But she could not shut out his family. They came, invited or uninvited. And came casually, with friendly smiles, affection for the children and a staggering tolerance for her moodiness and indifference. She did not understand them. That boy, Nur, with his bright smile, so pleased and at ease with himself. She had explained to him once that he must ring the bell and not just barge in.
Instead of apologising, he had just giggled and said, ‘Isn’t this my father’s house?’
And that girl, Soraya, with her lack of discipline, the sloppy way she carried herself, gum snapping in her mouth, her hands always moving, stroking the back of an armchair or playing with a doorknob in a way which irritated Nabilah. She would gaze dolefully at Nabilah’s wedding photographs without saying a single word. Or she would lean, slouching, on this piece of furniture or that and drawl, ‘how are you doing, Nabilah?’ without addressing her as Madame, Abla, Hanim or even Aunty.
Soraya, too, floated in unannounced, to borrow books and never return them and to poke fun at how Ferial was covered in talcum powder and how Farouk’s accent was Egyptian. How else did she expect the children to speak if not like their mother!
Nabilah kissed Farouk and Ferial the first of many goodnight kisses and prepared to tuck them into bed. They were the only children in the Abuzeid family who had bedtimes and a proper, decorated nursery, with beds of their own. The Sudanese did not understand about proper modern child-rearing, but she would teach them by example. Tonight, instead of a story, she was explaining to the children the origin of their names.
‘You Farouk, were named after the King of Egypt and Sudan who granted Baba his bakawiyya. That’s why Baba is Mahmoud Bey. Not everyone can be called Bey, even if they wanted to. Only the King can decide.’
Farouk smiled and slid deeper into his bed. Ferial was holding on to her mother’s hand.
‘And me, what about me?’
‘Wait. Farouk wants to ask something.’ He always needed encouragement. The boy opened his mouth, closed it again and then asked.
‘But not everyone addresses Baba as Mahmoud Bey. Some people call him Sayyid Mahmoud.’
Nabilah sighed. ‘Some of the Sudanese don’t understand. They don’t appreciate the title. Your father should correct them, but he doesn’t.’
‘So Sayyid is not as good as Bey.’
‘Here in Sudan, Sayyid is the best way a man can be addressed. But your father—’
She was interrupted by Ferial who, not only satisfied with putting her hand on her mother’s cheek, now pulled so that Nabilah had to turn and face her.
‘Don’t do that. It’s not polite.’
The girl, whose hair was smooth in a ponytail, pressed her lips in annoyance.
‘What about my name, my name?’
‘Say sorry first, Ferial.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Say it like you mean it.’
‘Sorry, Mama.’
‘That’s better.’
Nabilah kissed her cheek and smoothed her hair. What a blessing from God that her daughter did not have coarse hair! She had worried about this constantly during her pregnancy.
‘You were named after a princess. Princess Ferial is the eldest daughter of the King.’ The girl squirmed with pleasure. ‘Now into bed.’
She tucked her lively daughter in bed but Ferial was wide awake. ‘When Grandma comes from Cairo will she be the one telling us bedtime stories?’ The children knew that Nabilah had sent a telegram to Qadriyyah Hanim telling her about Mahmoud’s illness and begging her for a visit.
Now she sighed.
‘She won’t be able to come. Next time I put a call to her, I will let you speak for a little while. Oh, if only we were in Cairo now! I am sure Baba would not have been so ill, for I am sure the doctors in Cairo are better than the ones here.’
It still did not feel right that they were in Sudan. This had not been the original arrangement when they first got married. The original arrangement was that she would live in the flat Mahmoud had set up for her in Cairo, and that he would spend lengthy visits with her. After all, his business required that he spend several months in Cairo and it made sense to have a home there instead of his suite in the Shepheard’s Hotel. Nabilah would be his Egyptian wife in Cairo and Hajjah Waheeba his Sudanese wife in Umdurman. It had made perfect sense, and years passed that way, successfully, but suddenly he proposed to move her and the children here. Nabilah’s mother encouraged her to accept and Mahmoud Bey assured them that Nabilah would have her own quarters; she would be independent of Hajjah Waheeba and the rest of the Abuzeid family. He promised that every summer she, Farouk and Ferial would return to Cairo. So Nabilah had gathered her courage, took a deep breath and with a friendly shove from her mother, plunged herself into Umdurman.
To banish the feeling of nostalgia, Nabilah turned to her serious son.
‘Guess who visited Baba today?’ She straightened the collar of his pyjamas. ‘Your teacher, Ustaz Badr.’
Farouk stared into space. His skin was darker than his mother and sister’s, his hair more curly, his features more African.
‘When will Baba come home?’
She stroked his cheek.
‘Soon. He is better today. Tomorrow when we go see him he will come home with us.’
In his illness, Mahmoud Bey had chosen to go back to his old room in the central part of the saraya, near Hajjah Waheeba’s hoash. He did not want his many guests to disturb Nabilah, he had said.
‘Is he going to die?’
As if she had not just told him that his father was getting better! The boy was aloof, perhaps because of all the time they had spent alone in Cairo, without his father. Mahmoud Bey rarely addressed him and Farouk was stiff and uncomfortable in his father’s presence.
She frowned.
‘This is a very rude thing to say about your father. You must never say this word again. It is not a word to be said and it must not even cross your mind.’
Yet she thought it, too. She made peace with Farouk, for she did not want him to go to sleep weighed down by her disapproval, a situation which usually resulted in him wetting his bed. But after she put out the lights and walked to her own bedroom, she abandoned herself to the rudeness and anxiety she had denied him. The death of her husband would mean one thing for her. A return to Cairo.
She would be the same age as her mother had been when she was widowed. Nabilah’s father had died when she was nine and her mother remarried within a year. But, if Mahmoud died, Nabilah would not need to marry again because she would have an income and an inheritance share in Mahmoud Bey’s wealth. It was obscene to follow this line of thinking, yet her mind could not help but gallop in this direction. She saw herself wearing black, boarding a plane with the children, her eyes pink from crying, her face pale, without rouge. She imagined her mother meeting her at the airport and the drive home; the wide roads, the familiar sights and sounds. The doorman would stand up in greeting when they reached the building and carry her suitcase up the stairs. The door of the flat would be already open when they stepped out of the lift. Her mother’s maid would be there, in her long patterned dress and kerchief.