Adnan refolded it and placed it on top of the desk. “But you know the orders,” he said, still standing opposite Hisham. “We mustn’t keep these sorts of things.”
Hisham closed his book nervously. “God, are the party orders as sacred as the Ten Commandments or the Law of Muhammad?!” he lashed out. “And what right have you got to call me to account, anyway? You mind your own business! You can see I’ve got enough to worry about as it is!”
“We’re friends,” stammered Adnan, “and comrades. I just wanted to warn you, that’s all.”
Hisham jumped up, went to the desk and picked up his geology textbook. “You and the party and its orders can all go to hell,” he barked, raising his voice. “Get out of my sight.” He opened the book, but then began glancing at the door; he went over and opened it, peering into the main part of the house. Once he had checked that his mother was still in the other room in front of the television, which he could hear from where he was standing, he sat back down, reassured that no one could have overheard them. Adnan seemed deep in revision, having slunk into the chair opposite him and opened his biology textbook; red-faced, he stared at the book, clearly not reading. Hisham watched Adnan, who knew Hisham was looking at him but he pretended to be engrossed in revision. At that moment Hisham felt genuine contempt for Adnan, who he felt was weaker than he had imagined. While to a certain extent that satisfied him, it enraged him more.
Hisham’s nerves calmed a little and he picked up the pamphlet, tore it up into little pieces and threw them into the wastepaper basket beside him. “There we are. That’s got rid of the thing that was worrying you,” he said quietly, trying to smile. “Are there any other orders?” He poured himself a cup of tea from the thermos next to him.
“You should have burned it,” said Adnan without taking his eyes off his book, his voice somewhat agitated. “That’s what the orders say.”
Hisham got up again, spilling some tea on his robe before putting his cup down on the table. “Go to hell, Adnan,” he said, shaking with anger. “What are you, some kind of sheep? How come all these years I never really knew you?”
Without saying anything Adnan gathered his books together and left the room on his way out of the house. Hisham did not bother to run after him; in fact, he felt glad Adnan had gone and he returned to his book.
At the next meeting of the cell, near the end of the session Fahd looked at Hisham calmly and said, “Comrade Abu Huraira, the leadership has learned of your recklessness and negligence, how you disobeyed orders and left a pamphlet in your house. We have every confidence in our comrades, which is why we entrust them with the pamphlets, which should either be distributed or burned.”
For a while there was silence as Fahd lit a cigarette and gulped down a cup of tea, the others looking on in silence. Then Fahd continued impassively, “The leadership has decided to keep you in the rank of Auxiliary until you have demonstrated some self-discipline.”
Hisham smiled involuntarily, and then quickly resumed a sullen expression, glancing at Comrade Renoir and sinking into silence until everyone began to leave one by one, Hisham last of all.
That day he did not go to the beach where Marzuq and Zaki were waiting, but straight home, his thoughts distracted all the way. He could not come to terms with the shock; his friend Adnan, betray him? He could never have imagined such a thing; he was unable to take in what had happened. That someone like Hasan al-Sabah would spy on him was understandable; there was nothing between them other than the comradeship of which he had grown so weary, but as for Adnan ... He felt a terrible pain in his throat and the urge to weep, but found he could not; the ache just stayed there. When he got home he went to his room and locked the door without greeting his mother and father, who were sitting in the television room. (They did not attempt to disturb him, having got used to such odd behaviour, attributing it to the ups and downs of youth.) Hisham picked up a novel by Balzac and tried to lose himself in the plot, but the image of Adnan would not leave him. He remained sitting on the floor staring at the first page, reading nothing, for a long time.
