Minaret: A Novel (3 page)

`I like Russian writers,' I said to Anwar next time, for there was a next time, a second chance that was not as accidental as the first. We walked together, past the post office and the university bookshop.

`Who?'

`Pushkin,' I said. He was not impressed with my reply.

`Look,' he said, `if I gave you some leaflets, would VOL] help me pass them out?'

`I can't. I promised my father I wouldn't get involved in student politics.'

He shrugged and raised his eyebrows as if to say, `Why am I not surprised?'

`What are your own political views?' he asked.

`I don't know. I don't have any.'

What do you mean you don't know?'

`Everyone seems to blame everyone else.'

`Well, someone has to take the blame for what's happening.'

'Why?'

`So that they can pay the price.'

I didn't like him saying that. Pay the price.

`Your father is close to the President?'

`Yes. They're friends too.'

`Have you met him?'

Of course. He telephones my father at home and I answer the phone.'

`Just like that.' He smiled.

`Yes, it's nothing. Once, years ago, when I was in primary school, he phoned and when I answered I said "hello" in a very English way.' I held an imaginary receiver in my ear, mimicked myself saying, `Hello, 44959.' I liked the way Anwar was watching me, the amusement in his eyes. `Then,' I continued, `the President got angry and he said, "Speak properly, girl! Speak to me in Arabic".'

Anwar burst out laughing. I was pleased that I had made him laugh.

`I like talking to you,' he said, slowly.

`Why?' That was the way to hear nice things. Ask why.

Years later, when I looked back, trying to remember the signs of hidden tension, looking behind the serenity, I think of the fights that I took for granted. The smell of dust and sewers fought against the smell of jasmine and guava and neither side won. The Blue Nile poured from the Highlands of Ethiopia and the Sahara encroached but neither was able to conquer the other. Omar wanted to leave. All the time Omar wanted to leave and I, his twin, wanted to stay.

`Why Samir and not me?' he asked Baba as we ate lunch. We ate from china and silver. We wiped our mouths with napkins that were washed and ironed every day.

`Because Samir didn't get good enough grades,' Mama said. She had just come back from the hairdresser and her hair curled over her shoulder. I could smell her hairspray and cigarettes. I wished I were as glamorous as her, open and generous, always saying the right things, laughing at the right time. One day I would be.

`So, is it fair,' I said, in support of Omar, `that the one who gets the poor grades gets to go abroad and the one who gets the good grades stays here?' Samir was our cousin, the on of Uncle Saleh, Mama's brother. Samir was now in Atlantic College in Wales doing the IB, which was like A levels.

You too?' Baba glared at me.

No, I don't want to go anywhere. I want to stay here with you.' I smiled at Mama and she smiled hack. We were too close for me to leave her and go study abroad.

'Najwa is very patriotic,' Omar said sarcastically.

As you should he,' said Baba.

`Eat and argue later,' said Mama but they ignored her.

1 want to go to London. I hate studying here.' Omar meant it. I could tell from his voice that he meant it.

`It's good for you,' Baba said. `Roughen you up a hit. All this private schooling you've had has spoilt you. In university you're seeing how the other side lives. You'll understand the reality of your country and the kind of work environment you'll he facing one day. When I was your age ...

Omar groaned. I began to fear a scene. I swallowed, afraid of Baha shouting and Omar storming out of the house. I would have to spend the rest of the day phoning round searching for him.

I stood alone at the bottom of the garden. My admirer passed by on his bicycle. His clothes were awful and his haircut was terrible. It wasn't flattering to he admired by someone like him. I felt the familiar anger rise in me. But it was fun to he angry with him. I frowned at him, knowing well that any response would only encourage him. He grinned hopefully and pedalled away. I actually knew nothing about him.

`Come with me, Najwa', Mama said. She was wearing her plain blue tope and her black high-heeled sandals. They made a tapping noise on the marble of the front terrace. She carried a plastic hag full of lollipops and sweets.

Musa, the driver, came round with the car, gravel churning in the stillness of the afternoon. He opened the car door for her and went to bring out from the house more plastic bags bulging with old clothes and two pails of homemade biscuits. I recognized Omar's old Coca-Cola T-shirt and a pink dress that I'd stopped wearing because it was out of fashion.

`Where are you going?' I guessed from Mama's subdued clothes that it wasn't anywhere fun.

`Cheshire Home,' she said, getting into the back of car. She said `Cheshire Home' gaily as if it were a treat. Only Mama could do that.

I hesitated a little. The thin twisted limbs of the children disturbed me and I preferred it when she took me to the school for the deaf. There the children, though they could not speak properly, were always running about carefree, with sharp intelligent eyes taking in what they couldn't hear.

But I got in the car next to her and, when Musa started the car, she opened her bag and gave me a spearmint gum.

`If you could see the orphanage your Aunt took me to yesterday!' she said. `In comparison Cheshire is Paradise. Dirty, dirty, you wouldn't believe it.'

I wrinkled my nose in disgust. I was relieved they had gone in the morning when I was in university and so had not been able to drag me along.

`And they have nothing,' she went on. `But is this an excuse not to keep the children clean?'

She did not expect a reply from me. Musa was smiling and nodding in the driver's seat as if she was talking to him. That's how she was. That's how she talked. There were times when she was animated and other times when she would be low and quiet. And it was strange that often at parties and weddings she would he sober, preoccupied, yet in crises she had the strength to rise to whatever the situation demanded. I knew, listening to her talk about the orphanage, that she was not going to let it rest. She would pull every string, harass my father and harass His Excellency himself until she got what she wanted.

Cheshire Home was cool and shady, in a nice part of town with bungalows and old green gardens. I envied my mother's ease, how she swept in with her hag of sweets and her biscuits, with Musa walking behind her carrying the rest of the things. The nurse, Salma, welcomed her like an old friend. Salma was very tall and dark, with high cheekbones and white dazzling teeth. Her drab white uniform did not hide her lovely figure: she looked dignified, with crinkles of white in her hair. `Congratulations,' she said to me, you got into university.' She had not seen me for a long time.

You keep this place very clean.' Mania started to praise Salina.

`Oh, Cheshire was even better in the past.'

`l know. But it's still good. I went to this orphanage yesterday and it was dirty, dirty, you won't believe it.'

Which one was that?'

The room was large with a blackboard to one side, a few child-sized desks and stools. Cots lined the wall and a few halls and toys were scattered here and there. They looked familiar - maybe Mama had brought some of them in an earlier visit. There were a few posters on the wall about the importance of immunization, and a frightening picture of a baby with smallpox. Salina brought Mania and I chairs but she sat on one of the children's stools. The children clambered towards us in zimmers and some dragged themselves on the floor. One Southern boy was very fast, able to move around the room freely with his arms and one leg.

`One by one and I give you your lollipops,' said Mama. A faint attempt at forming a queue was abandoned in a confused flurry of outstretched hands. Mama gave them a lollipop each.

`John!' Salma called to the Southern boy. `Stop this roaming around and come and get a lollipop.'

He casually heaved himself towards us, grinning, his eyes bright.

What colour would you like?' Mama asked him.

`Red.' His eyes darted here and there, like he was scanning everything or like he was thinking of something else.

`Here. A red one for you,' Mama said. `The last red one, all the rest are yellow.'

He took the lollipop and started to unwrap it. `Is this your car outside?' he asked.

`Yes,' Mama replied.

`What's it to you!' Salma scolded him.

He ignored her and kept looking straight at Mama, `What kind of car is it?'

`Mercedes,' Mama smiled.

He nodded and sucked his lollipop. `I'm going to drive a big lorry.'

`Look at this silly boy,' Salma laughed, `How are you going to drive?'

`I will,' he said.

`With one leg?' Salma raised her eyebrows, sarcastic, amused.

Something changed in him, the look in his eyes. Salma went on, `You need two legs to drive a car.' He pivoted and dragged himself away.

'There are special cars in Europe,' I said, 'for people without ... for disabled people.' It was the first time I had spoken since we arrived; my voice sounded stupid, everyone ignored me.

Suddenly John overturned a desk, dragged a stool round the room banging everything with it.

'Stop it, John, stop being rowdy!' Salina yelled.

He ignored her. He pushed the stool straight across the room. If it hadn't collided with another stool, it would have hit Salma straight on.

'I'm going to call the the police.' Salma stood up. 'They'll come and beat you up.'

He must have believed her for he stopped and became very still. He leaned against the wall. His leg was sticking out at an awkward angle, his head against the wall, lollipop in his mouth. Suddenly still.

In the silence we heard her weeping. She might have been eleven or even twelve; she was very thin, with callipers on both legs and a pink dress that was too small for her. How would she get married, how would she work ? I must not ask these things, Mama always said, there is no point thinking these things, we just have to keep visiting.

'Why is she crying?' Mama asked Salma.

`I don't know.'

'Come and have a lollipop.' Mama called out to the girl but the girl continued to cry.

`Get up now and come and have a lollipop,' Salina shouted at the girl.

'Leave her, Salma. In her own time.' When the girl didn't move, Mama walked over to her and gave her sweets, patted her dishevelled hair. It didn't make any difference. She remained whimpering, with the sweets on her lap, until the end of our visit. Only when we were getting up to go did I see her quieten and start to unwrap the lollipop. Hunched over, she squinted, mucus dribbling from her nose over her mouth. It was a struggle for her to unwrap the lollipop, aim it at her mouth. I had thought that her legs were the problem but there was something wrong with her hands too.

he party at the American club was in full swing when Omar and I arrived. We walked into the tease of red and blue disco lights and the Gap Band's `Say Oops Upside Your Head'.

'Where were you?' my best friend Randa screeched above the music. 'Come with me to the bathroom.'

'But I just got here.' I tried to protest but she grabbed my arm and pulled me.

`You look amazing,' I said to her. She was wearing a black halter-neck T-shirt and a longish swirling skirt. I hadn't made half the effort she had made. The bathroom was smelly and hot. Randa put on strawberry-flavoured lip gloss and smoothed her eyebrows. She had glitter in her hair and on her bare shoulders.

'Have you been to the hairdresser?'

`Yes I've been to the hairdresser.'

'My trousers are too tight.' An awkward twisting around to see my hips in the mirror.

`Your trousers are fine - how did you get them on?'

'Aaah ...'

'Just joking.'

`Is he here?'

`Yes, His Highness has just walked in two minutes ago and I've been here since seven!'

His Highness was the unreadable Amir whom she had been going out with for the past six months. He had lately been acting strangely.

`Tonight,' she said, `I'm going to get some response from him.'

I avoided her eyes. There were rumours that Amir had become friendly with a girl from the Arab Club. I didn't have the courage to tell Randa. Instead I said, `You really look nice today.'

`Thanks, my love.'

`Let's get out of here, I'm suffocating.'

`Wait.' Out of her handbag came the inevitable mint spray. She opened her mouth and sprayed, then turned towards me. I hated the taste but opened my mouth anyway.

Outside the bathroom, the air was fresh and some children were still in the swimming pool. Delicious smells of kebab and French fries came from the kitchen.

`I'm hungry,' I said.

`Is this a time for food?'

I caught her excitement and we giggled arm in arm down the steps and back to the tingling darkness of the party. It was my favourite song, Boney M's `Brown Girl in the Ring'. I started to sing along. In the middle of the dance floor the Indian girl Sundari was dancing with her marine. Her black straight hair swung all the way down to her waist and when she turned it flew up and fell down. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She had a way of dancing where she moved far away from her partner and with sharp high heels skipped back towards him again. He looked so like a Sudanese you could easily be fooled, but Randa and I had analysed him deeply and decided that you could tell he was American just by the way he held himself - conscious of this unglamorous part of the world he had been posted to.