Minaret: A Novel Page 21

  He breathes out. It is almost like a laugh. He shakes his head in wonder. `You convinced her of this. You made her change her mind!'

  `Yes,' I say, looking away. The hard bit is yet to come, the painful hit. Now he must feel relief. I must let it seep through him, this breath of relief; the burden of studying what he doesn't want easing away. And the triumph that his exile from home has yielded something. I must let him feel satisfied for the moment.

  `Swear,' he says, still smiling, gaping with disbelief, `swear that my mom has given in.'

  `I swear.'

  `You are so kind, so good to me.'

  `No, you are the one who deserves it.'

  `You are so gentle, the way you speak.

  Tears come to my eyes. We are talking about you, not me. You have to start thinking of 'our future.'

  `I used to be vague about the degree I wanted to study for. I knew it wasn't Business and I knew that it would include Islamic History. Sometimes, out of boredom, I would read prospectuses and stuff in the university library and look up things on the Internet. And now I know the name of the degree I want - it's called Middle East Studies. It's different disciplines: history, economics, geography, language - it's multidisciplinary.'

  I smile to see him animated, to see him looking forward. His enthusiasm nourishes me. This is the real you,' I say. 'I love seeing you like this. Now you have to research whether you need to transfer to another university, or whether you can stay where you are.'

  `But I have to go home first,' he says, moving to sit at the edge of the bench. Already he wants to go to her, to patch up his quarrel and bask once again in her approval. I feel a pang of envy but I can keep it under control, I am not finished with him yet, I am working now, working on him. So I smile. `You really must beg your mother's forgiveness. You hurt her by leaving the house.'

  'I know.' He speaks lightly, already thinking of something else.

  `No, you don't know. She has been sick with worry over you.'

  Something in my voice makes him look at me. is that all she wants - for me to come home?'

  'What do you mean?' I am playing for time. I am reluctant to go on.

  `In return for allowing me to study what I want - all I have to do is come hack home?' He is beginning to suspect. Even while he asks the question, he is unsure.

  `And you have to he realistic about certain things. Sometimes . . .

  `Stop it. What did she say about you? What did she say about us getting married?'

  I fear his anger, his disapproval of me. But there is no way out now. I take a breath. `She said it can't be. She asked me to leave you and I said yes.'

  He cries. It is instant. The tears, his shoulders shaking. He weeps and I suffer. It is as if my skin is being grated from the inside, frustrating and intent.

  `You tricked me,' he says, `you tricked me. You are so mean, so mean.'

  I can't defend myself. He will never cry like this again. It is the end of his childhood. In the future it will be manly tears, manly pains, but not these sobs. He leaves me and half-runs, half-walks in the direction of his home. He will go to her now, he needs her now, her arms around him, the comfort and relief.

  I sit, twisted by cruelty. An hour passes but time means nothing. I can still hear his voice, smell him. I can still see the confusion in his eyes, the way he looked at me as if I were a criminal.

  I walk across the park towards Baker Street. In the bank I deposit the cheque Doctora Zeinab had written out for me. As I fill in the payment slip, I realize that the amount is exactly the same as the sum I lent Anwar, years ago, to do his PhD. He had never paid me hack, not even part of it. Over time I had accepted this loss as a penalty, the fine I had to pay to extract myself. Now, in this strange way, I am getting my money hack.

  A few days later, I wait to press the buzzer of their flat. She said six o'clock. The High Street is in a mood of careless summer. Sports cars with their tops down drive past, streaming music and long straight hair. The customers of Cafe Rouge sit out on the pavement. An ice-cream van stands on the corner; its engine running. There is a queue of children and plenty more in the park; I can hear them. This is the last time I will lift my hand and press this buzzer. It had been autumn when I first started to work here. I remember the fresh bare trees, the cleanliness of a cold morning. Now I look up to see the minaret of the mosque above the trees. I might not see it again from this particular angle.

  Doctora Zeinab buzzes me in. I have pulled open this door and left it to shut behind me so many times, alone or with Mai. I linger to press my feet on the carpet and to say goodbye to the old-fashioned elevator that made me talk to Tamer. I run my fingers on the luxurious wood of the banister. Mai does not come forward to greet me; she hides behind her grandmother's skirt, peeking at nee with shining eyes. She is shy because of the weeks I have been away, because of the anti-Najwa speeches her mother must have delivered. I must wait for her to follow her natural instincts and come into my arms. It might take the whole visit or it might not happen at all.

