Minaret: A Novel Page 9

  Fifteen

  saw you yesterday at the talk,' Tamer says. I had been pushing Mai on the swing and he appeared with his rucksack as if it is natural for him on his way home to look in on us in Regent's Park.

  `Yes it was a good talk,' I say. `A lot of people turned up so the organizers must have been pleased.'

  `I'll push the swing.' He drops his hag and takes my place. The playground is quiet today. The sky is cloudy and I wait for the first drops of rain. Above the treetops I can see the dome of the mosque with the chandelier bright through the glass.

  He says, `I liked the bit in the talk about the signs preceding the Day of Judgement and how people Centuries past used to feel that these signs were already coming true. They believed the end of the world was imminent and yet here we are.'

  `Maybe imminent can mean many years away.' It had been a good lecture, worth going to. Both Shahinaz and I enjoyed it - it shook us in a way. I say to Tamer, Some of these signs were spooky.'

  `Yes, the sun rising from the west and the animal that talks - that's pretty spooky.'

  He said it could be allegorical.'

  `I believe in it literally.' He catches hold of the swing, lifts it high up. Mai squeals when he lets it go.

  `It could be, why not? The coming of Jesus is literal. Even the exact place where he will next appear is known.'

  `I would love to he alive at that time,' he says.

  I smile at his enthusiasm, his faith in himself. `What would you do?'

  `I would rush to Damascus to see him.'

  `Leave your university?' I am teasing him but he doesn't notice.

  `Oh Yes, I wouldn't think twice. Wouldn't you?'

  I smile and say nothing. It is not appropriate to mention money and the cost of airline tickets to Syria.

  `I would he in the Mahdi's army,' he continues, `fighting the Antichrist.' He holds an imaginary sword in his hand, swings it.

  I would like to be there when Jesus prays with the Mahdi. I would like to pray with them, but I wouldn't like the war. I am afraid of wars even when they are only on television.' Mai wants to get off the swing. He lifts her out. His fingers are long and thin with the nails bitten.

  Mai runs to the slide. She is not afraid to climb the steps, abandon herself to the falling down. Only last week, she was wary of that large slide.

  You know,' he says, sitting sideways on the swing, his legs on either side, `I read in a hook that a Sudanese sheikh in the sixteenth century said that a day will come when people will travel by movable houses and communicate through slender threads - isn't that amazing?'

  `It is amazing.' He makes me smile. It's the way he talks or maybe it's just the fresh company. `The sheikh must have seen that in a dream.'

  `That's right. I didn't think of that. He must have seen the future in a dream.'

  `Have you been to Sudan?'

  `Yes. We used to go every summer when we were in Oman. You're Sudanese, aren't you?'

  I am usually wary of such questions, where they can lead, but from him the query sounds harmless.

  `Yes, but I've been in London now nearly twenty years.' When I came with Mama and Omar, when Baba was executed, Tamer must have been a baby. I start to talk quickly. 'Do you think you might one day go hack and live in Sudan?'

  'I might yes. I liked it there. There is so much to do - Khartoum is fun.'

  Mai walks over to the sandpit. I help her take off her shoes and she starts playing with a little boy. His Sri Lankan nanny sits on the edge of the sandpit holding it Tupperware box of rice in one hand, a spoon in the other. She feeds him while he scoops sand with a spade. I sit next to her. Tamer moves away from the swing and sits on a nearby bench.

  `I)o you go back to Sudan for holidays?' he asks me.

  No, I don't have anyone there to visit.'

  Your family are here?'

  I nod. It is true. Omar is here. Omar is my family.

  `Tell me,' I say, `what did you used to do in your holidays in Khartoum?' It's been a long time since I was nostalgic for Khartoum.

  ,Well, with my cousins, we went fishing and we played football. Everyone kept inviting us for lunch. The food is great there.'

  I laugh. `I could cook you Sudanese food if you want.'

  `Really?'

  `Yes. Where else did you go in Khartoum?'

  `We went swimming in the American Club.'

  `You did! I used to go there all the time when I was young. We were members.' I remember the smell of hamburgers grilling, my friend Randa and I in the bathroom putting on lip gloss, disco lights. It seems such a long time ago. Yet the place still exists, it is not only in my head.

