chairs and laughter, cigarette smoke and English soldiers, Greek girls dancing and, at the end of the evening, the voluptuous belly dancer. No! It would be one prank too many. They would never get away with it. Nur had a mischievous look on his face and she responded to his delight, his sense of adventure. He started to tell her about a night he and his schoolmates had gone to the Petit Trianon. Behind the sweet counter was a ballroom where a band played and couples danced. She listened, enraptured, and he put his arm around her waist as if they were dancing in the European way. It made her laugh out loud, but they were close enough to see Fatma waving at them to come back. Soraya couldn’t make out the expression on her face.
‘I wish she was the short-sighted sister,’ said Nur and this made her laugh in a different way.
They quickened their footsteps towards the umbrella.
‘If we had walked in the other direction, we could have sat on the rocks,’ said Nur.
The rocks were covered with slippery green moss, a lurid green in contrast to the beige sand and pale blue water. It was not a colour Soraya favoured and she was glad they had not sat on the rocks. Perhaps the moss and the seaweed would have stained her new dress.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said to him. Tomorrow, when she would be wearing her new bathing suit.
Nassir woke up when they ducked under the umbrella and threw themselves on the sand.
‘Zeinab, come and give me a kiss,’ said Soraya. ‘These cheeks of yours, I just have to pinch them.’ She cuddled her niece while Nur grabbed the newspaper off Nassir’s belly and started to read it.
Fatma, as expected, was annoyed. She whispered to Soraya, ‘Every day you two get more ridiculous than the day before. Behave, girl.’
‘Tell him, don’t tell me.’ She wanted to tease Fatma. It was amusing to see her angry.
‘I will tell him. You think I won’t? He shouldn’t be spending so much time with you alone.’
‘Why not? There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘Soraya, behave or I will send you back.’
‘Back where?’
‘Back to Cairo. Back to Umdurman.’
This was so far-fetched that it didn’t have a sting to it.
Soraya laughed and gave her sister a hug. ‘When Uncle Mahmoud and Nabilah come every single one of us will be behaving properly.’ This was a reference to Nassir, and Fatma made a face.
‘Go play with them,’ Nassir was saying to Nur. ‘Why not? Go join them.’
Soraya turned to see that a football game had started further back in the beach where the sand was completely dry. Three men were kicking a ball; they were in their bathing trunks with their hair cut short.
‘Don’t you know they’re English soldiers?’ Nur didn’t look up and turned to a new page.
‘So what?’ Nassir said. ‘You’re the captain of the football team at Victoria. Tell them that.’
‘Nassir, you go and play with them,’ said Soraya and Nur chuckled.
‘Me!’ Nassir heaved himself up to an upright position. ‘Can’t you see I am out of shape?’
Nur folded the newspaper. ‘You used to be a fair player.’
‘Back then . . .’ Nassir reclined back and folded his hands on his stomach.
‘Baba, look. The fresca man is coming. I want some,’ Zeinab pointed to the man with the white hat and large glass box balanced on his shoulders. He was loping towards them, making his way at the edge of the water.
Nassir hailed him and he came over and knelt on the sand, balancing the box on one knee. They all leaned forward to see what he was offering.
‘I want the coconut,’ said Soraya.
‘I want the flat one with the honey,’ said Zeinab.
‘Give us a mixture,’ said Fatma.
Nassir reached for his leather pouch. It was a characteristically slow gesture. He prized the pouch open and, with care, started to take the coins out. He was enjoying the process, enjoying paying for something, giving up money to get something in return. He had looked like that when he had paid for her glasses, generous, not questioning the amount. Soraya felt a fondness for him.
They munched in silence. Soraya enjoyed the sweetness of the coconut and the delicate crunch of the wafer. Nur had the one with the sticky peanuts. He bit half of one and gave her the rest. She dug her teeth in the honeyed peanuts and felt a surge of joy. This was his saliva she was tasting, and his lips.
