Lyrics Alley: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  Nabilah grabbed each of her children by the hand and tottered out of the hoash. The floor was uneven underneath her, not the smooth surface needed for her high-heeled sandals.

  ‘Who is Zeinab?’ Ferial asked, as Nabilah tucked her into bed.

  She felt great tenderness towards her daughter tonight. Ferial was clearly and irrevocably a piece of her, though vulnerable and somewhat contaminated by Sudanese blood. This made her imperfect, in need of guidance and rescue.

  ‘Zeinab is the daughter of your half-brother, Nassir. Her mother, Fatma, is your cousin, Uncle Idris’s daughter.

  ‘So Zeinab is my niece and I am her aunt.’

  ‘Yes.’ She kissed her cheek.

  ‘So she should call me Aunty.’ Ferial giggled.

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she is the same age as you, and because they don’t respect titles here. Now go to sleep. Enough of this, enough of them for one day.’

  Yet Nabilah did not leave. She stretched out and lay next to her daughter, smelling her hair and the talcum powder on her neck. Ferial’s breathing became steadier. She was falling asleep, happy because her mother was close. How trusting she was! Everything Nabilah told her she would believe, every place she would take her, she would go. A surge of love filled Nabilah. There were only two people in the world she loved equally and as much as her children; her mother and grandmother in Cairo. She ached to tell them about her visit to Waheeba, to rally them to her side. Her words would rouse their indignation. How lonely she was, how far away from home. She could tell Mahmoud all that happened today and he would not sympathise. ‘Women bickering,’ he would say, or something along those lines.

  Last summer in Cairo her grandmother had reproached her.

  ‘Why don’t you love your husband? Why is your heart hard towards him?’

  It was not hard any more. Seeing him struggle to help Nur, seeing him weep at the hospital in London, had softened Nabilah. She felt sorry for him, that rich, powerful man who could not buy a cure for his son. She fell in love with his vulnerability, his chivalry and eagerness to succeed. London drew them together, those three months in the Ritz that might well be the happiest period of their marriage. Free from their respective countries, the two of them became buoyant; they turned to face each other unrestricted by the demands of Egyptian versus Sudanese culture, equalised on imperial soil. Charming London, atmospheric London, solid and looking forward; it made them a couple, a ‘Mr and Mrs’, as was the English expression. This brought out the best in Nabilah, and she returned to Umdurman with high hopes, resolved to tolerate the Sudanese side of her husband. His marriage to Waheeba and his closeness to Idris was a shell, she decided, unrelated to his true progressive personality, the one she had discovered in London and cherished.

  For this reason, Nabilah brushed aside the incident at Waheeba’s hoash and deliberately belittled the antagonism that increasingly wafted from her co-wife’s side. Waheeba would never forgive her for usurping her rightful place by Nur’s bedside in London and there was nothing Nabilah could do about that. She had obeyed Mahmoud, and he was the important one. How could Waheeba ever be a true rival? How could Nabilah’s position ever be threatened when Mahmoud publicly and privately, in no uncertain terms, favoured his younger wife?

  The news from Egypt distracted Nabilah, too, funnelling from the public sphere to the private. In Suez, Mahmoud told her, the English commander, besieged by guerrilla fighters, demanded that the Egyptian police and paramilitary officers lay down their arms and leave the city. Of course they refused! How could they not? They were punished with open fire and the numbers killed appalled the whole country. Then Cairo burning, places she had visited; the downtown that held memories – Groppi, Cinema Metro, shops and businesses with foreign connections – were targeted in retaliation for the massacre at the Canal Zone. Nabilah did not have to strain or go out of her way to get the news, Mahmoud always had the latest developments, and he was as avid as she was, if not more. Dispatches of a more personal matter reached her through her mother’s letters. Nabilah’s stepfather had lost his job. His party, the Wafd, had fallen out of favour. There had been a government shake-up and Uncle Mohsin was summoned to stand before the Purge Committee, accused of corruption and pensioned off.

  ‘He is sitting at home,’ wrote Qadriyyah. ‘He doesn’t know what to do with himself. We go for walks or he meets his friends in the café. I do my best to amuse and distract him but I cannot compensate him. He is pining for his old job and highly irritable most of the time. No one knows how long this crisis will last.’

