Leila Aboulela - The Translator

She asked about his daughter. He said that she was pretty and saturated today with Christmas presents. He said that every time he saw her, it took a day or two for her to speak to him beyond yes, no and don’t know, then she talked non-stop until she got on his nerves. He said that everyday so far, except today, they had escaped from the cordon bleu of the house to the glaring yellow of Burger King and a Kebab take-away shop. He said that he wanted Mhairi to grow up to be as subversive as him.

About his ex-wife’s parents and the food, Sammar said, ‘Maybe they want you to get back together again and so they are being extra hospitable.’

Nothing she said startled him. She was almost used to this now.

‘No, it’s not like that. They’re quite satisfied with the way things are.’ He went on in an even voice, ‘When you are climbing the WHO’s ladder of success, the last thing you need is a husband skulking around, criticising the UN, pointing out the hypocrisy of their policies.’

Sammar held the receiver tight and stared at the bicycles that were stored under the staircase, the ‘Don’t Forget Your Keys’ sign on the front door.

‘On the day before I came here,’ he said, ‘I was down in Personnel and I needed to photocopy something. The photocopier was in a small room that I had never been into before. It had old curtains in a large pattern of orange and brown. A kind of distinctive seventies’ look, out-dated now. They made me remember the house. We had curtains like these, bright orange, blue and brown. It was a good house — built in the late sixties, with a view over the Dee. The kitchen and lounge were upstairs and there were windows from floor to ceiling along the whole length of the room. All for the brilliant view. It would remind you of the Nile, Sammar, only the Nile is wider and its banks less complex. It reminded me of the Nile. We were just back from Egypt then. She had not liked it there much. She liked walking and Cairo is not a city for walks.

‘I remember when the house got sold, she came from Geneva to pack. I would come home from work and find her sitting on the floor smoking and sorting out things. Too many things. Books and records, old clothes. We never liked throwing things away, magazines, newspapers, they would just pile up. I taped the boxes and she divided everything up. She left me everything that was North African, everything Islamic.

‘We used to smoke together when we first met. Cigarettes and other things. It was the thing to do then. She smoked even through her pregnancy. I only stopped when my asthma got worst. But still the house was full of smoke, cigarette smoke and bad feelings.’

Sammar could see a house with orange curtains, a river view, rooms filled with beautiful objects, European and African things. Inside the house life was smoke and bad feelings.

‘At night,’ he said, ‘quarrels… I used to feel such peace when I went to work in the morning, talked to the students, soothed myself with a lecture on Foreign Policy Analysis. I stayed late, avoided going home. And the later I went home, the later the quarrelling started, the later it went on through the night. Sleep deprivation is torture. I used to doze off while driving. I fell asleep once, while she was talking, I just fell asleep, I felt like I was drugged. She shook me awake, saying “Listen, listen to me”…,’ he started to cough. He coughed until Sammar’s heart hurt. The landing was cold. Through Lesley’s door she heard the piano music of a comedy show.

‘You’re ill?’ she said.

‘I’m coming down with something, yes.’

Sammar changed the receiver from one hand to another and wiped her palm against her jumper. She wanted him to keep talking, keep talking until her ears were flattened and bruised.

‘I’m sorry, I’m talking too much,’ he said.

‘No.’ She searched for something to say, something appropriate, sympathetic. He had talked to her suddenly so personally and all she had managed to say was ‘You’re ill?’

She began to speak about work. It made her feel more confident.

‘I found a translation of the Qudsi Hadiths. On alternate pages they have them in English and Arabic. There is also a good introduction on how they differ from the Qur’an.’

‘What do they say? How do they put it?’

She was not prepared for that and faltered a little, saying that the book was upstairs and she would have to get it and would his hosts not mind that he was on the telephone for so long.

‘Don’t worry about them,’ he said, ‘they’re very organized. Their bills come itemized. I’ve had to call overseas before, Egypt and Morocco and I settle it with them later.’ His voice sounded lighter than before.

She ran up the stairs that she had often taken a step at a time, dragging her grief. Now the staircase had a different aura, a different light and it was just her and Lesley alone in the whole building. The other tenants were away for the holidays and the stairs belonged to her alone. Where was she now, which country? What year? She climbed the stairs into a hallucination in which the world had swung around. Home and the past had come here and balanced just for her. The stairs in a warm yellow light and sounds of a party, people talking and someone laughed. She was inside the laughter, wearing something new, carrying a tray, mindful of the children who swirled and dived around her knees. She offered glasses of something that was dark and sweet, and when someone refused, coaxed them until they changed their minds. Someone called her name, she had to hurry, look over her shoulder, locate the voice, shout back, I’m coming now.

She sat on the floor of the landing and read out, over the phone, the notes she had made from the book. ‘A definition given by the scholar al-Jurjani, “A Sacred Hadith is, as to its meaning, from Allah the Almighty; as to the wording, it is from the Messenger of Allah, peace be upon him. It is that which Allah the Almighty has communicated to His Prophet through revelation or in dream and he, peace be upon him, has communicated it in his own words.

Thus the Qur’an is superior to it because, besides being revealed, it is Allah’s wording.” In a definition given by a later scholar al-Qari, “… Unlike the Holy Qur’an, Sacred Hadith are not acceptable for recitation in one’s prayers, they are not forbidden to be touched or read by one who is in a state of ritual impurity… and they are not characterized by the attribute of inimitability.” ‘

Rae said, ‘This is very clear, thank you. What about their subject matter? I would imagine they do not cover legislation…’

‘Yes, generally not. There is a section on their subject matter.’ She turned the pages of the book, ‘… they clarify the meanings of the Divinity… the style takes the form of usually direct expression… I’ll read you one of them. The Prophet, peace be upon him said, “Allah Almighty says: I am as My servant thinks I am. I am with him when he makes mention of Me. If he makes mention of Me to himself, I make mention of him to Myself; and if he makes mention of Me in an assembly, I make mention of him in a better assembly. And if he draws near to Me a hand’s span, I draw near to him an arm’s length; and if he draws near to Me an arm’s length, I draw near to him a fathom’s length. And if he comes to Me walking, I go to him at speed.”’

Rae was slow in replying. ‘Would you have translated it in exactly the same way?’

‘For the first sentence, there is a footnote which says, another possible rendering of the Arabic is, I am as My servant expects Me to be. And I feel this is closer to the Arabic word which means expects, thinks, even speculates.’

‘In this society,’ he said, ‘in this secular society, the speculation is that God is out playing golf. With few exceptions and apart from those who are self-convinced atheists, the speculation is that God has put up this elaborate solar system and left it to run itself. It does not need Him to maintain it or sustain it in anyway. Mankind is self-sufficient…’