Mahmoud Bey’s suite was as large as Badr’s house. Badr stood unnoticed at the door and tried to take it all in. It overwhelmed him, not only because of its opulence but because of its European character. The smell of cigar smoke and expensive perfume made him alternatively gasp and then hold his breath. He looked at the double bed where Mahmoud Bey reclined on large pillows and exquisite linen, but instead of concentrating on the patient, Badr’s eyes wandered to the large mahogany desk, the two wardrobes, the sofas and armchairs that seated nearly twenty men, each two or three sharing a small table on which there was an ashtray, glasses of water, fruit juice and bowls of nuts. He heard the murmur of conversations, which were important because these were the country’s most important men. And with his crumpled suit, his ink-stained fingernails and his haggard face, it was clear that he was not one of them. He was someone for whom the conversation need not pause, nor should anyone rise up to greet him.
Again Nur came to his rescue, attracting his father’s attention, prodding his memory.
‘Ah, yes . . .’ Mahmoud Bey removed the cigarette with its black, slim filter from his mouth, transferred it to his left hand and extended the right towards Badr. He was a handsome man, with a finely trimmed moustache, full lips and an open, steady look. He was wearing a wine-coloured silk dressing gown and his voice, when he spoke, was weakened by illness. ‘Thank you for coming. How are you? How is your family?’
Badr launched into prayers for his speedy recovery, good wishes and praises, all the time standing up. It would be preposterous to sit down and join such a gathering. Unthinkable. A burst of laughter from the end of the room distracted the patient. Badr paused in mid-sentence when he caught the words ‘building’ and ‘flats’. The word ‘flat’ in a city where everyone lived in houses – villas for the rich and mud houses for the poor – rang in the room, distinctly Egyptian, distinctly related to him, as if it was said for him and meant for him. He understood it as if it were the only Arabic word to be spoken in the midst of a foreign dialect. These men’s world was so removed from his that he could not easily fathom the conversation he had walked into. Yet that word ‘flat’ was clear and right, a good place to live in, a proper home, Hanniyah’s dream. He tried to follow the conversation but was distracted by what he was seeing all around him. He lost his sense of decorum and stared openly, his eyes darting around the room. This glimpse of Mahmoud Bey’s bedroom would not be repeated. It was a one-off, something he would remember all his life, something that would enter his dreams. Not far from the head of the bed, he saw the door to another room, slightly ajar. It was a bathroom, all tiles and a modern toilet. To possess one’s own bathroom! Badr’s imagination could not stretch that far – to such a place, further even than the span of envy.
There was no longer any point in talking to Mahmoud Bey. Badr had lost his attention. Mahmoud Bey was listening to one of his friends, his face turned away. There was no good reason for Badr to linger, and again Nur was by his side, this time to accompany him in his exit. Outside the room both were silent until they reached the terrace, which overlooked the garden. A gust of wind blew; a promise of winter and Badr needed a cigarette. He rummaged in his pocket but Nur was quicker. He took out a packet of Peter Stuyvesant and they lit up.
‘Does your father know that you smoke?’
Badr appreciated the good quality tobacco, a brand he could not afford.
Nur leaned against a pillar.
‘No, and even if he did I would not dare light up in front of him.’
Badr chuckled. ‘Tell me about Victoria College.’
Nur’s eyes lit up.
‘It is the best school in the world! I am now the captain of the football team. And we play against other schools. My swimming is getting better, too, because we go swimming in the sea, except when it’s very cold. And oh, Alexandria is beautiful.’
Badr had never been to Alexandria, even though his province, Asyut, was not that far. But he only smiled, distracted by other thoughts and half-baked schemes. ‘Do you still write poetry?’ he asked.
Something in Nur changed, as if he was suddenly recalled to what was important and urgent. ‘Yes, I do. But nothing I consider to be strong or, indeed, special. You were very kind to encourage me when I first started.’
‘Because you have talent.’ Badr took a long drag. ‘And, with time, you will become more skilful and more in control of your poems’ qafiyas and wazn.’