  When Nabilah showed Mahmoud this letter he said, ‘Let them come here. The travel will do them good and I can find your Uncle Mohsin a position in Khartoum.’

  Nabilah was overjoyed. She flung her arms around him and thanked him in a gush of words and kisses that made him laugh. Her mother here! In the same country! Nabilah’s life would be enhanced, it would be shared, and the loneliness so long inside her would finally be cured. Such joy and optimism! She set out immediately to redecorate the guest room, with new beds, new curtains and a fresh layer of paint on the wall.

  There was, too, another dimension to Nabilah’s excitement. Her mother had never visited her before. This would be the first time. Now Nabilah would see her own Umdurman life through Qadriyyah’s eyes. Her position as Mahmoud Bey’s wife would be inspected and assessed. Now that he was intent on helping her stepfather, Nabilah felt honoured to have such a powerful, generous husband. But what about other things? She was never quite certain whether she was in an enviable position, or a wretched one. She wanted, naturally, to be in an enviable position; that was what she aspired to, that was what she worked for from morning to night. But a side of her felt that she had been wronged, that her marriage was unjust, hastily arranged, even a mistake. Qadriyyah’s visit would lay the matter to rest. Her mother would be the judge.

  Walking down the steps of the airplane, both her mother and stepfather looked considerably older and less steady. It was not only the fatigue of the journey; Uncle Mohsin was tired from deep within. His once athletic body seemed frail, and over the next few weeks he was often absent-minded, as if he could not stop mulling over the upheaval that Egypt was going through, the demise of his party and the rise of his adversaries. Qadriyyah was solicitous towards him, engineering every situation to meet his comfort, possessive about his new fragility and mindful of his new prospects in Sudan. It was not the situation Nabilah had envisaged. She wanted her mother’s full attention, more intimacy, more analysis, but she hid her disappointment even from herself and threw herself into the role of the perfect hostess.

  Mahmoud gave a dinner party for his in-laws to which every high-ranking Egyptian official, including the Minister, was invited. There was a picnic in the Abuzeid ranch in Kadaro, and another in Burri, where they sat under the trees in a charming boathouse overlooking the Blue Nile. Qadriyyah met all of Nabilah’s friends, and she visited the children’s school and studied every corner of the saraya. A visit to Nur was scheduled as part of the visitors’ itinerary because Qadriyyah and Mohsin felt that they could not possibly be in Sudan, in the adjacent house, without visiting their host’s invalid son. Mahmoud accompanied them himself, and they made a substantial party: Mohsin and Qadriyyah, Mahmoud and Nabilah with their children.

  It was the first time the Cairo couple had seen a traditional Sudanese hoash, and although Waheeba was their hostess, she remained a silent figure in the background. She stared at the visitors, but apart from exchanging simple greetings, said nothing. Nur was in good form, sitting propped up and chatty. He seemed to enjoy seeing new faces and hearing all the news from Cairo. He charmed his half-brother and sister, whom he rarely saw, and, in general, showed himself to be a witty conversationalist. Nabilah felt a surge of fondness for him. They had become close, in London, and she missed him when they returned to Umdurman. But Waheeba was a barrier in their relationship. Nur’s loyalty to his mother made him
keep Nabilah at a distance, and Nabilah’s need to avoid Waheeba’s hoash prevented her from visiting him.

  Afterwards, on the way home, Ferial whispered to her mother, ‘Hajjah Waheeba pinched my shoulder.’

  ‘Maybe she was just being playful.’ Nabilah held the children at arm’s length these days. She was straining, instead, to have her mother all to herself.

  ‘No, she was being nasty. She’s a beast!’

  ‘Shush. Don’t be rude about grown-ups.’ But Nabilah’s reprimand was mild. She was eager to hear Qadriyyah’s assessment of Mahmoud’s first wife.

  They talked that night, staying up late on the terrace after Uncle Mohsin had gone to bed and Mahmoud left for a dinner engagement in Khartoum. By Sudanese standards the night was cool, but both women were in summer nightgowns, enjoying the breeze, the slight chill in the air and the heavy disc of the moon. It was the talk Nabilah had ached for, and it started with Nur.

