Twenty-six

ow come you're not married?' He is self-conscious now, avoiding my eyes like he knows he's stepping into new territory.

`I don't know.'

He raises his eyebrows.

'OK I'll try again. Fate.'

`That doesn't tell me anything.'

I shrug. `When I was your age, I imagined I would get married, have children, the usual things. I didn't imagine anything different. I had friends who wanted to be doctors, diplomats but I never had these ambitions.'

He looks at me and says nothing. Mai turns around from the television and asks for crisps. I get her a packet from the kitchen and when I sit down it is an opportunity to change the subject. `While you were out, Hisham, Lamya's husband, phoned.'

`He's probably confused about the time difference.'

`I asked him if he wanted to speak to Mai but he said no need.'

Tamer makes a face. `Typical.'

Hisham's voice had not inspired sympathy. I didn't think, `Poor man, abandoned by his wife while she does her PhD.' He seemed well in control, hardy.

`He's not at all like you.'

Of course not.' The words come out of him stiff. `I told Lamya not to marry him because he drinks. But she doesn't mind. And neither my mum nor my dad listened to me. They thought I was just a kid.'

I imagine him young, twelve or thirteen, voicing an opinion that seemed to his listeners irrelevant. He is not happy today; he is not himself. I ask him why.

He says, At dawn I didn't get up to pray. I just couldn't. When the alarm went, I put it off and went back to sleep. Now I feel the whole day's gone out of balance.'

`Well, you did set the alarm last night. You can't blame yourself for not trying.'

`I know. It's just that I feel I've missed out.' He pauses and says, `If I were married, my wife would have made sure I got up to pray.'

I smile. It depends on what type of girl you marry.'

`Oh, I would only marry someone who was devout. And she would have to wear hijab.' There is an upbeat youthfulness in his confidence.

I change the subject. `How are your studies?' It is the wrong thing to ask because he becomes gloomy again.

`I don't care any more. Maybe the world will end and it won't matter what I study.'

`Maybe it won't.'

`Maybe,' he says without interest. He stretches out on the sofa. It crosses my mind that Lamya would disapprove of this. She would say that the sofa is for guests to sit on. He stares straight up at the ceiling; his face is tired, a little drawn. He lost weight in Ramadan and has not yet regained it. He is carrying a burden, studying a subject that does not interest him, insisting that strong faith would make it lighter. I overheard him yesterday pleading with his father on the phone to allow him to transfer his studies to another university, where he could study Islamic History instead of Business. Afterwards he locked himself up in his room. When I knocked, carrying coffee and cake, he said, `Leave me alone, I don't want anything.' He didn't want me to know that he was crying.

`I spoke to my dad yesterday,' he says as if he can read my mind. `He said it was still early days and.I will get used to the course soon and start to enjoy it.'

`Maybe he is right.' I wish the television didn't have to be on but it is the only way to keep Mai quiet.

`I don't think he was listening to me. He will never change his point of view.' He mimics his father's voice, the accent. `If you study Business you will get a good job. Studying Islamic History is for losers. Where will it get you?'

`You could teach.' I close my eyes and imagine him older, teaching.

`There isn't much money in that - that's what he says.'

`Maybe you can study both.'

`No.' He pauses and then says, `My mum is coming soon - just for a few days on her way to a conference in the States.'

`That's nice,' I say and I mean it. `It will be nice for you to see your mother.'

`It won't make a difference, she's on his side.'

`But they've already paid the fees. How can you just drop out? Then you'll have to pay fees in another university too. The sensible thing would he to finish your first year here and then transfer.'

`And suppose I fail this year?'

`Why should you fail?'

He is irritated. `Because it's difficult stuff we're taking.'

You should ask for help, talk to someone about this.'

'Tell my adviser I was In seclusion in the mosque and missed days of classes. Fat chance she'll he sympathetic!' He laughs. I see him being sarcastic for the first time. It doesn't suit him.

But she should know that you are having difficulties.'

'I can't talk to anyone. I can only talk to you.' There is resentment in his voice as if talking to me happens against his will.

`I am not in a position to advise you. What do I know of universities or careers?'

He swings his legs and sits up. 'It annoys me when you put yourself down like this. You're better than a lot of people; you've just had bad luck. I bet so many men wanted to marry you!' It is like there is a jolt in the room, the sting of that last sentence. He persists. 'I'm right aren't I?'

I stare at him and he repeats, 'Aren't 1?'

To think that Anwar is still here, a couple of underground stations away, still waiting for the Khartoum government to fall. He married his cousin after all; he brought her over when his career took off.

There was someone, yes.' HIV Voice sounds thick. He was an atheist so I didn't marry him.' I look down at the carpet so as not to see Tamer's reaction. I don't know why I put It like that - It's true but not a hundred per Cent true. There are many other ways I could have put it. Anwar didn't want my genes; he didn't want my father's blood flowing in his children's veins.

Tamer's voice is harsh, and so is the way he looks at me. 'How could you:'

'I loved other things about him, not that he was an atheist.'

He winces at the word love, punishes me for it. `Well, that wasn't very clever of you, was it? Can't you spot an unbeliever the first time they open their mouths?'

I shrug and look down at the floor. `I regret the whole thing. I often wish I could go back in time and erase what I've done. But it doesn't matter whether I forgive myself or not. I only want Allah to forgive me.'

`I'm sorry,' he says.

`It's OK.'

`No, I upset you. I'm sorry. I mean it.' His large eyes are all worried and looking at me. He says, `You're not upset are you?' as if he's coaxing me.

No, I am not upset, not upset at all because I see a gleam of jealousy in his eyes, sense possessiveness.