Lyrics Alley: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  Although he does not like Nabilah, she is someone familiar and she speaks to him in Arabic. He can tell that she does not like the hospital and is unsettled by the men with missing limbs. One winked at her, and she blushed and frowned. The man’s left arm had been amputated and his left eye was missing but he could wink with the right. Nabilah comes to visit more than his father.

  ‘He is busy,’ she says. ‘Guess who he was introduced to yesterday? A duke! And this duke has a huge aviary full of amazing birds from all over the world. Your father has agreed to ship monkey nuts from Sudan for these birds. He is arranging the shipment now. Of course, the Duke is delighted to have met him.’ She is lively with pride and a sense of adventure. She describes the first television she has seen. ‘In the hotel lounge,’ she says. ‘How long do you think it will be before we have television sets in Egypt and Sudan?’

  Nur likes the story of the caged birds that will eat nuts from the Sudan. He misses his mother and her food. The food at the hospital is even more horrible than at school, except for the puddings. He loves custard and jelly, but they are scarce and the portions minuscule. At night he dreams of Soraya. They are walking on the beach and she is smiling and beautiful. They lie down together and she doesn’t push him away. In the morning when the nurse comes to change his clothes, she rolls her eyes at the stains and shakes her head. A part of him is still working, is still free and moving, after all.

  At last, Jack from the next bed, is talking to him. He wants to know about Alexandria during the war. Nur was in elementary school in Umdurman then, but not wanting to disappoint his new friend, he makes up a story based on experiences he had heard from older VC students. It is easy, he discovers, to put himself in a different place and time. He says that the school buildings were used as a military hospital and that the masters, pupils and books were moved to the San Stefano hotel, which had its own beach. There were air raid shelters dug on the side of the hotel and most of the bombing raids were at night. In the summer, when Rommel threatened Alexandria, the school was closed and Nur was in Sudan. By the time the October term started, the emergency had passed. He talks about his friends; Tuf Tuf, Ramzy, Joe and Yacoub. He explains that Tuf Tuf’s real name is Fuad and how he got into trouble with Ahmed Saad, the prefect, until Jack says, ‘Steady on, lad, you’re a chatterbox!’

  Nur has more to say about the role of the Sudan Defence Force in the Abyssinian Campaign. They served with distinction again the Italians on the eastern border. Then, to entertain Jack, Nur sings Sudanese songs. He gets carried away, enjoying the sound of the Arabic words and the simple sadness of the melodies. Oh come to me. Why are you dry towards me, my love? At first Jack is amused and then he is bored.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he says and Nur laughs out loud, delighted to hear an Englishman swearing.

  With the clever metal rod between his teeth, Jack flips over the newspaper and Nur twists his neck to read about Clement Atlee opening the largest oil refinery in Europe. Jack mutters under his breath. Inside him is bitterness, small and hard, like bullets inside a gun. He is also tired. Tired of the war and how what happened to him will never go away. He looks handsome but unkempt. No matter how well someone else washes you, Nur learns, no matter how well they shave you, groom you, dress you and comb your hair – they can never get it right. They will never do it exactly like you would have done it yourself. The constant, constant irritation. Jack knows more than Nur. It is not only being in a wheelchair and having useless arms, but the things that go wrong inside; infections and minor complications that keep him in and out of hospital.

  There is an operation scheduled. Nur does not like the neurologist Mr Copeland. Mr Copeland sticks a needle in his thumb and knocks his knees with a hammer. He has hairy arms and hunched shoulders. He does not look pleased with this case from overseas, but he will operate. So, no dinner or pudding the night before and nil by mouth, and in the morning his father kisses him. He smells of aftershave and days in a London hotel. His face seems larger, pumped up with anticipation. Next to him, Nabilah, in a new hat, smiles. Everyone has hope. Everyone wishes him well. They roll him away, down unfamiliar corridors and up in a huge lift. The anaesthetist asks him to count. Nur counts out loud and finds it hard to believe that he will ever stop counting. But the darkness does come.