  Qadriyyah said, ‘They treat him very casually, I couldn’t help but notice. That little girl, Zeinab, climbed onto his bed and slotted a cigarette in his mouth!’

  Nabilah laughed. ‘He never used to smoke in front of his father, now he has no qualms.’

  ‘But it’s in such poor taste for a child to light cigarettes! And is he always surrounded by all and sundry? Invalids need their peace and quiet.’

  ‘I told them this, and they said he loves company. They are spoiling him. It took months for them to realise that he can read on his own if someone turns the pages for him, and it’s only now that they’re using the wheelchair! In London the doctors stressed the importance of independence, but his mother wants him waited upon. No wonder he has his ups and downs!’

  ‘Poor boy! Your Uncle Mohsin said to me, “When I see the tragedy of others, my own seems small in comparison”. He is not himself at all. Mahmoud Bey is going out of his way to secure him a suitable position here, but Mohsin is not interested.’

  Nabilah did not want the conversation to drift yet again to her stepfather. She spoke sharply, ‘What did you think of Waheeba, Mama?’

  ‘She is nothing next to you, of course. Your fingernail is more valuable than the whole of her. Everyone knows this, and Mahmoud Bey more than anyone else.’

  ‘So why doesn’t he divorce her?’

  ‘Oh Nabilah,’ Qadriyyah sighed, ‘you should not even think about her. She doesn’t threaten you in any way. She will come round, you’ll see. She will be on your side, eager to serve you and your children.’

  ‘But it is not only her that is the problem. It’s the whole country!’

  ‘Don’t start again. Don’t start complaining.’

  ‘I just want to know what you think, now that you are here, seeing my life and my house for the first time. Is this what you imagined when you married me to him?’

  Qadriyyah lit a cigarette and inhaled. She was bringing her attention round to a serious subject.

  ‘When I saw Mahmoud Bey for the first time,’ she began, ‘I saw an Egyptian man wearing a suit and a fez, speaking as we do. He was a little dark, but not too dark, and he was in his prime. We heard that he was wealthy, that he was well-known, and that he had been received by the King. All positive credentials. Yes, he was married and he had grown-up sons – he didn’t hide these facts – but he was no longer living with Waheeba, and no bridegroom is perfect.’

  ‘Didn’t I have other options?’

  ‘Oh, you did. A pretty girl like you had her suitors, but they were all young and struggling. No one could compete with Mahmoud. No one could match him. I didn’t hesitate, Nabilah, not once.’

  ‘You didn’t care that I would be so far away? You didn’t care that I would be alone?’

  Qadriyyah sounded defensive. ‘I did not think of this country, Sudan. I did not visualise it. For me it was like a southern province, an extension of Egypt. And Mahmoud is not a foreigner.’

  ‘He is, Mama. He loves Egypt, but he is Sudanese.’

  ‘But that’s not how I saw him first. His automobile, his accent, his favourite dishes – he was one of us. And if he was truly Sudanese, he would want you to dress in a to be like every other Sudanese woman. He would insist that Farouk and Ferial speak with a Sudanese accent. But he doesn’t!’

  ‘When he was ill, he spoke all the time with a Sudanese accent.’ Tears welled up in Nabilah’s eyes, but she held them in check. ‘At work, he is inseparable from Idris, and I am sure he loves Nassir and Nur more than he loves Farouk and Ferial!’

  ‘Nonsense, Nabilah. He doesn’t deny you or your children anything.’

  ‘Oh I used to be more confident,’ she admitted. ‘He hardly ever used to visit Waheeba, and at the mention of her name he would make all sorts of expressions of disgust. But now, every day, every single day, he is at her hoash!’

  ‘To visit his invalid son,’ argued Qadriyyah. ‘He goes there for Nur, not for Waheeba.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Nabilah. ‘It’s the accident that changed the situation, to her advantage. The other day I went to see her and she frightened me. I am afraid she might harm me or the children.’

  ‘Well, you made a mistake that day. You should not have gone to see her alone. Mahmoud Bey should have accompanied you. In his presence she would not dare say a word against you. Look how she was today, a shadow in the background, as unobtrusive as a servant!’

