Lyrics Alley (7 page)

Lulled by these pleasant images, he felt sleepy enough to go back to bed. As he stretched out, a niggling thought imposed itself. Something had happened this evening that he didn’t approve of. Not only Nur’s poem, but something else. What was it? Yes, it was the women, Waheeba and Nabilah. His two wives in the same room! It was a sight he had never seen before and never wished to see again. They belonged to different sides of the saraya, to different sides of him. He was the only one to negotiate between these two worlds, to glide between them, to come back and forth at will. It was his prerogative. This wretched illness had made him passive and given the two women space to bicker and make snide remarks at each other, without any respect for his presence. He remembered Idris’s sneer. But this irritation would drive sleep out of his eyes. He pushed the image of his wives away and made himself ponder more pleasant thoughts. The concern and love in his friends’ eyes, their good wishes and prayers for his recovery. In a few days, he would go back to the office and, after a full morning of work, drive to the site of his new building to see how the work was progressing.

Sheep were slaughtered to celebrate his recovery, and an ox, too. Their woolly, matted skins lay in piles on the floor of the hoash
and the early-morning air smelt of fresh blood. The poor of Umdurman gathered at the door of the saraya. They were not given raw meat but instead chunks of boiled mutton, the fat soaking the kisra they were placed on. The household sighed with relief. The scorch and burden of ill health had been lifted and a feeling of renewal and purification filled both the hoash and the modern wing of the mansion. After days in bed, Mahmoud Abuzeid re-entered the world and fell in love with it again. The clean morning breeze, the fresh smell of other men’s cologne, the thrust and satisfaction of business accomplished and the anticipation of more success to come. His laugh boomed again. He felt rejuvenated, touched by a miracle. It was good to bellow orders and send his staff scurrying. They had all gone lax while he was recuperating and it was time for them to be on their toes again. Not only in the office, but at home, too. He challenged Nabilah with a seated dinner party for thirty guests; that should keep her occupied and silence her complaints. And it was high time too, to deal with the problem of Nassir.

On his second day back at the office, he passed by Waheeba on his way home. At this time in the afternoon she was under the shade of the veranda having her siesta. His unexpected visit stirred the sleepy hoash. Waheeba’s girls, Batool and the others, rose to greet him with smiles and hugs. They were the daughters of distant relatives sent to Umdurman for schooling and it was their voices that woke Waheeba. She sat up with difficulty, drawing her to be around her and pulling down the edges of her dress. He sat on the angharaib perpendicular to hers while she coughed, wiped her face with her hands and settled herself upright. Her two legs stretched out straight from the bed, the calves pressed hard against the edge. She asked about his health and he asked her about the previous day’s slaughter which had coincided with Nur’s farewell. His friends and other members of the family had come to bid him farewell and today he was on his way to Alexandria, making the journey to Cairo by airplane for the first time instead of by train.

Batool brought him coffee and water.

‘Shall I put sugar for you, Uncle?’ she said, smiling. ‘For Allah’s sake, stay and have lunch with us.’

She was a pretty girl with smooth black skin and perfect teeth. Her father was poor and the girl had attached herself to Waheeba even though she had finished school. She was loyal and hardworking, entertaining and caring. Even though Batool was not his daughter, Mahmoud would spare no expense in getting her married and settled.

Waheeba did not repeat her girl’s invitation. She knew that he would be having lunch and siesta with Nabilah. His days of lunching with her were over. Today, seeing the hoash quiet after what must have been the bustle of the past days, Mahmoud felt a faint pity for his wife. His illness had given her a role to play but now that he was better, she would recede to the background. In his mind, he associated her with decay and ignorance. He would never regret marrying Nabilah. It was not a difficult choice between the stagnant past and the glitter of the future, between crudeness and sophistication.

As if to confirm his thoughts, she asked now, ‘Has Nur arrived safely?’

Stupid woman, ignorant of concepts of distance and time. He chuckled and said, ‘No, Hajjah. It will be still a long time before his trip is over. I will let you know when I have news. the office in Cairo will send me a telegram as soon as Nur arrives.’

