Shumaisi

by al-Hamad, Turki; Starkey, Paul;

  36

  His new room was not as comfortable as his old one. It was actually quite cramped, but it was warmer, and it was cosier because it was his own room in his own house and not the house of his uncle. It was enough that he could completely relax in this room. On the walls he had pinned pictures of Marx, Engels, Lenin, Guevara, Ho Chi Minh, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Bardot, Suad Husni, Shadia, Hind Rustam and Nadia Lutfi. But the most striking pictures in the room were those of Abu Ali, the name he had given Adolf Hitler after being told that was what people called him during the Second World War. He had a strange, hidden admiration for Hitler – although he had absolutely no faith in his ideas – and in a vague sort of way he loved him. He’d read Mein Kampf several times, and even though he disliked the ideas expressed in it he continued to dip into it occasionally. Did he actually believe any of it – although he did not want to admit to it – or was he finding that a leftist like himself could not be persuaded by Fascist ideas? He didn’t know, and perhaps he didn’t want to know. It was enough for him to love Abu Ali, believe Karl Marx and support Ernesto Che Guevara … and die of desire for Jayne Mansfield …

  The days passed in the new lodgings in the usual way. Little had changed, apart from a few chores that Hisham wasn’t used to. They followed the same routine in the new lodgings as they had in the old: Muhaysin would look after the house one day, and Hisham the next. So far as provisions and other essentials were concerned, they both contributed to the weekly shop on Friday afternoon from the supermarket, where prices were cheaper. Attending to household matters was a novelty for Hisham. But there were no particular problems apart from the cooking, which was a burden despite the fact that they only cooked kabsa stew for lunch and had boiled eggs or tuna for supper. Still, with the help of Muhaysin, he believed he might become quite a good cook. The two of them developed a routine of going every Thursday after evening prayers to the elegant Wazir Street in the middle of town, where they would eat in a classy restaurant. Usually they had lentil soup, roast meat and plates of hummous and mutabbal, with a couple of bottles of cola. They would round off the meal with two cups of Turkish coffee. Then they would pace up and down the street, looking in the elegant shops and following the prettiest women in Riyadh; they would fill their nostrils with alluring perfumes and carefully scrutinise the details of slim bodies wrapped in translucent abayas that hid nothing. They would gaze into the most beautiful faces one could find, made even more so by the women’s transparent veils, wondering how such slender hips, such fleshy thighs and such rebellious breasts could be brought together in a single body. Once they tired of wandering around and following women, they would make for a big bookstore, buy any newspapers and magazines they could find, then take the local bus back home where they would spend the rest of the night drinking tea, smoking cigarettes and listening to songs. Then they would go to their separate rooms, each of them dreaming of the women of Wazir Street, and feeling that he owned the whole world.

  This Thursday routine could vary if there was a better alternative. At first infrequently, and then more often than not, Muhaysin’s friends would come round for the evening, and they would play cards and chat. That didn’t stop them going to Wazir Street, however. They would simply go and come back early in time to meet their friends. Hisham only joined them when Muhammad, Dais and Abd al-Rahman were among the visitors. He remained wary of too many people, and was amazed that Muhaysin could stand all these gatherings and all these friends. The only thing that actually stopped them going to Wazir Street at all was when Hamad paid them a delicious surprise visit, carrying a paper bag containing a bottle of best quality arak. Then they would shut the door and refuse to allow anyone in, no matter who, until eventually they took to letting Muhammad and Dais join the group. Hisham was surprised to find that Muhammad and Dais also drank. ‘My God, you have got surprises in store!’ he exclaimed when he saw them drinking for the first time. Muhammad’s reaction was to pour his half-full glass into his mouth all in one go, then to laugh merrily, looking at Hisham. Hamad didn’t always sit with them, for he had his own group of friends, but these days he supplied them with arak once they’d all got the money together.

