Lyrics Alley: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  ‘But where else could I have gone? I don’t have any money.’

  ‘Shut up! Shut up and we’ll talk in the morning.’

  He left him, knowing he would be unable to continue the conversation without seriously abusing the youth. Again! Again they would have to put up with his presence until he found a job!

  He went inside the room to find Haniyyah. She was lying on her side on the floor, facing the wall and crying. The room was hot, even though the window was open. Moonlight came in, but not enough air. He knelt next to her. She was perspiring and swollen, her belly nestled on the floor, her beautiful hair, her beautiful skin, her cracked feet and callused hands.

  ‘Come on, girl, don’t be silly. You’re not going to be upset over what a daft old man said.’ He kissed her cheek and rubbed her arm. She wept, her fists pushing into her mouth. He stroked her hair. It smelt of Naboulsi soap. ‘Come on, stop crying. No one believes anything he says. He’s lost his mind.’

  Her distress oozed into him despite his emphatic words. He stretched out and lay behind her, his stomach pressed against her buttocks. Her skin smelled of cloves, sweat and cooking.

  ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ Her voice was muffled and broken. ‘I swear by Allah. I swear . . .’

  ‘I know, I know. You don’t need to say anything.’

  He felt queasy and angry. She was hurting him with these affirmations of innocence. At the core of every man was a dormant distrust, a fear that his woman, wayward and tricky, clever and teasing, could deceive him with ease. Badr did not want to inflame his own jealousy, to admit that his father’s words had shaken him, even though he knew they were untrue. He must stand by her now, must not let her down.

  ‘You’re a silly girl, you are,’ he made himself say. He tried to sound light and calm; he gave her hips a playful squeeze. ‘You’re a silly girl to worry over such a thing.’

  ‘I heard the knocking at the door,’ she said between sobs. ‘Uncle Hajj was awake but the boys were asleep. I started to wake up Osama. I said to him, Osama go see who is at the door, but he was fast asleep. He wouldn’t move and I felt sorry for him. Poor boy, he’s been fasting all day in the heat. I went myself to open the door and your father followed me.’ Her voice broke and she took a gulp of air. ‘He didn’t recognise your cousin at all and he started abusing and hitting me. I got frightened and came here in the room.’

  Badr experienced a blankness of mind, a stillness in which the only sound he could hear was her weeping. He must get rid of Shukry; either by finding him a job with accommodation or sending him back to Egypt. Enough was enough. I could have killed him, my own flesh and blood, in my own house. I could have killed him and ruined my own life, but for the grace of God.

  ‘Come on, girl, stop this fussing. It’s not good for your condition. Come on, turn over and give me a smile. For my sake, if I am truly dear to you.’

  He sensed that his words were making an impact on her. Her sobs halted, she gave a small hiccup and rolled round to face him. Her round, taut stomach was between them. Her face was red and her lips were swollen. He bent and kissed her neck and she buried her face in his shoulder.

  ‘He will be staying here again? For how long?’

  Oh, the anguish in her voice. It made him realise that this wretched house was her centre, her every day and every night. While he went out and invigorated himself with school, souq and mosque, she was home all the time and he had not been able to fulfil her dreams of a balcony, privacy, an apartment up a flight of stairs.

  She was whispering to herself now, drowsy almost, but too roused to fall asleep.

  ‘Why, Uncle Hajj? How can you say this about me, your daughter-in-law? How?’

  It moved Badr to see her dispirited. Even the pain of childbirth had not crushed her like this. Simple, good-natured woman, her honour precious to her – why must she suffer like this? Why, my Lord?

