Lyrics Alley (5 page)

Yet she thought it, too. She made peace with Farouk, for she did not want him to go to sleep weighed down by her disapproval, a situation which usually resulted in him wetting his bed. But after she put out the lights and walked to her own bedroom, she abandoned herself to the rudeness and anxiety she had denied him. The death of her husband would mean one thing for her. A return to Cairo.

She would be the same age as her mother had been when she was widowed. Nabilah’s father had died when she was nine and her mother remarried within a year. But, if Mahmoud died, Nabilah would not need to marry again because she would have an income and an inheritance share in Mahmoud Bey’s wealth. It was obscene to follow this line of thinking, yet her mind could not help but gallop in this direction. She saw herself wearing black, boarding a plane with the children, her eyes pink from crying, her face pale, without rouge. She imagined her mother
meeting her at the airport and the drive home; the wide roads, the familiar sights and sounds. The doorman would stand up in greeting when they reached the building and carry her suitcase up the stairs. The door of the flat would be already open when they stepped out of the lift. Her mother’s maid would be there, in her long patterned dress and kerchief.

‘Alhamdullilah for your safe return, ya sett hanim.’

A feeling of shame passed through her and brought tears to her eyes. Mahmoud Bey was getting better, the English doctor had said that, and she could tell, too. There was no need for these morbid, perversely exciting thoughts. Her husband had been so generous to her, compensating for the father she had lost, for any sense of deprivation she had felt. She had experienced real joy when they were together in Cairo, the time after the wedding when their new flat was being decorated and they had stayed at his suite in the Shepheard’s Hotel. There was the evening they had gone to see Um Khalthoum in concert, the nightclubs on Pyramid Road where they would go for dinner and a show. Oh, the fun she had had, watching the belly dancer and looking around at the other tables, comparing her clothes with those of the other ladies, her hair with their hair, and always feeling good about herself. In those days she had forgotten that she had married a Sudanese. Mahmoud was light-skinned enough to pass for an Egyptian, his clothes were as modern and as elegant as any other Bey, and she was his new wife, much younger than him, but that was not uncommon.

True, he had given her a lot, and he did not want much from her in return. Not much but to bear this exile, to tolerate his family, to decorate his new mansion in Umdurman simply by being herself. She was loved and cherished, and the fact that he was already married was not really a threat. He and Hajjah Waheeba no longer lived as husband and wife, not since they moved into the saraya. He had, long before his second marriage, separated himself from Waheeba and kept his own room. He would not divorce her, though, he had made that clear from the
beginning. Waheeba was the mother of his sons and Nabilah must not feel threatened by her. Yet since he had taken ill, he had craved Hajjah Waheeba’s food. In his exhaustion, his accent had become more heavily Sudanese, and when she saw him surrounded by his concerned family, he looked so much like them, was so unmistakably one of them, that their happy years in Cairo seemed distant and illusory.

When she was sure that the children were asleep, Nabilah put on her navy blue dotted dress and combed her hair, fixing the waves with a touch of cream. She put on her lipstick and used a tiny black brush to smooth her broad eyebrows, then she studied her reflection in the mirror and felt that something was missing. A handbag. She did not really need it because she was only going from one section of the saraya to another. But she picked up her handbag anyway. It completed her look and lifted her spirits, for the cloud of illness that was hanging over the saraya was depressing. It made Nabilah want escape, and her own circle of friends and acquaintances. Of course, propriety demanded that she stay at home. Only when her husband went back to work could she leave the house to resume her social activities among the community of Egyptian ladies – the wives of the engineers who worked on the irrigation projects, the wives of embassy staff, or the few transplants like herself, married to local men.

She expected Mahmoud Bey’s guests to have gone by now. Nur had been spending each night with him, but he went and had supper at his mother’s hoash before joining his father. It would be a good time to find her husband alone. She tiptoed downstairs and out the front door, then walked across the terrace past the huge clay flowerpots and down the garden steps. In Cairo, the nights were alive with the pleasures of leisurely walks, roasted peanuts and grilled corn, people chatting and shops that stayed open late – the liveliness and light of it all. Here, the heavy indigo sky was bearing down, the stars mysterious, and the clouds unnaturally large. As she walked around the garden
to the other side of the saraya, she could hear frogs croaking and the hiss and breath of night creatures, as if this were a jungle. The huddle by the gate was a servant sleeping on a straw mat. They prayed Isha and slept as if this was the countryside not a city. In her fashionable dress and elegant high heels, she was wasted in this place, but she kept on walking to his room.

