The wazira, a jolly, hefty woman, started to talk about the fall.
‘On the day of the wedding, we’ll see if that bridegroom of yours is paying attention or not.’ The girls laughed. ‘You must reach the ground before he catches you. Then we will jeer at him and you would have scored a point. So take him unawares, don’t give him any sign. Dance as you will, and then abruptly let go and fall to the ground.’
The girls started talking among themselves. Most bridegrooms were dazed and easily tricked. But there were sharp and quick men, who would be sensitive to the faintest facial expression, watchful for the slightest shift in movement so that they would reach out and grab their bride just in the nick of time. If the bride succeeded in reaching the ground, she would be covered in a large, bright coloured cloth and there would be a pause in the dancing. Soraya imagined herself enveloped in this silk, unable to see. Nur would remove it, fold it and put it on his shoulder. Only then would she stand up to dance again.
But now the beat of the dallooka quickened and Amal was pulling her to the centre of the circle. This was the energetic dance Soraya excelled in, and the bride could do well to learn from her. First position, both hands covering her face, and then she removed one and left the other. Arching her back, but not too much, because the focus of this dance was on the hips. She pushed her right buttock out while shifting her feet on the rug, heels pressed hard on the ground. Pulsing, quivering, flicking her behind . . . In her own wedding – when Nur got better – she would be in a sleeveless red dress, her head covered in gold, coins on her forehead, kohl in her eyes, a bracelet high on her arm, henna on her hands and feet. She would swing her braids, which, on that day, would be extended with fine black silk, made long enough to almost touch the back of her knees. Nur would stand tall in front of her, a sword in his hand, his eyes watching her every movement, her supple back, her breasts and bare arms. She would heave towards him, again and again, wanting him and offering herself. Don’t take your eyes off me. Catch me when I fall . . .
‘There is no reason why you can’t go to both the wedding and the bazaar,’ said Fatma. ‘Actually, we are obliged to return Amal’s invitation because, remember, she came to my wedding.’
‘She and her mother came to see Nur when he returned,’ added Soraya.
She had taken to dividing people into two camps; those who came to visit Nur, and those who didn’t. The first group were true comrades. The second earned themselves a place on her black list. She shunned them, and had no qualms talking about why she shunned them. Girls she had been friendly with found their greetings unreturned because they and their families had not paid their respects to Nur Abuzeid. Soraya had self-righteously recorded every visitor when Nur first arrived from London, those first days when the saraya was as busy as it had been the previous year, when Uncle Mahmoud was ill. At that time, Fatma and Nassir had come especially from Medani. This time they moved permanently to Umdurman, and were now living with Idris. Nassir said he would not leave his brother.
‘Nur needs his family and friends around him. We must not leave him alone to brood and become sad.’
Soraya approved of Nassir’s stance, and she was delighted with Fatma’s presence; her sister and the children all with her, under one roof.
Now Fatma said, as she bent down to cut her toenails, ‘We can’t sit in Aunt Waheeba’s hoash day and night any more, waiting for people to call on us. Everyone did already. People were gracious to the extreme.’
‘Not all of them!’ Malice shot from Soraya’s heart towards those negligent ones. She had no forgiveness.
‘Most of them,’ said Fatma, emphatically. ‘We really can’t complain. Now we need to go out and fulfil our social obligations.’
‘I don’t have the inclination to go to a wedding.’ Soraya, lying on the opposite bed, was staring up at the ceiling. ‘No celebration feels right while Nur is ill.’
She had forgone her birthday last month, so there was no party, no gathering of girls and no cake from Papa Costa’s. Such a contrast to last year, on her sixteenth birthday, when she invited all her friends from school and Uncle Mahmoud hired a magician who proved himself to be the most marvellous of entertainers.
The sound of the scissors ceased, and she sensed Fatma looking at her.
‘Soraya, there is nothing we can do more for Nur. We are with him, we keep him company, but Nassir has to go to the office, you have to go to school and Nur’s friends are either studying or working.’
