Lyrics Alley: A Novel Read online

  Books were scarce and precious. Nur lent her books, English novels he bought from Alexandria and Cairo. He would talk about a book for so long that she would know the whole story before even starting to read it. She had never read an English novel that he hadn’t previously read. He was her introduction, and it delighted her that he always remembered her. True, she could not read Shakespeare like him, for he went to the prestigious Victoria College in Alexandria, and in Sisters’ School the Italian nuns did not teach Shakespeare, yet he would narrate to her all the plays, his enthusiasm infectious and appealing. Arabic novels were not much easier to get hold of. The colourful covers with heavy-featured, buxom women were enough provocation for the nuns, so that a great deal of stealth was needed to pass a novel from one girl to another. Soraya relished the times she visited Uncle Mahmoud’s second wife, Nabilah, because of the shelf of books in her living room.

  An Egyptian city lady, Nabilah was everything that Soraya considered modern. Nabilah’s elegant clothes were modelled on the latest European fashions, and the way she held herself was like a cinema star, with her sweeping hair and formal manners. Soraya cherished childhood memories of Nabilah and Mahmoud’s wedding in Cairo, the first and only white wedding she had ever attended. Whenever she visited Nabilah, she would pour over the wedding album or stare at the framed wedding photographs hanging on the wall. When the time came for her and Nur to get married, they would have the first white wedding evening Umdurman had ever seen. This was her dream, and it came alive and thickened in Nabilah’s rooms, which were filled with flowers and ornaments, a gramophone and, even more delicious, books and magazines.

  Once, Soraya had entered Nabilah’s sitting room to find her walking straight and slow, with a big book balanced on the top of the head. Startled by Soraya’s presence, the book fell with a thud on the floor and Nabilah refused to explain why she had been doing such an odd thing, even though Soraya asked her. Another time, she had walked in to find her reading to her daughter, both their heads bowed over a children’s book. A surge of jealousy filled Soraya, flushing through her like fever. It was a sight she had never seen before, remarkably foreign and modern, something she wanted there and then with a deep, sick hunger.

  The motherless child wanted Nabilah to befriend her and patronise her like everyone else did. Instead, that second wife, that other woman, was aloof and unwelcoming. Soraya, to some extent proud and sensitive, could be thick-skinned when it suited her.

  ‘Can I take this novel?’ she would ask, already drawing it to her chest.

  Nabilah would pause and a blush would touch her cheeks, but before she could reply, Soraya would be heading to the door, pretending that permission had been granted. She would clutch the precious, lovely work and dart through the door.

  A month ago, during chemistry, which Sister Josephine taught, Soraya’s eyes had looked at the board and seen a blur of white chalk. Straining made her eyes water, and by the end of the lesson she was sniffing into a handkerchief.

  ‘Maybe you need spectacles,’ Sister Josephine said casually, even though only two girls in the whole school wore spectacles and they were both ugly. ‘Ask your father to take you to the doctor for an examination.’

  ‘I don’t want to wear spectacles, Sister.’

  ‘Your eyesight will get worse and worse and then you will not be able to read at all!’

  This alarmed Soraya. She brooded on the matter, squinted and tested her vision on faraway objects. She developed a fear of blindness. ‘Ask your father to take you to the doctor for an examination.’ But her father did not talk to her; most of the time he did not look at her, and to ask him for something, anything was preposterous. She asked Halima instead, but Halima trivialised the issue.

  ‘Spectacles will make you look ugly. It’s all that reading that’s bad for your eyes.’

  Soraya nagged like only she knew how to nag, confident that Halima would give in as she always did, and so Halima asked Idris for permission but he said no. No going to a doctor for an eyesight examination, no girl of mine will wear spectacles like a man.

  ‘So hush about it . . .’ Halima patted Soraya’s back when she cried ‘. . . or else he will rise up against school itself and keep you at home. Hush now.’

