Lyrics Alley (20 page)

Buoyed by the after-school outing that awaited her, she sought out Nancy to apologise and make amends. She found her with the bell in her hands.

‘You know how much I admire your mother, but Aunty Valeria is wrong about Nur. He
is
going to get better.’

Nancy looked confused.

‘Look, I have to go and ring the bell.’

She moved away and Soraya called after her.

‘Give us a few more minutes!’

She was joking, but Nancy didn’t smile. She just turned and called back.

‘I can’t.’

Standing in the middle of the hallway overlooking the courtyard, her strong, hairy arms lifted the heavy bell and shook it. The clamour made Soraya put her hands over her ears. Nancy’s expression was resolute, her lips pressed together, her legs hip-distance apart. She was serious and responsible, which was why Sister Josephine had charged her with ringing the bell. Soraya might be better at her studies, but she would have cheated with that bell, added a few minutes to the break, sent everyone home a little bit earlier.

There was Sister Josephine now, her habit billowing behind her as she swept down the hallway ushering the girls from the yard to line up in front of their classrooms.

‘Soraya, where are your spectacles?’

‘In my bag, Sister.’

She fell in step with her teacher and noted the dark hair escaping from Sister Josephine’s habit. She was definitely not bald, whatever anyone else said. Just had short, unkempt hair. And she would never marry and have children. She would stay
as she was; a virgin, celibate. It seemed too cruel to contemplate, but it was true, and it was her choice, too. Sister Josephine did not inspire pity, but she made Soraya feel privileged.
She
was going to get married;
she
was going to have a bride’s trousseau,
she
was going to experience a man’s love and a man’s body.

‘Take care of your spectacles, Soraya. I’m pleased that you are now seeing the blackboard clearly, because I can’t have you sitting in the front row! Besides, you have external examinations at the end of the school year. You must do well so that you can go to university.’

University. It sounded distant and awesome.

‘Do you think they will accept me, Sister?’

‘Yes,’ Sister Josephine said without a smile. ‘You and Amal are our strongest science contenders. Perhaps you can be accepted into medicine.’

Ambition stirred in Soraya. It would swell and take hold.

‘But my father,’ she began.

‘Oh, I knew he would eventually relent about the spectacles,’ Sister Josephine interrupted. ‘Now you have no excuse. Work hard, my girl!’

Soraya started to explain that Idris didn’t even know she was wearing glasses, that she had got them secretly in Alexandria, but Sister Josephine was away, rounding up the rest of the girls. The yard started to empty and it was the halls that were now crowded with navy and white.

It was as if every girl in the neighbourhood was in Amal’s housh to watch the bride practise her dance routine. When Soraya walked in, the dallooka was already beating. There was the smell of sandalwood and perfume, the joyful lyrics of the song, and the breathless, expectant atmosphere of parties yet to come. Then ululations would break out and dates and sweets would be tossed in the air for the guests to catch. Soraya remembered Nur, lying propped up in bed listening to the radio. She remembered her vow not to attend any celebrations until he recovered. But
this was only a practice session; she would not come to the wedding party. She would keep away. Now all eyes were on Amal’s sister, standing in the middle of the gathering. Bare feet on the palm-fibre mat, she arched her back, swaying from side to side, and her neck was tilted so that her chin pointed to the sky. This was the difficult Neck dance, with all the movements concentrated on the chest and head. Reaching up and, again like a bird, craning in stylised slow motion to peck at a fruit dangling from the branch above. All the dances were designed to mimic the movement of birds, arms held back like wings, spine curved, breasts pushed out and upwards in seduction and pride.

In Soraya’s assessment, this bride-to-be was doing well, stretching out with her chin further and further away. She could arch her back more and perhaps with practice she would become more flexible. Every day now, until the wedding, she would be wrapped in a blanket and hunched over the smouldering fire for the ‘smoke treatment’. The herbs and perfumed wood would not only beautify her skin, but the heat would make her back muscles toned and supple.

Soraya found a better place to sit, just as the bride stopped dancing and covered her face with her hands. The dallooka ceased. In the wedding, with the bridegroom in attendance, she would continue to stand, covering her face until he moved each hand away, revealing her face with its closed eyelids and the gold ring on her nose. In some families the bride danced naked, with nothing but a belt around her waist, the bridegroom holding onto it as she moved and swayed, her skin glistening with oil and every part of her body in full view. But neither Soraya nor Amal’s families supported such tribal customs.