  `Do you feel you're Sudanese?' I ask him.

  He shrugs. `My mother is Egyptian. I've lived everywhere except Sudan: in Oman, Cairo, here. My education is Western and that makes me feel that I am Western. My English is stronger than my Arabic. So I guess, no, I don't feel very Sudanese though I would like to be. I guess being a Muslim is my identity. What about you?'

  I talk slowly. `I feel that I am Sudanese but things changed for me when I left Khartoum. Then even while living here in London, I've changed. And now, like you, I just think of myself as a Muslim.'

  He smiles. I ask him about Lamya. `Does she consider herself Sudanese?'

  His expression changes, becomes more reserved as if he does not feel comfortable talking about his sister. `I think she considers herself Arab. Her husband is like us. He's Sudanese but he grew up in the Gulf and studied in the States.'

  I have not seen Lamya's husband. He does not come to London as much as Doctora Zeinab had led me to believe.

  The nanny and the little boy start to pack up. We wave to them as they leave the playground. I wonder if Lamya and Tamer had a Far Eastern nanny while they were growing up in the Gulf. It is very likely.

  `Which Sudanese food do you like best?' I ask him.

  `The peanut salad.'

  `That's very easy to make with peanut butter. I'll make it for you. What else do you like?'

  His answer is interrupted by a whine from Nlai. She is on the see-saw and frustrated that she can't get it to move. I go and sit on the other side and we start to play, with Tamer watching us. For a brief moment I am not sure who I am, the Najwa who danced at the American Club disco in Khartoum or Najwa, the maid Lamya hired by walking into the Central Mosque one afternoon. I move up and down, slowly so that Mai doesn't fall off and get a fright, but not so gently that she will get bored.

  It starts to rain, a few drops that look dark on the red safety tiles under the see-saw. Tamer looks up at the sky. He seems more relaxed than the other day when we met in the street. He might not know it but it is safe for us in playgrounds, safe among children. There are other places in London that aren't safe, where our very presence irks people. Maybe his university is such a place and that is why he is lonely.

  The rain is the kind that doesn't need an umbrella but I decide it is best to take Mai home. I put up the plastic hood on her pushchair and the three of us leave the park, walk in the direction of Lord's. Tamer Pushes Mal and I think, `We're like a couple, a couple with a baby.' Is this how we look to people? Or will people think I am his mother? Surely I don't look that old.

  Sixteen

  ith his key, Tamer opens the door of the flat. I help Mai out of her pushchair and kneel to take off her jacket. There are lights in the corridor - Lamya is already home. She comes out of her room. I know she is animated in the evenings, but today her eyes are flashing and she is almost breathless when she speaks to me. `Where's my pearl necklace? I left it in the morning with the rest of my jewellery, where is it?'

  I stand up. She is not asking, she is accusing. `I don't know.' My voice is flat because things have suddenly darkened, because I can lose this job in a stroke, just like that. `I didn't take it.' Even to my own ears I don't sound convincing enough.

  `Did I accuse you of taking it?' Her voice is harsh, but she is nervous, lacking confidence. `Why are saying you didn't take it?'
r />   It is a trick question and I will fail. I stand still with my hands in my pockets. Mai struggles with her shoes. I bend down and help her take them off. She runs and hugs her mother's legs but, not finding a response, wanders off to the sitting room. Tamer is next to me. He says, `Lamya, have you looked for it? Are you sure you've looked for it?' His voice is loud as if to match hers but he sounds calm, as if this is an everyday event. He takes off his coat, bends down to untie his trainers.

  `Yes of course I've looked for it.' She is exasperated with him, regards his presence as a nuisance. She turns hack to Inc. `Well speak, where is it?'

  `Lamya,' Tamer says. He is reproaching her. We will look for it again. I'm sure you mislaid it somewhere.'

  She glares at me, her arms folded. She is wearing the beige trousers I ironed yesterday, a top and a sweater in the same reddish shade of orange. She looks as if she wants to pounce on me and do a body search for her necklace. Perhaps she would have done that, if Tamer wasn't here. She would have rummaged in my pockets, slapped me if I resisted, made me take off my bra ... I start to pray; the words tumble in my head. Allah, please get me out of this mess. Stop this from happening. I know You are punishing me because I tried this necklace on in the morning, in front of the mirror. I put it round my neck and I will never do that again, ever. I will never try on her scarves; I will never weigh myself on her bathroom scales. But I didn't take the necklace. I would never dream of taking her things. I just tried the necklace on and put it hack. I'm sure I pert it hack because I heard Mai calling me and I immediately unclasped it ...

  `Najwa ...' Tamer is talking to me. He is saving that we should look for the necklace. `I'm sure we'll find it,' he says. He looks down at my feet. I look down and see that I am still wearing my shoes. I should take my shoes off and move from the hall to the bedroom to start searching.

  Mai comes out of the sitting room. She is holding the pearl necklace in her hand. Tamer laughs. `There's your missing necklace, Lamya!'

  She takes one look at her daughter and slaps her hard. The poor child staggers back, the necklace flies from her hand. Tamer is on the floor, he takes her in his arms. She is screaming from the shock as much as from the pain, her face almost purple; saliva dripping from her wide-open mouth. `This is mean of you, Lamya,' he says. `Why did you do that?'

  Unable to bear it any longer, I turn around, open the door of the flat and run down the stairs.

  It is raining and all the cars have their headlights on. I pause in front of the corner of the building waiting for the downpour to ease. I want to get away; I want to forget the past few moments. It had been nice in the park and then to come back ... What if Mai hadn't appeared with the necklace? I must have left it on the dressing table instead of hanging it on the tree where Lamya hangs all her necklaces. Mai must have picked it up and taken it into the sitting room, perhaps hidden it in one of her toys. This is the kind of miracle that makes me queasy. I know about stealing. Years ago, Omar stealing my own pearl necklace, Omar shouting at Mama to give him more money, shaking her shoulders. He went as far as shaking her shoulders, trying to frighten her. What if Mai hadn't appeared with the necklace? My stomach heaves. I can lose this job easily. Rely on Allah, I tell myself. He is looking after you in this job or in another job. Why are you becoming attached to this family anyway? There is vague talk in the mosque that they want to set up a creche. That would be a better place, a steadier income. I start to walk to the bus stop, the zebra crossing, turn the corner.

  I hear footsteps behind me, someone running, Tamer saying my name. I stop and turn round. `You're coming tomorrow aren't you, you haven't taken offence?' He is a little out of breath. He's not wearing his coat.

  No, I haven't taken offence.' We move to the side of the pavement. Looking down there is a footpath and a canal running under the street. It runs north to the zoo, south until close to Edgware Road.

  `Good,' he says. `I ... we were a bit worried after you Icft.'

  'I'm sorry. I should have excused myself first.' The rails eases a little but still the windscreen wipers on the cars flick, people hold up their umbrellas.

  `Look, Lamya is wrong. She shouldn't have ...'

  I try to interrupt him. I don't want him to apologize for his sister but he continues, `I don't approve of her. She hardly prays. She doesn't wear hijab. It's wrong. She has such had friends. They go and see rude films together. They smoke and even drink wine - it's disgusting. I tell her but she doesn't listen to me. Her husband should tell her but he's just as had. It's all to do with pride, the way she talked to you just now. She shouldn't ...'

  `Don't worry,' I manage to interrupt him. I try and smile. it was just something had that happened and we should forget about it.'

  `Right.' His hair is damp from the rain. He looks tired and I must look worse. He looks down at the pavement. `I'm relieved that, insha' Allah, you're coming tomorrow.'

  `I'll make you that peanut salad I promised you.'

  He smiles, more like his usual self. `Thank you.'

  'I should thank you for . . .' My voice trails off. For standing up for me, for standing next to me.

  'I knew you'd never take anything. I knew.' He is confident. Like Mai, he trusts me in a childish way. As if I need reminding that he is so young.

  You don't know me well,' I say, `there's a lot about me you don't know.'

  He looks straight at me with neither curiosity nor disinterest. As if he is saying, `If you tell me or if you don't tell me, I won't change towards you.'