When she pushed open the door that had been slightly ajar, she saw Idris sitting on an armchair, toothpick in one hand, his face a snarl as he cleaned his teeth. He gave her his usual guarded greeting, but there was a hint of expectancy in the way he tilted his head and moved in his seat, adjusting his jellabiya. She turned towards the bed and saw the bulk of Hajjah Waheeba leaning over her husband. Mahmoud was lying on his stomach, head turned to one side, naked to the waist, and his wife was massaging his back. She was bearing down with her full weight, so that he was only able to grunt at Nabilah in recognition. She froze, not knowing what to do in the face of this unexpected intimacy. This was only her third time to be in the same room as Hajjah Waheeba. The first had been soon after her arrival in Umdurman, when many family members came round to take a good look at her. The women had made no attempts to hide their curiosity and had simply filed in, sat and stared at her, not bothering to introduce themselves or engage her in conversation. She had not even known which one of them was Hajjah Waheeba. They had all looked alike to her, these middle-aged Sudanese women swathed in to bes, their faces without make up and their hair in traditional tight braids close to the head. Later, she had come to know that Waheeba was the one with the tribal scars on her cheeks, those vertical scars that looked like cracks on a French loaf. The second time they had met, when Fatma gave birth, Nabilah took a good look at her co-wife and decided that she was neither interesting, nor worth competing with. They never exchanged words. Each avoided the other, marking her own territory, cautious and watching, as if they were assessing each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

Now Hajjah Waheeba looked up and smiled at her, a genuine smile. There was a serenity in her face, as well as a warm flush of exertion. Her to be was falling around her soft round stomach and slipping down to show her head and hennaed braids. Her large, plump hands were flat on Mahmoud’s back, pressing. There was a pinch, like a bracelet around her elbow and above that the moving fat of her upper arms. She shifted her weight and, instead of pressing down on him again, began, with her thumb and fingers, to lightly smooth and iron out the tightness of his muscles.

He could talk now, and he said to Nabilah, ‘My back has been giving me a lot of pain.’

This encouraged her to walk into the room and close the door behind her, just as Waheeba was saying to him.

‘This will release it.’

She leaned down closer, propping her right elbow on his shoulder. She began to work a particular spot as Nabilah sat down in her regular armchair. It was impossible to ignore what was happening on the bed and she and Idris sat and watched.

‘It’s here isn’t it?’

A grunt, a muffled, ‘To the left a bit.’

‘Here . . .’ Waheeba smiled.

A groan and she laughed.

‘But this is the bit you want. Be still!’ Her laugh was hearty, coming from the throat. When it trailed off, she turned to look at Nabilah and pressed her lips, ‘Of course, in Egypt they didn’t teach you how to give a massage. But I can teach you.’

‘No thank you, I don’t wish to learn.’

Waheeba smiled, as if this was the exact reply she wanted. Her voice was soft and easy.

‘And why don’t you want to learn? Don’t you want to please your husband? He brought you here to this good life and you don’t want to serve him?’

Nabilah could not think of an able put down to what sounded like an accusation of ingratitude, to the insinuation that she had
been needy or, at least, less well off before this marriage. She looked at her husband, but he turned his head so that she could not see his reaction. He did not come to her defence and, to make matters worse, Idris gave a chuckle. Nabilah looked at her husband’s back, at the black-and-white of his hair. His neck and skin were smooth with oil, glistening, and his wife’s dark hands, kneading now, her thumb moving, coaxing the sore muscles into calm suppleness. Nabilah knew she must control herself. She was well bred, she was cultivated; she must not overreact. She breathed and noticed, for the first time, Nur sitting at the desk in the far corner. He was writing in a notebook.

