Minaret: A Novel (23 page)

The kitchen is not the usual battlefield. The table has been cleared, the dishes washed, a casserole sits in the sink, full of soapy water. Only the breakfast mugs and dishes need washing. Doctora Zeinab's presence is tangible. She had brought trays of baglau'a and basboosa, jars of green olives, tins of foul, even frozen stuffed vine leaves and moulokbia. All these things are available in London but they are probably cheaper in Cairo. For Mal there is a doll and a stuffed rabbit. She toddles in now clutching them in both hands. I give her breakfast and try not to get cereal on the new toys. The slam of the door means that Lamya has gone out, forgetting to kiss her daughter goodbye.

Doctora Zeinab smiles as she walks into the kitchen. I like her - her thick auburn hair, the way she beams at Mai, the way she stands waiting for the kettle to boil, her hands on her hips, not caring that her stomach is bulging. I have always been vain and careful. Even when I am completely alone, I watch my posture, check that my eyebrows are smooth, that no food is stuck between my teeth. Whenever I come into contact with women like Doctora Zeinah, large and unselfconscious, I admire them.

She speaks and I warm to her accent. `I'm glad Lamya and Tamer are well. Alhamdullilah, this set-up is successful. I thought it would be when I planned it all out for them. It's nice that they're together, nice that they're in a proper home, not in student halls. I could have kept Mai with me in Cairo - maybe Lamya would have even preferred that but it's better that they're not separated. And Hisham will be coming here for visits. His wife in London, his daughter in Cairo - that wouldn't be sensible.'

I nod and hide my surprise, remember to swing back into my role as maid, play the part. I have been lax because of Tamer. I am surprised that she is saying all this when Lamya is having problems with her husband and Tamer hates his course. Perhaps she does not consider these complaints to be serious, which is reassuring for me. If they abandon their studies and leave London, what will become of me?

She chats. `I wish I could stay longer but I have to travel to New York the day after tomorrow. And I can't pass by on the way back either - my ticket is New York to Cairo direct.'

`It must be tiring to spend so much time on the aeroplane.' I stuff laundry into the washing machine, his shirt and underwear.

`Oh, I just take a sleeping pill and I don't know anything till the stewardess wakes nee up and says we've arrived.' She laughs.

I've always been wary of sleeping pills as if I can't trust myself with them. What would life be if I were like her; professional, capable and mobile, not bogged down' `I-:nvv devours your good actions like fire devours fuel,' the Prophet, peace be upon him, said. I know it but I still do it, I still yearn for what others have.

In the afternoon I offer to go grocery shopping in Church Street. The Tesco there is cheaper than the nearby Europa store. This comment earns me all approving smile and 1)octora Zeinab says that she and Mai will accompany me. I carry Mai and her pushchair down the steep steps that lead to the canal. I feel a twinge in Illy back - sometimes these twinges disappear, sometimes the ache sets in and lasts for days. It is pleasant to walk along the canal, marvel at the houseboats and how some people live on them. Another flight of steps and we are in the hustle of Church Street, a world removed from St ,john's Wood. We enjoy the street market, the sights and sounds. 'They've got everything,' says 1)octora Zeinab, `even fresh okra.' The supermarket is not big but we pile up a trolley and this abundance pleases her, this stocking up. In the cal) going home, she says, `Until Lanlya and Tamer go home for the Christmas holidays, they won't need to do any more shopping.' Lanlya is going to her husband in Oman, Tamer is going with his father to Khartoum.

After I put the shopping away I tidy his room. It is changed because of his mother's presence - both beds unmade instead of only his, the smell of her perfume, her suitcases on the floor. There is no sign of his book A Treatise on the Art and Practice of Arab Love. He had hidden it from her. The door opens and she is taken aback to see me smoothing his pillow, `Why didn't you do this room in the morning when you did all the cleaning?' I flush and have no adequate reply, only an apologetic mumble. She sighs at my stupidity, `Come and start the cooking.'

