Adama

by al-Hamad, Turki; Bray, Robin;

  “Where have you been?” the girl yelled when she saw him. “Are you intending to spend all day here? I’ve got sunburned already.”

  Hisham sat down facing her, inhaling that distinctive smell of sweat mixed with the rose and lemon water that the girl had drenched herself in, which hardened his erection even further. He reached out with a trembling hand and began stroking her thigh, which lay seductively exposed before his eyes. He felt a softness and a moistness he had never felt before; even those rough parts his hand touched gave him a strange, pleasurable sensation. Heat coursed through him as he forgot all his fears. The only thing on his mind was that embodiment of pleasure lying there in front of him. The girl turned onto her right side, placing her left thigh on her right one after bending her leg so that her knee was pointing towards Hisham. He lay down facing her and continued touching her, then reached under her drawers and began feeling her soft, round behind. Over and over his hand moved down into the crack between her buttocks; he would keep it there for a while and then begin the journey all over again, as the girl lay with her eyes half closed and moaning faintly as if she were dying. The heat inside Hisham reached boiling point and he felt as though his groin were almost exploding. Suddenly the girl got up and took off her dress; she was bra-less, thus instantly revealing full, round breasts with nipples dark and erect like two dates in early June. Hisham took them in his hands and began to squeeze them until he felt them stiffen and become like two unripe grapes. He drew near to her and pressed his mouth to hers, and a moment later felt her sucking hard and painfully on his lips and forcing her rough tongue into his mouth. He felt a slight disgust at the wet sensation of her saliva in his mouth, but the pleasure swept away both his pain and disgust together. The girl removed her drawers and threw them aside, then pulled off his robe. Unconsciously he put his hands over his groin. “What a lovely beginner!” she said, laughing coquettishly. Hisham felt acutely embarrassed, but relaxed his will and followed her every lead. She lay on her back and parted her legs, which she kept straight, pulling him onto her chest by the hand and once again sucking greedily on his lips. His hand passed over every part of her body; when it reached her vulva he felt himself shudder as he touched that coarse hair, which had become hot and sticky like saliva, and he felt heat emanating from her.

  The girl’s moans had started getting louder when Hisham suddenly got up and began hurriedly putting his robe back on. “Where are you off to? What happened?” Raqiyya asked dreamily, as if semi-conscious, but Hisham took off without looking back. He had suddenly felt a sense of revulsion and painful contempt for himself when he saw her jet-black triangle with its ugly, dark red mouth. And at that moment, for some unknown reason, a vivid image of his mother had come to his mind; he felt as though a coldness had swept over him; the temperature in ‘Rome’ had dropped to zero and he had gone limp.

  “Well, give us the good news,” said Abd al-Rahman with intense curiosity, when Hisham went over to him. “Have you finished?”

  “I couldn’t,” Hisham replied. “I was, I was –”

  “Don’t worry,” said Abd al-Rahman, laughing. “The first time’s always hard. You’ll have better luck next time.” He headed over towards the car, but before he got there Hisham called over to him and asked him for a cigarette. Abd al-Rahman gave him one without comment and then proceeded to Raqiyya while Hisham sat on the ground, lit the cigarette and cautiously took a drag. No sooner had the smoke reached his lungs than he began coughing violently. After his coughing fit subsided he took another drag; this time he choked less hard, and with the third drag his coughing stopped altogether. Halfway through the cigarette he felt deliciously giddy, his mouth watering and filling with saliva, his desire coursing back as ‘Rome’ recovered its energy, while in the distance he could hear the girl’s ardent moaning. Hisham finished the cigarette and got up, swaying a little, then dropped the cigarette and trod on it as Abd al-Rahman looked up from behind the car. Hisham returned and found Abd al-Rahman getting his breath back as he buttoned up his robe and tried frantically to tidy his dishevelled hair. On the other side Raqiyya was attempting to squeeze her behind into her tight drawers, her breasts wobbling with every movement and her nipples like two desert plants that had just sprouted after rainfall.

