Shumaisi

by al-Hamad, Turki; Starkey, Paul;

  The conversation continued between the two friends in a routine fashion: Abd al-Karim commented on his friend’s new moustache; then Hisham told him about some of his adventures in Riyadh. But when he saw the excitement on his friend’s face, he exaggerated his descriptions, inventing totally fictitious stories and mentioning the smallest details. He took his inspiration from those smuggled stories they used to read on their day trips together. He was beginning to realise the distance that now divided him not only from his friends in Dammam, but also from the time when he didn’t really know Dammam itself, or what lay hidden behind its innocent face. They were still living in a dimension he had left behind, and which had left him behind – when he enrolled in the organisation, when he smoked his first cigarette, when he drank his first glass of alcohol and slept with his first woman. Abd al-Karim asked about the last thing he had read. Hisham told him he was reading Anna Karenina, and they began to discuss the novel. The two friends talked until after midday, when Hisham got up to leave despite Abd al-Karim’s pleas to stay and share their lunch. Hisham made the excuse that his mother was waiting for him with lunch, but asked Abd al-Karim to gather together some friends later in the afternoon. He also told him that Adnan was in Dammam and that they’d travelled together on the same train.

  On the way back home, Hisham passed Noura’s house. He resolved to see her that night.

  27

  • When he went back to Abd al-Karim’s house in the afternoon, all his old friends were there except Adnan. They embraced warmly. The chat centred on Hisham’s moustache, with a lot of ribald comments about why he’d suddenly decided to grow it. He thought at first that Abd al-Karim must have passed on some of what he’d told him that morning – Abd al-Karim had been known to be indiscreet in the past. But he soon realised that his suspicions were unfounded and that it was just a bit of fun. He asked after Adnan, and Abd al-Karim told him he’d sent his younger brother out to get everyone, but Adnan hadn’t appeared.

  Nothing about the group had changed. The topics of conversation were the same and the repartee almost the same. He felt a new kind of boredom creep over him. Was this what he had been pining for all that time in Riyadh? Spending time with this gang had once been the most delightful thing in Hisham’s world. So why was he so bored today, when he’d hardly been with them for ten minutes? He felt deathly silent in the midst of this group of people who seemed strangers to him. Was this the ‘world of innocence’ he had felt guilty about, when he had smashed its ideals and ripped off the veils of its innocence? He looked around at his friends all sipping their tea and laughing, envying them their composure and innocence. But he didn’t want to go back to their world – and couldn’t even if he wanted to. He had discovered new worlds of excitement – worlds of fear, unease and pleasure – and it wouldn’t be easy for him to return to the innocent world his friends still lived in. These worlds might be wicked by his mother’s standards and the standards of the innocent world in which this gang lived, but they’d become an indispensable part of his life. Without them, his life would be tasteless, colourless, devoid of smell. These guys hadn’t tasted women, their heads hadn’t known drink, they had not experienced the thrill of adventure and the fear of the unknown. Was anyone who hadn’t passed through this tunnel of pleasure and fear really living life? It might all be a mistake, but what was life’s pleasure without mistakes? A mistake meant experience, and experience meant freedom of choice, and the whole of life consisted of moments of choice and rebellion. Those beautiful, innocent days in the past might have been blameless, they might have been pure happiness, but it was a routine happiness, a tune played on one string. How could one know pleasure without pain, or know error without the sharp bite of sin and the lashes of guilt? How could one feel life’s warmth without the restlessness of adventure and the desire to plunge into the unknown? Hisham had uncovered new worlds, making it impossible for him to return to his old world. A learned man could not become ignorant again, even should he want to. An ignorant man might be happier than a learned one, but the happiness of a learned man, steeped in the restlessness of the universe, is more exciting and more pleasurable. Could this be his situation today? He didn’t know. All he knew was that boredom was almost stifling him.

  He had decided to leave when Adnan suddenly appeared, greeting everyone with, ‘Peace be upon you.’

  ‘And on you be peace, and the mercy and blessings of God,’ everyone replied, as if with one voice. They all stood up to embrace him.

  ‘Where have you been, man?’

  ‘What’s this beard … a real one or a false one?’

