Lyrics Alley: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  The next day at college, Amal was not as forgiving.

  ‘How dare you turn down my brother? Who do you think you are?’

  Soraya was taken aback. She repeated the excuse of wanting to continue her studies and hoped that Amal would simmer down. But Amal settled into an aggrieved silence. When Soraya squeezed in to sit next to her in the biology lecture, Amal huffed and moved away. Then the following morning, when Soraya went forward for her daily hug, Amal turned away. And she continued to give her the cold shoulder. The two of them had always done things together; now the university felt awkward and lonely. The breakfast break in the girls’ common room became a punishment without Amal to share it.

  On impulse, Soraya walked over to her old school. This was a risk, for she had not taken prior permission from her father. Idris, as usual, had dropped her off at university and expected her to stay there until he picked her up in the afternoon. Besides, he would not have approved of her walking in the streets alone without a chaperone. Still, she needed to see her friend Nancy in order to complain about Amal. Nancy was now teaching at the school. She had moved seamlessly from senior student to teacher and the nuns who used to be her teachers were now her colleagues and employers.

  Soraya hovered outside the First Junior classroom, watching her friend teach Little Women. Nancy’s hair was no longer in Goldilock curls. It was in a ponytail and, with her long skirt, she looked every inch the teacher. When she saw Soraya, she smiled and came out to greet her.

  ‘I’ll be finished in ten minutes. Wait for me.’

  Soraya walked around the empty, shady courtyard. She could hear the faint drone of the teachers in the various classrooms, and the younger students chanting out their times tables. Part of the grievance against British rule, she had come to learn in university, was how they established missionary schools to undermine and lead astray the Muslim population. But Soraya felt comfortable to be here, she always had. She walked to the grotto with the statue of the Virgin Mary dressed in a flowing blue robe and a light white veil draped over her head. Mary was looking upwards. Upwards towards that expanse she understood and loved; that heaven which Soraya was afraid of. During school examinations, the Christian girls would come here to pray and perhaps, she now thought, when they had problems at home they came here, too.

  Soraya had never been spiritually inclined. Religious education always made her feel like a child trespassing into adult discourse. It was a language she did not instinctively understand. Besides, life was rich and juicy; it filled all her consciousness, leaving no space for what could come afterwards or what existed before. She did not have an imagination for angels or devils but she was now sure – after Nur’s accident – that people were governed by a will greater than their own. It was a power she was wary of – too wary to engage with, or try to understand. Instead, she closed her eyes and ploughed ahead, hoping she would dodge misfortune, trusting in good luck. Underneath her beauty and her sharp tongue, her popularity and social position, there was a spoilt child, demanding and capricious.

  Nancy laughed when she heard about Amal’s brother.

  ‘Tell Amal the truth. Explain why you rejected him.’

  ‘She would just take it as criticism. If she finds fault in her brother it is fine, but the rest of us must think he is wonderful! She is being so unfair to me.’

  Nancy fell quiet, then she said, ‘Nur is the one you love. That’s why you’re turning everyone down. If I were you, I would insist on marrying him.’

  Soraya was taken aback.

  ‘What sort of wedding would that be? How would he hold a sword in his arm while I dance, how would he stand next to me for the photograph?’

  ‘The wedding itself is just a formality, just a party,’ Nancy soothed her. ‘It’s not important.’

  But the wedding mattered to Soraya, it mattered deeply. She had her dream of more than one party, more than one celebration, traditional gold and African dancing and, on another day, a long white dress like Nabilah’s, with a veil and a train.

  ‘You will have your whole life together – the wedding itself really shouldn’t matter. So what if he is an invalid? No one is perfect.’

  This was not what Soraya wanted to hear. Suddenly she wanted to change the subject.

  ‘Tell me about your news, Nancy. Are you happy working here? You do look happy.’

  Nancy smiled and took Soraya’s arm.