The wazira, a jolly, hefty woman, started to talk about the fall.

‘On the day of the wedding, we’ll see if that bridegroom of yours is paying attention or not.’ The girls laughed. ‘You must reach the ground before he catches you. Then we will jeer at
him and you would have scored a point. So take him unawares, don’t give him any sign. Dance as you will, and then abruptly let go and fall to the ground.’

The girls started talking among themselves. Most bridegrooms were dazed and easily tricked. But there were sharp and quick men, who would be sensitive to the faintest facial expression, watchful for the slightest shift in movement so that they would reach out and grab their bride just in the nick of time. If the bride succeeded in reaching the ground, she would be covered in a large, bright coloured cloth and there would be a pause in the dancing. Soraya imagined herself enveloped in this silk, unable to see. Nur would remove it, fold it and put it on his shoulder. Only then would she stand up to dance again.

But now the beat of the dallooka quickened and Amal was pulling her to the centre of the circle. This was the energetic dance Soraya excelled in, and the bride could do well to learn from her. First position, both hands covering her face, and then she removed one and left the other. Arching her back, but not too much, because the focus of this dance was on the hips. She pushed her right buttock out while shifting her feet on the rug, heels pressed hard on the ground. Pulsing, quivering, flicking her behind . . . In her own wedding – when Nur got better – she would be in a sleeveless red dress, her head covered in gold, coins on her forehead, kohl in her eyes, a bracelet high on her arm, henna on her hands and feet. She would swing her braids, which, on that day, would be extended with fine black silk, made long enough to almost touch the back of her knees. Nur would stand tall in front of her, a sword in his hand, his eyes watching her every movement, her supple back, her breasts and bare arms. She would heave towards him, again and again, wanting him and offering herself. Don’t take your eyes off me. Catch me when I fall . . .

‘There is no reason why you can’t go to both the wedding and the bazaar,’ said Fatma. ‘Actually, we are obliged to return Amal’s
invitation because, remember, she came to my wedding.’

‘She and her mother came to see Nur when he returned,’ added Soraya.

She had taken to dividing people into two camps; those who came to visit Nur, and those who didn’t. The first group were true comrades. The second earned themselves a place on her black list. She shunned them, and had no qualms talking about why she shunned them. Girls she had been friendly with found their greetings unreturned because they and their families had not paid their respects to Nur Abuzeid. Soraya had self-righteously recorded every visitor when Nur first arrived from London, those first days when the saraya was as busy as it had been the previous year, when Uncle Mahmoud was ill. At that time, Fatma and Nassir had come especially from Medani. This time they moved permanently to Umdurman, and were now living with Idris. Nassir said he would not leave his brother.

‘Nur needs his family and friends around him. We must not leave him alone to brood and become sad.’

Soraya approved of Nassir’s stance, and she was delighted with Fatma’s presence; her sister and the children all with her, under one roof.

Now Fatma said, as she bent down to cut her toenails, ‘We can’t sit in Aunt Waheeba’s hoash day and night any more, waiting for people to call on us. Everyone did already. People were gracious to the extreme.’

‘Not all of them!’ Malice shot from Soraya’s heart towards those negligent ones. She had no forgiveness.

‘Most of them,’ said Fatma, emphatically. ‘We really can’t complain. Now we need to go out and fulfil our social obligations.’

‘I don’t have the inclination to go to a wedding.’ Soraya, lying on the opposite bed, was staring up at the ceiling. ‘
No
celebration feels right while Nur is ill.’

She had forgone her birthday last month, so there was no party, no gathering of girls and no cake from Papa Costa’s. Such
a contrast to last year, on her sixteenth birthday, when she invited all her friends from school and Uncle Mahmoud hired a magician who proved himself to be the most marvellous of entertainers.

The sound of the scissors ceased, and she sensed Fatma looking at her.

‘Soraya, there is nothing we can do more for Nur. We are with him, we keep him company, but Nassir has to go to the office, you have to go to school and Nur’s friends are either studying or working.’

‘I know all this,’ said Soraya. ‘But I’m still not convinced that I should go to Amal’s house.’