  XI

  She loved Christmas, its gaiety and difference. She knew it from the English novels she read – snow, mistletoe and evergreen – but she also had access to the Sudan version through her Christian schoolfriends. Every year on Christmas day, with a gift in her hand, Soraya visited Nancy in Khartoum. Her Uncle Mahmoud took her, because Nancy’s father was his friend and Mahmoud always visited his Christian friends, one by one, on Christmas Day, in the same way that they visited him in Eid. He would leave Soraya at Nancy’s house, do his rounds, and then pick her up several hours later. Nancy’s mother was Armenian and her father Irish and she often complained to Soraya about the hostility her parents’ marriage encountered from their respective communities, but Nancy’s house was always crowded and happy on Christmas Day, and Aunty Valeria was so glamorous and fulfilled that Soraya never took her friend’s complaints seriously. This was Christmas in Khartoum: perfect weather, cool enough for a cardigan, peals of laughter, the cake with white icing, the tree with golden baubles and silver fairy dust. Then Father Christmas, his face puckered in the midst of cotton wool, his black belt suppressing the red pillow of his belly, his amazing black boots and sack in which he carried a gift for Soraya, too. When she was young, she was thrilled with the wrapped gift, and when she was older and could guess Santa’s true identity, the occasion was delightful and amusing. Standing back, watching Nancy’s younger brothers and their friends, aware of her cosmopolitan surroundings, being in the same room as boys her age, animated and happy to be in a party, as if this was what she was born for, she lost her Umdurman bashfulness and was drawn out by a phrase or a smile, to be her real self in public – witty, generous, and with a capacity for enjoyment that generated the equivalent in others and drew them towards her.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t come to the bazaar?’ Nancy faced her in the school yard. Both of them were in their short-sleeved white blouses and the low V-neck of the navy pinafore that marked them as senior girls. It was mid-December, and the air was cool and made school feel clean. ‘It’s on Sunday, this Sunday!’ Nancy had plucked the hair from over her lips for the very first time and the area was red. It made her look aggrieved. ‘We always go together to the Christmas Bazaar at Clergy House. Everyone goes!’ This was another characteristic of Christmas, the anticipation, the build-up. ‘And I will be in the choir.’ Nancy wasn’t giving up. She was an only girl and strong-willed. ‘You said you would hear me sing. You promised.’

  Soraya reached out and nudged one of Nancy’s ringlets; thick golden-brown, just like the pictures of Goldilocks. The curls bounced over her fingers then sprang upwards again. Nancy had beautiful hair, just like her mother. Aunty Valeria’s, though, was a deep, dark brown. Aunty Valeria wore glasses and still looked glamorous; her eyebrows and lips like those of a cinema star.

  ‘Answer me,’ said Nancy. ‘Don’t you want to buy things from the bazaar?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Secondhand books and magazines were the most popular items on sale, almost as popular as the cakes and knitwear. Soraya usually bought as many novels as she could, and a few copies of Vogue and Women’s World. She would be almost breathless as she surveyed the tables where the books were laid out, and choosing absorbed her to the extent that she forgot her surroundings. She would pick up the books whose covers she liked, flick the pages, look closely at the illustrations if any, and then discover that the stack she was carrying was too heavy. Time to trim her purchases – and that would vex her, for she must make the right choice. To discard a potentially wonderful novel would be a significant loss and, who knows, it might never come her way again. After she paid for her pile, she would experience a feeling of peace, an awareness of the plenty she was carrying. Often she would sit on the steps and start reading a novel while waiting for the car to pick her up.

  ‘So why can’t you come?’

  They were standing in front of their classroom, under the little statue of the Madonna carrying baby Jesus. The figures were moulded on the wall itself, in a small alcove high above the white walls and the large blue shutters of the classrooms. It
was shady in this part of the school and in the summer this dimness was a haven of coolness. Now, Soraya put her arms in the sleeves of her cardigan.

  ‘Sunday is a good day to visit Nur. All the men are at the office and when I go to him in the morning, he is usually alone.’

  ‘It’s just one Sunday out of a thousand Sundays,’ insisted Nancy. ‘You’ll feel wretched if you miss the bazaar.’

  ‘Well, how does he feel missing out on everything?’ She sounded sharper than she felt. The anger, heavy within her, was not yet fully aroused.

  Nancy, who was kind and tender, who nursed her puppy when he was sick and adopted stray cats, said, ‘How hard it must be for him! Can he not come to our house on Christmas Day? He can be carried in the car and then he can lie on the sofa and be part of the celebrations.’

  Soraya was touched.

