Leila Aboulela - Lyrics Alley

Nassir turned his deckchair, giving his back to the sea and his full concentration to the game. He shouted out comments in English, jovial and witty, to endear himself to the soldiers. Soraya could sense Nur showing off, conscious of the expectations of his older brother. He put all his energy into the game and was soon enjoying himself.

Soraya chatted with Fatma and played with the children. The football didn’t interest her, but watching Nur run was a pleasure, and she liked the English she was hearing from the soldiers, natural and fluent, not like the sentences in school books. The one who was called Stan had an accent she had not heard before; he was stocky and had freckles. Eddie was handsome, like an actor in a film. His hair was black and his nose was sharp. The third, who ended up in goal, looked older and more muscular, and she did not catch his name. Later, when she went over everything, when she spoke about that day — again and again — she would remember the game and see the players clearly in her mind. How they grunted and Stan became red in the face. How often Eddie swore and how Nur started to perspire.

Another group of players joined in. The newcomers, young Egyptians, challenged Nur and the soldiers. This was how a friendly languorous kicking of the ball turned into a serious match. A masculine dedication she could not share, though in the pit of her stomach she wanted Nur’s team to win and she wanted Nur to score again.

‘Clap for your uncle, children!’

Even Fatma clapped and laughed. Nassir was beside himself with excitement. He raised his arms up in the air every time there was a goal, and when the other team had the ball, he made kicking gestures with his feet, tossing up gusts of sand. Soraya sensed the sun change position and start to mellow into mid-afternoon. They should head home for lunch now. The baby had started to whine and Fatma was getting restless.

‘We won!’ Nassir raised his arm in the air for one last time. Nur came towards them drenched in sweat. He took off his shirt and said, ‘I’m going into the water to cool off.’ He ran towards the sea before they could detain him.

‘Don’t be long,’ Fatma called after him.

‘It’s lunchtime,’ said Nassir.

Nur swivelled around and, trotting backwards, waved to them and mouthed, ‘Just a few minutes.’

There was an anti-climax after that, a drop after the game and Nur not being present to talk about it. The soldiers drifted past their umbrella and sat at the edge of the water on the damp sand, Eddie sat with his legs straight in the water. He scooped handfuls of water and wet his hair and shoulders. Stan lay on his back and, when a strong wave reached him, he let the water pull him closer to the sea, laughing out loud.

Soraya watched Nur climb the moss-covered rock and dive in the sea. Next to her Nassir rubbed his stomach.

‘I’m hungry.’

She was hungry, too. Their late breakfast of sausages, fried eggs and ta’miyyah had long been digested, the fresca too miniscule a snack to go far. Come on, Nur. Fatma started to gather their things together. Soraya didn’t want to help her; she wanted to watch Nur dive again. She saw him, blurred and brown, climb the low cliff again and dive. Could she really learn to dive like that? Her mind wandered to buying her new and very first swimsuit. Would she try it on in the shop or just take it home?

She looked back at the sea and couldn’t see Nur. She blinked and narrowed her eyes, which always made her see better but he was not there. She stood up and untangled her handbag from the spokes of the umbrella. She took her glasses out of their case and put them on. There he was! He was floating, his body straight and bobbing, the waves moving him around. He disappeared from sight as the sea dipped and, beneath him, a wave swept forward and rolled upwards. He was playing a game, she guessed, seeing how long he could hold his breath. She moved towards the sea, magnetised by the oddity of his pose. Something was not right. He should be swimming again now. She started to run; behind her, the surprise in Fatma’s voice, calling out. Stan and Eddie looked up and watched her run directly towards them. They kept watching her instead of looking out to the sea. She wanted to shout but the waves were too loud. When she stopped running, her voice came back. In English, that was important, so that they would understand. Help. Help was the word. She pointed and screamed.

Stan and Eddie ran into the sea. She walked forward until her calves were deep in the water, the hem of her dress soaked and heavy. Eddie and Stan lifted Nur’s arms and put them round their shoulders. He wouldn’t pull a prank on them. Not on them. They half-dragged, half-swam, half-carried him towards the shore and he wasn’t helping them in any way. His head was lolling to one side. She felt ashamed for him, because he looked bad and was so needy of help. The shame was visceral, as if it was hers, not his. When they laid him down on the wet sand, he spluttered and spat, raising his head but not sitting up or rolling sideways. He opened his eyes and closed them. Nassir was next to her now.

‘What happened?’ His voice was soft with concern. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

Eddie and Stan crouched on either side of Nur, pumping his chest, talking to one another over him. Their bodies dripped with water. Soraya and Nassir stayed back. When she heard Nur’s voice, when Stan sat back on his heels and Eddie stood up, she rushed forward, flooded with relief.

‘Nur, get up. Nur, let’s go home.’

She wanted the soldiers to go away, she wanted the day to be normal again.

Behind her Nassir was full of effusive thanks. The English words tumbled out of him. He was generous in his praise and his manners pleased the soldiers. They moved away from Nur. Stan smiled broadly; Eddie shook Nassir’s outstretched hand. Nassir moved next to Soraya and sank to his knees. He lunged forward, embracing his brother. Nur didn’t raise his arms to hug him back. One arm lay outstretched, entwined with seaweed; the other, motionless too, was at an awkward angle, the fingers grazing the sand.

‘Nur,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

‘He’s resting,’ Nassir said. ‘Let him rest.’

But she insisted, ‘Nur.’

He looked up at her as if he was distracted by a supreme heaviness that bewildered and absorbed him.

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t move.’

This was the day Nabilah, empowered by her native Cairo, started to contemplate divorce and the right to stay here forever, not go back with Mahmoud to Sudan at the end of summer. The day she started to contemplate the right to a normal life like that of her mother, the girls she had gone to school with, and the neighbour’s daughters. Enough of this African adventure, of being there while thinking of here, of being here and knowing it was temporary; enough of the dust, the squalor and the stupidity. Enough of buildings that were too low, gardens that were too lush and skies that were too close. Enough of his large family, his acres of land, and his connections, of money without culture, prestige among the primitive. She would put an end to it all: an end to being inferior because she was the second wife, and of being superior because she was Egyptian. Enough of these contradictions! Life should be simple: a man who goes to work and comes back the same time every day; a good climate and uncomplicated children; outings on Friday; a picnic or a walk — everything proper and understandable. Why did she not deserve this? Why had she, in the first place, been married off to a foreigner, a man old enough to be her father? Was something wrong with her? Did she have a defect?

These questions inflamed her with a sense of injustice. There was no defect in her. This was a fact. She was beautiful. She came from a good home. She was well brought up. If she was not beautiful, he would have not have stopped dead in his tracks that first time he saw her sepia-coloured portrait displayed in the window of the photographer. Indeed, that photographer himself, on Midan Soliman Pasha, would not have chosen her portrait out of so many, had she not been outstanding. A man looks into a shop window and catches sight of something that is useful, special or visually pleasing. He says to himself, ‘I must have that.’ Perhaps other men, too, walking in downtown Cairo had also stopped and gazed at her picture. Other men too might have desired and thought, ‘That’s the kind of girl for me.’ But Mahmoud Abuzeid had gone further; he had put desire into action, had tracked down the name to match the pretty face, an address, a family history. He had engineered an introduction to her stepfather, endeared himself to her mother, and made his move.