Minaret: A Novel (5 page)

`Does it not strike you that it is wrong for such wide discrepancies to exist between people? There's famine in the west. This country is one of the poorest in the world.'

I fidgeted in my seat, said, `There is nothing I can do about it.'

His voice softened a little and so did the way he looked at me. `But this isn't true. It's up to us to change the system. It's always up to the students and the workers to change things.'

I told him what I'd read about the Iranian revolution in Time. He seemed amused that I read Time. Perhaps because it was in English and my English was very good because I had gone to a private school. Or perhaps because Time was American.

I wanted to know what he thought about the revolution. He talked about it for a while, approving of the deposing of the Shah but unsupportive of an Islamic government. He echoed Randa's words - `We have to go forward not back' - and was contemptuous of the black chadors.

`You're very progressive then, where women are concerned?' I smiled, pleased with the turn in the conversation that followed, the chance to flirt and prove to myself again and again that, in spite of all his disapproval of my background, he liked me.

Anwar wrote for one of the student newspapers, the one for the Front. Every week the newspapers were handwritten and stapled on to the hoard in the cafeteria. There would be quite a rush for it at first, many students crowding round, standing on tiptoes to read the top pages, sitting on their heels to read the bottom. After a day or two when the crowd subsided I would go and have a look. Most of the articles bored me, but I always read his and tried hard to appreciate them. Most times though, the colours of the letters and the beauty of the handwriting distracted me from the meaning of the words. Titles in large flowing script, red shaded with black, a hold 3-I) effect. There were sometimes illustrations too, a leaf to mark the end of an article, a flying clove. Cartoons too, sketches and a cynical joke. Within the walls of the university, free speech was allowed. The WAS of the university were sacred and even the police were not allowed to go in. But everyone knew that there were spies. With pride, Anwar told me that the secret police had a file on him.

The way he said my name. The way he said, You have an effect on me.' Sometimes he hurt me, said I was stupid, sometimes he made me laugh.

I told Mama about him. She said, 'Don't risk your reputation and waste your time on someone who is never going to he a suitable husband for you.' She could see I was not convinced and her argument became tense. Your father would never approve. And you wouldn't be able to live that kind of life, no servants, no travelling. Believe me, you'd feel had in front of your friends and the family. It would he such a humiliation for you and us.'

OK,' I said, my voice too loud, 'OK.'

Her voice became smooth, trying to explain. 'I hrought you up so that you can have a position in society, so that you can live at a certain standard.'

I walked out of the room catching a glimpse of the genuine alarm in her eyes. She was afraid that I would disobey her, afraid that I would do something rash. But I was held back by the rhythm of going day after clay to the university, sometimes seeing him, sometimes not. I didn't know if I had a place in his future plans; he gave no hint. As for me, I dreamt dreams shaped by pop songs and American films. Then I would shake my head and tell myself that these were the sorts of things he despised.

His English was good in terms of vocabulary and grammar, but his accent was, I had to admit, poor. His clothes were tidy and in nice colours - but they were oldfashioned and he wore sandals instead of socks and trainers. He had not gone to a private school, he had not had private tutors, he was clever just by himself, just reading and going to talks and debates. His father was a senior technician with the railways. His two uncles, one a qualified architect, had been imprisoned for membership of the Communist Party. He had seven brothers and sisters; the eldest, a policewoman, was married with one child, one brother was studying in Moscow, one brother in the Khartoum Branch of Cairo University, then Anwar, then two younger girls in primary school. One of his younger sisters was ill but he didn't like talking about it. His mother was a qualified nurse but she didn't work anymore. He had an aunt who struck lucky and went with her husband to Saudi Arabia. He lived in the hostels and rarely went home, even though his house was across the bridge in Safia. He smoked every day but drank occasionally. He smoked only cigarettes and didn't pray. He never fasted in Ramadan; he did not see the point of it. He had never been abroad but he had travelled around the country, he had been to Port Sudan and the Nuha mountains, El-Obeid and as far south as Juba. I had never been out of Khartoum.

`Why do you go to Europe and not want to see your own country? Our country is beautiful,' he said, striking a match, lighting a cigarette. When no one could see us, in the evenings when the university was poorly lit, we would hold hands or sit close together so that our arms touched.

The speaker stood on an overturned Miranda crate, under the tree. A soft wind blew and the sun was gentle but still I held my copybook over my head and squinted. The crowd was thick around me. There were girls in white tobes and a few like me holding copybooks over their heads. Some of the boys sat on the grass, others on the ledge that separated the paths from the garden. In the distance a sprinkler twirled, shooting out gusts of water at the flowerbeds and the grass. There was a good microphone today and that made a difference. It drew a bigger crowd, and the echo of Anwar's voice reached the cafeteria and inside the library.

He spoke steadily at first, almost coolly and then with a kind of controlled passion. He held himself back, waiting for the challenges and provocations that came with the questions. Only then would he give his best lines, the sharpest argument, the sarcasm, and the punch line, after which he would grin and raise his eyebrows as if to say, `I rest my case'. A joke, a good joke to ridicule his opponent, make those sitting on the grass chuckle and those at the hack smile. I felt proud of him, and the pleasure of looking and listening to him was like a treat - like ice cream when I was a child, a chocolate sundae with cream on top and wishing it would not end. But then he hurt me, and I should have expected it. I should have seen it coning, the inevitable dig at the bourgeoisie. It was his favourite word. But even worse, he was explicit now, using my father's name - my surname, so familiar, so close - and it was like a punch in the stomach, high in my stomach. My breath caught and I went cold but my cheeks were burning. A roar in my ears - the laughter rising around me - blocked out the rest of his sentence. He did not once look at me. I was invisible but that was my name in the direct accusation of my father. That was my name that made everyone laugh. I was an aristocrat, yes, from my mother's side with a long history of acres of land and support for the British and hotels in the capital and bank accounts aboard. And if all that wasn't bad enough, my father stood accused of corruption.

I pushed my way out of the crowd, deaf and not knowing if anyone was looking at me. I knew that I mustn't cry, that I must walk with dignity to my car. I sat in the car, on the hot sticky plastic seat. I released the handbrake, twisted the key in the ignition. As I started to drive off, there was a knock on the window. Omar. Omar in a good mood, smiling. Not Omar of the seedy parties and suspect smell but Omar fresh in a white T-shirt and jeans, smiling. I rolled down the window.

`What's wrong, Nana?'

How did he know? Once long ago we were asleep inside Mama's stomach together, facing each other, twisting and kicking. I would like to go back to that time. The stupid tears come now.

`What's wrong, Nana?'

`Nothing.'

'OK, let me drive.'

`But you don't want to go home now.'

`It's OK, I can come back.'

`That's silly.' I wiped my face with the back of my hands, sniffed.

`Come on, move over.'

I got out and moved around the car to the passenger's seat. I felt floppy and I didn't want to talk.

We saw an accident on the way home. We heard the glass smash as the two cars hit each other: one was a taxi, the other a blue Datsun. People crowded round and all the traffic came to a standstill. Omar turned into a side street to get away from the jam. The side street had a ditch, houses with metal doors. On one of the doors was a design of aces, diamonds, hearts and clubs. Omar put Bob Marley on the tape recorder and sang along to `Misty Morning'.

dived into the pool and the January water was a shock. I surfaced with a catch in my chest, out of breath. `Freezing,' I spluttered.

`You're mad,' Randa shouted from under the umbrella of a poolside table. She had on glamorous sunglasses and was eating a grilled cheese sandwich. My only choice was to swim, keep swimming until I warmed up. The surface of the water was warm where the sun had been hitting it all morning. It was much colder below and so I didn't swim underwater. I reached the shallow end, turned and pushed my legs against the wall, started to breaststroke to the deep end. Some foreigners were on deckchairs sunbathing, slathered in Ambre Solaire reading Sidney Sheldon, but I had the whole of the pool to myself.

It took three lengths before the stiffness of the cold melted away and I began to enjoy myself. My eyes tingled with chlorine, the familiar taste of it in my mouth. My arms and legs separated the water, making a way for me to go ahead. Yesterday I walked right past Anwar without saying hello - he was with some friends pinning up the latest newspapers. It made me feel good to ignore him. He was waiting for me when I came out of the Accounting lecture all nice and smiling as if nothing had happened. He expected me to go walking with him but I just went oft with some girls to the cafeteria. I could still feel, moving in the water, a dull anger towards him.

When I got out of the pool, I wrapped a towel around my waist and sat next to Randa.

The lifeguard couldn't take his eyes off von,' she said.

`Very funny.' I stole a quick look at him. He was wearing a yellow polo shirt over swimming trunks. He was Eritrean.

I took my comb out of my hag and started to tug at my hair. I did not have nice, smooth hair like Mama's.

`Aren't you going to have a shower and shampoo it?'

`No.' After what she had told my about the lifeguard I felt too shy to go and stand under the showers which were just next to him.

`He'll get a good view of you then,' she giggled.

`Exactly.' I felt uncomfortable for no reason. Mama didn't object to me swimming as long as I didn't wear a bikini but, ever since I started university, I had begun to feel awkward, even in my black full-piece.

`My dad booked my ticket today,' Randa said.

`No!'

`Yes. I'm leaving next Saturday. Monday the term will start.'

I counted the days. Ten more days.

`We'll have a goodbye party for you,' I said.

`That will be nice.'

I tried to imagine where she was going. She was not going to London. She was going to Wales. I said, `fly cousin Samir is there too, at Atlantic College. You know, he said they have to do mountain climbing and outdoors stuff like that. It's part of the syllabus. He can tell you all about it. He's here now for the Christmas holidays.'

I pushed my chair hack from under the umbrella so that the sun could dry my hair. Chlorine-streaked hair. I had to go home, wash it and set it fast because I had an evening class.

I wore my denim skirt that evening. It was my favourite, tight and longish, with a slit at the hack. It had two side pockets and a zipper in front just like trousers. I wore my red short-sleeved blouse with the little blue flowers on the collar. My hair turned out nice that day, wavy and not crinkling up into curls. I cared that day about how I looked, more than usual. As if by looking good I would annoy Anwar or show him that I didn't care.

He wasn't there when I got to the university at five. I was late for my lecture because Omar had gone out with Samir and I had made the mistake of waiting for him. A breeze blew around the trees as I took a short cut across the lawn. The boy from the canteen was spreading out a big palm-fibre mat on the grass. He unrolled it and was shifting it around, getting the angle just right.

The Economics class was good that evening - Rostow's Take-off, which I understood and it made perfect sense to me. Our country was going to take off one day like an aeroplane, we just needed to keep jogging, to accelerate our development and then we'd move, slowly at first but then much quicker, from our backwardness, faster and faster until lift-off, take-off. We would become great, become normal like all the other rich Western countries; we would catch up with them. I was understanding all of this crystal clear, writing in my notebook, wishing Omar was with me, knowing that he would have loved Rostow. But then the professor pushed his glasses up his nose and said, `And now the Marxist criticism of Rostow's explanation for underdevelopment.' So it wasn't true after all.

We were not going to take oft. Around me the students began to shuffle their feet and fidget, murmur that it was time to pray. The professor ignored them. `History shows that not all developed nations have followed Rostow's model ...' The murmurs increased and two brave boys just walked out, some girls started to giggle. The professor gave in and said, `We'll have a ten-minute break.'