Lyrics Alley: A Novel by Leila Aboulela

Author:Leila Aboulela [Aboulela, Leila]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
ISBN: 9780802195937
Publisher: Perseus Books Group

XII

So Nur goes on strike. He will not eat. He will not drink. He will not talk, even. His demands are death or a miraculous recovery that will restore Soraya to him. The latter, of course, is preferable but he no longer believes it can happen and neither does anyone around him. Therefore the former is more realistic. Death, a violent death, because every door of reprieve has shut down and left him in darkness. His sentence has barely started and he will not serve his time. He is innocent and does not deserve this punishment, this life which is not a life. Rebellion fizzes in him. They want him to be sweet; they want him to smile and chat. They want him, against all odds, not to look at what they have and what he has lost, without feeling bitter. Yesterday, his mother, who will not give up hope, brought him a spiritual healer. He read verses from the Qur’an in a rasping voice, mumbling the words, oblivious to their beauty. Nur, who loved rhythm and appreciated metaphor, whose intellect thrived on eloquence, took offence. The faqih leaned over him, squeezed his rigid arms and motionless legs, and the man’s breath stank and his eyes were bloodshot and yellow. He poured water over Nur’s body, as if it were a wilting plant that could be brought back to life. He made Nur drink water in which he had soaked pieces of paper and ink. It was the last thing he drank before he went on strike . . .

His mother is weeping. If he starts to feel sorry for her, he will soften and give in. He is seeing too much of her and this is part of the problem. The men go to work in the mornings, and again after their lunch and midday siesta, while he is stuck at home with the babble of women. At first he had taken an interest in their activities; curious to see rituals he had been excluded from – the woman squatting to pat henna on his mother’s feet, the mashata braiding her hair, the fuss over Batool’s wedding. Hours spent grooming and hours spent cooking, the sideways, quirky ways they chat. But this voyeuristic streak hadn’t lasted long. He wants to be the hero of his own life. He wants to do, to reach, to contribute.

The weather dictates his movements – if they can be called such. In the late afternoon, when it starts to get pleasant, he is carried outside to the hoash. His bed is placed as far away as possible from the cooking area, but the other angharaibs are arranged around him and he becomes a natural part of the gathering. When the women are not cooking, they come and lounge adjacent to him, sipping their coffee and gossiping. They move back again to their pots and stoves when male visitors arrive. At night, everyone sleeps outside. This is Nur’s favourite time, the most normal and familiar,

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