  The next day is different. When I ring the hell, it is Tamer not Larnya who opens the door for me. He is in his pyjamas, looks like he had just got out of bed. `I have a cold.' He clears his throat. `I didn't go to university.' Lamya had gone out earlier, Mai is still asleep. He goes hack to bed and I start to tackle the kitchen. I try not to clatter so as not to disturb him. It is my fault that he is ill - he ran after me in the rain without his coat.

  I am relieved that Lamya is already out and I do not have to face her after yesterday. It strikes me that even now, knowing I am innocent, she will never treat me as her equal. I had hoped to come close to her or at least get her to chat with me like her mother did. Now I know that she will never do that. She will always see my hijab, my dependence on the salary she gives me, my skin colour, which is a shade darker than hers. She will see these things and these things only; she will never look beyond them. It disappoints me because, in spite of what Tamer said, I admire her for the I'M) she is doing, her dedication to her studies, her grooming and taste in clothes.

  When Mai wakes up, I change her and give her breakfast. While she watches TV, I cook. I make lentil soup and the peanut salad I promised Tamer. He wakes up at noon, looking better and says he's hungry. I set the kitchen table for him, heat up pitta bread. He slurps the soup while I iron, blows his nose into a tissue. `Maybe I have SARS,' he jokes. The day is different.

  He starts to talk about his high school in Oman. 'It was an international school,' he says, 'following an American system.' The students chose their subjects. They didn't have to wear uniforms. 'My teachers were nice,' he says, 'nicer than the ones I have now.' He eats with a good appetite, tearing large pieces of bread, scooping out the peanut sauce that is chunky with onions and green peppers. It amuses me that he can eat well even when he is ill.

  'My history teacher in school,' he says, 'she was disappointed that I didn't go on to study Middle East History or Islamic Studies. She knew I liked them. But the policy of the school is to respect the family's decision. In my case that meant studying Business.' He stands up, rummages in one of the top cupboards for a fizzy Vitamin C tablet and plonks it in a glass of water. 'Here there're all these antiAmerican feelings. It bugs me. My American teachers were really nice.'

  I fold Lamya's nightdress and start ironing her purple skirt. You have to trust your instincts when people are talking. People say things they don't mean.'

  'What hugs me,' he says, 'is that unless you're political, people think you're not a
strong Muslim.' He gulps down the rest of his Vitamin C. 'Are you interested in politics

  I shake my head and tell him why I am afraid of politics, why I am afraid of coups and revolutions. I start to speak about my father, things I have never said to anyone else. They surprise me by coming out fresh, measured - maybe because it all happened many years ago.

  'You know a lot,' he says, offering admiration instead of pity.

  There was a time when I had craved pity, needed it but never got it. And there are nights when I want nothing else but someone to stroke my hair and feel sorry for me. Looking at him now, his nose swollen with flu, I think he could pity me, one day, at the right time, in the right place, he could give me the pity I've always wanted. And because I am struck by this thought, because it suspends me, I say, One of the Muslim scholars or maybe even the Khalifa Omar, I'm not sure, said that the Rum, the Europeans, are better than us in that when they fall down in battle they quickly get up, dust themselves and fight again. I try to forget the past, to move on but I'm not good at it. I'm not European.' We smile at each other. I've finished the ironing but the iron is too hot to put away. I fold the board hack into the drawer and slide it shut.

  He says, 'I have to go pray, I haven't prayed yet,' and he leaves the kitchen, blowing his nose. I wash the dishes and think of what he said to me. You know a lot.' If someone else had said that, I would have contradicted them saying, 'Oh no, I am neither educated nor well read. Look at me in a dead-end job.' But I had accepted the compliment from him, perhaps because he is younger than me.

  Once, a few years hack, Shahinaz had unsuccessfully introduced me to one of her uncles, a man in his early fifties, divorced, looking for a wife. I remember how constrained I had felt with him, his probing questions, the way he looked at me, wanting to figure me out, to determine my type, to `suss me out' as Tamer would put it. If Shahinaz's uncle had said to me, You know a lot,' I would have suspected him of sarcasm, checked his eyes for a sneering look. I am glad he went away. I am glad he did not pursue me and instead married someone else.