I am taking the chicken out of the fridge when he walks into the kitchen. He comes close to me and whispers, `You weren't in the park today.'

I am flattered. I swell with it and say, `I went shopping with your mum.' I remove the chicken from the Tesco packaging.

He looks at my hand and the surprise makes him raise his voice. `What are you doing? Why did you get this chicken? You only ever get halal ones.'

`Your mother bought it.' I throw the cling film in the bin.

`Why didn't you stop her?'

Does he imagine that his mother and I are on equal terms? `She said the butcher in Finchley Road is too far away.'

`This is exactly what I was telling you about the other day,' he hisses. `She can be so lax at time, it bugs me.'

`Shush, she'll hear you.' I wash the chicken under the running tap. Inside it is a small plastic packet full of the innards - something the chickens from the halal butcher never have. It is pleasing to have him standing next to me.

`Well, I'm not going to eat it.' He must have looked like that when he was little and annoyed, with the frown and flashing eyes. He moves away from me and jerks open the cupboard. He takes out a giant pack of tortillas and tears it open.

I want to tease him, to soften his mood. 'I thought you said you weren't going to eat standing up any more?'

He pulls out a chair. I pass him a Or of salsa dip and he takes it without a word, twists the lid open and dunks a crisp into the chunky mixture. I love giving him food, watching him eat. He munches and says, 'I can't believe you're going to cook this chicken.'

'I am.' I pick up a knife and start cutting the wings.

I'm not going to eat it.'

`Neither will I.'

`So I'm supposed to just starve today?' His mouth is full and it makes me laugh.

He swallows. 'What's so funny?'

I look at him, knowing he is hungry, knowing he is spoilt. `You won't starve. You can have rice and salad.'

This is not your fault.' He puts his tortillas down and walks out, calling his mother. I hear them talking in the next room. He sounds childish and nagging. She brushes his arguments aside, saying he is silly, saying he is making a big fuss over nothing. It is a mistake; he becomes aggressive and raises his voice. I freeze, the kitchen knife poised in my hand, as echoes of other quarrels and other mothers ring in my ears. But Omar and Tamer are miles apart, miles apart. I try and reach him. I whisper, 'Control yourself, control yourself, it's not worth it. You will regret your rudeness afterwards; your sensitive nature will he troubled.'

e asks me what I did over the Christmas and New Year. He smiles, fresh and relaxed after having been away. `Did you watch lots of TV?'

I tell him why I don't have a set. He doesn't know what a TV licence is or how much it costs. His mother pays for all these things he takes for granted.

He tells me about his holiday in Khartoum. He watched hours of satellite TV, was invited out to lunches and dinners. He chats about the food he ate, his new digital camera, playing football with his cousins, how it sucks to be back studying again. `I can't understand the lectures sometimes, actually a lot of the time I don't understand.' The world of business is meaningless to him, unreal.

He says, 'I've missed you.' I missed him too; I missed the delight and sweetness. We make up for the lost time. We walk in Queen Mary's Rose Garden when the weather holds, sit in the cafeteria when it rains. Every day is longer; the light is different. We discover playgrounds for Mai deep in the park, larger, more adventurous. We never get lost because we can see the minaret of the mosque and head home towards it. He says, `You actually listen to me. You talk - most people don't talk - as if they have no time.' He misses Oman, he says. He misses his schoolfriends and teachers. He had a friend, Carlos, from Bolivia whose father worked for an oil company. Carlos was a devout Catholic. He loved football and he spoke Spanish. When Carlos was ten he wanted to become a priest but he changed his mind and is now studying Environmental Science at John Hopkins University. They email each other sometimes. Tamer says, `I can't make friends here. I don't know why.'

It is my turn to say, `You listen to me when I speak.' I speak about Omar, about a disappointment that can't go away. `Please pray for him,' I say, `they can keep him locked up and they can let him go but unless Allah forgives him, nothing will change for him.' I want to cry about Omar, to let go and wail like the Palestinian women do on TV when one of their men is killed, but I can't because he is not innocent and there is a bitterness towards him that I hide and try to drown but it doesn't go away.

More than anything else,' I say, `I would like to go on Hajj. If my Hajj is accepted, I will come hack without any sins and start my life again, fresh.'

He says, `I want to ride a camel from Medina to Mecca like the Prophet, peace be upon him, did.'

We talk of Hajj because it is the season. In the mosque there are classes starting for the lucky pilgrims who are due to leave. They seem so ordinary now and when they come hack they will he transformed, privileged. I see this every year, the genuine joy and adventures they speak about. The crowds, the hardship of sleeping in tents, long bus rides, the way they were squeezed and wrung.

He says, `I am ashamed that my parents haven't yet gone to Hajj. Even though they have the money, they keep putting it off.'

One day, insha'Allah, they will go.'

He makes a face. It disturbs me when he is harsh about his parents. It is the only fault I find in him. And over the months I have looked for faults.

Crossing the bridge in the park, we meet Shahinaz, her children and mother-in-law. Tamer stands aside with Mai while I chat with them. I sit on my heels to talk to Ahmed. He is grand in his pushchair, all hidden away in a new spring coat much too big for him. It takes some time for his eyes to focus on me. `Habibi ya Ahmed, have you forgotten me, have you?' He smiles, a lopsided, grudging smile, as if he would rather fall asleep. I stand up and Shahinaz asks, `How come he's with you?' She keeps her voice low. I look towards Tamer. How boyish he looks, how young! His height doesn't add to his age, it only makes him gangly. He holds the handles of Mai's pushchair, leans down to peel away a leaf that is stuck to one of the wheels, wipes his fingers on his jeans. I ignore Shahinaz's question, bend down to kiss Ahmed's head. But she goes on, laughing, `Why is he tagging along after you? Does he need a babysitter too?'

I feel myself blushing. I mumble, `He's free to do what he likes.' I am unnecessarily defensive when all she is expecting is a witty reply, a shared laugh.

She looks at Tamer and then at me. A long look.

`I'm in an awkward position,' I say.

She puts her hand on my arm, `I understand.'

`No, I don't think you do - really.' Her mother-in-law turns to look at me, curious.

`Come to my house and we'll talk.' It's an automatic response from Shahinaz. `Come to my house tonight.'

When I join him, we walk and then he asks, `What's wrong? You're in a funny mood after talking to your friend.'

I take a deep breath, `She said something about us ... about us coming to the park together.'

What do you mean?'

I shrug.

He goes on. `She didn't think it was proper?' People pass us; a plan walking his dog, a woman jogging. Perhaps it is not a good idea to start this conversation. I decide to play things down. `She was just a hit surprised that's all.'

He says, 'I've been thinking along the same lines myself.'

I make my voice light, casual. `What have you been thinking?'

`It's not very Islamic for a man and woman to be friends.' He is calm, almost as if he had rehearsed this line. His calmness makes my hones feel stiff and cool. I am suddenly afraid of losing him.

He says, 'I heard a sheik once say that it's like putting gunpowder and fire next to each other.'

I stop walking and he is forced to turn and look at me, 'Which one am I then - the gunpowder or the fire?'

He flushes. `Don't joke about this - I'm not a little kid!'

'I wasn't joking.' I pause. 'I could leave this job.'

'No, you can't.'

I know I can't.

He says, `I miss my classes to be with you.'

'I come to work every day because of you.'

He blurts out, `We should get married.'

The shock of it makes me laugh. He is hurt; it shows in his face. He folds his arms against his chest, walks off, away from us.

I push Mai faster and catch up with him. I try to cajole him out of his mood. I tell him about an Egyptian film I once saw. A widow in her late fifties is getting married and she's all excited about it. She goes to a beauty salon and then she dies with her hair all in rollers, sitting under the hairdryer. The hairdresser says, `Her heart was weak, it couldn't hear the happiness.'