  The stars above were blurred and milky, but not Nur’s face. He sat next to her on the steps of the veranda, so that she was in the middle, with Fatma on her right. It was nice to sit like that, surrounded and held by people she loved, the two who were away most of the time. She knew what it felt like to miss them, had bright, clear memories of the childhood they shared and was confident that one day they would return to Umdurman. Eventually, Nur would finish his studies and return to join the family business. Eventually, Uncle Mahmoud would give up on Nassir’s agricultural efforts and recall him to Umdurman.

  ‘I have so much to tell you about the poetry reading last night,’ said Nur. ‘It was so crowded that they ran out of chairs and made us younger ones sit on the grass!’

  ‘You are wandering off while your father is ill,’ scolded Fatma, ‘and I am the one being criticised for arriving late from Medani.’

  ‘Aunty Waheeba gave her a few words,’ Soraya explained to Nur.

  Fatma mimicked her mother-in-law’s voice, ‘Did you and your man come from Medani on foot?’

  Nur laughed. ‘She is occupied these days with all the people coming and going. It would have been worse if she had all the time for you!’

  Fatma made a face at him and then became serious. ‘How is Uncle Mahmoud this evening?’

  ‘He’s fine, almost his normal self. I am expecting him any minute to tell me that I should not delay my travel any longer and that I should set off for school. The autumn term has already started.’

  Soraya tried to keep the disappointment to herself. Of course she wanted her uncle to get better, but it meant Nur would leave. It was nice that he had been delayed and it was exciting, too, that Fatma had come unplanned. Normal, day-to-day life could sometimes be boring and empty. She preferred the warmth of people around her, their voices and chatter.

  ‘Tell us about the poetry reading.’

  She smiled at Nur. How many times had he told her about discussion forums, poetry recitals and political lectures? He was her link to the outside world, that world that was not for girls.

  ‘Abdallah Muhammad Zein read his new poem. It is the strongest of his work and the most melodious. I copied it down and memorised it last night. I couldn’t sleep because his words were in my head. It’s the time we’re living in; everyone talking about self-determination and independence and then a poet says it in another way. Listen. I am Umdurman.’

  ‘Who is Umdurman?’ laughed Fatma.

  ‘Shush and listen.’ Soraya understood who Umdurman was.

  ‘I am Umdurman. I am the pearl that adorns my land. I am the one who nurtured you, and for you, my son, will ransom myself. I am Umdurman, the Nile watered me and sought my side. I am the one on the western bank and Gordon’s head was my dowry. I am Umdurman, I am this nation. I am your tongue and your oasis …’

  The three of them were stirred by the patriotic sentiments that the poem aroused. Even though the ties of the family to Egypt were strong and, politically, Uncle Mahmoud supported the union with Egypt, the younger generation carried a strong sense of their Sudanese belonging. Their glittering future was here, here in this southern land where the potential was as huge and as mysterious as the darkness of its nights.

  ‘It’s a beautiful poem,’ Soraya said.

  She wanted to cry because Nur had heard the words from the poet’s mouth and she hadn’t, and because exciting, transforming things would happen and she would only hear about them and not be part of them, she who wanted to be at the centre of everything.

  ‘It should become a song,’ Fatma said, ‘and then it would be easy to memorise. Even children could memorise it.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Soraya repeated.

  ‘I wish I had composed it myself,’ said Nur.
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  Soraya smiled. ‘If you had written it or someone else did, what does it matter? The important thing is that it exists.’

  ‘But it isn’t mine.’

  She remembered how, when he was younger, before going to Victoria College, he had loved to sing. He would sing at every family occasion, memorising poems and popular tunes, his voice sweet and hopeful. But when he sang at a wedding outside the family, the wrath of his elders descended upon him. He was shaming the Abuzeid family, they said, standing in front of strangers like a common singer; next, the audience would be tipping him! Soraya remembered him crying, when, as a consequence, his father punished him and forbade him from going out. She remembered his confusion and broken spirit, crying the way boys cry, with a lot of pain and little noise.

  She said, gently, now, ‘You will write your own poem. And it will be even better.’