The football rolled towards them. Nur was quick to stand up, place his foot on it and dribble away from the umbrella in the direction of the game. With one kick, he joined the game. He did not have to announce that he was captain of the school team; his footwork was enough for the soldiers to welcome him.
Nassir turned his deckchair, giving his back to the sea and his full concentration to the game. He shouted out comments in English, jovial and witty, to endear himself to the soldiers. Soraya could sense Nur showing off, conscious of the expectations of his older brother. He put all his energy into the game and was soon enjoying himself.
Soraya chatted with Fatma and played with the children. The football didn’t interest her, but watching Nur run was a pleasure, and she liked the English she was hearing from the soldiers, natural and fluent, not like the sentences in school books. The one who was called Stan had an accent she had not heard before; he was stocky and had freckles. Eddie was handsome, like an actor in a film. His hair was black and his nose was sharp. The third, who ended up in goal, looked older and more muscular, and she did not catch his name. Later, when she went over everything, when she spoke about that day – again and again – she would remember the game and see the players clearly in her mind. How they grunted and Stan became red in the face. How often Eddie swore and how Nur started to perspire.
Another group of players joined in. The newcomers, young Egyptians, challenged Nur and the soldiers. This was how a friendly languorous kicking of the ball turned into a serious match. A masculine dedication she could not share, though in the pit of her stomach she wanted Nur’s team to win and she wanted Nur to score again.
‘Clap for your uncle, children!’
Even Fatma clapped and laughed. Nassir was beside himself with excitement. He raised his arms up in the air every time there was a goal, and when the other team had the ball, he made kicking gestures with his feet, tossing up gusts of sand. Soraya sensed the sun change position and start to mellow into mid-afternoon. They should head home for lunch now. The baby had started to whine and Fatma was getting restless.
‘We won!’ Nassir raised his arm in the air for one last time. Nur came towards them drenched in sweat. He took off his shirt and said, ‘I’m going into the water to cool off.’ He ran towards the sea before they could detain him.
‘Don’t be long,’ Fatma called after him.
‘It’s lunchtime,’ said Nassir.
Nur swivelled around and, trotting backwards, waved to them and mouthed, ‘Just a few minutes.’
There was an anti-climax after that, a drop after the game and Nur not being present to talk about it. The soldiers drifted past their umbrella and sat at the edge of the water on the damp sand, Eddie sat with his legs straight in the water. He scooped handfuls of water and wet his hair and shoulders. Stan lay on his back and, when a strong wave reached him, he let the water pull him closer to the sea, laughing out loud.
Soraya watched Nur climb the moss-covered rock and dive in the sea. Next to her Nassir rubbed his stomach.
‘I’m hungry.’
She was hungry, too. Their late breakfast of sausages, fried eggs and ta’miyyah had long been digested, the fresca too miniscule a snack to go far. Come on, Nur. Fatma started to gather their things together. Soraya didn’t want to help her; she wanted to w
atch Nur dive again. She saw him, blurred and brown, climb the low cliff again and dive. Could she really learn to dive like that? Her mind wandered to buying her new and very first swimsuit. Would she try it on in the shop or just take it home?
She looked back at the sea and couldn’t see Nur. She blinked and narrowed her eyes, which always made her see better but he was not there. She stood up and untangled her handbag from the spokes of the umbrella. She took her glasses out of their case and put them on. There he was! He was floating, his body straight and bobbing, the waves moving him around. He disappeared from sight as the sea dipped and, beneath him, a wave swept forward and rolled upwards. He was playing a game, she guessed, seeing how long he could hold his breath. She moved towards the sea, magnetised by the oddity of his pose. Something was not right. He should be swimming again now. She started to run; behind her, the surprise in Fatma’s voice, calling out. Stan and Eddie looked up and watched her run directly towards them. They kept watching her instead of looking out to the sea. She wanted to shout but the waves were too loud. When she stopped running, her voice came back. In English, that was important, so that they would understand. Help. Help was the word. She pointed and screamed.
