At King Street she got off and walked towards the green curtains that were billowing in the balcony of the second floor, that green curtain that shielded her grandmother from the glare of the sun and the eyes of the neighbours. Her grandmother would approve of her resolution to return. More than approve; she would be pleased and comforted, sending her off with prayers and good wishes, reassuring her that the months would surely fly by and in no time at all it would be the summer holidays and time for Nabilah to return to Cairo once more. She quickened her pace and entered the cool shade of the building. How she loved this stone staircase and the wide, perfect circle of the gallery, spirals all the way up to the sun and sky. . The maid opened the door for her. They were on friendly terms now, ever since Nabilah had moved to Cairo and become a frequent visitor. Nabilah strode across the hall and the sitting room to the balcony. In the green shade, her grandmother was reading the Qur’an. She closed it and put it aside before opening her arms out wide as if Nabilah was a child.
‘Ahlan, Ahlan, what a lovely surprise!’
Nabilah knelt down and was enveloped in lavender and softness; that clear loving voice, saying, ‘How lovely you look, my dear. How chic and becoming!’ And because she knew very well Nabilah’s interests, she touched her sleeves and asked. ‘Is that the latest fashion?’
It must be, for Nabilah had spent night after night at her sewing machine, to get the puffs of the sleeves just right.
XXI
After dropping off the basket of food at the prison and spending a few minutes with his cousin, Badr hurried away. Insha’ Allah, this would be his last visit. Shukry’s sentence was nearly coming to an end.
‘As soon as they set you free, you must return to Egypt,’ Badr had urged him. ‘Spend not a single night in Khartoum. I will buy you the train ticket myself.’ Naturally, Shukry was disgruntled at that. He would return to Egypt empty-handed, but enough was enough. His sojourn in Sudan had been a failure and he had no one to blame but himself. ‘If he disobeys me this time, I will not host him,’ resolved Badr. ‘I will not bring him to my house and I will certainly not inform him of my new address.’
My new address. Today was moving day! Today he had hired a donkey cart to move his family and their belongings to the new flat in the Abuzeid building. When he thought about it, he grew light-headed. It was really going to happen, against all the odds. Shukry’s crime had brought him closer to the attention of Mahmoud Abuzeid, who was able to see Badr as separate from Shukry. A lesser man would have held a grudge, or feared that forgiveness would make him look weak. For years Badr had prayed for that flat and chased that opportunity. There were times when he had despaired, but today he would walk up those stairs. They would all walk up these stairs, and dear, sweet Hanniyah would have a balcony from where she could sit and look down at the goings-on in the street just like a Cairo lady.
He stepped off the tram and hurried to catch the inaugural prayer at the newly refurbished mosque. King Farouk had been funding this project for almost five years and the prayer hall smelt of paint and the fans that circled overhead were pristine and modern. Badr’s bare feet sank in the new, clean carpet. The mosque was packed and Badr could not make his way to the front rows, which were reserved for Sudanese government representatives and high-ranking officials. Naturally, there was a strong Egyptian presence, and among his compatriots Badr recognized the headmaster of his school and the Egyptian Minister. He spotted the turban of the imam who had come especially from Egypt to lead this very first prayer. Badr could not help but note the irony: this imam was the first Minister of Religious Endowment after the July revolution that had overthrown King Farouk. There was wisdom in this, a lesson to be learnt. One could put money and effort into a project and yet not be present when it comes to fruition. Furthermore, death was not the only exit. There could be ignominy — and who knows if the mosque would continue to carry the name of a deposed King? But Badr reigned in his mind from any further speculation when the imam climbed the mimbar and began the Friday sermon.
Hanniyah was frying aubergines when he arrived home.
‘Are we moving or are we not?’ he shouted, but she was calm in the face of his agitation.
‘You must be hungry. The children certainly are.’
She sprinkled salt on the dark aubergines, which oozed with oil.
Badr said to the boys, ‘When you finish eating, put some clothes on. You can’t go like this.’ They were in their underwear as usual. The close proximity to the food made Badr realise that he was hungry. He started to shove bread and aubergines in his mouth. ‘The driver of the cart is not going to hang around waiting for us and he should be here any minute.’
‘Once the boys are ready they can stand outside and wait for him,’ said Hanniyah.
She had accomplished a great deal since he left her this morning, packing their belongings in crates and boxes. The only things left were the kitchen supplies.
Badr was tense because of his father; he was not sure how the old man would cope with the move. He watched now as Hanniyah fed him: bite-sized pieces and sips of water. She was efficient and matter-of-fact, treating her father-in-law as a child. Yet how remote he was, in a way in which children were never remote, as if he were asleep but still sitting straight. It chilled Badr sometimes, especially when his father suddenly spoke out, random words and incoherent expressions. It was not even worth it to sit next to him now and say, ‘Father, we are moving to a wonderful new home today.’
He had passed that stage. Two years ago he was talking lucidly and he had recognized Shukry when he first came from Egypt. Now he was completely detached and it was even rare to hear his voice.
Badr’s daughter toddled towards him wearing her Eid dress, which was now too small. He lifted her onto his lap and patted her thighs. She was his joy. After four boys her arrival was exquisite. Every tender feeling in him was aroused and he was more complete as a parent because of her. She babbled now, repeating ‘Baba, Baba’. He tried to feed her but she was satiated and wiggled down from his grasp, hanging on to his knees for support. She had only started walking a few months ago. Looking back, Badr remembered that he had not particularly wanted a daughter and certainly never prayed for one. Her arrival was a gift, luxurious and aromatic. A gift that humbled him and made him realise that the sweetest things in life were not necessarily what one strove for and grabbed. Instead, many many times the All-Merciful, the All-Generous would give his servants without being petitioned, without waiting to be asked. And then it would feel like how holding this little girl felt; a surprise, a dreamy blessing.
Badr dressed his father in clean long johns and a grey jellabiya. How loose it hung on him now! This was the man who danced at his son’s wedding, twirling his cane above his head while the trumpets blared. This was the man who could wrestle two men at one go, who could swim from one side of the river to the other while holding his breath.
‘I always felt puny next to you, Father,’ Badr said. ‘But instead of making me feel ashamed, you took pride in my love of books. You spared nothing for my education. You did everything so that I could be the effendi in the family, so that I could wear a suit and go out to teach the children of city men.’
His father did not respond or even look at him. He dwelt in a place where Badr’s voice was as meaningful as the meowing of a kitten. It was as if he was following an alternative narrative, sights and sounds superimposed over the reality in front of him, his very own script, which absorbed and distorted his senses. Today he could not even push his feet into his plastic slippers. That instinct of sliding one’s foot forward had gone.