He remembered what was endearing and memorable about Nur as a student – the boy’s genuine desire to learn, not just for the sake of school marks, not just out of fear of examinations. Perhaps Nur could be of help to him. Try, he urged himself, now that the boy is beaming with pride at the compliment you paid him. Try and persist, it just might work after all.
He took a breath. ‘What was it they were talking about inside? An apartment block?’
‘Yes, my father is building an apartment block.’
‘Just like the ones in Cairo?’
Nur laughed. ‘Yes, right in the middle of Khartoum. It will be the first high-rise in the city. In Newbold Street, next to Hoash Boulus. The ground floor will be leased to shops and offices and the top floors will be residential.’
‘When will it be ready?’
‘In eighteen months or more – I would say 1952, to be on the safe side. The work progresses steadily, but at times it can come to a halt if the materials are delivered late.’
Badr took a deep breath and blurted out, ‘Would your father be so kind as to lease me a flat for my family and I to live in? A small flat with two rooms would be more than enough. I have, may Allah be praised, four children, and my elderly father is not well at all. We are in wretched housing now. My wife complains, and there is no privacy, it’s not proper at all . . . dreadful. And today I received a letter from my cousin. He wants to come to Sudan to look for work! Of course, he intends to stay with me and I am obliged to host him. But where am I going to put him? All I have is one room and we’re all sitting on each other’s laps as it is!’
Nur laughed at the choice of words.
Badr took a drag from his cigarette. It was humiliating to complain to this boy, this heir to a fortune. Yet pride was a luxury Badr could not afford.
‘I’ll ask him,’ said Nur, smiling with confidence. ‘He will surely lease you a flat. My father has great plans for this building. He wants Egyptian taste and expertise – itself borrowed from Europe – to be firmly placed in Sudan. Do you know how this saraya came to be built? Father was driving his motor car along a boulevard in Heliopolis and stopped to marvel at a Pasha’s mansion. He then contacted the architect and said, “Design one like it for me in Umdurman.” The materials, too, from the marble tiles to the garden lamps, were shipped from Italy via Egypt.’
On their way out, they passed the bustle and delicious smells of the hoash. Hajjah Waheeba was inspecting the laden trays, making sure that every dish was represented before being dispatched to the men.
She turned and said to Badr, ‘Stay and have dinner.’
Nur repeated his mother’s invitation. The huge round trays were too heavy for one servant to carry on their own, and family members swarmed around the trays, ready to lift them up. Nur was summoned to help and he excused himself. Even though he was hungry, Badr refused the invitation not only out of modesty, but for a genuine desire to go home. He wanted to be with Hanniyah tonight, to entertain her with descriptions of Mahmoud Bey’s bedroom, and he needed to go back to put his father to bed. Also, Hanniyah could not be trusted to supervise the children’s homework. He must do that himself, for it would be a disgrace if his children were not the top of their classes. The saying that the carpenter’s door was unhinged must not apply to him. And, most of all, he wanted to eat with his family. He derived considerable satisfaction from watching his children eat. Every bite that rose from the plates to their mouths was halal, the result of his sweat and exertions all day.
Badr made his way back to the tram station with Nur’s promise
ringing in his ears: ‘My father will surely lease you a flat in his new building.’ Out of habit, and too many instances of dashed hopes, cynicism gripped him. The boy was naïve. If Mahmoud Bey really did agree to lease him a flat, he would have to charge Badr below the market price. He would understand that Badr could not afford the high rent of the city centre and he would be obliged to do him a favour as the private teacher of the Abuzeid children. That was why Mahmoud Bey might not agree. But it was worth trying, and Badr was determined to petition Madame Nabilah, too. As a fellow Egyptian, she might sympathise with his predicament and put in a good word for him with her husband.
As he narrowly avoided placing his foot on donkey manure, his mind drifted to the rumours that the British would thwart a union with Egypt. If the position of the Egyptian teaching mission were jeopardised to the extent that they had to pull out, how pointless his dream of moving house would be.