Stan and Eddie ran into the sea. She walked forward until her calves were deep in the water, the hem of her dress soaked and heavy. Eddie and Stan lifted Nur’s arms and put them round their shoulders. He wouldn’t pull a prank on them. Not on them. They half-dragged, half-swam, half-carried him towards the shore and he wasn’t helping them in any way. His head was lolling to one side. She felt ashamed for him, because he looked bad and was so needy of help. The shame was visceral, as if it was hers, not his. When they laid him down on the wet sand, he spluttered and spat, raising his head but not sitting up or rolling sideways. He opened his eyes and closed them. Nassir was next to her now.
‘What happened?’ His voice was soft with concern. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
Eddie and Stan crouched on either side of Nur, pumping his chest, talking to one another over him. Their bodies dripped with water. Soraya and Nassir stayed back. When she heard Nur’s voice, when Stan sat back on his heels and Eddie stood up, she rushed forward, flooded with relief.
‘Nur, get up. Nur, let’s go home.’
She wanted the soldiers to go away, she wanted the day to be normal again.
Behind her Nassir was full of effusive thanks. The English words tumbled out of him. He was generous in his praise and his manners pleased the soldiers. They moved away from Nur. Stan smiled broadly; Eddie shook Nassir’s outstretched hand. Nassir moved next to Soraya and sank to his knees. He lunged forward, embracing his brother. Nur didn’t raise his arms to hug him back. One arm lay outstretched, entwined with seaweed; the other, motionless too, was at an awkward angle, the fingers grazing the sand.
‘Nur,’ she said. ‘Come on.’
‘He’s resting,’ Nassir said. ‘Let him rest.’
But she insisted, ‘Nur.’
He looked up at her as if he was distracted by a supreme heaviness that bewildered and absorbed him.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t move.’
VII
This was the day Nabilah, empowered by her native Cairo, started to contemplate divorce and the right to stay here forever, not go back with Mahmoud to Sudan at the end of summer. The day she started to contemplate the right to a normal life like that of her mother, the girls she had gone to school with, and the neighbour’s daughters. Enough of this African adventure, of being there while thinking of here, of being here and knowing it was temporary; enough of the dust, the squalor and the stupidity. Enough of buildings that were too low, gardens that were too lush and skies that were too close. Enough of his large family, his acres of land, and his connections, of money without culture, prestige among the primitive. She would put an end to it all: an end to being inferior because she was the second wife, and of being superior because she was Egyptian. Enough of these contradictions! Life should be simple: a man who goes to work and comes back the same time every day; a good climate and uncomplicated children; outings on Friday; a picnic or a walk – everything proper and understandable. Why did she not deserve this? Why had she, in the first place, been married off to a foreigner, a man old enough to be her father? Was something wrong with her? Did she have a defect?
These questions inflamed her with a sense of injustice. There was no defect in her. This was a fact. She was beautiful. She came from a good home. She was well brought up. If she was not beautiful, he would have not have stopped dead in his tracks that first time he saw her sepia-coloured portrait displayed in the window of the photographer. Indeed, that photographer himself, on Midan Soliman Pasha, would not have chosen her portrait out of so many, had she not been outstanding. A man looks into a shop window and catches sight of something that is useful, special or visually pleasing. He says to himself, ‘I must have that.’ Perhaps other men, too, walking in downtown Cairo had also stopped and gazed at her picture. Other men too might have desired and thought, ‘That’s the kind of girl for me.’ But Mahmoud Abuzeid had gone further; he had put desire into action, had tracked down the name to match the pretty face, an address, a family history. He had engineered an introduction to her stepfather, endeared himself to her mother, and made his move.
Years ago, when they had first got engaged, she had loved that story, the search for the girl in the portrait. What girl wouldn’t be proud of such a story?