Mahmoud gave out a long, loud sigh of pain and Waheeba laughed in response, admonishing him to bear it. It was a laugh that was surprisingly attractive – but there is no competition, Nabilah reminded herself. How could she compete with me! She, who was obese, menopausal, illiterate. She, who had no concept of fashion or travel. She, who had never walked into a club or read a book or eaten with a knife and fork, or even been inside a hairdresser. Nabilah forced herself to smile, walked over to the desk and sat next to Nur.

‘What are you writing?’ Her voice was deliberately friendly. She was young, and she could read what her co-wife’s son had written.

‘I am making a list of all the guests who came to see Father. He asked me to do that.’

Idris called out, ‘You should write each person’s name as they come in. Now you are relying on your memory and you will miss someone out. Also, Ahmed Ismail and his son were here and I don’t know where you were – so put their names down, too.’

This negativity was typical of Idris. Nabilah did not particularly like him. He was too Sudanese for her and, unlike his brother, rarely travelled abroad. She suspected that he had been against their marriage. But Idris knew his place and knew that he could not stand against his older brother.

‘Let me see,’ she said to Nur.

He put down his pen and handed her the notebook. His handwriting was neat. A few names were in English; Graham Westman, Colonel Freddie Hewgill . . . Colonel! She felt a surge of pride that her husband moved in such high circles and that even the English went out of their way to visit him . . . Mr Wavelry, Dr McCulloch.

‘You even counted the doctor as a visitor!’ This amused her, but Nur looked at her with the same steady gaze and did not share the joke. ‘You wrote the English names in English,’ she said loudly. She could read English, too.

‘Yes. But the Armenians and Greeks I wrote in Arabic.’

There was also a list of those who sent telegrams from faraway provinces and from Cairo. Her stepfather’s name was among them – she had always addressed him as Uncle Mohsin. He was a Senior Civil Servant and a prominent member of the Wafd party. Immaculately dressed and well-spoken, he did not have any children of his own and seemed to have enjoyed a carefree bachelorhood. Not many men would take on a widow with a daughter and he was conscious of this act of charity. You are my family now, he had said to the ten-year-old Nabilah, but everything she did seemed to irritate him. She ate too much, she laughed too loud, she disturbed his siesta and tired out his household staff. Qadriyyah took her husband’s side. He was right and the girl must keep out of his way, out of his sight and hearing. Nabilah must become small, insignificant and inoffensive. She must tiptoe around the apartment, not use the bathroom for too long, not weep too loud, because, as her mother put it to her bluntly, she was a guest.

Nabilah held the notebook in her hand and turned its pages. She sensed that Nur wanted her to give it back, but the list of names was a welcome diversion. She searched for the Egyptian names she was familiar with, the husbands of her new friends.

She said to Nur, ‘In Europe and even in Cairo, some families would have a guestbook and on special occasions visitors coming
in would be asked to sign the guestbook. This guestbook would be a large, impressive album and it would be on a small table by itself.’

Nur did not seem to be interested in what she was saying. His eyes were on the notebook and when she turned a page she began to understand why. A loose sheet fell out. She picked it up and Nur’s hand instinctively reached out, but politeness made him hold back. She started to read the sheet of paper. It was a poem, written in his handwriting. A poem of love and longing, of lovers separated by place. Nabilah was not familiar with Sudanese poetry, so she could not tell whether the author was Nur or someone else.

‘Did you write this yourself?’

He hesitated before whispering, ‘No.’

‘Are you sure? I don’t believe you,’ she teased him. He was betrothed to Idris’s daughter, Soraya. They were childhood sweethearts, Nabilah had heard. Perhaps he had written the poem for her. ‘I think you wrote it. It’s nice. You have talent.’

‘A talent for what?’ Idris called out.

‘Poetry . . .’ She raised her voice, smiling at Nur. The boy was looking more uncomfortable now, more wary than ever.

From the bed, Mahmoud grunted. He turned and sat up. Hajjah Waheeba handed him his pyjama top.

‘Poetry, ya salaam!’ he said. He sounded his old self again, high-spirited, a little amused.

‘Wasting his time on this rubbish,’ Idris said.

‘Wasting his time indeed,’ said Hajjah Waheeba, as she heaved herself onto the settee.