‘She’s a stubborn, headstrong girl,’ said Sa’eed. ‘I hope it all goes well.’
The rest were silent for a moment, but Mahjoub struck his thigh with the palm of his hand several times and said fervently, glancing to left and right: ‘I swear Zein is marrying a girl who’ll keep him on the straight and narrow all right.’
Zein as usual drank his tea noisily, gulping it down with a loud sucking sound. Suddenly he put down the cup and gave a laugh. ‘Haneen told me in front of you all I’d be marrying the best girl in the village.’ Then he let out a great burst of joyful ululation, like the women do at weddings, and shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Hear ye, O clansmen, O people of the village, Zein is slain, slain by Ni’ma the daughter of Hajj Ibrahim.’ After that he was silent and said not a word.
Soon they heard the voice of Seif ad-Din giving the call to evening prayer (another victory for the Imam) at which there was a very slight stirring among them: Mahjoub coughed, Ahmed Isma’il’s toes moved involuntarily, Abdul Hafeez gave a sigh, Taher Rawwasi leaned back a little, and Sa’eed said: ‘I bear witness that there is no god but God,’ following the muezzin’s words in a low voice, Hamad Wad Rayyis blew non-existent sand from his hand.
When the call to prayers had come to an end and they heard the Imam’s voice calling out in the mosque courtyard ‘To prayers, to prayers,’ each one of them got up to go home and bring his dinner. Just as other people prayed as a group in the mosque, so ‘the gang’ dined as a group, sitting in a circle round the plates of food, with the light from the large lamp hanging in Sa’eed’s shop flickering upon them. They ate voraciously, as men do whose brows pour with sweat from a long day’s toil. They ate fried chicken, and Jew’s mallow with broth, and okra prepared in a casserole, and every night one of them would slaughter either a small sheep or a lamb. Their children would come along to them with yet more food, each plate arriving full and all too soon being returned empty. This time of night was the zenith of their day, and it was for just this that their wives worked from sunrise to sunset. The broth would come to them in deep bowls, and the fried chicken in wide oval ones; they would eat rice and thick hunks of bread, and thin unleavened bread made on smooth iron griddles; they would eat fish and meat and vegetables and onions and radishes. They weren’t fussy about what they ate. At such times their muscles would become tense, their conversation sharp and clipped; they would talk with their mouths full, eating noisily, and you would hear their teeth grind together as they munched their food; when they drank, the water gurgled in their throats. They belched noisily and smacked their lips. When their plates were returned empty, tea would be brought and they would fill up their glasses and each would light a cigarette, stretch out his legs and relax. By then the people would have finished the evening prayer. They would talk quietly and contentedly, enjoying that warm, tranquil feeling which is also experienced by the worshippers as they stand in a row behind the Imam shoulder to shoulder, looking at some faraway point at which their prayers will meet. At such times the vehemence in Mahjoub’s eyes lessens as they idly roam along the faint, fading line where the light from the lamp ends and the darkness begins—(where does the lamplight end? how does the darkness begin?). His silence takes on great depth at such moments, and if one of his friends asks him something he neither hears nor makes answer. This is the time when Wad Rayyis suddenly breaks out into a single phrase, like a stone falling into a pond: ‘God is living.’ Ahmed Isma’il inclines his head a little in the direction of the river as though listening to some voice that comes to him from there. At this hour, too, Abdul Hafeez cracks his fingers in silence and Taher Rawwasi gives a sigh from deep within him and says: ‘Time comes and Time goes.’
‘Ayyouy.—Ayyouy.—Ayyouy.—Ayyouya.’
The first to utter ululating cries was Zein’s mother.
