Lyrics Alley: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  Soraya heard Uncle Mahmoud’s gentle response, but she could not now make out his exact words. When the meeting was over and the Abuzeid brothers walked out of the office, Sister Josephine looked tired. She put her arm around Soraya’s shoulder and said, ‘Apply yourself well.’

  Soraya knew then that Sister Josephine had won, but it would not be wise to reveal any expression of glee now, because Idris was scowling and in a hurry to get to the car.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle,’ she whispered, and Mahmoud smiled at her and winked.

  The new academic year started and she was one of the handfuls of girls to enrol at Kitchener’s School of Medicine. At first she was in awe of her surroundings, of the lush, spacious lawns of the campus with their tall palm trees, and the young men who stared at her and gave her shy smiles. She had to wear her white to be every day.

  ‘Don’t even dream of taking it off,’ warned Fatma. ‘One wrong move and Father will put an end to this university business!’

  It was a miracle that Idris had agreed to let her attend in the first place. He was even dropping her off every day, driving through the main gate, right up to the quadrangle in front of the library. To become a doctor . . . It still didn’t feel real. Soraya would do her lab work and study until the small hours, but she found it hard to believe in herself. Campus gossip had it that the boys were laying bets on which of the girls would be married off and out of college by the end of the academic year. Soraya was a strong contender, but she was not the favourite. She was, it was agreed, ‘too tall’. When she heard this, she was strangely disappointed. It was not just hurt vanity or a competitive spirit, she genuinely felt bypassed. Such a reaction did not make sense, because, of course, she wanted to continue and had no intention of abandoning her studies. If she was not going to marry Nur, she told herself, she would have a vocation where she could be passionate and useful, respected and more reliant on herself.

  It was her old schoolfriend, Amal, who was voted most likely to be whisked off to the marital nest. When the two of them walked together to classes, they provoked comments on how Amal was petite and curvaceous, while Soraya was slim. It was one thing to be tall in a girls’ school and quite another matter in university. Here, she was taller than many of the male students and that was something, she realised, they didn’t like. No wonder Amal and her dimples were so widely admired. In the girls’ common room, which Soraya hated because it was the hottest, stuffiest room on campus, Amal stretched out on a bench and said, ‘We need to find you a bridegroom taller than you.’

  When Soraya was engaged to Nur, she was flawless. Now that she was available on the marriage market, her imperfections were all on display: short-sighted, loose-limbed and soon to be over-educated.

  ‘How many men,’ mused Amal, ‘are ready to marry doctors?’

  ‘Well, they could be doctors themselves . . .’ Soraya had flung off her to be and now slipped off her sandals ‘. . . or so rich and confident that no woman could threaten them. Then, of course, there are the desperate lot. Over sixty, or with a ghastly skin disease, or widowed with seven children, or deaf and dumb . . .’

  ‘Stop it!’ Amal laughed. ‘Enough! You never used to speak like that at school!’

  It was one of a number of things that had changed about Soraya. Her tongue had become coarse, her sarcasm more searing. She developed the ability to pinpoint hidden weaknesses and exaggerate obvious faults. One of their lecturers – Dr Williams – had a limp and a stutter, following a severe injury in the war. When the common room was full of girls, Soraya would mimic his clumsy walk and make fun of him. What happened to Nur had turned her sour.

  ‘I have no intention of getting married unless I’m allowed to finish my degree afterwards,’ she said to Amal, chomping through her sandwich, which was the only reason that kept her in the common room. The university might be a modern seat of learning, but the student body was traditional. Coming from an exclusive private school, the two friends hit against incredible customs, one of them being that decent girls did not eat in front of men! So while the boys enjoyed the leafy shade of the student cafeteria, the girls had to eat indoors.

  ‘My brothers are stufly, but my father’s put them in their place. He’s really eager for me to become a doctor,’ said Amal. ‘He will make finishing my degree a condition to my getting married.’

  ‘My sisters are on my side,’ said Soraya.

