‘I want to contact the English soldiers who pulled Nur out of the sea.’
Soraya stopped biting her nails.
‘One was called Stan and the other was Eddie.’
‘Eddie is Edward and Stan is Stanley,’ said Nassir.
‘I want to meet them,’ said Mahmoud.
He would thank them for saving Nur’s life. Would a gift be in good taste? What kind of gift? Would they take money? How much? These questions of etiquette occupied his mind until the nurse came in to say that the operation was finished. They crowded the corridor until Nur was rolled out of the operating theatre.
Relief that he was alive, and unspoken dismay that there was no movement, no movement or sensation in either his legs or arms. ‘The operation was a success. Nur is making good progress.’ This was the wording of the telegram Mahmoud ordered Nassir to send out. In reality, the only progress was from the grogginess of the operation to the boy becoming alert and responsive. The nurses cranked up the bed, propped him up on pillows and his bright eyes roamed the room, as if doing the moving for him. He chatted to his family and visitors, cracked the occasional joke, and asked of news of the outside world. Often he would seek his father’s eyes and ask the silent question: what next? Hope. Hope was the nourishment, the drug, the saving grace. After the anticipation of the operation and the acute days following it, there came a lull. Nur and the hospital were enmeshed in the fabric of the family’s Alexandria life. The patient was in a stable condition. No one needed to hold their breath any more. They could let their gaze wander, could surreptitiously, but not without restraint, start to live their lives again.
Mahmoud took Idris out to lunch at Abu Qir for a change. They tucked into grilled fish and shrimps, fried boulti and tahina. The restaurant was surrounded by cliffs, and there were mossy hard rocks instead of a sandy beach. Drinking mint tea after their meal, they discussed business – all the things that had been put on hold, all the transactions awaiting approval, and how to make the most of their temporary presence in Egypt. Then Idris asked, ‘Did you manage to contact the two soldiers who pulled Nur out of the water?’
‘I found out their names, but they are no longer in Alexandria. They’ve been transferred to the Canal Zone.’
‘I’ve heard from more than one source,’ said Idris, ‘that more and more forces are being stationed in Suez.’
‘I will write to them,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I would have preferred to meet them, but a letter of thanks should suffice.’
Idris had to be his negative self. He had to sigh and say, ‘Young people are nothing but trouble. Why did Nur have to go swimming? What connection do we have with the sea? Nothing! We are neither sailors nor divers. Who taught him to swim anyway?’
‘The English. At school they taught him. All the students were taken to Sidi Bishr where they would camp at night and swim during the day.’
‘What kind of school is that? Instead of lessons, taking them for outings!’
‘Victoria College is the Eton of the Middle East.’
‘What is this Eton?’ Idris stuck a toothpick in his mouth.
Mahmoud didn’t bother to answer. After such a meal, he needed his siesta.
With the cream of Cairo holidaying in Alexandria, and Nur’s accident a high-profile event, Mahmoud’s social life continued to flourish. Loose ties were strengthened and old alliances were cemented. Even strangers, brothers of so-and-so, and friends of so-and-so, were taking time away from the beach to drop in at the hospital or at least telephone. Mahmoud pushed his personal sadness down – he had had such hopes for the boy – and presented his usual amiable self to society. It touched him that so many important people were standing by him in his hour of need. Best of all was when they said, ‘You are an upstanding, generous man, and you do not deserve this.’ Or, ‘Nur is a fine young man, he doesn’t deserve this.’
Mahmoud knew that such personal warmth was excellent for business, and even though no one spoke of work, he could sense, not without irony, that in these solemn hospital corridors, seeds were being sown for a profitable, thriving future. However, sometimes, when guests probed him excessively about Nur’s condition or offered conflicting advice, he would become defensive and insecure. It was important to save face. He must be seen to be doing the best for his son. He must be seen to be sparing no expense. No one would esteem him and he would not forgive himself if he cut corners, or was negligent or impatient, too rash or too cautious. Or worse, simply did not care enough. Never had he loved his son more, and never had he been more uncertain of the future. At the end of each day, which always seemed long and stifling in the hospital, he would need Madame Marika’s platitudes and Cyprus wine; need the cool, shady interior of the pension to soothe his ragged nerves.
