Throwing Sparks

by Abdo Khal

  ‘This place is nothing but a charnel house,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Calm down!’

  ‘I came to tell you I’ve decided to leave,’ he said abruptly. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘He’d pull us back in.’

  ‘Not if we went somewhere he’d never find us,’ Osama countered.

  Tahani had been calling out to him in his dreams and he had decided to make a run for it.

  ‘Maybe we’d find her killer,’ he ventured.

  ‘Whose killer?’

  ‘I wish I could be like you, with a conscience that erases everything and remembers nothing. Have you forgotten about Tahani’s killer?’ He paused and then looked me straight in the eye as he added, ‘Maybe you are the killer since you’re always telling me to forget her.’

  ‘Will you lay off with your accusations?’ I said, but he had already turned away.

  I was now the only one left.

  When Osama escaped and had gone missing for a few days, his boss, Nadir, vowed unimaginable punishment when he got his hands on him. His desperate search for Osama and the near hysteria with which he spoke of him raised a few eyebrows. Speculation increased when he offered a financial reward to anyone with information on Osama’s whereabouts. The amount increased steadily with each passing day until it topped out at one million riyals. He called me in and I finally realised what was causing him such agitation. He had recently taken on an entirely effeminate demeanour, and the old queer could no longer live without Osama’s expertise in pleasuring him.

  I was certain that Osama had decided to go and camp in the shadow of Tahani’s grave, to water the seeds he and his aunt had planted and to wait for the seedlings to grow in that remote desert spot where no one would find him.

  After Issa was gone, and with Osama’s disappearance, there was no one left to turn to for company but Uncle Muhammad.

  Uncle Muhammad never missed an opportunity to criticise my conduct but his sarcastic barbs did not upset me because I knew he was simply a gruff old man. His external demeanour belied his complicated and passionate feelings.

  His severity resulted from the fact that since his earliest childhood, when his ‘fingernails were soft’ as he liked to say, he had been exposed to politics and had always followed the news avidly. He considered himself an heir to an honourable generation driven to the soul-destroying Palace by terrible reversals of fortune.

  After the night the Master humiliated him by pelting him with his shoe, Uncle Muhammad had retreated to his room where he spent the entire time watching the news, feverishly switching channels and getting riled by what the Americans were doing in the region. ‘Sons of bitches,’ he would shout at the screen. ‘Plundering is nothing but a way of life for them.’

  Uncle Muhammad wept when he heard the news about Issa, and I went to see him around midnight after Osama’s disappearing act. I had to knock on his door several times, asking to be let in. When he eventually opened the door in his underwear, he seemed like a skeleton that had shed everything but its ability to move.

  Despite his spacious quarters, he sat in one corner of the darkened room, and the only source of light was the television that blinked images of a documentary on Al-Jazeera about the American bombing of Baghdad. He let me turn on the lights and found something to wear.

  ‘One can’t be too careful being undressed around you,’ Uncle Muhammad chided. ‘You’re a dangerous guy, Tariq.’

  He did not want to talk about Issa and his naked vagrancy in the bank district, and he had not heard about Osama’s escape. So he just sat there quietly, watching the documentary, occasionally spouting a profanity.

  He suddenly pressed on the mute button and swung towards me. ‘It’s not only in war zones that you find death and destruction,’ he said. ‘Even places carpeted with flowers and smiles can be killing fields. People are left with nothing more than physical movement – dead corpses shuffling between one morgue and another.’ Jabbing his chest, he added, ‘Zombies, just like me.’

  He raised his finger to his lips to silence me and looked back and forth between the television screen and my face. Finally, he asked, ‘Will your depravity never end?’

  Before I could answer him, he had turned the volume up on the television set and his voice was drowned by the commentary.

  I thought I heard him say, ‘I don’t want to see you any more.’

  This seemed to be confirmed when he motioned me to leave.

