Minaret: A Novel Page 20

  `What a stupid thing to say, Najwa!'

  `Because I might not be able to have children.' The regret in my voice startles me.

  `I don't care about children.'

  `You don't mean that.'

  `I do.' He wants my full attention; he wants to be my child.

  `Maybe now you're not interested but when you're older, you'll want a pretty young wife, a conventional marriage.'

  He shrugs and says, `I don't care about the future. I only care about now.'

  But for me the future is close, round the corner, not far 'I wouldn't want you to divorce me. I would rather he in the background of your life, always part of it, always hearing your news.'

  Ile says softly, `l don't like it when you talk like that. I don't want to think of the future - all the stupid studying I have to do. I don't even want to do my re-sits.'

  If you could do anything, if there were no restrictions, what would you do?'

  He smiles and looks his age again, soft and dreamy. The two of us would go back in time. A time of horses and tents; swords and raids.'

  I smile and Ile continues. 'There wouldn't he any "Business" and I wouldn't have to go to university.'

  We are both too simple for this time and place. Sometimes I want to die; not out of despair or fear but just to step away from life and stand in the shade, watch it roll on without me, changeable and aggressive.

  The park is sweet and not crowded. We are the first to btIV ice cream from a lonely van and sit on a bench looking at the swalls.

  'DO you think Mai remembers the?' I ask.

  `She is probably bored without you.'

  'I dreamt of her last night.'

  He smiles. 'I love you. You know that, don't you?'

  I nod. Pity gushes through me and brings tears to my eyes. To stop myself from blubbering I lick my ice cream and say, 'l.alllya owes tile money. I left on the twentyeighth and she never gave me that month's salary.'

  `She's difficult.' He opens his wallet and gives the all the notes he has. Crisp twenty-pound notes, his pocket money. He takes money for granted. It is obvious in the way he touches the notes. He can get more from the till, from the hank account his parents fill for him. He thinks they will always be around, will always give to him unconditionally. I was like that at his age. I put the money away.

  `You should go back home, Tamer.' I say it gently but he turns rigid and shakes his head. He stares down at the grass instead of meeting my eyes. I try again. `It's wrong. You know it's a sin to cut someone off for more than three days, specially your mother and sister.'

  `I spoke to my mother on the phone. She knows where I am.' There is guilt in his eyes, buried in the defiance.

  `What about Lamya?'

  `Did she get in touch with you? Did she apologize?'

  I shake my head. I am not expecting her to.

  `Well, she should. I told her I'm going to marry you. You will become my wife and, whether she likes it or not, she will have to treat you like a sister.' This is a new hardness. He is all grown up. And that quality I had adored, that glow and scent of Paradise, is nearly gone. Soon he will be like the rest of us.

  `And your mother - what was her reaction?' I had not asked him before.

  `She said, "I can't believe my son is doing this to me," and she started to cry. It was horrible.'

  I blurt out, `She's used to a high standard! What you've done is nothing compared to what my mother had to put up with from Omar. People think the leukaemia killed her but it was her broken heart.' He moves away from me. He is defensive about his mother; they were always close.

  After he reluctantly leaves for his university, I walk towards the mosque. At the corner with Wellington Road, I see Doctora Zeinab and Mai getting into a taxi. It is Mai I recognize first. Doctora Zeinab is altered. Her face is puffy, her hair lank and there are dark shadows under her eyes. Her movements are awkward as she helps Mai into the taxi then heaves herself in. She draws the taxi door shut but she has not pulled hard enough and has to repeat the action. She is not herself. Her confidence has taken a blow; she is walking through a storm.

