Lyrics Alley

VIII

He walked into a nightmare — the military hospital in Alexandria, with its disinfectant smell and muted atmosphere. There were Nassir, Fatma and Soraya, standing in the corridor, looking anxious and out of place. They were relieved to see him, Nassir not hiding his gratitude at being able to hand over the responsibility. He explained that Nur had been admitted here because Victoria College students were entitled to the same amenities as the British staff and Army personnel.

‘It was an accident, Father,’ Nassir blurted out. ‘It was no one’s fault. No one did anything wrong. No one was negligent.’ Then, remembering his manners, he offered his father a seat. ‘You must be tired after your journey. Have a rest.’

Mahmoud refused to sit down and wanted to see Nur straight away. But. . enter a room and your son does not spring up to greet you. Walk to the bed and he does not even raise his hand to shake yours.

‘Is he asleep?’ Mahmoud’s voice was loud because he hoped to wake Nur.

He wanted to reassure himself that the boy was well, that nothing serious or drastic had happened to him. His head was lolling to one side and his neck was bandaged. The rest of his body, including his arms, was under the stiff sheets. He looked peaceful, only his hair was uncombed.

‘The doctors gave him painkillers,’ Nassir explained. ‘When we moved him here he was in pain.’

Mahmoud walked over to the window. The orange sun was halfway into the sea. He was lucky to have arrived before dark. The fatigue of the journey was catching up on him, and the siesta he had given up to drive north. He slumped in an armchair near the window and looked round. The room was spacious and immaculate, the bed looked new and modern. Yes, his boy was in a good place, in safe hands; the English doctors would make him better. Here was one now, as evidenced by his white coat and stethoscope, entering the room followed by a nurse. Mahmoud stood up and introduced himself. He found the words slow to conjure; his English was sluggish today, his accent more pronounced.

Dr Hempster was a large man with spectacles and fair hair and his blue eyes reminded Mahmoud of descriptions of General Gordon.

‘Your son is lucky to be alive.’ He said each word clearly and sounded confident and calm. ‘When Mr Abuzeid dived, he must have hit his head either against a sandbank or a rock. Several vertebrae in his lower neck and upper back have been smashed. This is why he is unable to move his limbs. We will need to operate.’

Mahmoud felt confused between the doctor’s matter-of-fact tone and the words he was hearing. He wanted to slump back into the armchair, but had to keep standing because it would not be polite. ‘If we operate, we can save his life, but it is major, high-risk surgery.’

The room darkened and Mahmoud sank back into the chair, apologising in a faint stream of Arabic. The boundaries of his vision shifted. This situation was new and repulsive; he was in unfamiliar territory, grappling with strange rules and different consequences. Someone held out a glass of water. . Fatma. He gulped, and immediately felt better. When he looked up, Dr Hempster was not there. Instead, there was Nassir’s frightened face and Fatma’s anxiety. Soraya was crying; the tears streaking her face, her handkerchief covering her mouth. It distressed him to see her like that. He held out his hand. She took it and burst into fresh tears.

‘Why are you crying?’ He pretended to scold her, but his tone was gentle. ‘Stop it. Insha’ Allah he is going to be all right.’

His words made a visible impact on her. She gulped, took a deep breath, and wiped her face with her handkerchief.

‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Let’s go outside so as not to disturb him.’

Both the Cecil and the Windsor were full. There was not a single suite or even a room available — it was the height of summer and the peak season, after all. This irritated him, and he shouted at Nassir to do something, meaning find a place for him to stay. Naturally, he did not want to join them in the flat. It would be noisy with the children and the service not up to his standards. After an hour’s search, he settled for a pension in Gleem, across from the Paradise Casino. Its Greek proprietor, Madame Marika, recognised him, despite the fact that he hadn’t stayed with her for many years. She was respectful and solicitous. Yes, she had a suite for Mahmoud Bey on the second floor, with a bedroom overlooking the sea. Her smiles and golden hair raised his spirits. He did not negotiate the rent with her — whatever she asked for he would pay. She would overcharge him, most likely, but on a day like this, he was not in the mood to barter.

