Shumaisi

by al-Hamad, Turki; Starkey, Paul;

  He went to college and listened to the morning lectures, but the hammering wouldn’t stop; nor would the sickness, although it was less violent. He didn’t go to the afternoon lecture on Islamic civilisation, but instead sat in the canteen with a glass of strong tea with lemon juice. He felt nauseous whenever images of the previous day’s outing entered his mind, and the very thought of arak provoked in him a violent urge to vomit. It was only with crippling twinges of conscience that he could remember what he had done with Raqiyya, and when he recalled how he had wanted to slap the image of his mother he was horrified. But the strange thing was that all these painful emotions mingled with the extraordinarily pleasurable recollection of his orgasm.

  He lived that whole day waiting for the next, in the hope that when a new day dawned the hammering would stop and the nausea disappear. He went home and tried to relax, but the slightest movement started off the hammering and the tidal movements in his head. He didn’t eat lunch with his housemates. Abd al-Rahman came looking for him because he hadn’t slept with them on the roof the night before, and now he didn’t want his lunch. Something was up. Hisham reassured him that everything was okay, but that he wasn’t hungry because he’d had a sandwich at college. Abd al-Rahman left and then Hamad arrived, evidently very worried. He asked him how he was and when Hisham told him that he’d been drinking arak Hamad laughed. ‘Welcome to the Friendly Club,’ he said. Then he explained that what he was feeling was quite natural for someone who’d been drinking for the first time, and that he’d get used to it and after a while it wouldn’t have any effect. At this Hisham shouted, ‘The first and last time, by your father’s head!’ But he couldn’t finish the sentence; the hammering had started again. Hamad went out laughing after giving Hisham a look that he thought a little strange. ‘Okay … we’ll see,’ was all he said.

  Moudhi came in several times that day to check how he was, as there was obviously something wrong. Each time he told her he was fine, though he was stretched out stiff on the bed like a lifeless corpse. Whenever she came in he tried to smile and get up, although he knew that the hammering would start again. Every time she asked him if he needed anything, he said no. Finally she brought him a pot of hot mint and a lemon chopped in two. She put the tray on the desk, squeezed half a lemon and poured the juice.

  ‘It must be a touch of cold,’ she said. ‘Sleeping on the roof isn’t safe these days. You must drink it all,’ she added as she handed him the glass of mint. ‘God willing, you’ll get your health back quicker than you think. Come on, drink!’ She pushed the glass towards him, her smile visible behind the veil. He got up slowly and drank the mint without really wanting it, while Moudhi stood beside the bed, refusing to leave before he had drunk it all. He finished the glass and lay down again while Moudhi wiped his brow with the other half of the lemon. He actually did feel a little better. He imagined he could see the face of his mother smiling from behind Moudhi’s veil, but he felt a little embarrassed at Moudhi being in his room even though he had begun to feel familiar with her. He got up from the bed and walked over to his desk, where he picked up a book at random, sat down and pretended to read.

  ‘I feel completely recovered,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’ Moudhi smiled and made to leave.

  ‘Praise be to God,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you a glass of hot milk that will make you sleep like a little lamb.’ She rushed off without waiting for a reply. Hisham smiled as the image of his mother teased him again. He had no idea why Taha Hussein’s story of Oedipus* came into his mind at that moment. He wished that he had brought it with him to read. Not that he needed to, as he had read it more than once and listened to it as a radio serial on ‘Voice of the Arabs’, so he could remember it perfectly. Right now he saw himself as Taha Hussein’s friend. He felt like a shattered marble statue whose parts he was trying to reassemble, but he didn’t know how, because the pieces were tiny and there were fragments scattered everywhere. Even if he succeeded, would it be the same old statue? Something that is smashed can be gathered up and put back together, but would it be the same thing? If his mother knew that he had tasted forbidden fruit, that he had known politics, women and the curse of drink, what would she do? Would she expel him from her tenderness and affection, or would she forgive him his lapses? Would she forgive his mistakes, or would he be cursed? Would he end as Adam or Satan, or neither, as a previously unimaginable mixture of the two? Or maybe even in nothing at all?