Fatma took a big breath.

‘Batool is going to be married next month. We need to prepare for her wedding. So you see in Nur’s household itself—’

Soraya sat up. ‘I don’t believe you!’

Fatma sighed and turned her attention back to her toenails. She was pregnant, but it was early days and her stomach was not big enough to prevent her from bending over.

‘Yes, it’s confirmed. Uncle Mahmoud wants a good wedding for her. He is marrying her to one of his office boys, and Aunt Waheeba promised her a full trousseau, from a double bed to a sewing needle. Batool is delighted, and so are her parents who will be coming especially from Sinja for the celebrations.’

‘I will have nothing to do with this!’ Soraya folded her arms across her chest. ‘The wedding needs to be postponed till Nur is better.’

‘Aunt Waheeba is not happy, either, but she has no choice. Uncle Mahmoud has already given his word. Besides, Batool is like a daughter to Aunt Waheeba and we are not in mourning. There is no justification for denying the girl her happiness.’

‘I will not take part,’ repeated Soraya.

‘Batool would be heartbroken if you keep away. She will think it is because she is a poor relation.’

‘Don’t be silly. I love her, and I have always treated her like a sister.’

‘Well, then, you have to stand by her at her happy hour.’

Soraya frowned. ‘And where is Nur going to go while the hoash throbs with wedding celebrations? How is
he
going to feel?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fatma. ‘And I can’t argue with you forever.’ She put the scissors on the side-table and stretched out on the bed. ‘I am tired today. I am really not well and oh, the pain in my back.’

‘You shouldn’t have been hunched over like that.’ Soraya was still in a combative mood. ‘I would have cut your nails for you if you’d asked.’

Fatma didn’t reply. She looked queasy, and later that night, before Nassir returned from his evening outing, she woke the whole household with her cries of pain. Only when she expelled her four-month-old foetus, did the pain finally cease.

It was a frightening experience for Soraya, even though she was shielded from seeing the worst of it. Halima came over promptly and took over the situation, and Idris stayed awake and was uncharacteristically tender and helpful to his daughters. For a long time he had resisted installing a telephone, but now it proved to be valuable. In addition to summoning the midwife, the telephone also conveyed the news to Nassir. He came home, drunk as usual but still able to absorb the shock and console his wife.

The following day Soraya stayed home from school. It felt odd to see Fatma lying in bed ill. It felt odd that now everyone visited them in their hoash instead of Aunt Waheeba’s. The news spread. Fatma has had a miscarriage. Nassir Abuzeid’s wife miscarried. Uncle Mahmoud stopped by on his way to the office and Nabilah came later on in the morning, in a new frock, on her way to coffee with the Egyptian Minister’s wife. The neighbours trooped in and out. One brought soup and another a jug of fresh orange juice. Batool came over and stayed to help
with serving the guests. Every woman relation was gathered, and yet, when Soraya saw Waheeba walking in, she cried, ‘How could you leave Nur alone, Aunty!’

‘Girl, on a day like this I have to be with my son’s wife. How can I not?’

She had not set foot outside her hoash since Nur returned from London, would not leave his side for any occasion or obligation. Which is why it shocked Soraya to see her. And Waheeba did not just come for a quick, dutiful visit; instead, she stretched out on the bed perpendicular to Fatma’s and made herself comfortable. Soraya overheard the women gossip about Waheeba, as she handed them out glasses of tea. They were whispering, ‘It’s good that she has finally started to go out. Now that she has visited Fatma, she will visit others as well.’

These words scorched Soraya. She wanted her aunt to be always with Nur. Life should not be normal until Nur was standing on his feet again.

At night, she was woken by Fatma’s heavy movements in the bathroom and Halima’s voice checking on her. Batool was spending the night with them to help with the children and she left her bed, next to Soraya’s, and went to fetch water for Fatma. They were all indoors because it was too cold to sleep outside. In the darkness, Soraya remembered that she had not congratulated Batool on her engagement. She should have, but there was a bad feeling, a grudge incubating inside her. It was uncharacteristic of her to be ungenerous, and she herself felt uncomfortable, unused to these new feelings that were lodged in her stomach like an undigested meal. She drifted back to sleep and, before she was even deeply asleep, the nightmare came back.