  ‘You are right, Mama.’ Nabilah smiled and kissed her mother.

  ‘Remember how contented you were in the early years of your marriage when you were living in Cairo? And last summer, when you were together in London. Keep your husband close to you, my girl.’ Qadriyyah stood up to retire to bed. ‘No one, no matter how wicked or clever, would be able to drive a wedge between you.’

  When Mahmoud came home, Nabilah was sitting up in bed reading a magazine.

  ‘Look what I got for you,’ he laughed.

  It was a small black top hat. He sat next to her on the bed and took out his lighter. She put the magazine down and prepared herself for one of those party tricks he was so fond of. He set light to the top of the hat, and out slithered a black snake. She squealed when the warm rubber caressed her neck. The snake’s skin felt real and its length increased.

  ‘Take it away from me!’ She was breathless and flustered, but it was precisely her agitation that Mahmoud was enjoying, the excitement in her eyes and voice. He laughed out loud when she crawled to the other end of the bed, silk nightdress riding up her thighs.

  After bidding Qadriyyah and Mohsin farewell at the airport, Mahmoud remained in Khartoum on business and Nabilah set off with the driver back to Umdurman. She found the separation from her mother even more painful than she had expected, and immediately began to count the months until summer when it would be her turn to travel with the children to Cairo. Although Mahmoud had secured more than one position for Uncle Mohsin, her stepfather had turned them all down. He was unable to pull himself away from Cairo and was too weary, he said, to start afresh. It was a severe disappointment to Nabilah and she had to content herself with Qadriyyah’s gratitude that the couple had, at least, gained an intermission from the political climate in Egypt and enjoyed a rejuvenating change.

  Just before the bridge, the car thudded to a halt and broke Nabilah’s reverie. The problem was a punctured tyre And she had to stand in the sun while the driver replaced the wheel. In Cairo there would be a vender selling cool drinks, there would be other ladies walking about and she would entertain herself by studying their dresses, hairstyles and shoes. There would be buses and trams. There would be, at the very least, a bit of shade. But here it was nothing stretching out into nothing. It was a harsh country, a harsh climate. She took her compact out of her handbag and powdered her nose.

  Subdued and thirsty, she returned home and headed straight for the ice box. As she was getting herself a cold glass of water, Farouk came running in.

  ‘Ferial’s hurt,’ he said.

  ‘Did she hurt herself playing in the garden?’

  Before he could
reply she turned to see Batool and the nanny carrying Ferial into the room. It was strange to see Batool here. Usually, she never came to this side of the saraya and was constantly with Waheeba. This raised Nabilah’s suspicions. Ferial looked dazed and in shock and she was wrapped in a light cotton sheet. The nanny and Batool laid her down on the sofa and Batool put a pillow under her head.

  ‘What happened? What have you done to her, Batool?’ Nabilah knelt next to Ferial. ‘What’s wrong, my darling, what’s hurting you?’

  Tears ran down the girl’s face and Nabilah’s anxiety rose.

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’

  Ferial’s face was unharmed, no bruises. Her arms were fine. She pulled away the sheet.

  ‘She’s been circumcised,’ Batool said. ‘Today was Zeinab’s circumcision and Aunt Waheeba said Ferial should be circumcised, too.’

  At first Nabilah’s mind couldn’t absorb this information. She stared at her daughter. Under the sheet, Ferial was naked from the waist down. The wound was raw, fresh, the soft vulnerable folds removed, and in their place, the flesh stitched up. Nabilah cried out. It was as if her own body had been punctured, her insides sucked out.

  ‘Farouk, go to your room,’ she whispered.

  He must not see his sister like this. She gathered her strength to stand up and face Batool. She slapped her. She hit her once, twice with all her fury. Batool screamed. She raised her arms to shield herself and her to be collapsed.

  ‘Why are you hitting me? Didn’t you know? I thought they told you!’

  ‘Liar!’ shouted Nabilah. ‘How dare you! How dare you touch my child!’

  She grabbed Batool’s long braids and pushed her against the wall.

  Batool let out a wail.

  ‘You are cruel, cruel. You hate me, but I am just a poor girl. I was just doing as I was told.’