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thoughts. It felt like a reprimand, a reminder of why he was alive. To struggle for the here and now but not lose sight of the end: to put meat in his children’s small mouths and sweets in Hanniyah’s enchanting mouth. To fulfil and pacify her, she who held his heart and was, so often, the cause of his disturbance. To act like a man and discipline her, so that she would keep on looking after his father and not complain. This was a considerable source of stress, as were the intrigues and rivalries of the school, the reluctant and stupid students, the darting to and fro from one private lesson to the next. And, above all, his horror at how his energetic, bellowing father had been reduced to confused, dependent blubber. It was a horror that was abating with time and being replaced by a grim, constant sadness. The kind of sadness that deserved no condolence and was too dispersed for sighs and platitudes. Badr’s tumultuous, humdrum life. What was it all for, where was it heading? The answer peered at him now as it had done before and would do again. His life was a journey. A journey towards the day when Allah Almighty would look at him, really look at him, look through him, inside him, know him, and then would call him by his name. Ya Badr.

III
     
    For Nabilah, the Sudan was like the bottom of the sea, an exotic wilderness, soporific and away from the momentum of history. It was amazing but constricting, threatening to suck her in, to hold her down and drown her. Sometimes she was able to hold her breath and accept, but on most days she struggled to rise up to the surface, working to recapture a routine like that of her mother in Cairo, a life of fresh air and energy, the natural bustle and order of civilised life. Nabilah knew that she should be more flexible, that she should adjust, but she was not easy-going enough, and too conscious of her status.
    She had, with her husband’s full approval and generous finances, designed her wing in the saraya like a modern, Egyptian home, not a Sudanese one. Instead of a hoash, there was a shaded terrace with a wicker table and chairs where, in winter, she could sit and enjoy her afternoon tea, while watching Ferial ride her tricycle and Farouk kick a ball in the garden. Instead of the traditional beds lining the four walls of the sitting room, she had spacious armchairs, a settee, and, in pride of place, her gramophone. It was a proper room, a room to be proud of. Guests reclining and sitting on beds, angharaibs made of rope being the only furniture in a room, the intimacy and privacy of a bed laid out for public eyes and use – was something that particularly infuriated her. It was, she believed, a sign of primitiveness, proof that the Sudanese had a long way to go. Meals too, in Nabilah’s quarters, were served in the dining room, around a proper dining table, with knives, forks and serviettes, not clusters of people gathering with extended fingers around a large round tray, while sitting on those very same beds she hadso many objections to. Her household staff, too, was all from Egypt – Chef Gaber, whose Turkish dishes inspired so much envy from her co-wife, as well as the children’s nanny. Nabilah surrounded herself with the sights, accents and cooking smells of Egypt, closing the door on the heat, dust and sunlight of her husband’s untamed land.
    But she could not shut out his family. They came, invited or uninvited. And came casually, with friendly smiles, affection for the children and a staggering tolerance for her moodiness and indifference. She did not understand them. That boy, Nur, with his bright smile, so pleased and at ease with himself. She had explained to him once that he must ring the bell and not just barge in.
    Instead of apologising, he had just giggled and said, ‘Isn’t this my father’s house?’
    And that girl, Soraya, with her lack of discipline, the sloppy way she carried herself, gum snapping in her mouth, her hands always moving, stroking the