Minaret: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  `Who?'

  `Pushkin,' I said. He was not impressed with my reply.

  `Look,' he said, `if I gave you some leaflets, would VOL] help me pass them out?'

  `I can't. I promised my father I wouldn't get involved in student politics.'

  He shrugged and raised his eyebrows as if to say, `Why am I not surprised?'

  `What are your own political views?' he asked.

  `I don't know. I don't have any.'

  What do you mean you don't know?'

  `Everyone seems to blame everyone else.'

  `Well, someone has to take the blame for what's happening.'

  'Why?'

  `So that they can pay the price.'

  I didn't like him saying that. Pay the price.

  `Your father is close to the President?'

  `Yes. They're friends too.'

  `Have you met him?'

  Of course. He telephones my father at home and I answer the phone.'

  `Just like that.' He smiled.

  `Yes, it's nothing. Once, years ago, when I was in primary school, he phoned and when I answered I said "hello" in a very English way.' I held an imaginary receiver in my ear, mimicked myself saying, `Hello, 44959.' I liked the way Anwar was watching me, the amusement in his eyes. `Then,' I continued, `the President got angry and he said, "Speak properly, girl! Speak to me in Arabic".'

  Anwar burst out laughing. I was pleased that I had made him laugh.

  `I like talking to you,' he said, slowly.

  `Why?' That was the way to hear nice things. Ask why.

  Years later, when I looked back, trying to remember the signs of hidden tension, looking behind the serenity, I think of the fights that I took for granted. The smell of dust and sewers fought against the smell of jasmine and guava and neither side won. The Blue Nile poured from the Highlands of Ethiopia and the Sahara encroached but neither was able to conquer the other. Omar wanted to leave. All the time Omar wanted to leave and I, his twin, wanted to stay.

  `Why Samir and not me?' he asked Baba as we ate lunch. We ate from china and silver. We wiped our mouths with napkins that were washed and ironed every day.

  `Because Samir didn't get good enough grades,' Mama said. She had just come back from the hairdresser and her hair curled over her shoulder. I could smell her hairspray and cigarettes. I wished I were as glamorous as her, open and generous, always saying the right things, laughing at the right time. One day I would be.

  `So, is it fair,' I said, in support of Omar, `that the one who gets the poor grades gets to go abroad and the one who gets the good grades stays here?' Samir was our cousin, the on of Uncle Saleh, Mama's brother. Samir was now in Atlantic College in Wales doing the IB, which was like A levels.

  You too?' Baba glared at me.

  No, I don't want to go anywhere. I want to stay here with you.' I smiled at Mama and she smiled hack. We were too close for me to leave her and go study abroad.

  'Najwa is very patriotic,' Omar said sarcastically.

  As you should he,' said Baba.

  `Eat and argue later,' said Mama but they ignored her.

  1 want to go to London. I hate studying here.' Omar meant it. I could tell from his voice that he meant it.

  `It's good for you,' Baba said. `Roughen you up a hit. All this private schooling you've had has spoilt you. In university you're seeing how the other side lives. You'll understand the reality of your country and the kind of work environment you'll he facing one day. When I was your age ...

  Omar groaned. I began to fear a scene. I swallowed, afraid of Baha shouting and Omar storming out of the house. I would have to spend the rest of the day phoning round searching for him.

  I stood alone at the bottom of the garden. My admirer passed by on his bicycle. His clothes were awful and his haircut was terrible. It wasn't flattering to he admired by someone like him. I felt the familiar anger rise in me. But it was fun to he angry with him. I frowned at him, knowing well that any response would only encourage him. He grinned hopefully and pedalled away. I actually knew nothing about him.

  `Come with me, Najwa', Mama said. She was wearing her plain blue tope and her black high-heeled sandals. They made a tapping noise on the marble of the front terrace. She carried a plastic hag full of lollipops and sweets.

  Musa, the driver, came round with the car, gravel churning in the stillness of the afternoon. He opened the car door for her and went to bring out from the house more plastic bags bulging with old clothes and two pails of homemade biscuits. I recognized Omar's old Coca-Cola T-shirt and a pink dress that I'd stopped wearing because it was out of fashion.