46
At Abd al-Karim’s house the next day Hisham left immediately after Adnan arrived, as the rest of the gang looked on in surprise; but Hisham did not even bother to justify his departure. He could not bear Adnan’s presence. He went into the street and began wandering in no particular direction; he had no desire to go home, but did not know where else to go. He thought of Noura; how he wished she were in his arms now, but how? He would have loved to be able to go to her house, knock on the door and say to her mother, “I need Noura, I want to see her,” but that was obviously out of the question. Lately, during her milk deliveries, all he could get from her was a fleeting glance or a quick smile at the door from a distance, circumstances permitting; his mother now used to meet Noura and say goodbye to her at the door, since the day she had been surprised by their joint presence in the house upon her return from visiting the neighbours.
Hisham’s mother trusted him implicitly, but that did not stop her watching over him to make sure that all doors through which the wind might blow were kept tightly shut. After he joined the party he began to imagine his mother as a member; she would be sure to succeed with her qualifications, perhaps rising to the leadership, even becoming its General Secretary. He would find these fantasies hugely amusing, but the image of his mother as she always was would return to his mind, pure love and severity rolled into one. The only way out left to him was to write Noura letters expressing his need for her. An idea occurred to him: he would write her a note arranging to meet her far from his mother’s vigilance. Overjoyed at the thought, he ran home and began writing straight away.
That evening Hisham waited for her by the front door; when he saw her coming, he dropped his letter on the ground in front of the door and quickly returned to his room. He listened for his mother’s usual goodbye – “Give my regards to your mother” – and realised that Noura now had his letter tucked away happily next to her breast. Hisham was ecstatic; he forgot all about Adnan and the party and Fahd and everything else, all that was left was Noura. His joy was was almost too much for his pounding heart to bear. He rifled through the books in his bookcase, took out There’s a Man in Our House by Ihsan Abd al-Quddus and began re-reading it perhaps for the tenth time; but on this occasion Hisham transposed himself in the place of the hero Ibrahim and Noura as the heroine Nawal: different names, he thought, but the same love.
The next day he waited by the front door. As Noura approached, she dropped a piece of paper, which Hisham snatched up and waited until she had gone inside, then a little longer before quickly returning to his room, where he began reading breathlessly.
“Dear Hisham, I long for you. I wish I could spend my whole life before you, gazing at your face and rubbing against your chest. I, too, long to meet you, but you know I can’t go out without permission or to any place my mother doesn’t know. But I’ve got an idea: today, after my father gets back from evening prayers, he’ll sit in front of the television for a while waiting for his supper and my mother will be in the kitchen. I’ll leave the door to the courtyard open and I’ll be there waiting for you. Forever your darling, Noura.”
Hisham lifted the letter to his nose and sniffed it eagerly, as though it were Noura herself; he was filled with joy, albeit a joy tinged with some anxiety at the adventure he was to embark on that night. For the first time in his life he was to enter a house without the knowledge of the family who lived there. The thought disturbed him, as well as the fearsome prospect of being found out; the ensuing scandal would be too much for his mother, he knew. But the prize for which he was risking all was great: it was Noura herself, and that was enough to overcome any doubts. The excitement, that pleasure mingled with fear and anxiety, was like a dish of saliq grain mixed with hot peppers: pleasure and pain together, the thrill of the combination.
Later that day, completely against habit, he attended evening prayers at the mosque near Noura’s house where her father normally praye
d. The mosque was hardly full, with only a few people there from the houses round about, so he was easily able to pick out Noura’s father in the front row directly behind the imam. Hisham sat down to his right after scrupulously prostrating himself twice in deference to the mosque itself, then picked up a copy of the Qur’an and began reading a sura at random as he waited for the prayers to begin. Noura’s father was reciting prayers and praising God in a murmur that was not quite audible. When prayers were over and most of those present had departed, Noura’s father stayed behind for a while, performing the two final customary prostrations slowly and deliberately; Hisham did likewise. When Noura’s father got up to leave, Hisham went up to him with a smile.
“Good evening, Abu Muhammad,” he said. “May God hear your prayers.”
Noura’s father looked at him and smiled back. “Our prayers and yours, God willing,” he replied. “How are you, my son?”
“I’m well, thank you.” Hisham realised the man did not know who he was. “Do you not recognise me, Uncle? I’m Hisham, Ibrahim al-Abir’s son. We’re your neighbours.”
“Yes, of course!” the man cried. “How’s your father? Well, I hope? I haven’t seen him for a long time.”
“He is well, thanks be to God. Everyone has so much to do, Uncle. That’s why no one ever gets to see anyone else.”
“You’re right, son. May God bring us all to a good end.”
Walking along as they talked, they had drawn near Noura’s house. Her father invited Hisham to join him for supper, but Hisham politely declined, explaining that he had to revise for his exams. Noura’s father wished him success and guidance from God for every Muslim, before disappearing behind the iron gate of his house. Hisham continued walking a short distance until he was certain Noura’s father had gone inside, then quietly retraced his steps. He was extremely hesitant, putting one foot forward, then one back; he was weighed down with guilt. This good man had prayed for him, little knowing that soon Hisham would be with his own daughter. Hisham almost returned home, but then Noura’s image appeared in his mind; he felt as though he could inhale her, and when he looked at the house he saw that there was only that damned wall between them. His heart began thumping and his breathing surged, but all he could think about was Noura.
He found the door slightly ajar and pushed it open with a tremulous hand. He almost took to his heels when the door creaked: the sound was faint, but it seemed to him as though the whole neighbourhood must have heard it. However, he managed to get a grip on himself and push the door further still, until he could see the little garden sunk in darkness. In the distance he heard the muffled sound of the family’s conversation and the noise of the television. Advancing a little, he closed the door behind him quietly, and all of a sudden felt a strong hand pulling him by his own. The fright was such that he almost passed out, sure that he had been exposed. All at once he pictured his mother lying shrouded on a white bed, her eyes filled with tears, but came to his senses when he heard Noura’s voice whisper, “Over here, come with me.” He was surprised by the strength of her grip, but followed her as she led him by the hand to a far corner of the garden, screened from the rest of the house by a short palm tree laden with clusters of dates. She sat down on the ground and drew him to her side, and their trembling hands joined in a sweaty, erotic stickiness. Hisham was still frightened, but she was strangely, almost suspiciously, calm.
“Are you sure we’re safe?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, darling,” she replied confidently, in a gentle whisper like a northerly breeze. “They’re all watching television and my mother’s in the kitchen.”
Hisham relaxed a little and reached his hand out to her face, touching her soft cheek, then removed her veil and drew her head towards him and inhaled the scent of musk in her hair. She laid her head on his chest, her fevered breathing lighting a fire inside him. He gently lifted her head and pressed his lips to hers, and at that moment they became oblivious to everything around them. Then suddenly he parted his mouth from her tender lips and began looking at her; her eyes were closed.
“Noura,” he said.
“Sweetheart,” she replied with her eyes still shut, resting her head on his chest again.
“Am I the first one ever to come here? I mean –”
Noura quickly removed her head from his chest, her eyes wide with hurt and anger. “I was wrong to love you,” she said forcefully. Wrapping her veil around her head, she was about to get up when Hisham caught her by the hand.
“I’m sorry, Noura,” he said wretchedly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me say it. Please forgive me.” He gazed at her with wide-open eyes, and with only a moment’s hesitation Noura threw herself back into his arms, sending his glasses tumbling to the ground; once again they were whirled away into oblivion. Deliriously he reached out and began stroking the light down on her leg, and then his hand started to move up under her dress, but Noura took her lips off his and said,
“No. No, Hisham. That isn’t right.”
He obeyed her wishes and they embraced again, each of them gently and pleasurably breathing in the scent of the other with their eyes closed. How long they remained like that neither of them knew, but when a voice in the distance called out, “Noura ... Noura!” she gave a start.
“It’s my mother, it’s my mother,” she said nervously, getting up hastily to throw her veil back on and adjust her dress before darting off. Then she dashed back, planted a fleeting kiss on Hisham’s lips and ran into the house again. Hisham could hear the mumbling sound of her speaking to her mother, and then there was quiet. Cautiously he made his way towards the door, and no sooner found himself outside than he took off home and went straight to his room and bed, his heart still pounding. Safe at last. His mother called him to have supper, which they had put off for his sake, but he claimed he had already eaten an egg sandwich while out with the gang.
“I’m amazed at the way you’ve been this last couple of days,” his mother said, looking at him suspiciously. “Anyhow, it’s up to you.” She closed the door behind her. Oh, if only his mother knew where he had come from and what he had been doing ... But he put his mother out of his mind, replacing her with Noura and her scent, filling his entire being.
47
Hisham decided to leave the organisation regardless of the consequences. He could not bear it any more; it was not a life for him. What drove him this time was not just fear, even if that was ever-present, but his lack of conviction in the life of the organisation and all that went on in it. He decided to inform Fahd of his decision at the next meeting of the cell and made up his mind not to go back on it, whatever the circumstances.
He was determined to hand in his ‘resignation’ when the cell met on Thursday at the usual time, but the news Fahd brought to that session made him forget all about it and revived his terror more vividly than ever. Fahd looked unusually solemn from the moment the others came in, and remained so during the repetition of the party slogan. He was chain-smoking more than ever, his unshaven face pale and yellow like an overripe lemon. The others exchanged curious glances, and then Fahd said in a dry, agitated voice,
“I’ve got bad news, comrades.”
He fell silent again and lit a cigarette from the end of another he had not yet put out, while the others looked at him, transfixed and tense.
“Some of our comrades have been arrested. The organisation has been discovered.”
He stubbed out his old cigarette on the tea tray in front of him. Alarmed, the others began to speak up, their voices quiet at first but gradually getting louder. Fahd just watched them like an imbecile.
“How did it happen?”
“Who exposed it?”
“Where?”
“Why?”
Finally Hudaijan turned squarely to Fahd and looked at him. “How did it happen?” he asked. “What’s the story? We want to know everything.”
Fahd took another cigarette straight from the pack with his mouth, lit it and dropped the mat
ch on the floor, where it remained burning on the threadbare carpet for a while before Hudaijan picked it up and put it out on the tray. Fahd blew the smoke up to the ceiling with a sigh.
“It’s a long story,” he said, watching the smoke diffuse into the air. “Treachery, conspiracy. A former comrade in the leadership betrayed us. He had been expelled from the organisation for his opportunism and misconduct. Abd al-Qadir Sulayhaf. That filth Abd al-Qadir contacted Comrade Yaqoub Sheikhoun – they’d been friends from the same party cell – and said he was sorry for the way he’d behaved and asked to be forgiven and allowed to rejoin the party.” Fahd smiled ironically. “Perhaps you find it strange that I mention the comrades’ real names. Well, don’t. They’ve all been arrested and now the Secret Police know all our names anyway. There’s nothing left to hide.” He paused for a moment, looked up at the ceiling and then at the comrades. “The main thing is that Sulayhaf wasn’t accepted back into the party. And one evening he invited Comrade Sheikhoun to supper at his house, where he offered him some Sadiqi arrack and began asking him about the latest news of the organisation; Sheikhoun told him everything, the names of the new party leadership, the new comrades, everything. And the wretch had hidden a tape recorder behind one of the cushions. He recorded every word Comrade Sheikhoun said and then took the recording to the Secret Police, who arrested all the members of the leadership. Comrade Said al-Qammar, Hussein Musaydis, Abd al-Amir al-Nakhlawi and Yaqoub Sheikhoun himself, of course. Sulayhaf, what scum.”
Fahd stopped to catch his breath as the others sat gripped by fear, the flies buzzing their heads and adding to their torment.
“So we’re done for, all for the sake of a drink of arrack?” said Abu Dharr caustically, though unable to disguise the fear in his voice. After this there was uproar, throughout which Fahd continued chain-smoking.
“Why did Sheikhoun stay in touch with Sulayhaf when they all knew he was an opportunist?”
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