  Moudhi brought in the hot milk. He didn’t want it, but she gently cajoled him. He sipped the milk quietly, now and then stealing a glance at Moudhi standing in front of the desk, unwilling to move until he had drunk the last drop.

  ________________

  * Taha Hussein (1889–1973), leading Egyptian writer and intellectual.

  10

  He was awake when the voice of the muezzin sang out its sweet melody, calling the faithful to dawn prayers. For the first time he realised how beautiful the voice of a muezzin could be, though the voice of their muezzin was usually hoarse and unpleasant. He was in a great mood – his thumping headache and that awful feeling of nausea had gone – although now and then his conscience still stabbed him. He went to the bathroom and took a cold shower, watching the cold water mingle with soap and run off his body on its way to the drain, as if he were seeing the foul residue of his evil deed leave his soul, never to return.

  At the mosque he prayed as he had never prayed before, and stayed on long after prayers were over. He needed to talk to someone, but not just anyone. Taking a copy of the Qur’an, Hisham leaned back against the wall and prepared to open the holy book just as his uncle was finishing his prayers (including extra devotions and invocations) and preparing to leave the mosque. When he saw Hisham holding the Qur’an, he gave a broad, contented smile (something he’d seldom seen before on his uncle’s face), and left without addressing him, though Hisham heard him murmur, ‘God bless you, my son. God bless you, my son.’ Hisham opened the Qur’an and began to read: By the star when it sets, your friend has not strayed or fallen into error, nor does he speak from desire …

  When he got back from the mosque, Moudhi had made breakfast. She looked pleased when she saw that Hisham was in the best of health. But Hisham knew, as he sat at the table, that she would spit on him had she any idea what he had done. They all sat and ate, in silence, the small plates of beans with warm, dry, Afghan bread, and drank their milky tea. Hisham’s uncle ate contentedly, looking at him with a generous smile that never left his face. Before getting up, he looked at his sons. ‘I wish you were more like Hisham,’ he said, ‘a young man like no other.’ Then he got up and looked at Hisham, saying, ‘God bless you, my son, and may He make many like you.’ He left for his room, murmuring some of his favourite prayers. As usual, a silent Muhammad followed immediately after him.

  Abd al-Rahman looked at Hisham and smiled, stuffing more food into his mouth. Hamad got up and leaned against the wall with a glass in his hand, asking quietly, ‘What’s up? What’s all this flirting between you and father?’

  ‘It’s very strange,’ said Ahmad. ‘Father rarely praises anyone. What have you been up to?’ Eyes stared at him from every side; Hisham was mortified.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. He just spotted me as he left the mosque … reading the Qur’an. That’s all.’

  ‘Does anyone stay in the mosque after father?’ asked Ahmad, open-mouthed. ‘This is indeed a true miracle.’

  ‘Yes. What is going on in Hisham’s soul?’ asked Hamad. ‘Since when has he been addicted to the mosque?’ He drank the rest of his milky tea and poured another. ‘Anyway,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s a good thing. Now we can sit chatting in the evening in your room without arousing anyone’s suspicions. Congratulations, my friend, you have become one of God’s trusty saints, and now you can come to no harm.’

  Hisham was excruciatingly embarrassed by his cousins’ comments, and was suffering fresh pangs of conscience and stomach cramps, but still they sho
wed no sign of stopping. Hamad went on in the same sarcastic vein: ‘I had no idea you could be so cunning. Anyone would think you were a weak and innocent dove, but it seems there’s a snake lurking in the grass.’ When he had finished, he gave a loud laugh, but Abd al-Rahman stopped him.

  ‘You’re being unfair to Hisham, my friends,’ he said. ‘He’s not guilty of your charges. He really is just an innocent lamb.’

