He shook his head. Fatma walked into the sitting room, carrying a plate of biscuits. She placed them in front of her father and made a gesture to Soraya as if to say, ‘I will explain to you later.’
But Soraya was defiant.
‘If you can’t take me, I can go with Uncle Mahmoud’s driver.’
‘You will do no such thing!’ He dunked a biscuit in his tea. ‘You are going to sit in this house today and not leave it.’
‘But I—’
‘Not a word!’ He swallowed. ‘Now get out of my face. Go to your room.’
She got up and walked to her room. She felt too energetic to lie down, and too annoyed to change her clothes. What had got into him? Had he found out that she had visited her old school? Was it Victor, the secretary or Sue Harrison who had given her away? As soon as she heard Idris grab his car keys and walk out of the house, she went back to the sitting room. Fatma was sitting in his place, pouring herself a glass of tea. Her eyes were red and puffy.
Soraya pounced on her.
‘So what’s the matter with him? Did he find out about the other day?’
Fatma sighed. ‘Yes, of course he found out, but he didn’t say how. Can anything stay hidden? He took all his anger out on me, I can tell you! He said I wasn’t guiding and restraining you enough, that Nassir and I should be living in Uncle Mahmoud’s saraya, and that the only reason he wanted us here was that I could keep an eye on you. He said I am no substitute for Mother. Fire begets ashes, he said.’
‘This made you cry, didn’t it? Poor Fatma. You know it’s not true. I am so happy that you moved from Medani and that you’re living here. Please, don’t go anywhere.’
‘I wish he were different,’ said Fatma. ‘I wish I could talk to him about my problems with Nassir. Maybe if he had a word with Nassir, then Nassir would go out less and stop squandering his money. People borrow from him and never pay him back and he is cheated every single day, the fool that he is! People think we are rich, but I’m at my wits’ end most of the time.’
Soraya didn’t know what to say. She put her arms around her sister. Tears rolled down Fatma’s face and she wiped them away with the edge of her to be.
‘This is what you stayed at home for,’ she smiled ruefully, ‘to pat me on the shoulders.’
Soraya was jolted back to remembering her missed classes.
‘Father is just so unreasonable.’
‘He’s angry with you.’
‘So this is my punishment, then? House arrest?’
She knew why her father hadn’t shouted at her or told her off. She was beneath that, not worthy to be addressed. He despised her to that extent! For years she had accepted his treatment, knowing she would one day get away from him to be Nur’s wife.
‘You know what I think,’ said Fatma, taking a sip of her tea. ‘It’s that new song that’s upsetting Father. He heard it again this morning and switched the radio off. The lyrics are shameless. Her ripe cheeks, her gentle lips. Your beauty keeps me up all night.’
Soraya laughed. Just hearing Nur’s words banished all the badness and put her in a good mood.
‘I want to be alone with you,’ she sang.
Fatma rolled her eyes.
‘And then, when Nur says she is slender like the baan tree, Father can put two and two together and of course he doesn’t like it. Especially when he worries that everyone else in Umdurman will reach the same conclusion.’
Soraya’s eyes were shining. ‘Nur will never give my name away, and Father’s hands are tied. He won’t dare criticise Nur now!’
‘Yes, but it’s your honour, and our whole reputation, which is at stake.’ Fatma was serious. ‘No one must ever know that you reciprocate Nur’s feelings. That would be a scandal. That’s why you can’t take a wrong step. You have to be above suspicion. Because Nur’s lyrics aren’t confined to his room. Do you know how far Radio Umdurman’s broadcasts are reaching? People from Sinja have been phoning Uncle Mahmoud!’
‘Good!’ said Soraya. ‘I want everyone to hear Nur’s lyrics again and again.’
‘Well, then, you will have to put up with Father’s anger. Believe me, he will take out all his frustrations on you.’
Soraya folded her arms. ‘Keeping me prisoner here won’t solve anything.’
‘A husband for you would solve everything,’ retorted Fatma. ‘Don’t you want to get away from Father and be the mistress of your own house?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’ That had always been the hope, the logical solution.
‘Tell me, apart from a handful, what have the rest of your classmates done since they left school?’
‘They got married.’
‘See? This is the natural thing. So stop being stubborn. When the next suitable suitor comes along, promise you will consider him.’ Fatma was looking at her, beseeching. ‘Promise you won’t dismiss him out of hand. Soraya, you have to look to the future in a different way.’
She knew. At last she knew.
‘I promise,’ she said, and wondered who he would be.
A few days later, on the first cool evening of the season, the two sisters walked down the alley to Waheeba’s hoash. It was the first time Soraya had gone out since Idris sentenced her to house arrest, but a plea for help from their aunt had made Fatma relent. Besides, she did not want to walk all alone in the dark. Nur was inundated with guests, Waheeba had said on the telephone.
‘I must serve them dinner and you must come and help.’
They found their aunt and the other women screened from Nur and his guests by several green wooden screens with a lattice design. The coal stoves were lit and Waheeba was sitting on a stool in front of a large pot of boiling oil, shaping each piece of ta’miyyah in her palm and throwing it in. She was pleased to see the two sisters.
‘Who are all these guests?’ Soraya tried to peer through the screen.
‘How do I know, my child? They are all strangers. Ever since these songs have gone out on the radio, we’ve had men coming and going.’
‘You will need to have a separate entrance for them,’ said Fatma scooping, with a long ladle, those pieces of falafel that were now a crunchy brown.
‘I will talk to your uncle,’ said Waheeba. ‘Nur needs more space now — not only his own entrance, but also a diwan, so that we’re not so cramped here.
Soraya edged closer to the screen. If she pressed her face close, she could see the whole of the men’s gathering. She put on her glasses and saw Nur propped up on his bed at the head of a large circle. One of the men was holding an oud on his lap and an elderly man was reciting a poem from a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand. She listened to the words, and when he finished, the comments of the others held her attention. She heard Nur’s voice. It came to her clearer than anyone else’s. She liked the look on his face; serious and happy, totally engaged. Some of the men spoke more than others, and some were quietly smoking. She saw Zaki come close to Nur and hold up a glass of water to his lips. Nassir walked in and shook hands all around, touching his brother’s elbow before taking a seat. Zaki passed round a tray full of glasses of water. Following a comment made by Nassir, the gentleman with the oud began to play and sing. It was a traditional folk song and the others nodded their heads with the melody.
When Zaki came over to the women’s area to refill the water jugs, Soraya called him over.
‘Tell me who is who,’ she whispered.
They ducked down together, for she had found a spot on the screen where several segments of wood were missing and that gave her a wider range of vision.
‘Most of them,’ said Zaki with authority, ‘are from the Poets’ Syndicate.’ He named a few names, some of which Soraya recognised. These distinguished poets, when they performed at the university, packed whole lecture halls, and now they were sitting casually in Nur’s hoash!