Where Pigeons Don't Fly

by Yousef Al-Mohaimeed

  Yasser withdrew from the heated argument, rapidly punched the buttons on his mobile phone and conversed in a low voice. The senior detective was explaining that the right of Soha’s descendants to withdraw their case was their right as individuals, but that the state’s right to pursue the charge remained with the police. In other words, the Egyptian sheikh would not escape punishment just because they withdrew their accusations.

  Fahd insisted that he would never back down where his mother’s rights were concerned and he would sign nothing to that effect. Abu Ayoub returned to the subject of fate and how Fahd didn’t believe in it—‘My brother, fear your Lord’—as though laying the ground to accuse his nephew of being a secularist, an infidel and an atheist.

  The phone rang in Fahd’s pocket. He looked at the number and saw Tarfah’s name blinking insistently. He refused the call and noticed an unread message from Saeed: Fahd, don’t surrender your mothers’ rights to these dogs!

  He turned and saw Saeed sitting on the white plastic chair, one leg crossed over the other and jiggling to a jittery, remorseless rhythm.

  Escaping the suffocating atmosphere, Fahd went outside to the ambulances’ covered parking lot to light a cigarette between two of the vehicles. He blew out smoke and wept bitterly. A gentle hand fell on his shoulder. It was Saeed, comforting him and urging him on.

  –52 –

  FAHD’S EYES WELLED. saeed held his arm and tried to comfort him as he burst into tears and rested his head against the driver’s wing mirror on the side of the ambulance. He wept aloud: he needed to be outside in the fresh air, to light the tip of a cigarette, to receive comfort from someone other than the killers: the Egyptian sheikh, his uncle and his cousin. To not only lose his mother, but to lose her in such awful circumstances … His father had never hit her, yet some stranger had flogged her to death with his son’s assistance. What gall his uncle had! For that matter, what gall his sister had to snatch the broom from behind the kitchen door and hand it to Abu Ayoub as he galloped up in a fright at the voices of infidel jinn. Has your little heart died, Lulua? Heartbroken, anguished, sad and tearful, Fahd muttered, ‘The best way to honour the dead is to bury them, and I don’t believe a man can honour anyone in this world more than his mother!’

  Back inside, Abu Ayoub spoke at length, standing with Ibrahim, Fahd and Yasser and directing most of his words at Fahd as he rolled the toothstick in his mouth and clicked prayer beads over his thumb with a rapid mechanical motion.

  ‘“When it is their time to die they shall not delay the hour nor shall they hasten it,”’ he said. ‘Her day has come, may God have mercy on her, and her hour has struck. It falls to us to keep faith in fate and divine decree. Brothers, everything we are doing now is the work of Satan and will not restore the dead to life.’

  ‘But it will restore her rights!’ Fahd broke in. ‘Otherwise, we might as well be living in the jungle! My mother was murdered, never mind if she was ill. Even if the doctors said she was going to die in a few months, or a year, no one knows how long she would have lived.’

  ‘I know,’ said Abu Ayoub, his eyes fixed on Saeed who was standing on the other side of the glass. ‘But the sheikh means well and follows the sunna, and he who forgives and makes peace will be rewarded by God. That’s one point, the other point you seem to be forgetting, Fahd, is that transferring the corpse of your mother, God have mercy on her, to the dissection table and the tender mercies of the surgeons will cause great pain both to her and to us. Do you not mind—can you even imagine—your mother being subjected to the surgeon’s scalpels after her death?’

  ‘No!’ said Yasser. ‘We do mind!’

  ‘Don’t talk of what doesn’t concern you!’ Fahd said.

  Abu Ayoub grabbed Fahd’s hand and led him out of the ward. ‘But it does concern me, Fahd. I was her husband. Then there’s the fact that we’re in mourning at the moment. And don’t imagine that anything will happen to us: each one of us gave her the traditional cures with the best of intentions. Even your sister played her part. In a case such as this sacrificing an animal or a couple of months’ fasting should be enough if our approach was in error.’

  Yasser, who had caught up with them, now interrupted. ‘We weren’t wrong. The sheikh is well-known; his books are in the Rushd bookshop!’