‘He just had to have her. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Would you believe how much he offered the photographer for that portrait? Based on this, you can extrapolate how much he paid for her dowry!’ It was the stuff of dreams and gossip, as magical as the cinema. She had, her eighteen-year-old eyes shining, swelled with a new sense of self-worth, the pride that she had made her mother happy. In those heady days of courtship and gifts, Qadriyyah would embrace her and say, ‘Look at the pearl necklace he bought you! Look at the diamond ring. You will be the most beautiful bride. To think that I felt you were a burden when your father died. To think that I was anxious day and night about your prospects as an orphan!’
When Nabilah said the word ‘divorce’, she was in her mother’s kitchen with its smell of fresh mint and coriander. All year in Sudan, she had missed this kitchen, with its little balcony cluttered with baskets of onions and potatoes. On the shutters, garlic hung from a net and the bird cage was there, too, a large one with two parrots. From where she was sitting at the kitchen table, Nabilah could see the neighbour’s balcony and their washing hanging on the line. A young boy in his pyjamas was leaning over the edge as if he were talking to someone in the street below.
Qadriyyah, in her navy blue dressing gown, was kneading dough. She had taken off her rings and was pressing down on the pastry mix, folding it, and pressing again. Her hands were small and plump, but strong, the nails manicured. She was a solid, compact woman who looked as if she was wearing a corset even when she wasn’t. Her hair, which she dyed, was a glistening, unnatural black. It was thick and wavy and she considered it her best feature. Nabilah expected her mother to be alarmed at the mention of the word divorce. She wanted her to be concerned.
‘Why?’ Qadriyyah did not look up. ‘What has he done to upset you?’
‘Haven’t I explained in my letters? It is everything about my life there, and nothing specific.’
‘Do you think marriage is a game? Have you forgotten you have two children?’
‘Our life there is not like here,’ Nabilah replied. ‘He is so much a part of his family, of his wife and all the customs. He is Sudanese like them and I’m just not happy with that.’
‘Not happy!’ She slapped the dough back in the bowl. ‘You live in a palace, waited upon by a drove of servants. You said that Mahmoud Bey entertains a lot and you wanted a chef from here, so we got you one. You said you want a nanny from here, and we sent you one. Every single summer, you come here and spend three months. All of this and you are complaining?’
Nabila
h did not know how to answer. Sometimes unhappiness seemed like the symptom of a malady that had no name, but flared up and calmed down on its own accord.
Qadriyyah looked her in the eye.
‘Does he hit you?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Are there other women?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Well, what is it then? Because he certainly isn’t being stingy with you!’
‘He is more than generous, Mama,’ she sighed.
‘Then shut up and thank your Lord! Look around you and see what other wives are enduring. If he divorces you, who will support you and your children at the high standard your highness is used to? Do you think your stepfather and I will take you in? Think again.’
Nabilah didn’t reply and there was a tense silence between them.
Qadriyyah pushed the dough into a ball and turned to look for the roller.
‘You will make me ill with your complaints.’
‘I’m sorry, Mama. I just want to be with you all the time, to see you all year round.’
‘Grow up, Nabilah,’ Qadriyyah sighed. ‘You are not a little girl any more. It disgusts me how ungrateful you are.’
When Nabilah walked out of the kitchen, she felt chastened and unsteady. But she also knew that she had not been given a fair trial and that she had not said everything she wanted to say. This was not Qadriyyah’s fault; it was hers, for not having the right words, for not presenting a convincing grievance or sufficient evidence.
Entertaining the English couple was hardly a burden she could complain of. They were staying in the Semiramis and not with Nabilah and Mahmoud in their Garden City apartment, yet she regarded them as an intrusion on her precious summer in Cairo. She still hadn’t visited her grandmother and was longing to see her. She had not taken the children for cakes at Groppi’s, and she had not seen an Egyptian film in the cinema.
‘Why must we be with them every day?’ she asked Mahmoud when they first arrived.
‘Because,’ he finished combing his moustache in front of the mirror, ‘he is the manager of Barclays Bank.’
Lyrics Alley: A Novel Page 9