  Hisham was responsible for the ice and snacks, which were never more than a few cucumbers, tomatoes and nuts, while Muhaysin’s job was to prepare the kabsa stew, at which he was reckoned to be an expert. They sat in Muhaysin’s room, where they drank and listened to Talal Maddah, Muhammad Abduh and Tariq Abd al-Hakim. They would listen and then gradually grow deaf to the music as the intensity of the political discussions increased with the first few glasses. After the fourth glass, they listened to Umm Kulthumm, Abd al-Wahhab, Abd al-Halim or Farid, swaying with pleasure to The Remains, Cleopatra, Mister Bold Eyes or Spring. They all talked at the same time, though in reality everyone was talking to himself. Dais talked about the heroes of the novels he was reading, all of them wronged or oppressed; Muhammad talked about his plans for travel and the places he wanted to see; while Muhaysin talked only of America and the good life there. When Hamad was there, he would discuss his problems at work and home, and his hopes for a place of his own.

  Drink made Hisham extremely amorous. He would fantasise about Raqiyya, Suwayr and even Noura, and sometimes imagine arousing scenes from films he had seen in cinema clubs. He wished Suwayr or Noura were there so that he could show them things they would never dream of, or else that the room was full of naked women and he the only man among them. At the same time, he would talk about Marxism, Existentialism, Sufism, God and the Devil. The closed room became full of smoke, the smell of arak, the sighs of Umm Kulthumm, Abd al-Wahhab’s tears, Farid’s groaning and Abd al-Wahhab’s imprecations. But it was an expansive universe, limitless for those that were in it.

  The evening would conclude with a meal of Muhaysin’s kabsa, then – if he was there – Hamad would leave at the end of the evening, while Dais and Muhammad would stay and sleep where they were. In the morning, everyone would get up, their heads horribly transformed into seas of clashing waves. They would find the leftovers from yesterday’s kabsa (God knows how they ate it!) and drink an enormous pot of thick tea, then Dais and Muhammad would leave. Hisham would take a long shower, then go to Friday prayers with his uncle, and have lunch in the big house. Muhaysin sometimes accompanied him but sometimes stayed home, smoking, drinking tea and eating whatever food happened to be there, which was usually boiled eggs or leftover kabsa, if there was any.

  One Thursday evening, Hisham and Muhaysin were getting ready to go out to Wazir Street. They hadn’t any arak yet, although they’d asked Hamad to buy some, because Dais and Muhammad had come round unusually early. Dais was carrying a large plastic bag, which looked like it had something heavy in it. Everyone went to Muhaysin’s room, where Dais took out the contents of the bag, which consisted of four bottled water containers filled with a clear reddish liquid. He took one of the bottles and raised it in the air, saying with a proud smile, ‘Here’s my latest invention … local wine, not Bordeaux!’

  ‘He’s been preparing this surprise for three weeks,’ said Muhammad. ‘He’s turned his room into a secret wine factory for you!’ They all laughed. ‘Even our two colleagues at home have begun to complain about the strange smell coming from Dais’s room,’ continued Muhammad, laughing, ‘but he persuaded them that this was what his room always smelled like at this time of the year.’ There was fresh laughter, then Muhaysin got up and went to the kitchen. He came back with four glasses, unusually clean and sparkling. Dais filled them roughly halfway, then raised his own glass, saying, ‘Cheers!’. He took a great gulp, and everyone copied him.

  It wasn’t a good taste: there was a strong smell and taste of yeast, and the acidity of the vinegar had not been absorbed at all. But Dais still stared round anxiously, seeking their opinion of his handiwork. Hisham was the first to comment.

  ‘Good wine,’ he said. ‘Better than arak, anyway.’ He was being polite, afraid of hurting Dais’s sensitive feelings. He
preferred arak, which had a more immediate effect, and always reminded him of his first outing to the Kharis road.

  ‘At least it doesn’t cost as much as arak,’ said Muhaysin. ‘Or am I wrong?’ he asked, looking at Dais.

  Dais smiled proudly and said, ‘Not at all … a little grape juice, a tin of yeast, and lots of water and sugar. That’s all there is to it. Isn’t chemistry one of the blessings of the age?’

  Everyone laughed. ‘And of every age!’ they said, emptying the remains of their glasses into their mouths and holding them out for more, which made Dais very proud. After the second glass, Muhaysin got up.

  ‘It looks as though we’re not going out this evening,’ he said, looking at Hisham. ‘I’ll shut the doors and start getting the kabsa ready.’

