Minaret: A Novel Read online

  `Why does your sister mention her a lot?'

  He was typing and he didn't stop. `They're close.'

  `Is that all?'

  `Sort of.'

  `Is there something between you?'

  `Nothing formal.'

  Was I supposed to worry or not worry? `Nothing formal means there is something informal.'

  He turned to look at me. `No it doesn't. Her mother and my mother talk and make speculations. They've been planning things since we were kids, but it's just talk. I don't feel any strong inclination towards her.'

  I folded the letter. Now, if he could come over and put his arms around me, say, `You mustn't feel insecure, you mustn't worry.' But he wouldn't do that, as if there was a law: Anwar must not feel sorry for Najwa.

  `Come and check this,' he said. I walked over to the computer, pulled up a chair, started to make a few comments and corrections. I could sense his growing irritation the more errors I found.

  `But all in all, it's very good. As if you copied it from a newspaper.

  `What newspaper?'

  `I just meant it's sharp, professional.'

  `If you're accusing me of plagiarizing, you might as well tell me from where.'

  I knew why he was defensive. Hardly any of the English articles he sent out got published, and every other day he was turned down for a job. I knew the comforting words I was expected to say but today I didn't trust myself to speak. I would say the wrong things and start a quarrel. Quarrels took too long to patch up, they took too much grovelling; hours of coaxing and patience.

  It was a relief to hear Ameen call out, 'It's time for the news. Kamal, where are you? Anwar?'

  We moved towards the blare of the TV as if it were a magnet. The familiar faces of the presenters, serious and, over the days, endearing. I was becoming attached to them as to characters in a soap. We slumped on the sofa and the chairs. There was a sense of anti-climax now that the war was over, now that the news was not meaty enough.

  We had bonded watching the Gulf War on TV. Now that it was finished and the news left us unfulfilled, we played cards instead. Ameen often won, which annoyed Kamal. Neither he nor Anwar liked to lose to Ameen. It threatened their sense of justice that he, the bourgeois owner of this Gloucester Road flat, could also have such innate luck. To give Anwar a chance, I sometimes held back my good cards, stopped myself from winning but it didn't always work. We played kunkan and put down very small amounts of money: fifty pence, the last of the one-pound notes. There was an atmosphere to these games, metallic because of the war, stifling because of the cigarette smoke and whisky. The drinking made them crave certain food. I heated tins of foul, mashed it with feta cheese and tomatoes. Often I fried eggs, aubergines and ta'antivah, heated endless loaves of bread. I didn't like eating with them but I liked the concentration of the game. The smooth, pretty cards held me in a pleasurable suspense.

  None of us yet had put down any cards but we had been going several rounds since lunch. Any time now, one of us was hound to have the necessary fifty-four points. 'It's nearly five o'clock,' said Ameen, 'I'd better he going soon.' He drew a new card from the pile. He laid out three kings and three queens. `I'm invited for breakfast.'

  `Breakfast at five!' I laughed and so did Kamal. I looked at Anwar. He smiled but his eyes were on the cards. Ameen was laying his hand on the table; six of hearts to the Jack with a joker in the middle.

  Ameen tossed his remaining card in the middle, took a draw of his cigarette, collected his winnings. He smiled, `It's Ramadan breakfast, you heathens!' I caught my breath. `Oh no!' They laughed at my reaction. Kamal said he knew it had started but had forgotten about it. Why would anyone in his right mind fast in London? `Or anywhere else?' said Anwar. `The thirst people endured in the heat of Sudan was not healthy at all.'

  Ameen called back from his bedroom, `These relatives of mine are fasting here normally and every single day at sunset they have the table set out for breakfast.' It jolted me that Ramadan could happen, could come round and I would not know about it. I looked at Anwar and he was calm, normal as if nothing unnatural had happened. `Why didn't you tell me?'

  `Why should I?' said Anwar. For some reason that made Kamal laugh.

  `What do you mean why? It's important. It's Ramadan. I should know about it. It shouldn't happen without me knowing. If we were in Khartoum we would have known, our daily routine would have changed.'

  `So now you know. Are you going to fast?'

  `Yes, I always fast.'

  `What kind of fasting?' He was teasing me now as he shuffled the cards, Kamal an appreciative audience. They often joked about how Westernized I was, detached from Sudanese traditions.

  The ru rural kind of fasting.'

  'To lose weight?' Anwar smiled. My attempts at dieting always amused him. Kamal looked at me in that way I didn't like.

  `Well, partly,' I said.

  So why don't you fast any other time of the year, why this particular month?'

  `Because it's the month of fasting, that's why. Everyone's fasting.'

  Rut we're in London now,' Kamal said. 'People in London don't fast.'

  'We've always fasted.'

  'Really, your whole family?' Anwar and Kamal shared a s11111e.

  `Yes,' I said. 'In Khartoum all my family used to fast.'

  I didn't. Did you, Kanial?'

  'No. Anleen did though.'

  `Well, I don't see why I shouldn't keep it up when I'm here.'

  Anwar sat back and looked at the cards in his hands. 'Rut what's the point if it's a conlnlunity activity?'

  `It's part of our religion.'

  He looked at nme. `Shouldn't von question these things, though? Shouldn't you ask yourself if it's suitable for every time and place? When you fast, your productivity is reduced, you can't work to your full potential.'

  lout we're not working today. We're just playing cards.'

  `When are you going to learn how to have a proper discussion?' I le had said this before but I couldn't remember the occasion. A sense of dcl,'i tau, `When are you going to learn?' slips in again.

  `I alll having a proper discussion.' I felt sick not because he was having a go at me but because I was all alone, alarmed about something he didn't care about. Was it madness to see something, know something all by yourself with everyone else oblivious?

  `Go,' he said, suddenly bored, `go get me more ice.'

  I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. I stared at its contents, smelled the cold food. There was lunch in my stomach and there shouldn't be, the taste of Coke in my mouth. I missed the lightness of fasting, my body clean, my mouth dry and then the special food at sunset, the drinks in jugs with ice, purple for helomur, orange for gamar el-din, pink for grapefruit, and guests, cars parked in front of our house, my mother's hostess smile, saying, don't drink too much, don't fill your stomachs with water, you won't be able to eat later.

  Instead of getting the ice, I locked myself in the bathroom. My mind felt tilted. I almost expected to look in the mirror and see my neck craned to one side. I had always observed Ramadan even when Mama was ill in hospital. The nurses in the Humana knew about Ramadan because many of their patients were Arabs. One of them had worked before in Saudi, made `a bit of savings', she said. Fasting was the only religious thing I ever did - how many days had I missed? Anwar knocked on the door and I thought, `He knows I'm upset, he's come looking for me.' But he just needed the toilet.

  We talked, standing in the bathroom, the cistern filling. I would never forget this day. How we were wedged in a stinky bathroom instead of being somewhere clean.

  `What's wrong with you these days?'

  I shrugged.

  `Are you depressed?' He smiled. I used to laugh whenever he opened his eyes wide like that.

  'I have something on my mind.'

  'What is it?'

  I sat on the edge of the bathtub; it was uncomfortable. I put my head in my hands. I spoke slowly without looking at him. 'Uncle Saleh is going to Khartoum next wee
k. I'm thinking it would be a good idea for your father to speak to him so we can he officially engaged.'

  He sounded cautious, like he had thought about it before. 'It's not a good idea.'

  Why not?ff

  'Because I'm not making plans until this government falls.'

  `Getting engaged is not making plans. It's not going to change anything.'

  Exactly. So why bother with it?' He had proved his point.

  `So that people would know that we're getting married.' It was not what I had wanted to say. I had wanted to say something else but I couldn't put it into words: it was vague and complicated.

  'What people? Do you count Ameen and Kamal as "people"? And who's seeing us in London? Who's got time to criticize our relationship?'

  He had won that round but I stood up and lunged again. 'Yesterday you upset me.'

  He groaned. 'What did I do?'

  `What you said about my father.'

  `What about him?' He didn't remember. He genuinely couldn't remember.

  You said you didn't want his blood flowing in your children's veins.'

  `I was joking, that's all.'

  `Joking.'

  `Yes, can't we joke? Do we have to be serious all the time?' He looked at me again with the wide eyes.

  `I can't go on like this.'

  `Oh God.' He unlocked the door. `A drama now! You're going to make a drama out of this. Grow up.' He walked out of the bathroom.

  I picked up my things and went home.

  I tried to fast the next day. In the early afternoon black blobs appeared in front of my eyes while I was mopping up Aunty Eva's kitchen. I broke into a sweat and had to sit down. My hands were cold and clammy; I dropped the mop on the floor. Aunty Eva was showing a surveyor around the house. His assistant was taking measurements. I could hear the three of them talking in the next room. I gave up and put the kettle on. I would not be able to make it through the day without a cup of tea, without the lift of sugar.

  When the surveyor left, Aunty Eva came into the kitchen. She had tears in her eyes when she said that they were selling the house and moving to Brighton to be nearer their sons. Uncle Nabeel's office wasn't doing well and he was going to retire. The information went into me; I felt its coolness pass my skin. I was about to lose this job, lose Aunty Eva's company but, today of all days, it all seemed unreal, the had feeling mixed with hunger. `I will visit you in Brighton,' I said, calm, grown up.

  `Of course you will. Of course, any time, I'm like your mother now.' She was always sweet, always and now I would lose her too.

  She said, `Don't worry, Najwa, I will ask round and try to find you work with one of our acquaintances. There is a Syrian lady I know. She's pregnant and has very high blood pressure. The doctor told her to rest but how can anyone rest in this country? She has three mischievous little boys. She'll definitely need help. But are von sure you want to keep on doing this? You don't want to go to university and complete your education? There will be many opportunities for you if you have a degree.'

  I shook my head. Anwar was the one who was going to start a PhD. He had got an acceptance from the London School of Economics and I had lent him the money. I did not think I could sit in class and write clever things. I would not be good at it. Anwar always said I was not intellectual.

  I tried to fast again. I set the alarm so that I could wake up before dawn and have a snack. Perhaps the alarm didn't go off or I put it off and went back to sleep. Again the black blobs floating in front of me like jellyfish, the faint feeling, giving up. My failure bewildered nee, my body's refusal to obey. I began to fear the black blobs, the dizziness - to think that in Khartoum I used to fast and still do my Jane Fonda workout an hour before the sunset meal. I told myself that Ramadan would come to an end and with it the relief that I need not try again.

  In the Eid, Randa phoned from Edinburgh. She had done her best to fast in spite of having to sit for her finals. She had celebrated the Eid with the other Sudanese students in Edinburgh: an average Sudanese girl, not too religious and not too unconventional. I was once like her and then things changed along the way. She said she had finished her degree and was going hack to Khartoum as a fully qualified doctor. I could urge her to stay with me a couple of days before her flight, lure her with London's shops. But it would be painful to see her successful, fulfilled, with parents and a career waiting back home. I would not he able to keep my envy under control. Besides, we only had the past in common; it was time to move on.

  Uncle Saleh phoned from Toronto, also for the Eid. I did not dare tell him that I would be starting work for Aunty Eva's friend - an official maid now, paid by the hour. No more the illusion of helping my mother's friend. He had been right that day in the Spaghetti House. I should have gone with him to Canada; he would have protected me. But he was strained by his immigration, disgusted with Omar, embarrassed that his son didn't want to marry me. I did not want to he another burden. Now if he asked me on the phone to join him, I should say yes. But he chatted and made no mention. Canada was no longer an option for me.

  Anwar phoned to say, `Where are you? Where have you been? I need your help with an article - it's urgent. You're still not sulking arc you?'

  No, I'm not,' I said because it was the right thing to say.

  `Can you come over tomorrow? I'll he finished with the first draft by then and you can look at it.' I thought of correcting his article, treading gently so as not to hurt his pride. After saying to him, `You need to change this, you need to change that,' I would have to flatter and soothe him. He needed my constant assurance that he was clever and handsome, that his limp was becoming unnoticeable, that one day he would achieve his dreams. But I needed things from him too.

  Now he said, `Don't be late.'

  `I won't he.' It was easier than saying, `I'm not coming. I can't help you with your English any more.' It was easier to tell a lie - `See you tomorrow' - than to start a quarrel.

  When I put the receiver down, when I walked harefooted hack to the bedroom, I felt a kind of peace. I lay in bed and fell deeply asleep. When I woke up I had a shower, but it was not an ordinary shower, it was like starting afresh, wanting to he clean, crying for it.

  The first time I walked into the mosque I saw a girl sitting by herself, an open Qur'an on her lap, reciting Surat Ar-rahman. I sat and listened to the repetition of the verse, to the repetition of the question, 'So which of your Lord's favours do you deny?' There were other ladies in the room, the elderly ones leaning their hacks against the wall, a group of lively mothers with babies who looked like they were pleased to be out of the house. There were teenagers in jeans and headscarves; there were neat middle-aged ladies who looked like they had just come in from work. But it was the girl reciting who held my attention, her detachment that was almost angelic. 'So which of your Lord's favours do you deny?' She must have taken lessons to he able to read so well. Or perhaps her mother taught her at home. She must he confident of herself, otherwise she would not be reading out Ioud. I wished I were like her. That in itself was strange. She was pale and serene, her clothes unremarkable, her face neither lush nor pretty. She did not shine with happiness or success, qualities I usually envied. But Still I wished I were like her, good like her. I wanted to he good but I wasn't sure if I was prepared.

  I was wearing what I believed to be my most modest dress. It had long sleeves and fell to below my knees. When I bent down to pray, my calves and the hacks of my knees were bare. Someone came up from behind me and threw a coat over my hack. I guessed it was one of the elderly ladies. I sensed the difficulty, the heave with which she got off the floor and approached me. The coat slipped when I straightened up. There was the shame that I needed it, then the silly inevitability of it slipping off. I heard a sigh behind me, whispers in a language I couldn't understand - Turkish, Urdu? When I finished praying, I could not meet the eyes of whoever owned the coat. It lay in a heap behind me. I sat hunched on the floor, knowing I wasn't good, knowing I was far away and just taking the fir
st step in coming here still wasn't enough.

  Thirty-two

  t was becoming clear that I had come down in the world. I had skidded and plunged after my father's execution and through my mother's illness, when I dropped out of college, then after Omar's arrest and through my relationship with Anwar. That process took so long, was mixed up and at times gave the illusion of better things. There was a glamour in coming to London, and Omar and I had fun during those first weeks before Baba's trial. We didn't know that we were being exiled, we didn't know we were seeking asylum. There was the comfort of our holiday flat and my mother was generous with pocket money. When I worked with Aunty Eva it was there too, the softness of a familiar voice, the memories of Khartoum all around me. Now she was gone and her Syrian friend knew neither the Sudan nor my parents. She employed me as a maid and I became one. I was a servant like the servants my parents had employed. It didn't feel strange. I almost didn't mind. In the mosque no one knew my past and I didn't speak of it. What they could see of me was not impressive: my lack of religious upbringing, no degree, no husband, no plane'. Many warmed to me because of that, they would talk about themselves and include me as someone who lived on benefit or came from a disadvantaged home. It didn't feel strange. I almost didn't mind. The skidding and plunging was coming to an end. Slowly, surely I was settling at the bottom. It felt oddly comfortable, painless. It felt like the worst was over. And there, buried below, was the truth.

  My guides chose me; I did not choose them. Sometimes I would stop and think what was I doing in this woman's car, what was I doing in her house, who gave me this hook to read. The words were clear, as if I had known all this before and somehow, along the way, forgotten it. Refresh my memory. Teach me something old. Shock me. Comfort me. Tell me what will happen in the future, what happened in the past. Explain to me. Explain to me why I am here, what am I doing. Explain to me why I came down in the world. Was it natural, was it curable?

  Wafaa materialized. The woman who had shrouded my mother. The woman who had phoned every now and then to speak to me across a gulf, nay indifference making her voice faint, her pleas feeble. I called to accept the invitation she had issued two years ago and she was not surprised. `We'll pick you up at seven o'clock,' she said. As I was waiting for her, I struggled to remember what she looked like.