  He is back at school on the playing field. Tuf Tuf passes him the ball and he flies with it, on and on, knowing he can score, knowing he will score. Ramzy tackles him; he is well built, but Nur is lean and light. Tuf Tuf is shouting and the referee blows his whistle. A light shines on Nur’s face and there is the ugly clang of metal on metal. Someone is saying his name, insistent, irritating. They want him to wake up but he wants to continue sleeping. They insist, and he has to obey. He opens his eyes and the brightness hurts. It stabs his eyes and the back of his throat. Nausea makes him groan. He leans forward to retch but he is still lying on his back when the bile comes out.

  They give him something for the pain and it makes him light-headed; it makes him float, not sink into sleep. Sensations and dimensions are out of proportion. Soraya’s skin is incredibly smooth and there is more and more of her to kiss. She is not slender or coy as in real life, but abundant and overflowing; accessible and generous. His mother’s hoash, too, is vast, bigger than a football field and it is full of people who love him and love each other. There are fruit trees and colourful, chirping birds. The Nile flows through with vigour. The wind carries the scent of fresh grass and everyone knows that it has been raining in the provinces. There are swings, there are tents and music and songs. Batool is dancing, her back arched, her breasts high. Someone is playing the oud and children kick a ball; yet all of these people and all of these things – turtle doves and laughter, canaries and incense, henna and lyrics – are in that one hoash in Umdurman.

  Then the nightmares blast through. A giant thumb pushes him to the ground; he feels the weight of it on his chest, the insistent pressure. The thumb, meaty and human, grotesque with a brittle purple nail, pins him down, and no matter how much he wriggles and crunches, he cannot break free. Soraya is smiling at another man, older and more established, a man who is loathsome and cunning. They are standing close together, too close and the man puts his arm around her waist. Nur must rescue her. He must drag her away, but first he wants to punch that man’s face. Anger rises. He shouts out loud and the sound makes him open his eyes. It is grey night in the dormitory. Someone is weeping; it must be the new boy. The new boy is homesick, he doesn’t understand the rules of this new school and his English is rudimentary. He thinks he can leave. Well, home is a long way away, in another country. Nur can explain all this to him, patronise him, enjoying the feeling that he is older and knows more. Here are your new friends; here are the masters who will teach you. Here are the prefects; you have to obey them and address them as Captain. You are a boarder; you are not a day boy. You will be called by your last name, everyone is. Do you know how to play cricket? Are you good at football? Dodge, tackle, dribble, and pass. Score. Score again. And remember, ‘English is the language of the school. Anyone caught speaking other languages will be severely punished.’

  Nur is the new boy. He speaks Arabic and the prefect has gone to report him. Nur is bewildered by the new rules. No underwear to be worn at night, only pyjamas, cold showers first thing in the morning, grey flannels. Two types of boys fail in Victoria College – those who are religious and those who are poor at sports. It doesn’t matter if you’re a Muslim, Christian or Jew. It doesn’t matter if you’re Russian, Palestinian, Sudanese or Greek. Maybe Nur will succeed. Maybe he will crawl his way through this first term, but the more he struggles, the more he is bullied; the more the masters despair of him, the more his schoolmates despise him. At the end of the term, it is time to return to Umdurman and never be seen again. Nur is being punished. He has to sit down in the empty classroom and copy out five hundred lines from the telephone directory. He copies and copies, stopping to count the lines but still they are not enough. Tedio
us. Tedious.

  ‘Alhamdulillah for your safe recovery,’ Nabilah peers down at him. What is she doing in London? He remembers as his father touches his forehead and hair. ‘How are you feeling? The anaesthetic troubled you.’

  Nur is not sure how he is feeling. He should be better; he should be able to get up. He is still wrapped in a cocoon.

  ‘Squeeze my hand,’ his father says but Nur doesn’t know where his father’s hand is. He turns his head and sees that his father is holding his hand.

  Mr Copeland appears with his needle and trusty hammer. He goes away and then returns. He addresses his father, who stands up straight and deferential. Mr Copeland pushes his glasses up his nose and talks in a steady voice. He says that, unfortunately, there is no significant progress. The likelihood of any recovery at this point is remote. We can offer an extensive programme of rehabilitation. It normally takes eighteen months. A progress from bed to wheelchair. The patient will learn how to feed himself. His father’s face darkens and he interrupts in a mixture of Arabic and English.