  Meanwhile, Dais was sifting through the tapes. He sighed loudly as he took one of them and put it on the small tape recorder. It was only a few seconds before the sound of Nazim al-Ghazali’s singing resounded round the room: Camel driver, the people who were here have gone … A dark, Christian girl, I saw her ring a bell, and I said, ‘Who taught that beauty bell-ringing?’ The smell of vetch filled the entire place.

  37

  Their days in the new lodgings went by without incident. The dubious looks cast at the two young friends and their endless visitors by the local men as they came and went were all that disturbed their tranquillity. They were very careful not to upset the neighbours with any behaviour that might count against them. Even when they spent the evening chatting with their friends, one of their most important rituals was to shut the door of the room where they were meeting and to shut the inner door between the front door and the rest of the house. They were careful not to laugh louder than necessary, or to turn up the volume on the radio or cassette player more than they had to. They wanted to win the trust of this hostile environment by any means and to avoid trouble at all costs. They even pretended to ignore the furtive looks of certain women of the quarter from behind half-closed doors and windows – enticing looks that implied all sorts of seductive adventure. This was despite the blazing passions lit within them both instantly, whenever here or there their glances met the twinkle of a half-hidden eye.

  With time, by praying frequently with the congregation in the mosque and walking there and back with their eyes fixed on the ground, they were able to win the trust and respect of everyone. And they returned the greetings of some of the residents with better, more polite ones. In fact, they always tried to get their greetings in first. Sometimes they discussed those furtive looks. They would get so carried away by the passion of their conversation and the fiery lust ignited within them both that they felt driven to start something with one of the women concerned. The best time was the late morning, when the houses were full of women looking for some adventure to relieve them from their agonising routine of total boredom. But the two friends would soon switch to some other plan in order to preserve their excellent reputation.

  On one occasion their resolve was severely tested. They were coming back from university earlier than usual and the alley was completely deserted. As they unlocked the door of their house, the door of the house opposite suddenly opened to reveal two faces – girls in the prime of life wearing nothing on their heads, their long, jet-black hair gleaming with oil and hanging loose over their shoulders, their eyes huge and dark as moonless desert nights, and their skin the colour of ripening dates. The girls smiled seductively at them. The two young men stood where they were, paralysed with surprise and overcome by indecision. Then they ran inside, as if pursued by wild animals. They stood for a short time recovering their breath, then made for the deserted sitting room and peered out the window overlooking the alley. The two girls were still crouching behind the door. Their eyes met – briefly – then they slammed the window shut. This incident recurred several times, and on each occasion their inclination was to start on an adventure and to hell with the consequences, but they backed off at the last moment to preserve their hard-won reputation. If they were to have an adventure, there were plenty of streets and alleys in Riyadh, so they resolved to let it be far away from their own quarter.

  Their reputation was like pure gold, so much so that the women of the quarter stopped spying on them. They became freer after gaining the trust of their neighbours, so that eventually Hisham and Abd al-Rahman felt able to bring Raqiyya to the house; then another time she came with one of her friends; then the visits became more frequent without anyone suspecting anything. The first time Raqiyya came with Abd al-Rahman, it was in the afternoon. Their neighbour opposite knocked on the door and inquired politely about the guests inside. Hisham answered that they were his sister and brother-in-law who had come to visit and clean the house. The neighbour believed him and went back to his house, repeating, ‘God bless you … God bless you,’ and never asked again about anyone entering or leaving the house. What a fine veil it was, this blameless reputation of theirs: it protected them from all suspicion, and even concealed facts that were clear as the sun in broad daylight, as the expression goes. They no doubt meant the sun of the East, not the sun of the West.