  ‘What’s with beards and moustaches these days?’

  Adnan sat down at the edge of the room near the door, ignoring Abd al-Karim’s protestations that he sit near Hisham in the middle of the gathering. Saud asked Adnan lightheartedly about the new beard and why he’d grown it, and Adnan answered him with unexpected force, ‘It would be better to ask why we shave our beards rather than why we let them grow. Letting them grow, not shaving them, is the normal thing. Isn’t that so, Salim?’ he added, turning towards Salim. But Salim said nothing. His eyes, like everyone’s, showed surprise at Adnan’s strange fervour. They were all silent for a moment, finishing their tea, then Abd al-Aziz shouted, ‘Goodbye, everyone!’ Saud, Salim and Abd al-Karim surrounded him, while Adnan got up and made his excuses for leaving. Hisham used this moment to escape from his boredom and got up. ‘Take me with you, Adnan,’ he said. They left despite Abd al-Karim’s insistence that they stay, while the others watched them go in astonishment. At the front door, they looked briefly at each other without speaking, then each went his own separate way.

  28

  He was with his parents in the television room, sipping milk and ginger, while his father listened to the news from London on a small radio. His mother was busying herself with some crochet. In the middle of the floor was a portable coal stove. Hisham, however, was feeling hotter than even the coals in the stove, in anticipation of the moment when Noura arrived with the milk as she always did. His heart beat faster when he heard the doorbell and his fervour increased just as it had in those days long gone, when he had been a small boy. Umm Hisham threw down her crochet and got up. ‘It’s time for Umm Muhammad’s milk delivery,’ she said. Hisham stayed where he was for a few moments, in a state of great excitement, then got up and went into the corridor, pretending to need the bathroom, while his mother came in followed by a girl of about twelve, carrying a churn of milk. The pair went into the kitchen. Hisham went in to the bathroom and came out again quickly, as his mother was saying goodbye to the girl. ‘Say hello to your mother for me, Badriyya,’ she said, then went back to the TV room, wiping her hands on the edge of her veil.

  Assuming a calm he did not feel, he asked his mother about the girl. His mother told him she was called Badriyya, and was Umm Muhammad’s daughter … Noura’s sister, then. Still calm, he questioned her further, ‘Umm Muhammad’s daughter … so, she’s the sister of the girl who used to bring the milk … what was her name?’

  ‘Noura. That was Noura … You’ve forgotten quickly, my son,’ replied his mother, casually. A cryptic smile crossed his face as they both went back to the television room, where his father was now getting ready to go out to his usual evening gathering. Hisham was desperate to know what had become of Noura. When he was sure that his father had left the house, he moved nearer to the stove and held his hands over the coals. With pretended spontaneity, he mused, ‘Oh, yes, I remember Noura, Mother. But why doesn’t she still bring the milk?’ His mother looked at him with eyes that he thought knew everything, then looked again at the crochet work in her hand. ‘Noura’s grown up and wears a veil now,’ she said calmly. ‘She can’t go out on her own at a time like this! Besides,’ she went on after a short pause, ‘she was engaged two months ago, and she can’t go around the houses any more. How I wanted her for you … manners, money, beauty and above everything, patience. But everyone must be content with their lot!’
She sighed quietly as she said this.

  The news hit Hisham like a thunderbolt. Noura engaged? He wasn’t actually thinking of marrying her, or anyone else – the idea of marriage hadn’t entered his mind. But he hadn’t imagined anyone else sharing his interest in Noura; indeed, he couldn’t imagine Noura being anyone else’s, and he couldn’t imagine Noura marrying and becoming like Suwayr. She was made for something else, not marriage. He couldn’t stay any longer in the room, so he went out into the street and hovered at a distance from her house, determined to see her somehow. But first he had to let her know he was there. Could he send a note with Badriyya? That was risky, and the outcome very uncertain. Should he knock on their door on the pretext of saying hello to her father? But that wasn’t the customary way of doing things. Finally, he had an idea. There was one way, and one way only. He smiled and walked back to his house.

  When he got back, he was surprised to find his father there. The biting cold that night had stopped many people from turning up to his gathering, and those that did had elected to go home to enjoy some warmth and an early bed.