‘Why does he have to travel so far away to study? Why couldn’t he attend Comboni College like Nassir did?’ It was a constant refrain.

He took a sip of his coffee.

‘Because Victoria College is superior to any school we have here. It is based on the English public school system. And besides, next year when he finishes, I want him to continue his studies in Cambridge.’

‘Is that in Egypt also?’

He sighed. ‘No. In England.’

‘Even further?’

‘Yes, it is even further and I don’t want any grumbling from you. I have already made a decision.’

She listened to him intently, her eyes never leaving his face. Behind the formality of respect and diffidence, he glimpsed a certain expression. She was looking at him as if he was a precocious child and she was curious to see what he would do or say next. She was only older than him by a few years but in their youth, this age difference had seemed like a decade. He had been shocked when his father ordered him to marry her. Waheeba was a distant relative, the only daughter of an established Umdurman merchant who had become wealthy by trading in Gum Arabic.

Waheeba came into the Abuzeid family with money and business connections. At twenty-one, she was considered a spinster and her family had no hesitation in marrying her off and financing a lavish wedding. Mahmoud, a youth of eighteen, his mind taken up with a fascination for commerce, had hated Waheeba at first sight; hated her because of her dullness and lack of beauty and, most of all, because she was forced on him. Their wedding night was a disaster, a humiliation he had buried deep and did not talk to his friends about. It was almost a miracle that Nassir and Nur were conceived, but their arrival, and the force of the years, eroded his distaste for her, so that on such an afternoon, after he had found fulfilment and success in another marriage, he could share with her the wish that Nur would arrive safely in Alexandria after a good trip. Nassir, though, was the reason he had come to visit her. Nassir, who had not yet returned to Medani.

‘I am reducing his allowance,’ he said to her, ‘until he mends his ways.’

‘But he has his house in Medani to support,’ she protested. ‘And he receives lots of guests. And Fatma will have more children. He said to me—’

Mahmoud didn’t allow her to go further.

‘He has to learn. He is my employee. He works for me, and he is not doing his job. And you know as well as I do how your son is squandering my money!’

She pulled her chin in so that the curves of fat were more pronounced.

‘He is still young. He needs to learn.’

‘No, he is not too young. Don’t defend him. He is the reason I came here today, to tell you that while I am reducing his allowance on one side, I don’t want you giving him money on the other side.’

She shrugged and looked down at her feet.

‘Am I clear in what I am saying? You are not to give Nassir any money, either directly or through his wife or through anyone else. He gets nothing except what I give him and he gets nothing from you. Am I clear?’

Waheeba nodded and said faintly, ‘Fine.’

‘People are beginning to talk,’ he confided in her. ‘It’s shameful. The family’s good name will be affected by Nassir’s delinquency!’ This distressed him to the core. His position in society mattered to him.

Waheeba remained unmoved. She shifted her weight on the angharaib.

‘Allow me just to pay for his daughter’s circumcision. I want to celebrate it in style.’

‘What?’ he bellowed. ‘I will not have such barbarity in this house. I forbid it.’

‘Aji!’ Waheeba slapped her hand on her chest and her voice rose. ‘What kind of talk is this?’

‘It’s modern talk. We need to stop these old customs, which have no basis in our religion and are unhealthy. Besides, it’s against the law.’

‘What law? Are the English going to tell us what to do with this!’ She pointed down to her lap. Batool snickered.

Mahmoud began to regret this turn in the conversation. ‘What do the girl’s parents have to say about this?’

‘Nassir and Fatma are like everyone else. They want to do the right thing by their daughter. You are the only one protesting and I don’t know why. Maybe your Egyptian woman has been putting ideas in your head. Is she not intending to circumcise her daughter, Ferial?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Shame on her. No man will want to marry her when she grows up.’

Dragging Nabilah and Ferial into the conversation was more than he could bear.

‘I will speak to Nassir and Fatma about this,’ he said, and rose to leave.

Idris was the other backward element in his life. When Idris returned from a business trip from Sennar, they had their morning tea together before setting out to meet the new manager of Barclays Bank. Mahmoud looked down and saw that his brother was wearing slippers.