  ‘Let me get you something to drink, I’m not being a good hostess, am I? Have you already said hello to Sister Josephine? She is so proud that you have gone to college.’ They walked arm in arm towards the canteen and it felt like old times. ‘I want to tell you something, something I haven’t yet told any of my friends.’ Nancy’s eyes were shining, and her grip on Soraya’s arm tightened. ‘I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, have wanted it for ages. And now it’s going to happen. I’m going to become a novice.’

  On her way out of the school, Soraya met Victor, Uncle Mahmoud’s secretary, who was picking up his daughter. The little girl had come down with fever and was being sent home. Soraya hoped he would not, later at the office, tell Idris he had seen her, but there was no guarantee. As she was walking back to the university, she stood on the pavement to watch a woman driving a car. To Soraya’s delight the lady waved and stopped her car. It was Sue Harrison, and she remembered Soraya as Mahmoud Abuzeid’s charming niece who had accompanied him to their house for last year’s Christmas party.

  ‘Let me give you a lift, unless you’re going to Umdurman. That would be too far out of my way.’

  Soraya scrambled into the car, not believing her luck. For the first time in her life she was sitting in a car driven by a lady!

  ‘I’m going back to the university.’

  She had a hundred questions to ask: about driving, about short hair, and all the time she was staring at Sue’s bare arms; how tanned she had become since arriving in Khartoum!

  Sue drove through the gates of the university and the car had to slow down because a crowd of students spilled from the lawn, onto the road. A political meeting had just broken up and the students were in a boisterous mood. Some of them were chanting.

  ‘Do you know what the occasion is?’ asked Sue.

  ‘It must be about changing the name of the university,’ Soraya remembered. ‘They told us the medical board would approve it today. The Kitchener School of Medicine and Gordon Memorial College are going to merge and have one name – the University College of Khartoum.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Sue. ‘I am fond of these Scottish names.’

  The car was almost at a standstill. Soraya could get out now, but even if she did, Sue would still have to drive through to the other gate. She now beeped her horn. A couple of young men glanced over their shoulders but did not move out of the way. Sue blew her horn again.

  Soraya felt awkward. She did not know these students personally but they were her colleagues and they were being either very slow or deliberately rude. It was true the road was crowded, but they could still be considerate and make way for the moving car. More ‘Free Sudan!’ slogans were shouted out. Usually Soraya enjoyed the rhythms and spirit of the anti-British slogans, but now she felt uneasy and Sue was becoming increasingly tense. She did not understand Arabic, but the hostile stares directed at her could not be mistaken.

  ‘I shouldn’t have driven in here,’ she said. ‘I should have known better. Nigel will certainly tick me off for this.’

  ‘Please don’t be afraid. They will go away soon,’ Soraya replied. ‘They are just happy that the university has a new name.’

  But it seemed that minor successes, instead of appeasing the pro-independence movement, had the same effect as setbacks. They put the students in a combative mood.

  One of them banged the bumper of the car. A voice called out.

  ‘Get out of our way, woman!’

  Another, angrier, shouted out, ‘What brought you here, anyway?’

  There were a few half-hearted jeers,
and the car was thumped again.

  ‘Stop it!’ Soraya leaned out of the window. ‘What are you doing? Let us pass.’ When she sensed that her words startled them, she kept on haranguing. ‘Get out of the way! You have the whole pavement to walk on!’

  One of the students recognised her and laughed out loud and it was this laugh that tipped and lightened the situation. The boys were all now craning to look at Soraya. They made way for the car, amused that she was angry. It was a sight not to be missed; how she was almost standing, halfway out of the window, gesticulating with her arms, her to be falling to reveal her long hair.

  It was a subdued Soraya who went home that day, who lay in bed staring at the ceiling, refusing to study or eat. Nancy talking about love, showing her a new dimension, an altered vision. They had always been different, Nancy nursing a stray cat or reading to a blind child, Nancy not even flinching in the company of lepers while Soraya tagged along, bored and disgusted. Today Nancy’s words had affected her deeply. They painted a scenario she had never before visualised: to be the wife of Nur Abuzeid as he was now, after the accident. To nurse him and sacrifice her youth to him, to share his life with all its challenges and limitations, to dwell with him in the twilight between illness and death . . .

  Soraya switched on the radio and heard the presenter announce another new song composed and sung by Hamza Al-Naggar, with lyrics by Nur Abuzeid. This song was more searing than Travel is the Cause; bolder and more direct. The grown-ups would not like it, not one bit. She smiled, anticipating their discontent – and Nur’s further success.

  Two days later, as she waited for her father to finish his tea and drop her off at university, he suddenly said, ‘You are not going out with me today.’

  Soraya was taken aback. ‘Why, are there demonstrations in town?’

  ‘No, I have just decided that today you stay at home.’ He sipped his tea.

  Soraya stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘I have important lectures today. Please take me.’

  He shook his head. Fatma walked into the sitting room, carrying a plate of biscuits. She placed them in front of her father and made a gesture to Soraya as if to say, ‘I will explain to you later.’

  But Soraya was defiant.

  ‘If you can’t take me, I can go with Uncle Mahmoud’s driver.’

  ‘You will do no such thing!’ He dunked a biscuit in his tea. ‘You are going to sit in this house today and not leave it.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Not a word!’ He swallowed. ‘Now get out of my face. Go to your room.’

  She got up and walked to her room. She felt too energetic to lie down, and too annoyed to change her clothes. What had got into him? Had he found out that she had visited her old school? Was it Victor, the secretary or Sue Harrison who had given her away? As soon as she heard Idris grab his car keys and walk out of the house, she went back to the sitting room. Fatma was sitting in his place, pouring herself a glass of tea. Her eyes were red and puffy.

  Soraya pounced on her.

  ‘So what’s the matter with him? Did he find out about the other day?’

  Fatma sighed. ‘Yes, of course he found out, but he didn’t say how. Can anything stay hidden? He took all his anger out on me, I can tell you! He said I wasn’t guiding and restraining you enough, that Nassir and I should be living in Uncle Mahmoud’s saraya, and that the only reason he wanted us here was that I could keep an eye on you. He said I am no substitute for Mother. Fire begets ashes, he said.’

  ‘This made you cry, didn’t it? Poor Fatma. You know it’s not true. I am so happy that you moved from Medani and that you’re living here. Please, don’t go anywhere.’

  ‘I wish he were different,’ said Fatma. ‘I wish I could talk to him about my problems with Nassir. Maybe if he had a word with Nassir, then Nassir would go out less and stop squandering his money. People borrow from him and never pay him back and he is cheated every single day, the fool that he is! People think we are rich, but I’m at my wits’ end most of the time.’

  Soraya didn’t know what to say. She put her arms around her sister. Tears rolled down Fatma’s face and she wiped them away with the edge of her to be.

  ‘This is what you stayed at home for,’ she smiled ruefully, ‘to pat me on the shoulders.’

  Soraya was jolted back to remembering her missed classes.

  ‘Father is just so unreasonable.’

  ‘He’s angry with you.’

  ‘So this is my punishment, then? House arrest?’

  She knew why her father hadn’t shouted at her or told her off. She was beneath that, not worthy to be addressed. He despised her to that extent! For years she had accepted his treatment, knowing she would one day get away from him to be Nur’s wife.

  ‘You know what I think,’ said Fatma, taking a sip of her tea. ‘It’s that new song that’s upsetting Father. He heard it again this morning and switched the radio off. The lyrics are shameless. Her ripe cheeks, her gentle lips. Your beauty keeps me up all night.’

  Soraya laughed. Just hearing Nur’s words banished all the badness and put her in a good mood.

  ‘I want to be alone with you,’ she sang.

  Fatma rolled her eyes.

  ‘And then, when Nur says she is slender like the baan tree, Father can put two and two together and of course he doesn’t like it. Especially when he worries that everyone else in Umdurman will reach the same conclusion.’

  Soraya’s eyes were shining. ‘Nur will never give my name away, and Father’s hands are tied. He won’t dare criticise Nur now!’

  ‘Yes, but it’s your honour, and our whole reputation, which is at stake.’ Fatma was serious. ‘No one must ever know that you reciprocate Nur’s feelings. That would be a scandal. That’s why you can’t take a wrong step. You have to be above suspicion. Because Nur’s lyrics aren’t confined to his room. Do you know how far Radio Umdurman’s broadcasts are reaching? People from Sinja have been phoning Uncle Mahmoud!’

  ‘Good!’ said Soraya. ‘I want everyone to hear Nur’s lyrics again and again.’

  ‘Well, then, you will have to put up with Father’s anger. Believe me, he will take out all his frustrations on you.’

  Soraya folded her arms. ‘Keeping me prisoner here won’t solve anything.’

  ‘A husband for you would solve everything,’ retorted Fatma. ‘Don’t you want to get away from Father and be the mistress of your own house?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’ That had always been the hope, the logical solution.

  ‘Tell me, apart from a handful, what have the rest of your classmates done since they left school?’

  ‘They got married.’

  ‘See? This is the natural thing. So stop being stubborn. When the next suitable suitor comes along, promise you will consider him.’ Fatma was looking at her, beseeching. ‘Promise you won’t dismiss him out of hand. Soraya, you have to look to the future in a different way.’

  She knew. At last she knew.

  ‘I promise,’ she said, and wondered who he would be.

  A few days later, on the first cool evening of the season, the two sisters walked down the alley to Waheeba’s hoash. It was the first time Soraya had gone out since Idris sentenced her to house arrest, but a plea for help from their aunt had made Fatma relent. Besides, she did not want to walk all alone in the dark. Nur was inundated with guests, Waheeba had said on the telephone.

  ‘I must serve them dinner and you must come and help.’

  They found their aunt and the other women screened from Nur and his guests by several green wooden screens with a lattice design. The coal stoves were lit and Waheeba was sitting on a stool in front of a large pot of boiling oil, shaping each piece of ta’miyyah in her palm and throwing it in. She was pleased to see the two sisters.

  ‘Who are all these guests?’ Soraya tried to peer through the screen.

  ‘How do I know, my child? They are all strangers. Ever since these songs have gone out on the radio, we’ve had men coming a
nd going.’

  ‘You will need to have a separate entrance for them,’ said Fatma scooping, with a long ladle, those pieces of falafel that were now a crunchy brown.

  ‘I will talk to your uncle,’ said Waheeba. ‘Nur needs more space now – not only his own entrance, but also a diwan, so that we’re not so cramped here.

  Soraya edged closer to the screen. If she pressed her face close, she could see the whole of the men’s gathering. She put on her glasses and saw Nur propped up on his bed at the head of a large circle. One of the men was holding an oud on his lap and an elderly man was reciting a poem from a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. She listened to the words, and when he finished, the comments of the others held her attention. She heard Nur’s voice. It came to her clearer than anyone else’s. She liked the look on his face; serious and happy, totally engaged. Some of the men spoke more than others, and some were quietly smoking. She saw Zaki come close to Nur and hold up a glass of water to his lips. Nassir walked in and shook hands all around, touching his brother’s elbow before taking a seat. Zaki passed round a tray full of glasses of water. Following a comment made by Nassir, the gentleman with the oud began to play and sing. It was a traditional folk song and the others nodded their heads with the melody.

  When Zaki came over to the women’s area to refill the water jugs, Soraya called him over.

  ‘Tell me who is who,’ she whispered.

  They ducked down together, for she had found a spot on the screen where several segments of wood were missing and that gave her a wider range of vision.

  ‘Most of them,’ said Zaki with authority, ‘are from the Poets’ Syndicate.’ He named a few names, some of which Soraya recognised. These distinguished poets, when they performed at the university, packed whole lecture halls, and now they were sitting casually in Nur’s hoash!

  ‘The one sitting right next to Nur,’ continued Zaki, ‘is his friend from Victoria College. Everyone calls him Tuf Tuf, but that’s not his real name.’

  Soraya smiled and took a closer look at Nur’s friend. He was sitting with his legs crossed, the back of his hand rubbing against his chin as if checking for stubble.