Twenty-eight

e asks me what I did over the Christmas and New Year. He smiles, fresh and relaxed after having been away. `Did you watch lots of TV?'

I tell him why I don't have a set. He doesn't know what a TV licence is or how much it costs. His mother pays for all these things he takes for granted.

He tells me about his holiday in Khartoum. He watched hours of satellite TV, was invited out to lunches and dinners. He chats about the food he ate, his new digital camera, playing football with his cousins, how it sucks to be back studying again. `I can't understand the lectures sometimes, actually a lot of the time I don't understand.' The world of business is meaningless to him, unreal.

He says, 'I've missed you.' I missed him too; I missed the delight and sweetness. We make up for the lost time. We walk in Queen Mary's Rose Garden when the weather holds, sit in the cafeteria when it rains. Every day is longer; the light is different. We discover playgrounds for Mai deep in the park, larger, more adventurous. We never get lost because we can see the minaret of the mosque and head home towards it. He says, `You actually listen to me. You talk - most people don't talk - as if they have no time.' He misses Oman, he says. He misses his schoolfriends and teachers. He had a friend, Carlos, from Bolivia whose father worked for an oil company. Carlos was a devout Catholic. He loved football and he spoke Spanish. When Carlos was ten he wanted to become a priest but he changed his mind and is now studying Environmental Science at John Hopkins University. They email each other sometimes. Tamer says, `I can't make friends here. I don't know why.'

It is my turn to say, `You listen to me when I speak.' I speak about Omar, about a disappointment that can't go away. `Please pray for him,' I say, `they can keep him locked up and they can let him go but unless Allah forgives him, nothing will change for him.' I want to cry about Omar, to let go and wail like the Palestinian women do on TV when one of their men is killed, but I can't because he is not innocent and there is a bitterness towards him that I hide and try to drown but it doesn't go away.

More than anything else,' I say, `I would like to go on Hajj. If my Hajj is accepted, I will come hack without any sins and start my life again, fresh.'

He says, `I want to ride a camel from Medina to Mecca like the Prophet, peace be upon him, did.'

We talk of Hajj because it is the season. In the mosque there are classes starting for the lucky pilgrims who are due to leave. They seem so ordinary now and when they come hack they will he transformed, privileged. I see this every year, the genuine joy and adventures they speak about. The crowds, the hardship of sleeping in tents, long bus rides, the way they were squeezed and wrung.

He says, `I am ashamed that my parents haven't yet gone to Hajj. Even though they have the money, they keep putting it off.'

One day, insha'Allah, they will go.'

He makes a face. It disturbs me when he is harsh about his parents. It is the only fault I find in him. And over the months I have looked for faults.

Crossing the bridge in the park, we meet Shahinaz, her children and mother-in-law. Tamer stands aside with Mai while I chat with them. I sit on my heels to talk to Ahmed. He is grand in his pushchair, all hidden away in a new spring coat much too big for him. It takes some time for his eyes to focus on me. `Habibi ya Ahmed, have you forgotten me, have you?' He smiles, a lopsided, grudging smile, as if he would rather fall asleep. I stand up and Shahinaz asks, `How come he's with you?' She keeps her voice low. I look towards Tamer. How boyish he looks, how young! His height doesn't add to his age, it only makes him gangly. He holds the handles of Mai's pushchair, leans down to peel away a leaf that is stuck to one of the wheels, wipes his fingers on his jeans. I ignore Shahinaz's question, bend down to kiss Ahmed's head. But she goes on, laughing, `Why is he tagging along after you? Does he need a babysitter too?'

I feel myself blushing. I mumble, `He's free to do what he likes.' I am unnecessarily defensive when all she is expecting is a witty reply, a shared laugh.

She looks at Tamer and then at me. A long look.

`I'm in an awkward position,' I say.

She puts her hand on my arm, `I understand.'

`No, I don't think you do - really.' Her mother-in-law turns to look at me, curious.

`Come to my house and we'll talk.' It's an automatic response from Shahinaz. `Come to my house tonight.'

When I join him, we walk and then he asks, `What's wrong? You're in a funny mood after talking to your friend.'

I take a deep breath, `She said something about us ... about us coming to the park together.'

What do you mean?'

I shrug.

He goes on. `She didn't think it was proper?' People pass us; a plan walking his dog, a woman jogging. Perhaps it is not a good idea to start this conversation. I decide to play things down. `She was just a hit surprised that's all.'

He says, 'I've been thinking along the same lines myself.'

I make my voice light, casual. `What have you been thinking?'

`It's not very Islamic for a man and woman to be friends.' He is calm, almost as if he had rehearsed this line. His calmness makes my hones feel stiff and cool. I am suddenly afraid of losing him.

He says, 'I heard a sheik once say that it's like putting gunpowder and fire next to each other.'

I stop walking and he is forced to turn and look at me, 'Which one am I then - the gunpowder or the fire?'

He flushes. `Don't joke about this - I'm not a little kid!'

'I wasn't joking.' I pause. 'I could leave this job.'

'No, you can't.'

I know I can't.

He says, `I miss my classes to be with you.'

'I come to work every day because of you.'

He blurts out, `We should get married.'

The shock of it makes me laugh. He is hurt; it shows in his face. He folds his arms against his chest, walks off, away from us.

I push Mai faster and catch up with him. I try to cajole him out of his mood. I tell him about an Egyptian film I once saw. A widow in her late fifties is getting married and she's all excited about it. She goes to a beauty salon and then she dies with her hair all in rollers, sitting under the hairdryer. The hairdresser says, `Her heart was weak, it couldn't hear the happiness.'

The hairdresser is my favourite actor,' I say. `Ahmed Zaki. Do you like him?'

`Yes I do. He's good.'

He looks like you.'

'No he doesn't.'

The same type. Lovely eyes, the boyish scruffy look.'

`I don't want you to talk like that ... to talk about other men.'

I smile. `Why not?'

`I get jealous.,

I warm to this. It is so gratifying.

He says in a different tone, `I meant what I said before. I can do what I like here in London. My parents aren't here.' There is a sluggish rebellion in him, a discontent. `These exams coming up, I don't need to study for them if I don't want to, it's up to me.' When I was young like him, I also thought no one could see me in London, I was free. But you can't be free of yourself.

I listen to our footsteps, the wheels of Mai's pushchair, the sounds of the park. `When you said we should get married, did you imagine it?'

`Yes.' He blushes and lifts his hand to touch the handle of Mai's pushchair, lets it drop.

`I meant, how did you picture the ceremony itself?'

`Oh I don't know. I don't know how people go about getting married. You could have found out, asked around.'

'Sure,' I say, `I can find out.'

`You're teasing me again, aren't you?' He is hostile now, like I have gone too far.

We can't talk any more. We go through the motions of taking Mai to the playground. In the cafeteria, he sulks and refuses to eat cake or drink tea.