  I slipped out of the room quietly, wondering if he thought that I had caused Issa’s fall from grace. But then, I reasoned, if he had suspected this, he would have let me into his room only to rip me to shreds, notwithstanding his false teeth.

  Everywhere I turned inside the Palace, I could feel people’s contempt. When Issa used to be there, he had bolstered my spirits whenever I felt their disdain getting under my skin. I had not needed to talk to anyone else.

  The last time Issa would come to the Palace, the bullets from the Master’s revolver could have been for me. But I never had the chance to find out. Everything happened so quickly. We had no inkling of what lay in store. Had we known, we could not have done anything about it with the Master there. Nothing ever happened against his will.

  18

  Issa told me how he had once saved the Master’s life. He described a figure bobbing in the waves, desperately clinging to life, the same figure who later would welcome all of us into the Palace. Had he not been plucked from the water that day, we would have been spared our dark destiny.

  I retraced every detail of Issa’s life to remind myself of everything that had led to and sprung from that one event.

  As boys, none of us in the neighbourhood had ever believed Issa when he swore he knew the Master personally and vowed to get us all into the Palace. Seeing him in operation later, we could immediately tell what a high position he held and that the Master had a special place for him in his heart.

  The Master owed his life to Issa.

  Back in the days when Issa hid on the remote islets beyond the reach of novice swimmers, the shadow of the Palace scaffolding danced across the seawater. One day there was an accident: someone fell off the cement bridge under construction that jutted out into the deep. The victim began to drown, his body bobbing in and out of the waves as people looked on powerlessly and screamed for help. The workers at the construction site rushed to the scene.

  Like an angel swooping down from heaven, Issa dived in and later emerged from the water after wresting that body from the tentacles of the deep blue sea.

  Issa had heard the clamour and cries for help, and had jumped in to rescue the victim. He was nearly dragged under himself: twice, the panic-stricken victim had clutched at his neck frantically, practically choking him, and he had had to let go of him. The second time, he was able to dive under and grab him by the chin from below, and kept him at arm’s reach so that he could swim unhindered.

  With every powerful stroke of his arms bringing them in to shore, more people flocked to help. Many waded in, calling out at the top of their lungs, all vying for the honour of saving a drowning victim. They huddled around Issa as he dragged the body up the beach and literally snatched it out of his grasp to begin administering first aid. People were running helter-skelter, calling out for the Red Crescent to be summoned.

  Startled by the sudden appearance of so many self-appointed rescuers, Issa turned to swim back to his island hideout. Before he could get very far, however, two men caught up with him as others called out to him. They told him that the Master of the Palace wanted to see him.

  Issa was nervous as he stood bedraggled before the first Master – Sayyid al-kabeer. The old man paid tribute to the heroic rescue of his first-born son, and thanked him for his brave deed with a wad of one-hundred-riyal banknotes he pulled out of a pocket. A young girl, who looked no more than fourteen, looked on as Issa hesitated and she smiled encouragingly for him to accept the gift.

  Issa refused to extend his hand and stood silently, looking back and forth
between the girl and her father. The more he was pressed to take the money, the further he retreated until finally he felt his feet propelling him into the air, and he ran back to the concrete jetty and threw himself into the water.

  ‘You can come back here any time you like,’ rang out the voice of the venerable old Master.

  That half-drowned figure was none other than his son and eventual successor, the person who ended up toying with our lives. Had Issa let him drown, we might have escaped the destiny that became ours.

  * * *

  As the child of an old salt in a long line of fishermen, Issa knew the secrets of the sea. He could tell when a fish had swallowed the bait even when he could not feel its weight tugging on the line. Maybe that was why he was convinced that he had been snared by the eyes of that spirited young girl, and she began reeling him in slowly but surely. He felt irresistibly drawn to her and took to swimming by the concrete jetty every day, his sinewy arms pushing against the waves, his eyes watching. He swam there at all times of day, lying on the surface of the water like a piece of seaweed impervious to the motion of the waves. He got sunburnt swimming there day after day and his back was covered in blisters. At sundown, he would wade out of the sea and go home to wash and soothe the raging sores with freshwater.