  She saw herself in a dress and a white coat, stethoscope around her neck, moving forwards, away from Halima and Fatma, separating from them. They would do her housework for her and look after her children while she went to work. All her future fantasies included a villa in Khartoum, modern furniture like the kind Nabilah had when she was in Umdurman, and daughters who were not circumcised. As for the head of that household, he was faceless, nameless – almost insignificant. Someone who would not insist that she wear a to be, someone who would leave her alone. Someone who would accept, if not understand, that he had committed the most unforgivable sin in her world, the sin of not being Nur Abuzeid.

  She took out of her purse the latest poem Nur had written. It was about a girl who walks towards the narrator, carrying her degree. She’s made the whole country proud, and now, with a casual glance, she ensnares the poet. Admiration beats in his heart, he describes the colour of her skin, her supple figure and how the way she walks gives him pleasure. I will never betray you. Soraya forgot that she was in the common room. She forgot that it was Tuesday, and that she had just been talking to Amal. She was inside the poem, memorising every line. Nur’s own words to her, written, by necessity, in someone else’s handwriting. She would buy a notebook with pink roses on the cover, then she would copy out all his poems in her own handwriting. She would put the date next to each poem, the date on which she received each of these precious gifts.

  On Thursday night, Nassir, in the role of the dutiful husband, took Fatma and the children to the Blue Nile Cinema. Soraya went along, too, to watch An American in Paris. She enjoyed it even more than she expected and was determined that one day, when she escaped the alleys and conventions of Umdurman, she would cut her hair short like Leslie Caron’s. Paris, with its exhilaration and appreciation of beauty – Soraya would go there, too, and on the Champs-Elysées they would approve of her tall slim figure. During the intermission, Nassir bought peanuts and ginger ale. Their box had enough seats for the children and Soraya was relieved that she did not need to sit Zeinab on her lap. However, the child came to stand next to her and said, ‘Look up, it’s a full moon!’

  ‘Did we come here to watch the sky or watch the screen?’

  She knew that Zeinab wanted the rest of her drink.

  ‘There is nothing on the screen now.’

  Zeinab reached for the bottle in Soraya’s hand.

  Soraya held on to it tight and put her mouth close to the girl’s ear.

  ‘You just had a whole one. Stop being greedy! If I give you mine, you’ll pee in your bed.’

  Zeinab looked embarrassed and moved back to her seat. Soraya laughed and raised the bottle to her lips. She caught a glimpse of the sky, the wash of clouds underneath the darkness. So much darkness made her uneasy. There was definitely a weight pushing down on the world. Misfortune was always hovering close around people’s shoulders. But she would fight it off, and keep fighting with all her might. Otherwise she would be annihilated by this nameless, all-reaching gloom which she couldn’t figure out or map. She was eager for the intermission to be over, for the colours and dance of the film to roll again.

  Afterwards, on the drive back to Umdurman, when she was going over the last scene in her head and smiling at Gene Kelly, Nassir said, ‘Let’s pass by Nur. I haven’t been to see him today.’

  This was a further treat for Soraya. It had been a whole fortnight since they had met. Fatma (and Halima when she visited) had been holding her back, and university had not left her much time or space to battle with them. Tonight, though, because it was Nassir who wanted to go, Fatma did not raise a
ny objections.

  They found Nur in his room, listening to the news on the radio. The room seemed to hold more possessions than when Soraya saw it last. The shelves were laden, not only with his sports trophies from Victoria College, but also with more books – whole volumes of poetry – and there was a new record player, too. But it was medical and nursing supplies that dominated the room, and an all-pervading smell of disinfectant. Soraya felt as if she had dropped into a different world, far removed from the Blue Nile Cinema. Nur was propped up in bed, wearing striped pyjamas, and his arms were bent at the elbow like the greater and less than signs of mathematics, facing each other. There was stubble growing on his chin and above his lips, and the sheet was pulled up to above his waist and tucked under his folded hands. He was much thinner than when she had seen him last, the skin stretching over his forehead and cheeks. There were shadows under his eyes, which lit up when he saw her and followed her movements. No one could want to take his place, no one could envy him . . . A density filled the room, lulling laughter and restraining exuberance. She wished she had stayed behind at the cinema to watch the second showing of the film. All the gaiety was there, not with him. Here the colours were deeper and richer, here the beauty was of a twisted kind. This was not going to go away. She was becoming a doctor, she should know. The human body was made for movement, and this stillness was a threat to life itself. Tears came to her eyes. Not again! They served no purpose. She must be sweet for his sake, light-hearted and entertaining. She must share the film with him, make him laugh by saying, ‘I want to cut my hair really short, a la garçon just like the actress in the film.’

  It was not because Nur was gloomy or uncommunicative that his room carried that other-worldly ambience. On the contrary, he was welcoming and friendly, with a cheerful word to each of them. Even Zeinab was given the chance to do what she liked best, which was to climb on his bed, slot a cigarette between his lips and light it up. Because Nur was socially sophisticated, and because of the genuine pleasure he took from their company, he hid from their eyes the persona of the querulous, peevish invalid. Only Soraya knew that demanding, self-centred, almost elderly Nur, in the same way a lover is aware of the naked skin hidden beneath layers of clothes.

  ‘Before the news,’ Nur said, between puffs, ‘they played a new song by Hamza Al-Naggar.’ He sounded excited. ‘It was mine! Would you believe it? Travel is the Cause. Such a surprise, I had no idea Hamza would do that. I couldn’t believe my ears. It felt so strange to hear it put to music, as if it became something else. And then the presenter said: “Lyrics by Nur Abuzeid”, in the most matter-of-fact way. My name was said on the radio!’

  They all exclaimed in delight.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Nassir. ‘And I am not moving from here until they play it again. I have to hear it.’

  They did not have to wait for long, as the song was aired immediately after the news. Hamza Al-Naggar’s celebrated voice, a gentle melody and lyrics telling a story that was intimate and completely theirs, describing feelings none of them had ever imagined would be made public. Soraya burst into tears and dashed out of the room. She collided with Waheeba, whom she clung to in the expectation that her aunt would offer a comforting shoulder to cry on, but Waheeba shoved her aside and waddled with purpose into the room. Nur, Nassir and Fatma looked up at her. Like a bird with a broken wing, sang Hamza.

  ‘What’s this?’ she gasped.

  Nassir was the one who spilled the beans. Waheeba’s face darkened. She walked forward to the radio set and twisted the knob to off. The room fell silent except for her heavy breathing.

  ‘Your father will know how to put an end to this,’ she said.

  To the youngsters’ dismay, Mahmoud met with the head of Radio Umdurman first thing in the morning and succeeded in putting a stop to any further broadcast of the song. Nassir pleaded with his father, but to no avail, and Soraya took the unprecedented step of telephoning her uncle in the office.

  ‘Nur needs this . . .’ she searched for the right word, a word an adult would understand, ‘. . . this hobby. It fills his time. Please. Let people hear his lyrics. It will make him happy.’

  ‘It’s too late, Soraya.’ He sounded impatient and busy, with the sounds of the office behind him. ‘I can’t go back on my word now.’

  ‘Please, Uncle . . .’

  ‘Look, this sort of exposure is not seeming. It is not fitting for our family’s name.’ His voice became distant as he moved the receiver away from his mouth, ‘Victor, I want you to send this telegram . . .’

  Soraya pulled out her last card. ‘If Nabilah were here, she would have been on Nur’s side. She would have approved of these broadcasts.’

  There was a click and the line went dead.

  ‘Miss,’ said the operator, ‘the gentleman has ended the call.’

  On that same night, Hamza sang Travel is the Cause on the stage of the National Theatre. Never had any of his songs been banned from the radio and his voice rang out with intensity. It was as if he was urging the audience to listen, listen well, for you might not encounter this particular, simple beauty again. Listen, because these words are new. When he finished the last line, Fly to me, come, there was a pause, like that of a surprise, before his listeners collected themselves and were on their feet applauding. Encore, encore! Such was the response in the theatre, such were the ripples it produced, that pressure mounted on Radio Umdurman to reinstate the song. And so, when gentlemen of calibre, when high-ranking officials, and men with stellar reputations in the market, pleaded with Mahmoud Abuzeid to reconsider his position, he relented.

