Minaret: A Novel Read online

  `Yes.' He blushes and lifts his hand to touch the handle of Mai's pushchair, lets it drop.

  `I meant, how did you picture the ceremony itself?'

  `Oh I don't know. I don't know how people go about getting married. You could have found out, asked around.'

  'Sure,' I say, `I can find out.'

  `You're teasing me again, aren't you?' He is hostile now, like I have gone too far.

  We can't talk any more. We go through the motions of taking Mai to the playground. In the cafeteria, he sulks and refuses to eat cake or drink tea.

  Twenty-nine

  oesn't his sister suspect anything?' She hugs the cushion on her lap. It is amber and round, worn out by the children and overnight guests who use it as a pillow.

  No, I don't think so. Maybe there is nothing to suspect. Maybe you're overreacting.'

  `I'm not. He has a crush on you.' Shahinaz has a soft voice when she's at hone. She changes when she closes the front door behind her, when she takes off her coat and pulls off her headscarf. She relaxes and becomes gentle, off-guard. It makes her more beautiful now at home than at the Eid party with the make-up and shimmering clothes. Maybe this is how it should be.

  it will wear out,' I say. `It'll pass.' This is what I'm doing; waiting for the day he will outgrow me, heading towards it like death.

  And between now and then?'

  `I'll he careful. Nothing will go wrong.' But I am standing hack and watching, watching how his attachment to me will play itself out.

  She sighs and takes a sip of her tea. Her children are asleep, her husband is upstairs, her mother-in-law is moving about in the kitchen. I like being with a family, even these fleeting visits, these temporary sounds and smells. `I wish we were living centuries ago and, instead of just working for Tamer's family, I would he their slave.'

  She makes a face. You mean Concubine.'

  `There would he advantages in that.'

  She shakes her head. `I can't believe you're saying this. No one in their right mind wants to be a slave.'

  So I don't tell her of my fantasies. My involvement in his wedding to a young suitable girl who knows him less than I do. She will mother children who spend more time with me ...

  `Look,' she says, `I know you regard him as a kid brother but does he know that? Maybe you should tell him.'

  `I can't because it's not true.'

  I watch the realization settle on her face. She blushes and I feel ashamed. She says, When I think of a man I admire, he would have to know more than me, he older than me. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to look up to him. And you can't marry a man you don't look up to. Otherwise how can you listen to him or let him guide you?'

  I don't have anything to say. I stare down at my hands, my warped self and distorted desires. I would like to be his family's concubine, like something out of The Arahlanz Nights, with life-long security and a sense of belonging. But I must settle for freedom in this modern time. Shahinaz envies me sometimes, when her husband, children and mother-in-law weigh her down, when she has no room to herself, no time to herself, she envies the empty spaces around me.

  She puts away the cushion she has been cradling. `So many times I've introduced you to prospective bridegrooms and every time you said, "I can't feel anything towards him." Now suddenly you've changed!'

  The impatience in her voice makes me clam up, the way she mimicked me. I feel myself slowly shutting down. She says, `It's not going to work out, Najwa. His parents will never agree.'

  I take a deep breath. It is as if the room is too small, too warm. It is time to change the subject, to talk about her, to ask about the course she has applied to. It is the right tactic because she beams and says, `Yes, I heard from them. They've accepted me.' She stands up and moves to the mantelpiece, opens a drawer and comes back with the letter of acceptance. She shows it to me proudly. It is from the same university Tamer attends. I think of him with the burden of studying a subject he doesn't like, and her with her enthusiasm. She is going to be a mature student. Every day she will go to class and after three years she will get a degree. It is an old wish, a hankering she had had ever since she got married, and then one baby after another dampened her hopes, kept her at home. `Sohayl is supportive,' she says. He wants me to study. He filled the application form for me.'

  I am touched by her life, how it moves forward, pulses and springs. There is no fragmentation, nothing stunted or wedged. I circle hack, I regress; the past doesn't let go. It might as well be a malfunction, a scene repeating itself, a scratched vinyl record, a stutter.

