Lyrics Alley

XI

She loved Christmas, its gaiety and difference. She knew it from the English novels she read — snow, mistletoe and evergreen — but she also had access to the Sudan version through her Christian schoolfriends. Every year on Christmas day, with a gift in her hand, Soraya visited Nancy in Khartoum. Her Uncle Mahmoud took her, because Nancy’s father was his friend and Mahmoud always visited his Christian friends, one by one, on Christmas Day, in the same way that they visited him in Eid. He would leave Soraya at Nancy’s house, do his rounds, and then pick her up several hours later. Nancy’s mother was Armenian and her father Irish and she often complained to Soraya about the hostility her parents’ marriage encountered from their respective communities, but Nancy’s house was always crowded and happy on Christmas Day, and Aunty Valeria was so glamorous and fulfilled that Soraya never took her friend’s complaints seriously. This was Christmas in Khartoum: perfect weather, cool enough for a cardigan, peals of laughter, the cake with white icing, the tree with golden baubles and silver fairy dust. Then Father Christmas, his face puckered in the midst of cotton wool, his black belt suppressing the red pillow of his belly, his amazing black boots and sack in which he carried a gift for Soraya, too. When she was young, she was thrilled with the wrapped gift, and when she was older and could guess Santa’s true identity, the occasion was delightful and amusing. Standing back, watching Nancy’s younger brothers and their friends, aware of her cosmopolitan surroundings, being in the same room as boys her age, animated and happy to be in a party, as if this was what she was born for, she lost her Umdurman bashfulness and was drawn out by a phrase or a smile, to be her real self in public — witty, generous, and with a capacity for enjoyment that generated the equivalent in others and drew them towards her.

‘What do you mean, you can’t come to the bazaar?’ Nancy faced her in the school yard. Both of them were in their short-sleeved white blouses and the low V-neck of the navy pinafore that marked them as senior girls. It was mid-December, and the air was cool and made school feel clean. ‘It’s on Sunday, this Sunday!’ Nancy had plucked the hair from over her lips for the very first time and the area was red. It made her look aggrieved. ‘We always go together to the Christmas Bazaar at Clergy House. Everyone goes!’ This was another characteristic of Christmas, the anticipation, the build-up. ‘And I will be in the choir.’ Nancy wasn’t giving up. She was an only girl and strong-willed. ‘You said you would hear me sing. You promised.’

Soraya reached out and nudged one of Nancy’s ringlets; thick golden-brown, just like the pictures of Goldilocks. The curls bounced over her fingers then sprang upwards again. Nancy had beautiful hair, just like her mother. Aunty Valeria’s, though, was a deep, dark brown. Aunty Valeria wore glasses and still looked glamorous; her eyebrows and lips like those of a cinema star.

‘Answer me,’ said Nancy. ‘Don’t you want to buy things from the bazaar?’

‘Yes, I do.’

Secondhand books and magazines were the most popular items on sale, almost as popular as the cakes and knitwear. Soraya usually bought as many novels as she could, and a few copies of Vogue and Women’s World. She would be almost breathless as she surveyed the tables where the books were laid out, and choosing absorbed her to the extent that she forgot her surroundings. She would pick up the books whose covers she liked, flick the pages, look closely at the illustrations if any, and then discover that the stack she was carrying was too heavy. Time to trim her purchases — and that would vex her, for she must make the right choice. To discard a potentially wonderful novel would be a significant loss and, who knows, it might never come her way again. After she paid for her pile, she would experience a feeling of peace, an awareness of the plenty she was carrying. Often she would sit on the steps and start reading a novel while waiting for the car to pick her up.

‘So why can’t you come?’

They were standing in front of their classroom, under the little statue of the Madonna carrying baby Jesus. The figures were moulded on the wall itself, in a small alcove high above the white walls and the large blue shutters of the classrooms. It was shady in this part of the school and in the summer this dimness was a haven of coolness. Now, Soraya put her arms in the sleeves of her cardigan.

‘Sunday is a good day to visit Nur. All the men are at the office and when I go to him in the morning, he is usually alone.’

‘It’s just one Sunday out of a thousand Sundays,’ insisted Nancy. ‘You’ll feel wretched if you miss the bazaar.’