Madame Marika showed him to his rooms. She waddled over to the window, her satin dress tight against her hips and her plump feet overflowing from her slippers. She drew open the violet curtains to prove to him that he had a view of the Corniche. He glimpsed the sea, dark and brooding, a backdrop to the glamour of Alexandria by night; the young dressed up after a day at the beach making their way to the cafés and the cinemas. He told her about Nur’s accident. Her green eyes clouded with pity and she offered him a glass of whisky. How thoughtful of her! How well he would be looked after!

‘If I were in your place,’ she said, pouring cold water from a pitcher, ‘I wouldn’t let these army doctors operate on him. Take your son abroad, Mahmoud Bey. Take him to Athens or London or Switzerland. There they will make him stand on his feet again.’

He reckoned her hostility to the doctors was nothing more than Alexandria’s impatience with the lingering British army, but he still warmed to her optimism. Yes, Nur would recover. Dr Hempster, perhaps, was too pessimistic.

He slept deeply but woke up too early. He started to think about Nur and could not go back to sleep again, so he dressed and left the pension, stepping into the morning light and noise of the sea. The Corniche was deserted and so was the beach. The salty air was bracing and his stomach rumbled. He had not had dinner the previous night — his last solid meal had been lunch at the Shepheard’s, with the Harrisons. That was only yesterday, but Cairo and Nabilah seemed far away. It was as if he had turned a corner, all by himself, and was not certain where to go next.

He crossed over to the Paradise Casino and walked down the steps to the entrance. The restaurant was as empty as he expected. Two waiters were cleaning the floor and most of the chairs were stacked upside down on top of the tables. He made his way to the terrace and sat under an umbrella. The cash he had taken out of the safe in Cairo was intended to pay for what those in the building industry named the ‘erasure’ of the new building, materials that were unavailable in Khartoum, which included the tiles on all the floors, and the paint as well as the bathroom and kitchen fittings. He had already struck a deal with the agent and the next step was to pay the first half of the instalment; the second he would pay on delivery. But now he would not be able to part with the money. He needed it to finance this crisis. It was impossible, now, to gauge Nur’s medical expenses, and he must, at the very least, be with funds. The building would just have to wait until he was liquid again. This was annoying, not just the delay, but the fact that he had given his word to the agent; he had shaken hands on an agreement and now he would break his word. It had never happened before. He lit his first cigarette of the day. How empty and stale the casino was. At night it would be lively with music and dancing; with young people and pretty girls. He had had his fair share of enjoyment; he had lived life to the full. Nur was too young to suffer. The first tears came to his eyes. He blinked them away and ordered a full breakfast as a long day lay ahead of him. He would make decisions and set wheels in motion, but, first of all, the family in Umdurman must be informed.

He touched Nur’s hair and the boy opened his eyes.

‘I didn’t do anything wrong, Father. .’ He sounded drugged and distant. ‘A big wave knocked me over.’

‘Don’t worry, Nur. It was an accident. Everyone knows you didn’t do anything wrong. I am here, now, and your mother is on the way.’

Nur’s eyes brightened. ‘When will she arrive?’

‘In a few days. Your Uncle Idris is bringing her, and Halima is coming, too, to join her sisters.’

The stillness in the boy’s body was excessive and odd. He did not fidget, he did not raise his hand to scratch his chin or touch his nose, he did not bend his long legs under the sheet. It was as if an invisible power had pinned him down to the bed.

The following days were full and empty at the same time: static and busy, monotonous but edgy. Visitors started to appear; other Sudanese in Alexandria — their numbers swollen because it was the holiday season; Nur’s friends from Victoria College as well as those members of staff who had not gone away for the summer; Mahmoud’s Egyptian friends and business acquaintances. The news spread, and there were telephone calls from Sudan and Cairo, a few from London and Switzerland, as well as several telegrams. Some visitors travelled up from Cairo — they included the staff from the Abuzeid office — spent the day, and returned by train in the evening. Some of them needed to be met at the station, given lunch and refreshments and another lift back to the station. These tasks became Nassir’s responsibility, and he started to look haggard, deprived of the beach and the nightlife, but he seemed excited, too, roused by the number of friends and acquaintances he was meeting every day.

At the hospital itself, the Abuzeid family took over the waiting room and ordered extra chairs in Nur’s room. They befriended the nurses, cleaners, and kitchen staff deliberately, giving them gifts and extra tips. Nur’s room filled with flowers, with chocolates from Groppi’s and lively conversation. This generosity flowed over to the patients in the adjacent rooms and total strangers received chocolates and pastries, cigars if they were men, and visits from Mahmoud Bey.

Waheeba came straight from the train station, her to be incongruous in this most cosmopolitan of cities. She threw herself on Nur’s bed and made a scene. Fatma and Halima had to restrain her while Mahmoud turned his back in disgust and stared out at the sea. Her wails and anguish grated on his nerves. She turned on him.

‘Do something! You can’t leave him like this. Spare no expense. I want my son well again.’

She had never left Sudan, except for the time she went to Mecca and returned a Hajjah. Now she was traumatised as much by the journey as by the cause of it. At the end, after she had worked herself into a state, slapping her face and gnashing her teeth, he managed to get a nurse to give her a sedative and he ordered a spare bed to be brought into the room so that she could lie down opposite Nur.

After she had rested and calmed down, he said to her, ‘They are going to operate on him. We were waiting for you. I would not let them perform surgery on him until you arrived.’

This gratified Waheeba. She became her usual alert self, scolding Fatma for not bringing enough food from the flat, and snapping at Nassir for bringing the wrong suitcase to the hospital, not the one she had requested. When she made a sarcastic remark about Soraya’s bare arms, Mahmoud knew that the worst was over. His wife was no longer in shock. She had accepted Nur’s accident and was ready to play her part.

‘I am not afraid of any operation,’ she said. ‘Everything is in Allah’s hands. Yes, let them go ahead with the surgery. I want my son well again, and I want him back with me in Umdurman.’

Nur, himself, became more communicative. His appetite revived as his mother fed him. It was as if he was a baby again.

‘Open your mouth. Take another sip of milk.’

She was not awkward or reserved, popping grapes in his mouth with gusto, and combing his hair with care. In contrast, Mahmoud found himself embarrassed in the face of his son’s helplessness. He would bolt out of the room every time the nurse came to change Nur or give him a bath and was more comfortable greeting the visitors and keeping them company. Their good wishes comforted him, and he did not mind the pity in their eyes. And now Idris was by his side, a steady, mostly silent companion, but Mahmoud drew strength from the sheer physical presence of his brother. Nur’s schoolmates spent time with him in the room, but Mahmoud’s friends would only stand for a few minutes exchanging formal greetings with the patient before joining the gathering in the waiting room outside. The conversation would drift from the state of the patient to the state of the world, and Mahmoud found this soothing as his mind followed the sequence of another story or a gripping piece of gossip. Several times he laughed out loud when one of his friends cracked a joke.

On the day of the operation, they all gathered at the hospital early in the morning. Today Nur might die — but no one said these words out loud. Mahmoud felt heavy with the responsibility of the risk he was taking with his own flesh and blood. Dr Hempster had explained to him that the neck was a sensitive area; that all the nerves that went from the brain to the limbs passed through the neck. Mahmoud tried to understand. He was not a scientific man and he only held a preparatory school certificate. He knew the ways of the market, but the human body was a mystery.

Hours of waiting, one cigarette after the other. The room felt odd without Nur. They were gathering around someone who was not present, who dangled between life and death. Soraya sat on Nur’s bed, hunched forward and biting her nails. Waheeba, stretched out on the extra bed, was muttering prayers. Idris dozed in an armchair, while Nassir flicked through the pages of a magazine then took to leaving the room and coming back in again. Mahmoud gave them his back and stared out the window. He watched waves approach, with varying strengths but one destination, to curve and unfurl against the shore. The white froth was attractive, decorating the endless blue. He wanted what Waheeba wanted — the boy to live and return home to Umdurman. They all wanted Umdurman now. Alexandria was not a place for the unhealthy. The holiday season wrapped itself around them like an unsuitable costume. The young ones no longer went to the beach, the cinemas, or the fun fairs. They were inside this glumness together, absorbed and waiting. He turned and spoke to Nassir, his voice odd in the hush and anxiety.

‘I want to contact the English soldiers who pulled Nur out of the sea.’

Soraya stopped biting her nails.

‘One was called Stan and the other was Eddie.’

‘Eddie is Edward and Stan is Stanley,’ said Nassir.

‘I want to meet them,’ said Mahmoud.

He would thank them for saving Nur’s life. Would a gift be in good taste? What kind of gift? Would they take money? How much? These questions of etiquette occupied his mind until the nurse came in to say that the operation was finished. They crowded the corridor until Nur was rolled out of the operating theatre.

Relief that he was alive, and unspoken dismay that there was no movement, no movement or sensation in either his legs or arms. ‘The operation was a success. Nur is making good progress.’ This was the wording of the telegram Mahmoud ordered Nassir to send out. In reality, the only progress was from the grogginess of the operation to the boy becoming alert and responsive. The nurses cranked up the bed, propped him up on pillows and his bright eyes roamed the room, as if doing the moving for him. He chatted to his family and visitors, cracked the occasional joke, and asked of news of the outside world. Often he would seek his father’s eyes and ask the silent question: what next? Hope. Hope was the nourishment, the drug, the saving grace. After the anticipation of the operation and the acute days following it, there came a lull. Nur and the hospital were enmeshed in the fabric of the family’s Alexandria life. The patient was in a stable condition. No one needed to hold their breath any more. They could let their gaze wander, could surreptitiously, but not without restraint, start to live their lives again.

Mahmoud took Idris out to lunch at Abu Qir for a change. They tucked into grilled fish and shrimps, fried boulti and tahina. The restaurant was surrounded by cliffs, and there were mossy hard rocks instead of a sandy beach. Drinking mint tea after their meal, they discussed business — all the things that had been put on hold, all the transactions awaiting approval, and how to make the most of their temporary presence in Egypt. Then Idris asked, ‘Did you manage to contact the two soldiers who pulled Nur out of the water?’

‘I found out their names, but they are no longer in Alexandria. They’ve been transferred to the Canal Zone.’

‘I’ve heard from more than one source,’ said Idris, ‘that more and more forces are being stationed in Suez.’

‘I will write to them,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I would have preferred to meet them, but a letter of thanks should suffice.’

Idris had to be his negative self. He had to sigh and say, ‘Young people are nothing but trouble. Why did Nur have to go swimming? What connection do we have with the sea? Nothing! We are neither sailors nor divers. Who taught him to swim anyway?’

‘The English. At school they taught him. All the students were taken to Sidi Bishr where they would camp at night and swim during the day.’

‘What kind of school is that? Instead of lessons, taking them for outings!’

‘Victoria College is the Eton of the Middle East.’

‘What is this Eton?’ Idris stuck a toothpick in his mouth.

Mahmoud didn’t bother to answer. After such a meal, he needed his siesta.

With the cream of Cairo holidaying in Alexandria, and Nur’s accident a high-profile event, Mahmoud’s social life continued to flourish. Loose ties were strengthened and old alliances were cemented. Even strangers, brothers of so-and-so, and friends of so-and-so, were taking time away from the beach to drop in at the hospital or at least telephone. Mahmoud pushed his personal sadness down — he had had such hopes for the boy — and presented his usual amiable self to society. It touched him that so many important people were standing by him in his hour of need. Best of all was when they said, ‘You are an upstanding, generous man, and you do not deserve this.’ Or, ‘Nur is a fine young man, he doesn’t deserve this.’

Mahmoud knew that such personal warmth was excellent for business, and even though no one spoke of work, he could sense, not without irony, that in these solemn hospital corridors, seeds were being sown for a profitable, thriving future. However, sometimes, when guests probed him excessively about Nur’s condition or offered conflicting advice, he would become defensive and insecure. It was important to save face. He must be seen to be doing the best for his son. He must be seen to be sparing no expense. No one would esteem him and he would not forgive himself if he cut corners, or was negligent or impatient, too rash or too cautious. Or worse, simply did not care enough. Never had he loved his son more, and never had he been more uncertain of the future. At the end of each day, which always seemed long and stifling in the hospital, he would need Madame Marika’s platitudes and Cyprus wine; need the cool, shady interior of the pension to soothe his ragged nerves.

Waheeba, everyone agreed, was spending too much time at the hospital. They persuaded her to go home on the pretext that she, and only she, could cook Nur’s favourite dish of assida. Mahmoud drove her to the flat because Nassir was not yet at the hospital. They were silent on the way. He sensed her reluctance to leave Nur — she was as attached to him now as she had been when he was an infant.

‘Look around you,’ he said. ‘Look out the window at this magnificent city.’

She obeyed him, but quickly returned to staring straight ahead, fidgeting with the gold bangles on her arms.

‘Ignorant woman,’ he sighed. ‘What is the point of your travelling anywhere?’

‘Travel hurt my son,’ she said. ‘If he had stayed in Sudan, none of this would have happened. He would have been well.’

Did she want to blame him for the accident? His fault for insisting that Nur studies at Victoria College.

‘All the Sudanese boys studying in Alexandria, all the ones swimming and holidaying — have they been injured?’

She didn’t reply and, as he turned the corner, he said to her, ‘Answer me. Why don’t you have an answer for that?’

‘I should have stayed at the hospital. Talk to the administration and get me permission to use the hospital kitchen. Then I can cook Nur’s meals there for him.’

He went up to the flat with her. She did not know where it was and could not be trusted to read the number on the door. Nassir was still in bed when they walked in. Mahmoud walked into his bedroom and opened the curtain.

‘It’s noon,’ he bellowed. ‘Noon! And you’re still asleep!’

Nassir sat up. He was bleary-eyed and downcast and looked like he had a hangover.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘I went out with some friends.’ He avoided meeting his father’s eyes.

‘Well, that’s fine behaviour! Your brother in hospital and you are out gallivanting till the small hours! I am mighty proud of you.’

Nassir shifted from one foot to the other. His daughter, Zeinab, walked into the room, shook hands with her grandfather, and walked out again.

Mahmoud pulled the chair from the dresser and sat down. The flat was not to his taste. It was disorganised and basic, typical holiday accommodation. He had bought it for the family and it fulfilled its function, while he always opted for a hotel.

‘Listen, Nassir, you have to become more responsible. Stop this staying out late. Is this what you want your reputation to be? A drunkard? A womaniser? And at a time like this, the circumstances we are going through!’

Waheeba walked into the room. Seeing Nassir sitting unkempt on the bed she exclaimed,

‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’

‘No, he is not sick,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Nor does he have any respect for the one who is sick.’

‘Every day since the accident, I have been at the hospital,’ said Nassir, emboldened by the presence of his mother. ‘Every single day, all day. For how long is this going to continue? When is Nur going to get better? They don’t know how to cure him, do they? The operation wasn’t a success. He is still as he is.’

‘Don’t talk like that!’ snapped Waheeba.

‘But I can’t bear to see him like this.’ Nassir was getting more heated. ‘All the time, he’s just lying down. How is he going to go to university? How is he going to get married? I would rather not live if I couldn’t get up to take a piss. I’d rather die.’

Waheeba slapped him.

‘Don’t you dare!’ Her lips quivered and her to be fell and hung low. ‘Don’t you dare wish your brother dead.’ She straightened her to be, turned and walked out of the room.

Mahmoud felt sorry for Nassir. He was taller than Waheeba and his little children were milling around the flat. That crazy woman. Nassir put his head down in his hands and Mahmoud moved to sit next to him. He patted him on the back. In the silence, he could overhear Waheeba talking to Halima in the kitchen. She was saying she wanted to get Nur to Umdurman so that she could take him to a faqih. Someone, for sure, had given the boy the evil eye. Vulgar, stupid woman. Mahmoud squeezed Nassir’s shoulder.

‘There are other operations that can be done. I am considering taking him abroad for treatment. I’ve been making enquiries. Don’t lose hope. He can be cured, I am sure.’

On the way out, he looked in at the women in the kitchen. It was good that Halima had come from Umdurman. She had a calming, matronly presence, and was a restraining influence on the younger ones.

‘Greet your grandfather, Zeinab,’ she said, turning from the sink.

The little girl walked towards him and he said, ‘She already did. She came especially into the room and greeted me.’ He put his hand into his pocket and bought out a piece of bubble gum. ‘Here, this is for you, Zeinab.’

It was his habit to carry sweets for the children who came his way. When he didn’t have sweets, he gave them coins.

Waheeba was sitting at the kitchen table, occupied in some task that held her attention.

‘You should rest, Hajjah,’ he said to her. ‘You are tiring yourself these days.’ Then he lowered his voice and continued, ‘No respectable woman raises her hand against a grown-up man, even if he is her son. Your nerves have been under a lot of strain these past days. Take care of your health and rest.’

Instead of the expected conciliatory response, she flared up.

‘We are all tired. I am working day and night to tend to your son and serve your guests, and where is your Egyptian wife? Sitting comfortably in Cairo with her mother, spending your money—’

He interrupted her and his voice was cool, ‘Nur is your son. It’s your duty to be with him.’

‘Yes, he is my son, and I know what is good for him. I was just telling Halima. The English doctor had got it all wrong; there was no connection between Nur’s neck and his limbs. This is black magic, believe me, I know it when I see it. And no one can lift this curse except certain faqirs in Umdurman!’

‘Superstitious nonsense,’ retorted Mahmoud. ‘I am going to take him to London, and you will go back to Umdurman where you belong.’

She shook her head. ‘No, I go where my son goes. He will need me on the journey.’

It was as good a time as any to break the news.

‘Nabilah is travelling with us. She will see to his needs.’

Waheeba’s mouth fell open. She put her palms on the top of her head and started to wail.

‘Oh, have you heard this! Have you heard what he’s doing to me? Nassir, come and hear what your father is intending to do!’

Halima came over to comfort her aunt and Nassir shuffled into the kitchen.

‘Oh, she is the cause of all this!’ Waheeba swayed from side to side. ‘I tell you, she is the cause of evil. I wish to God the same thing will happen to her son! Let her heart burn like mine is burning.’ Her eyes bulged and spit blew from her mouth.

Halima drew in her breath. ‘I seek refuge in Allah. Is this a thing to say?’

Without a word, Mahmoud left the flat. He should have divorced the bitch a long time ago. Not only was she ugly and ignorant, she was chock full of venom, too!

At the Central Post Office, he parked his car and went in to put a call through to Cairo. Nabilah always said the right things. She was refined and polite and her wording was pleasing, too. She placed her hope in Nur’s age and would say, ‘Young bones heal quickly’ or ‘The young can withstand blows and stand up again.’

She had offered to come to Alexandria and bring the children as planned, but he had preferred that they stay away in Cairo.

‘I am taking Nur to London and I want you to come with us.’

She paused, and then said, ‘Of course I want to come with you and I can leave Farouk and Ferial with Mama, but don’t you think Hajjah Waheeba will take offence?’

‘London is not a place for her. I will be meeting people there and making new contacts. I want you with me.’

He sensed her smile. If she was triumphant, she deserved it.

‘But Mahmoud,’ she said, ‘Nur will naturally be more comfortable with his mother.’

‘My decision is final,’ he said. ‘I can’t stand her, Nabilah. I am on the verge of losing my temper and divorcing her. Believe me, any minute I am. I should have done it a long time ago.’

‘Yes, I wish you had.’

‘Now I am in the middle of a crisis. I have to think of Nur. I can’t inflict this on him as well. The day he stands on his feet again, I promise you, will be the end of my marriage to Waheeba.’

She started to repeat her warm wishes for Nur, the conventional words that soothed him, ‘It is but a setback that will pass. Every illness has a remedy, Insha’ Allah,’ until the operator informed them that the call was coming to an end.

It was time to hurry back to the hospital in case any visitors were waiting for him. Today he would be able to meet the boy’s eyes; meet his silent, brooding and persistent plea for help.