‘On a day like this! Slippers, in front of Mr Harrison?’ Idris smiled broadly.

He slid his right foot out of his markoob and wiggled his toes.

‘Is he going to listen to me or look at my feet?’

Mahmoud sighed. ‘We have to make a good impression.’

‘You think he hasn’t heard about us? Our reputation will have preceded us.’ Idris sucked his tea. He did this with too much noise, the kind of noise the English would not appreciate.

‘We haven’t done business with him yet and I don’t know what he is like.’

But Mahmoud was an optimist. This was a result of his consistent good luck. However, he liked to play safe and be on more or less familiar ground. He was not happy that the previous bank manager had been replaced. Now he would have to start from scratch and win Nigel Harrison’s trust. He would have to persuade him that the Abuzeid brothers were not only honest and with a good credit history, but that this new business venture
of cotton ginning was going to bring in profits enough to repay any bank loan.

‘You could have at least worn sandals,’ he murmured. placing his empty glass on the table and standing up to leave.

Unlike Idris, who was in a jellabiya, he was wearing his best suit, purchased from Bond Street, and his Bally shoes. They pinched, and he was slightly hot, but personal comfort must be put aside. This meeting had been first postponed because Mr Harrison had not yet taken up his post, then again because of Mahmoud’s illness and Idris’s trip. Now Mahmoud was eager for it. He had hardly slept the night before, excited and going over the proposed figures in his head. He felt young and vigorous, eager for this new scheme.

In the car, he saw trees being planted in Kitchener Avenue. They would look beautiful, one day, overlooking the Nile. Two Englishmen and an English woman were on horseback, wearing broad-rimmed hats. The sight reminded him of his childhood when all the English rode horses. Now, most of them had cars, yet an eccentric few still preferred their horses. He turned his Daimler into Victoria Street and parked underneath the sign that said
Barclays Bank (Dominions, Colonies and Overseas)
. He switched the ignition off and they got out of the car.

‘Maybe this will be the last English manager we will have to plead in front of. Imagine coming to meet a Sudanese like ourselves!’

Idris only grunted in reply. He was negative about Sudanisation and self-government, whereas Mahmoud kept an open mind and a determination to go with the flow. Because of the Anglo-Egyptian Condominium, Sudan was not technically part of the British Empire. The Foreign Office, rather than the Colonial Office, ruled it, which resulted in a more graceful colonial experience and the British officials Mahmoud came into contact with were refined and educated, well-travelled and diplomatic. He knew that when the day came, he would not help but feel sorry to see them leave.

*

Mr Harrison, an Oxford graduate with solid credentials, was tall, with black hair and grey, watchful eyes. He rose from his desk to greet them and spent several minutes, as was the Sudanese custom, exchanging pleasantries in beginner’s Arabic. It always irritated Mahmoud to hear his mother tongue grammatically distorted and heavily accented. There was no need for this, no need for the English to trouble themselves with a foreign language to try and gain favour with the Arabs. Especially when it was so clear who needed whom. Mahmoud was a man who appreciated hierarchy, the order and logic of it, and he had no problem ingratiating himself to this Englishman, young enough to be his son.

‘What do you make of our country, Sir?’ He sat on the edge of his armchair, eager to show off his English. He liked the roll of the words in his mouth, and the weight of the file with the proposal on his lap.

Thankfully, Mr Harrison stopped talking Arabic.

‘It is a fascinating land. From what I have seen so far, it has great potential, and Khartoum is a pleasant city. I’ve been to several functions, social as well as business, and I’m staying at the Grand Hotel until my house is ready.’

‘The best hotel in town,’ Mahmoud murmured. ‘An excellent introduction.’

‘Yes, it is comfortable. I must say I am impressed by the architecture of the city; it is of a very high standard. Yesterday, I attended a session at the Legislative Assembly and that building was interesting too.’

‘They voted to discuss the motion for self-government, I heard.’

‘Yes, then in the middle of the session the electricity supply failed and a dozen flunkies walked in carrying hurricane lamps!’ Mr Harrison smiled, clearly amused and Mahmoud laughed politely.

‘Have you had the opportunity to travel outside Khartoum?’