His mind turned to the names and faces of the friends and business acquaintances who had visited him. He challenged himself to remember them all, knowing that he would be able to check the accuracy of his memory by looking at the list Nur had been writing. Some had come more than once, and those who esteemed him most had come immediately on hearing that he was ill. Their concern was gratifying. It filled him with affection for them and a desire to reciprocate. He, too, if Allah continued to give him life, would visit them in sickness, commiserate with them in death and celebrate their happy occasions.
And how had his family responded to his illness? Idris had risen to the occasion and could not be faulted. Nassir, on the other hand, had taken too long to arrive from Medani. People would talk of this — it was embarrassing. The boy resembled him physically, but was lazy and irresponsible, unlike Nur, who looked like his mother and yet held his father’s sense of duty inside him. Mahmoud always compared the brothers and always found Nur to be superior. Even though he was not the eldest, Nur would be the next chairman of the Abuzeid group of companies, the next head of the family. But what to do about Nassir? Years ago, on the night of his wedding to Fatma, Nassir had been too drunk to consummate the marriage. Mahmoud had laughed along with everyone else at the story of the groom, henna on his hands and kohl in his eyes, passing out fully dressed on his marital bed, but Nassir’s drinking was no longer a laughing matter. The reports that reached Mahmoud were damning. Nassir was never at the Medani office before eleven o’clock on any day of the week. It was clerks and employees who were running the Abuzeid Medani office, not the landowner’s son. Cotton was yielding millions these days because the English couldn’t get enough of it now that the war was over, but that was no excuse for Nassir to take things easy. It was the time to be aggressive, to develop and expand. Mahmoud resolved to confront him before his return to Medani, and if he didn’t pull himself together, he would summon him back to Umdurman to keep a close watch over him.
As for Nur, the boy needed to complete his education. This evening’s poetry episode was a phase he would get over. He was brilliant in his studies, outstanding in sports, especially football. An all-rounder, the English headmaster said, and how proud Mahmoud felt that his son was excelling at Victoria College. Every penny spent on the fees was worth this joy. It was especially gratifying to visit him in Alexandria. Mahmoud would park his car and visit the headmaster, Mr Waverley, in his office. With amazement — and a certain degree of alertness needed to follow English — he would listen to his son being praised. Such magical moments, sitting across the desk from the English gentleman who spoke loudly, slowly and clearly. Nur, his son was an all-rounder! After a few minutes — not long, for the English did not like to waste time — Nur would arrive at the office wearing his navy school blazer with the letters V and C embroidered in gold on the pocket, the C underneath the letter V. Nur’s eyes would shine when he saw his father. He would rush forward and bend to kiss his hand before Mahmoud enveloped him in a brief hug. Then, obtaining special permission, Mahmoud would take Nur and his friends out for lunch. How those boys attacked their plates of kebab and kofta! As if they had been starving for weeks. They were not allowed such food in the dorms and they had to bribe the cleaning staff to buy them ful and falafel from outside. Poor boys, forced to eat English food every day: boiled potatoes, roast beef, and more tasteless boiled vegetables. Mahmoud chuckled.
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.