‘Did anyone ask about me?’ he asks his mother.
‘Yes, Hamza came and he had some young men with him.’ She is becoming more comfortable with Hamza now. He comes so often that he is no longer a stranger. ‘He left a magazine for you.’
Nur’s curiosity is ruffled. He wants to see the magazine, to have Zaki search through the pages for what Hamza would have wanted him to read. But he is too tired now, too drained. Later.
‘And your Arabic teacher came too. He said he heard your lyrics on the radio and I said to him it’s about time, these broadcasts have been going out for months!’
Ustaz Badr hadn’t been to see him since the robbery.
‘I hope you were kind to him, Mother. I hope you’re not holding a grudge against him.’
Waheeba sighs.
‘He is innocent. It was that accursed nurse, Shukry, who plotted everything and executed the crime. Your father said we mustn’t lay any blame on Ustaz Badr and he is to be welcomed here. And anyone you value, Nur, I will value and honour. Anyone who makes your burden lighter will find me on his side. But you mustn’t let your anger affect your health.’
And that is all she says about how he lost Soraya to his best friend. Neither does Nassir have any further comments, nor does Fatma or Zaki or Batool. As for his new friends — the writers, musicians and poets — they are interested in the final outcomes of Art itself, rather than its ingredients and fuel. He should bunch up his grievances, sculpt them and hone them for his poems. This is the outlet, this is the path; this is more than a dream.
He wakes up to look into his teacher’s protruding eyes. He dozes and, when he is wide awake, he finds Ustaz Badr leafing through the magazine that Hamza left.
‘Your poem is published here,’ says Badr. ‘It is part of an article about Hamza Al-Naggar and his songs.’
Badr continues to read and Nur feels young again, a student watching his copybook being marked, eager for approval.
‘Is it good?’ he asks.
Badr continues to read.
‘Or are you a purist?’ Nur rushs in. ‘I’d wager you don’t approve of using colloquial words and phrases.’
‘The poem is good but. .’ Badr closes the magazine.
‘But what?’
‘You can do better,’ says Badr.
Nur laughs. He is fond of this man, his tenacity and desperate goodness, his knowledge and simplicity; the strength which floods him like a miracle. Nur hadn’t laughed for some time.
‘Travel is a hit on the radio, your cousin is in prison for robbing my mother’s jewellery, you want my father to lease you a flat in his new building — and you sit there and tell me I can do better!’
Badr frowns. ‘I will gain nothing by flattering you. At the end, what will be will be. So I might as well say the truth. And here is what I think. You will be tempted to write more light verses because popularity is now within your reach, but you can also become a serious poet, a poet others will respect. It is your choice.’
‘I will do both,’ Nur says. ‘I will do both, and I want you to come to me regularly like before. I want us to have our weekly meetings and discussions again. I need. .’ he pauses and swallows. ‘I need to be a student again.’
When Nur closes his eyes, there is her image, and every ache and aggravation is aroused, envy of Tuf Tuf and simmering rage. But a little while ago, talking to Ustaz Badr, he had felt clear-headed and liberated.
A day passes, followed by a night. The sharpness eases and there are stretches of calmness, of leisure, when he does not think of Soraya’s engagement to Tuf Tuf. His body had absorbed the shock and the news, like a foreign virus, is now seeping through his system, defeating every antibody, becoming a part of him. There was a Nur before the news, and now, a Nur after the news.
He learns that his reaction to Soraya’s engagement is to be kept secret. He will not be allowed to jeopardize her future and so no one will indulge his sadness or publicly acknowledge his loss. The family’s honour is at stake, the Abuzeid name. In the days to come, women from Tuf Tuf’s family visit in droves. They bring their relations, neighbours and friends to take a look at the bride. They probe and sniff for gossip, but they must not find any. Nur and Soraya’s previous betrothal is played down — a formal engagement never really existed, it was just talk, an appealing idea to marry off two sisters to two brothers but nothing came out of it. The bride has no imperfections. Nothing must blemish Soraya’s reputation.
I feed on bitterness and satiety never comes.
Today sadness has renewed itself.
Let me narrate the story of two souls,
Whose love was struck by the evil eye,
In a twist which Fate had hidden.
Luck won’t smile and Time will scorch.
Only the stars know what is wrong with me.
I almost sense them craning to wipe my tears away.
‘Your new poem, Eid Crescent, is bleak,’ says Hamza when Nur perks up and the evening visitors are allowed.
‘So was Travel is the Cause.’
‘But this one is exaggerated. Such alienation on a day of celebration is not something the majority of listeners will relate to.’
Nur defends his work. ‘Are you telling me that no one dies in the Eid, no one loses their job or their money?’
Hamza smiles. ‘Look, it’s a very good poem, don’t get me wrong. But it won’t work as a song. Send it to the literary pages of the top newspapers and they will publish it without hesitation.’
‘I’ll do that,’ says Nur. ‘And it will go out in my collection when it comes out.’
To get Eid Crescent on paper had been a frustrating endeavour. Zaki was at school all morning and even in the afternoon he had to return for an award ceremony. Batool, who took Nur’s dictation when Zaki was unavailable, was herself busy preparing Soraya to receive more guests. It was Nassir who had written down the poem. Even this simple task, he had botched. His handwriting was sloppy and Nur spotted many mistakes, which made him annoyed.
‘Come on, let’s do something new together,’ says Hamza. ‘Let’s write a light-hearted song. Something merry and thrilling.’
‘She’s easy and pliant,’ the words spill from his tongue, the most natural response. He can never run out of words to describe her. Her full lips when she smiles, her gentle voice and the way she drawls out certain words. How slowly she walks, how gently she sits and turns to him. And there is more to say, ‘Have mercy Angel, your radiance has scorched me.’
‘Perfect!’ Hamza hoists the oud to his lap and starts strumming. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
Nur smiles, and instead of another verse, the title of his future collection comes to his mind. A collection Ustaz Badr would approve of, with Nur’s name on the front page underneath the words, Evening Withdraws.
XIX