Minaret: A Novel

by Leila Aboulela

  Throughout the afternoon, Tamer hogs the television and annoys Mai who wants to watch her cartoons. He sets up his PlayStation and sits on the floor playing one football game after the other. I take her to the park and we do the usual things, feed the ducks, while away time in the playground. A little boy pinches her in the sandpit and she screams and screams. I get her as far away from him as possible, wipe her face, soothe her with a bag of crisps. I push her along by the pond and she calls out to the swans and the dogs out for a walk. I enjoy knowing that Tamer will he there when we get back. On the way, I walk past the flat to the bakery in the High Street and buy him a piece of cheesecake.

  We drink tea together and watch The Pou'erpuf f Girls with Mai. The room is at its best, with the long windows bringing in the fading light. Tamer eats the cheesecake without offering to share it, without asking if I had paid for it with my own money or the housekeeping money Lamya leaves me. It pleases me that he is informal. It makes me feel relaxed.

  He says, `When I was at school, I hated missing a single day. I hated being ill. Now I don't care.'

  I say it would he wrong for him not to take his studies seriously. His parents are paying a lot of money to get him educated in London. He avoids my eyes and concentrates on the cartoon. After finishing his tea, he says, `I enjoyed being at home today. It was nice.'

  I savour the moment before the sound of the key in the door, before Lamya comes home and I have to stand up. A maid should not be sitting on the sofa drinking tea; she should sit on the floor or bustle about in the kitchen. She should not take such delight in her employer's brother. I wish I were younger, even just a few years younger.

  Part Three

  London, 1989-90

  Seventeen

  e did things we would never have done in Khartoum. Three weeks after Mama's funeral, Uncle Saleh and I had lunch in the Spaghetti House off Bond Street. If we had been in Khartoum, mourners would still be visiting, the television switched off as a mark of respect. Uncle Saleh sipped his tomato soup; I pushed my fork through smooth, buttery avocado. I had put on weight since we came from Khartoum; most of my clothes didn't fit me anymore.

  Uncle Saleh smiled at me across the table. I was his responsibility now. It made me feel sorry for him.

  `Have you changed your mind about coming with me to Canada?'

  I shook my head.

  'So what are you going to do?'

  After the focus of Mama's illness, after not even wanting to leave her for an hour, it felt strange to he free. I was wobbly, as if I was not used to being out in public. I said, `Maybe I should go to Khartoum for a few weeks.'

  He put his spoon down. `It's still not a good idea for you to go hack. And besides, when everyone asks you about Omar, what will you say?'

  He won the argument that way. It was something Mama would have wanted - not to tell anyone hack home about Omar. I finished my avocado, sucked the remaining dressing off my spoon. `How can you just leave Sudan and go to Canada?'

  `It's called immigrating. I've had it up to here with incompetence and instability.' He was bitter. What happened to my father had made him insecure and my mother's death had triggered anxieties about his own health.

  `What about Samir?' My question wasn't loaded but Uncle Saleh looked defensive.

  `He said that when he graduates from Cardiff, he'll follow me. Personally, I think he should transfer to a Canadian university. It would be sensible to have a Canadian degree if he's going to work there.'

  We both knew why Samir wanted to stay in Cardiff. It was because of his English girlfriend. Whatever hopes Mama and Uncle Saleh had of Samir and I getting married had come to nothing. I would have liked to get married, not specifically to Samir (though if he had asked me I would have accepted) but I wanted to have children, a household to run. `You didn't finish your education,' Mama used to complain, but deep down she was happy that I was with her every day, keeping her company through all the doctor visits and treatments, the time spent waiting for test results. Uncle Saleh said I was `nursing her' but really the nurses did everything, especially at the end. Most of the time I just sat and watched TV. The room in the Humana Wellington Hospital had a nice bathroom and a menu for every meal - it was like staying in a good hotel.

  The waiter took away our empty plates. `I keep thinking,' Uncle Saleh said, `that if you and Omar were younger, still at school, it might have been easier . . .' He paused. I tried to understand what he meant, screwed my eyes in concentration. `Yes, you're almost adults now but ..