‘Well, how does he feel missing out on everything?’ She sounded sharper than she felt. The anger, heavy within her, was not yet fully aroused.

Nancy, who was kind and tender, who nursed her puppy when he was sick and adopted stray cats, said, ‘How hard it must be for him! Can he not come to our house on Christmas Day? He can be carried in the car and then he can lie on the sofa and be part of the celebrations.’

Soraya was touched.

‘Thank you, Nancy.’ She hugged her friend and felt the questions within her start to stir. How could the world go on as if nothing had happened? As if nothing happened to Nur? ‘I will tell him that you invited him. It would be wonderful if he could come to your house. He’s been back from London a month and he’s never been out! He’s been lying in the hoash day and night.’

‘He’s not getting better, is he?’ Nancy’s voice was soft and her heavy eyebrows knitted. She put her arm around Soraya’s shoulder. ‘My mother said he is going to be bedridden all his life.’

Soraya jerked herself away.

‘What does your mother know? Is she a doctor?’ Her voice rose, ‘Of course he’s going to get better! If anyone breaks their arms or legs it takes months for them to mend. So it’s the same for his neck and back. The doctors in London wanted him to stay much much longer than three months, but Uncle Mahmoud brought him back straight after the operation. Sometimes, Nancy, you say stupid things.’

A few girls turned their heads to look at them. Soraya turned away from Nancy. While Nur was in London, she had fretted and every day walked over to Aunt Waheeba’s hoash to wait for news.

‘Why doesn’t he write to me?’ she had whined, and remembering that he couldn’t made her feel even worse. There had been anxiety over the operation, wild hope that he would become as perfect as he was before, joy that he was, at last, on his way back home, relief to see his smile again and hear his voice, then the horrible, unspoken disappointment. But it was treachery to lose hope, to say these things that Nancy and her mother were saying. Soraya needed to believe. People stayed in bed and got up again. So would he. She walked into the sunshine and the girls who were skipping rope.

‘I’ll join you,’ she said to them, and they nodded, the two girls turning the long rope to slap the sandy floor.

Soraya watched the rope, raised her arm, and the moment before the rope rose up in the air, she lunged in, jumped right in time and picked up the rhythm. Confident now, she skipped from one end of the rope to the other. It was a green plastic rope, the kind used for hanging out the clothes. It brushed against Soraya’s hair.

‘Higher,’ she called out.

‘You’re the one who’s too tall!’ came the reply.

‘Helena! Helena, come and skip with me,’ Soraya called out to the tallest Southern girl in the school. Helena was playing netball. She turned and waved.

‘Come and annoy these two who are saying I am too tall!’

It felt funny to call out and skip at the same time. She and Helena sat next to each other at the back of the classroom, both of them too tall for the front-row desks, where they would block out the blackboard for the other girls. Helena was a good four inches taller than Soraya, with a perfect posture and a long, beautiful neck. She was athletic, too, and took playing netball during the break seriously. So it was Amal, petite and vivacious, who joined in the skipping, and the two of them started to pass each other, coming closer then moving apart, facing the group who had gathered to watch them, then twirling to give them their backs.

Amal and Soraya held hands, jumping simultaneously until one of them missed the beat; the rope thudded to the ground and didn’t come up again.

‘Again,’ said Amal.

‘No, I want to drink.’

Soraya took off her cardigan and walked with Amal to the zeer. She dipped the tin mug in the water and lifted it to drink and then let water wash over her face. Cool water over her eyes, her hot cheeks, her dry lips. She filled the mug and drank again, feeling the water touching her teeth, rolling on her tongue and down her throat. She gulped; the courtyard was a blur of navy, white, and beige sand, the clamour of the girls, their laughter and the thud of the ball on the cement of the court.

‘I want to invite you to my sister’s wedding,’ said Amal, a little out of breath from skipping. She had dimples in her cheeks, which deepened even when she was talking normally and not smiling. ‘It’s next week. You must come every day. Also, if you come to our house today, after school, you could help her practise her dancing.’

Soraya’s eyes shone; there was nothing more exciting than a bride learning to dance, to watch her practise, to listen to the advice she was given by recently married women, to watch a new step demonstrated. Soraya would absorb it all, and when it was time for her wedding she would dance better than any other bride. The whole of Khartoum and Umdurman would talk about her.

Buoyed by the after-school outing that awaited her, she sought out Nancy to apologise and make amends. She found her with the bell in her hands.

‘You know how much I admire your mother, but Aunty Valeria is wrong about Nur. He is going to get better.’

Nancy looked confused.

‘Look, I have to go and ring the bell.’

She moved away and Soraya called after her.

‘Give us a few more minutes!’

She was joking, but Nancy didn’t smile. She just turned and called back.

‘I can’t.’

Standing in the middle of the hallway overlooking the courtyard, her strong, hairy arms lifted the heavy bell and shook it. The clamour made Soraya put her hands over her ears. Nancy’s expression was resolute, her lips pressed together, her legs hip-distance apart. She was serious and responsible, which was why Sister Josephine had charged her with ringing the bell. Soraya might be better at her studies, but she would have cheated with that bell, added a few minutes to the break, sent everyone home a little bit earlier.

There was Sister Josephine now, her habit billowing behind her as she swept down the hallway ushering the girls from the yard to line up in front of their classrooms.

‘Soraya, where are your spectacles?’

‘In my bag, Sister.’

She fell in step with her teacher and noted the dark hair escaping from Sister Josephine’s habit. She was definitely not bald, whatever anyone else said. Just had short, unkempt hair. And she would never marry and have children. She would stay as she was; a virgin, celibate. It seemed too cruel to contemplate, but it was true, and it was her choice, too. Sister Josephine did not inspire pity, but she made Soraya feel privileged. She was going to get married; she was going to have a bride’s trousseau, she was going to experience a man’s love and a man’s body.

‘Take care of your spectacles, Soraya. I’m pleased that you are now seeing the blackboard clearly, because I can’t have you sitting in the front row! Besides, you have external examinations at the end of the school year. You must do well so that you can go to university.’

University. It sounded distant and awesome.

‘Do you think they will accept me, Sister?’

‘Yes,’ Sister Josephine said without a smile. ‘You and Amal are our strongest science contenders. Perhaps you can be accepted into medicine.’

Ambition stirred in Soraya. It would swell and take hold.

‘But my father,’ she began.

‘Oh, I knew he would eventually relent about the spectacles,’ Sister Josephine interrupted. ‘Now you have no excuse. Work hard, my girl!’

Soraya started to explain that Idris didn’t even know she was wearing glasses, that she had got them secretly in Alexandria, but Sister Josephine was away, rounding up the rest of the girls. The yard started to empty and it was the halls that were now crowded with navy and white.

It was as if every girl in the neighbourhood was in Amal’s housh to watch the bride practise her dance routine. When Soraya walked in, the dallooka was already beating. There was the smell of sandalwood and perfume, the joyful lyrics of the song, and the breathless, expectant atmosphere of parties yet to come. Then ululations would break out and dates and sweets would be tossed in the air for the guests to catch. Soraya remembered Nur, lying propped up in bed listening to the radio. She remembered her vow not to attend any celebrations until he recovered. But this was only a practice session; she would not come to the wedding party. She would keep away. Now all eyes were on Amal’s sister, standing in the middle of the gathering. Bare feet on the palm-fibre mat, she arched her back, swaying from side to side, and her neck was tilted so that her chin pointed to the sky. This was the difficult Neck dance, with all the movements concentrated on the chest and head. Reaching up and, again like a bird, craning in stylised slow motion to peck at a fruit dangling from the branch above. All the dances were designed to mimic the movement of birds, arms held back like wings, spine curved, breasts pushed out and upwards in seduction and pride.

In Soraya’s assessment, this bride-to-be was doing well, stretching out with her chin further and further away. She could arch her back more and perhaps with practice she would become more flexible. Every day now, until the wedding, she would be wrapped in a blanket and hunched over the smouldering fire for the ‘smoke treatment’. The herbs and perfumed wood would not only beautify her skin, but the heat would make her back muscles toned and supple.

Soraya found a better place to sit, just as the bride stopped dancing and covered her face with her hands. The dallooka ceased. In the wedding, with the bridegroom in attendance, she would continue to stand, covering her face until he moved each hand away, revealing her face with its closed eyelids and the gold ring on her nose. In some families the bride danced naked, with nothing but a belt around her waist, the bridegroom holding onto it as she moved and swayed, her skin glistening with oil and every part of her body in full view. But neither Soraya nor Amal’s families supported such tribal customs.

The wazira, a jolly, hefty woman, started to talk about the fall.

‘On the day of the wedding, we’ll see if that bridegroom of yours is paying attention or not.’ The girls laughed. ‘You must reach the ground before he catches you. Then we will jeer at him and you would have scored a point. So take him unawares, don’t give him any sign. Dance as you will, and then abruptly let go and fall to the ground.’

The girls started talking among themselves. Most bridegrooms were dazed and easily tricked. But there were sharp and quick men, who would be sensitive to the faintest facial expression, watchful for the slightest shift in movement so that they would reach out and grab their bride just in the nick of time. If the bride succeeded in reaching the ground, she would be covered in a large, bright coloured cloth and there would be a pause in the dancing. Soraya imagined herself enveloped in this silk, unable to see. Nur would remove it, fold it and put it on his shoulder. Only then would she stand up to dance again.

But now the beat of the dallooka quickened and Amal was pulling her to the centre of the circle. This was the energetic dance Soraya excelled in, and the bride could do well to learn from her. First position, both hands covering her face, and then she removed one and left the other. Arching her back, but not too much, because the focus of this dance was on the hips. She pushed her right buttock out while shifting her feet on the rug, heels pressed hard on the ground. Pulsing, quivering, flicking her behind. . In her own wedding — when Nur got better — she would be in a sleeveless red dress, her head covered in gold, coins on her forehead, kohl in her eyes, a bracelet high on her arm, henna on her hands and feet. She would swing her braids, which, on that day, would be extended with fine black silk, made long enough to almost touch the back of her knees. Nur would stand tall in front of her, a sword in his hand, his eyes watching her every movement, her supple back, her breasts and bare arms. She would heave towards him, again and again, wanting him and offering herself. Don’t take your eyes off me. Catch me when I fall. .

‘There is no reason why you can’t go to both the wedding and the bazaar,’ said Fatma. ‘Actually, we are obliged to return Amal’s invitation because, remember, she came to my wedding.’

‘She and her mother came to see Nur when he returned,’ added Soraya.

She had taken to dividing people into two camps; those who came to visit Nur, and those who didn’t. The first group were true comrades. The second earned themselves a place on her black list. She shunned them, and had no qualms talking about why she shunned them. Girls she had been friendly with found their greetings unreturned because they and their families had not paid their respects to Nur Abuzeid. Soraya had self-righteously recorded every visitor when Nur first arrived from London, those first days when the saraya was as busy as it had been the previous year, when Uncle Mahmoud was ill. At that time, Fatma and Nassir had come especially from Medani. This time they moved permanently to Umdurman, and were now living with Idris. Nassir said he would not leave his brother.

‘Nur needs his family and friends around him. We must not leave him alone to brood and become sad.’

Soraya approved of Nassir’s stance, and she was delighted with Fatma’s presence; her sister and the children all with her, under one roof.

Now Fatma said, as she bent down to cut her toenails, ‘We can’t sit in Aunt Waheeba’s hoash day and night any more, waiting for people to call on us. Everyone did already. People were gracious to the extreme.’

‘Not all of them!’ Malice shot from Soraya’s heart towards those negligent ones. She had no forgiveness.

‘Most of them,’ said Fatma, emphatically. ‘We really can’t complain. Now we need to go out and fulfil our social obligations.’

‘I don’t have the inclination to go to a wedding.’ Soraya, lying on the opposite bed, was staring up at the ceiling. ‘No celebration feels right while Nur is ill.’

She had forgone her birthday last month, so there was no party, no gathering of girls and no cake from Papa Costa’s. Such a contrast to last year, on her sixteenth birthday, when she invited all her friends from school and Uncle Mahmoud hired a magician who proved himself to be the most marvellous of entertainers.

The sound of the scissors ceased, and she sensed Fatma looking at her.

‘Soraya, there is nothing we can do more for Nur. We are with him, we keep him company, but Nassir has to go to the office, you have to go to school and Nur’s friends are either studying or working.’

‘I know all this,’ said Soraya. ‘But I’m still not convinced that I should go to Amal’s house.’

Fatma took a big breath.

‘Batool is going to be married next month. We need to prepare for her wedding. So you see in Nur’s household itself—’

Soraya sat up. ‘I don’t believe you!’

Fatma sighed and turned her attention back to her toenails. She was pregnant, but it was early days and her stomach was not big enough to prevent her from bending over.

‘Yes, it’s confirmed. Uncle Mahmoud wants a good wedding for her. He is marrying her to one of his office boys, and Aunt Waheeba promised her a full trousseau, from a double bed to a sewing needle. Batool is delighted, and so are her parents who will be coming especially from Sinja for the celebrations.’

‘I will have nothing to do with this!’ Soraya folded her arms across her chest. ‘The wedding needs to be postponed till Nur is better.’

‘Aunt Waheeba is not happy, either, but she has no choice. Uncle Mahmoud has already given his word. Besides, Batool is like a daughter to Aunt Waheeba and we are not in mourning. There is no justification for denying the girl her happiness.’

‘I will not take part,’ repeated Soraya.

‘Batool would be heartbroken if you keep away. She will think it is because she is a poor relation.’

‘Don’t be silly. I love her, and I have always treated her like a sister.’

‘Well, then, you have to stand by her at her happy hour.’

Soraya frowned. ‘And where is Nur going to go while the hoash throbs with wedding celebrations? How is he going to feel?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fatma. ‘And I can’t argue with you forever.’ She put the scissors on the side-table and stretched out on the bed. ‘I am tired today. I am really not well and oh, the pain in my back.’

‘You shouldn’t have been hunched over like that.’ Soraya was still in a combative mood. ‘I would have cut your nails for you if you’d asked.’

Fatma didn’t reply. She looked queasy, and later that night, before Nassir returned from his evening outing, she woke the whole household with her cries of pain. Only when she expelled her four-month-old foetus, did the pain finally cease.

It was a frightening experience for Soraya, even though she was shielded from seeing the worst of it. Halima came over promptly and took over the situation, and Idris stayed awake and was uncharacteristically tender and helpful to his daughters. For a long time he had resisted installing a telephone, but now it proved to be valuable. In addition to summoning the midwife, the telephone also conveyed the news to Nassir. He came home, drunk as usual but still able to absorb the shock and console his wife.

The following day Soraya stayed home from school. It felt odd to see Fatma lying in bed ill. It felt odd that now everyone visited them in their hoash instead of Aunt Waheeba’s. The news spread. Fatma has had a miscarriage. Nassir Abuzeid’s wife miscarried. Uncle Mahmoud stopped by on his way to the office and Nabilah came later on in the morning, in a new frock, on her way to coffee with the Egyptian Minister’s wife. The neighbours trooped in and out. One brought soup and another a jug of fresh orange juice. Batool came over and stayed to help with serving the guests. Every woman relation was gathered, and yet, when Soraya saw Waheeba walking in, she cried, ‘How could you leave Nur alone, Aunty!’

‘Girl, on a day like this I have to be with my son’s wife. How can I not?’

She had not set foot outside her hoash since Nur returned from London, would not leave his side for any occasion or obligation. Which is why it shocked Soraya to see her. And Waheeba did not just come for a quick, dutiful visit; instead, she stretched out on the bed perpendicular to Fatma’s and made herself comfortable. Soraya overheard the women gossip about Waheeba, as she handed them out glasses of tea. They were whispering, ‘It’s good that she has finally started to go out. Now that she has visited Fatma, she will visit others as well.’

These words scorched Soraya. She wanted her aunt to be always with Nur. Life should not be normal until Nur was standing on his feet again.

At night, she was woken by Fatma’s heavy movements in the bathroom and Halima’s voice checking on her. Batool was spending the night with them to help with the children and she left her bed, next to Soraya’s, and went to fetch water for Fatma. They were all indoors because it was too cold to sleep outside. In the darkness, Soraya remembered that she had not congratulated Batool on her engagement. She should have, but there was a bad feeling, a grudge incubating inside her. It was uncharacteristic of her to be ungenerous, and she herself felt uncomfortable, unused to these new feelings that were lodged in her stomach like an undigested meal. She drifted back to sleep and, before she was even deeply asleep, the nightmare came back.

In the twilight between illusion and sleep, an evil pocket claimed her with authority and strength. The pocket held her snug, caught up in a single, jumbled thought, churning with no release; situations, conversations and dilemmas repeating themselves with no outlet or resolution. The sides of the pocket, meaty and crimson, prodded and squashed her. She was pinned down, unable to move her legs, unable to wave her arms, like the day she was six years old, when she was tricked with sweets and new clothes before the slash and tear of the midwife’s knife.

Fear made her scream. Then she could turn over, she could move. The sounds of sobs from the next bed were real. Fatma was crying out for her mother, the mother Soraya could not remember. Yumma, Yumma. Soraya cried about Nur, not understanding why he wasn’t getting better, or why the accident happened in the first place. Stand up, Nur! Run and play football again. Hold a book in your hands. Write with a pen. Go to poetry readings and debates, which girls can’t attend, and come back and tell me about them.

His voice was clear on the telephone, surprising and precious. She knew it was him, straight away. He knew it was her, straight away. He said her name and she forgot last night’s bad dreams, forgot even that he was ill. She forgot the accident and the hospital in Alexandria, the months he went to London and left her all alone. She smiled and said, ‘This is the first time ever that we’ve spoken on the phone.’

‘It’s good that my Uncle Idris finally relented and installed one.’

‘We must be the last house in the country to be connected.’

He laughed. ‘You are exaggerating. But yes, Idris Abuzeid is a conservative man.’

‘But believe it or not, Nur. .’ She spoke quickly. They would not have privacy for long, someone or another, family members, guest or a servant, would come in and bring the conversation to an end. ‘Today, of course, I didn’t go to school, and my father surprisingly said, “You must go tomorrow. You can’t miss too many days of school.” ‘She mimicked her father’s voice, his coarse accent.

Nur chuckled. He, too, adopted her father’s accent to do an even better impersonation.

‘My daughter, I have become an enlightened man. Education is a priority. We are on the brink of a new dawn of self-determination and independent rule. I read this in the papers.’

She giggled. ‘Does he read the papers?’ The hostility to her father was always around the corner, ready to pounce.

‘Soraya, my dear you are being too harsh.’

She liked him saying ‘My dear.’ It softened her.

‘I miss you so much and there is no way I can come and see you. I can’t leave Fatma.’

‘I know. How is she now?’

‘She’s fine. The doctor came to see her and said not to worry. Is that why you telephoned, to ask about Fatma?’

‘Of course, she’s my sister-in-law. If I could, I would have come to see her. Tell her I was asking after her.’

She put her hand on her hips.

‘And here I am thinking you called to speak to me.’

He laughed. ‘Yes, I want to complain that I don’t see you enough. And when I do, you sit all quiet and not inclined to chat.’

‘Only because we’re never alone. You are always surrounded by visitors.’

She felt a sense of urgency, a fear that if her father overheard this conversation, he would be furious.

‘I get bored when I’m alone.’ Nur’s voice was higher, thinner.

‘Soon you will get better.’ Her voice didn’t waver, it trilled with confidence. ‘While we’re speaking now, a scientist in America is in his laboratory working out a cure for you. I just know it.’

She sensed him snatch the hope she was offering, his unspoken thanks.

‘An American scientist, you think?’

‘Yes, Nur.’

‘He would look like Errol Flynn?’

‘Oh no! He would be bald and grumpy but exceedingly clever.’

‘He would have a degree from Harvard?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Come and see me.’

‘I will. As soon as I can.’

‘Soraya. .’

‘Yes?’

‘Every song I hear on the radio reminds me of you.’

When the euphoria of that conversation subsided, she repeated his words to herself time and again, treasuring the memory of his warm voice, the hint of a smile, the lilt and playfulness with which he had said her name. After she hummed the tunes he had hummed and dwelt on the lyrics he had quoted, she asked herself, ‘Who dialled our number for him? Who held the receiver to his ear while he talked?’

Someone else had done all that, she realised, another pair of hands, another’s body, another’s movements. One of the servants did all that.

She turned to novels for comfort. Nancy brought her a selection from the Christmas bazaar and Soraya would make sure her father was out of the house, then safely put on her glasses and lie down in bed to read. Outside, she could hear the distant sound of a radio and Fatma talking to the servants. She was back on her feet now and getting stronger every day. Soraya propped another pillow under her head. She took a bite off her pink mawlid doll, from the cone-like base; it was as sweet as candy floss. Of course, Soraya had refused to attend the celebration for the Prophet’s birthday; the colourful tent that was erected in the square behind Uncle Mahmoud’s saraya, where horses pranced and singers chanted, but she could not resist the traditional mawlid doll, with its colourful paper-tissue dress and its delicious body made of solid pink candy. She read while chewing. Lorna Doone, Rebecca, Liza of Lambeth, Emma and The Woman in White — these she all enjoyed, but a novel about a woman whose husband returned crippled from the war, disturbed her. She abandoned it, but then went back to it, fascinated and, at the same time, repelled. She wanted happy endings, she wanted things to work out, she wanted Fate to comply with human desires.

She heard her father’s voice and her blood froze. Fear made her unable to move. As he opened the door she sprang up, shocked that he was home from the office so early.

‘What are you doing?’ He stood in his long jellabiya, his eyes wide, incredulous. ‘What’s this? You’re wearing glasses! Who do you think you are?’

He walked forward and slapped her. The glasses crashed to the floor. She screamed and covered her face.

‘Do I have no say in this house?’ Idris bellowed. ‘I forbade you from wearing glasses, which means no wearing glasses. Can you hear me?’ He hit her again, a blow that landed on her shoulder.

‘Yes, I can hear you. Yes!’ she bawled.

Pain throbbed on the side of her head and that other, inner pain, that she was of no worth, insignificant, dirty and small.

‘Keep silent! I don’t want to hear your voice.’ His voice was level now, as if he had rid himself of most of his anger.

Fatma hurried into the room. She did not need to ask any questions, but stood helplessly at the door with her hands down her sides. Soraya could not see the expression on her face. Her vision was blurred. She couldn’t see where the glasses had fallen.

‘Do you think you are a boy? Answer me!’ He gripped her arm.

‘No. No I don’t think that.’ Her voice was flat. ‘These glasses are especially designed for women.’

‘Keep quiet, Soraya. Enough,’ said Fatma coming closer.

‘You dare defy me?’ His face was close to hers now and the spit that flew from his mouth smacked her forehead.

It occurred to Soraya that he would forbid her from going to school, that any minute now the penalty would fall. But Fatma’s presence must have restrained him. He turned to her and said,

‘You, her older sister, should guide her, instead of leaving her to do what she likes.’

‘I will, Father.’ She gently pulled Soraya away from him.

He walked out of the room hissing, ‘You disgust me!’

‘You disgust me, too,’ Soraya mumbled to herself.

She ignored Fatma’s platitudes and refused to cry. She picked up her glasses; one of the lenses was broken and she still refused to cry. She checked her face in the mirror to make sure there were no marks, bruises or cuts, then she curled up in bed and closed her eyes. Fatma sat next to her and stroked her arm.

‘Don’t worry about the glasses, Nassir will get them fixed. In the meantime, wear the pair Nur got you, we still have them. Didn’t you realise that with all the strikes this week, he’s been leaving work early? Today the police had to break up a demonstration with tear-gas. Gordon’s College’s been closed and the shopkeepers are afraid to open for fear of looting. And it’s good father didn’t confiscate your book; you can finish reading it later.’

Fatma’s voice reached her from far away. She was already sinking into a state close to sleep, being sucked back into the pocket, that place where she could not move her body. Red flesh was closing upon her. What was this small, mean world of the pocket? Madness? Or empathy with Nur? Or was it being buried alive? In Alexandria, on the beach, they used to bury each other in the sand, the whole body underground and only the head sticking out free. Was this how Nur felt? Perpetually restrained by heavy sand. Someone was calling her name. It was Fatma of course.

‘Soraya my love, did you fall asleep?’

She rolled over. The movement felt good. She stretched her legs and arms out. There was an ache on the side of her head from where her father had hit her. It will go away. She was wide awake now, and could make out the details of the room. Her schoolbooks were on the dressing table, reflected in the mirror. This was where she did her homework, looking up to make faces at herself in the mirror.

‘I have to leave this house,’ she said to Fatma. ‘I have to get away from him. I will marry Nur and then I will be free to do what I want. I will have a husband and Father will not have any say over my life.’

Fatma sighed. ‘This is not a time to talk of Nur and marriage.’

‘You mean because he is ill? He will get better.’ She stood up and said, ‘I am going now to Uncle Mahmoud. I am going to complain to him about Father.’

Fatma gasped, ‘Have you gone mad, girl?’

‘Tell me, what other choice do I have?’ She was already finding her slippers and smoothing her hair. She wrapped her to be around her and headed for the door. ‘There is no one in the world Father will pay heed to except his elder brother.’

She found herself navigating lunch with a knife and fork. Her uncle and Nabilah were having veal escallops, stuffed vine leaves and yoghurt salad. An extra plate was set for Soraya next to the two children. A family sitting around a dining table sharing a meal — it was like walking into a film or stepping into a novel! The servants, in embroidered blue jellabiyas, with red sashes around their waists, collected the main course and brought in dessert, a creamy trifle as well as a selection of apples, oranges and pears.

After the meal, sitting sipping mint tea with her uncle, she told him what happened.

‘I need those glasses, Uncle. I have exams in a few months’ time, final exams. I have to see the blackboard properly, I have to be able to read with ease.’

Uncle Mahmoud looked grave but not surprised. He smoked his cigarette with its black, slim filter. There were crinkles of white in his hair and he looked solid and important. Now he spoke slowly.

‘If Idris finds out that you have complained to me, most likely he will be even harsher with you. I will have to proceed with tact. I do support you, Soraya. I want you to sit for the Cambridge School Certificate and I want you to go to university. There is nothing wrong with a girl wearing glasses. If you need them, then you must have them.’

‘Thank you, Uncle, I knew you would not let me down.’ She leaned and kissed his forehead. ‘I am sorry if I disturbed your siesta.’

‘Don’t worry. I only need a brief rest today, as I’m not going back to Khartoum. I decided it would be safer to close the office this evening.’

‘Did you hear, Uncle, about the girls in Umdurman who left their school and went out in a demonstration?’

‘Yes, and now the whole school has been shut down.’

‘Oh no! All this because Egypt abrogated the Condominium Treaty!’

He smiled at her instinctive response.

‘The move shouldn’t have come from the Egyptians. It’s humiliating for our national movement, and it’s put those of us who support a unity with Egypt in an awkward position.’ He took a draw on his cigarette. ‘And, naturally, the British are angry; they claim Egypt wants to swallow the Sudan!’

‘Maybe she does, Uncle?’

He smiled. ‘My, my! You are questioning me, too! Idris is not going to subdue you as he subdued your sisters.’

She flushed, wishing that he would talk to her more about politics, about trade, about the ways of the world. His opinion would be the right one, his information the most accurate.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I have something for you.’ He stood up and from a cabinet brought out a box of chocolates. ‘Have a piece.’

She reached for the diamond shape, wrapped in a purple foil when suddenly there was a vivid flash and a whizzing noise. She squealed and started to laugh. It was a trick, and the thrill revived her spirit and dispelled what was left of her earlier gloom.

‘I thought they were real chocolates, I did!’ she squealed.

He chuckled. ‘I am taking this trick, as well as a real box of Groppi chocolates, to my friends Mr and Mrs Harrison, who are having a Christmas party. You must come with me, Soraya.’

Her instinct was to wrap her arms around him in joy. Gone was her stance of not attending any celebrations until Nur recovered. It was swamped by the magnitude of the opportunity, the unexpectedness of the invitation. Mr and Mrs Harrison were newly married and romantic. It would be a proper grown-up party, not one for children.

‘Thank you, Uncle. Thank you!’

‘Can you speak English well and impress these people?’

She answered him in English.

‘Of course, Uncle, of course I can.’ She tried to sound as proper as she could. ‘I graciously accept this invitation.’

She would wear a new dress that day, something glamorous and ladylike; she would have it specially made, there was still time.

Pleased with her reaction, Mahmoud switched to English.

‘You are not only my niece, Soraya, you are like a daughter to me.’

She giggled. ‘Your future daughter-in-law, Sir.’

But as soon as she said those words, there was an odd, cold pause. He looked taken aback; in his eyes a mixture of disapproval, sorrow and apology. Her exuberance faltered. She had said the wrong thing but did not understand why.

‘I will not do it,’ he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. ‘Never. I will not shackle you to an invalid.’