Minaret: A Novel (28 page)

The scent of fresh baked bread draws me to the bakery. I buy croissants and sit in the small park in front of the flat. The park is almost empty this time of morning. An elderly lady is taking her walk; a man sits on a bench reading the Telegraph. They know that this is the best time of the day, the freshest. The lady smiles as she passes me and says good morning. People are nice in this area. The elderly are refined. They remind me of my mother. I dream of her a lot these days. She is ill and troubled, worried about Omar. I must read Surat Yasin for her, now that I have free time. I watch Lamya as she leaves for the day. Her clothes are familiar to me from the times I've ironed them, hung them in her cupboard. I've collected that jacket from the dry-cleaner. I watch her walking to her car. She is attractive but slight, lacking in allure. A neighbour passes her and she greets him deferentially, smiling widely. I have not seen her deferential before; this is another side of her. I look up and catch Doctora Zeinab pulling open the curtains, the sun reflects on the window and I can't see the expression on her face. It must be hard work for her - Mai and the flat. Somehow I can't imagine Lamya lifting a finger to help but this is unrealistic, she must be doing her share.

I meet Tamer in the Regent's Park. It feels strange, the two of us without Mai. He looks rumpled, haggard. He is neither eating nor sleeping properly at the mosque. For the first time, he looks unclean but he is soon bored with questions about his well-being. He brushes my concern aside and is not interested in the croissants I got him. He is distracted by thoughts and plans. `I'm not going to do my re-sits. I don't want to do them. I'm going to transfer to another university outside London.'

I think of the cities outside London. They must he dull and green in comparison. `Unless your parents approve, how will you manage on your own? They already have the flat here. Will they pay for your accommodation elsewhere?'

He stiffens. `I'll get a job.'

As what?'

'I don't know. I'll deliver pizza.'

it won't he safe for you at night. There are people who might hurt you.'

He doesn't insist that he can look after himself. Instead he kicks an empty carton of juice towards the side of the path. `I tried asking in the mosque for work but once I start talking everyone wants to know why I have left home, why I quarrelled with my family. I don't like that. I want to be left alone. I don't like people being nosy. We have to get married, then I can come and live with you.' He looks at me, pleading.

`Your parents will never approve.'

`They'll have to accept it. The longer I stay away from home, the more they'll realize that I'm determined.' He is like someone else, a common rebellious teenager.

I try again. `If you hurt them, you won't be happy and I want you to be happy.'

He still doesn't soften. `I have to think of doing what will please Allah, not what will please anyone else. I don't want to commit a sin.'

`You won't commit a sin.' How can I be sure? I've seen people slide and fling themselves; I've seen it in myself.

He stops walking and looks at me, `You never said yes. You never said you would marry me.'

I laugh. `Didn't I?'

`No you didn't. I just assumed.' He looks handsome now; his eyes brighten.

`Well, to say yes, you must promise me you'll take a second wife.'

`What a stupid thing to say, Najwa!'

`Because I might not be able to have children.' The regret in my voice startles me.

`I don't care about children.'

`You don't mean that.'

`I do.' He wants my full attention; he wants to be my child.

`Maybe now you're not interested but when you're older, you'll want a pretty young wife, a conventional marriage.'

He shrugs and says, `I don't care about the future. I only care about now.'

But for me the future is close, round the corner, not far 'I wouldn't want you to divorce me. I would rather he in the background of your life, always part of it, always hearing your news.'

Ile says softly, `l don't like it when you talk like that. I don't want to think of the future - all the stupid studying I have to do. I don't even want to do my re-sits.'

If you could do anything, if there were no restrictions, what would you do?'

He smiles and looks his age again, soft and dreamy. The two of us would go back in time. A time of horses and tents; swords and raids.'

I smile and Ile continues. 'There wouldn't he any "Business" and I wouldn't have to go to university.'

We are both too simple for this time and place. Sometimes I want to die; not out of despair or fear but just to step away from life and stand in the shade, watch it roll on without me, changeable and aggressive.

The park is sweet and not crowded. We are the first to btIV ice cream from a lonely van and sit on a bench looking at the swalls.

'DO you think Mai remembers the?' I ask.

`She is probably bored without you.'

'I dreamt of her last night.'

He smiles. 'I love you. You know that, don't you?'

I nod. Pity gushes through me and brings tears to my eyes. To stop myself from blubbering I lick my ice cream and say, 'l.alllya owes tile money. I left on the twentyeighth and she never gave me that month's salary.'

`She's difficult.' He opens his wallet and gives the all the notes he has. Crisp twenty-pound notes, his pocket money. He takes money for granted. It is obvious in the way he touches the notes. He can get more from the till, from the hank account his parents fill for him. He thinks they will always be around, will always give to him unconditionally. I was like that at his age. I put the money away.

`You should go back home, Tamer.' I say it gently but he turns rigid and shakes his head. He stares down at the grass instead of meeting my eyes. I try again. `It's wrong. You know it's a sin to cut someone off for more than three days, specially your mother and sister.'

`I spoke to my mother on the phone. She knows where I am.' There is guilt in his eyes, buried in the defiance.

`What about Lamya?'

`Did she get in touch with you? Did she apologize?'

I shake my head. I am not expecting her to.

`Well, she should. I told her I'm going to marry you. You will become my wife and, whether she likes it or not, she will have to treat you like a sister.' This is a new hardness. He is all grown up. And that quality I had adored, that glow and scent of Paradise, is nearly gone. Soon he will be like the rest of us.

`And your mother - what was her reaction?' I had not asked him before.

`She said, "I can't believe my son is doing this to me," and she started to cry. It was horrible.'

I blurt out, `She's used to a high standard! What you've done is nothing compared to what my mother had to put up with from Omar. People think the leukaemia killed her but it was her broken heart.' He moves away from me. He is defensive about his mother; they were always close.

After he reluctantly leaves for his university, I walk towards the mosque. At the corner with Wellington Road, I see Doctora Zeinab and Mai getting into a taxi. It is Mai I recognize first. Doctora Zeinab is altered. Her face is puffy, her hair lank and there are dark shadows under her eyes. Her movements are awkward as she helps Mai into the taxi then heaves herself in. She draws the taxi door shut but she has not pulled hard enough and has to repeat the action. She is not herself. Her confidence has taken a blow; she is walking through a storm.

At the mosque, in the ladies' prayer hall, there is a class led by Urn Waleed. She looks alarmed to see me during working hours, but alarm is her usual expression. She gestures for me to join in the circle. The class must have been going on for some time because the zuhur azan is due. Um Waleed hands me a Qur'an. This is a tafseer class and they are discussing verses from `The Heights'. I remember Wafaa, years ago, handing me a copy of the Qur'an, saving, This is for VOL] to keep.' She and All are in Birmingham now. People move on, sisters leave and new ones take their place. Urn Waleed can pull anyone away from their personal problems and make them listen. Perhaps it is the urgency in her voice. `There are different interpretations of why these men are on the Heights. The Heights are a mountain that stands between Paradise and Hell. These men are stuck in the middle, desiring Paradise and fearing Hell, able to see both. One interpretation is that their good actions and bad actions are equal in scale. The other interpretation is that they are young men who left home to fight the ,Jihad without the permission of their mothers and fathers. Because they died for the sake of Allah they have been spared Hell, but because they broke their parents' hearts, they are deprived of Paradise.'

o she sits before me, in an armchair in my flat. It is as if we are suspended in tension. It fills the room and makes my voice and movements slow. I think that when she leaves I will be exhausted; I will have to lie down. Mai is not with her which means that this is a formal visit, one that Lamya knows about. Since DoctoraZeinah phoned, I have been cleaning, tidying, baking a cake and washing my hair. I must make a good impression, not only for Tamer's sake but also for mine because I admire her, sense a goodness in her, not the metaphysical kind that her son has but one that is solid, rooted in pragmatism. I notice today more than ever how much Tamer looks like her, how much he is from her, her masculine side, her only son. She looks better, more controlled than the day I saw her getting into the taxi. There is still the puffy face and the dark-ringed eyes but her hair is set, her make-up well applied and she is elegant in white trousers and a pale green jacket. It is the first time for her to see me without my hijab. Her eyes flickered over me when I opened the door and she saw my transformation. But she did not say anything or hid her surprise well. Perhaps it was something she was expecting. I want to show her that I am attractive, that there is more to me than being a maid. When she speaks, I realize that she knows.

We probe general, safe topics - Mai, the weather, how crowded London becomes in the summer. I offer her fresh orange juice, coffee and banana cake. She does not refuse my hospitality and I am grateful. It is her good manners which makes her drain her glass, compliment me on the cake and even allow herself a second piece. Perhaps we can become friends if I am too old to play the role of daughter-in-law. We can become sisters. I relax and find myself speaking to her about my mother and, with a sense of unreality, show her old photos. She says that Tamer had told her about my father. Her voice is matter-of-fact, like a doctor discussing a serious illness, and I must not forget that she is a doctor. She makes it clear that she will not taunt me with my past but she will not ignore it either. I should not be surprised that Tamer told her. It is a good sign that he is talking to her even if only by phone. But I have become used to secrecy, it has become a part of me. Now I feel vulnerable.

`My husband knows your father,' she says.

Of him, you mean. Most Sudanese do.' There is an edge to my voice because of the futility of trying to make someone see him as my flesh and blood, not a symbol, not a public figure.

She looks me straight in the eve. `Yes, of him. Politics is a difficult profession in our countries, all these ups and downs.'

`Yes.' But my father was not strictly a politician. He did not care what policies governed the country as long as his career was successful. It would he unfair to ascribe to him the role of wronged political idealist or fallen hero, comforting though it may be. My comfort is Allah's mercy, Allah's justice.

She says, `The climate is changing now in Sudan. The future looks good.'

`Perhaps some people will start to go hack.' I think of Anwar and his wife, their two little boys, or will it be too late for them to go back?

She raises her voice a little. `Would you like to go hack?'

Her question seems odd, pointed. She drops her eyes, stirs her coffee.

`Yes,' I say slowly, `it would be lovely to go back, but it is unlikely.'

`But you deserve a better position, better than the kind of work you do here and it's only in our own country that we can really feel respected. May Allah preserve your health but we are all getting older and one day you will need others to care for you.'

I know what she is saying, probing for my deepest insecurity. We talk of it in the mosque, what will happen to us, those of us who don't have children or whose children can't cope? Will we end up in nursing homes where they will spoonfeed us mashed pork and we won't know the difference?

`You can get a decent job in Khartoum just by being who you are and because you know English. You can perhaps run a nursery for little children or work as a supervisor in a girls' hostel.'

Her suggestions require capital and courage. She is leading to something, but I still can't understand her implications.

`You can have your own maid in Khartoum,' she continues. `Apparently it's Southerners now that people are employing, not Ethiopians like in the past - they're too expensive.'

I say, `It's always nice to chat about Khartoum and to remember the past.'