Lyrics Alley

VII

This was the day Nabilah, empowered by her native Cairo, started to contemplate divorce and the right to stay here forever, not go back with Mahmoud to Sudan at the end of summer. The day she started to contemplate the right to a normal life like that of her mother, the girls she had gone to school with, and the neighbour’s daughters. Enough of this African adventure, of being there while thinking of here, of being here and knowing it was temporary; enough of the dust, the squalor and the stupidity. Enough of buildings that were too low, gardens that were too lush and skies that were too close. Enough of his large family, his acres of land, and his connections, of money without culture, prestige among the primitive. She would put an end to it all: an end to being inferior because she was the second wife, and of being superior because she was Egyptian. Enough of these contradictions! Life should be simple: a man who goes to work and comes back the same time every day; a good climate and uncomplicated children; outings on Friday; a picnic or a walk — everything proper and understandable. Why did she not deserve this? Why had she, in the first place, been married off to a foreigner, a man old enough to be her father? Was something wrong with her? Did she have a defect?

These questions inflamed her with a sense of injustice. There was no defect in her. This was a fact. She was beautiful. She came from a good home. She was well brought up. If she was not beautiful, he would have not have stopped dead in his tracks that first time he saw her sepia-coloured portrait displayed in the window of the photographer. Indeed, that photographer himself, on Midan Soliman Pasha, would not have chosen her portrait out of so many, had she not been outstanding. A man looks into a shop window and catches sight of something that is useful, special or visually pleasing. He says to himself, ‘I must have that.’ Perhaps other men, too, walking in downtown Cairo had also stopped and gazed at her picture. Other men too might have desired and thought, ‘That’s the kind of girl for me.’ But Mahmoud Abuzeid had gone further; he had put desire into action, had tracked down the name to match the pretty face, an address, a family history. He had engineered an introduction to her stepfather, endeared himself to her mother, and made his move.

Years ago, when they had first got engaged, she had loved that story, the search for the girl in the portrait. What girl wouldn’t be proud of such a story?

‘He just had to have her. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Would you believe how much he offered the photographer for that portrait? Based on this, you can extrapolate how much he paid for her dowry!’ It was the stuff of dreams and gossip, as magical as the cinema. She had, her eighteen-year-old eyes shining, swelled with a new sense of self-worth, the pride that she had made her mother happy. In those heady days of courtship and gifts, Qadriyyah would embrace her and say, ‘Look at the pearl necklace he bought you! Look at the diamond ring. You will be the most beautiful bride. To think that I felt you were a burden when your father died. To think that I was anxious day and night about your prospects as an orphan!’

When Nabilah said the word ‘divorce’, she was in her mother’s kitchen with its smell of fresh mint and coriander. All year in Sudan, she had missed this kitchen, with its little balcony cluttered with baskets of onions and potatoes. On the shutters, garlic hung from a net and the bird cage was there, too, a large one with two parrots. From where she was sitting at the kitchen table, Nabilah could see the neighbour’s balcony and their washing hanging on the line. A young boy in his pyjamas was leaning over the edge as if he were talking to someone in the street below.

Qadriyyah, in her navy blue dressing gown, was kneading dough. She had taken off her rings and was pressing down on the pastry mix, folding it, and pressing again. Her hands were small and plump, but strong, the nails manicured. She was a solid, compact woman who looked as if she was wearing a corset even when she wasn’t. Her hair, which she dyed, was a glistening, unnatural black. It was thick and wavy and she considered it her best feature. Nabilah expected her mother to be alarmed at the mention of the word divorce. She wanted her to be concerned.

‘Why?’ Qadriyyah did not look up. ‘What has he done to upset you?’

‘Haven’t I explained in my letters? It is everything about my life there, and nothing specific.’

‘Do you think marriage is a game? Have you forgotten you have two children?’

‘Our life there is not like here,’ Nabilah replied. ‘He is so much a part of his family, of his wife and all the customs. He is Sudanese like them and I’m just not happy with that.’

‘Not happy!’ She slapped the dough back in the bowl. ‘You live in a palace, waited upon by a drove of servants. You said that Mahmoud Bey entertains a lot and you wanted a chef from here, so we got you one. You said you want a nanny from here, and we sent you one. Every single summer, you come here and spend three months. All of this and you are complaining?’