Waheeba, everyone agreed, was spending too much time at the hospital. They persuaded her to go home on the pretext that she, and only she, could cook Nur’s favourite dish of assida. Mahmoud drove her to the flat because Nassir was not yet at the hospital. They were silent on the way. He sensed her reluctance to leave Nur – she was as attached to him now as she had been when he was an infant.
‘Look around you,’ he said. ‘Look out the window at this magnificent city.’
She obeyed him, but quickly returned to staring straight ahead, fidgeting with the gold bangles on her arms.
‘Ignorant woman,’ he sighed. ‘What is the point of your travelling anywhere?’
‘Travel hurt my son,’ she said. ‘If he had stayed in Sudan, none of this would have happened. He would have been well.’
Did she want to blame him for the accident? His fault for insisting that Nur studies at Victoria College.
‘All the Sudanese boys studying in Alexandria, all the ones swimming and holidaying – have they been injured?’
She didn’t reply and, as he turned the corner, he said to her, ‘Answer me. Why don’t you have an answer for that?’
‘I should have stayed at the hospital. Talk to the administration and get me permission to use the hospital kitchen. Then I can cook Nur’s meals there for him.’
He went up to the flat with her. She did not know where it was and could not be trusted to read the number on the door. Nassir was still in bed when they walked in. Mahmoud walked into his bedroom and opened the curtain.
‘It’s noon,’ he bellowed. ‘Noon! And you’re still asleep!’
Nassir sat up. He was bleary-eyed and downcast and looked like he had a hangover.
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I went out with some friends.’ He avoided meeting his father’s eyes.
‘Well, that’s fine behaviour! Your brother in hospital and you are out gallivanting till the small hours! I am mighty proud of you.’
Nassir shifted from one foot to the other. His daughter, Zeinab, walked into the room, shook hands with her grandfather, and walked out again.
Mahmoud pulled the chair from the dresser and sat down. The flat was not to his taste. It was disorganised and basic, typical holiday accommodation. He had bought it for the family and it fulfilled its function, while he always opted for a hotel.
‘Listen, Nassir, you have to become more responsible. Stop this staying out late. Is this what you want your reputation to be? A drunkard? A womaniser? And at a time like this, the circumstances we are going through!’
Waheeba walked into the room. Seeing Nassir sitting unkempt on the bed she exclaimed,
‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’
‘No, he is not sick,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Nor does he have any respect for the one who is sick.’
‘Every day since the accident, I have been at the hospital,’ said Nassir, emboldened by the presence of his mother. ‘Every single day, all day. For how long is this going to continue? When is Nur going to get better? They don’t know how to cure him, do they? The operation wasn’t a success. He is still as he is.’
‘Don’t talk like that!’ snapped Waheeba.
‘But I can’t bear to see him like this.’ Nassir
was getting more heated. ‘All the time, he’s just lying down. How is he going to go to university? How is he going to get married? I would rather not live if I couldn’t get up to take a piss. I’d rather die.’
Waheeba slapped him.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Her lips quivered and her to be fell and hung low. ‘Don’t you dare wish your brother dead.’ She straightened her to be, turned and walked out of the room.
Mahmoud felt sorry for Nassir. He was taller than Waheeba and his little children were milling around the flat. That crazy woman. Nassir put his head down in his hands and Mahmoud moved to sit next to him. He patted him on the back. In the silence, he could overhear Waheeba talking to Halima in the kitchen. She was saying she wanted to get Nur to Umdurman so that she could take him to a faqih. Someone, for sure, had given the boy the evil eye. Vulgar, stupid woman. Mahmoud squeezed Nassir’s shoulder.
‘There are other operations that can be done. I am considering taking him abroad for treatment. I’ve been making enquiries. Don’t lose hope. He can be cured, I am sure.’