  The construction of the Palace was nearing completion and as the number of workers began to dwindle, he was emboldened to sneak on to the grounds. Throwing caution to the wind, he roamed around the vast and spacious compound, awed by its imposing structures. He examined the atriums and mezzanines with their marble floors to match the colours of the walls, taking in the intricately carved cornices on the ceilings, and walked around the gardens dotted between the buildings. His sense of wonder grew with every new structure he came across; Issa had never seen anything like it before.

  Lost in amazement, he did not hear the guards’ approaching footsteps. He snapped out of his reverie when he heard them accusing him of vandalising the premises, blaming him for the dried-up human faeces and the stench of stale urine in several of the unfinished rooms. Sayyid al-kabeer had evidently blamed the guards, responsible for securing the construction materials and keeping the worksite clean, for dereliction of duty.

  Issa was brought before the Master as the culprit. The young girl was there again and he felt mortified being accused of such disgusting conduct in front of her.

  ‘Did you do it?’ the old man demanded.

  Issa’s head hung low as he denied having anything to do with it and he became even more embarrassed when he saw her giggling.

  At that moment, the foreman of the building site appeared and informed Sayyid al-kabeer that his workmen had been defecating and urinating wherever they could because the plumbing work had not been completed. Cleared of the charges, Issa regained his composure somewhat but the young girl kept on giggling.

  As had happened earlier, his feet propelled him of their own accord and he threw himself into the waves from a little overlook above the water. Unfortunately, this time the water was shallow and he smashed against large pieces of debris lying on the seabed.

  His whole body screamed in agony, but soon he was lifted out of the water and administered first aid. Issa noticed that the young girl who moments earlier had been giggling at him, was now watching with genuine concern and encouraging him to be brave. He vowed then and there to spend the rest of his life captive to her eyes.

  He had been lacerated in several places by metal girders that protruded from the jetty’s cement foundations deep in the water. The old Master called in a doctor to tend to Issa’s injur­ies because he did not think the first aid administered was sufficient.

  After he had examined him and bandaged him up, the doctor kept him under observation to ensure that there was no haemorrhaging. Issa was served refreshments and sat on the couch from where he could steal glances at the girl sitting next to her father. Her two brothers, shaken by the accident to which their father had responded with such compassion, were anxious to go home. The visit to track the progress of work on the Palace had gone on too long, and they started a game of chess to pass the time. Their father was engrossed in a book but every once in a while he peered over his glasses to check on Issa.

  The young girl kept up her steady stream of smiles and also watched him. When she was restless, she would get up and go over to her brothers’ game or look at the trees and flowering shrubs outside, planted to create a hanging garden effect from all viewpoints. Occasionally the girl would ask her father about the flowers and what they were called. She also stepped out to take a walk along the jetty, accompanied by her chaperone.

  ‘Be careful on the jetty,’ her father cautioned. ‘Don’t go far – the safety rails haven’t been put up yet.’

  When she did go too far down the jetty, he called her back and she returned to his side. He shut his book and conversed affably with Issa on the dangers of swimming in that particular spot with all the construction rubble that had been dumped there. Then remembering that this was where Issa had saved his eldest from a sure death, he did not pursue the thought. He tried to draw him into conversation, but Issa was guarded in his responses.

  The chess match ended when the younger son gleefully checkmated his older brother. Smarting from the defeat and impatient to leave, the eldest turned to Issa and snapped, ‘How long are you going to lie here sprawled out like this? Why don’t you get up and get a move on?’

  The old Master frowned at his son. ‘When someone grants you life, you return the favour,’ he reprimanded. ‘This young man is the reason you’re still alive. He snatched you from death’s jaws and so he is now your brother.’ He asked Issa for his name and turned back to his son. ‘From now on, Issa is your brother. I pledge the two of you to life-long brotherhood. Betray this pledge and you betray me. Do you understand?’