Nabilah did not know how to answer. Sometimes unhappiness seemed like the symptom of a malady that had no name, but flared up and calmed down on its own accord.

Qadriyyah looked her in the eye.

‘Does he hit you?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Are there other women?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Well, what is it then? Because he certainly isn’t being stingy with you!’

‘He is more than generous, Mama,’ she sighed.

‘Then shut up and thank your Lord! Look around you and see what other wives are enduring. If he divorces you, who will support you and your children at the high standard your highness is used to? Do you think your stepfather and I will take you in? Think again.’

Nabilah didn’t reply and there was a tense silence between them.

Qadriyyah pushed the dough into a ball and turned to look for the roller.

‘You will make me ill with your complaints.’

‘I’m sorry, Mama. I just want to be with you all the time, to see you all year round.’

‘Grow up, Nabilah,’ Qadriyyah sighed. ‘You are not a little girl any more. It disgusts me how ungrateful you are.’

When Nabilah walked out of the kitchen, she felt chastened and unsteady. But she also knew that she had not been given a fair trial and that she had not said everything she wanted to say. This was not Qadriyyah’s fault; it was hers, for not having the right words, for not presenting a convincing grievance or sufficient evidence.

Entertaining the English couple was hardly a burden she could complain of. They were staying in the Semiramis and not with Nabilah and Mahmoud in their Garden City apartment, yet she regarded them as an intrusion on her precious summer in Cairo. She still hadn’t visited her grandmother and was longing to see her. She had not taken the children for cakes at Groppi’s, and she had not seen an Egyptian film in the cinema.

‘Why must we be with them every day?’ she asked Mahmoud when they first arrived.

‘Because,’ he finished combing his moustache in front of the mirror, ‘he is the manager of Barclays Bank.’

‘But we never go out by ourselves, just you, me, and the children. We could go to the zoo.’

He made a face. ‘The zoo? Be reasonable. It would be dull.’

‘My father always used to take me for outings. He didn’t think it beneath him.’

Mahmoud grunted as he tucked his handkerchief into the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘We’re all going to Alexandria next week. The children will have all the enjoyment at the beach. Come on, let’s go. We mustn’t keep them waiting.’

For days it had been the same. She had watched him fawn on Mr and Mrs Harrison, wine and dine Mr and Mrs Harrison, chauffeur and amuse Nigel and Sue Harrison. When she questioned the amount of money he was spending on them, Mahmoud laughed and said, ‘This is nothing compared to the loan he granted me. I need to be on excellent terms with this man, and I want you to take good care of his wife.’

Sue Harrison, according to Nabilah’s assessment, was lacking in sophistication and beauty. The short hair was unbecoming, the clothes austere and the shoes too sensible. However, Sue’s enthusiasm, her oohs and aahs, her darling this and darling that, made her captivating. Her complexion was gorgeous, too; milky white, with the rosiest of cheeks. The young woman was optimistic about her future in the Sudan to an extent that made Nabilah spiteful. Her warnings of perpetual dust, infernal heat and a host of creepy crawlies fell on deaf ears. Sue was in love and happy that she was going to Sudan. The couple was on an extension of their honeymoon. They had already spent a fortnight in Devon and, en route to Sudan, were lingering in Cairo before a cruise down the Nile and a stay in Luxor and Abu Simbel. How fortunate it was that Mahmoud Abuzeid was in Cairo at the same time! What a charming and generous host!

Nabilah struggled to match her husband’s goodwill. Yesterday morning had been spent visiting the Pyramids, and Sue and Nigel wanted to climb the Great Pyramid. Although Mahmoud had long recovered from his illness of last autumn, he felt it prudent not to exert himself and, out of politeness, Nabilah accompanied the couple. The women did not get very far, each stone was too large to surmount and the wind was dusty and irritating, so they sat together, waving down to Mahmoud and up to Nigel who was attempting to reach the top. Nabilah watched the other groups below, haggling with the photographers and those who offered donkey and camel rides. As a hostess, she must offer her guests the opportunity to have their photograph taken astride a camel with the pyramid in the background. .

Afterwards, they strolled down to the Sphinx and she saved Nigel from buying an overpriced fake scarab. By then they were hungry and it was time to drive in Mahmoud’s Buick for lunch at Mena House. They could gaze at the pyramids while they ate, and Nabilah felt proud of her country in the company of the three foreigners. She even smiled when Mahmoud inevitably told the Harrisons the anecdote she heard every time they came to the Mena House.

‘When Roosevelt and Churchill met here at the end of the war, the RAF had an observation post above the Cheops pyramid.’

In the afternoon, back in the apartment, Mahmoud had his siesta while she punished the children for throwing their toys out of the window. Accustomed to the saraya in Umdurman, they did not understand that they were now in an apartment overlooking the street. However, their ignorance only increased her disappointment that they were not normal, well bred Cairo children, but half-castes, stigmatised by the boorish, backward Sudan.

In the evening it was time to meet up again with the Harrisons, this time for dinner at St James. While eating, they watched a cinema show, this being a specialty of the venue. Nabilah felt a pang of guilt that she had been so harsh with the children. She wished she were at home, putting them to bed and making amends. Now they would go to sleep believing she was still angry with them. She visualised her daughter’s arms around her neck. Ferial had thin arms, but a firm grasp. She heard her son’s voice calling out to her. Farouk’s voice was like no one else’s; it had a warble and she could never mistake it. But Samson and Delilah soon absorbed her and she began to enjoy her excellent dish of Nile Perch and asparagus.

After dessert, they went to the Auberge des Pyramids. It was the first time Nabilah had walked through the red and gilt interior, and this made her feel close to Sue, sharing the same first experience. The band was outdoors and they sat in the garden close to the dance floor where a French singer crooned and made flippant remarks that amused the audience. Mahmoud, the only one who had been to the Auberge before, was pleased to point out the luminaries at the other tables. Over there was a Pasha, a confidante of King Farouk, and at the next table was Major Fitzgerald who owned an extensive collection of Islamic Art. Nabilah ran her eyes over the gowns of the ladies. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognised a House of Dior, and she began to talk to Sue about fashion, sharing her speculations and appraisals. It surprised and flattered her to discover that she knew the names of the famous fashion houses and their creations better than Sue.

‘I have never heard so many champagne corks popping,’ remarked Sue, and her husband laughed and looked at her fondly.

They got up to dance, clearly in love, clearly happy. It made Nabilah envious but also confused. She was not sure what she was longing for, what it was she wanted and didn’t want.

The entertainment’s highlight was the belly dancer Samia Gamal.

‘She is superior!’ Mahmoud proclaimed, delighted to be the one to introduce Mr and Mrs Harrison to their first experience of oriental dance. ‘She danced at our wedding, didn’t she, Nabilah?’

‘Yes, she was a new star then.’

Nabilah was feeling sleepy because she had missed her siesta. She would have liked Mahmoud to wrap up the evening, but he was just beginning an anecdote.

‘During the war, King Farouk freighted one hundred kilos of Groppi chocolates to Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret. I am not exaggerating. I know about this because the airplane came to Khartoum.’ He moved his wineglass out of the way and jabbed an imaginary map on the tablecloth. ‘This was the route the airplane took, a roundabout route because of the necessities of the war: Cairo — Khartoum — Entebbe, then Dakar, Lisbon and finally Dublin.’

The conversation started to seem to Nabilah like splotches of paint; bright colours of similar shape that didn’t connect or make a whole. She made an effort to keep her eyes open. Mr Harrison mentioned something he had read. Sue made an observation.

‘Our room has an absolutely marvellous view of the Nile.’

‘He has been exiled, is living comfortably, very comfortably if I may say so, while his family back home are destitute.’

‘Life here is not as good for the British as it is in the Sudan. There are too many restrictions regarding their post and their travel.’

In contact with this couple every day, doing things and going places, eating and laughing, would they draw closer and become intimate friends? Would they build a liaison that would last? Nabilah sensed in herself a loneliness, a fractured spirit that no one could share or understand. And early the next morning, in a hurried visit to her mother before taking the Harrisons to the museum, she sat in that kitchen she was fond of and for the first time said out loud the word divorce.

The Cairo museum was even more of a success with their guests than the Pyramids. Their main interest was the treasures found in the tomb of Tutankhamen.

‘We have read so much about these relics,’ said Nigel Harrison. ‘How extraordinary that all this wealth was unearthed by accident!’

The four of them gazed at the solid gold coffin, the heavily decorated throne, the vases, alabaster and gems, at the beauty of the golden mask that had covered the head of the mummy. Tutankhamen, a boy king, not more than nineteen: such a short, tragic life, yet his name would live forever. They stood, awed by the sight of so much wealth, craft and hard beauty. Afterwards, Nabilah felt drained, and it seemed that she was not alone for the others, too, were subdued over their lunch on the Shepheard’s roof garden.

‘What would they have done without you?’ she praised her husband as they drove home. ‘They would have been quite limited in their activities and restricted in their movement without a car.’

She had said the right thing. He was pleased, even though he didn’t say so. She ventured to share her observations with him.

‘There are two things I’ve learnt these past days about the English. They have a long breath.’ He smiled and this encouraged her to elaborate. ‘They could go on and on, without breaking down or even resting. It is not excessive energy or greed but an innate, steady longevity, a lasting strength. Secondly, and that was more surprising, they believe everything they are told. Their style is to ask a direct question and expect an honest reply.’

‘Whatever you say, they are better than many.’

If he were less proud, he would have said ‘better than us’. If he were less diplomatic, he would have said ‘better than you’.

When they walked into the flat, the telephone rang. It was clear from the extended ring that it was a long distance call. Mahmoud picked up the receiver and spoke to the operator.

‘It’s Alexandria,’ he said to her with a smile. He liked receiving telephone calls. Connecting with people was vital to him.

He greeted Nassir in a loud voice and then listened. His face became grave.

‘When did this happen? Has he been seen by a doctor? Yes, I will come now.’

She packed a suitcase for him and watched as he opened the safe and took from it a huge wad of cash. He gave her more than enough for the household expenditure and put the rest in his pocket. For the next hour she was absorbed in the drama of his hurried departure. The unplanned journey, the many instructions and tasks he set her, overshadowed in her mind Nur’s accident at the seaside. She was excited by the unexpectedness of the day’s events, and how they would impact on her. When he finally left, she found herself alone, and it was as if a prayer had been answered, a gift bestowed on her, the responsibility lifted from her shoulders. She was here, in Cairo, and she could do whatever she wanted.

She was out of breath when she reached the bus station. She had been walking fast, clutching her purse, aware of the swish of her dress and the tap of her high heels. Now she felt at ease because she was just another Egyptian lady, attractive and elegant, waiting for the bus like everyone else. A truck full of English soldiers passed and several of them waved; one blew her a kiss. When she was younger, she used to giggle and wave back. Now she only smiled and looked away.

A familiar sight, the bedraggled seller — it couldn’t be the same man — who stood at bus stops and sold all sorts of little delights — hairpins, sweets, marbles and matches. She opened her purse. Yes, she had enough money, more than enough. Mahmoud had taught her this. Sometimes he didn’t carry enough change and he depended on her.

‘Give me a shilling,’ he would say or, ‘Give me a franc.’ The first time he made this request, her purse had been empty. ‘Never, ever leave the house without money,’ he reprimanded her. ‘You never know when you will need it.’

She needed crystal sugar from the street-seller now, a little bag of it. How much sweeter it tasted than any of the fancy desserts she had shared with the Harrisons.

The bus came and she boarded it. Anticipation. This was her outing, her treat.

Why didn’t she say to Mahmoud days ago, ‘Take me to see my grandmother’? It had not even occurred to her to ask him, as if he and her grandmother lived in different cities. Her grandmother was a link to her father, a link to the past. She had fallen out with Qadriyyah when she remarried. They were no longer on speaking terms, which was why Nabilah visited her grandmother behind Qadriyyah’s back. These were precious visits, stolen moments, because her mother always wanted to know her whereabouts.

Nabilah sucked a lump of sugar and, from the bus window, watched the people in the street. It was a quiet time of day, the streets almost empty with so many families away in Alexandria for the summer holidays. Some employees were heading home. So few wore their fez these days, keeping it for formal occasions, not as it was in her father’s time. How different her life would have been, had he been alive. They would not have moved to Cairo so soon, for he would have continued to be a provincial judge for some years. And she had loved Cairo, even before she came to live in it. When she was young, all the vacations were spent with her grandmother; joyful days when her father was no longer solemn and important but a cheerful, boastful son. Qadriyyah always spoke of Cairo and wherever they were posted, whatever location or status, Qadriyyah would remind her daughter that Cairo was better. Cairo was bigger; the mother of the world.

She spotted the green curtain billowing in the balcony of the second floor. It was time to get off. This was her stop. She crossed King Street and entered the side road. The grocer with the strong smell of Rumi cheese and the pails of olives, the butcher with the meat swinging on hooks, and her favourite, the juice shop with pyramids of fruit displayed in its window and sticks of sugarcane propped against the doorway. How often had she stood in her grandmother’s balcony, pushing away the heavy green curtain and gazing down at this row of shops? Why, right now her grandmother might be sitting behind the curtain, not knowing that in a few minutes Nabilah would ring the bell! She quickened her pace. The staircase was stone-cool after the heat of outdoors. Each landing had two flats, arranged around a central gallery. The gallery was a perfect, wide circle, so that, looking up, she saw circles upon circles bathed in sunlight. This had fascinated her as a child, and she would skip around the gallery, completing the circle and returning to her beloved Nenah’s flat.

The maid opened the door for her, a new maid who did not recognise her, but this did not dampen Nabilah’s spirits. She strode across the hall and the sitting room to the balcony, and in the shade of the green canvas curtain, in her grandmother’s arms, it was the fulfilment of a dream, the sweetness of a long separation coming to an end. Nabilah did not cry — she was not prone to sentimental tears, but she brimmed with pleasure, kissing her grandmother’s cheeks, breathing her scent of lavender as if scooping back her childhood.

Her grandmother was tall and thin, with wavy grey hair that she held back in a kerchief. She had a worldly air and yet a lighthearted disposition. Her late husband had been a police officer who had regularly confided, and sometimes even consulted her, in matters of his work. Although she rarely went out, she held an active interest in the affairs of the country and was an avid listener of the radio. Her talent for befriending the young and acting as their confidante ensured that she was never out of touch with modern times. She was delighted to see her granddaughter.

‘I did not even know you were in Cairo! How pretty you look! What elegance, what style!’

Nabilah would never hear such compliments back in Sudan. In Umdurman, her clothes highlighted her position as an outsider, and Khartoum high society was too competitive and capricious to ever voice its admiration.

‘I’ve missed you so much, Nenah!’

‘Alhamdulillah, you look well. But where are your children, Nabilah? Why didn’t you bring them with you?’

‘So that I could have you all to myself, my love. That’s why.’

Her grandmother laughed and leaned over to twist the knob of the radio until it was switched off. They exchanged news and more talk of Nabilah’s fashionable blouse. The balcony was furnished with wicker chairs and a matching table; there was a woven rug on the floor, plant pots and jasmine trellises arranged on the wall. It was more luxurious than a typical balcony and more casual than indoors. Now, with the curtain drawn, it was cool and completely secluded from the street as well as the neighbour’s range of vision. The bustle reached them, though. A seller cried out ‘fresh tomatoes’ while another wanted everyone’s bric-a-brac. Nabilah walked over and drew the curtain open. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in and she could now see the tomato cart, and the donkey pulling the cart piled with all sorts of bric-a-brac. She picked up the wicker basket that was tied by rope to the ledge.

‘Do you want something from the shops, Nabilah?’ her grandmother asked.

She smiled and shook her head.

‘I just miss this basket. We don’t have anything like it in Sudan and here we don’t live near shops.’

The basket had fascinated her as a child. How her grandmother, from behind the green curtain, would call down to the grocer, the butcher or passing vegetable sellers. She would tell them what she wanted and lower the basket with the rope. They would place her order in the basket and she would hoist it up. Then she would put money in the empty basket and lower it again. The basket was so sturdy that Nabilah, as a child, would often plead to be placed in it and hoisted up and down.

‘You were a lively little girl,’ her grandmother said, ‘always wanting an adventure or plotting some mischief.’

‘Ferial is naughty too,’ Nabilah said. ‘Farouk is quiet and mostly well-behaved, but he can get up to lots of mischief, too, when everyone’s back is turned.’

‘May Allah protect them for you, my dear. You will find that the years fly and in no time they will grow up. Then they will be like friends to you and you won’t feel lonely or bored because of their company.’

It was easy to talk to her grandmother. Thoughts that were complicated and suppressed took wing and became spoken grievances against the Sudan.

‘They have no sewage system and I am disgusted with the buckets and the men coming to empty them at night!’

‘The Sudanese circumcise their little girls in the most brutal and severe of ways. Waheeba wanted to circumcise her granddaughter, Zeinab, but Mahmoud explicitly forbade it.’

‘There are no hairdressers in Umdurman, I have to go all the way to Khartoum!’

‘Everyone is serious. They don’t laugh or joke. They take offence at the slightest rebuke.’

‘I get heat rash. If I don’t put on talcum powder my skin goes all red. I have to put chamomile lotion on the children, all over their arms and legs.’

‘There are things I can’t understand. There is no privacy. His eldest son, Nassir, once strolled into our bedroom! And the endless social obligations — they are continuous, really, so that there is no time to do anything else. You know how much I like to sew? It should be a simple pleasure to spread a pattern on the dining table and cut it with scissors or to sit at my sewing machine, but I am always being interrupted by visitors, who come without warning, and if they arrive at mealtimes, they stay and eat. So I must always be dressed for company, I can never stay long in my dressing gown. It is irksome. And how the windows and doors are open all the time! To let in air, but they let in dust as well, and the glaring sun. I feel as if I am roughing it up in a chalet on the beach!

‘And it is so hot for so long, like an oven. The winters are not cold enough for winter clothes; a cardigan over a summer frock is all that’s needed. I do miss my fur coat. I do miss knitting and crocheting.’

She lowered her voice.

‘I am afraid of his wife. The Sudanese practise black magic and she might harm me or the children. She is jealous of me and, of course, she has every reason to be.’

The balcony was enveloped in the soft glow of sunset now. Her grandmother sighed.

‘This is the only thing that troubles me about your marriage — his wife. He is a lot older than you, but for many couples that is normal and successful. I don’t think of you as being far away; Sudan and Egypt are one country, so you are not like the girls who married Turkish men and moved to Istanbul, you are much closer. But Mahmoud Bey should have divorced his wife before marrying you. He is neither being fair to her or you. I should not say this, but your mother rushed and said yes to his proposal straight away. Qadriyyah was influenced by your stepfather — and you are not his flesh and blood. If your father had been alive, he would not have given his consent.’

This was poignant for Nabilah, but at the same time reassuring. Her father would have protected her. She told her grandmother about this morning’s conversation with Qadriyyah.

Her grandmother looked sad and sounded angry.

‘What does she mean, you will have nowhere to go? Shame on her! This house is your house, your father’s home. My door will be open to you — whatever happens.’

These words, spoken in the gold and green of the balcony, bolstered and pacified Nabilah.

Then, as if she had been paving the ground for a request, her grandmother’s voice grew soft and coaxing, ‘But why don’t you love your husband, my child? Why is your heart hard towards him?’

She could answer now. ‘There is a wide distance between us. I am something, and he is something else.’

‘Then try and get closer to him,’ was the advice. ‘Involve yourself in his affairs and concerns. Change, Nabilah, become different. Do it for your children’s sake. Do you want them to be without a father, too? You, of all people, who know this deprivation, should not want it for them.’

They went indoors, and while her grandmother prayed maghreb, Nabilah gazed at her father’s portraits. In one he was standing, wearing his fez and his judge’s robes. He looked large and healthy, with a steady, confident gaze. In another, less formal, portrait, he was sitting down and she, a child of six in a pinafore and felt hat, was standing next to him. She could still remember the handkerchief protruding from the pocket of his jacket. It had a navy border and on that day, after the session with the photographer, she ate candyfloss and used that same handkerchief to wipe the pink sugar off her hands.

When her grandmother finished praying, they had tea and cakes. Nabilah caught up with all the news of her paternal family and she had to wrench herself away, knowing she had left the children too long.

‘Next time bring them with you. Or, better still, bring them and spend a few days with me. Now that your husband is away, why should you be by yourself?’ Such possibilities!

At night she had the luxury and space of a double bed all to herself. She stretched and turned to lie on her side, tucking the pillow under her chin. Her grandmother’s kindness had soothed her and given her hope. For weeks now, ever since they had arrived from Khartoum, she had longed to visit her. Every day there was an obstacle, and duties that had to be done. First, she had to quench her thirst for her mother, which was understandable. Then the Harrisons arrived and she was caught up in a whirl of daily outings and engagements. For Mahmoud, her grandmother was not a priority, many other people came first, but she did not want to think bitter thoughts about him now. She wanted the joy of the afternoon, the green curtain and wicker basket, and her grandmother’s support. She wanted this feeling of home to settle inside her until it gave her the sweetest of dreams.