She was joyful for a number of reasons, among them the instinctive joy of a mother at her son marrying. It is a decisive step and every mother says to her son ‘I would like to rejoice at your marriage before I die.’ Zein’s mother sensed that her life was sinking towards its setting. In addition Zein was her only son, in fact her only child; also, his not being like other people, she was afraid she might die without his having found anyone to look after him. This marriage therefore put her mind at rest. It was also an opportunity for her to recoup herself for the presents she had given to other villagers on the marriages of their sons and daughters. People would sometimes be amazed to see her hurrying off to pay her quarter or half pound at wedding feasts. To what purpose? ‘Does she think she’ll get it back at Zein’s wedding?’ Zein’s wedding was an occasion that silenced the tongues of the malicious—and Zein was marrying no woman from the common people, but Ni’ma daughter of Hajj Ibrahim, which was synonymous with noble birth, virtue and social standing. She would be entering that large red brick house (for not all the houses of the village are of red brick); she would enter with head held high and with confident tread. People would stand up as she entered and would accompany her to the door when she left. If she fell ill people would visit her daily, and she would spend the remaining days of her life luxuriating in care and love. Perhaps Fate would grant her sufficient respite that she might live to carry her grandson or grand-daughter in her arms. As Zein’s mother ululated, these thoughts passed through her mind, at which she ululated still louder.
Her neighbours and friends, her family and kinsfolk, all gave vent to their joy with her.
But how had the miracle happened? Accounts differed. Haleema, the seller of milk, said to Amna, as though to annoy her with yet more news of Zein’s wedding, that Ni’ma had seen Haneen in her dreams and that he had said to her: ‘Marry Zein. The girl who marries Zein won’t regret it.’ On waking up next morning she had told her father and mother, and they had all came to an unanimous decision about it. Amna shook her head and said: ‘Mere talk.’
Tureifi declared to his companions at school that Ni’ma, finding Zein in a gathering of women with whom he was flirting and joking, had glared severely at them and said: ‘Tomorrow all of you will eat and drink at his wedding.’ And then and there she had gone off and spoken to her father and mother, who had both given their consent.
Abdul Samad related to the people in the market-place that it was Zein who had asked marriage of Ni’ma, and that, meeting her on the road, he had said to her, ‘Cousin? Will you marry me?’ to which she had said ‘Yes,’ and that it was he who went to his uncle and spoke to him of the matter and that the man had agreed.
It is, however, more likely that things happened otherwise and that Ni’ma, headstrong and independent-minded as she was, and perhaps prompted by pity for Zein, or intrigued by the idea of making a sacrifice—something very much in her character—had made up her mind to marry Zein. It is likely that a fierce battle had raged in Hajj Ibrahim’s house between the father and the mother on one side and the daughter on the other. As her brothers were away, they were written to; the two elder brothers, it is said, refused absolutely to give their consent, though the youngest agreed, saying in his letter to his father: ‘Ni’ma was always headstrong and now that she has chosen a husband for herself, let her have her way.’ The long and short of it was that Hajj Ibrahim suddenly announced the news. It was as though people had been expecting it after the Haneen incident; strangely enough no one laughed or scoffed, they merely shook their heads in increased bewilderment as they looked at Zein, and even as they looked he grew in stature in their eyes. And thus it was that the voice of Zein’s mother burst out into ululations and the voices of her neighbours and friends, her family and kinsfolk, and all those who wished her well, joined in with her. ‘Ayyouy. Ayyouy. Ayyouy. Ayyouy. Ayyouy.’
Had the wedding not been his own, Zein would have been at leisure to single out the voice of each of the women as she ululated. This was Abdulla’s daughter, her voice melodious and powerful from the many times she had ululated at other people’s weddings; though she herself had remained a spinster, yet she always rejoiced at the
wedding feasts of everyone else. ‘Ajouj ajouj ajouj ajouja.’ This was Salama who was beautiful and pronounced her ‘y’s’ thus. A woman of great sensitivity, her beauty had brought her no happiness, for she had married and divorced, and married and divorced, settling down with no man and bearing no children. She was amusing and full of fun and had shared many a laugh with Zein. She ululated because she loved life.
‘Ayyouy. Ayyouy. Ayyouy. Ayyouy.’ This was Amna who ululated from extreme annoyance—(Do you remember Amna and how she had wanted the girl for her son and how they’d told her the girl was too young for marriage?)
‘Awoo—awoo—awoowa.’ This was dumb Ashmana; her speechless heart was riotous with joy at Zein’s wedding.
Then a blaze of ululations broke out in Hajj Ibrahim’s house. Around two hundred voices burst forth together, shaking the windows. Zein’s mother ululated and the women answered her; hearing their ululations, she renewed her own. Not a woman there was who did not ululate at Zein’s wedding.
