Free Lyrics Alley by Leila Aboulela

impressive. Two years ago, under the previous Barclays Bank manager they had been granted a loan to acquire the agency for Perkins motors, specifically the pumps for irrigation. The result was that the Abuzeid cotton fields were now irrigated by Abuzeid pumps. They no longer needed to buy or hire pumps from someone else. Idris explained the significant difference the pumps were making, their efficiency in irrigating the fields and how much acquiring the Perkins agency had cut costs. The Abuzeids were able to repay the loan in no time and it was with this confidence that they were now expanding into cotton ginning and asking for another loan.
    Young though he might be, Nigel Harrison had done his homework and was canny enough to question his clients. ‘There are capitalists in this country, some of them foreign and some of them local, who would be honoured to ally themselves with you. They have the finances you need and you have the base and experience they lack. Why aren’t you allowing them to invest in your projects?’
    The reply was confident. ‘We are a family business, Sir. We do not want outsiders to come between us.’
    ‘This possessiveness might do you harm in the long run.’
    Mahmoud smiled. ‘We do not need anyone else, only Barclay’s Bank.’
    Harrison responded with a small smile and went on, ‘But given the more than healthy profit of last year’s cotton yield, Sayyid Mahmoud, you cannot have any liquidity problem. Why are you seeking a loan?’
    Mahmoud crossed his legs.
    ‘I have invested my cash in a building, Sir. The very first high rise in Khartoum. It will be a big building on Newbold Street, a building similar to the ones in Cairo.’
    Nigel Harrison, like every traveller from Europe, had passed through Cairo on his way to Khartoum and he knew whatMahmoud meant. The brothers started to describe the building and its exact location.
    ‘Next to Hoash Boulus,’ said Idris.
    Mahmoud rebuked him in Arabic, whispering, ‘What would he know about Hoash Boulus!’ Then he turned towards the desk, raised his voice and switched to English. ‘I will take you to see it, Mr Harrison. It will be a fine piece of architecture when it is ready.’
    A week later Mahmoud met Nigel Harrison at a reception in the palace. He introduced him to Nabilah, proud that she was next to him in her jewels and cocktail frock, her fair skin radiant in the lamp-lit garden. In his dinner jacket, with a drink in his hand, Mahmoud was satisfied that they made a favourable impression. But it seemed an inappropriate occasion to talk to Mr Harrison about the loan or to ask for a response.
    ‘Is this a typical palace function, would you say?’ It was Harrison’s first.
    Mahmoud was pleased to be asked this question.
    ‘Everything is exactly the same as in previous occasions. Even the brass brand is as loud as ever.’
    Harrison smiled and raised his voice, ‘Perhaps it’s a ploy to hamper any attempts to have a sensible conversation.’
    Mahmoud did not understand the word ‘ploy’ and faltered a little. He changed the subject.
    ‘Unless you have already met them, I will introduce you to my friends from the Chamber of Commerce.’
    ‘I would appreciate that. I’ve noticed that formal introductions are not the norm here. Everyone of consequence expects to be known, but that can be puzzling for a newcomer.’
    Mahmoud found this perspective interesting. It was true, he moved in circles where everyone knew everyone else. When in doubt, he was proud of his instinct to sort out who was influential and who was not. Sometimes he would sit in a gathering perplexed about the identity of another man and yet unable toplace him. A whispered query to the most trusted person next to him would suffice, but usually he would have to trust his instinct. A name could be picked up later, but how Mahmoud greeted or treated a stranger could not be postponed and, of course, he had to get it right. Treating a man with less respect than was his