  As Abd al-Rahman spoke he glanced at Hisham from the corner of his eye, winking and smirking as if to say, ‘There you are, I’ve testified for you, and made you an example in this house. No one will have any suspicions about us after today.’ This was exactly what Hamad had been implying, though in a different way.

  Everyone left; Abd al-Rahman to go to school, and the others to work. Hisham stayed where he was, thinking, while Moudhi and Said collected the leftovers and cleaned up. Moudhi was muttering angrily to herself. He had no idea what she was saying, but he could be pretty sure that she was cursing her brother Muhammad’s wife, Anoud – or poor Said, who was often the butt of Moudhi’s wrath. Hisham ignored them and reflected on his current situation. Why didn’t his cousins believe that what he had done in the mosque was no hypocrisy or blasphemous trick, but a real genuine feeling? He smiled as he thought of his uncle; such a good man, just deceived by appearances like most people. When he really had been innocent, his uncle hadn’t praised him at all, and now that he had faltered, he praised him excessively. But he couldn’t be blamed; he had nothing to go on except appearances. He saw Hisham praying and judged him to be virtuous, although the worst of God’s creatures prayed along with everyone else.

  Moudhi’s voice woke him from his reverie. She had stopped cleaning. ‘Aren’t you going to the mosque today?’ she asked. He smiled at her. Then he got up, still meditating, though his thumping headache and violent nausea had vanished.

  11

  During the days that followed, he tried to go straight. He went from home to college, from college to home or sometimes to his friends’ house, but nowhere else. It comforted him to behave like this. His conscience eased and he felt peace and contentment return. Now, when he pictured his mother’s face, it was clearly smiling. But despite the pangs it caused him, there was one thing he could not get out of his mind: Raqiyya’s body, and its wild, tangled triangle. Whenever images of that soft brown body flickered across his mind, the exciting feeling of pleasure returned, and he felt lust creep into every part of his body, blotting out all painful feelings of remorse.

  These images began to frighten him. He saw them whenever he walked to his friends’ house and caught sight of Muhaysin’s window in the distance. When he was alone in his own room, Raqiyya’s image forced itself upon him and every limb in his body stiffened. He went looking for Abd al-Rahman in the hope that he could make another date with her, but stopped himself at the last moment. He would go straight whatever the sacrifices.

  But whenever he talked to Abd al-Rahman he felt his resistance waning. His cousin had seen Raqiyya several times and reported that she was always asking after him. Abd al-Rahman laughed and added, ‘I don’t know what you did for her … or to her. She never stops asking about you – she’s quite insistent.’ He winked and laughed. Hisham didn’t know whether Abd al-Rahman was exaggerating or telling the truth, but he still felt proud and elated by this lavish praise. Every cell in his body yearned for Raqiyya; her damp, wild triangle never left his mind, despite all the painful remorse it caused him merely to picture the ugly thing. And he had felt deeply ashamed since picturing his mother’s face framed by Raqiyya’s triangle in a dream.

  One night he was revising for his first formal examination. The whole place was in total silence; everyone was asleep. This late at night, all he could hear was the sound of wild dogs patrolling the streets. They got nearer, then further away. He couldn’t concentrate; Raqiyya commandeered his thoughts. He was supposed to be memorising the fluctuations of supply and demand, and how they varied with any change of circumstance, but the graphs made him think of things entirely unconnected with economics. He was boiling hot, though the weather in Riyadh was quite moderate for that time in July and his fan was revolving quietly and slowly. He needed some fresh air, so he got up from his chair, drew it under the window and looked out at the empty street. He watched the dogs chasing one another, competing for food and bitches. Shutting his eyes, he filled his lungs with air – wishing it were as fresh to breathe as the desert air in Nejd. He felt pleasantly intoxicated – though he’d drunk nothing – and utterly tranquil. He was about to collapse into bed, when something in the window of the house opposite caught his eye. It was half-closed, and a curious pale light filtered through its transparent shutters. It surprised him that anyone should be awake at this late hour of the night. The principles of economics beckoned, but a movement through the shutters made him stay where he was and look more closely. What he saw made his heart beat faster, and his whole body stiffen and drip with sweat: a man and a woman, completely naked, having sex. He was transfixed by the sight, and watched, spellbound, until the man was spent. Hisham watched as he got up and left the room while the woman lay motionless, her eyes fixed on the window. For one terrifying moment he thought she was looking straight at him. She had seen him spying on her. He turned his face from the window, but the temptation was too strong, and he gazed out again. She was still lying there, looking at the window, but now she seemed to be smiling. He couldn’t move. He was paralysed. Then the man came back, at which point the woman got up and left the room, then came back and turned off the light so that Hisham could no longer see anything. He got down from the window and threw himself on the bed, extremely aroused. He saw nothing but the woman’s buttocks and breasts. Then, suddenly, he was afraid. What if the woman had seen him spying on their most intimate and private act? They were neighbours, and would know his uncle and his family. Would they complain about him to his uncle? That would be a disaster. His perfect record would collapse in front of his uncle and Moudhi – his uncle might even tell Hisham’s family! It would break his mother’s heart and destroy his father’s trust.

  But the woman hadn’t moved or looked embarrassed when she saw him spying from the window … perhaps she hadn’t seen him, and he had just imagined it. After all she’d done nothing to hide her naked body – she’d just lain there. And how could she let herself perform this most intimate of acts with the window as good as open, since their shutters hid nothing? Perhaps they had wanted the fresh evening breezes and were sure the street would be empty at this time of night. But why had she stayed there when she saw him? Perhaps she hadn’t seen him. No. She had definitely seen him; their eyes had met. Hisham was lost in confusion. He forgot all about economics; forgot the fluctuations of supply and demand and the balance between the producer and the consumer, when suddenly he was overcome by weariness. He got up from his bed and went up onto the roof where everyone was snoring deeply except for Hamad, whose bed was still empty.

  12

  The whole next day he was terrified, anxious in case something happened – in case his uncle summoned him, or Moudhi came in looking upset. But the day passed without incident. His uncle smiled when he saw him, and Moudhi busied herself with her daily routine, muttering and grumbling as usual. When darkness came and everything fell quiet, the dogs were soon back on the scene, scratching themselves and barking at each other, while Hisham found himself tormented by a burning curiosity. He tried to get a grip on himself so as not to give in to every little whim, but a fire he could not put out was eating him from within. He took up his position of the night before and began to watch …

  This time the window opposite was shut tight. There wasn’t a glimmer of light within. He was greatly frustrated, and then his fear returned. They must have realised what had happened last night but were avoiding a scandal, for fear of the neighbours. From now on they would have a powerful hold over him.

  His fear and frustration made him restless, and he wanted to go out, but something on the roof o
f the one-storey house caught his eye. Everything was steeped in darkness, but for a faint glimmer of light coming from the stars, or perhaps it came from the street light in the distance … it wasn’t significant. What mattered was what kept Hisham rooted to the spot, eyes as wide as they would open. He watched a shadowy figure come from the direction of the stairwell and make for the other side of the roof, returning to the area above the window with a large bundle on its shoulder. The figure threw the bundle onto the floor, spread it out, then covered it with a light blanket and put down two small pillows. Then it went back to the house.

  It was the shadow of a woman; it had to be the same woman he had seen yesterday.

  In only a few moments the shadow returned, and this time it was clear that it was the same woman. She was wearing a flimsy dress that revealed every bulge on her curvaceous body – those undulations impossible to hide. She looked around, and then shot a glance at Hisham’s small window. He ducked his head, though this time he had no doubt that she had seen him. Down he got from his chair, heart pounding, and tried to pull himself together. He put out the light, trying to calm down and get back his breath, but his sense that something was taking place on the rooftop opposite made him leap up madly and go back to the window, feeling a little safer now that he had put out the light.