‘I know all this,’ said Soraya. ‘But I’m still not convinced that I should go to Amal’s house.’
Fatma took a big breath.
‘Batool is going to be married next month. We need to prepare for her wedding. So you see in Nur’s household itself—’
Soraya sat up. ‘I don’t believe you!’
Fatma sighed and turned her attention back to her toenails. She was pregnant, but it was early days and her stomach was not big enough to prevent her from bending over.
‘Yes, it’s confirmed. Uncle Mahmoud wants a good wedding for her. He is marrying her to one of his office boys, and Aunt Waheeba promised her a full trousseau, from a double bed to a sewing needle. Batool is delighted, and so are her parents who will be coming especially from Sinja for the celebrations.’
‘I will have nothing to do with this!’ Soraya folded her arms across her chest. ‘The wedding needs to be postponed till Nur is better.’
‘Aunt Waheeba is not happy, either, but she has no choice. Uncle Mahmoud has already given his word. Besides, Batool is like a daughter to Aunt Waheeba and we are not in mourning. There is no justification for denying the girl her happiness.’
‘I will not take part,’ repeated Soraya.
‘Batool would be heartbroken if you keep away. She will think it is because she is a poor relation.’
‘Don’t be silly. I love her, and I have always treated her like a sister.’
‘Well, then, you have to stand by her at her happy hour.’
Soraya frowned. ‘And where is Nur going to go while the hoash throbs with wedding celebrations? How is he going to feel?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Fatma. ‘And I can’t argue with you forever.’ She put the scissors on the side-table and stretched out on the bed. ‘I am tired today. I am really not well and oh, the pain in my back.’
‘You shouldn’t have been hunched over like that.’ Soraya was still in a combative mood. ‘I would have cut your nails for you if you’d asked.’
Fatma didn’t reply. She looked queasy, and later that night, before Nassir returned from his evening outing, she woke the whole household with her cries of pain. Only when she expelled her four-month-old foetus, did the pain finally cease.
It was a frightening experience for Soraya, even though she was shielded from seeing the worst of it. Halima came over promptly and took over the situation, and Idris stayed awake and was uncharacteristically tender and helpful to his daughters. For a long time he had resisted installing a telephone, but now it proved to be valuable. In addition to summoning the midwife, the telephone also conveyed the news to Nassir. He came home, drunk as usual but still able to absorb the shock and console his wife.
The following day Soraya stayed home from school. It felt odd to see Fatma lying in bed ill. It felt odd that now everyone visited them in their hoash instead of Aunt Waheeba’s. The news spread. Fatma has had a miscarriage. Nassir Abuzeid’s wife miscarried. Uncle Mahmoud stopped by on his way to the office and Nabilah came later on in the morning, in a new frock, on her way to coffee with the Egyptian Minister’s wife. The neighbours trooped in and out. One brought soup and another a jug of fresh orange juice. Batool came over and stayed to help with serving the guests. Every woman relation was gathered, and yet, when Soraya saw Waheeba walking in, she cried, ‘How could you leave Nur alone, Aunty!’
‘Girl, on a day like this I have to be with my son’s wife. How can I not?’
She had not set foot outside her hoash since Nur returned from London, w
ould not leave his side for any occasion or obligation. Which is why it shocked Soraya to see her. And Waheeba did not just come for a quick, dutiful visit; instead, she stretched out on the bed perpendicular to Fatma’s and made herself comfortable. Soraya overheard the women gossip about Waheeba, as she handed them out glasses of tea. They were whispering, ‘It’s good that she has finally started to go out. Now that she has visited Fatma, she will visit others as well.’
These words scorched Soraya. She wanted her aunt to be always with Nur. Life should not be normal until Nur was standing on his feet again.
At night, she was woken by Fatma’s heavy movements in the bathroom and Halima’s voice checking on her. Batool was spending the night with them to help with the children and she left her bed, next to Soraya’s, and went to fetch water for Fatma. They were all indoors because it was too cold to sleep outside. In the darkness, Soraya remembered that she had not congratulated Batool on her engagement. She should have, but there was a bad feeling, a grudge incubating inside her. It was uncharacteristic of her to be ungenerous, and she herself felt uncomfortable, unused to these new feelings that were lodged in her stomach like an undigested meal. She drifted back to sleep and, before she was even deeply asleep, the nightmare came back.
In the twilight between illusion and sleep, an evil pocket claimed her with authority and strength. The pocket held her snug, caught up in a single, jumbled thought, churning with no release; situations, conversations and dilemmas repeating themselves with no outlet or resolution. The sides of the pocket, meaty and crimson, prodded and squashed her. She was pinned down, unable to move her legs, unable to wave her arms, like the day she was six years old, when she was tricked with sweets and new clothes before the slash and tear of the midwife’s knife.
Fear made her scream. Then she could turn over, she could move. The sounds of sobs from the next bed were real. Fatma was crying out for her mother, the mother Soraya could not remember. Yumma, Yumma. Soraya cried about Nur, not understanding why he wasn’t getting better, or why the accident happened in the first place. Stand up, Nur! Run and play football again. Hold a book in your hands. Write with a pen. Go to poetry readings and debates, which girls can’t attend, and come back and tell me about them.
His voice was clear on the telephone, surprising and precious. She knew it was him, straight away. He knew it was her, straight away. He said her name and she forgot last night’s bad dreams, forgot even that he was ill. She forgot the accident and the hospital in Alexandria, the months he went to London and left her all alone. She smiled and said, ‘This is the first time ever that we’ve spoken on the phone.’
‘It’s good that my Uncle Idris finally relented and installed one.’
‘We must be the last house in the country to be connected.’
He laughed. ‘You are exaggerating. But yes, Idris Abuzeid is a conservative man.’
‘But believe it or not, Nur . . .’ She spoke quickly. They would not have privacy for long, someone or another, family members, guest or a servant, would come in and bring the conversation to an end. ‘Today, of course, I didn’t go to school, and my father surprisingly said, “You must go tomorrow. You can’t miss too many days of school.” ‘She mimicked her father’s voice, his coarse accent.
Nur chuckled. He, too, adopted her father’s accent to do an even better impersonation.
‘My daughter, I have become an enlightened man. Education is a priority. We are on the brink of a new dawn of self-determination and independent rule. I read this in the papers.’
She giggled. ‘Does he read the papers?’ The hostility to her father was always around the corner, ready to pounce.
‘Soraya, my dear you are being too harsh.’
She liked him saying ‘My dear.’ It softened her.
‘I miss you so much and there is no way I can come and see you. I can’t leave Fatma.’
‘I know. How is she now?’
‘She’s fine. The doctor came to see her and said not to worry. Is that why you telephoned, to ask about Fatma?’
‘Of course, she’s my sister-in-law. If I could, I would have come to see her. Tell her I was asking after her.’
She put her hand on her hips.
‘And here I am thinking you called to speak to me.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, I want to complain that I don’t see you enough. And when I do, you sit all quiet and not inclined to chat.’
‘Only because we’re never alone. You are always surrounded by visitors.’
She felt a sense of urgency, a fear that if her father overheard this conversation, he would be furious.
‘I get bored when I’m alone.’ Nur’s voice was higher, thinner.
‘Soon you will get better.’ Her voice didn’t waver, it trilled with confidence. ‘While we’re speaking now, a scientist in America is in his laboratory working out a cure for you. I just know it.’
She sensed him snatch the hope she was offering, his unspoken thanks.
‘An American scientist, you think?’
‘Yes, Nur.’
‘He would look like Errol Flynn?’
‘Oh no! He would be bald and grumpy but exceedingly clever.’
‘He would have a degree from Harvard?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Come and see me.’
‘I will. As soon as I can.’
‘Soraya . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Every song I hear on the radio reminds me of you.’
When the euphoria of that conversation subsided, she repeated his words to herself time and again, treasuring the memory of his warm voice, the hint of a smile, the lilt and playfulness with which he had said her name. After she hummed the tunes he had hummed and dwelt on the lyrics he had quoted, she asked herself, ‘Who dialled our number for him? Who held the receiver to his ear while he talked?’
Someone else had done all that, she realised, another pair of hands, another’s body, another’s movements. One of the servants did all that.
She turned to novels for comfort. Nancy brought her a selection from the Christmas bazaar and Soraya would make sure her father was out of the house, then safely put on her glasses and lie down in bed to read. Outside, she could hear the distant sound of a radio and Fatma talking to the servants. She was back on her feet now and getting stronger every day. Soraya propped another pillow under her head. She took a bite off her pink mawlid doll, from the cone-like base; it was as sweet as candy floss. Of course, Soraya had refused to attend the celebration for the Prophet’s birthday; the colourful tent that was erected in the square behind Uncle Mahmoud’s saraya, where horses pranced and singers chanted, but she could not resist the traditional mawlid doll, with its colourful paper-tissue dress and its delicious body made of solid pink candy. She read while chewing. Lorna Doone, Rebecca, Liza of Lambeth, Emma and The Woman in White – these she all enjoyed, but a novel about a woman whose husband returned crippled from the war, disturbed her. She abandoned it, but then went back to it, fascinated and, at the same time, repelled. She wanted happy endings, she wanted things to work out, she wanted Fate to comply with human desires.
She heard her father’s voice and her blood froze. Fear made her unable to move. As he opened the door she sprang up, shocked that he was home from the office so early.
‘What are you doing?’ He stood in his long jellabiya, his eyes wide, incredulous. ‘What’s this? You’re wearing glasses! Who do you think you are?’
He walked forward and slapped her. The glasses crashed to the floor. She screamed and covered her face.
‘Do I have no say in this house?’ Idris bellowed. ‘I forbade you from wearing glasses, which means no wearing glasses. Can you hear me?’ He hit her again, a blow that landed on her shoulder.
‘Yes, I can hear you. Yes!’ she bawled.
Pain throbbed on the side of her head and that other, inner pain, that she was of no worth, insignificant, dirty and small.
‘Keep silent! I don’t want to hear your voi
ce.’ His voice was level now, as if he had rid himself of most of his anger.
Fatma hurried into the room. She did not need to ask any questions, but stood helplessly at the door with her hands down her sides. Soraya could not see the expression on her face. Her vision was blurred. She couldn’t see where the glasses had fallen.
‘Do you think you are a boy? Answer me!’ He gripped her arm.
‘No. No I don’t think that.’ Her voice was flat. ‘These glasses are especially designed for women.’
‘Keep quiet, Soraya. Enough,’ said Fatma coming closer.
‘You dare defy me?’ His face was close to hers now and the spit that flew from his mouth smacked her forehead.
It occurred to Soraya that he would forbid her from going to school, that any minute now the penalty would fall. But Fatma’s presence must have restrained him. He turned to her and said,
‘You, her older sister, should guide her, instead of leaving her to do what she likes.’
‘I will, Father.’ She gently pulled Soraya away from him.
He walked out of the room hissing, ‘You disgust me!’
‘You disgust me, too,’ Soraya mumbled to herself.
She ignored Fatma’s platitudes and refused to cry. She picked up her glasses; one of the lenses was broken and she still refused to cry. She checked her face in the mirror to make sure there were no marks, bruises or cuts, then she curled up in bed and closed her eyes. Fatma sat next to her and stroked her arm.
‘Don’t worry about the glasses, Nassir will get them fixed. In the meantime, wear the pair Nur got you, we still have them. Didn’t you realise that with all the strikes this week, he’s been leaving work early? Today the police had to break up a demonstration with tear-gas. Gordon’s College’s been closed and the shopkeepers are afraid to open for fear of looting. And it’s good father didn’t confiscate your book; you can finish reading it later.’
Lyrics Alley: A Novel Page 16