  Thirty

  he next day stretches out long and crackling, after a night of disjointed sleep. Lamya is having a party. Perhaps it is her birthday. She doesn't tell me. Instead she says she is going to the hairdresser and lists all the things I have to do, from filling little dishes with nuts and crisps to borrowing extra chairs from the neighbours. Tamer disapproves of the party and grumbles when I ask him to help with the chairs. 'I can't bear her friends,' he says, giving me an injured look. I apologize for the way I teased him yesterday at the park. I speak as we heave the sofa from one side of the room to the other. My apology sounds careless as if I am desperate to get it out of the way. 'It's OK,' he says, but he doesn't look at me. He is still cross. He pushes the armchair against the wall. It has little wheels and we need not have carried it. I nearly stumble over Mai who is excited by all the changes. She screams, 'Juice, juice.' Her day must go on as normal, her needs must be met.

  Tamer spends the morning shut up in his room, studying for his exams. I would have liked him to come out more often, to help me look after Mai. At noon I take him coffee and sandwiches. He is softer then and says, 'I'm sorry I'm in a had mood - it's this silly party!' I suggest that he goes out to avoid it. `Yeah, maybe I should,' he says but I know that he won't, partly because he is lazy and partly because he is enjoying his disapproval of his sister and her friends.

  In the afternoon Lamya returns with fluffy hair and a carrier hag with Knightsbridge and a designer's name written on it. She lifts a dress out of the bag, shaking away the white tissues clinging to it. The dress is lovely, a crisp red taffeta. She is excited and rushes to Tamer's room to show him. I pick up the sheets of tissue from the floor, come across the receipt and gasp when I see the price. It stays with me, that breathing in, that sharpness in my gut. The catering arrives from a Lebanese restaurant; large oblong trays covered with aluminium foil. In the kitchen I peel the foil back and my mouth waters when I see the kubeibab, when I smell the stuffed vine leaves, samosas, puff pastry filled with feta cheese. Tamer starts to help himself with Lamya saying, `Keep away from the food,' and he insisting that he is making his picks discreetly, not to mess up the arrangement. `Those friends of yours won't eat, believe me,' he says with his mouth full.

  `It's none of your business.' She is kneeling on the ground, searching for something at the back of the cupboard, `It's not right. No one offers guests food that's been touched.'

  `Who cares!' He reaches out for the ketchup. Our eyes meet and he smiles. He has forgotten about yesterday, we are friends again.

  She says, `You've always been a slob. Bet you haven't had a shower today.' He is still in the pyjama trousers and T-shirt he sleeps in.

  He makes a face. `Actually I haven't.'

  She fetches out a silver tray. `Then go have one now. I don't want you in the shower when they're here. I want both bathrooms clean and dry before they arrive.' She looks at me and I nod. Mai toddles into the kitchen, puts her arms around her mother. I finish wiping the glasses. They are talking as if I am not here. All their lives they've had servants, and my presence does not make them uncomfortable. I know what it feels like to have silent figures moving in the background, reassuring, always getting the work done.

  He says, `It's had enough I have to be locked up in my room all evening, now you're saying I can't use the bathroom.' She frowns back and untangles .Mai's arms from around her neck. The child is clingy today, disturbed by all the changes.
There is no time to take her to the park. I polish the tray and start arranging the set of glasses. The tray reflects my white headscarf, my dark sullen eyes, wide because he is in the same room as me.

  `Where did the thermos go?' She turns from the cupboard to look at me and I stiffen. I don't like her voice when she asks me such questions, as if she is accusing me. Perhaps I am paranoid. Before I reply, she turns to Tamer. `You took it with you back in Ramadan when you did the seclusion at the mosque.'

  `Yes,' he says. `I left it there.'

  `What do you mean you left it there?' She bangs the cupboard shut.

  He is evasive, turns his eyes to rest on me. `I just did.'

  `You gave it away to someone, didn't you?'

  I can tell from his face that she has guessed right. She is shrewd.

  He shrugs. `It's just a thermos. We can get another one.'