  `Where are you going?' I guessed from Mama's subdued clothes that it wasn't anywhere fun.

  `Cheshire Home,' she said, getting into the back of car. She said `Cheshire Home' gaily as if it were a treat. Only Mama could do that.

  I hesitated a little. The thin twisted limbs of the children disturbed me and I preferred it when she took me to the school for the deaf. There the children, though they could not speak properly, were always running about carefree, with sharp intelligent eyes taking in what they couldn't hear.

  But I got in the car next to her and, when Musa started the car, she opened her bag and gave me a spearmint gum.

  `If you could see the orphanage your Aunt took me to yesterday!' she said. `In comparison Cheshire is Paradise. Dirty, dirty, you wouldn't believe it.'

  I wrinkled my nose in disgust. I was relieved they had gone in the morning when I was in university and so had not been able to drag me along.

  `And they have nothing,' she went on. `But is this an excuse not to keep the children clean?'

  She did not expect a reply from me. Musa was smiling and nodding in the driver's seat as if she was talking to him. That's how she was. That's how she talked. There were times when she was animated and other times when she would be low and quiet. And it was strange that often at parties and weddings she would he sober, preoccupied, yet in crises she had the strength to rise to whatever the situation demanded. I knew, listening to her talk about the orphanage, that she was not going to let it rest. She would pull every string, harass my father and harass His Excellency himself until she got what she wanted.

  Cheshire Home was cool and shady, in a nice part of town with bungalows and old green gardens. I envied my mother's ease, how she swept in with her hag of sweets and her biscuits, with Musa walking behind her carrying the rest of the things. The nurse, Salma, welcomed her like an old friend. Salma was very tall and dark, with high cheekbones and white dazzling teeth. Her drab white uniform did not hide her lovely figure: she looked dignified, with crinkles of white in her hair. `Congratulations,' she said to me, you got into university.' She had not seen me for a long time.

  You keep this place very clean.' Mania started to praise Salina.

  `Oh, Cheshire was even better in the past.'

  `l know. But it's still good. I went to this orphanage yesterday and it was dirty, dirty, you won't believe it.'

  Which one was that?'

  The room was large with a blackboard to one side, a few child-sized desks and stools. Cots lined the wall and a few halls and toys were scattered here and there. They looked familiar - maybe Mama had brought some of them in an earlier visit. There were a few posters on the wall about the importance of immunization, and a frightening picture of a baby with smallpox. Salina brought Mania and I chairs but she sat on one of the children's stools. The children clambered towards us in zimmers and some dragged themselves on the floor. One Southern boy was very fast, able to move around the room freely with his arms and one leg.

  `One by one and I give you your lollipops,' said Mama. A faint attempt at forming a queue was abandoned in a confused flurry of outstretched hands. Mama gave them a lollipop each.

  `John!' Salma called to the Southern boy. `Stop this roaming around and come and get a lollipop.'

  He casually heaved himself towards us, grinning, his eyes bright.

  What colour would you like?' Mama ask
ed him.

  `Red.' His eyes darted here and there, like he was scanning everything or like he was thinking of something else.

  `Here. A red one for you,' Mama said. `The last red one, all the rest are yellow.'

  He took the lollipop and started to unwrap it. `Is this your car outside?' he asked.

  `Yes,' Mama replied.

  `What's it to you!' Salma scolded him.

  He ignored her and kept looking straight at Mama, `What kind of car is it?'

  `Mercedes,' Mama smiled.

  He nodded and sucked his lollipop. `I'm going to drive a big lorry.'

  `Look at this silly boy,' Salma laughed, `How are you going to drive?'

  `I will,' he said.

  `With one leg?' Salma raised her eyebrows, sarcastic, amused.

  Something changed in him, the look in his eyes. Salma went on, `You need two legs to drive a car.' He pivoted and dragged himself away.

  'There are special cars in Europe,' I said, 'for people without ... for disabled people.' It was the first time I had spoken since we arrived; my voice sounded stupid, everyone ignored me.

  Suddenly John overturned a desk, dragged a stool round the room banging everything with it.

  'Stop it, John, stop being rowdy!' Salina yelled.

  He ignored her. He pushed the stool straight across the room. If it hadn't collided with another stool, it would have hit Salma straight on.

  'I'm going to call the the police.' Salma stood up. 'They'll come and beat you up.'

  He must have believed her for he stopped and became very still. He leaned against the wall. His leg was sticking out at an awkward angle, his head against the wall, lollipop in his mouth. Suddenly still.

  In the silence we heard her weeping. She might have been eleven or even twelve; she was very thin, with callipers on both legs and a pink dress that was too small for her. How would she get married, how would she work ? I must not ask these things, Mama always said, there is no point thinking these things, we just have to keep visiting.

  'Why is she crying?' Mama asked Salma.

  `I don't know.'

  'Come and have a lollipop.' Mama called out to the girl but the girl continued to cry.

  `Get up now and come and have a lollipop,' Salina shouted at the girl.

  'Leave her, Salma. In her own time.' When the girl didn't move, Mama walked over to her and gave her sweets, patted her dishevelled hair. It didn't make any difference. She remained whimpering, with the sweets on her lap, until the end of our visit. Only when we were getting up to go did I see her quieten and start to unwrap the lollipop. Hunched over, she squinted, mucus dribbling from her nose over her mouth. It was a struggle for her to unwrap the lollipop, aim it at her mouth. I had thought that her legs were the problem but there was something wrong with her hands too.

  Three

  he party at the American club was in full swing when Omar and I arrived. We walked into the tease of red and blue disco lights and the Gap Band's `Say Oops Upside Your Head'.

  'Where were you?' my best friend Randa screeched above the music. 'Come with me to the bathroom.'

  'But I just got here.' I tried to protest but she grabbed my arm and pulled me.

  `You look amazing,' I said to her. She was wearing a black halter-neck T-shirt and a longish swirling skirt. I hadn't made half the effort she had made. The bathroom was smelly and hot. Randa put on strawberry-flavoured lip gloss and smoothed her eyebrows. She had glitter in her hair and on her bare shoulders.

  'Have you been to the hairdresser?'

  `Yes I've been to the hairdresser.'

  'My trousers are too tight.' An awkward twisting around to see my hips in the mirror.

  `Your trousers are fine - how did you get them on?'

  'Aaah ...'

  'Just joking.'

  `Is he here?'

  `Yes, His Highness has just walked in two minutes ago and I've been here since seven!'

  His Highness was the unreadable Amir whom she had been going out with for the past six months. He had lately been acting strangely.

  `Tonight,' she said, `I'm going to get some response from him.'

  I avoided her eyes. There were rumours that Amir had become friendly with a girl from the Arab Club. I didn't have the courage to tell Randa. Instead I said, `You really look nice today.'

  `Thanks, my love.'

  `Let's get out of here, I'm suffocating.'

  `Wait.' Out of her handbag came the inevitable mint spray. She opened her mouth and sprayed, then turned towards me. I hated the taste but opened my mouth anyway.

  Outside the bathroom, the air was fresh and some children were still in the swimming pool. Delicious smells of kebab and French fries came from the kitchen.

  `I'm hungry,' I said.

  `Is this a time for food?'

  I caught her excitement and we giggled arm in arm down the steps and back to the tingling darkness of the party. It was my favourite song, Boney M's `Brown Girl in the Ring'. I started to sing along. In the middle of the dance floor the Indian girl Sundari was dancing with her marine. Her black straight hair swung all the way down to her waist and when she turned it flew up and fell down. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She had a way of dancing where she moved far away from her partner and with sharp high heels skipped back towards him again. He looked so like a Sudanese you could easily be fooled, but Randa and I had analysed him deeply and decided that you could tell he was American just by the way he held himself - conscious of this unglamorous part of the world he had been posted to.

