Leila Aboulela - The Translator

‘Why is she learning German?’ asked Sammar, her mind on the stars, that they were innumerable, some further away than others. How could this be the same sky as the one in Aberdeen?

‘Do you think I know?’ he said. ‘She wants to learn German, what can I say, don’t learn German?’

‘I thought she was doing computing in Souk Two.’ Everyone could look up at this sky, no admission fee, no money. In Scotland there were shops for everything, selling everything and no one could buy a sky like that.

‘She was, but there weren’t enough computers to go round and she didn’t get much chance on the machines. She got the notes and she can use the one we have here…’

‘Actually I want to use your computer today,’ Sammar said, ‘I need to write a letter, two really. But now there’s no electricity.’ She turned to Amir and Dalia, ‘Stop it you two, leave the birds alone.’ Amir banged the mesh with his palms. One of the pigeons stirred but did not wake up.

‘Insha’ Allah it will come back. Yesterday it was out at this time and back after fifteen minutes.’

‘That would be good.’ She wondered why she did not care so much about the power cut, why she was not annoyed with this obstacle. Usually she liked getting things over with once she had reached a decision. Perhaps it was because of the sky and the breeze, dewy and clear. Or the feeling all around of surrender. The stars had mocked the lights of the earth and won.

‘What were you doing before we came?’ she asked.

‘Watching a video.’ He scratched his head and yawned.

‘Remember in the past we used to go to the cinema a lot.’

‘No one goes to the cinema now.’ By ‘no one’ he meant his circle of friends and family.

‘It’s a shame.’

‘Things change. You want to go away and come back and find everything the same?’

She shrugged in the dark. There was always a tone in his voice that seemed to her harsh. But she knew he didn’t mean it. She was the one who had become too sensitive. She was the one who had been away for too long.

‘I want to get away from here,’ he suddenly said. ‘I’m fed up. I’m truly fed up.’

‘Of what?’ her voice was light as if she wanted to dilute his resentment.

‘Not going forward. Things just aren’t moving ahead.’

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘The Gulf or Saudi Arabia. The Gulf preferably.’

‘Go.’

He laughed, ‘Don’t be stupid. Everyone wants to go there and make themselves a bit of money; it’s not so easy.’ He was genuinely amused, shaking his head, looking into her eyes, ‘You have no idea, do you? You’re blank.’

She started to laugh too and looked up at the stars, ‘I’m blank.’

Dalia came and leaned close to her, whispered in her ears, ‘I want to pee.’

The bathroom was hot and airless. In the mirror over the sink, Sammar saw her face by candlelight. How long would it be before she started to look as she should look, a dried-out widow, a faded figure in the background?

‘I’ve finished,’ Dalia said. Sammar had to yank the toilet handle three times before it finally flushed. Dalia’s anxious face settled into a smile and Sammar noticed that the cistern did not fill up again with water. ‘It must be that when the electricity cuts, the pump that lifts the water up to this floor stops working. Let’s try the taps.’

Dalia twisted the tap. A few drops spluttered out noisily and then there was nothing.

‘They’ve got a pail…’ said Sammar. There was a pail full of water in the bathtub and a metal pitcher. She filled the pitcher with water and Dalia washed her hands in the sink, the white bar of soap large and awkward in her hand.

They walked back carefully through the darkness, Sammar carrying the candle, to the coolness of the balcony. In their absence Waleed had brought a tray of Pepsi bottles and glasses with ice, plates of peanuts and dates.

Amir and Dalia were soothed by the drinks, made silent by the peanuts. Sammar shook the ice in her glass. It was one of the things she had missed in Aberdeen, ice cubes in drinks, the feel of a cool drink in the heat.

‘So what do you think of this dark country of ours?’ Waleed asked putting his hands behind his head. He meant the power cut.

‘Beautiful.’

He laughed. His laugh was loud and contagious.

‘At last you’ve gone mad,’ he said in between his laughter.

She smiled and said slowly, ‘I swear by Allah Almighty, I see it more beautiful than anywhere else.’ Because she had mentioned Allah her heart glowed and because she spoke the truth.

‘I’ll give you a couple more weeks,’ he said, ‘you’ll take Amir and run back.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not going to have a job to go back to. I’m here today to write my letter of resignation and send it off.’

‘Why are you going to do that?’ It was almost a yell. He sat forward in his chair, intense now, no longer laughing, ‘You must never do that. Do you think jobs are lying about waiting for people to pick them up? Do you think you’re going to find a job here?’

‘I’ll just have to try, Insha’ Allah I’ll find something.’ She flicked away some peanut husks that had fallen on her lap and wished she hadn’t told him. If his wife had been at home, he would have been more subdued, not so hyped-up. Now he went on and on.

‘What sort of work do you think you’re going to find?’

‘Maybe the “Erasing Illiteracy” programme…’

‘The pay will be nothing, nothing you could live on, you’ll just regret it. And you’ve never taught before…’

‘They’re desperate for people, they won’t fuss…’

‘Yes, they won’t fuss, but why, when you have a very good job already in Aberdeen, why give up a chance?’

‘I was supposed to be back at work last week. They’re probably wondering what happened to me.’

‘That’s not a reason to resign.’

She looked into her glass, melting ice, dark-golden Pepsi, ‘Living there wasn’t a great success.’

‘How couldn’t it be? You’re so fortunate. A good job, a civilised place. None of there power cuts and strikes and what not… What’s the matter with you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Just like that.’

‘Just like that.’ There was guilt in her voice, a kind of stubbornness. She could see the irony of the situation. She had the option of a life abroad and wanted to stay, while he was keen to leave and couldn’t.

She said as if to explain, ‘Being exiled isn’t very nice.’

‘If you took Amir with you, you wouldn’t be lonely and it would be good for him. You don’t know how schools here have become.’

‘I wouldn’t be able to handle him on my own.’ She wished she could explain how desolate it would be, her and Amir alone in Aberdeen. The long winter evenings, the small room they would live in, just them, the two of them, face to face, claustrophobic.

‘That’s rubbish. Here you’re handling Amir and Hanan’s children. Didn’t Aunt Mahasen fire the maid as soon as you came back?’

Sammar laughed relieved at the turn in the conversation. Waleed smiled reluctantly. She said, ‘No one fired anyone. The woman left, she just disappeared a week after I came back. And Aunt Mahasen hasn’t been able to find anyone else.’

‘Oh really,’ he said with sarcasm, ‘Aunt Mahasen and Hanan put together couldn’t find anyone.’

‘I don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I truly don’t mind.’ The housework and Hanan’s children kept her busy, tired her out so that there was no time to dream at night.

‘How has she been with you?’ His voice was cautious now, the question tentative. If his wife had been at home he would not have asked.