  I notice with satisfaction that the flat is not as clean as it was when I was working here. I glimpse a pile of Tamer's clothes in the kitchen waiting to be ironed, plates stacked in the kitchen sink. Doctora Zeinab leads me to the sitting room, treating me like a guest, welcoming me warmly with Egyptian hospitality. She is subdued but her relief that he has come home is obvious. He is standing in front of the window. I notice the difference in him straight away: clean clothes, a proper shower, a good night's sleep in a bed, not on the floor. But it is not only the comforts of home. He is cleansed now, relieved of guilt and the burden of studying Business. The sweetness is almost hack, that aura of freshness.

  But he is wary of me, still sore. He folds his arms across his chest. I comment on the white cap he is wearing. `I have never seen you cover your hair before.'

  `Until he gets it cut.' His mother answers for him. `It's become far too long and untidy.'

  He accepts her comments and we sit down. She bustles about with Mai following close behind her. I am offered Ferrero Roche and apple juice followed by tea and cookies from the patisserie down the road. To make polite conversation, I say, `Did you hear the programme on radio about Sufism?'

  `No I didn't.' He doesn't smile and I wish that things were how they were months ago when he used to come back from university and talk to me.

  `I do listen to the radio,' says Doctora Zeinab, `but I didn't catch it. How much sugar shall I put for you?'

  When I reply, she says, `Tamer was listening to a tape by Amr Khalid.' She stirs the tea, warns Mai not to come too close to the teapot.

  `What was the lesson about?' I ask him.

  He looks down at the carpet. `Being satisfied with what Allah gives us.'

  We are self-conscious because of her pointed presence. It is almost like visiting Omar but here is the appropriate sheepishness, the catharsis and calmness it brings. Mai keeps her distance but can't take her eyes off me. I remind her of shared games and days we spent at the park. She comes closer. I take out the gift I had brought her: This is the House tihat hack Built. I turn the pages and say, 'Conte and sit next to me, so that I can read it with you.'

  She shakes her head. I put the book on the table so she can at least look at the pictures.

  The phone rings and Doctora Zeinah answers it. While she talks, Tamer and I remain silent; he avoids looking at me. At one point he closes his eyes. He is still tired, still bruised. When she finally says her goodbyes I ask him, Was it straightforward to get your transfer from the university?'

  It was easy.' He had given a pledge to his mother not to phone me, not to meet file, not to write to mle. It v1'ill he easy to keep because he will go hack with her to Cairo.

  She gestures with her hand towards the dining table, 'Show her, Tamer, the pages von printed out from the Internet.' He stands up with some reluctance. She says, 'All his classes are going to he in English because it's an American university.'

  I read the details of the courses: S
tudies in the Qur'an, Islamic Architecture in Spain and North Africa, Ihn Khaldun. He will he fulfilled there, active and interested.

  `These topics are inspiring,' I say.

  For the first time, he warms towards the, for a moment becomes his normal self. 'Yes, they are inspiring. I am looking forward to them.'

  I can sense the beginning of a fire in him; it makes me smile. 'You are Iucky.'

  I)octora Zeinah sighs. She does not think he is lucky. She does not think that loving file has been a blessing.

  We are quiet. What I am doing here, why had I so much wanted to come? Do I expect him to apologize or any I the one who owes the apology?

  He hesitates and then asks, 'What will you do now?'

  `I will go on Hajj, insha'Allah. I am planning for it.' The excitement slips through. I have not told anyone else and I am glad that he is the first to know.

  He smiles for the first time, a shy guarded smile. `Congratulations, Najwa, this is nice.' He says my name with ease.

  Doctora Zeinab looks at her watch. I should leave. But Mai carries her book and sits next to me. She wants me to read it for her. I start to read This is the House that Jack Built and I forget Doctora Zeinab's presence. There is only Mai's attention and Tamer looking at us. For as long as the book lasts, we are poised, no future, no past.

  Mai wants me to read again but I must not overstay my welcome. I look Doctora Zeinab straight in the eye and her gratitude for me is buried under layers of practicality. She does not want me to weaken, to pull out of the deal at the last minute. This visit has been a risk and she knows it. She looks at my face as a doctor examines a patient and I feel dizzy with fatigue. I feel as if I had worked all day, stood cooking for hours, ironing for hours, fetched and carried. I want to crawl into bed and sleep. It is time to leave. I bend down and kiss Mai goodbye.

  Thirty-six

  hahinaz stands in my doorway. When she speaks, her voice comes from far away. You sounded odd on the phone. I thought I should conic and see you.' She is clutching a lot of things: Ahni d, his pushchair, what looks like a sleeping hag. She follows me inside. `Sohayl said I might as well stay the night as it's so late.'

  It's late, she's saying and I don't know what time it is. If it is dark outside, it must he late.

  She asks, 'Did they leave

  It takes time for the question to reach and hurt me. I sense her waiting, her concern. 'Yes, they left this afternoon.' I)octora Zeinab acted fast, no dithering. She didn't want to risk me weakening; she didn't want to risk him changing his mind.

