Finally, we found a coffee shop, an empty table. I took off my coat. He looked at my sweater and jeans, took out his cigarettes. `You're not allowed to smoke in here.' I pointed towards the sign. He flushed and shook his head, put the packet back in his pocket. Had he always been that touchy?
`When did you come from Khartoum?' I asked him.
December.'
`You've been here all this time and you didn't get in touch?'
He smiled and looked a bit more relaxed. `I went to Manchester when I first came - I have a cousin there. Then I came here and it took some time to settle. I thought I would meet you in the street one day. I used to look out for you. I thought I would he in the underground station going down the escalator and then I would see you on the other side, on the escalator going up.'
I laughed. `We wouldn't have met then. You would have gone to catch your train and I would have walked out of the station.'
`I thought about that. I would have called out to you and told you to wait for me at the top ...'
`Shouting in the middle of the station - what a scandal!'
He laughed. `People would just think, "Look at the stupid foreigner.- He looked away. 'I'm realizing I can make my way here pretending I'm stupid - they kind of expect it - but anyway,' he looked back at me, `I did hope we would meet by chance.'
`London isn't that small.'
It isn't. It's a big city.'
`What do you think of it?'
He made a face as if to say, `Wow.'
I tried to see London as he would see it, not like my second home.
`The West is very impressive.' He sounded reluctant or as if he was thinking out loud, working something out. `Everything is organized. Everyone has a part to play. There's a system in place. A very structured system. I like the underground. If you want to go anywhere, you just ask what is the nearest underground station and then you can get there.'
`I do too, I always have. I like the map, how all the lines have different colours.'
He took out an underground map from the pocket of his jacket. As if suddenly remembering, he took off his jacket and hung it at the back of his chair. He was wearing a cotton, short-sleeved shirt. No wonder he was too cold to walk in the park. He folded out the map in front of me. There were marks on it in pencil. The paper looked worn out, smudged. Something moved in me, an awareness of him. I shifted my chair closer to the table, held one end of the map in my hand.
`See,' he said, `that's nay station, Gloucester Road. It's on the blue line; it's called Piccadilly. It's also on the green line - called the District Line. The Piccadilly Line is deep under the ground, the District Line is higher, like an ordinary train.'
Because he was telling me things I already knew, I felt soothed, comfortable.
`I got lost one day,' he was saying, `and I was under there coming and going, riding this train and that train. Then when I got out at the right station, I didn't have to pay extra, not a pence! And I had been up and down that line for hours ...'
Our coffees came, each saucer with two packets of sugar. Anwar put away the map, tore open his packets of sugar. `They don't put sugar in anything,' he complained, `they give you everything tasteless.' In Khartoum University we used to buy the tea sweet from the canteen. I gave him my packets of sugar. He refused at first but I insisted and we argued. At last he accepted that I no longer put sugar in my coffee.
`How come?,
'I'm on a diet.'
`Why?,
`For the usual reason most people go on diets.'
'But you don't need it.'
I smiled. 'How do you know?'
He laughed because I was flirting, `You haven't changed. I thought you would have changed.'
But I had changed. My whole life had changed. There was just me now. No Mama, no Baba, no Omar - just me, fumbling about in London.
I told him about Uncle Nabeel and Aunty Eva. `Well, I'm impressed,' he said, `you're not such a snob after all. How much does she pay you?'
I told him and he said, `That's not too bad. Convert it into Sudanese currency and it sounds pretty good.'
His reaction was totally different from Randa's. `They're cheating you,' she had hissed down the line from Edinburgh. `Students get paid more in a weekend waitressing than you're getting working a whole week.'
Encouraged by Anwar's reaction I said, `They're generous in other ways too. If I go out shopping with Aunty Eva to help her carry her bags, she treats me for lunch in nice restaurants.'
He took a sip of his coffee and smiled. I continued, `At Christmas, Uncle Nabeel gave me a twenty-pound note.'
He laughed. `So you're now celebrating Christmas. You've become a true citizen of London.'
I laughed with him. `I don't know what I'm becoming.'
`How come you're avoiding the Sudanese?'
`Who told you that?'
`I've been asking everyone about you. What's Omar doing?'
I had prepared for this. I focused my mind on Randa, looked Anwar straight in the eyes and said, `He's studying in Edinburgh.'
`What's he studying?'
`Business. Like he was doing in Khartoum.'
`I've got friends in Edinburgh University ...I
`He's not in the university,' I said quickly, `he's in a polytechnic. He didn't get good grades when he sat for his IB.'
'I see.'
It was a relief that he believed me. Aunty Eva was the difficult one. When she asked me about Omar, which she did every now and then, her questions were nosy, her insistence to know almost cruel. She would look at me, her eyes sharp as if saying, `Don't try to fool me, young lady, I'm too wordly to swallow these lies you're peddling.'
`What about you?' Anwar said. `Why didn't you continue your studies?'
`I guess I'm not really the studying type. I used to memorize, memorize without understanding. That's how I managed to get into Khartoum University.'
He raised his eyebrows. `Didn't your Baba pull a few strings?'
