Leila Aboulela - The Translator

The first part of the night passed, a bit of sleep, dreamless, light as acid. When she could see again, she saw from the window snow. Snow filled the sky and poured down like it would never stop. It covered the street below, the empty parked cars, the roofs of the buildings all around. When she was young in Khartoum and when it rained at night, thunder and lightning would wake her up, so dramatic that she used to think Judgement Day had arrived. Lightning cracking the sky like egg shell and everything covered by darkness opening out in the light.

Rain had meant an altered day, no school, flooded streets, everything in the shade. If the snow kept falling thickly, if it did not stop until morning, then the roads would be blocked. It had happened in past winters, it could happen again. Rae would not be able to go to Stirling and she could see him again, ask him and be reassured.

Maybe the roads would be blocked for days, the trains wouldn’t run and even she, the day after, would not be able to leave. So much elation with this idea and the falling snow. That was what she really wanted. She did not want to go to Egypt, interpreting interviews for the anti-terrorist programme. She did not want to go to Khartoum and bring Amir, not yet, not now. How can Amir come when she was so unsettled?

If the snow would keep falling, if the roads would be blocked. She knew what she was going to do, she had the courage. Everything would be made right and simple. Already she did not belong to this room. She had finished serving time in this room: illness, convalescence, recovery. Now the room was bare and dry, lit up by the falling snow.

Dawn, and she began to put away the few of her belongings that were still not packed. Her prayer mat, a few things that were drying on the radiator, some of her folders and papers from work. The blanket, the curtains and the kitchen things went into a box that would go into storage. The bottle of perfume he had given her. She opened it and the scent was heavy enough to rise in the room, soften the edge of the cold. She thought of what she would tell him, all the things she would translate for him. He knew a lot. Like others here, this world held his attention and the scope of his mind. But he did not know about the stream of Kawthar, the Day of Promises, or what stops the heart from rusting. And the balance he admired. He would not understand it until he lived it.

Once there was a time when she could do nothing. When she was held down by something heavy. Clogged up, dragging herself to pray, even her faith sluggish. Yet Allah had rewarded her even for these imperfect prayers. She had been protected from all the extremes. Pills, break-down, attempts at suicide. A barrier was put between her and things like that, the balance that Rae admired. For this admiration she would gather her courage and talk to him. She would make him happy, she could do so much for him.

She wanted to cook for him different things, and then stand in the kitchen and think, I should change my clothes, wash, for her hair and clothes would be smelling of food. Mhairi could come and live with them, she would not need to go to boarding school anymore, and he would like that, seeing his daughter everyday, not having to drive to Edinburgh. And Mhairi would like Amir, girls her age liked younger children. She would be kind to Mhairi, she would do everything for her, clean her room, sort her school clothes. She would treat her like a princess. When they went out shopping together she would buy her pretty things, soap that smelt of raspberries and ribbons of different widths for her hair.

The roads were blocked with cars that could barely move. The city’s roundabouts and traffic lights were useless in the snow. So many feet of snow, the radio had announced, for so many years there had not been such heavy snow. Chaos was a rare visitor to this orderly city. It was flustered now, tense and stubborn as it insisted on following its daily rhythm. Shops must open, people must get to work. That was sacred. If Sammar had searched for anything sacred to this city and not found it, here it was. On people’s faces as they pushed and scraped the snow off their cars, on the face of the bent elderly woman, miraculously still on her feet, beating the snow with her walking stick; she must get to the post office.

Over this chaos, the sun shone brighter than ever, dazzling on the white that covered the surface of things. There was sunshine like in Africa and the city slowed down, became inefficient, as if it were part of the Third World. From this came Sammar’s strength. She knew this. It was familiar to her, natural and curing to the soul. She walked, her fingers frozen in spite of woollen gloves, her feet numb in her shoes. The streets were long queues of cars, awkward buses and vans. The pavements were trampled snow and patches of slippery ice. It was useless to catch a bus. The buses were elephants today.

When she got to the university, the campus was quiet without the usual busy coming and going of students. Not many cars were in the car park and the few that were there were at awkward angles and distances from each other because the snow had covered the lines of the parking spaces. Some students were playing in the snow, throwing snowballs at each other. They wore hats and colourful scarves. They were laughing, not serious and blank as they usually looked. It seemed as if there were no classes running today or only a few. The university, unlike the business world, had surrendered to the exceptional day.

Sammar met Yasmin on the steps of the building. Yasmin was visibly pregnant in spite of the large coat she was wearing. She was on her way home rather than coming in.

‘There’s hardly anyone in today, there’s no point in me staying,’ she blew her nose. ‘I’m not too well. I can’t get rid of this cold.’

‘Is Rae here?’

Yasmin nodded, ‘He’s on the phone with some journalist from London… about the hijack.’

Sammar knew about the snow, not about a hijack. But it did not seem out of place. The whole day was different, lifted up out of the ordinary in every way.

‘A Libyan Airlines on its way to Amman,’ said Yasmin. ‘Haven’t you heard? It was on the news this morning.’

She had heard that there were power cuts in some parts of Aberdeen, the names of the schools that were closed, treacherous roads.

Yasmin said that the airplane was in Cyprus now. The hijackers wanted it refuelled but no one knew yet where they intended to go.

‘Fareed was with Rae a while ago. They called Tripoli. It seems to be about freeing political prisoners in Libya. Then Fareed went to teach. I don’t think more than half of his class turned up but he decided to go ahead anyway.’

Yasmin blew her nose again. It was cold standing on the steps of the building.

‘You had better go,’ said Sammar.

‘Yes, none of the others turned up.’ She meant the other secretaries.

‘The roads are really bad.’

‘It’s good Nazim isn’t off-shore,’ Yasmin said. ‘You’re lucky you’re going away. It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?’

‘If the trains run. They cancelled them today.’ Sammar stamped her feet to shake off the snow that was on her shoes.

‘The airport is open. They’ve cleared the runway. You can get a plane to London if the trains aren’t running.’

‘Yes, I suppose I can.’ There was no need to tell Yasmin that she did not want to go away, that she was not going away, that today everything was going to be different. But she could say insha’ Allah and not feel that she was lying. She said, ‘Insha’ Allah tomorrow. I’ve packed and everything.’

They said goodbye to each other. They said they were not going to meet for a long time.

Rae was still on the telephone when she went to his office. She was content to sit and hear his voice, know that he was here, smile at him once in a while. She sat on one of the brown armchairs that made up a seating arrangement separate from his desk. On the telephone, he was speaking the way he spoke to everyone except her: cooler, quicker. Sometimes he made notes, smiled at her. He did not look sad like yesterday when he was telling her about his uncle. She was pleased about that and proud that his opinion was being asked from London, where they must have many Middle-East experts of their own.