On the way out, he looked in at the women in the kitchen. It was good that Halima had come from Umdurman. She had a calming, matronly presence, and was a restraining influence on the younger ones.
‘Greet your grandfather, Zeinab,’ she said, turning from the sink.
The little girl walked towards him and he said, ‘She already did. She came especially into the room and greeted me.’ He put his hand into his pocket and bought out a piece of bubble gum. ‘Here, this is for you, Zeinab.’
It was his habit to carry sweets for the children who came his way. When he didn’t have sweets, he gave them coins.
Waheeba was sitting at the kitchen table, occupied in some task that held her attention.
‘You should rest, Hajjah,’ he said to her. ‘You are tiring yourself these days.’ Then he lowered his voice and continued, ‘No respectable woman raises her hand against a grown-up man, even if he is her son. Your nerves have been under a lot of strain these past days. Take care of your health and rest.’
Instead of the expected conciliatory response, she flared up.
‘We are all tired. I am working day and night to tend to your son and serve your guests, and where is your Egyptian wife? Sitting comfortably in Cairo with her mother, spending your money—’
He interrupted her and his voice was cool, ‘Nur is your son. It’s your duty to be with him.’
‘Yes, he is my son, and I know what is good for him. I was just telling Halima. The English doctor had got it all wrong; there was no connection between Nur’s neck and his limbs. This is black magic, believe me, I know it when I see it. And no one can lift this curse except certain faqirs in Umdurman!’
‘Superstitious nonsense,’ retorted Mahmoud. ‘I am going to take him to London, and you will go back to Umdurman where you belong.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I go where my son goes. He will need me on the journey.’
It was as good a time as any to break the news.
‘Nabilah is travelling with us. She will see to his needs.’
Waheeba’s mouth fell open. She put her palms on the top of her head and started to wail.
‘Oh, have you heard this! Have you heard what he’s doing to me? Nassir, come and hear what your father is intending to do!’
Halima came over to comfort her aunt and Nassir shuffled into the kitchen.
‘Oh, she is the cause of all this!’ Waheeba swayed from side to side. ‘I tell you, she is the cause of evil. I wish to God the same thing will happen to her son! Let her heart burn like mine is burning.’ Her eyes bulged and spit blew from her mouth.
Halima drew in her breath. ‘I seek refuge in Allah. Is this a thing to say?’
Without a word, Mahmoud left the flat. He should have divorced the bitch a long time ago. Not only was she ugly and ignorant, she was chock full of venom, too!
At the Central Post Office, he parked his car and went in to put a call through to Cairo. Nabilah always said the right things. She was refined and polite and her wording was pleasing, too. She placed her hope in Nur’s age and would say, ‘Young bones heal quickly’ or ‘The young can withstand blows and stand up again.’
She had offered to come to Alexandria and bring the children as planned, but he had preferred that they stay away in Cairo.
‘I am taking Nur to London and I want you to come with us.’
She paused, and then said, ‘Of course I want to come with you and I can leave Farouk and Ferial with Mama, but don’t you think Hajjah Waheeba will take offence?’
‘London is not a place for her. I will be meeting people there and making new contacts. I want you with me.’
He sensed her smile. If she was triumphant, she deserved it.
‘But Mahmoud,’ she said, ‘Nur will naturally be more comfortable with his mother.’
‘My decision is final,’ he said. ‘I can’t stand her, Nabilah. I am on the verge of losing my temper and divorcing her. Believe me, any minute I am. I should have done it a long time ago.’
‘Yes, I wish you had.’
‘Now I am in the middle of a crisis. I have to think of Nur. I can’t inflict this on him as well. The day he stands on his feet again, I promise you, will be the end of my marriage to Waheeba.’
She started to repeat her warm wishes for Nur, the conventional words that soothed him, ‘It is but a setback that will pass. Every illness has a remedy, Insha’ Allah,’ until the operator informed them that the call was coming to an end.