  ‘Thank you, Nancy.’ She hugged her friend and felt the questions within her start to stir. How could the world go on as if nothing had happened? As if nothing happened to Nur? ‘I will tell him that you invited him. It would be wonderful if he could come to your house. He’s been back from London a month and he’s never been out! He’s been lying in the hoash day and night.’

  ‘He’s not getting better, is he?’ Nancy’s voice was soft and her heavy eyebrows knitted. She put her arm around Soraya’s shoulder. ‘My mother said he is going to be bedridden all his life.’

  Soraya jerked herself away.

  ‘What does your mother know? Is she a doctor?’ Her voice rose, ‘Of course he’s going to get better! If anyone breaks their arms or legs it takes months for them to mend. So it’s the same for his neck and back. The doctors in London wanted him to stay much much longer than three months, but Uncle Mahmoud brought him back straight after the operation. Sometimes, Nancy, you say stupid things.’

  A few girls turned their heads to look at them. Soraya turned away from Nancy. While Nur was in London, she had fretted and every day walked over to Aunt Waheeba’s hoash to wait for news.

  ‘Why doesn’t he write to me?’ she had whined, and remembering that he couldn’t made her feel even worse. There had been anxiety over the operation, wild hope that he would become as perfect as he was before, joy that he was, at last, on his way back home, relief to see his smile again and hear his voice, then the horrible, unspoken disappointment. But it was treachery to lose hope, to say these things that Nancy and her mother were saying. Soraya needed to believe. People stayed in bed and got up again. So would he. She walked into the sunshine and the girls who were skipping rope.

  ‘I’ll join you,’ she said to them, and they nodded, the two girls turning the long rope to slap the sandy floor.

  Soraya watched the rope, raised her arm, and the moment before the rope rose up in the air, she lunged in, jumped right in time and picked up the rhythm. Confident now, she skipped from one end of the rope to the other. It was a green plastic rope, the kind used for hanging out the clothes. It brushed against Soraya’s hair.

  ‘Higher,’ she called out.

  ‘You’re the one who’s too tall!’ came the reply.

  ‘Helena! Helena, come and skip with me,’ Soraya called out to the tallest Southern girl in the school. Helena was playing netball. She turned and waved.

  ‘Come and annoy these two who are saying I am too tall!’

  It felt funny to call out and skip at the same time. She and Helena sat next to each other at the back of the classroom, both of them too tall for the front-row desks, where they would block out the blackboard for the other girls. Helena was a good four inches taller than Soraya, with a perfect posture and a long, beautiful neck. She was athletic, too, and took playing netball during the break seriously. So it was Amal, petite and vivacious, who joined in the skipping, and the two of them started to pass each other, coming closer then moving apart, facing the group who had gathered to watch them, then twirling to give them their backs.

  Amal and Soraya held hands, jumping simultaneously until one of them missed the beat; the rope thudded to the ground and didn’t come up again.

  ‘Again,’ said Amal.

  ‘No, I want to drink.’

  Soraya took off her cardigan and walked with Amal to the zeer. She dipped the tin mug in the water and lifted it to drink and then let water wash over her face. Cool water over her eyes, her hot cheeks, her dry lips. She filled the mug and drank again, feeling the water touching her teeth, rolling on her tongue and down her throat. She gulped; the courtyard was a blur of navy, white, and beige sand, the clamour of the girls, their laughter and the thud of the ball on the cement of the court.

  ‘I want to invite you to my sister’s wedding,’ said Amal, a little out of breath from skipping. She had dimples in her cheeks, which deepened even when she was talking normally and not smiling. ‘It’s next week. You must come every day. Also, if you come to our house today, after school, you could help her practise her dancing.’

  Soraya’s eyes shone; there was nothing more exciting than a bride learning to dance, to watch her practise, to listen to the advice she was given by recently married women, to watch a new step demonstrated. Soraya would absorb it all, and when it was time for her wedding she would dance better than any other bride. The whole of Khartoum and Umdurman would talk about her.

  Buoyed by the after-school outing that awaited her, she sought out Nancy to apologise and make amends. She found her with the bell in her hands.

  ‘You know how much I admire your mother, but Aunty Valeria is wrong about Nur. He is going to get better.’

  Nancy looked confused.