  ‘Come on you two, let’s go,’ said Fatma, standing up.

  ‘Wait, I have something to give Soraya.’ He took out a bulky packet from his pocket and opened it.

  Fatma laughed as Soraya reached out her hand for the pair of spectacles.

  ‘Where did you get them from?’ Her voice was withdrawn because of Fatma’s laugh and because Nur had acknowledged the imperfection in her.

  ‘I had them made for you. Of course, you need to be tested yourself and you need a prescription that is especially for you but this will help for the time being.’ For the time being. Until they got married and she would be free of her father’s conservative restrictions. ‘Try them,’ Nur said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Yalla!’ Fatma adjusted her to be, impatient to leave the garden and go back to the hoash.

  ‘Later,’ said Soraya. ‘When I am alone I will try them on.’ She touched the thick black rims. Later, in front of a mirror, she would try them on.

  ‘She doesn’t want you to see her wearing them,’ said Fatma.

  ‘Keep quiet!’ said Soraya.

  ‘Soraya’s pretty,’ Nur said to Fatma. ‘The prettiest girl.’ Fatma folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. He looked at Soraya, who sat with her head bowed, spectacles on her lap. ‘Nothing can take away from her prettiness. And actually, the glass of the spectacles is going to make her eyes look even wider.’

  Soraya could not help but smile.

  ‘Yalla, try them.’ His voice was warm with encouragement. ‘Give them to me.’

  He put them on her, his fingers playfully pinching her earlobes and brushing against her hair. The new heaviness on her face and a grip on her nose; everything seemed a step away and yet so much clearer. On the peripheries, sideways down and up, the familiar fuzziness, but in the centre everything was in focus. She looked across the garden and saw the bougainvillea, the camphor tree and closer, on the veranda, bright and clear, the huge pots of flowers. She looked up, and the stars were distinct and piercing. Oh, how she had missed this clarity! She turned and looked at Nur. He had a cut on his chin from shaving but she knew that smile and glowing eyes; that pride in her.

  She turned to look at Fatma and asked, ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Ugly,’ said her sister, ‘plain ugly.’

  The three of them were laughing as they walked back to the hoash. They could hear Waheeba’s voice call out.

  ‘Nur! Nur, your teacher is here.’

  ‘I can smell the fish.’ Fatma started to quicken her pace. ‘She’s started frying and I’m not there to help her!’

  II

  Allah Almighty will say on the Day of Resurrection: O Child of Adam, I fell ill and you did not visit me . . .

  As he walked the dark narrow alleyways of Umdurman, on his way to the lighted saraya of Mahmoud Bey Abuzeid, Ustaz Badr assigned himself the task of reciting every verse from the Qur’an and every Hadith which pertained to the subject of illness. There were three benefits to this exercise. One, it refreshed his memory; two, it soothed the irritation triggered by the letter he had received this morning and three, it stopped his mind from wandering to the form and voice of his luscious wife, Hanniyah. He considered his obsessive desire for her unbecoming in a man of his profession and maturity. Their marriage was a constant challenge for him to maintain his dignity, as she devoted her talents – or so it seemed to him – to ruffle, tease, and provoke him. His ruse against himself worked, for when he reached the Qudsi Hadith that promised him that he would find his Lord in the company of the ill, his concentration was whole and his senses were steady to the extent that the words penetrated his being and tears filled his eyes.

  Badr’s eyes were large and protruding. In his spare, energetic body they looked a little out of proportion, as if they were a muscle overdeveloped from consistent training. And he had trained his eyes. He had trained them to read without effort, to suck in information, and then to act as a valve, preserving everything in his memory, keeping knowledge within and then letting it out at will, smoothly and professionally. Studious from an early age, he had been the only one of his brothers to complete secondary school and graduate from Teacher’s College. Now he was on a secondment to Sudan, to teach those less educated than himself, who needed his skills and were ready to pay extra money for his time. He was also being sought, more and more, to give lucrative private lessons. It was an opportunity to make the kind of savings he would never have made had he stayed in Upper Egypt.