  Abu Ayoub went on as if he had heard nothing. ‘To be brief, what we need to do now is withdraw our case against the Egyptian, get that withdrawal endorsed in court and try and prevent the body being referred for autopsy. We won’t sleep tonight until she’s been put in the refrigerator and tomorrow we’ll wash the body and say the afternoon prayer over her grave.’

  It was a day as turbulent as a dream, streaking by before Fahd’s eyes.

  Till now, his days had been spent between the reek of oil paint, the rough, pimpled canvas, brushes of all shapes and sizes, memories of college, the corridors of King Saud University, the central library, Granada Mall, Le Mall, his friend Saeed and his girlfriends Noha, Thuraya and Tarfah. Days both uncomplicated and formulaic, sitting at Shalal Café on Dammam Road, or Tareeqati Café on Urouba Road. He loved Fairouz and Khaled Abdel Rahman, loved dancing and painting, went to art exhibitions at Shadda Hall in Murraba and Sharqiya Hall north of Takhassusi Hospital. His jaunts with Saeed never went beyond Tahliya and Ulaya streets and for food he alternated between the Damascus Fateer House in Layla al-Akheliya Street and Zeit wa Zaatar in Tahliya: with the exception of McDonald’s, he disliked all fast-food restaurants.

  True, before his uncle had taken over their home he had managed to establish some fleeting connections with people around him, like Abdel Razaq al-Hindi from the Sulaimaniya supermarket who had opened a deferred account in Fahd’s name and Abu Rayyan, owner of the Sufara bakery on Urouba Road, but the contact had always been swift and evanescent. Now, he had moved beyond his small and intimate world, as if dropped from a helicopter into the thickets of a dark and untamed jungle, forced for the first time to look at the dense foliage, to hear the calls of new and terrifying creatures, to confront reddened eyes aglow with treachery.

  He was in a dream. One morning he would wake to find nothing left of it save dry leaves stirring in Zuhair Rustom Alley before a light September breeze. He would stand in the street, the budding yellow sun at his back already striking the soaring bridge by the vast Mamlaka Tower, stretch his arms wide and call, ‘God, what a beautiful morning!’ then go on his way, slowly dragging his tattered leather sandals whose metronomic slap on asphalt lacerated the morning’s stillness. He would be received by Sayyidat al-Ru’osa Street, parallel with Urouba Road, and head east, walking down from Ulaya’s old police station to stand sleepily before Fahih al-Tanawwur, the stocky torso of Abdel Moula the Afghan baker swaying as he lightly tapped the rounded baker’s peel against the oven wall and wiped sweat from his brow with the filthy towel that dangled from his right shoulder.

  The hospital, the emergency ward, his mother’s death by torture, his fight with Abu Ayoub and Yasser, the conversation with the detective, all the talk of withdrawing his case and of judges, courts, refrigerators, washing corpses, the mosque and cemetery: none of this was routine or familiar to Fahd, but rather the occasion for consternation and fear, as novel and intimidating as exiting the gloom of a small flat in Maseef into a void both desolate and formless, oppressive and painful, that filled him with doubt and suspicion.

  Chaste and meek, he had been addicted to the smell of oil paints, had loved flowers and music and art and a life as simple and untainted as the sun itself, and he had loved Tarfah, too. Now, he had taken the first step into a mysterious and unfamiliar world that held him up to judgment and conspired against him. He had been in the midst of a warm romantic scene, part of some endless film reel, that had suddenly cut to the thunder of hoof beats, brandished blades, gunfire and battle, heads and limbs flying to all quarters.

  The detective had suggested that were they to withdraw their case the autopsy would be a superficial one: there would be no deep cuts into his mothe
r’s body and it would take at most two hours. Abu Ayoub tried to get the whole matter of pathologists and autopsies dispensed with entirely ‘to save time’, but the detective refused, promising to hasten the process. He made a call and told them he had tried to get the doctor in Shamesi to come to them instead of taking the body to him, but had failed. Nevertheless, he assured them, he would make sure the business was wrapped up inside two hours. Smiling and unfailingly polite, the detective said his piece, took the interview file from the policeman and went on his way.

  Fahd was like a five-year-old who had become separated from his mother at a wedding, looking about in bewilderment and listening to his uncle make phone calls as he tried to get hold of a judge he knew to make their retraction official. Saeed whispered in his ear, ‘Why are you backing down so easily?’

  Looking lost Fahd replied, ‘The point is to bury the dead and honour them. At least I’ll clear my conscience after neglecting her in her last days.’

  Saeed raised his voice. ‘But now you’re neglecting her even more. You’re giving up the right to take revenge on her killers.’

  His hands raised in grief and helplessness, Fahd grew agitated. ‘Saeed, I’m suffering enough. My conscience is eating me alive.’

  Taking his hand, Saeed led him like a blind man to the hospital mosque next to the garden and removing his sandals guided him up the three steps.

  ‘Pray for guidance!’ he advised and went into the garden, lighting a cigarette as Fahd found a place in the far corner of the mosque beneath the tall glass window.

  There was no one there except a cleaner in his yellow boiler suit, who sat at the front facing the mihrab absorbed in the Qur’an between his hands while Fahd prolonged his prostration, praying and invoking God. He got to his feet, eyes closed in humility and contentment and as he bent to perform the rakaa he saw a tiny, soft white pigeon feather on the edge of his thaub. He held his position, weighing up the life that was embodied by the feather. He didn’t know what he had recited as he prayed; had he performed two rakaas or three? He sat down and asking God’s forgiveness he plucked the feather from his thaub, moving it slowly over his faint moustache and imagining the vile pigeon from which it had fallen. He imagined the feather grumbling, muttering and rambling as it slumbered lonely and miserable on the mosque’s red carpet.

  –53 –

  IN FRONT OF A large palace in the Ghadeer neighbourhood of North Riyadh, the white Land Cruiser stopped and four men got out. First came Abu Ayoub, who hurriedly unfolded his bundled mashlah, then threw it on his back, fastening the embroidered collar about his neck so that the garment hung down over his shoulders. He was followed by the other three—Ibrahim, Fahd and Yasser—and they were admitted by an Indonesian guard with a long beard like a billy goat.

  The palace gardens were breathtaking, causing Fahd to look about in wonder, lost in contemplation of the large rose bushes that bordered the lawns’ vast expanse. They waited in the majlis where an ancient Eritrean circled with cups of coffee.

  Like a man signing a death warrant, Fahd took hold of the pen and began slicing over the page as if cutting into his mother’s heart, his uncle and himself signing their consent to withdraw the case against the Egyptian sheikh, Mohammed Abdel Muati. Ibrahim kissed his head as the judge spoke of the importance of Qur’anic healing and the legality of beating, though not without an understanding of the limits proscribed by Islamic law. He made reference to tolerance and forgiveness in religion and prayed that the deceased might receive the mercy of God and His forgiveness, that her torment and suffering in this life might be accepted coin for her sins. Following every prayer, Yasser responded ‘Amen’ with simulated sorrow, sobbing and dabbing his eyes with the edge of his shimagh while with his left palm he hastily wiped his leaking nose.

  Fahd recalled an absurd incident reported by the newspapers in which the relatives had relinquished their rights following the death of their son.

  Family of traditional healing victim in Jeddah withdraw case; Healer freed on bail

  Watan, 29 August 2006

  Police sources have revealed that the family of a sick man treated by a traditional healer in Jeddah’s Rehab neighbourhood, who passed away two days ago in the evening, have submitted their waiver of rights to the circuit judge of the Bureau of Investigation and Public Prosecution to be legally ratified by the Jeddah courts.

  The healer, who has been released on condition he make himself available for further questioning, told police that the man he was given to heal had been possessed by jinn since a young age. He claimed the victim had been possessed by three female jinn, giving the names of two as Mabrouka and Habeesa.

  Yesterday, the North Jeddah Police transferred the case against traditional healer T.H.A. (45 years), accused of the manslaughter of patient M.A.A. (27 years) from the city of Qalwa in the Makhwa District, Baha Province, to the circuit court of the Bureau of Investigation and Public Prosecution.

  The healer is charged with blowing into the victim’s mouth, causing his teeth to enter his throat, blocking the airway and suffocating him. The case was overseen by the Chief of the Jeddah Police, Major Saad Bin Daajam.