`Of course not. The Admissions Office is so strict. They only take students who have the proper grades.'
`You don't say ...' He was sarcastic like when he had said `your Baba'. There was no need.
`Why are you being disloyal to your university?'
`I'm just being realistic.'
`They only take qualified students. There's no cheating.'
`I find this hard to believe.'
`But I'm sure. Why don't you believe me?'
`Because I know better.' He was irritated but it was too late to stop.
`You don't. In this case you don't. I'm sure of what I'm saying because my father did try his best to get my cousin Samir into Khartoum University. Samir didn't have good grades and they just wouldn't take him.'
`Well, at least you're honestly admitting that bribery and pulling strings was second nature to your father.'
He sighed as if he regretted going too far. It crossed my mind that I should get up and leave. But I kept sitting, just staring at my coffee, not knowing what to say. He had won the argument even though I was right, even though I was saying the truth.
He touched my hand. `I'm sorry, Najwa.'
I didn't reply. `Look at me,' he said.
I liked him holding my hand. I didn't want him to let go. We should not talk about my father, ever.
`Najwa ...'
I should make an effort so that things would be nice between us again. `Tell me your news.' My voice sounded bright, sensible. `You didn't tell me your news.'
He let go of my hand. `When I graduated, I sat for the examination at the Foreign Office and I got selected.'
`That's great!'
`It was, yes. But then when this new government took over, I got kicked out. Everyone who was left wing was fired.'
I wanted to say something sympathetic. But worse had happened to my father when Anwar's government came to power. Musical chairs. I took a sip of my coffee. It was strict and bitter without sugar.
You said in your letter you were writing for an En
glish newspaper?'
`Yes, I did that in my free time. They shut it down - no free press. I enjoyed writing. My English is mediocre ...'
'Oh no, it's very good. I remember reading your final year project.'
He looked pleased, flattered. But I'm trying to improve my English. I read the papers here. If there is a word I don't understand, I look it up in the dictionary.' I could imagine him doing that. He would learn fast because he was clever and focused.
He went on. `I plan to write an article about the current situation in Sudan and submit it to a British newspaper. I'll let you look at it once I've written it.'
`1'd like that.'
He smiled. You can correct my English.' He wasn't being sarcastic. He wasn't teasing me about the private schools I had gone to.
Twenty-one
had not known there was an Ethiopian restaurant in Notting Hill Gate. I sat on a small stool, eating spicy chicken off a table that was only a few feet high. I ate with a fork while Anwar ate with his hands. He made fun of me, brought up in a house where only the servants ate with their hands, but there was a fondness in his voice, he did not mean to hurt me. The food was delicious. I said to him, `We had an Ethiopian maid who used to make zighni as hot as this, but she put boiled eggs in it. Her name was Donna Summer.' His smiled his `I'm not interested but tell me anyway' smile and I launched into an explanation of why our maid was called Donna Summer. I wondered if sitting on these low stools hurt his leg but he seemed relaxed, at ease. I liked to see him like that.
There were many Africans in the restaurant. The music, the rugs on the wall, the dark solid furniture and the fact that Anwar was not the only one eating with his hands meant he could feel at home. I tried to imagine Omar's reaction to this place and me in it. He would look down on it because he despised the `ethnic' scene. He would say that I had come down in the world.
When we finished eating, we had tea and Anwar lit a cigarette. I started to look at his article like I promised I would. `The light is dim.'
'Leave it then,' he said.
`No, I really want to read it. The light isn't that had.' I had to tread carefully. He wanted me to correct his English but at the same time he was sensitive to criticism. I flinched when I saw `the corrupt post-colonial government'. He would have had my father in mind, but thankfully his name, my surname, was not in there.
'Your handwriting is clear, easy to read.'
`I should type it up. But I don't have a typewriter.'
I thought to myself, 'I will buy him an electric typewriter or, better still, a word-processor, something fancy to surprise him.' I had a bank account and I was free to do with it what I wanted. Uncle Saleh was far away so I needn't worry about him saying, 'Just live off the interest, try not to touch the savings.' I would buy Anwar a computer.
`Najwa, stop daydreaming. Read.'
I made some comments. The use of 'the' instead of 'a', minor spelling. 'I don't think you can say, that was the reason for the failure for which".'
`Why not?' He was becoming tense.
'I don't know. It just doesn't sound right.' I hardly sounded convincing. Also "showed interest to", should be "interest in".'
`Anything else?' His hand reached out for his papers as if he was possessive about them.
`Nothing else. The rest is fine.' I was lying.
He breathed a sigh of relief, took the article and folded it away.
I wanted to change the mood. 'Is it wise to let a silly girl who didn't finish university comment on your work?'
He laughed and I relaxed again. `I have no choice.' He was teasing me.
`So that is why you invite me and phone me - because you have no choice?'
`My feelings for you leave me no choice.'