  Once again they were on the road to Riyadh, the sun midway through the blue dome of the sky that was clouded with dust, and all three of them quite silent as the voice of Talal Maddah on the radio sang, “How often have I recalled the hours of the late afternoon ...”

  35

  Abd al-Rahman dropped the girl off where he had collected her after giving her ten whole riyals, which she slipped under her clothes next to her chest without comment. The two men then returned home and went to Hisham’s room. Hisham lay down on the bed while Abd al-Rahman sat and leaned against a nearby wall. Hisham still felt slightly nauseated from the effect of the cigarette, after the initial feelings of pleasure had worn off, and his eyes gradually began to close. In the distance he heard Abd al-Rahman leaving and saying, “You look sleepy. I’ll see you at lunch,” and images once more began to gather in his mind ...

  36

  The day after Mansur and Adnan met, Hisham went to school on his own. Adnan had not passed by his house in the morning to join him as usual. At school he noticed Adnan avoiding him. There was not even a ‘Good morning’ forthcoming after the register had been taken and they all went into the classroom, nor did Adnan rush over to talk to him once the first lesson was over. Instead of going with him in the break to have something to eat, Adnan begged off, saying he had some homework to finish. He stammered as he made his excuses, wringing his hands and looking out of the corner of his eye at Mansur, who was leaning against the wall of the corridor outside the classroom with his arms folded, watching them. Hisham realised that they had instructed Adnan to end the friendship, just as they had told him to do likewise, and he had no doubt that Mansur would report him to the party. That did not bother him; in fact, he felt rather glad. They might get so angry with him they would decide to expel him from the organisation, and then he would be free from this nightmare from which he did not know how to awaken.

  That afternoon he went to Abd al-Karim’s house early; the rest of the gang had not yet arrived. Abd al-Karim was relaxing with his legs stretched out in front of him, wearing only a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved vest. He was engrossed in Albert Camus’s The Outsider and, as always, drinking tea. The door to the courtyard of the house was open as it usually was at that time of day, so Abd al-Karim did not realise that Hisham had come in and was standing in front of him until he said, “My, what lovely legs.” Abd al-Karim put down the novel and greeted Hisham with a smile, then invited him to sit down while he stood and picked up the tea tray. “The tea will be ready in a minute,” he said, as he scurried off to the main part of the house. A few minutes later he returned, wearing a white robe – or at least, it had once been white, but was now covered in brown and yellow stains.

  “I don’t understand,” he said without any introduction, sitting down opposite Hisham. “Are there really people like the Outsider that Camus talks about? Or is it just the author’s invention, an expression of his state of mind at a certain point? Someone like that ...! He doesn’t take any notice of his mother’s death, and not even of his trial and his own death! I think it’s all a bit over the top, don’t you?”

  Hisham stretched out one of his legs and, folding his arms behind his head, leaned back against the wall. “That kind of absurdity might seem exaggerated to us,” he said, “but if we knew the circumstances that Camus was living through and the state of European society after the war, maybe we’d realise that absurdity is a part of life. Perhaps what we call fate is simply the absurd, and what they call the absurd is simply fate.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Abd al-Karim.

  “The question is how we look at things, not the things themselves. There is no truth per se, the question lies in –” Hisham broke off as their other frien
ds began arriving: Abd al-Aziz, then Saud and finally Salim. They all sat down and Saud began pouring out the tea, which Abd al-Karim’s mother had pushed in to them from behind the door, saying in a low voice, “Abd al-Karim, the tea ... Good afternoon, boys.”

  “Good afternoon, Umm Hamad,” they all chimed in. Hamad was Abd al-Karim’s older brother, who worked for Aramco, and whom they only ever saw on special occasions as his work took up all of his time. There was also the fact that he was busy with his American wife and his three children, who could barely speak Arabic. They had been born in Houston, Texas, where Hamad had studied petroleum engineering on an Aramco scholarship. It was there that he had met his wife, Barbara, and they had had their sons Shadi and Fadi, and their daughter Sarah. Now they all lived in ‘Senior Staff’, the area for senior Aramco employees, and the children went to American schools in the neighbourhood.

  The boys began drinking and talking about all sorts of subjects. Time went by, and still there was no sign of Adnan. Mixed feelings of worry and tension, jealousy and curiosity came over Hisham. Where could the fool be? Was he with that monkey Mansur? Or had he given in to the organisation’s silly orders and cut off contact with him? What a coward he’d be to go and obey them, Hisham thought, paying no attention to what was going on around him. He only came to his senses when he heard the others giggling and saying, “Get away with you, Saud! What rubbish you come out with!” Saud had probably told them one of the dirty jokes he always had up his sleeve. They noticed that Hisham was not joining in and began to direct their comments at him. “Look, that’s how people are when they’re in love,” “I spy someone suffering from unrequited love,” “Ahem, ahem ... We’re over here.”

  “What a lot of idiots you are,” Hisham said with a smile, quickly changing the subject and trying to seem as natural as possible. “I was thinking about Adnan and wondering why he hadn’t got here yet. But it looks like he’s no friend of yours.”

  “You’re the one who should know,” said Saud. “Of all of us you’re the one who’s closest to him. Anyhow, don’t worry, he’ll turn up. If not today, tomorrow.” Saud gave a brief laugh as he looked at the others and winked, and they looked at Hisham and began laughing themselves.

  “You really are a lot of idiots,” Hisham said, suddenly getting up. “I’m off, anyway.”

  “You’re not angry, are you?” exclaimed Saud. “I was only joking.”

  Abd al-Karim got up after Hisham. “You know Saud and his smutty jokes,” he said. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Hisham, and then added, addressing the others, “Whoever sits with idiots must be a idiot too, and idiots don’t get angry with each other – right, idiot?” he said, looking at Saud and smiling.

  “Right you are, you prize idiot,” answered Saud with a smile, “so why don’t you sit back down?”

  “I’ve got a few things to do. I’ll see you all tomorrow,” Hisham said, and took off. As he left he could hear Salim calling out for the cards and challenging the others to a round of Plot and Saud humming, “Poor are those who fall in love ...”

  Saud’s comment had annoyed him, and the moment he made it Hisham had felt an intense loathing towards him, but his curiosity to find out where Adnan was pushed every other thought out of his mind. The instant he was outside he forgot all about the gang, and unconsciously he hurried off to Adnan’s house, his flip-flops slapping against the soles of his feet as he went. When he knocked on the door Majid opened it and greeted him quickly as he stepped outside.

  “If you’re looking for your friend, he’s amusing himself in his hermit’s cell,” he said. “Sorry, but I can’t stay; I’ve got a job at Abu Salih’s shop and I don’t want to be late. Goodbye.”

  As Majid raced off Hisham made his way to Adnan’s studio in the room under the stairs leading up to the roof terrace. This room was extremely cramped, but Adnan’s touch had transformed it into something magical with all the pictures and decorations with which he had covered the walls. He found Adnan sitting there, engrossed in painting a new picture and sweating from every part of his skinny body in the stifling heat that only Adnan could bear when he was painting. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to the door, and he had leaned the picture he was painting against the wall. He was wearing long white trousers and a white vest wet with sweat. Drops of perspiration glistened on his neck and ran down his back. He was completely absorbed in what he was doing, the air around him hot and humid and smelling of oil paint and fried food as well as a rotten odour from the drain of a nearby house.

  Hisham knew Adnan always behaved this way when troubled. He went up to him quietly, undetected, and without greeting him placed his hand on a clammy shoulder.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked. “We missed you today.”

  Adnan gave a start and looked behind him. “Hello, Hisham,” he said in a near whisper before returning to his work, his hand trembling. “I had an urge to paint, that’s all.” Hisham remained standing as he tried to work out what his friend was painting, and Adnan avoided his gaze. There was a short silence before Adnan spoke again, without interrupting his painting this time. “Damn this place,” he said, as though talking to himself, “it’s so pokey. I’m going to build myself a nice big den on the roof where no one will disturb me.”

  Another silence. All the while Hisham had been pretending to be calm. Perhaps Adnan would bring up the subject himself without his having to ask. But he continued painting without uttering another word, and eventually Hisham lost patience. “Adnan,” he said, “I want to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sorry,” replied Adnan, without stopping what he was doing, “I really want to paint.”

  Hisham, at the end of his tether, laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I won’t take up much of your time,” he said, trying to control his voice so as not to betray anger at the insult. “No more than five minutes.”

  The two friends’ eyes met; Adnan put down his brush, resigned. “Just a minute while I get dressed,” he said.

  “Fine, I’ll wait for you outside.” As Hisham went out Adnan headed into the main part of the house, shaking his head.

  They set off for Sheikh Mousa’s mosque, which was completely empty at this hour, immediately after the sunset prayers; even Sheikh Mousa himself, who usually spent this time of day in the hostel he had set up for wayfarers, was not to be found.

  They sat down near the pulpit. “What did you two get up to yesterday?” Hisham asked without any introduction, his voice tense. “You and that ... Mansur?”

  “How do you know we met? Were you spying on me?”

  Hisham snorted. “Spying on you?” he said with heavy sarcasm, “Why would I spy on someone like you? You told me yourself. And anyway, I know lots of things you don’t.” With this last sentence Hisham looked at Adnan out of the corner of his eye, giving him an impression of importance and secrecy.

  “We didn’t get up to anything,” said Adnan, bowing his head. “I met him by the municipal park in the afternoon, we talked for a bit and then went our separate ways.”

  ‘You’ve learned to lie quickly, Adnan,’ Hisham said to himself. “That’s not true,” he said firmly. “You got on a bus. Where did you go?”

  Adnan opened his eyes wide. “So you were spying on us!”

  “That doesn’t matter now,” Hisham snapped, waving his hand in the air. “Where did you go?”

  “We went to a house in the village,” Adnan stammered. “There were two other people there. We talked for a while, and then he gave me a few books and I came back.” Adnan paused for a moment before going on, “I shouldn’t really be telling you any of this. That’s what Comrade Ja‘far – I mean, Mansur – gave me to understand.”

  So that was the monkey’s movement name, Hisham said to himself. “The village?” he asked. “What village?”

  “It’s near Qatif. Mansur lives there.”

  “Never mind. The main thing is, wh
y are you trying to avoid me? Aren’t I your friend?”

  “I’m not avoiding you. You’re imagining things.”

  “Imagining things?” Hisham snorted. “You’ll be telling me you think I’m crazy in a minute.”

  Adnan cleared his throat nervously. “The truth,” he said, trembling, “the truth ... the truth is that he told me to cut off all contact with you. There must be no friendship outside the work of the organisation. There would be security implications. That’s what Mansur told me.”

  ‘To hell with you and Mansur and the organisation,’ Hisham thought. “Sod you, Adnan,” he said. “Do you obey everyone who tells you to do something? We’ve been friends since we were children! Would you sacrifice all that for anything?”

  “I really don’t know who to listen to and who not to,” Adnan said, extremely agitated.

  Hisham got up and laughed bitterly. “Do whatever you think best, Adnan,” he said. “He asked me to do the same thing, but I put our relationship above all other considerations. But it looks like you’re not worthy of it.” He hurried out of the mosque. Adnan wanted to catch up with his friend but decided against it; he felt a strong impulse to chase after Hisham, but something held him back and he remained sitting where he was until people started to arrive at the mosque. At that point he returned to his house, the studio, his paintbrushes and his picture.

  37

  During the days that followed, Hisham kept out of Adnan’s way completely; in fact, he ignored him as though Adnan did not exist. Hisham could tolerate anything except humiliation (real or imagined), and he felt he had been put in that position by someone he regarded as one of his ‘possessions’. Hisham was trying to tell him, ‘I’m the one cutting off contact with you of my own accord; I’m the one who makes the decisions, and we’ll see who misses whom. We’ll see who needs whom. I hope that arsehole Mansur does you good.’