The sudden call to prayer from a nearby mosque jolted him out of his thoughts. It felt like a reprimand, a reminder of why he was alive. To struggle for the here and now but not lose sight of the end: to put meat in his children’s small mouths and sweets in Hanniyah’s enchanting mouth. To fulfil and pacify her, she who held his heart and was, so often, the cause of his disturbance. To act like a man and discipline her, so that she would keep on looking after his father and not complain. This was a considerable source of stress, as were the intrigues and rivalries of the school, the reluctant and stupid students, the darting to and fro from one private lesson to the next. And, above all, his horror at how his energetic, bellowing father had been reduced to confused, dependent blubber. It was a horror that was abating with time and being replaced by a grim, constant sadness. The kind of sadness that deserved no condolence and was too dispersed for sighs and platitudes. Badr’s tumultuous, humdrum life. What was it all for, where was it heading? The answer peered at him now as it had done before and would do again. His life was a journey. A journey towards the day when Allah Almighty would look at him, really look at him, look through him, inside him, know him, and then would call him by his name. Ya Badr.
III
For Nabilah, the Sudan was like the bottom of the sea, an exotic wilderness, soporific and away from the momentum of history. It was amazing but constricting, threatening to suck her in, to hold her down and drown her. Sometimes she was able to hold her breath and accept, but on most days she struggled to rise up to the surface, working to recapture a routine like that of her mother in Cairo, a life of fresh air and energy, the natural bustle and order of civilised life. Nabilah knew that she should be more flexible, that she should adjust, but she was not easy-going enough, and too conscious of her status.
She had, with her husband’s full approval and generous finances, designed her wing in the saraya like a modern, Egyptian home, not a Sudanese one. Instead of a hoash, there was a shaded terrace with a wicker table and chairs where, in winter, she could sit and enjoy her afternoon tea, while watching Ferial ride her tricycle and Farouk kick a ball in the garden. Instead of the traditional beds lining the four walls of the sitting room, she had spacious armchairs, a settee, and, in pride of place, her gramophone. It was a proper room, a room to be proud of. Guests reclining and sitting on beds, angharaibs made of rope being the only furniture in a room, the intimacy and privacy of a bed laid out for public eyes and use – was something that particularly infuriated her. It was, she believed, a sign of primitiveness, proof that the Sudanese had a long way to go. Meals too, in Nabilah’s quarters, were served in the dining room, around a proper dining table, with knives, forks and serviettes, not clusters of people gathering with extended fingers around a large round tray, while sitting on those very same beds she had so many objections to. Her household staff, too, was all from Egypt – Chef Gaber, whose Turkish dishes inspired so much envy from her co-wife, as well as the children’s nanny. Nabilah surrounded herself with the sights, accents and cooking smells of Egypt, closing the door on the heat, dust and sunlight of her husband’s untamed land.
But she could not shut out his family. They came, invited or uninvited. And came casually, with friendly smiles, affection for the children and a staggering tolerance for her moodiness and indifference. She did not understand them. That boy, Nur, with his bright smile, so pleased and at ease with himself. She had explained to him once that he must ring the bell and not just barge in.
Instead of apologising, he had just giggled and said, ‘Isn’t this my father’s house?’
And that girl, Soraya, with her lack of discipline, the sloppy way she carried herself, gum snapping in her mouth, her hands always moving, stroking the back of an armchair or playing with a doorknob in a way which irritated Nabilah. She would gaze dolefully at Nabilah’s wedding photographs without saying a single word. Or she would lean, slouching, on this piece of furniture or that and drawl, ‘how are you doing, Nabilah?’ without addressing her as Madame, Abla, Hanim or even Aunty.
Soraya, too, floated in unannounced, to borrow books and never return them and to poke fun at how Ferial was covered in talcum powder and how Farouk’s accent was Egyptian. How else did she expect the children to speak if not like their mother!
Nabilah kissed Farouk and Ferial the first of many goodnight kisses and prepared to tuck them into bed. They were the only children in the Abuzeid family who had bedtimes and a proper, decorated nursery, with beds of their own. The Sudanese did not understand about proper modern child-rearing, but she would teach them by example. Tonight, instead of a story, she was explaining to the children the origin of their names.
‘You Farouk, were named after the King of Egypt and Sudan who granted Baba his bakawiyya. That’s why Baba is Mahmoud Bey. Not everyone can be called Bey, even if they wanted to. Only the King can decide.’
Farouk smiled and slid deeper into his bed. Ferial was holding on to her mother’s hand.
‘And me, what about me?’
‘Wait. Farouk wants to ask something.’ He always needed encouragement. The boy opened his mouth, closed it again and then asked.
‘But not everyone addresses Baba as Mahmoud Bey. Some people call him Sayyid Mahmoud.’
Nabilah sighed. ‘Some of the Sudanese don’t understand. They don’t appreciate the title. Your father should correct them, but he doesn’t.’
‘So Sayyid is not as good as Bey.’
‘Here in Sudan, Sayyid is the best way a man can be addressed. But your father—’
She was interrupted by Ferial who, not only satisfied with putting her hand on her mother’s cheek, now pulled so that Nabilah had to turn and face her.
‘Don’t do that. It’s not polite.’
The girl, whose hair was smooth in a ponytail, pressed her lips in annoyance.
‘What about my name, my name?’
‘Say sorry first, Ferial.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Say it like you mean it.’
‘Sorry, Mama.’
‘That’s better.’
Nabilah kissed her cheek and smoothed her hair. What a blessing from God that her daughter did not have coarse hair! She had worried about this constantly during her pregnancy.
‘You were named after a princess. Princess Ferial is the eldest daughter of the King.’ The girl squirmed with pleasure. ‘Now into bed.’
She tucked her lively daughter in bed but Ferial was wide awake. ‘When Grandma comes from Cairo will she be the one telling us bedtime stories?’ The children knew that Nabilah had sent a telegram to Qadriyyah Hanim telling her about Mahmoud’s illness and begging her for a visit.
Now she sighed.
‘She won’t be able to come. Next time I put a call to her, I will let you speak for a little while. Oh, if only we were in Cairo now! I am sure Baba would not have been so ill, for I am sure the doctors in Cairo are better than the ones here.’
It still did not feel right that they were in Sudan. This had not been the original arrangement when they first got married. The original arrangement was that she would live in the
flat Mahmoud had set up for her in Cairo, and that he would spend lengthy visits with her. After all, his business required that he spend several months in Cairo and it made sense to have a home there instead of his suite in the Shepheard’s Hotel. Nabilah would be his Egyptian wife in Cairo and Hajjah Waheeba his Sudanese wife in Umdurman. It had made perfect sense, and years passed that way, successfully, but suddenly he proposed to move her and the children here. Nabilah’s mother encouraged her to accept and Mahmoud Bey assured them that Nabilah would have her own quarters; she would be independent of Hajjah Waheeba and the rest of the Abuzeid family. He promised that every summer she, Farouk and Ferial would return to Cairo. So Nabilah had gathered her courage, took a deep breath and with a friendly shove from her mother, plunged herself into Umdurman.
To banish the feeling of nostalgia, Nabilah turned to her serious son.
‘Guess who visited Baba today?’ She straightened the collar of his pyjamas. ‘Your teacher, Ustaz Badr.’
Farouk stared into space. His skin was darker than his mother and sister’s, his hair more curly, his features more African.
‘When will Baba come home?’
She stroked his cheek.
‘Soon. He is better today. Tomorrow when we go see him he will come home with us.’
In his illness, Mahmoud Bey had chosen to go back to his old room in the central part of the saraya, near Hajjah Waheeba’s hoash. He did not want his many guests to disturb Nabilah, he had said.
‘Is he going to die?’
As if she had not just told him that his father was getting better! The boy was aloof, perhaps because of all the time they had spent alone in Cairo, without his father. Mahmoud Bey rarely addressed him and Farouk was stiff and uncomfortable in his father’s presence.
She frowned.
‘This is a very rude thing to say about your father. You must never say this word again. It is not a word to be said and it must not even cross your mind.’
Lyrics Alley: A Novel Page 3
