Minaret: A Novel (10 page)

The bus stops and the doors swing open. A couple walk down the stairs and towards the exit. I make a quick decision and follow them out of the bus. The wind hits against my wet scarf, it makes my scalp feel cold. I use the dry edge of the scarf to wipe my face. I breathe in and out to make the anger go away, to let it out through my nose. My cheeks are sticky. I hire my lips and they taste sweet. It Could have been beer but I've been lucky. I blink and that's uncomfortable because my eyelashes are twisted and stuck together. I didn't know that eyelashes Could ache. I walk the rest of the way home thinking about my eyelashes and that I will have to wash my hair. I don't like washing it at night. My hairdryer doesn't work anymore and I don't sleep well with wet hair. It irritates me, damp and sprawling over the pillow.

y second day of work and I almost arrive late. I reach the door of the flat to find Lamya already on her way out. Doctora Zeinab is at the door too, wrapped in a dressing gown, bright blue under the light of the hall. Lamya lifts her hair out of her jacket, bends to pick up her umbrella. I stand outside the doorway, waiting for her to leave so that I could enter. She has those same sleepy eyes and slow movements I remember from yesterday morning. Her eyes flicker over me, without expression. It must be that she is an evening person, not at her best in the morning. She kisses and hugs her mother, rubs her back in a friendly way. I remember that Doctora Zeinab is leaving this afternoon for Cairo.

When Tamer takes you to the airport,' Lamya says to her, `don't forget to give him your set of keys.'

`I will. He shouldn't be missing his lectures. I can go on my own.

Lamya shrugs. `Don't forget to order the taxi. Early.' She kisses her mother again and sweeps past me. Doctora Zeinab stands still for a few seconds watching her daughter walk down the stairs. The goodbye seems to have made her subdued, flabby. `Come in, Najwa,' she says and shuffles back to the sitting room.

I close the door of the flat behind me, take off my shoes and put them near the side of the door. I roll my coat and put it over my shoes. The clay begins, less daunting than yesterday, the tasks more familiar. Mai remembers me in a grudging sort of way. I smile and act the clown for her. My work will he easy when I win her trust. I talk to her about going to the park, jog her memory of how yesterday I pushed her on the swings. She is still in her pyjamas so I change her, take her to the toilet and cajole her into brushing her teeth. I discover that, Unlike yesterday, Lanlya hasn't given her any breakfast. I pour hot milk over Weetabix and sprinkle a bit of sugar. The Weetahix softens into a smooth paste and I scoop one teaspoon after another into her mouth. She drinks milk by herself from a special cup.

Yesterday's dinner plates are piled high in the sink - no one had bothered to wash them. If they had at least rinsed them, it would have been a help. Instead, hits of food are congealed and sticky on the plates. I run the hot water over them a long time, till they become unstuck. I enjoy being in a home rather than cleaning offices and hotels. I like being part of a family, touching their things, knowing what they ate, what they threw in the bin. I know them in intimate ways while they hardly know me, as if I and invisible. It still takes the by surprise how natural I and in this servant role. On my very first day as a plaid (not when I worked for Aunty Eva - I didn't feel like a maid with her - but later when I started working for her friend) memories rushed back at tile. All the ingratiating manners, the downcast eyes, the sideway movements of the servants I grew up with. I used to take them for granted. I didn't know a lot about them - our succession of Ethiopian maids, houseboys, our gardener - but I must have been close to them, absorbing their ways, so that now, years later and in another continent, I am one of them.

I remember an Ethiopian maid who told me that her friends called her Donna Summer because she resembled the singer. She laughed when I too started to call her Donna. Donna put eggs yolk in her hair, egg white on her face, rubbed her legs with BP petroleum jelly. She wore a short pink corduroy skirt on her day out. She was a refugee in Sudan. She would talk about Ethiopia, about the cool mountains and the rains and the good schools they had there. She said she would go with her boyfriend to the States and, once she got there, escape from him at the airport, run. Why? I asked her and she said because he was not qualified, he wasn't even a mechanic she said; he just washed the glasses in a juice counter. She was fun to be with - sparkling, pretty, swinging her hips in the kitchen. She always wore a necklace, a little bronze cross shining between her collar-hones. One day she was ill and Mama and I visited her. Her home was a wretched mud house, wide and sprawling, almost like a compound. It was full of men and women, all young, all Ethiopian, all refugees. We didn't know if they were related or not. Donna was lying, thin and feverish, on a low cot. I didn't know if she was glad to see us or not. When she recovered, she stole Mania's Chanel No 5, a nightdress and a pair of sandals Mania had never worn. We never saw her again. Mama could have called the police and told them where Donna lived but she didn't - she liked her too much - and, feeling hurt, she even hid the theft from Baba. We got another Ethiopian maid - dull and untalkative, she took no pride in her looks or her figure. I like to think that Donna made it to the States; made it to that better life she felt she deserved. I wish I could meet her now, hug her with my dripping gloves which I wear because, like her, I pride myself in keeping my hands smooth. I would tell her, 'Look what happened, I'm washing dishes like you did,' and we would laugh together.

'It's time for my coffee,' I)octora Zeinah says as she puts the kettle on, scoops Nescafe into her mug. I know now that I am expected to continue ironing - I push a button and steam heaves out, I manoeuvre the iron around the buttons.

She surveys the kitchen. 'I took that chicken out of the freezer last night so that it would have time to melt. Otherwise, how would you cook it? I told Lamva she has to remember every night before she sleeps to take out meat or chicken so that you can cook it the next day. I hope she remembers.'

Insha' Allah,' I murmur.

My children grew up in Oman where we always had maids. They're very spoilt and can't look after themselves. Tamer can't even make himself a cup of tea! I wouldn't mind if he ate out, Mcl)onald's or at his college, but none of that is halal here and he's always been strict. He will only eat halal meat. I don't know where he got his religiousness from, none of us is as observant as him.'

I don't know what to say to that - so I continue ironing.

`Anyway, albaindiillilah, Lamya found you. It was a good idea to ask in the mosque.'

Yes,' I say.

She pours the hot water over the coffee granules in her mug. `I would stay with them longer but I need to go hack. came to settle them in and they seem to he settled now. Tamer didn't like it here at first but his father wants him to study like he did in England. As soon as Tamer finished school last year, his father applied for him to come here.'

I am flattered that she is chatting to me; I hang on to her every word, enjoying her Egyptian accent. Mama and I used to watch the Egyptian soaps every day - even when we were out visiting we would ask our hosts to please, put on the TV.

It is the first time for me to put Mai down for her nap and it is a challenge. I follow Doctora Zeinab's instructions - the ritual of carrying her to the kitchen, pouring sugar-free Rihena in her favourite cup, adding Evian (none of the family, to my surprise, drinks tapwater). Then carrying Mai to the bedroom, closing the curtains, settling her in her cot, giving her the cup to suck on. I sit on the floor next to the cot. She bounces up and stands in the cot, wide awake. `Lie down, Mai, go to sleep.' I take the cup away from her. `Lie down, then I'll give you your cup.' She starts to scream. I have no choice but to give her hack the cup, afraid that her cries will bring Doctora Zeinab to the room.

`Lie down, Mai, see, like me.' I stretch out on the floor and close my eyes. In a while, I hear a gentle thud on the cot mattress. I open my eyes and find her lying with a foot resting on one of the bars of the cot. One hand holds the cup, the fingers of the other twists and plays with the tassels of her cover. She seems content. Her eyes meet mine and she lifts her head, perks up. I quickly close my eyes again, telling myself I must remain perfectly still so as not to disturb her. Soon I began to hear her steady breathing. I agonize over whether to remove the empty cup from her sleeping fingers or leave it. Perhaps, in the middle of her nap, she will want another sip but then she might knock her cup against the bars of the cot and wake up. I take the risk and ease the cup away from her grasp. She stirs and rolls over. I freeze, afraid that any movement, any sound will wake her up. But I am safe, she is deeply asleep.

In the afternoon, Doctora Zeinab sits in the armchair in the living room, waiting for the taxi she has called. She looks elegant in a brown two-piece suit, full make-up and shiny high-heeled shoes. Earlier I carried her two suitcases from her bedroom to the door of the flat.

Now I sense a tension in her as she waits, rustling the newspaper, an impatience to he off. Her good clothes make her reluctant to hold Mai and so my role is to occupy and amuse Mai, prevent her from messing up her grandmother's clothes. It is raining outside and that is why Mai and I can't go to the park. I hold Mai up to the window to watch the rain. The ledge is wide enough for her to stand on and the window is safely closed with a child lock. The trees in the park sag under the weight of water and the leaves have lost their crisp shine. Below us, people hold up strong umbrellas, the windscreen wipers of the cars swish hack and forth. The room darkens and Doctora Zeinah puts on the light. The telephone rings and she picks it up.

Her hoarse hello softens into, `Tamer, babibi, what's wrong, you're late?' A pause. Of course I don't mind. I told you this morning that you needn't conic. I can go to Heathrow on my own - you never listen to me.' I sit on the window ledge and Mai settles in my lap - we are becoming friends now.

No, it isn't a problem getting my suitcases downstairs. Of course not.' A pause and she smiles. 'I'm glad you're not going to miss your lecture.'

I hear the key in the door of the flat, it opens and the young man I had met in the lobby walks in. I can see him down the corridor in the hall, but Doctora Zeinab can't. He is talking into a mobile phone and his voice reaches me in a whisper. `So Mama, you're sure you don't need me to come home? You're going to manage going to Terminal 4 all by yourself?'

He walks into the sitting room as she is saying, `It's too late now anyway for you to come home ... Tamer!' They both start to laugh. He switches his phone off and puts it in his pocket. I notice that he resembles her; those large slightly protruding eyes, the curve on the nose, but these features are handsome on him. His mother stands up and they hug. She is shorter than him and he is languid in his show of affection. They laugh; there is an ease in their relationship, a carelessness I did not notice between mother and daughter.

Mai squeals, `Ta-ma, Tama.' And he turns towards her. He notices my presence for the first time and is a little embarrassed, more restrained. I look away, out of the window. He must have made a face to his mother, for I hear her say, `Come, let's go to my room.' But Mai slips from my arms, rushes to him. He is on his knees now, arms wide open. She is lifted high up. The whole room is different. Some people do that, they can enter a room and change it.

From the window, I see a black taxi park; the driver gets out and rings our bell. Tamer heads towards the entryphone. His accent strikes me as being slightly American. It must be the kind of school he went to in Oman.

`I'll take the suitcases downstairs,' he calls out to his mother who had gone into the bathroom. I hold the door open for him, run and call the lift. He picks up his mother's suitcases, both at the same time. I almost laugh at the effort he makes to pretend that they are not heavy. He is heading towards the stairs, but I call out that the lift is here. I stop Mai from walking into the lift after her uncle. She is charged with the excitement of too many things happening all at the same time. The elevator descends and I catch a glimpse of a small smile aimed at me, a vivid picture of him standing between the two suitcases; jeans and Nike trainers, his light green jacket spotted with rain. `He'll come back,' I tell Mai. She is totally confused. One minute Tamer was tossing her in the air; the next minute Uoctora Zeinab is kissing her goodbye.

In a while, he is leaping up the stairs again. Now that the suitcases are in the taxi, he is impatient to get going. I dither at the doorway with Mai in my arms, wondering if it would he presumptuous to kiss Doctora Zeinab goodbye. She puts her coat on slowly. He is almost bouncing up and down. `Come on Manta, come on.'

'Tamer,' she says, `Lamya told me to give you my set of keys but how would Najwa get back into the flat if she takes Mai to the park?'

He looks at nee when she says illy name and hack at his mother. He is bored with what she's saying.