`Clever answer.' But I said it softly. I was touched by the way he looked at me. He gave me hope that I would not be in limbo for long, that I would not be without a family for long. But there were prickly areas between us, things I couldn't say to him. His opinions were so clear-cut, there was no room for my murky thoughts, the questions that I asked myself: what am I doing here, what happened to Omar, will I ever go hack to Sudan and what will it be like without my parents? Would Anwar ever change his mind about my father? I hoped he would. He was changing in other ways. There was the awe with which he turned over the pages of the Guardian and his addiction to watching Question Time. He used English words more and more, was less sharp in his criticism of the West. And this was the same Anwar who had led student demonstrations against the IMF and burnt the American flag. I did not dare ask him if he felt his anti-imperialist convictions contradicted seeking political asylum in London. Perhaps because the Berlin Wall had fallen, he was softening too.
I made a mistake last week and told him about Omar - how he had been caught dealing drugs. But I didn't give him all the details and led him to believe that Omar was serving a short sentence and would be out soon. Anwar's response was, `What do you expect from a spoilt playboy?' I made him promise not to tell any of the other Sudanese, but even after he promised I felt he might break his promise one day, to prove a point, to make an argument stronger. Since then I had been wary of saying certain things to him.
This holding back disappointed me. I wanted us to be true friends, transparent and unashamed.
I looked at him across the table - at his intelligent eyes and moustache. He was speaking about human rights in the Sudan, the new junta government. He said this had to be stopped and that had to be stopped. He said Sudan had the highest internally displaced population in the world.
`And you and I are displaced,' I said.
`We're not in the same boat. You're very lucky, Najwa. What do you know of imprisonment or torture or just plain poverty? You can't compare yourself with other ordinary people.'
`Of course I didn't mean to compare myself.' I would always he inferior to his `masses', my problems trivial and less worthy. But sometimes I craved his pity more than love. `Why do you always put me down?'
`I don't mean to. You're the nicest thing that happened to me in London. It would he unbearable without you.'
`I'm afraid,' I blurted out, `that what happened in Khartoum will always affect us.' But it was not really what happened, but who I was, whose daughter I was. I searched for the right words. I did not want to mention my father and risk becoming teary.
`Look,' he was smiling, `here no one knows our hackground, no one knows whose daughter you are, no one knows my politics. We are both niggers, equals.'
I laughed at his new use of that English word. I wanted to sit close to him, the way we sometimes sat on the bus. Every time he touched me, I forgot that prickly space between us, forgot that if my parents had been alive, they would never have approved of him.
`I wanted you to come with me yesterday.' I had gone to visit my mother's grave.
`I don't like going to cemeteries.' He moved back, took his elbows off the table. `What's the point?'
`I don't know. I just wanted to do something because it was her anniversary.'
`Did it take you a long time to get there?' He was trying to sound interested.
`Yes, it's at the end of the tube line. It was nice - the weather was better than today.' The cemetery was colourful with grass and flowers. I had to walk quite a bit to get there, down a lane, past open fields. There were families who had parked in the cemetery car park. The children played around the graves, innocent and happy. I sat on a bench and watched them. They made me wish I were a child again. One man stood at the side of a grave, talking or praying, moving his lips. He had so much to say. I wondered what he was saying. He was wearing a cap, which made me think he was religious. I wondered if religious people were comfortable in cemeteries. He seemed religious, raising his hands up to pray. There was no way of knowing if his deceased relative was a man or a woman. All through life there were distinctions - toilets for men, toilets for women; clothes for men, clothes for women - then, at the end, the graves were identical.
I wanted to speak to my moth
er but I didn't feel she was there. I couldn't imagine her under the ground though I was sure that she was. It was like I knew for sure that one day I too would die but I couldn't imagine it. All my life I had been living. How to imagine any other state? What was my mother feeling now? Did she know I was here? I could ask that religious man. He might know but you couldn't just go up to people and ask them such questions. My mother was vivid and alive in my dreams. She was always in Khartoum, wearing a pretty tobe, on her way out, Musa opening the car door for her, or she was in her room and I was sitting on her bed - how I loved my parents' bed - and she was in front of the mirror combing her hair, dabbing perfume on her neck, chatting with my father, raising her eyebrows, glancing at me in the mirror, and we would laugh, sharing a joke about my father: laughing at his fuss over his clothes, how he liked his moustache just so, at his pride in the brand new suit he had brought on his last trip - Pierre Cardin he would say, not just anything, Pierre Cardin.
There were prayers engraved on the bench. They were blurred but I blinked and made an effort, read them out carefully. I searched for the words, the reason I had phoned Wafaa, and they were there: Wash my sins with ice. I need not have phoned her after all.
Before going to the cemetery, I had dialled Wafaa's number. I had kept the piece of paper; I hadn't lost it or thrown it away. A child answered the phone, babbling. He dropped the receiver, picked it up. I couldn't understand what he was saying. 'Call your mother - where's your mother?' I kept saying but it was no use. I nearly gave up when a man picked up the phone. He said 'Salaamu alleikUm' but spoke with a London accent. Was she married to a convert then? I was curious. He said Wafaa was out and asked me if I would like to leave a message.
Minaret: A Novel Page 12