  ‘With what, Doctor?’ Mahmoud sounds angry. ‘Feed himself with what? No sir, I can hire tens of people to serve him day and night.’

  His father is being rude to an Englishman. Mr Copeland is unsettled, and now Mahmoud gives him his back. He turns to the wall, cradles his head in his hands and sobs. Nur has never seen his father crying. Nabilah touches Mahmoud’s arm and murmurs things Nur cannot hear. He can only hear his father’s sobs.

  Mr Copeland turns to Nur, blinks and speaks again of rehabilitation and gaining some degree of independence. Nur can’t listen any more. The words pour out of him.

  ‘I want to use my arms. It doesn’t matter about my legs, but I want to hold a pen.’ He has seen the patients in crutches and wheelchairs and he could live like that, but . . . please Sir, he needs his arms. Nur is bartering and negotiating. Swapping his legs for his arms, his feet for his hands. He is begging, but Mr Copeland is powerless. He looks at Nur as if Nur is speaking a foreign language.

  ‘I need my hands to do simple things like turning over the pages of a book. Please, Sir!’

  X

  Summers in Khartoum were dry, shimmering heat, with the sun’s lashing rays and not a single breeze, not a breath. This would intensify to an unbearable stillness when even the nights and dawns became hot. Such tightness had to give, had to break; it did, not gently, but through dust clouds, reddish brown formations gathering on the horizon. They would advance, looking innocent and colourful, then, closer, they revealed their menace and crushed the city in an embrace of grit and sand. Visibility diminished and the wind would blow and howl, churning dust and ripping loose garbage and bushes. Branches fell off trees and chicken pens were ripped apart, and hours later, when the air cleared and became fresh, there would be ripples of sand on the ground, swirls and patterns as if the desert had visited and left its tracks.

  Badr was not entitled to paid leave this summer. His contract gave him this privilege only once every two years. To go home to Egypt he would have had to finance the trip himself, and after calculating the travel expenses for himself, Haniyyah, his father and the four boys, it became clear that this was not an option. So, even with the school closed, he remained in Khartoum and Haniyyah, in the late stages of pregnancy, had to endure the Sudanese weather. When the dust storms came, they huddled in their one room, hot and restless. When it rained, and it started to rain in July, usually at dawn or at night, as if the water feared the sun, Osama, Bilal and Radwan stripped to their underpants and ran out to splash and laugh, opening their mouths up to the sky. Little Ali, toddling proficiently now, would join them – and then retreat back to cover because the rain alarmed him, and his puzzled face made them all laugh. Prayers made when it’s raining are accepted, Badr would remind his family, and he prayed that Haniyyah would have a safe and easy delivery.

  Ramadan came in the middle of the summer. Badr welcomed it and made a schedule for himself. Every day he would read a section of the Qur’an, one thirtieth or more. He would wake up a couple of hours before dawn for the tahajud prayers and at night he would go to the mosque for isha and taraweeh. At the hottest time of the day, he had a nap, and his plan was that he would spend the last ten days of Ramadan in seclusion at the mosque. He made time, too, to read his favourite books; the tafseer of Ibn Kathir, and Imam Ghazali’s The Revival of the Sciences of Religions. There were the household chores, too, for Haniyyah was becoming increasingly heavy and tired. He told her to stop fasting but she didn’t listen.

  ‘I don’t want to miss out,’ she said.

  She was involved in an exchange of dishes and drinks with their Sudanese neighbours, noting their love of sweet drinks and how they drank more than they ate when it was time to break the fast. Helu Mur and Abre, the children, sipped and made faces, but grew to like them before long and they were fascinated by the cannon that was fired from the barracks at precisely the time of the iftar. Osama and Bilal were fasting, and during the day they were quiet and thirsty, becoming boisterous and energetic after the evening meal and late into the night. This was part of the charm of Ramadan, turning day into night, treats of mixed nuts, dried apricots and dates. Badr did not begrudge his family any delicacies. Every day he went to the souq and every day Haniyyah cooked delicious meals and satisfying puddings. It was a month of plenty, and he marvelled at how rigorous it was, and at the same time buoyant; solemn, and at the same time merry, with the children playing football in the street by the light of Ramadan lanterns.

  He felt a surge of love for his family that month. Often, he would draw the boys into his arms and kiss them, enjoying their smell and childish skin. Little Ali would sit on his lap, listening and lulled as Badr recited the Qur’an, going over the suras he had memorised. He taught Osama Surat Yasin, Bilal completed Juzu’ Aama and Radwan learnt Surat Al-Borooj. This was joy; his sons loving him and wanting to please him, strong in body and in faith.

  Badr revelled, too, in the closure of the school. No need to wake up early and rush with the boys to catch the tram, no need to be punctual, no need to scurry around from one private lesson to the next, and no need to dress formally. He felt relaxed and free. At home he would wear his underwear of long johns and vest, and when he went out to the mosque or the souq he wore his jellabiya. His father, seeing him in the clothes of the Egyptian peasant, mistook him for his older brother, Abdel-Salaam.

  ‘It’s me, Badr,’ he repeated, but the old man looked at him as if he were a trickster or Abdel-Salaam trying to pull his leg.

  Abdel-Salaam had died years ago, of dysentery. If he were still alive, their father would not have needed to travel with Badr to Khartoum, he would have lived at Kafr-el-Dawar. Abdel-Salaam had been the reason Badr was able to continue his studies and go to Teachers’ College. Abdel-Salaam was the older brother who looked after the farm and followed in their father’s footsteps. He was the one who devoted his early life to family duty and gave Badr the luxury of time off for education. But humans plan, yet Allah has different plans for them.

  ‘Father, Abdel-Salaam died seven years ago,’ Badr spoke gently.

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember now,’ roused grief and fresh tears.

  How soft and small he had become. He used to be rough; he used to be strong. He used to be cheerful, too, or at least good-natured. He used to be brown from the sun; now his skin was pale from sitting in the shade all day. Badr chided himself for insisting that Abdel-Salaam had died. He was never sure whether to fix his father’s mind to the present, humour him, or just leave him to his delusions and meanderings.

  ‘Today is the middle of Ramadan, Father.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I am fasting.’

  But he was not fasting, nor was he required to. His body was too frail and his mind could not distinguish between day and night. Often he would skip meals, insisting to Haniyyah that he had already eaten, and sometimes he would demand breakfast as soon as his dish was cleared away, forgetting completely the ful he had just minutes earlier cons
umed.

  On a soft cool morning, blue grey with dawn’s rain, Badr stood in front of the construction site of the Abuzeid building. Ramadan seemed to have brought the work to a standstill and the building was far from complete. The entrance was a gaping hole, strewn with bricks and piles of sand. There were sacks of cement, wheelbarrows, and discarded spades. All of these things were soaked with rain, the ground covered in puddles. Badr counted five storeys and chose a flat for himself, the second floor on the right. Not the left, which overlooked the main road. Haniyyah would need to go out on the balcony to hang out the washing, and he did not want any man watching her. The balcony on the right was more secluded. His own flat indeed! Wishful thinking. The flat was as distant to him now as a glass of tea to his fasting lips. He smiled to himself at the likeness. He was not hungry now; the pre-dawn meal was comfortable in his lower belly, nor was he longing desperately for the flat.

  He looked at the building dispassionately, surprised that it was so incomplete. But perhaps, now that it was up, it was in the last stages, and these last stages didn’t take long. What would he know? He was an Arabic and Religious Studies teacher with a farming background.

  The guard of the building suddenly emerged from a flimsy shack which Badr hadn’t noticed. The man’s cheeks were etched with tribal scars and his eyes were bleary, as if he had just woken up. They exchanged greetings and Badr asked about the building.

  ‘Sayyid Mahmoud is away travelling, that’s why the work is on hold. He’s been away a long time. His son is ill and he took him to the land of the English for treatment.’