  Shahinaz reaches for my hand. 'You're finding it hard, aren't you - but you did the right thing.'

  'Last night I couldn't sleep and all day today I tried but I couldn't.'

  She settles herself and I lie down again on the couch. I close my eyes and listen to her talking to Ahmed. 'Aunty's not well today.' Not well today. Not well today means that tomorrow I will be better. It is a realistic prediction, a reassuring one. I just have to wait. Tomorrow I can go to the travel agent, ask about Hajj packages, what prices they offer and how far is the hotel from the Prophet's Mosque. Ahmed is babbling away: words that don't make sense, strung together with inflections and exclamations of surprise, as if he is talking in a foreign language. His voice is lovely. I close my eyes. There is nothing to work out, just memories, impressions. Their plane would have landed in Cairo by now. I want to sleep; this is what I need more than anything else.

  She says, `I'll make you some chamomile tea. It always makes me sleepy.'

  I make myself sit up and smile at her. `Come, Ahmed, come and sit on my lap.' Instead, he crawls away from me fast, across the room. He pulls himself up to stand, leaning against a chair. He is playing a game with me, pausing, looking straight at me, smiling as if to tease me.

  `Come,' I say, `come.'

  He does at last and I lift him to sit on my lap. `Aren't you the cutest baby ever, or aren't you a baby any more? You're a big boy!'

  `He's everywhere,' she says bringing the tea. `I have to keep the bathroom door closed otherwise he's in there throwing his toys in the loo.'

  I tickle him. is this what you do, Ahmed, is it?' He laughs, proud of himself.

  `Did you notice that mark on his skin?' She pulls back his juniper and on his forearm is a small black spot, like the splash of ink.

  I run my fingers over it. `Maybe it's a beauty spot. Was he horn with it?'

  `I'm not sure. Maybe I just never noticed it before. I hope it's nothing serious.'

  For a minute, for a whole blessed minute, I forget about myself, become immersed in her concern.

  'Ask your mother-in-law.'

  `Yes, I will.' She removes the telephone cord from Ahmed's grasp. He has been chewing it.

  I run my finger over Ahmed's arm. 'You're perfect, aren't you? Mummy is just fussing over little faults in you.'

  He chuckles and turns to gaze at his first love. She looks at him with possessiveness and an ache I don't understand.

  She sighs, `Come on, Najwa. Let's pray so we can go to sleep.'

  She leads because I am not up to it. Her gentle voice calms me down; it is easy to focus on the words she is hesitantly saying. Ahmed climbs on her back, he hangs on to her neck and makes it difficult for her to stand. My concentration breaks. I almost laugh at his antics and then the words come again, pulling me hack. No matter what, I will return. This is my base and goal; everything else is variable.

  We sort ourselves out for the night. Shahinaz and Ahmed on the couch and I on the floor. I lie awake, listening to her breathing. I am amazed to discover that Ahmed, baby Ahmed, snores. There is a taxi outside. I know it is a taxi by the sound of its brakes. They took a taxi to Heathrow this morning. They kissed Lamya and Mai goodbye. I see myself standing at the door of the flat saying goodbye to Doctora Zeinab. Tamer and I are helping her with the suitcases. He looks at me. This is not a dream; this is a replay of the time his mother left London to go to the conference in the States. She hands me a crisp ten-pound note, a tip. I take it as I am meant to take it, as a maid takes from an employer, but I am flustered because he is standing next to her, because he is watching me put the money away.

  Shahinaz says, 'You took the money, so it can't have been love.' I must be falling asleep and her voice a dream, because she wouldn't say that in real life. It is not something she is likely to say. I am not well. I have a fever and I need my parents' room. I need their bed; its clean sheets, the privilege. I climb dark steep stairs to their room and there is the bed I have been fretting for. My mother's voice, her cool hand on my forehead. She gives me a spoonful of medicine, delicious cough syrup that burns my throat. Omar is sulking. He is jealous because I am ill and important. He wants something from me and Mania says, `Leave her alone, can't you see she's burning.' I look up into my father's anxious face, his warm hand on my cheeks. I smell his cologne. He shouts at my mother, `Put her on a course of antibiotics, you can't leave her like this!' I roll over, luxurious, sure that they love me. Around us, beyond the bed, the room is dark and cluttered, all the possessions that distinguish us in ruins. I am not surprised. It is a natural decay and I accept it. Carpets threadbare and curtains torn. Valuables squashed and stamped with filth. Things that must not be seen, shameful things, are exposed. The ceiling has caved in, the floor is gutted and the crumbling walls are smeared with guilt.