  ‘Doors have opened for you in this country,’ he told himself. ‘Thank your Lord and kiss the palm and back of your hand.’

  Ahead was Mahmoud Bey’s mansion, with the grounds and all three storeys lit up. It was elegant because of its fine design, and splendid because it decorated the entrance to Umdurman, positioned in such a way as if it guarded the secrets of this city so close to the Nile. Five fine motor cars were lined up on the broad asphalt road coming from Khartoum. They intimidated Badr, and so he bypassed the main entrance. He also hesitated in front of the gate that led to Madame Nabilah’s extensive quarters. When he came in the afternoon to give her two young children their lessons, he usually banged on this gate, but tonight it was locked and this section of the saraya looked dark and unwelcoming. He therefore headed down the back alley, towards the gate from which he was used to entering, which was known as the women’s entrance, but was also used by intimate family members, tradesmen, beggars and servants.

  His clapping, his cries, ‘Ya Satir’, to announce himself so that unveiled women could either flee or cover their heads, went largely ignored. The wide, open-air hoash was lined with beds, little stools and tables. It was a massive kitchen, sitting room and bedroom in which women, servants and children cooked, slept, ate and socialised. Eyes lowered to avoid seeing anything forbidden, Badr waiting to be noticed.

  Hajjah Waheeba, squatting on a stool frying fish, looked at him, at first vaguely, and then started to call out, ‘Nur, son, your teacher is here!’

  She shifted and settled her to be around her stout body. She was more African in features than her husband, and on each side of her cheeks ran three tribal scars, like cracks on a dry riverbed, which made her face look broader and more open. With her wide eyes and excellent teeth, her colourful to be and the bangles of gold that glittered from her wrist to her elbow, she was attractive in spite of her age.

  ‘Nur, where are you? Someone go fetch Nur. Come in, Ustaz Badr. Welcome, come in.’

  The hoash, always busy, was today over-filled with visiting women. The timing, just before serving the evening meal, added an excitement to the gathering. Large round trays were laid out, ready to be filled and sent to the men. The delicious smell of sausages mixed with the tart smell of fried fish ruffled Badr. He felt awkward, even though his presence did not bother the women. True, they covered their heads, some of them in earnest and others reluctantly, but they continued their chatting or with the repetitive task of laying out the trays with appetisers: little dishes of pickles, white cheese, boiled eggs, and red chilli mixed with lemon juice, salt and cumin.

  ‘Come in Ustaz Badr,’ Hajjah Waheeba insisted.
r />   She was, Badr could not help thinking, the wife, or more precisely, the first wife of one of the richest men in the country, and yet she was content with the traditional semi-outdoors life of the hoash. His own Hanniyah had aspirations for a flat in a tall building, for a salon and a balcony. Why else had they left Egypt, if not to better themselves? She hated the Sudanese-style house they had been allocated by the school and complained about it day and night. It was something that rankled in their marriage.

  He was rescued by Nur, who had been his pupil before he was sent to Victoria College. They had not seen each other for some time, and Badr noticed the changes in the boy. He had always been taller than his teacher, but now he was lean and muscular. Without the fat cheeks and unsteady, adolescent bearing, Nur had become more solid, more self-conscious and formal, but the quick, friendly smile was still there, as were the intelligent eyes, which gave him an almost impish look. ‘My best pupil,’ Badr said and extended his hand.

  Nur hugged him in return, a spontaneous gesture, cavalier and unexpected. He smelled of perfume, a scent fresher than his casual clothes suggested. Still holding Badr by the arm, Nur started to lead him indoors.

  ‘You are here to see Father? Let me take you to him – we are so busy these days, with all the visitors.’

  They walked through the small, familiar room with the white table where Badr used to give Nur his lessons, then under arches, through sitting rooms furnished in the French style, and a massive, breathtaking dining room. Nur asked politely about how his half-brother and sister were getting on in their Arabic lessons with Badr. Were they memorising their poems, were they sitting attentively for the whole hour?