Lyrics Alley

XIV

Earlier that same evening, after bidding his in-laws farewell at the airport, Mahmoud went smiling to Barclays Bank (Dominions, Colonies and Overseas). The news was official. Earlier this morning, the Financial Secretary had called for a special meeting of the Legislative Assembly to reveal a budget surplus of twenty million pounds. Due to the Korean War and increased demand from post-war Britain, cotton prices had risen to unprecedented heights — prosperous times for the government, and prosperous times for the man whose name was synonymous with the private sector. With the backing of the bank, Mahmoud had established almost all of the private cotton schemes. The trade figures for 1951 were published today. Nigel Harrison had the details and the two men beamed over the results.

‘Exports from Cotton Ginned,’ Mr Harrison read out, ‘forty-seven million, four hundred and forty-nine thousand and six hundred and six pounds.’

‘Nearly one third of that,’ smiled Mahmoud, ‘came from Abuzeid Ginning. Excellent.’

‘The country now has no national debt, no fear of insolvency, and the government’s reservations regarding the private sector will finally be laid to rest.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mahmoud, ‘the government will be freer with its licences and concessions, now. I will start to have competitors — but you will have more clients!’

‘Indeed I hope so.’ Mr Harrison closed the folder in front of him. ‘But you and I will continue to do business together. With your credit history, you are in a fortunate position well ahead of the competition. Any new projects on your mind?’

‘Industry,’ Mahmoud replied. Nigel Harrison made a sceptical face but Mahmoud continued, ‘During the war, when imports were halted, I set up a glass factory in order to meet local demand. I would like to venture into ice as well as vegetable oils and canned food stuffs.’

‘But my good man, these are modest projects, not worthy of your stature. The Sudan is an agricultural country and it will remain so. The government has just approved a five-year plan to develop alternative cash crops to cotton. This is the direction I urge you to take. Industry is not lucrative, certainly not in comparison. Nor is it suited to a developing country with such a poor infrastructure.’

‘But our thinkers and politicians are directing us towards industry. An independent Sudan will need its industries and I want to serve my country. True, the Gezira Scheme has been a spectacular success and the Sudan is now a model for other African countries to follow. But industry is vital, too. However, I shall consider the alternative cash crops you recommend. Meanwhile we can congratulate ourselves for championing the cause of private enterprise and making a success of it!’

Nigel Harrison laughed and stood up.

‘This calls for a celebration. Let’s go for a drink!’

The terrace of the Grand Hotel was busy this time in the evening. Both men came across acquaintances who would greet them from afar with a nod, or come over to their table for brief hellos and introductions. In a typical Sudanese fashion, shaped by a society where word of mouth mattered and everyone’s background was known, Mahmoud gave Nigel Harrison a detailed biography of the man he had just shaken hands with as they made their way to their table.

‘I knew him from the mid-thirties,’ he said. ‘He was with me on the committee which formally received the first Egyptian Economic Delegation headed by Fuad Bey Abaza. Our committee was set up by the Sudan Chamber of Commerce and they made me head and gave me the responsibility of receiving the Egyptians and touring the Sudan with them. Here’s an anecdote for you: the delegation was invited to his base in Gezira Abba by the leader of the Ansar, Sayyid Abdel-Rahman AlMahdi. You English call him SAR, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ smiled Nigel Harrison, ‘and we call his rival Sayyid Ali El Mirghani, SAM.’

‘Well, this is what happened. We came down the river on a steamer. Just as we were nearing our destination, the steamer had a technical failure and came to a complete standstill. Our host could see us from the shore, and we could see him, too, surrounded by about five thousand of his men. But how were we to reach him? Attempts to fix the steamer failed. So what did SAR do? He picked up a handful of sand. .’ Mahmoud mimicked the action, ‘. . and threw it in the river. His men went and picked up their shovels. In the course of an hour, they turned the water into land! It was an incredible sight. In a few hours of continuous work they built a road and we embarked from the steamer and into motor cars that drove us straight to our host.’

It was now Nigel Harrison’s turn.

‘The one sitting on the left is Sir Christopher Cox. He used to be Director of Education, but now he’s with the Colonial Office. He’s been doing the rounds ever since his visit started. Sue and I met him at a dinner given in his honour by Sayyid Shingitti. We were told it was going to be a small dinner, but when we arrived at the house there were five policemen in charge of the car parking! Every leader of the Independence Front was invited, as were the whole of the Electoral Commission. It was quite an affair!’