The whole quarter heaved in its every nook and cranny and the houses filled up with visitors. There was not a house in which a party of people was not being put up. Hajj Ibrahim’s house, despite its size, was full, as were the houses of Mahjoub and Abdul Hafeez and Sa’eed and Ahmed Isma’il and Taher Rawwasi and Hamad Wad Rayyis, also the Headmaster’s house, and the house of the Omda and that of the Cadi.
‘In all my born days I’ve never seen such a wedding as this,’ said Sheikh Ali to Hajj Abdul Samad. And Hajj Abdul Samad said: ‘I’ll divorce my wife if Zein hasn’t got himself married—and a real proper marriage it is too.’
The Imam performed the rites of marriage in the mosque. Hajj Ibrahim acted for his daughter, while Mahjoub acted for Zein. When the contract of marriage was completed, Mahjoub rose and placed the dowry on a tray so that everyone could see it: a hundred pounds in gold, which came from Hajj Ibrahim’s ready cash. After that the Imam stood up and let his gaze wander among the men gathered together (Zein’s mother was the only woman among them) and said that while everyone knew he was opposed to this marriage, as God had seen fit that it should take place, he asked the Almighty, the Most High, to make of it a happy and blessed union. The people turned to Zein, but his head was bowed. Said Mahjoub to Abdul Hafeez in a low voice: ‘What was the point of talking about being opposed to it and all that rubbish?’
All were astonished when they saw the Imam walking towards Zein and placing his hand on his shoulder. Zein turned to him somewhat surprised, at which the Imam took hold of his hand and shook it hard, saying in a voice charged with emotion: ‘Congratulations. May the Lord make it a home of good fortune and many children.’ Zein glanced round him in simple-minded fashion, but when Ahmed Isma’il gave him a severe look he lowered his head.
The large brass drum let out a rumbling noise as of thunder: they said about it that it could speak. Abdulla’s daughter said to Salama: ‘The brass drum is saying “Zein’s getting married. Zein’s getting married”,’ and Salama’s sweet voice broke out into ululations.
The Koz bedouin flocked in to the feast, racing each other on their camels. They were received by Taher Rawwasi, who put them up in one of the houses and ordered them to be given food and drink.
The Talha people came along to the very last man, as the saying goes, and Ahmed Isma’il looked after them and found them quarters. He tied up their riding animals and brought them fodder, then ordered food and drink to be supplied to them.
People came from up river and people came from down river.
People came across the Nile in boats; they came from the fringe villages, on horses and donkeys and in lorries, and they were put up group by group. In every house there was a party of them and they were waited on by members of ‘the gang’, for this was their day: they had made every preparation for it down to the smallest detail. They touched no food and tasted no drink till the people had eaten and drunk.
A solitary ululation followed by a series; a single murmuring drum followed by many drums with echoing voices. The men waved their hands and shook their sticks and swords, while the Omda fired off five shots from his rifle. Amna said to Saadiya: ‘I hope you have enough food for all this lot.’ Saadiya said nothing.
Camels and oxen were slaughtered. Herds of sheep were placed on their sides and their throats slit. Everyone who came ate and drank till he had had his fill.
Zein was like a cock—indeed, as resplendent as a peacock. They had dressed him up in a kaftan of white silk which they had encircled with a green sash, and over it all he wore an aba of blue velvet, so full and flowing that when it was caught by the wind it looked like a sail. On his head he had a large turban that slanted forwards slightly. In his hands he carried a long-crocodile leather whip and on his finger he wore a gold ring in the shape of a snake that sparkled in the light of the sun by day and shone under the glare of the lamps by night, for in its head was set a ruby. He was intoxicated, without having drunk, from the great din and clamour around him. He smiled and laughed, coming and going among the people, swinging his whip, springing into the air, patting this man on the shoulder, pulling that by the hand, spurring someone on to eat more, and swearing to another he would divorce his wife if the other didn’t have another drink.
‘Now you’ve become a man,’ Mahjoub told him. ‘Your swearing to divorce has at long last got some meaning.’
The town’s merchants came, as did its government employees, its notables and leading men. There attended too the gipsies who camped out in the forest.