  We're twenty-four.' I took a sip of my Coke.

  'It's a vulnerable stage, a crossroads in terms of careers and so on.'

  Why don't you think if we were older, in our thirties, settled, then it would have been easier?'

  `Yes, I think that too.' He looked somewhat slumped. 'It's pointless really thinking these things.'

  The waiter brought cannelloni for me, a dish of garlic chicken for Uncle Saleh. We perked up at the sight of the food. Stearn rose from the dishes and the white sauce on my cannelloni was bubbling.

  `I think you need to know that staying in London is the expensive option.' Uncle Saleh picked up his knife and fork.

  What do you mean?' I spoke with my mouth full, swallowed.

  'Well, life here isn't cheap - not what you're used to anyway. And what your father and mother left you isn't enough.'

  How come?'

  Rotten luck, that's how come. And this new government freezing your father's assets.'

  'I see.' My stomach pushed against the waistband of my skirt. I reached back and undid the button, took a deep breath and felt the zipper slide open. I needed to buy new clothes or go on a diet. But even if I did lose weight, the clothes I had were already out of fashion. 'I can get a job,' I said, smiling.

  As what? You're not qualified, Najwa. Do you want to study and get a qualification?'

  `No.'

  It might he a good idea. You'd meet people, make friends.'

  Something in his tone made me feel that I was a useless lump. Tears blurred the cannelloni on my plate. I wiped them away with the napkin. He didn't notice. `You have a friend, don't you, studying in Scotland?'

  `Randa.' I blinked and my voice was normal. `She's studying medicine in Edinburgh.'

  `Why don't you go study with her?'

  `Oh Uncle Saleh, I don't even have A levels. Don't you remember? I went to Atlantic College and came back after two weeks.'

  `I remember. You refused to milk a cow.' He laughed.

  I smiled, remembering Randa, Samir and Omar - how ashamed they were of me. `Who do you think you are? You're such a snob! It's part of the course - we have to do community work.' But I had never milked Sudanese cows, why should I milk British ones?

  `Have you ever milked a cow?' I asked Uncle Saleh.

  `No, I can't say I have. We're spoilt in Khartoum; everything's done for us. The closest I ever got to animals was when I went fishing.' He laughed.

  I laughed with him. `And the zoo.'

  `But you should have persevered with your studies, Najwa, cows or no cows.'

  `I probably wouldn't have made the IB anyway.' Omar hadn't. He was the only Sudanese who failed his exams; he never got over that. Randa, Samir and the others went on to university and he couldn't.

  `Your mother was too soft with you.' Uncle Saleh pointed his fork at me.

  `Yes, I suppose she was.' Mama came by train to fetch me. She pretended she was cross but she was relieved that I was with her, near her when the doctor said that the result of her tests was positive.

  The right thing is for you to come with me to Canada,' said Uncle Saleh.

  I can't. I need to be near Omar. Besides, I know people here. Uncle Nabeel said he would give me some training in his travel agency.' Uncle Nabeel's wife, Aunty Eva, had been a close friend of my mother, someone who, unlike many others, didn't withdraw from us after what happened.

  Uncle Saleh smiled with approval. `That's a good start. You'll be all right if you live off the in
terest in your bank account. Don't touch the capital.'

  I nodded.

  You must always get in touch with me if you need anything, if you have any problems . . .' His voice became gruff; he disliked these paternal speeches. 'I'll come to London once in a while and you must visit us in Toronto.' He had his own children to worry about; he would not insist that I join them. Already his patience was strained from looking after Mama and from Omar's trial.

  I ate the last spoonful of cannelloni. Uncle Saleh finished his chicken, pushed aside the mushrooms and said, `I have a bit of had news for you.'

  'What is it?' It would be about Omar or our not so much as we thought it would be' sources of money.

  He lowered his voice. `We lost the appeal. He's going to have to serve the whole sentence.'

  I didn't say anything. Everything about Omar - the mention of what he had done, the memory of his voice - made me feel numb. The word 'drugs' said by anyone, anywhere, made me cringe, even when I read it, even when I read a word like 'drugstore'.