‘No, he is Greek,’ said Mahmoud about the gentleman who had just greeted them on his way out. ‘He is the head of accounts at Mitchell Cotts and has been for years. His brother owns the GMH cabaret. Between them they own the most expensive, spacious villas in Khartoum, which they rent out.’

‘That young man,’ said Nigel Harrison, ‘graduated from Oxford University. He was on a Sudan Government Scholarship. Now he’s joined the Department of Finance as one of the first Sudanese graduate recruits.’

Mahmoud looked at the young man. He seemed vaguely familiar and had, in fact, addressed him as Uncle Mahmoud when he came over to their table. He looked not much older than Nur.

‘Was he at Victoria College by any chance?’

‘Yes, I dare say he was.’

Victoria. Whenever Mahmoud had visited Nur, he would take him and his friends, as well as every Sudanese student, out for lunch. Maybe that young man with the bright prospects had been one of them. How these boys used to devour their kebabs and koftas! Fond memories. Nur running across the field with the ball; Nur, all in white, playing cricket. Mahmoud felt a sudden shame. This was how he was coming to regard Nur’s condition: as a blight on the tapestry of the family’s life. The more Mahmoud threw himself into work, into daily life, the more Nur, on his bed, seemed unnatural, an aberration that was almost impossible to get used to. Every day, every single day after the morning session at the office and before lunch, Mahmoud went to see him. It was his duty to do so. Just to sit for a few minutes and ask, ‘Is there anything you need, son?’ Mahmoud’s consolation was doing practical things for Nur: summoning the doctor, buying him a bigger radio, encouraging his friends to visit him. He had no words of explanation or comfort for the boy, only diversions. He had promised that he would take him to London and cure him. They went and came back. Life was random blotches of misery and bliss, Fate lapping up good fortune and humans wrestling bad luck. How was it that he was always blessed where money was concerned? Even in London, in the midst of all the disappointments and expenditure, there came that commission from the Duke of Bedford.

‘Did I tell you,’ he now said to Nigel Harrison, ‘about the monkey nuts I shipped to Liverpool for the Duke of Bedford’s aviary?’

At Mahmoud’s age, there could be no turnaround, no starting fresh. He was reaping what he had sown; he was living a time of achievements, a time of outcomes. At this moment, for example, as he sipped his drink and appreciated the murmur of voices around him, he was proud that he was sitting in the Grand Hotel with an Englishman. This was a situation he had worked for. Every time he stayed at the Ritz in London, on his very first day, as soon as he walked in he would tip the doorman, the bellboy, the concierge and the chambermaids. What was the point of tipping them on the way out (although he did that too)? He tipped them on arrival so that they could treat him well, so that they would overlook his colour and his nationality and give him the respect he deserved. Money talks. A coin pressed into that white palm to hear the sweet word ‘Sir’.

‘He is politically anti-British,’ Nigel Harrison was saying about one of the Sudanese gentlemen at Sir Christopher Cox’s table, ‘but, on a social level, very charming, and with a great sense of humour.’

‘In this country politics are shaped by tribal affiliations and everyone’s allegiances are those of his ancestors and family.’

‘This is true for the older generation, but the young are different,’ Harrison protested. ‘The Sudan Student office in London sent out a circular requesting students to provide information on their age, tribe etc. Hardly any of them wrote down their specific tribe. They all described themselves as Sudanese.’

‘This is Britain’s aspiration, but I tell you, ethnic divisions run deep in this country.’

‘Not to the extent that it would hamper a Sudan free of Egyptian influence.’

‘Well, to be frank, I would not mind a unity with Egypt. This, as I said to you before, is a natural consequence of my family’s background.’

‘Do you sincerely believe that a union is in the interests of the Sudan? I do not.’

‘We are historically, geographically and culturally tied.’

‘Only the North.’

‘It was Egypt which financed Kitchener’s force.’

‘My grandfather served under Lord Kitchener. He said it was a campaign that was left far too long. By the time they arrived in Khartoum, there was nothing worth saving.’

‘Oh, the chaos of the Mahdists!’ Mahmoud sat back in his chair. ‘To the extent that it has become an expression. Here’s an anecdote for you. When General Gordon was killed and the Mahdi’s army took over Umdurman, my mother was a young girl. Because she was fair-skinned, her parents hid her in the cellar. They were afraid she would be captured by one of these hooligans. No one trusted them. My mother stayed in that cellar for days. She hated it, and insisted that it was haunted by jinn! Whereas the jinn were out there, raping and looting Umdurman to their hearts’ content! When things settled down, the Mahdi himself moved to Umdurman and made it his capital. Every notable man lined up to swear allegiance to him. They had no choice. My father was one of them. He bent down on the floor and kissed the Mahdi’s hand. If he hadn’t done that his shops and land would have been confiscated and his precious agency would have been razed to the ground. I applaud him for this. He grovelled on his knees so that I could be the man I am today, so that I could have an inheritance. He was pragmatic in that way.’

‘Did he immigrate from Egypt?’

‘No, his father did. In 1801 my grandfather walked to the Sudan, yes, all this way on foot. Why? To escape recruitment into Muhammad Ali Pasha’s army, even though that army was actually heading here!’

‘I read that the Viceroy of Egypt invaded the Sudan to find gold and to capture slaves.’

‘There was hardly any gold — a little in the Red Sea Hills — but the slave trade flourished. That’s how our Nubian women found themselves in the harems of the Ottoman sultans!’ Mahmoud chuckled. ‘That was the mission my grandfather absconded from. He had an aversion to cruelty and injustice and he didn’t want to kill or loot or kidnap. He wanted to trade. He wanted to buy and sell, to exchange and barter and strike a deal. You know, Mr Harrison, I consider commerce to be a noble profession, whatever anyone else might say. While other men fight and hate, we give and take. We negotiate with everyone, Christian, Jew and pagan. Money and goods are what makes men equal. That is my creed. And true righteousness is not in taking a political stance or on serving slogans. It is in fair trade. I am not a religious man by any means, but there is one saying of the Prophet Muhammad that I cling to. He said: “The truthful and honest merchant will be with the prophets, affirmers of truth and martyrs.” I am not a perfect Muslim. .’ Mahmoud picked up his glass of whiskey and held it up in the air, ‘. . but when I die and meet my Maker I will say to Him, this is what I have done: I have never cheated and I have never defaulted. I have helped those who came to me asking for help, and I have spent my charity on widows and orphans. And I will say to God Almighty, yes, I disobeyed you at times, and I was lazy when it came to acts of worship, but I am that honest merchant which your Messenger talked about.’

Shortly before midnight, the driver drove him home. In the darkness, lulled by the movement of the car, his early cheer subsided. He dozed, and the image of Nur settled before him; supine and good for nothing, his body dead but his mind and soul young and alert. How strange it was, how strange! Questions sprang like rebellion to his mind: if Fate was intent on striking one of his sons, why Nur? Why not Nassir who was already a disappointment? Why not Farouk who, as a young child with a foreign mother, seemed distant and insubstantial? And if Mahmoud was meant to lose Nur, why didn’t the sea take him once and for all? Death would have been devastating, but sharper and infinitely more decisive. Instead of this daily, hourly, lingering suffering. And the boy’s eyes, with their hot pain and bewilderment, waiting patiently for what — a cure or just oblivion? Mahmoud sighed and lit a cigarette. There was no benefit to these unanswerable questions. The English were right in keeping their stiff upper lip; that was the civilised way. Everyone had cried enough over Nur, even his fiancée, Soraya. Young men would queue to ask for her hand, now; she would be married off in no time. And Mahmoud would smile at her wedding and throw parties such as the country hadn’t seen before. Let no one say he was sour because she was marrying another man’s son!

He tapped his ash in the car’s ashtray and shifted in his seat. Thinking of Nassir was no consolation either. His brother’s accident hadn’t sobered him in the least. True, he rounded a good crowd of friends to keep Nur company, but he still came into the office late every morning, and he was listless and inept. The move from Medani to Khartoum had not straightened him out. Instead, there were new rumours which Mahmoud would have to confront; hints that Nassir was keeping a mistress in Khartoum. He sighed. Nabilah was good at getting him to forget his worries. Looking at her youth, her outfits, her mannerisms, lightened his temper and eased him into a brighter, frivolous mood. With her he became an image he favoured, the dashing Bey, a man of the world, sophisticated and dynamic. But he was to return home that night to discord and aggravation; a traumatised daughter and a furious wife.

The next day at the office he could scarcely concentrate on the details of the tender that was spread open on his desk. Ferial in pain, butchered for no reason, no reason at all. He winced as he pictured the mutilation and her screams. He blinked and took a sip of his Turkish coffee. The small cup rattled against the saucer. Even if he were to call a reputable surgeon, nothing could be done to restore her to what she was before. He took another sip of coffee.

‘Your hands are shaking.’ Idris, too, was having his morning coffee.

‘I hardly slept last night.’ He sat back in his chair, elbows on the arm rests.

‘How is Ferial this morning?’

‘She ate and is looking much better. She has no fever and so far no complications.’

‘Once the stitches are out, she’ll be fine. Zeinab is doing well, too. What’s done is done. It can’t be reversed and there is no point even talking about it.’

Mahmoud felt bolstered by Idris’s pragmatism. He got his voice back. ‘Midnight, and Nabilah was demanding that I go over to Waheeba, not only to shout at her but to divorce her there and then!’

Idris folded open his newspaper. ‘Buy her a gift. On your way home get her a piece of expensive jewellery. That should placate her.’

Mahmoud snorted and put his face in his hands. It had been a terrible night. He had tossed and turned while Nabilah kept vigil in Ferial’s room. What a scene she had made! He was still reeling.

‘Would you believe it,’ he said, ‘she even dismissed the nanny. I found the poor girl wailing, with her belongings all packed up. I told her to stay put. Are people’s livelihood a game?’

‘You did right,’ his brother said, without looking up. ‘In a day or two Nabilah will simmer down and she’ll be relieved that the nanny didn’t go.’

‘I strictly forbade Waheeba from going ahead with this business!’ He banged his desk. ‘She just doesn’t listen. And where were my son and your daughter in all of this? Is this what Nassir and Fatma wanted for their girl? They’re the younger generation, they should be more enlightened.’

Idris looked up.

‘As if you don’t know this society! Fatma and Nassir can’t stand up to Waheeba — I bet you they didn’t even try. And listen to you talking. You might be progressive, but the rest of the country isn’t. Who cares if the British outlawed female circumcision? The practice has just gone underground, that’s all. Consider it a patriotic act of resistance.’ He smirked.

‘Nonsense,’ said Mahmoud. ‘It’s barbaric. I have said time and time again that I would not have this procedure done in my house and Waheeba had no right to disobey me. Besides, she took Ferial without her mother’s consent, knowing full well that Nabilah would not give her consent. She’s deliberately malicious, that woman, chock full of envy. It’s disgusting.’

‘What happened to Nur has made Waheeba aggressive.’ Idris folded his newspaper. ‘She wasn’t like that before.’

‘Speaking of Nur, his nurse, what’s his name. . Shukry. . absconded after making off with Waheeba’s gold!’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Early this morning. I drank my tea and went over to tell her off about yesterday and found the whole hoash in an uproar. The theft must have happened during the night, but they only discovered it at dawn. They all slept outside yesterday because it was hot and the nurse went into Waheeba’s room, broke open the cupboard and took her jewellery.’

‘Did you tell the police?’

‘Of course. And Waheeba is blaming Nabilah for bringing a thief to our house. She has the audacity to do so! Just because Shukry is Egyptian and Nabilah is the one who asked me to hire him for Nur.’

They were interrupted by a knock on the door and in came a short, dishevelled Egyptian man, who launched into lengthy greetings. He was clearly in awe of the office, the presence and the reason he was paying this call. Although Mahmoud could not remember his name, he recognised him as the Arabic teacher, cousin of that thief of a nurse. The teacher had recently taken to visiting Nur and conversing with him on literature. No harm in that, was Mahmoud’s verdict. Anything to keep the poor boy amused and out of the pit of despondency.

‘Mahmoud Bey,’ the teacher was saying, ‘perhaps Master Nur has already mentioned this to you, or perhaps Madame Nabilah did. Sir, I am in dire straits with regards to my accommodation. I live with my family and my aged father in pitiful conditions. And I am here to solicit you, Sir, if you can be so kind as to rent out to me one of your apartments?’

Before Mahmoud could reply, Idris leapt to his feet and threw his newspaper to the ground.

‘Is it possible? After what your cousin did to us? How dare you show your face here and ask for help.’

‘My. . my cousin?’ the man stammered. ‘What has he done, God forbid?’

‘Shukry the nurse is your cousin. Isn’t that how he got his employment, through you?’

‘Yes — yes!’ his eyes bulged large with anxiety.

‘Ustaz Badr doesn’t know.’ The teacher’s name suddenly came to Mahmoud’s mind. ‘He has no idea what happened this morning.’

‘Well, I’ll tell him,’ bellowed Idris, towering over Badr, who was by now almost trembling. ‘Your cousin turned out to be a thief! He stole Hajjah Waheeba’s gold and now the police are after him.’

Badr turned pale and rigid. He mumbled incoherently and Mahmoud began to feel sorry for him.

‘Get out!’ shouted Idris. ‘Go and retrieve our belongings for us. Discipline that relation of yours. Once the police get their hands on him, he’ll curse the day he reached out for what wasn’t his!’

Badr found his voice. He wanted them to know that he condemned his cousin’s action. Shukry was no good; he had never held one job for long. He was a scoundrel and now, even worse, a thief! He was a burden on Badr and a scourge. He should have stayed in Egypt and never come here looking for work.

‘Go, go,’ repeated Idris. ‘Enough of all this!’

Mahmoud, too, wanted to see the back of Badr. A replacement for Shukry had to be found. Was there no end to these domestic trials? And still there was Nassir to confront.

The meeting with Nassir had to be conducted in private — it could not take place in front of Idris. Nassir squirmed in his seat as Mahmoud placed his pen in the ink stand.

‘Where were you yesterday when your crazy mother decided to circumcise your daughter Zeinab and dragged Ferial into it as well? Why didn’t you prevent her?’

Nassir looked relieved, as if he had been expecting a different topic of conversation.

‘Oh, Father, these are women’s issues, what does it have to do with me?’

‘Shame on you!’ Mahmoud snapped. ‘Your own daughter’s wellbeing and you don’t want to shoulder the responsibility for it?’

‘It’s Fatma who’s to blame. She must have known about it.’

‘You know Fatma is weak in front of her mother-in-law. You should have put your foot down.’

‘To tell you the truth,’ Nassir smiled, ‘Mother sweetened me up with a little something.’

Mahmoud banged his desk and Nassir jumped.

‘How dare you! Your mother goes against my wishes and you allow her to buy your silence. You are disgusting, Nassir. You sicken me!’

Nassir stood up.

‘Sit down! I am not finished with you. This morning a Greek gentleman came here, claiming that we, as a company, owe him rent on one of his villas in Khartoum.’

There was a silence in the room. Now Nassir started to look anxious. He looked down at the ground. Mahmoud continued,

‘Why should we, as a company, lease a villa in Khartoum! Naturally I asked to see the contract and I am waiting for him to get back to me. Do you, by any chance, know anything about this?’

‘Yes,’ Nassir swallowed. ‘I took out this lease.’

‘For a villa in Khartoum? Whatever for?’

‘Well, it’s tedious to return to Umdurman for lunch and siesta then back again for the evening office session. It is convenient to have a place in town.’

‘Presumably you furnished and staffed it.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And you signed the lease in the company’s name?’

‘I had no choice. It put me in a favourable position. And—’

‘How dare you!’ Mahmoud interrupted. ‘How dare you use my name without my permission?’

Nassir’s voice was sharp with resentment.

‘You would not have granted me permission. I am so often short of funds, but you have little compassion towards me.’

‘Listen,’ Mahmoud glared at him, ‘what you’re doing is dishonest. You want to cheat on your wife? You want to keep a mistress? Then be a man and do it at your own expense. Don’t drag my name into this.’ Mahmoud lowered his voice and spoke more slowly, ‘What havoc would this wreak if Fatma found out and complained to her father? Believe me, your Uncle Idris taking offence is not pleasant!’

‘Oh no, no!’ protested Nassir. ‘It is nothing like that, I swear.’

‘Don’t swear. I detest liars and I abhor cheats. And, on top of this, you are not even capable of financing your own sins. You expect me to bail you out? Well, here’s a surprise for you. I will not do so. Let that Greek kick you and your lady-friend out of that villa. I will not lift a finger to help you. When you leave this office now, you will go and change the lease to your name and face that landlord yourself. You’re a grown man, Nassir. I would like to slap you but I can’t.’ His voice became soft, almost pleading. ‘You have a son and a daughter — when are you going to take your life seriously? Think of our forefathers and their accomplishments. Think of the family’s name and our reputation.’ His voice almost broke. These sentiments came from his core.

At Louisinian’s the jeweller’s, Mahmoud relaxed. Mr Louis-inian’s warm welcome was gratifying and Mahmoud took a seat, wiping his brow with his handkerchief and sipping a glass of cold lemonade. He liked Mr Louisinian’s restrained professionalism and his immaculate appearance. On trays of red velvet, the jewellery was placed in his view.

‘I see that the construction work is progressing in your new building,’ said Mr Louisinian.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Mahmoud took another sip of lemonade.

He had recently purchased all the materials needed for the finishing. Things were going well indeed. If he had not been in a hurry today he would have passed by the building to check on the progress. It gave him such pride to see it standing strong and tall, the first high-rise in the city, a symbol of modernity and prosperity.

He chatted with Mr Lousinian about the businesses that were now applying to lease units in the building. The conversation became more interesting than the jewellery he was selecting! In the end, he bought Nabilah a necklace on which beads made of solid gold were strung together. It was expensive and unusual, too.

‘Unique,’ as Mr Louisinian put it, ‘distinguished.’

For Ferial, he bought a brooch in the shape of a flower. There was a diamond in place of the centre and the stem and the petals were in gold. He felt refreshed. Now he could face his daily, dutiful visit to Nur.

Before he stepped into Nur’s room he heard him admonishing his mother.

‘You knew you were doing something wrong. That’s why you hid it from me and left me in this room. I kept calling out for someone to take me out to the hoash but you wouldn’t let anyone come! You knew I would have shouted the house down. Causing these little girls to suffer! For no reason, for no good reason. .’

When Mahmoud made his appearance, Nur stopped talking. He looked scruffy today. Of course, with the nurse gone, he had not been shaved and he was naked to the waist. Waheeba looked haggard. The heavy chores of changing and feeding Nur must have fallen on her shoulders. She sat up when Mahmoud walked in, but maintained a sulky silence, as if she was waiting for him to leave so that she could lie down again. In spite of the fan whirling overhead, the room was hot. The smell of disinfectant tickled Mahmoud’s nose. He picked up where Nur had left off.

‘I explicitly forbade you from carrying out this barbarity in my house. Time and time again, I told you.’

‘This is women’s business,’ she retorted.

‘No, no. Don’t use this argument on me. You dragged my daughter into this. You were spiteful and wicked and I will not let this incident pass, believe me. Because of this, you are not going to visit your relations in Sinja. I absolutely forbid it.’

She frowned. ‘But I have already made my preparations. They are expecting me like every year.’

‘I don’t care. You have done wrong and you must be punished.’

She looked dismayed, ‘What excuse shall I say to them?’

‘What excuse?’ he bellowed. ‘Your stupidity is the excuse! Tell them you disobeyed your husband. Tell them you broke my word in my house.’

‘On a day like this?’ she cried out. ‘You are being harsh to me when all my gold’s been stolen?’ The robbery had turned her into a victim, and all morning the neighbourhood women had visited to commiserate.

‘Shush, I don’t want to hear another word from you. I am here to visit my son and it would be better for you to remove yourself from my sight!’

She stood up, not without difficulty, gathered her to be around her and waddled out of the room.

The awkward silence that followed was broken by Nur.

‘Did the police catch Shukry?’ he asked.

Mahmoud shook his head and described the Arabic teacher’s visit to the office.

‘Ustaz Badr has been very good to me. He spends time with me reading literature and he refuses to be paid. He insists that these are informal discussions, not proper lessons to prepare for an examination, so I hope you will help him with his accommodation problem.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Let’s first get your mother’s jewellery back and establish that Ustaz Badr had nothing to do with the robbery. Oh, before I forget, I have a letter for you from Dublin.’

He took the envelope out of his pocket. It was moments like these that he found awkward and denting. A part of him still expected Nur to get out of bed, to walk towards him and take the letter. That was what the old Nur would have done, the well-mannered boy who would not remain seated if Mahmoud stood up, who would be the first to put his hand forward to greet his father. Now nature was subverted. When the doctor in London had suggested that Nur be taught how to use his teeth, nose and forehead to be more independent, Mahmoud had rejected the idea. It nauseated him. Waheeba was better than him, in that respect. She was not embarrassed, nor was she overwhelmed. Thank God for that. Mahmoud could depend on her to look after Nur’s needs now that there was no nurse. She was the only one able to cope with the boy’s moodiness, the days he refused to eat, his migraines, his many minor infections and afflictions. Times had changed indeed; his estranged, unwanted wife was now indispensable.

Zaki, summoned by Nur, came into the room still in his school uniform. He took the envelope from Mahmoud, placed a large wooden board on Nur’s lap and, after showing Nur the envelope, slit it open. The letter was placed on the board within Nur’s range of vision. All this took time. So much patience to achieve such a trivial task.

I wouldn’t have put up with this, thought Mahmoud, I would have boiled over long ago.

‘It’s from Tuf Tuf,’ said Nur. ‘After Victoria he went to Trinity College.’

Mahmoud smiled. It was a pleasure to see Nur animated, even if these happy moments were few and far between. It was time now to head towards Nabilah’s quarters.

She would, Mahmoud thought, appreciate it that on the day Waheeba’s gold was stolen, he had gone and bought jewellery for her and not for Waheeba. Of course, what had been done to Ferial was awful. Of course, Waheeba had behaved abominably, but there was nothing he could do now. Nabilah would eventually simmer down; she would, sooner or later, be reasonable. He found her in Ferial’s room. The girl was sitting up in bed and Nabilah was spooning custard in her mouth. He greeted them and bent down to kiss Ferial. The girl smiled, but her mother was cool and withdrawn.

‘Look what I got you. .’ He clumsily pinned the brooch on Ferial’s nightdress.

‘Thank you, Father, it’s very pretty.’

She turned to her mother, eyeing her for a confirmation, but only found a disapproving look.

Mahmoud squeezed Ferial’s shoulder.

‘In a day or two, you will forget all this pain.’

He slid the box with the necklace across the bed to Nabilah and went to sit in the armchair. He wanted to resolve the situation and eat so that he could have his much-needed siesta. Usually, at this time of day, Nabilah would be bustling around him, ordering lunch and prattling about her day or asking who he had invited for dinner that evening. Today, she was giving him the cold treatment, and she was wearing a plain housecoat. She had not bothered to change her clothes or powder her nose in order to welcome him.

‘Aren’t you going to look at what I got you?’

She opened the box but hardly gazed at the necklace.

‘Is that all you can do? Stop on the way home and buy me a gift. Your own word, in your own house, has no meaning. You have been blatantly disobeyed and you’re doing nothing about it! Tell me, you have just come back from there, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I went to see Nur.’ He folded his arms across his chest.

‘And you didn’t divorce her?’

He didn’t reply.

‘I can’t believe it!’ Her voice rose to shriek. ‘Waheeba’s going to get away with what she’s done! Instead of standing by my side, you are going to let her off. Aren’t you indignant on my behalf? On your daughter’s behalf?’

‘Yes, I am furious. But what good will divorcing her achieve? She is Nur’s mother; he needs her now more than ever. I can’t kick her out of the saraya.’

‘Then I will be the one to go!’

‘Nabilah, don’t say that. You will feel calm in a day or so. Look, Ferial will get better in no time. Already she has passed through the first difficult hours with, thank God, no complications. Give yourself time. This morning’s robbery hasn’t made things any easier. That wretched nurse has let us all down.’

‘What are you insinuating? Are you blaming me for recommending him?’

‘No, I am not. But everyone will naturally ask did you check his credentials?’

‘I can’t believe it!’ she shrieked. ‘Look at your poor daughter, look at her suffering!’

He looked at Ferial’s peaked face, with the dark shadows under her eyes from the shock and the pain. She would recover and be like any other Umdurman girl. Nur was the one who would never stand up again. Mahmoud felt his body heavy on the armchair, in the lash of her voice.

‘Divorce Waheeba or else I am out of here.’

Later he would reflect that he should have ignored her. He should have walked out of the room. But he was hungry and irritable, fatigued and restless.

‘Don’t threaten me, Nabilah! Don’t do that.’

‘Listen, it is either me or her.’

When he didn’t reply, she repeated, ‘It’s either me or her.’

‘Go!’ He waved his hand. ‘The door is wide enough for a camel to pass through. Go, I certainly won’t stop you.’

She was taken aback. He saw the confusion on her face and hoped that she would back down now.

But she jerked her head.

‘So this is how much I mean to you! No, I will not accept this situation. Never.’

She ripped the necklace from its box and threw it at his face. It hit him on the cheek. He blinked, and saw it skid to the floor.