  `It's too late now, look at the time! I wanted to use it instead of the teapot. I don't know how you can do that, just hand things over. They probably took advantage of you in that mosque - an idiot with money, that's what you are!'

  `Lamya . . .' His face is red and I slip out of the room, because he would not want me to see him stammering. From the sitting room, I can hear them quarrelling. Their voices aren't loud but I can hear her desire to hurt and his to rebel. This rebellion is half-formed, half-baked; it lacks a focus and a goal.

  The curtains are drawn, the doorbell rings and it all starts. The guests are Sudanese and Arab girls in their twenties, wearing the same type of clothes as Lamya, the same makeup. I guess that Tamer is right and they will only peck at the food. They manage to look both slim and satiated at the same time. But it is quite unfair of him not to like these girls. They look like they come from decent homes. They're all studying so they must be clever and some of them, beyond the designer clothes and hairdos, are genuinely pretty. I pass around a tray with glasses of cola and orange. One of the girls, her hair in a short bob, makes a comment about the boycott, asks me about the brand of the drink. She leans forward to listen to my answer because my voice is low and around us there is much chatter, the occasional shriek of laughter. She gives me a tight smile, takes the orange and leans back. I like the way she is hogging the best armchair, sitting back relaxed while others are sitting up straight in dining chairs. Now why can't Tamer fall in love with a girl like that? I must tell him about her. On my way to answer the doorbell I catch her name; Bushra. Yes, he will do well with a girl named Bushra. Into the room flow more sparkling guests, an older bunch this time, a young mother who kisses Mai and admires her dress, tells her she has a daughter exactly the same age.

  A blast of music, hectic drumming; modern Arab songs are loud and irritatingly monotonous, the beat nags and tantalizes. Jerky rhythms clash with lyrics of reproach and loss. The message is one of futility; we are to sing our failures loud and clear and still clap and jerk our hips. I must make sure that every guest is served at least one drink. I must pick up the empty glasses and return them unharmed to the kitchen. If one of them smashes, Lamya will he furious, not because of the loss but because of the inconvenient scattering of glass, the disruption. She is dancing now, striking in her new dress, her hair done up. There is something geometric and simple about her figure, the bland way she moves her hips. A quality is missing from her movements but I can't pinpoint it. She smiles and bends down to say something to the two English girls, sitting side by side. They wear dark mini-skirts and hold their glasses tight in their hands. They look slightly bewildered, ruffled by culture shock, yet they do not exchange whispers and comments but remain separate as if they must experience this evening alone. One of them has straight red hair - she reminds me of the Duchess of York.

  The lady who has a daughter Mai's age asks me to make her a cup of tea. She addresses me in English and I suspect that she has a Filipina maid and has become used to speaking to maids in English. It's bothersome to make her tea. The thermos would have been useful as Lamya said. Now I have to scramble to find the best teapot, fill the sugar bowl. In the kitchen, I can still make out the songs. They excite me; it's a bubbling shallow excitement. Lamya strides in. We need more chairs!' She grabs two of the kitchen chairs and carries them out saying, `Bring the other two and if later we need more we can use the one in Tamer's room.' He won't like it; he won't like us taking the chair he is sitting on. I wonder if he can hear the music, the attractive laughter. I follow her with the remaining kitchen chairs and return to fetch the tea tray.

  I must keep an eye on Mai. She has lost interest in the dancing and is getting bored. She sidles up to a dish of pistachios and knocks it down. It falls unharmed on the carpet. She sits on the floor in the middle of the scatter of nuts. I rush to sort things out, scold her but she is unperturbed and walks off. When Bushra reaches out for her hand, she is responsive and smiling. They look nice together, curled up in the armchair, Mai playing with the straps of Bushra's handbag, their heads close together. Their hair is the same colour but one's is curly and the other one's straight. Bushra looks up when the latest Amr Diab song starts to play. She joins in the clapping, mouthing the lyrics. Tamer should see her like this.