  I did not have to wait for long. One of Omar's friends asked me to dance and, leaving Randa, we made our way to the centre of the dance floor. White smoke rose up from the floor just like in Saturday Night Fever. I twirled around so that my earrings swayed and the arms of the others dancers brushed against mine.

  Unfortunately, after Boney M came the Bee Gees with 'How Deep is Your Love' and the numbers on the dance floor dwindled to no more than five couples. Warm from dancing, I went and bought myself a Pepsi then I searched the tables exchanging 'hi's until I found Randa sitting with Omar and the ever-serious Amir. His glasses flashed in the darkness, hiding his eyes; Randa was smiling hopefully.

  So how's the university?' she was asking him.

  `All right,' he drawled.

  'When do you get to carry that T-shaped ruler?' I asked. The Architecture students were always a striking sight on the campus, walking around with that ruler.

  `Next year.' His boredom was infectious. I gave up and sat hack in my chair, poured Pepsi in my glass and watched the dancers. Some couples danced very close, others moved awkwardly at arm's length. Sundari and the marine were of the very close type - his hands locked around her small waist, brushed by the fall of her hair. She lifted her head from his shoulders, moved her head hack and said something to him. He smiled. I imagined myself dancing with Anwar and then told myself not to he stupid, this was exactly the sort of thing he despised; Western music, Western ways. I had not told Randa about him. She would not understand. Yes, she would agree that he was handsome, but he was not one of us, not like us ... And a member of the Democratic Front; she would not even know what the Front was.

  Omar offered Amir a cigarette. A gust of wind suddenly blew, ruffling the tablecloth. It would be winter soon, we'd wear cardigans and it would be too cold to swim.

  Randa suddenly blurted out, `I'm leaving next month.'

  `What!' from me and Omar, simultaneously. `Where are you going?' Question after question from me and Omar.

  Amir didn't raise an eyebrow or speak. She answered us while her eyes were on him, watching his reaction, testing him.

  `I'm going to England to do A levels.'

  `But I thought you were going to sit your 0 levels again and try to get into Khartoum University ...'

  `My parents want me to leave.'

  `Just like my cousin Samir,' said Omar. `He didn't make it and gets to go abroad. And we get stuck here.' He looked at Amir for support or at least an acknowledg
ement of the irony. There was no response.

  `Oh Randa, I'm so upset.' All through secondary school, I had hoped we would be together in university. When her grades weren't good enough, I had hoped she would try again and join me next year. I had made dreams that we would be together, that she would meet Anwar; that she would learn what the Front was.

  `I can come back after A levels.' A hardness was in her voice. And suddenly her hair glitter and lip gloss weren't as nice as before.

  `What do you think Amir?' She turned to him again, voice a little sharp, focused.

  He shrugged. `Why not?'

  `Exactly, why not?' She sat back in her chair.

  That was it then, he didn't care. I hurt for her and that was mixed up with the shock that she was going away. Would she want me to go with her to the bathroom now, would she cry? There was a distracted expression on her face.

  `Conte on Omar, let's dance,' she said.

  There was a pause as my brother registered what she was saying, and hesitated, deciding between extinguishing his cigarette or taking it with him. I looked down at the ground. They walked to the dance floor, blocking my view of Sundari and her marine. I did not watch them dance and instead surrendered to the Bee Gees' sickly lyrics. Arnir didn't speak and I finished my Pepsi, crunching every hit of ice. I was waiting for the slow songs to end, waiting for Omar and Randa to come hack.

  After the party, I went to her house. Omar dropped us and went off to another party, a private one this time - some seedy affair he didn't want to take me too. They were getting more frequent these mysterious outings of his, and so were the places and new friends I was not part of.

  At Randa's house, her parents were having a dinner. To avoid them, we went in through the kitchen door, past frantic servants and a floor sticky and slippery with frying oil and discarded vegetable peel. Randa's room upstairs was neat and the air cooler New softly. She put on a longsleeved shirt over her halter-neck T-shirt. `So that we can go and get some food,' she said. I pulled my blouse out of my trousers and, though the bottom part was all crumpled, at least that way it hid my hips and made me a little hit more respectable.