  When the muezzin at their local mosque started the call to prayer Hisham sprang up, much to his father’s surprise. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked. Hisham explained that he wanted to go to the mosque. His father was astonished. Hisham hadn’t been in the habit of performing prayer duties. His parents had been relaxed about this. Though they urged him to obey God’s commands, at least occasionally, they believed that being too strict in these matters would turn him off prayer completely. But to pray in the mosque with the community – that was a radical change in his behaviour! Even Abu Hisham didn’t go to the mosque to say his prayers. Like most people in Dammam, Hisham’s father usually said his prayers at home, unlike people in Riyadh or Qusaim, who thought prayers should be performed in the mosque unless they had some particular reason to say them at home, either alone or in a group. His father looked at him and smiled. ‘I see you’ve become religious,’ he said. ‘I’m coming with you. Wait for me until I’ve washed.’

  On the way to the mosque, his father jokingly asked him, ‘I didn’t know you’d turned religious and now prayed with the community in the mosque. Has Riyadh turned you into a real Nejdi?’ Abu Hisham gave a rare laugh, then became his usual stern, calm self again, as he added rather firmly, ‘Listen, my son … God is present everywhere. Piety lies in good intentions and in behaving well towards other people, not just in the actions of prayer. Prayer has no value unless it stops you being wicked and behaving badly. God does not need ritual. Pray in the mosque, at home, or anywhere you like: the place is not important. God has given us his whole earth as a mosque in which to purify ourselves, but the urgent thing is to be sincere in everything you do. This is the true service of God …’ They reached the mosque as his father finished.

  The muezzin had already given the call to prayer and now everyone was lining up behind the imam, who intoned monotonously, ‘Line up, make your rows straight. God does not look at a crooked line.’ Then he recited, ‘God is most high’, and started on the opening sura of the Qur’an in a soft, melodious voice.

  When prayers were over Hisham looked around for Abu Muhammad, until he spotted him sitting directly behind the imam. As soon as the congregation started to leave, Hisham stood up to perform the two customary extra rak‘as, his eyes never leaving Abu Muhammad, who was also performing these ritual bows, a prescribed part of the Islamic prayer ritual. Hisham’s father was amazed at the piety that had suddenly come over his son. Hisham could see that he wasn’t very pleased by it. Abu Hisham thought that performing the obligatory prayers with sincerity, and dealing properly with God’s people, was all that a man needed for happiness in this life and the next. However, he could see no alternative but to keep his son company, so he quickly prayed the two extra rak‘as then sat down, muttering the customary Arabic words of praise for the Almighty. Hisham, however, carried on praying, so as to keep up with Abu Muhammad, stopping only when he saw Abu Muhammad stop. Then he looked at his astonished father, saying, ‘Isn’t that Abu Muhammad? I think I should say hello.’ Without waiting for an answer, he rushed up to Abu Muhammad, greeting him with a kiss to the head. ‘Good evening, uncle!’ he said. Abu Muhammad immediately recognised him and asked him how he was and how his father was. Hisham gestured towards his father who was standing, ready to leave. The two men approached each other and embraced, reproaching one another for failing to stay in touch, then they all three left together. When they were all in front of Noura’s house, her father invited them in. Hisham’s father made an excuse, but Abu Muhammad insisted on their having supper with him the following evening. After much persuasion, Hisham’s father agreed, and Abu Muhammad bade them farewell. They walked home in silence – one man’s eyes filled with puzzlement, the other with a cunning smile on his lips.

  29

  It was the first time he had been into Noura’s house openly without fear, and the first time he had gone beyond the garden into the house itself. Everything whispered of her presence: the palm tree in the far corner had observed their first meeting; the grass here and there in the garden sighed, Noura was here … she sat here … she stood here … He was now in her house, united with her in a single place, where her breath moved back and forth. Those innocent days began to tug at his heart again.

  There were not many people there for supper: himself and his father, Abu Muhammad and his eldest son Muhammad, two people he did not know and Noura’s fiancé, whom Hisham scrutinised with jealousy gnawing at his heart. He was a handsome young man of about twenty-four, tall and slenderly built, almost swarthy, with sharp features, a wispy moustache and a small, square, dark beard covering the edges of his chin. Hisham felt an enormous loathing for him, eespecially when the young man proved to be extremely polite and courteous.

  They sat round a large bowl of rice, on top of which rested a whole lamb, still with its head, and with the liver, stomach and innards arranged around it. The rice was decorated with raisins and pine nuts, with a few boiled eggs planted in it. Several small plates were arranged around the large dish, containing sopped bread and meat, or crushed wheat and salad, and there were two large dishes of fruit at the edges of the table. One of Abu Muhammad’s sons stood at the head of the gathering holding fresh yoghurt, waiting for a signal from anyone sitting down. During the meal, Abu Muhammad teased his future son-in-law, saying, ‘Have some qursan, Fahd. Your future wife made it. Perhaps once you’ve tasted it you’ll see sense and cancel the wedding!’ Everyone laughed, then someone said, ‘Weddings and marriage are all trouble! God be praised, women are all trouble, a free man is the happiest!’

  ‘The problem is that one can’t live with them, and one can’t live without them! But God will do what is best!’ joined in another. The quips and laughter continued as they tore into the lamb with their bare hands, kneading the meat with the rice then popping it into their mouths. Hisham ate nothing but sopped bread – and some pieces of meat Abu Muhammad put before him. To him it was the tastiest sopped bread dish he had tasted in his life, because Noura’s hands had touched it.

  Hisham’s father was the first to finish eating, but he didn’t get up. He stayed where he sat, licking the remains of food from his hand, and occupied himself peeling an orange until he was sure that everyone had finished. Then he got up, saying, ‘God bless you, Abu Muhammad, God grant you blessings!’ Then everyone rose as one, repeating the same sentence. Cups of bitter coffee with saffron were passed round, then incense, after which everyone began to leave, again offering the blessing to Abu Muhammad that they had given when they’d finished eating. One of the guests tried to invite them all to supper in his turn, but they refused and he didn’t insist, so everything finished with Abu Muhammad’s supper. When he lay down on his bed that night, Hisham felt tremendously happy and excited, because he knew that Noura knew he was in town, and could devise a plan to meet him if she still loved him. It was up to her now; he had done what he could. He closed his eyes contentedly,
waiting for whatever the next day might bring.

  30

  He was in the sitting room browsing through a few magazines the next afternoon, when he heard the front doorbell. A few moments later his mother came in, saying hurriedly, ‘You must leave the room at once, Hisham, guests have arrived unexpectedly – Umm Muhammad and Noura, and the women’s room isn’t tidy.’ His heart beat faster when he heard Noura’s name. He slipped into his room and shut the door behind him. It was only a few moments before he heard his mother’s voice uttering expressions of greeting and praise to God, mingled with the voice of Umm Muhammad congratulating her on Hisham’s return. He could hear her laughing as she said, ‘Goodness, we only heard yesterday from Abu Muhammad, forgive us for being so remiss …’ Then he heard his mother’s voice, ‘There’s no need to apologise among friends, Umm Muhammad.’ His plan had succeeded, then. He guessed that Noura had insisted that this visit was a duty. He knew that Umm Muhammad, like his own mother, was reluctant to leave the house unless it was really necessary. He opened the door a little and glanced into the hall. There was Noura’s back; he knew that figure well. She went into the sitting room behind her mother and his mother – it was enough to start the heat coursing through his body despite the biting February cold.

  He stayed in his room leafing through another magazine, his ears straining for sounds from the other side of the house. He thought he caught the noise of a tob rustling near his room. He dropped his magazine and made for the door. Under it he found a meticulously folded piece of paper. He snatched the note, yanked opened the door, and saw Noura walking back to the sitting room. Before she disappeared into it, she snatched a surprisingly bold glance at him, giving him a smile that made him certain she still loved him. She had powdered her face. He unfolded the paper and read, ‘Tonight, same time, same place.’ Smiling, he tore it to pieces; she had understood his plan and fallen in with it. Hisham went out into the street and lit a cigarette, which he smoked feeling overwhelmed with happiness, then he went back into the house to count the minutes until evening should finally come.