  The incident had been promptly reported by the Head of Investigations in North Jeddah, Major Mohammed al-Khodari, and the Chief of the North Jeddah Police, Colonel Mohammed al-Malaki. Islamic Law specialists have criticised a number of traditional Qur’anic healers for undertaking cures without a proper understanding of the correct procedures.

  Sheikh Radwan al-Radwan, Imam of the Ikhlas Mosque in Jeddah, has emphasised the need to give more powers to the committee made up of the Mayor’s Office and the Ministry of Islamic Affairs, Religious Endowments, Proselytising and Guidance, to enable it to pursue illegal acts resulting from such circumstances.

  Al-Radwan added that the profession of traditional healing has become debased, stating that he had personal knowledge of incompetent healers who had been granted licenses to practice. He remarked that when the Qur’an is recited over a victim of possession the jinn will speak on the victim’s behalf, which can have a deleterious effect on the healer. He went on to criticise certain healers for hiring female secretaries and specialising in treating women in contravention of Islamic law and called on all traditional healing to be overseen and ratified by scholars competent in the field.

  –54 –

  THAT NIGHT FAHD VISITED Lulua, and in the dining room overlooking the street he placed his head between his hands like a man coming round after a near-fatal car crash. Lulua stood before him and consoled him, stroking his hair, lighting the stove to make him a cup of tea and telling him to give thanks to God: their mother had been a believer, she had loved Fahd dearly and he had been a devoted son in turn.

  Fahd recalled his mother’s enjoyment when he would lay his head in her embrace while she made a show of searching for some louse lost in the wild jungle of his hair. Everything on the top floor carries your memory: your small bedroom facing east, your prayer mat, the blue prayer robe you bulked out when you prayed, the large Japanese radio, the seven-columned oil-fired radiator by your bed, the oil pan atop it and the small bottles of mineral water surrounding it, the Rico wafers with their thin chocolate filling, the covered tub of dates, the small silver pot filled with dried figs, your cotton shirt hanging on the wardrobe door, the head covering stuffed between the radiator’s columns to keep it warm and drive the cold from your head, the new curtain in the dining room, lined to hide the light from your tired eyes, your brown handbag hung from the curtain rail, the plastic box inside the bag where you stored your lumps of bitter asafoetida, the bottles of medicine for blood pressure, digestion, inflamed bowels and migraine—your Zocor, Scopan, Coli-Urinal and Panadol—everything that forced you out of your room, out of the living room where you would stretch out your legs as you sat on the bearskin rug, the Singer sewing machine before you, whose wheel you delicately turned to patch a thaub.

  Silence filled the house while Fahd sat on a plastic chair in the kitchen remembe
ring, his groans cutting through the awful hush.

  ‘Take refuge from Satan, Fahd,’ said Lulua.

  She offered some words of consolation as she placed a cup of tea before him, then closed the kitchen door behind her as she headed to the living room.

  He felt suffocated. He carried the cup of tea over to the west-facing window and slid it back on aluminium runners. The bridge by the soaring edifice of Mamlaka Tower was lit up. He took a deep breath and wept loudly and bitterly as a black butterfly settled on the peeling paintwork of the window’s metal frame. It took off and landed on the chilly aluminium runners.

  Silence filled the dust-choked skies. The heat spilled over and descended on people’s heads. Fahd threw his body down on a bolster and resting his elbows on his knees he knitted his hands together over his eyes and sobbed passionately.

  He heard the raucous message tone from his phone. God comfort you and grant your deceased forgiveness! The number was unknown to him and he paid it no mind.

  He switched on the air conditioner and closed the window. The black butterfly flew inside, first landing on the fabric of the lampshade in the corner then upon the table’s edge by the cup of cold tea.

  What a strange butterfly, Fahd said to himself. A butterfly dark as night. I remember reading once that the souls of the departed become black butterflies, roving about. Are you my mother? Come here my darling one, light upon my heart, or rather, light upon my eyelash and tell me how it happened, how they stopped your heart, how they laughed, the Egyptian, my uncle and my trickster cousin, as the heat began to trouble you and you felt the air about you drain away. You raised the hem of your thaub and the Egyptian laughed, saying, ‘This is what I want!’ My uncle laughed, certain that the hands that raised the thaub were those of the jinn, for you no longer counted for anything. Here, come closer, Mother; tell me all that happened …’