  The son nodded slowly and Issa got up to leave. The father ordered his two sons to embrace their new brother, which they were forced to do.

  Issa bent down to kiss the old Master’s hand; he had been moved by the man’s compassion and surprised because he had never kissed his own father’s hand. Before taking his leave, he turned to the young girl and held out his hand to say goodbye. Her hand in his felt completely relaxed.

  Sayyid al-kabeer was at the Palace to lay the groundwork for the hanging garden that would be suspended in one of the internal courtyards leading to the jetty. He whispered something to one of his assistants, who quickly pulled out a stack of bills and handed it to the youth. Issa refused but the old man insisted. He accepted the gift and bent down, once again, to kiss his hand.

  ‘This place is your home – its doors will always be open to you,’ said the old Master, patting him on the shoulder.

  * * *

  The young girl’s name was Mawdie.

  I do not recall Issa taking up with any of the girls in our neighbourhood. The only woman from the Firepit he ever loved was his maternal aunt, Salwa, who was also his suckling sister. But he loved her as a sister, best friend and confidante. He could not bear to see her hurt in any way and it was the only thing that roused him to anger. Salwa was like his own soul in another body.

  Issa had a number of interests. He played football with the local team and was one of the young ruffians who could not resist a brawl, whether with boys from our own neighbourhood or the ones nearby. He took part in musical evenings held at wedding halls, where he played the simsimiyya and sang plaintive sea shanties with a musical group. He raised pigeons and went out twice a week to fish or hunt rabbits in the wadis east of Jeddah and, at night, he looked for partners in the dark alleyways to play balut.

  Nothing in his early life suggested he would achieve great things. In that respect, he was no different from all the other kids growing up in the Firepit: an uneventful life, with the expectation of a steady job on which to raise a family was the extent of their dream.

  But Issa strayed early and began to keep company with older boys and men. Now when he looked for partners in the dark all
eyways, it was no longer to play balut. He soon acquired two vices: chasing after boys and stealing.

  His petty larceny included shoplifting from small neighbourhood groceries, pilfering from the carts of itinerant fruit and vegetable vendors, stealing the birds of other pigeon fanciers, and snatching motorbikes to go joyriding. But the theft that confirmed him as a crook in the eyes of his parents – and which became the talk of the neighbourhood – was the burglary of his grandmother’s savings. That theft changed the course of his life and led him down the road to the Palace, and to Mawdie.

  The moment he vowed to enter the Palace, a change came over him. He began to feel he was different from us and he spurned our company. All of a sudden, it seemed to us, he was no longer interested in petty theft – lurking about the small corner shops in the alleyways, scheming to grab produce off a pedlar’s cart, or huddling together to plan the heist of a motorbike we would later resell to a bicycle shop.

  His transformation was obvious the night he treated us all to a feast at a restaurant. He kept the tab open, letting us order whatever we wanted. That did not stop us from our cruel taunts as we voiced our suspicions that he must have robbed someone to be able to treat us all. He just laughed off our jabs.

  Back then, none of us could figure out how he had come by so much money that he could spend it so liberally. Some of us gave him the benefit of the doubt and attributed his newfound means to the sale of the pigeons he had been raising for years.

  His generosity extended to the local football club, whose expenses he basically underwrote: he paid for jerseys and balls, goalposts and nets, the clean-up of a vacant lot and all the planning work. Issa even bought the water and other refreshments that were distributed to the players at half-time. In recognition, the team nominated him to head the club, but he declined the honour. He was content to sit in his customary place at the nearby crossroad and stay out of the club’s contests.

  And at some stage during those matches, a luxury car would glide to a stop and Issa would hop in, spirited away to some unknown destination. Different cars would come and collect him at different times of day. Their models and designs varied but the cars were always gleaming. He swapped his garish outfits for fine and elegant attire. His sharp appearance and the succession of luxury cars lent credence to the rumour that he had given up petty crime and become a drug dealer.