  `It'll be fifteen years,' he continued.

  Fifteen years sounded like for ever. He would be old then, forty. How could he let them do this to him? A part of my brain still thought, it's all a mistake, a nightmare. It wasn't Omar; it couldn't have been Omar.

  `He will be eligible for parole in maybe half that time but to tell you the truth, Najwa,' Uncle Saleh was saying, `I feel safer about you being in London on your own, rather than with him around.'

  I winced. To hear it from Uncle Saleh was uncomfortable. Omar was not Omar anymore. Omar wouldn't shake Mama's shoulders. He wouldn't shout, `Where's my money? It's MY money.'

  Uncle Saleh paid the hill and left me to finish my profiteroles. He had an appointment with his bank manager in Piccadilly Circus. The immigration to Canada was costing him plenty. I felt silly sitting all by myself, self-conscious. It wouldn't be done in Khartoum for a woman to be alone in a restaurant. `I'm in London,' I told myself, `I can do what I like, no one can see me.' Fascinating. I could order a glass of wine. Who would stop me or even look surprised? There was a curiosity in me but not enough to spin me into action.

  I walked out of the restaurant. There was the fuzzy feeling again, as if I was still not used to being outdoors. For a second I was confused, missed my step - shouldn't I be hurrying back to the hospital? The sound of the traffic was loud, the smell from the French bakery deliberately delicious. People walked fast, knowing where they were going. If I wasn't too lazy, I would have crossed the street and gone into Selfridges, tried some of the new summer fashions.

  I decided to save money by taking the underground instead of a taxi. At Bond Street station, I looked at the magazines in the newsagent. I could buy one of those rude magazines, the ones always kept on the top shelf. No one would stop me or look surprised. I would carry it home and I wouldn't even need to hide it. I could plonk it on my bedside table and no on would see it. I hesitated, then I bought a copy of Slimming from the newsagent and a packet of Fox's Glacier Mints. The change I got was heavy and I dropped some of it on the ground. It was a struggle to bend down and pick up the coins. In Khartoum I would never wear such a short skirt in public. I might wear it at the club or when visiting friends by car, but not for walking in the street. My stomach was too full. I burped garlic.

  Eighteen

  ur new flat was not near an underground station. I got off at Edgware Road and walked the rest of the way. `Our' new flat. I still thought of us as a family. I would buy an Arabic magazine before realizing that it was Mama who had read it, I would put on Top Of The Pops on Thursday evening and realize halfway through that it was Omar who cared which song was number one.

  I walked past an ice-cream van, a building covered in scaffolding, workmen sitting out in the sun. A whistle and a laugh as one of them shouted out something I didn't catch, though I understood the tone. I flushed, aware that all the weight I had gained had settled on my hips. But still it was a compliment, and my hair was long on my shoulders like Diana Ross's. I looked up to see a face so much like Anwar's that I stopped and stared. The same complexion, a different grin. Anwar laughing when I told him about the President telling me off for answering the phone in English, Anwar lighting a cigarette saying, `Our country is beautiful. Why do you go to Europe and not want to see your own country instead?' The builder stood up on the scaffolding. Would he come down to talk to me? Would we become friends just because he looked like Anwar and thought I was pretty? I would have a builder for a boyfriend - how could I imagine such a comedown? But I could. I could imagine it because something inside me was luxurious and lazy, something inside me, confronted with a certain voice, a certain smile, could easily soften and give in. I forced myself to look away from him and walk on. It was awkward to walk fast, not only because of my skirt but also because of the high heels of my sandals.

  The flat held no memories. By the time we moved here, Omar's whereabouts were so erratic that he rarely spent a night in it. Several times he got confused and headed towards our old flat in Lancaster Gate. I looked into his room. It was impersonal, like a storeroom. His things, the few things he hadn't sold - posters, clothes. He had sold his ghetto blaster, Walkman, Swiss watch and best shoes. That was the beginning, how it started, then he turned to our things and bullying Mama. She didn't live here long, though she was the one who bought the flat. I remember going around with her, looking at flats, deciding which one to buy. We were together like sisters.

  I checked my post. Bills. A thick envelope from the Humana Wellington, pages and pages of the itemized bill. Every meal Mama and I had eaten, every long-distance call, every urine sample, a haircut, dry-cleaning, laundry and the total was a staggering amount. Uncle Saleh could not have been thinking of such a bill when he was telling me to only live off the interest in my bank account.

  I put on the only Sudanese tape I had, one by Hanan Al-Neel. I saw you sitting in the middle of greenery, the moon straight up above you ... Anwar made me get that tape. `Why do you only listen to Western music?' he had said. It had earned me his approval and Omar's contempt. For my brother, anything Western was unmistakably and unquestionably better than anything Sudanese. I saw you sitting ... My class at the University of Khartoum would have graduated by now. They would be looking for jobs, the girls marrying one by one, getting pregnant, and looking different. I could imagine myself with them; picture an alternative life to the one I was living in London. I could picture our house, busy and tingling because I was getting married. My mother and father were arguing over whom to invite to the wedding. `If we don't invite her,' Mama was saying, `she'll be offended and we'll never hear the end of it.' My skin glowed from the scrubbing and dilka it was getting every day. My muscles ached from the new dance routines I was learning. The telephone didn't stop ringing, my friends came over, we giggled nonstop. The bridegroom looked like Anwar but he wasn't Anwar, he couldn't be. He was someone my parents approved of, someone who wasn't a communist, someone whose father didn't work as a technician on the railways. The tape came to an end. I didn't turn it over.

  I lay in bed reading Slimming. No, I didn't know that a spoonful of ketchup was twenty-two calories. Which diet would suit me? The one where you had a big breakfast and light evening meal or the other way round? I fell asleep and dreamt I was young and ill, lying in my parents' room in Khartoum. Mama was looking after me. I could feel the cool crisp sheets around me, the privilege of being in their bed. She gave me a spoonful of medicine. Delicious syrup that burned my throat. Omar was jealous because he wasn't given any. Omar was sulking. He looked down at me, `Nana,' he said, `can I borrow your colours?' `Leave her alone,' Mama said, `can't you see she's ill?' She put a cool hand on my forehead. I smiled and closed my eyes. I could hear my father, upset because I was ill. He was annoyed with my mother, `put her on a course of antibiotics,' he said, `don't leave her like this!' and Mama's reply defensive, explaining. I rolled over, sure that they loved me. I mattered enough for them to quarrel over me. `put her on a course of an
tibiotics.' I woke up with my father's voice and for one tiny stupid second, I couldn't remember why he wasn't with me ... It was like looking at a gash on my arm and not remembering how I got it. The telephone rang. I made my way to it. The flat was dark with sunset.

  It was Randa, phoning from Edinburgh, saying, At last I managed to call you. You're the one who always seems to be phoning me.' She sounded like she was carrying out a duty.

  I hardly had any news to tell her. I could not tell her about Omar. I led her to believe that he was here with me, that he was thinking of doing his A levels again.

  Is he still taking drugs?' she asked. She had known about the hashish in Khartoum and suspected harder stuff when they were in Atlantic College together. She got along well with him. I remember them dancing together at the club.

  `No, I don't think he is.' Unless they had drugs in prison.

  `That's good then.'

  `Yes, that's good.' I changed the subject. `Did I tell you that Uncle Nabeel said I could start training at his office?'

  We talked about work. She started to tell me her news - the long hours she had to spend in hospital, the exams coming up soon. I had to keep my mind from wandering, to sound interested when I asked, `What do you want to specialize in?'

  Skin,' she said.

  I knew there was a medical term for `skin' but she hadn't used it because she thought I wouldn't understand it. `Why don't you become a gynaecologist? It would be nice to deliver all these cute babies.'

  `It's nothing like that, Najwa. Gyna is one of the toughest specializations.' She had never talked down to me back in Khartoum but now she was in a prestigious university and I had a disgraced father.

  We talked about her social life. Yes, there were some Sudanese in Edinburgh University - quite a number of families - bored wives, she said, with screaming children. They invited her for dinner; she always declined. `Why?' I asked.