  The doorbell rings and it is Lamya who opens the door for the latecomer, I am too far away. I hear her shriek with laughter, followed by the others in the room. I look up and see a girl in hijab, wearing exactly what I wear when I go out, a beige headscarf, a floor-length skirt and a short coat that doesn't reach the knees. I don't understand why everyone is laughing. The girl looks familiar, like one of Iny friends at the mosque. She starts to take off her coat, removes her headscarf, loosens her curly hair. When she throws her headscarf across the room and everyone shrieks I am sure something is wrong. Her smile and her gestures are theatrical; everyone is looking at her. She starts to dance and the music is just right for her cheeky smile, her glittering eyes. The centre of the room is all hers now and she is moving slowly as if doing a striptease, unbuttoning her blouse to peals of laughter, untwisting her wrap-around skirt. I laugh too as if laughter is contagious. They clap for her in time with the music. She is now in a black sleeveless dress, silky like a negligee. A red sash is tossed towards her; she ties it round her hips and dances across the room, triumphant. The party will be remembered for this. Lamya is all delight and laughter. She leans towards the Duchess of York. `We don't make fun of our religion, but just today, just once today.'

  I have to tell him. I have to be with him. The lady has finished her tea and gestures for me to take her cup away but I ignore her. The doorbell rings and I ignore it. To walk down the corridor to his room is to move from yellow gaiety to mellowness, calm and cool like the first moments of sleep. I push open the door and he is at his desk, twiddling his hair. He turns round and smiles and I am laughing and telling him how they all knew it was a joke from the beginning, from when she walked in wearing hijab and I was the silly one crouched on the floor picking up pistachio nuts, looking up and seeing a familiar figure, thinking it is like one of my friends at the mosque. I laugh and say, `Would you believe it, for them the hijab is a fancy dress!'

  He doesn't laugh with me. He gets up from his desk and says, `This is terrible. This is wrong; they shouldn't do that. I'm sorry, Najwa. You must he upset, you must he offended.'

  `Oh no,' I say, `they are just young girls. Just young girls playing, they don't mean anything, I can even dance better than them. It's nothing personal against me. I am nothing to them, nothing. I don't matter ...'

  `Stop It.' He puts his hands on my shoulders and he shakes me a little. His eyes are solemn, clear and I see goodness in them. I have always wanted goodness, I have always believed in it and here it is. He says gently, `Stop it, stop putting yourself down.' He should not come close to me but he does and I cling to him, I cling to him because I am sour and he is sweet. He kisses me and he doesn't know how. I should push him away, not let him learn, but his smell holds me still. Suddenly Lamya is at the door, half in, half out. The very presence of her dress, her face rigid with dislike s
trikes me as an aberration. I should move away from him but I am stunned.

  `What's this!' She's swollen with how dare you, how dare you, how dare you. She is more shocked than we are. I move away from him, my hand on his T-shirt and something snaps in her. She takes a step towards me, lifts her arm and strikes me across the face. It stings and I gasp as her rings and bangles grind nay skin. There is darkness when I close my eyes. It is Tamer erupting as the blood pounds in my ears. It is Tamer shouting at her not me.

  Part Five

  1991

  Thirty-one

  he said she would call the police if I didn't give her the money. I had a hundred pounds. I was sure I had a lot of money - a hundred pounds - but my purse was full of bank statements on pink paper. I kept flicking through them and there was no money. She wanted ID and I searched frantically but my passport wasn't there and neither was my library card. I didn't know this woman. She spoke Arabic; she was dark and wearing an evening gown. She looked down at me and said that she would call the police. She spoke calmly but at the word police, my blood turned cold ...

  `Najwa!'

  I opened my eyes. Silence and calm after the nightmare. `You were mumbling in your sleep,' Anwar said.

  I sat up and breathed. I shouldn't doze off during the day; it brings no rest. `Why have VOL] stopped coming over? Why do I always have to be the one coming here?'

  He looked up from the letter he had been reading. `Because it's more sensible for its to meet where the computer is.'

  He tossed me the letter and turned hack to the computer screen. It was from his sister in Khartoum, long and chatty. I read it, searching for my name. Surely by now he would have mentioned me to his family. `Who's Ibtisam?'

  `My cousin.'