  At the mosque, in the ladies' prayer hall, there is a class led by Urn Waleed. She looks alarmed to see me during working hours, but alarm is her usual expression. She gestures for me to join in the circle. The class must have been going on for some time because the zuhur azan is due. Um Waleed hands me a Qur'an. This is a tafseer class and they are discussing verses from `The Heights'. I remember Wafaa, years ago, handing me a copy of the Qur'an, saving, This is for VOL] to keep.' She and All are in Birmingham now. People move on, sisters leave and new ones take their place. Urn Waleed can pull anyone away from their personal problems and make them listen. Perhaps it is the urgency in her voice. `There are different interpretations of why these men are on the Heights. The Heights are a mountain that stands between Paradise and Hell. These men are stuck in the middle, desiring Paradise and fearing Hell, able to see both. One interpretation is that their good actions and bad actions are equal in scale. The other interpretation is that they are young men who left home to fight the ,Jihad without the permission of their mothers and fathers. Because they died for the sake of Allah they have been spared Hell, but because they broke their parents' hearts, they are deprived of Paradise.'

  Thirty-four

  o she sits before me, in an armchair in my flat. It is as if we are suspended in tension. It fills the room and makes my voice and movements slow. I think that when she leaves I will be exhausted; I will have to lie down. Mai is not with her which means that this is a formal visit, one that Lamya knows about. Since DoctoraZeinah phoned, I have been cleaning, tidying, baking a cake and washing my hair. I must make a good impression, not only for Tamer's sake but also for mine because I admire her, sense a goodness in her, not the metaphysical kind that her son has but one that is solid, rooted in pragmatism. I notice today more than ever how much Tamer looks like her, how much he is from her, her masculine side, her only son. She looks better, more controlled than the day I saw her getting into the taxi. There is still the puffy face and the dark-ringed eyes but her hair is set, her make-up well applied and she is elegant in white trousers and a pale green jacket. It is the first time for her to see me without my hijab. Her eyes flickered over me when I opened the door and she saw my transformation. But she did not say anything or hid her surprise well. Perhaps it was something she was expecting. I want to show her that I am attractive, that there is more to me than being a maid. When she speaks, I realize that she knows.

  We probe general, safe topics - Mai, the weather, how crowded London becomes in the summer. I offer her fresh orange juice, coffee and banana cake. She does not refuse my hospitality and I am grateful. It is her good manners which makes her drain her glass, compliment me on the cake and even allow herself a second piece. Perhaps we can become friends if I am too old to play the role of daughter-in-law. We can become sisters. I relax and find myself speaking to her about my mother and, with a sense of unreality, show her old photos. She says that Tamer had told her about my father. Her voice is matter-of-fact, like a doctor discussing a serious illness, and I must not forget that she is a doctor. She makes it clear that she will not taunt me with my past but she will not ignore it either. I should not be surprised that Tamer told her. It is a good sign that he is talking to her even if only by phone. But I have become used to secrecy, it has become a part of me. Now I feel vulnerable.

  `My husband knows your father,' she says.

  Of him, you mean. Most Sudanese do.' There is an edge to my voice because of the futility of trying to make someone see him as my flesh and blood, not a symbol, not a public figure.

  She looks me straight in the eve. `Yes, of him. Politics is a difficult profession in our countries, all these ups and downs.'

  `Yes.' But my father was not strictly a politician. He did not care what policies governed the country as long as his career was successful. It would he unfair to ascribe to him the role of wronged political idealist or fallen h
ero, comforting though it may be. My comfort is Allah's mercy, Allah's justice.

  She says, `The climate is changing now in Sudan. The future looks good.'

  `Perhaps some people will start to go hack.' I think of Anwar and his wife, their two little boys, or will it be too late for them to go back?

  She raises her voice a little. `Would you like to go hack?'

  Her question seems odd, pointed. She drops her eyes, stirs her coffee.

  `Yes,' I say slowly, `it would be lovely to go back, but it is unlikely.'

  `But you deserve a better position, better than the kind of work you do here and it's only in our own country that we can really feel respected. May Allah preserve your health but we are all getting older and one day you will need others to care for you.'

  I know what she is saying, probing for my deepest insecurity. We talk of it in the mosque, what will happen to us, those of us who don't have children or whose children can't cope? Will we end up in nursing homes where they will spoonfeed us mashed pork and we won't know the difference?

  `You can get a decent job in Khartoum just by being who you are and because you know English. You can perhaps run a nursery for little children or work as a supervisor in a girls' hostel.'

  Her suggestions require capital and courage. She is leading to something, but I still can't understand her implications.

  `You can have your own maid in Khartoum,' she continues. `Apparently it's Southerners now that people are employing, not Ethiopians like in the past - they're too expensive.'

  I say, `It's always nice to chat about Khartoum and to remember the past.'

  She looks taken aback as if she expected a different response. It is odd that she is not talking about Tamer. Surely he is more important than me. She puts her cup on the table and says, `I really came to apologize for what Lamya did. She can be hot-tempered sometimes. She behaved very badly with you and I'm sorry ...'

  I interrupt her. `Doctora Zeinah, it is enough that you are visiting me. You don't need to apologize. I regard her as my sister and Mai as my daughter. She lost her temper and I did not take offence.'

  She looks at me seriously, almost brooding. `Lamya's always been a hit stiff. She sees things in black and white, no compromises for her. I often used to wish that she was the boy and Tamer the girl.'

  I smile at what I regard as a humorous remark but she does not smile back. Instead she continues. `I don't know what she's going to do with these problems she's having with her husband. I tell her she has to be diplomatic, she has to give and take. For the sake of Mai, at least.'

  I am curious to know of Lamya's problems. She satisfies my curiosity. `Hisham has been seeing some other woman and, when Lamya confronted him, he said it was all her fault for leaving him and staying in London.'

  I absorb this piece of news. I am touched that she is confiding in me. In a sense it brings me closer to her, to Tamer, to being part of a family again.

  `Tamer never liked Hisham,' she continues. `From the beginning he just never took to him. I don't know why.'

  'Because he is not fooled by appearances, because he can look deep into people.' I sound fervent, perhaps too fervent. I can tell by how she shifts in her chair that I have made her uncomfortable. We should talk about him now. This is why she is here, isn't it?

  But she says, `Lamya has to be diplomatic - please him and please herself. That way she can both keep her husband and get her PhD.'

  `Of course,' I murmur.

  `My daughter's not easy.' She shakes her head and sighs. `Problems. Children get older and their problems grow with them.'

  `Insha' Allah they will he solved soon.'

  She picks up her handbag, opens it and takes out a cheque. `Lamya owes you money. Here's your month's salary and some compensation for what happened.' She puts the cheque on the table. I glance at the figure. I blink and look again. My voice comes out in a gasp, almost a laugh. `This is much more than I usually get. There must he some mistake.'

  She shifts in her seat, shakes her head with impatience. When she speaks, she speaks as if I am stupid. `There is no mistake. This is all for you.'

  I stare back at her. She picks up the cheque, she moves her hands emphatically. `This is a compensation for you because you are not going to work for us again and because my son has made you promises he is incapable of keeping. You will have nothing to do with our family again. Do you understand what I am saying There is a tremble in her voice. It weakens the impact of her words.

  `I'm sorry,' my voice is cool, `but I don't understand you.

  `You are pretending you don't understand me!' Her face is a deep colour.

  `No. I am not.'

  It is a turning point. Tears come to her eyes. She shifts to sit at the edge of her seat. `You will take this money and stay away from my son! Just take it and leave him alone. You're ruining him, ruining him.' She struggles to compose herself, to stop the flow of tears. Her attachment to him is so deep it is like he had never left her and now she is afraid, afraid of losing hlne.

  I move to sit beside her, to put my arm around her shoulder. She feels damp; she is perspiring. I say, 'Don't upset yourself. Everything will work out.'

  If you take the money,' she snaps at me, if you leave hint alone.'

  She can't understand what Tamer sees in nle. She doesn't want to understand. I withdraw my arm. I and of no use to her. She does not want me; she is not accepting me. 1 had been naive to think she would. She is breathing hard and takes a tissue from her handbag. 'I can't sleep at night for worry.' She sniffs. 'What is going to become of him? He fails his exams and instead of applying himself and working hard, he imagines himself in love. And with who? You're old enough to he his mother even if you don't look it! And lie tells inc the Prophet, peace he upon him, married Khadijah and she was fifteen years older than him. Is this an argument? We live now, not then. And when I reason with hint, he storms out of the house and for one whole day puts his mobile off so I can't reach him!'

  Her words pour over nee and I remember my mother speaking like that, crying about Onear. That was the good tiles, when she would let it all out. Most tepees She Couldn't speak.

  'Tamer's always been a good boy. Good in his studies, not brilliant enough to go into .Medicine or Engineering but hardworking and diligent. He did his best. There was no wildness in Illlll, no nagging us to get him a car, no girlfriends, no staying out late. What do parents worry about? Drugs - he wasn't anywhere near that. What a relief, we thought, that he's sober and religious. Being religious is good; it protects him though sometimes we worried maybe he'll become fanatical ...'

  I wait for her to finish, to spend herself. I sit immobile, my hands in my lap, looking at the cheque on the table. I can go on Hajj with this money, I can get a plane to Mecca, stay in a nice hotel not far from the Ka'ba - I can enjoy myself. I can get a degree with this money, go to university with Shahinaz and become a mature student. I can help Omar next month when he comes out of prison. Maybe he can he persuaded to become a student. The more she talks the more frustrated I become, because she is really talking about herself and not about Tamer.

  `Once or twice he did sound fanatical, nagging me and Lamya to wear the hijab, making a fuss because I smoked - but he kept his limits, he was never extreme. We regarded him as a minor irritation. At times I worried that he was spending too much time at the mosque. Maybe, I thought, a terrorist group would mess up his mind and recruit him but thankfully he's not interested in politics, so that's a relief. And now this, out of nowhere, he wants to marry the maid!'

  He is better than her and she will not acknowledge it. I see this clearly now. She is an obstacle to his spiritual growth or, more precisely, her disapproval is. She is a test for him and he will have to pass. I will not let him fail. I will not let her curse him, not like nw mother cursed Omar. I remember how he shook her shoulders, shouting, `Give me my money. It's my money!' I saw fear, stark genuine fear in her eves. And she used to feed him when he was little, scoop him in her arms. When he
got what he wanted from her and stormed out of the flat, she said, `I hope he is never ever successful. I hope he is never ever happy.' She spoke without anger, without bitterness, calmly like a judge Passing a sentence. This is how a mother can curse her son.

  I pick LIP the cheque and say, This is not enough.' She misunderstands me of course; she thinks I want more money.

  Yes,' she says eagerly, this is what I have been trying to tell you. If von stay as far away from him as possible, if you leave London and go hack to Khartoum, I will help you even more. In Khartoum I can find von a place to live, set you LIP in a business. Your own nursery school or ...

  Going hack is not an option for me. I can't leave my brother ...'

  'But he can join you. Why not' It would he good for hlnl too . .

  The extent to which she is prepared to go! It shakes me. It makes nle fear and pity her. I interrupt her flow of bribes. You didn't understand me. When I said it is not enough I meant that it is not enough that I keep away from hint. He has to he convinced. And von too have to sacrifice and help hint solve his problems.'

  'What problems

  She doesn't know. She doesn't know that he has his own frustrations and view of the world. She doesn't know that he is not all extension of her.

  I tell her. And by telling her I give hint LIP. I Put the key in her hand. Perhaps she will not do what I say, perhaps she will. She is an intelligent wonlall. She pulls herself together and listens.

  Thirty-five

  don't believe you,' he says. He looks worse today, fuzzy from lack of proper sleep, almost gaunt. His clothes haven't been washed and his shirt is rumpled. He has run out of clean socks and now his trainers chafe against his hare ankles and irritate him.

  I repeat what I've said before. His mother is willing to allow him to change his course of studies. She will talk to his father and persuade him.

  `You don't have to do your re-sits, Tamer. You don't have to study Business. You can study what you want, wherever you want.'