  It was a victory. The song, unfairly imprisoned, was released and Radio Umdurman broadcast it again and again. And everyone agreed that it was Hamza Al-Naggar’s best. His popularity, already strong, was set to soar. Soraya would walk down the alley and hear snatches of Nur’s lyrics coming from the houses. She would sit up in bed and sing along with the radio. And every time she heard it, the pain decreased and the enjoyment increased. One day, in the university common room, she heard a senior girl singing a few lines. One morning, during lab, the student working next to her kept humming the tune. Fatma had stories, too, of the neighbourhood women in Umdurman realising that the lyrics were written by Waheeba’s son. Nassir’s friends wanted to meet Nur and he was more than happy to bring them for visits. Naturally, Idris was uncomfortable, while Mahmoud, after losing the battle with Radio Umdurman, wavered between embarrassment and surprise at the spreading popularity of his son’s lyrics. In general, the older generation found themselves pushed into a corner.

  A few years ago, in front of Mahmoud, Waheeba and Nabilah, Idris had torn up one of Nur’s poems and Mahmoud had urged his son to leave such frivolity and concentrate on his studies. Now their objections were defeated. Now they did not have the heart to chide Nur and found themselves gradually affecting indulgence.

  ‘Anything to keep the wretched boy diverted, anything to comfort him,’ they repeated, and in Soraya’s opinion they were wrong again. They were underestimating Nur, as if he had not suffered enough, as if he was not deprived enough.

  ‘Poor boy, whinging and making his complaints rhyme,’ they said, but Hamza Al-Naggar knew, and the listeners of Radio Umdurman knew, that these lyrics were beautiful and these words were true.

  One day on campus Soraya passed a ‘Sudan for the Sudanese’ rally and stopped to listen. The speaker was adamant in his rejection of any kind of Egyptian influence over a future, independent Sudan. He spoke with passion and serious purpose, then, as if to change tactics, he smiled and said, ‘Haven’t you heard the poet say In you Egypt is the cause of my troubles?’

  The crowd laughed and Soraya’s heart was beating hard. Even though the paraphrasing was not entirely accurate, it was impossible not to be proud. These people didn’t know that Nur was an invalid. For them all that mattered were his words.

  At home, Fatma was excited, but for another reason. She paused in the middle of stuffing a green bell pepper and
said, ‘Halima was just here with good news. You have a suitor! An excellent one, and guess who he is? Your friend Amal’s brother! His mother went over to Halima’s house to test the waters. If she senses encouragement from our part, the men will come to Father and make a formal offer. I neither encouraged her nor discouraged her – I wanted to speak to you first, before I speak to Father. Then I will answer her.’

  Soraya had been about to sit down and help her sister, but she kept standing.

  ‘Don’t even mention this to Father! Just tell Halima to tell her no. Say I want to finish my studies.’

  ‘That’s what we said to the mother of the previous suitor, and the one before him,’ Fatma snapped back. ‘This one is your friend’s brother. You must give him a chance.’

  Soraya walked to the bedroom, tossed her books on the dressing table, and took off her to be. She switched on the radio. Fatma marched in after her.

  ‘Girl, answer me!’ She was still holding the pepper in her hand.

  Soraya threw herself on the bed.

  ‘He’s not progressive enough.’

  ‘How can you say that? His sister is studying like you are. He himself has a degree and . . .’

  ‘I have specific requirements and he doesn’t meet them. I want to live in a modern villa in Khartoum, I want to travel, I want to have short hair and smoke cigarettes. I want to wear trousers!’

  Fatma gasped and sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Have you lost your mind? What kind of man is going to put up with all this?’

  ‘Exactly! So I’ll just stay as I am, then.’ She had been waiting for the song and there it was, the first familiar notes of Travel is the Cause. It was luxurious to stretch out on the clean sheets, to roll over and mouth the words. ‘Fatma, let me listen . . .’

  Her voice was low and slurred. Already she was intimate with him, in his deep, other world, caught in the pendulum of his thoughts, surrounded by the crystals of his dreams.