It was time to hurry back to the hospital in case any visitors were waiting for him. Today he would be able to meet the boy’s eyes; meet his silent, brooding and persistent plea for help.
IX
London is an interrupted dream. A tall ship docks and his fortnight’s journey from Alexandria is over. Dark skies, even though it is late summer. Englishmen mill around his stretcher with coarse accents and rough hands, doing heavy manual work. They are not like the English he is used to seeing, his teachers at Victoria and his father’s friends. They unload him from the ship like they unload the luggage. He used to walk everywhere by himself, and now his movements are someone else’s achievement.
London is not unknown to Nur, even though this is his first visit. Mr Dickens had told him about it and there were the films he had watched at the Blue Nile Cinema. But even though it is 1951, what Nur sees is war-damaged, dented buildings, glimpses of a ruin waiting to be rebuilt. The city is in rehabilitation, poised between peace and construction, between austerity and boom, between rationing and plenty. He understands, because he is injured, too. He wants to mend; he wants to be normal again.
It is not meant to be like this – his first visit to London. He should have been among a batch of new Sudanese students. They would have arrived by ship together, to be met by a Sudan Student Office representative who would whisk them off to Sudan House where they would stare around them with wide grins, conscious of their new clothes, their accents, their skin. They would be tense with the sense of adventure, shy, but too excited to be truly shy.
‘Let’s go dancing tonight,’ they’d laugh, their first allowance warm in their pockets.
And in a few days’ time, when all the paperwork was sorted, they would hug each other and disperse. Some to Oxford, Nur to Cambridge, others to Edinburgh and Dublin. This is what it should have been like: his hands in the pocket of a new jacket, buying a newspaper from a vendor, a jaunty step on the train at King’s Cross.
The hospital ward reminds Nur of the dormitory at school. It is spacious, with a high ceiling. The man in the next bed is called Jack. A wall had fallen on him during the Blitz and he is now in hospital because of a urinary complication. Nur tries to start a conversation, but Jack is busy reading the paper. With a device like a thin metal rod clasped between his teeth, he can flip over the pages of a newspaper. Jack cannot walk, but he can light his own cigarettes. His teeth are strong and clever. Nur admires him.
But he will not
end up like Jack. He will get better and everything will go back to how it was before. He will go to Cambridge as planned. He will ride a bicycle and go rowing and dancing. He will reach high in the library for thick, heavy books. He will be free from this stay in one place, from this keep still against your will. And if the operation doesn’t succeed? No! It will, it must. Because all this good future is just around the corner, he can see it.
Nur feels as if he is wrapped tight in a bandage, a mummy who is alive and seeing. This inertia is a new kind of physical pain, not intense but constant. His body clamours for movement. It is a fight – this struggle to be free – it is an effort. Awkward, too, to want to reach out, to be straining all the time, awkward and frustrating. He wants to pull the sheet up. He wants to scratch his chin, to rub his eyes, to pick his nose. He wants to draw the curtain around his bed. He wants to push his feet in slippers, to adjust the collar of his shirt. He wants to hold a pen. He wants to hold a pen and write. And he wants to walk the pavements of London like everyone else.
He can move his head from side to side, he can nod and clutch his upper arms closer to his body. Chicken wings, says the nurse. She is young and flirty and there is another nurse, older, like Matron, who looked after the boys at school. Nur likes their accents.
‘Judy Garland’s singin’ at the Theatre Royal . . .’
He copies how they talk, practising by himself. It shames him that English ladies are changing and washing him, sticking the enema in the morning, shaving his chin. They should not be doing such menial work, and it makes his face hot and his eyes moist with anger. Dressed and clean, he would like to chat to them, be nice to them, but they are busy. Most of the men in the ward are war heroes with ongoing complications. They don’t look triumphant or strong, and they shout in their sleep, but they are heroes all the same. Even though parts of them are missing, even though they are spastic and scarred, they have medals to their name. He is different. He was on a day out at the beach.
Lyrics Alley: A Novel Page 12