  Nonetheless, an uneasy sense of worthlessness continued to haunt Hisham. Despite the pleasure of his adventures with Raqiyya and her like, despite the new friendships that he had made and despite the intensity of his sense of adventure, the blade of his conscience continued to pierce him; it would not leave him to rest. After any exciting sexual adventure, or the day after any drunken evening, the ghost of his mother would invade his mind and his conscience would start on its sadistic diversions. He would pledge not to drink again or make love to women, indeed he would resolve to remain in complete seclusion and not to mix with anyone. However, he soon forgot all that when he’d drunk a little arak or wine, or tasted one of those smooth bodies. His marks in college began to plummet, to the surprise of his professors. This made him feel more and more anguish. He would rush back to his books with great enthusiasm, but soon his thoughts became preoccupied again by the softness of some particular body, or the fun he’d had the last time he’d got drunk with his friends. Then the letters would dance in front of his eyes, and despite his best efforts he would no longer be reading.

  He no longer felt at ease with himself, except for the odd afternoon when he went out with Muhaysin to a date plantation near their quarter. There they would sit on the damp ground and watch the early spring breeze play with the palm trees around them, as the disk of the sun grew larger and turned crimson on its way to its journey’s end in the sea by Jabal Qaf. They would say anything that came into their minds. They had conversations about God and existence, fate, destiny and chance; about heaven and hell, Adam and the Devil; Existentialism and Marxism; Islam and Christianity, Muhammad and Christ; about Riyadh, Qusaim and Dammam. They would talk about everything except their own personal lives. They would carry on talking and smoking until darkness let down its cloak and the grasshoppers started to sing; until the croaking of the frogs rose to a fevered prayer of desire, when, with the pale light of the stars, loneliness would pierce them and they would leave, feeling that they were nothing in this universe, that it had nothing to do with them. Then they would feel both contentment and hidden anxiety. Hisham’s uncertainties would die; the spectre of his mother would disappear from his mind and he would sleep soundly that night, resolving to abandon his sinful life and devote himself to study and study alone … but the curse of mankind is forgetfulness.

  38

  Two months had passed since his return from vacation. He had only occasionally thought of Suwayr, and only ever when he was drunk. One Friday afternoon, he was alone in his uncle’s sitting room drinking tea. They had eaten lunch, and everyone had gone for their siesta when Moudhi came in and began to chat to him. Moudhi talked a lot about everything, and he wasn’t really listening, although he was nodding his head and smiling. However, he couldn’t help hearing when Moudhi said:

  ‘It’s strange about our neighbour Sarah … She’s always asking about you, s
o much so that I’ve begun to suspect there’s something between you.’

  She said this laughing quietly and sharply like a mouse. He was holding his glass and smiling, but his smile immediately vanished and his hand began to shake uncontrollably. He felt as though his head was boiling inside. He put the glass down on the tray and his hands in his lap, trying to hide their trembling. He tried to get a grip on himself, summoning all his self-control to appear calm.

  ‘Something between me and Sarah? What nonsense is this?’ he said. He was sure she had guessed, and it would only be a few moments before he collapsed completely. He would be forced to ask Moudhi to cover it up and keep it a secret between them. He was preparing himself for a full confession, when Moudhi said calmly:

  ‘Why are you so agitated? You must be annoyed that I’ve pulled your leg. Would it make sense for there to be anything between the sensible Hisham and a woman like Sarah?’ She put her hand on his. ‘You are definitely annoyed,’ she said, snatching it back quickly. ‘Your hand is so cold and damp. I’m very sorry. It seems I went too far … I, I …’ She couldn’t complete the sentence. Her voice tailed off and she fell silent, looking at the floor. Hisham relaxed a little and his spirits revived. He thanked God for the beautiful masks we wear, which hide our true natures from others. But an ugly feeling of self-loathing began to spread through his soul. Of course he knew there was a relationship between himself and Suwayr, and that Moudhi had been correct in her suspicions, even though she herself had not believed them – or had not wanted to believe them. Really, why should Suwayr ask about him if there was nothing between them? Moudhi, however, could see nothing but the angel’s mask Hisham wore, and she was not able to see behind it, or rather, she did not want to see – for we see what we want to see, not what can be seen. What made him feel even more disgusted with himself was Moudhi’s pain at his reaction: she had spoken the truth in jest, while he had felt relieved when the truth had been concealed. The world is a strange place, he thought. One man can commit a sin without suffering, while another suffers at the mere suspicion of a sin. The loathing inside him grew almost unbearable, and he nearly shouted in the face of the innocent, suffering Moudhi: