Lyrics Alley: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  She cried that night, stiffing the sobs, not wanting her mother or the children to notice. Mahmoud had, a number of times, sent go-betweens to persuade her to return to him. They were all Egyptians, the wives of high-ranking officials in Sudan or Nabilah’s own distant relatives. None of them had touched her heart or ruffled her resolve. All of them had infuriated her by either hinting at, or pointing out, how much better off she was financially with Mahmoud, and how she had come up in the world by marrying him. They seemed to believe that, by reminding her of why she had married him in the first place, they were guiding her back to her focus. Instead, their visits left her cold, even more rebellious and determined. It was the one person he hadn’t sent who had succeeded in unsettling her.

  ‘I wish you had been in Umdurman to help me plan my wedding.’ So straightforward a sentiment. To help set up the first Egyptian-style wedding in Umdurman, a wedding like her own. This was touching. The girl had looked up to her, even though Nabilah hadn’t noticed. And why hadn’t she noticed? Because of her own prejudices, and because of the girl’s unpolished manners, the fact that she did not address Nabilah formally and wore a to be and chewed gum and laughed at the children. These were the opaque barriers. Life in Sudan would have had a meaning if Nabilah had been able to make a difference, if she had thrived as a role model, as a champion of progress, as a good influence. She could have taken a younger person’s hand and guided them. But she hadn’t . . . This was the loss that brought tears to her eyes, the loss that would define her children’s lives. She had not been able to rise and fill that leadership position. She had allowed Waheeba, the dust, the heat, the insects, the landscape and customs to defeat her. She had not fought back.

  She was softer and more receptive when the next visitor came. Again, he had not been sent by Mahmoud, again he was a surprise. The man standing at the door was his usual obsequious self, crumpled suit and fingers stained with ink.

  ‘Welcome, welcome Ustaz Badr! Children, come and see who is here to visit us.’ It was a pleasure to see Farouk and Ferial’s shining eyes, to see how eagerly they greeted their former teacher.

  Nabilah treated him with full honours. The salon was specially opened for him and the maid was instructed to offer Turkish coffee with cold water, savoury biscuits and baklava.

  ‘Are you back for good? Has your secondment come to an end?’

  ‘No, Madame. Alhamdullilah, it has been extended. I am here for the summer holidays. My family are in Kafr el-Dawar and I came specially to Cairo to see you.’

  ‘That is very kind of you.’

  ‘Madame, I am indebted to your husband. You know the terrible predicament I was in, the shameful embarrassment my cousin placed me in?’

  Of course she remembered Shukry stealing Waheeba’s gold.

  ‘We all knew you were innocent. We were sure that you had been unfairly imprisoned.’

  ‘But, God forbid, my reputation could have taken a severe blow. It is my incredible good fortune that Mahmoud Bey stood by me and vouched for my character. Not only that, but he has agreed to lease me a flat in his new building. We shall move there, Insha’ Allah, on our return. Madame, your husband is truly magnanimous.’

  She smiled and urged him to have another pastry. But Badr was focused on what he was saying, the reason he was paying this visit, circling delicately around the subject and repeating himself. How the waters must return to their natural course. How the children needed their father. How Farouk was the obvious successor to lead Abuzeid Trading, though, out of politeness, Badr neither mentioned Nur’s incapacity nor Nassir’s indolence. None of this was new to Nabilah. She had heard it all before; the need for self-sacrifice, the need for compromise, the ultimate future of the children. What was different, this time, was that she listened. Ustaz Badr was not scolding her or belittling her. He was too respectful for that. And it was as if he understood and took for granted her need for Cairo, her love for home. Umdurman was not up to her standards, but Mahmoud was excellent. Umdurman was to be endured, and Mahmoud was to be celebrated. The burden and the prize, the trial and the reward.

  And while Badr talked, a sweet memory came to her mind, distinct and sensory, even though it had been just an ordinary day, nothing unusual or special. On a winter afternoon in Umdurman, she had sat on the terrace sipping tea while Ustaz Badr was tutoring the children in the dining room. There was a soft, cool breeze and the enchanted garden of the saraya; the bone china cup in her hand and the sound of the birds. She could hear the drone of Badr’s voice, the emphatic rise and fall and the children’s squeaky replies. How amused she had been that he taught while sitting perched on the dining room chair, cross-legged and rocking from side to side as if he were still a child, memorising the Qur’an in the kuttab of his village. Afterwards, when the lesson was over, he had stood awhile, chatting to her and reporting on the children’s progress. She had enjoyed his formal politeness, his Egyptian accent sharing the news from back home. She had asked him to recommend a piano teacher for Ferial and brushed aside, yet again, his plea to remind Mahmoud of his housing problem. Normal day-to-day life in Umdurman had had its good moments after all.

  ‘Perhaps Qadriyyah Hanim could be persuaded to join you in Sudan,’ said Badr. ‘Then she would be close and you would not have any anxieties about her.’

  Or perhaps there was yet a resolution she could not see.

  ‘Thank you, Ustaz Badr.’ She saw him to the door.

  ‘Whatever for? If only I could be of any assistance to your family!’

  It was not the arguments he presented, but the memories he evoked, the confidence he inspired, and the goodness he underlined. Magnanimous and fair. Yes, that was Mahmoud. That was what her husband strove to be, in spite of the backward pull of tradition and the blows of fate. Magnanimous and fair. She should have been his support, she should have understood and appreciated better.

  Early next morning she dressed and went out into the fresh air. Here was Cairo at its best and most benign, the bustle of the streets, the cars and buses; the men and women going about their business. Alhamdullilah, she said to herself. She passed a cinema and stood at the bus stop. The bedraggled seller was still there, selling hairpins, sweets and matches. She opened her purse and bought a packet of crystal sugar for the bus journey. The lump of sugar in her mouth made her feel stable again. It was a treat, however small or modest, and this became her outing, her pleasure.

  At King Street she got off and walked towards the green curtains that were billowing in the balcony of the second floor, that green curtain that shielded her grandmother from the glare of the sun and the eyes of the neighbours. Her grandmother would approve of her resolution to return. More than approve; she would be pleased and comforted, sending her off with prayers and good wishes, reassuring her that the months would surely fly by and in no time at all it would be the summer holidays and time for Nabilah to return to Cairo once more. She quickened her pace and entered the cool shade of the building. How she loved this stone staircase and the wide, perfect circle of the gallery, spirals all the way up to the sun and sky . . . The maid opened the door for her. They were on friendly terms now, ever since Nabilah had moved to Cairo and become a frequent visitor. Nabilah strode across the hall and the sitting room to the balcony. In the green shade, her grandmother was reading the Qur’an. She closed it and put it aside before opening her arms out wide as if Nabilah was a child.

  ‘Ahlan, Ahlan, what a lovely surprise!’

  Nabilah knelt down and was enveloped in lavender and softness; that clear loving voice, saying, ‘How lovely you look, my dear. How chic and becoming!’ And because she knew very well Nabilah’s interests, she touched her sleeves and asked. ‘Is that the latest fashion?’

  It must be, for Nabilah had spent night after night at her sewing machine, to get the puffs of the sleeves just right.

  XXI

  After dropping off the basket of food at the prison and spending a few minutes with his cousin, Badr hurried away. Insha’ Allah, this
would be his last visit. Shukry’s sentence was nearly coming to an end.

  ‘As soon as they set you free, you must return to Egypt,’ Badr had urged him. ‘Spend not a single night in Khartoum. I will buy you the train ticket myself.’ Naturally, Shukry was disgruntled at that. He would return to Egypt empty-handed, but enough was enough. His sojourn in Sudan had been a failure and he had no one to blame but himself. ‘If he disobeys me this time, I will not host him,’ resolved Badr. ‘I will not bring him to my house and I will certainly not inform him of my new address.’

  My new address. Today was moving day! Today he had hired a donkey cart to move his family and their belongings to the new flat in the Abuzeid building. When he thought about it, he grew light-headed. It was really going to happen, against all the odds. Shukry’s crime had brought him closer to the attention of Mahmoud Abuzeid, who was able to see Badr as separate from Shukry. A lesser man would have held a grudge, or feared that forgiveness would make him look weak. For years Badr had prayed for that flat and chased that opportunity. There were times when he had despaired, but today he would walk up those stairs. They would all walk up these stairs, and dear, sweet Hanniyah would have a balcony from where she could sit and look down at the goings-on in the street just like a Cairo lady.

  He stepped off the tram and hurried to catch the inaugural prayer at the newly refurbished mosque. King Farouk had been funding this project for almost five years and the prayer hall smelt of paint and the fans that circled overhead were pristine and modern. Badr’s bare feet sank in the new, clean carpet. The mosque was packed and Badr could not make his way to the front rows, which were reserved for Sudanese government representatives and high-ranking officials. Naturally, there was a strong Egyptian presence, and among his compatriots Badr recognized the headmaster of his school and the Egyptian Minister. He spotted the turban of the imam who had come especially from Egypt to lead this very first prayer. Badr could not help but note the irony: this imam was the first Minister of Religious Endowment after the July revolution that had overthrown King Farouk. There was wisdom in this, a lesson to be learnt. One could put money and effort into a project and yet not be present when it comes to fruition. Furthermore, death was not the only exit. There could be ignominy – and who knows if the mosque would continue to carry the name of a deposed King? But Badr reigned in his mind from any further speculation when the imam climbed the mimbar and began the Friday sermon.

  Hanniyah was frying aubergines when he arrived home.

  ‘Are we moving or are we not?’ he shouted, but she was calm in the face of his agitation.

  ‘You must be hungry. The children certainly are.’

  She sprinkled salt on the dark aubergines, which oozed with oil.

  Badr said to the boys, ‘When you finish eating, put some clothes on. You can’t go like this.’ They were in their underwear as usual. The close proximity to the food made Badr realise that he was hungry. He started to shove bread and aubergines in his mouth. ‘The driver of the cart is not going to hang around waiting for us and he should be here any minute.’

  ‘Once the boys are ready they can stand outside and wait for him,’ said Hanniyah.

  She had accomplished a great deal since he left her this morning, packing their belongings in crates and boxes. The only things left were the kitchen supplies.

  Badr was tense because of his father; he was not sure how the old man would cope with the move. He watched now as Hanniyah fed him: bite-sized pieces and sips of water. She was efficient and matter-of-fact, treating her father-in-law as a child. Yet how remote he was, in a way in which children were never remote, as if he were asleep but still sitting straight. It chilled Badr sometimes, especially when his father suddenly spoke out, random words and incoherent expressions. It was not even worth it to sit next to him now and say, ‘Father, we are moving to a wonderful new home today.’

  He had passed that stage. Two years ago he was talking lucidly and he had recognized Shukry when he first came from Egypt. Now he was completely detached and it was even rare to hear his voice.

  Badr’s daughter toddled towards him wearing her Eid dress, which was now too small. He lifted her onto his lap and patted her thighs. She was his joy. After four boys her arrival was exquisite. Every tender feeling in him was aroused and he was more complete as a parent because of her. She babbled now, repeating ‘Baba, Baba’. He tried to feed her but she was satiated and wiggled down from his grasp, hanging on to his knees for support. She had only started walking a few months ago. Looking back, Badr remembered that he had not particularly wanted a daughter and certainly never prayed for one. Her arrival was a gift, luxurious and aromatic. A gift that humbled him and made him realise that the sweetest things in life were not necessarily what one strove for and grabbed. Instead, many many times the All-Merciful, the All-Generous would give his servants without being petitioned, without waiting to be asked. And then it would feel like how holding this little girl felt; a surprise, a dreamy blessing.

  Badr dressed his father in clean long johns and a grey jellabiya. How loose it hung on him now! This was the man who danced at his son’s wedding, twirling his cane above his head while the trumpets blared. This was the man who could wrestle two men at one go, who could swim from one side of the river to the other while holding his breath.

  ‘I always felt puny next to you, Father,’ Badr said. ‘But instead of making me feel ashamed, you took pride in my love of books. You spared nothing for my education. You did everything so that I could be the effendi in the family, so that I could wear a suit and go out to teach the children of city men.’

  His father did not respond or even look at him. He dwelt in a place where Badr’s voice was as meaningful as the meowing of a kitten. It was as if he was following an alternative narrative, sights and sounds superimposed over the reality in front of him, his very own script, which absorbed and distorted his senses. Today he could not even push his feet into his plastic slippers. That instinct of sliding one’s foot forward had gone.

  Time for the farewell scene Badr had ruefully predicted. After nagging him about moving and bitterly criticizing their housing conditions at every opportunity, Hanniyah clung to the neighbourhood women, weeping profusely as if a calamity had fallen or as if they were leaving the entire country forever. In reality, they were only transferring from the outskirts of town to the centre; a few tram stops. It would be a little further away from the school but that was a minor inconvenience.

  ‘Hurry, woman, hurry!’

  In her black outdoor abaya she looked formal and foreign. The Sudanese milling around her were in their colourful patterned to bes with bangles on their arms. Sometimes, like now, the Sudan would emphasise its African identity and assert itself as simple and rich, Negro and vibrant, flowing and deep.

  The children clambered onto the cart. Don’t count them, just say their names.

  ‘Osama, you are the one responsible for your grandfather; Bilal put that crate on your lap. Radwan hold your little sister. Ali, keep your eyes wide open and watch out in case any of our belongings fall off.’

  Now verses to ward off the evil eye. Prayers for an easy, smooth move, for prosperity in that so eagerly striven for new home. Yes, part of Badr’s tension was the fear of envy. He could jinx himself if he became exultant. But the greatest danger to come was envy from his colleagues at the school. This was what Al-Ghazali said in his Revival – that we are more likely to envy those who are similar to us, than those who are completely different. Hence, envy is more likely to occur between brothers, cousins and co-workers. This was true. Badr did not envy the rich folk whose children he taught, instead he was more likely to grudge a colleague a pay rise. The cart dipped into a pothole and they were all jolted. Badr turned to glance at his father. He seemed to be soothed by the ride. It had been remarkably easy to persuade him to climb the cart, much to Badr’s relief. Perhaps his father was aware of the donkey; after all, he could hear the clip-clop of its feet and smell its hide. Certainly
he was enjoying being in a wide-open space and the sense of movement and momentum. Hopefully, he would be persuaded to climb off the cart once they arrived!

  Their journey took them eastward, towards the English neighbourhood, though they would not reach that far. They passed the statue of Kitchener astride a horse and went down Sirdar Street. All was quiet on this Friday afternoon, and this made their progress faster. They were in a Christian neighbourhood now, and the buildings were more sophisticated, the inhabitants as light-skinned as Europeans, the women with bare arms and their hair in waves, and men who spoke with the accent of the Levant. Some were Badr’s fellow countrymen, Copts from Egypt, and one of them, a parent from the school, recognized Badr and waved.

  It didn’t embarrass Badr that he was perched on a donkey cart with his family and their motley possessions. He was busy noting that the land on which Mahmoud Bey had built his tall building had been purchased from a Christian, a cautious businessman made insecure by the advent of Independence. Khartoum was, slowly but surely, becoming Islamic. Today the opening of the new mosque, and tomorrow, once the English left, there would be others. A city with a predominant and growing Muslim population had seven churches and only two mosques – only a coloniser would impose such an imbalance! The English would go and take their street names with them – Victoria, Newbold, King and Wingate. They would carry off their statues – Gordon astride a camel and Kitchener on a horse. The cabarets, dance halls and bars that they set up would decay. The prostitution they legalised would become prohibited, and the X signs they unashamedly set up to mark the red-light districts would be pulled down. Anglo-Egyptian rule was over, the proposed union with Egypt had failed, and whatever losses his homeland would incur in the future were justified by its position as the silent partner of the Condominium, the nominal figure which mattered and didn’t matter.

  We could have done more, Badr mused. We could have spread Islam further, we could have squashed the seeds of religious deviations with more vigour, we could have nurtured and taught Arabic and enlightened. Now it was not exactly too late, but Egypt’s influence was stunted. Yet everyone, these days, was keen to stress the friendship of the two neighbouring countries, the two peoples who drank from the same Nile, and thus the decision to continue with the Egyptian Educational Mission. Badr’s secondment was secure and to be extended. The miserable night he had spent in custody had not dented his reputation nor jeopardized his employment and he had never felt so grateful in his whole life. It was his biggest, most profound relief. If he spent the rest of his life thanking Allah every minute of every day, it would not be enough. He was overwhelmed by His Lord’s mercy and generosity.