The best singers and the best dancers, drummers and tunbour players had all been brought along. Fattouma, the most famous singer to the west of the Nile, sang in her stirring voice:
Speak, O tongue, goblets of praise bring forth.
Charming Zein the town a scene of merriment has made.
They dragged Zein along and pushed him in among the dancers. He swung his whip above the singer and placed a pound note on her forehead. The ululations exploded like gushing springs of water.
Contradictions came together during those days. The girls of ‘the Oasis’ sang and danced in the hearing and under the very eyes of the Imam. The Sheikhs were reciting the Koran in house, the girls danced and sang in another; the professional chanters rapped their tambourines in one house, the young men drank in another: it was like a whole collection of weddings. Zein’s mother joined in with the dancers and likewise took part in the chanting. Stopping for a moment to listen to the Koran, she would then hurry out to where the food was being cooked, urging the women on in their work, running from place to place as she called out, ‘Spread the good news! Spread the good news!’
Said Haleema, the seller of milk, so as to annoy Amna: ‘What a joyful wedding it is!’
The drums gave out brisk, staccato beats. Fattouma sang:
The luscious dates that early ripen
Steal my sleep and my thoughts quicken.
The men stood in a large circle round a girl dancing in the centre. Her head-dress had fallen down and her chest was thrust forward so that her breasts stuck out. She danced like a waddling goose walking, her arms at her sides, moving in harmony with her head, chest and legs. The men clapped and struck the ground with their feet, making whinnying noises in their throats. The circle around the girl tightened and she tossed her perfumed and loosely combed hair into the face of one of the men. Then the circle widened again. The ululations swelled and surged, the clapping became more vehement, the rapping of feet on the ground louder, as the song poured forth, smooth and urgent, from Fattouma’s throat:
The girl who made Gushabi her home
All night long for her I yearn.
Ibrahim and Taha, intoxicated by the singing, called out: ‘Ah, let’s have it again, God bless you.’
Ashmana the Dumb danced, Mousa the Lame clapped, while the beating of the drums soon slowed down and became a muffled humming: they were beating out the Jabudi rhythm. The whinnying noises that came from the men’s throats grew louder and Salama entered the dance
circle. She moved about, circling round and strutting proudly like a filly; she was the best one at dancing the Jabudi and many were her admirers as their eyes followed her and she slithered away from them like a fish in water. The crowd round the dance circle grew more dense, the clapping increased and the men’s voices blared out when Zein entered the circle. This time he entered of his own accord; for a long while he swayed above Salama as she struck at him with her long hair that hung down over her shoulders, and beckoned to him with her eyes. The Imam, who was sitting in a group of men in Hajj Ibrahim’s diwan overlooking the courtyard of the house, happened to turn round and his gaze alighted upon Salama as she performed her dance; he saw her prominent breasts, her large rump shaking and quivering as she stamped on the floor like two halves of a water-melon with a valley between them into which her dress slipped. In her dance Salama bent over so far that her body assumed the shape of a circle, her hair touched the ground, her breasts became even more exposed and her buttocks bulged out more than ever. The Imam caught sight of her right leg and part of her plump thigh as the dress was drawn back, and as he turned to the person he was talking to his eyes were as cloudy as turgid water.
‘Ayyouyyouyouya’ This was Haleema, the seller of milk, ululating in hopes of benefits to be gained from the families of the two spouses.
The drumbeats changed to those of the Arda: two swift beats followed by a single one. The men began prancing about in the manner of horses and the Koz bedouin crowded on to the dance floor, leaping about and shouting and cracking their whips: men of short stature with knotted muscles and bodies that were supple, delicate and earth-coloured, men who lived off camel’s milk and the flesh of gazelles. Each of them was dressed in a robe tied round at the waist, the ends slung across the shoulders. As they leapt into the air their bodies glistened in the sunlight. On their feet they wore slippers and bound to the arm of each was a scabbard containing a knife. The voices of the dancers and the beating of the drums, blending with the sound of the tambourines and the religious chanting, all became merged in the adjoining house where another gathering had collected, also in the form of a circle, in which two men revolved, each holding a tambourine. One of them was Kortawi, recognised as the leading local chanter. He was declaiming: