Minaret: A Novel Read online

  When Tamer takes you to the airport,' Lamya says to her, `don't forget to give him your set of keys.'

  `I will. He shouldn't be missing his lectures. I can go on my own.

  Lamya shrugs. `Don't forget to order the taxi. Early.' She kisses her mother again and sweeps past me. Doctora Zeinab stands still for a few seconds watching her daughter walk down the stairs. The goodbye seems to have made her subdued, flabby. `Come in, Najwa,' she says and shuffles back to the sitting room.

  I close the door of the flat behind me, take off my shoes and put them near the side of the door. I roll my coat and put it over my shoes. The clay begins, less daunting than yesterday, the tasks more familiar. Mai remembers me in a grudging sort of way. I smile and act the clown for her. My work will he easy when I win her trust. I talk to her about going to the park, jog her memory of how yesterday I pushed her on the swings. She is still in her pyjamas so I change her, take her to the toilet and cajole her into brushing her teeth. I discover that, Unlike yesterday, Lanlya hasn't given her any breakfast. I pour hot milk over Weetabix and sprinkle a bit of sugar. The Weetahix softens into a smooth paste and I scoop one teaspoon after another into her mouth. She drinks milk by herself from a special cup.

  Yesterday's dinner plates are piled high in the sink - no one had bothered to wash them. If they had at least rinsed them, it would have been a help. Instead, hits of food are congealed and sticky on the plates. I run the hot water over them a long time, till they become unstuck. I enjoy being in a home rather than cleaning offices and hotels. I like being part of a family, touching their things, knowing what they ate, what they threw in the bin. I know them in intimate ways while they hardly know me, as if I and invisible. It still takes the by surprise how natural I and in this servant role. On my very first day as a plaid (not when I worked for Aunty Eva - I didn't feel like a maid with her - but later when I started working for her friend) memories rushed back at tile. All the ingratiating manners, the downcast eyes, the sideway movements of the servants I grew up with. I used to take them for granted. I didn't know a lot about them - our succession of Ethiopian maids, houseboys, our gardener - but I must have been close to them, absorbing their ways, so that now, years later and in another continent, I am one of them.

  I remember an Ethiopian maid who told me that her friends called her Donna Summer because she resembled the singer. She laughed when I too started to call her Donna. Donna put eggs yolk in her hair, egg white on her face, rubbed her legs with BP petroleum jelly. She wore a short pink corduroy skirt on her day out. She was a refugee in Sudan. She would talk about Ethiopia, about the cool mountains and the rains and the good schools they had there. She said she would go with her boyfriend to the States and, once she got there, escape from him at the airport, run. Why? I asked her and she said because he was not qualified, he wasn't even a mechanic she said; he just washed the glasses in a juice counter. She was fun to be with - sparkling, pretty, swinging her hips in the kitchen. She always wore a necklace, a little bronze cross shining between her collar-hones. One day she was ill and Mama and I visited her. Her home was a wretched mud house, wide and sprawling, almost like a compound. It was full of men and women, all young, all Ethiopian, all refugees. We didn't know if they were related or not. Donna was lying, thin and feverish, on a low cot. I didn't know if she was glad to see us or not. When she recovered, she stole Mania's Chanel No 5, a nightdress and a pair of sandals Mania had never worn. We never saw her again. Mama could have called the police and told them where Donna lived but she didn't - she liked her too much - and, feeling hurt, she even hid the theft from Baba. We got another Ethiopian maid - dull and untalkative, she took no pride in her looks or her figure. I like to think that Donna made it to the States; made it to that better life she felt she deserved. I wish I could meet her now, hug her with my dripping gloves which I wear because, like her, I pride myself in keeping my hands smooth. I would tell her, 'Look what happened, I'm washing dishes like you did,' and we would laugh together.

  'It's time for my coffee,' I)octora Zeinah says as she puts the kettle on, scoops Nescafe into her mug. I know now that I am expected to continue ironing - I push a button and steam heaves out, I manoeuvre the iron around the buttons.

  She surveys the kitchen. 'I took that chicken out of the freezer last night so that it would have time to melt. Otherwise, how would you cook it? I told Lamva she has to remember every night before she sleeps to take out meat or chicken so that you can cook it the next day. I hope she remembers.'

  Insha' Allah,' I murmur.

  My children grew up in Oman where we always had maids. They're very spoilt and can't look after themselves. Tamer can't even make himself a cup of tea! I wouldn't mind if he ate out, Mcl)onald's or at his college, but none of that is halal here and he's always been strict. He will only eat halal meat. I don't know where he got his religiousness from, none of us is as observant as him.'

  I don't know what to say to that - so I continue ironing.

  `Anyway, albaindiillilah, Lamya found you. It was a good idea to ask in the mosque.'

  Yes,' I say.

  She pours the hot water over the coffee granules in her mug. `I would stay with them longer but I need to go hack. came to settle them in and they seem to he settled now. Tamer didn't like it here at first but his father wants him to study like he did in England. As soon as Tamer finished school last year, his father applied for him to come here.'

  I am flattered that she is chatting to me; I hang on to her every word, enjoying her Egyptian accent. Mama and I used to watch the Egyptian soaps every day - even when we were out visiting we would ask our hosts to please, put on the TV.

  It is the first time for me to put Mai down for her nap and it is a challenge. I follow Doctora Zeinab's instructions - the ritual of carrying her to the kitchen, pouring sugar-free Rihena in her favourite cup, adding Evian (none of the family, to my surprise, drinks tapwater). Then carrying Mai to the bedroom, closing the curtains, settling her in her cot, giving her the cup to suck on. I sit on the floor next to the cot. She bounces up and stands in the cot, wide awake. `Lie down, Mai, go to sleep.' I take the cup away from her. `Lie down, then I'll give you your cup.' She starts to scream. I have no choice but to give her hack the cup, afraid that her cries will bring Doctora Zeinab to the room.

  `Lie down, Mai, see, like me.' I stretch out on the floor and close my eyes. In a while, I hear a gentle thud on the cot mattress. I open my eyes and find her lying with a foot resting on one of the bars of the cot. One hand holds the cup, the fingers of the other twists and plays with the tassels of her cover. She seems content. Her eyes meet mine and she lifts her head, perks up. I quickly close my eyes again, telling myself I must remain perfectly still so as not to disturb her. Soon I began to hear her steady breathing. I agonize over whether to remove the empty cup from her sleeping fingers or leave it. Perhaps, in the middle of her nap, she will want another sip but then she might knock her cup against the bars of the cot and wake up. I take the risk and ease the cup away from her grasp. She stirs and rolls over. I freeze, afraid that any movement, any sound will wake her up. But I am safe, she is deeply asleep.

  In the afternoon, Doctora Zeinab sits in the armchair in the living room, waiting for the taxi she has called. She looks elegant in a brown two-piece suit, full make-up and shiny high-heeled shoes. Earlier I carried her two suitcases from her bedroom to the door of the flat.

  Now I sense a tension in her as she waits, rustling the newspaper, an impatience to he off. Her good clothes make her reluctant to hold Mai and so my role is to occupy and amuse Mai, prevent her from messing up her grandmother's clothes. It is raining outside and that is why Mai and I can't go to the park. I hold Mai up to the window to watch the rain. The ledge is wide enough for her to stand on and the window is safely closed with a child lock. The trees in the park sag under the weight of water and the leaves have lost their crisp shine. Below us, people hold up strong umbrellas, the windscreen wipers of the cars swish hack and forth. The
room darkens and Doctora Zeinah puts on the light. The telephone rings and she picks it up.

  Her hoarse hello softens into, `Tamer, babibi, what's wrong, you're late?' A pause. Of course I don't mind. I told you this morning that you needn't conic. I can go to Heathrow on my own - you never listen to me.' I sit on the window ledge and Mai settles in my lap - we are becoming friends now.

  No, it isn't a problem getting my suitcases downstairs. Of course not.' A pause and she smiles. 'I'm glad you're not going to miss your lecture.'

  I hear the key in the door of the flat, it opens and the young man I had met in the lobby walks in. I can see him down the corridor in the hall, but Doctora Zeinab can't. He is talking into a mobile phone and his voice reaches me in a whisper. `So Mama, you're sure you don't need me to come home? You're going to manage going to Terminal 4 all by yourself?'

  He walks into the sitting room as she is saying, `It's too late now anyway for you to come home ... Tamer!' They both start to laugh. He switches his phone off and puts it in his pocket. I notice that he resembles her; those large slightly protruding eyes, the curve on the nose, but these features are handsome on him. His mother stands up and they hug. She is shorter than him and he is languid in his show of affection. They laugh; there is an ease in their relationship, a carelessness I did not notice between mother and daughter.

  Mai squeals, `Ta-ma, Tama.' And he turns towards her. He notices my presence for the first time and is a little embarrassed, more restrained. I look away, out of the window. He must have made a face to his mother, for I hear her say, `Come, let's go to my room.' But Mai slips from my arms, rushes to him. He is on his knees now, arms wide open. She is lifted high up. The whole room is different. Some people do that, they can enter a room and change it.

  From the window, I see a black taxi park; the driver gets out and rings our bell. Tamer heads towards the entryphone. His accent strikes me as being slightly American. It must be the kind of school he went to in Oman.

  `I'll take the suitcases downstairs,' he calls out to his mother who had gone into the bathroom. I hold the door open for him, run and call the lift. He picks up his mother's suitcases, both at the same time. I almost laugh at the effort he makes to pretend that they are not heavy. He is heading towards the stairs, but I call out that the lift is here. I stop Mai from walking into the lift after her uncle. She is charged with the excitement of too many things happening all at the same time. The elevator descends and I catch a glimpse of a small smile aimed at me, a vivid picture of him standing between the two suitcases; jeans and Nike trainers, his light green jacket spotted with rain. `He'll come back,' I tell Mai. She is totally confused. One minute Tamer was tossing her in the air; the next minute Uoctora Zeinab is kissing her goodbye.

  In a while, he is leaping up the stairs again. Now that the suitcases are in the taxi, he is impatient to get going. I dither at the doorway with Mai in my arms, wondering if it would he presumptuous to kiss Doctora Zeinab goodbye. She puts her coat on slowly. He is almost bouncing up and down. `Come on Manta, come on.'

  'Tamer,' she says, `Lamya told me to give you my set of keys but how would Najwa get back into the flat if she takes Mai to the park?'

  He looks at nee when she says illy name and hack at his mother. He is bored with what she's saying.

  She continues, 'My set of keys has to remain in the flat - for Najwa to use whenever she goes. There it is.' She plonks the set of keys on the shelf near the door. The key chain is a flat green picture of Harrods.

  `Don't forget Najwa, to take it with you if you go out.'

  `I don't need it today,' I say. `Today we won't go out because of the rain.'

  'If it stops raining.' She is irritated now. And tomorrow and the day after - if you don't take the key with you, you and the girl will be stranded outside.'

  Tamer groans and heads for the stairs. They are both obviously fed up with my stupidity.

  `Look after the house,' Doctora Zeinab says more gently, `I will be coming back again, insha' Allah, and I will be phoning. This girl is your biggest responsibility.'

  `Insha' Allah, you will come hack to us soon, Doctora,' I say knowing I will not kiss her goodbye, knowing she does not expect me to.

  I watch her walk briskly down the stairs. Only when she is out of sight do I close the door of the flat.

  I take Mai to the window and we watch Tamer and Doctora Zeinab get into the taxi. They look up at us and wave. Tamer pushes down the window and grins up at us. Mai starts to cry. She bawls and stamps her feet on the ledge and, though I am propping her, she loses her balance and tumbles. I grab her in time and hold her up again to the window. We must be a sight - Mai having a tantrum, and me with a dumb expression on my face, incompetent.

  Twelve

  he train comes out of the underground tunnel. There is sunlight and grass now, the houses of outer London. Every time the train stops more people get out and hardly anyone hoards. We are nearing the end of the line. I am closer to Omar now.

  A bus takes me from the station to the prison. It is an ordinary building set well hack from the road with spacious grounds and a car park. Omar has not always lived here. There were other prisons before, ones that were darker and rougher. Now this benign one is a graduation. Inside the building I show my VO to the guard. He takes my handbag and keeps it. I am on time. Already a small group has started to gather: a blonde women with her two black sons, several middle-aged couples, another woman with a baby. We are ushered into a lift by a jolly guard in a dark blue uniform. He chats with the small boys and their mother laughs. She is excited, looking forward to seeing her man. As I do every visit, I reach out for a sense of shame, for a sense of guilt or even sheepishness but there is nothing. Everything is ordered and ordinary - we might as well be visting innocent patients in an asylum or teenagers in a hoarding school.

  The room we are led to has a snack shop along one side. The little boys and their mother head there. There are round tables surrounded by immovable stools - three white stools for the visitors and one blue stool for the prisoner. We sit on our white stools and wait; the guards stand in pairs along the doors, chatting. It is only a few minutes but it feels like a long time. They come out individually, not in pairs nor in clusters nor in single file but aloof as if there is neither camaraderie nor shared experience between them. Yet they all wear the same pale blue shirt, slight variations in trousers. A man in dreadlocks struts into the arms of his sons. He and the mother kiss. This family is noisy while the rest of us are more subdued.

  When I see Omar I know I must have aged too. Time has passed, taken us by surprise. `Hey, Nana,' he says, the only one in the world now who still uses my nickname. We shake hands, pat each other on the back and eventually hug. Over the years his hair has thinned, his hairline receded. Now he is almost bald and I can remember luxuriant curls greased in imitation of Michael Jackson on the cover of Off the Wall. He wears glasses now - unfashionable ones that the prison services have given him. His health isn't very good. He has stomach ulcers, kidney problems, colds that take ages to clear up.

  `It's been ages since you sent me an invite. You know I would come and see you every weekend. You know that.' It irks me that I cannot visit him whenever I want to, that the initiatives have to come from him.

  He shrugs, `It's too far away for you.'

  `I don't mind.'

  `You were here a couple of weeks ago, weren't you?'

  `No, a whole month.'

  `Has it been a whole month?' He looks confused. His memory is not as accurate as it used to he. Sometimes I think he is not well, not himself, will never he. As if to reassure me, he leans forward. 'So, what's your news?' His interest in me is highest at the beginning of the visit. It will dwindle as if I disappoint him, as if I don't bring him what he needs. I tell him about my new job. I describe St John's Wood High Street where the clothes in the shops are so expensive that they don't even display the prices in the windows. I tell him about Doctora Zeinab, Mai and Lamya. `Her brother,' I say, 'is o
nly nineteen and is so devout and good. No cigarettes, no girlfriend, no clubbing, no drinking. He has a beard and goes to the mosque every day.'

  `What a wimp!'

  No, he isn't a wimp!' I sound possessive.

  Omar shrugs as if it doesn't matter to him either way. He changes the subject. `Do you have any news of Uncle Saleh?'

  `I've just got a letter from him. He sends you his regards.'

  `How is he?'

  `Fine, alhamdullilah, getting used to being a senior citizen in Toronto.'

  `And Sarnir? He's dropped us like a hot potato.'

  `He's not the only one, Omar.' But I wonder if our old friends have dropped us or merely drifted off, lost touch.

  `I expected more of him, being a cousin and all.' His voice is a little hitter, only a little.

  Once, when Samir was still in Britain, Omar had sent him an invite. Samir had not visited him, nor sent an apology, nor written.

  `Well, he's very high up in ICI now. His children are getting big - Uncle Saleh sent me a few photos. The eldest girl looks like Mama so much you wouldn't believe it.'

  We talk of the past, before Mama died. We talk of the pop music we liked and how nowadays the new hands are no good. We remember a Bob Marley concert we went to in Earls Court. We remember buying vinyl records and the evening Baba took us to see the musical Oliver in Shaftesbury Avenue.

  `Do you remember ice skating in Queensway?' Omar smiles. 'I loved that place. There was a jukebox in the cafeteria. The first jukebox I had ever seen. We would put in ten pence and press a button, choose the song we wanted.'