  ‘Look, I have to go and ring the bell.’

  She moved away and Soraya called after her.

  ‘Give us a few more minutes!’

  She was joking, but Nancy didn’t smile. She just turned and called back.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Standing in the middle of the hallway overlooking the courtyard, her strong, hairy arms lifted the heavy bell and shook it. The clamour made Soraya put her hands over her ears. Nancy’s expression was resolute, her lips pressed together, her legs hip-distance apart. She was serious and responsible, which was why Sister Josephine had charged her with ringing the bell. Soraya might be better at her studies, but she would have cheated with that bell, added a few minutes to the break, sent everyone home a little bit earlier.

  There was Sister Josephine now, her habit billowing behind her as she swept down the hallway ushering the girls from the yard to line up in front of their classrooms.

  ‘Soraya, where are your spectacles?’

  ‘In my bag, Sister.’

  She fell in step with her teacher and noted the dark hair escaping from Sister Josephine’s habit. She was definitely not bald, whatever anyone else said. Just had short, unkempt hair. And she would never marry and have children. She would stay as she was; a virgin, celibate. It seemed too cruel to contemplate, but it was true, and it was her choice, too. Sister Josephine did not inspire pity, but she made Soraya feel privileged. She was going to get married; she was going to have a bride’s trousseau, she was going to experience a man’s love and a man’s body.

  ‘Take care of your spectacles, Soraya. I’m pleased that you are now seeing the blackboard clearly, because I can’t have you sitting in the front row! Besides, you have external examinations at the end of the school year. You must do well so that you can go to university.’

  University. It sounded distant and awesome.

  ‘Do you think they will accept me, Sister?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sister Josephine said without a smile. ‘You and Amal are our strongest science contenders. Perhaps you can be accepted into medicine.’

  Ambition stirred in Soraya. It would swell and take hold.

  ‘But my father,’ she began.

  ‘Oh, I knew he would eventually relent about the spectacles,’ Sister Josephine interrupted. ‘Now you have no excuse. Work hard, my girl!’

  Soraya started to explain that Idris didn’t even know she was wearing glasses, that she h
ad got them secretly in Alexandria, but Sister Josephine was away, rounding up the rest of the girls. The yard started to empty and it was the halls that were now crowded with navy and white.

  It was as if every girl in the neighbourhood was in Amal’s housh to watch the bride practise her dance routine. When Soraya walked in, the dallooka was already beating. There was the smell of sandalwood and perfume, the joyful lyrics of the song, and the breathless, expectant atmosphere of parties yet to come. Then ululations would break out and dates and sweets would be tossed in the air for the guests to catch. Soraya remembered Nur, lying propped up in bed listening to the radio. She remembered her vow not to attend any celebrations until he recovered. But this was only a practice session; she would not come to the wedding party. She would keep away. Now all eyes were on Amal’s sister, standing in the middle of the gathering. Bare feet on the palm-fibre mat, she arched her back, swaying from side to side, and her neck was tilted so that her chin pointed to the sky. This was the difficult Neck dance, with all the movements concentrated on the chest and head. Reaching up and, again like a bird, craning in stylised slow motion to peck at a fruit dangling from the branch above. All the dances were designed to mimic the movement of birds, arms held back like wings, spine curved, breasts pushed out and upwards in seduction and pride.

  In Soraya’s assessment, this bride-to-be was doing well, stretching out with her chin further and further away. She could arch her back more and perhaps with practice she would become more flexible. Every day now, until the wedding, she would be wrapped in a blanket and hunched over the smouldering fire for the ‘smoke treatment’. The herbs and perfumed wood would not only beautify her skin, but the heat would make her back muscles toned and supple.

  Soraya found a better place to sit, just as the bride stopped dancing and covered her face with her hands. The dallooka ceased. In the wedding, with the bridegroom in attendance, she would continue to stand, covering her face until he moved each hand away, revealing her face with its closed eyelids and the gold ring on her nose. In some families the bride danced naked, with nothing but a belt around her waist, the bridegroom holding onto it as she moved and swayed, her skin glistening with oil and every part of her body in full view. But neither Soraya nor Amal’s families supported such tribal customs.