Shumaisi

by al-Hamad, Turki; Starkey, Paul;

  ‘I’ll make tea,’ said Muhaysin, getting up. ‘Abu Hisham doubtless takes his tea strong, unlike the young men of Riyadh!’ Hisham’s father smiled in agreement. Abd al-Rahman got up at the same time:

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘Excuse me,’ he added, addressing Hisham’s father. ‘I have some business. I’ll have to go.’

  Hisham’s father gestured to him politely, ‘Thanks for bringing me to Hisham’s house.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank anyone for doing their duty!’ replied Abd al-Rahman as he headed for the staircase. Then he stopped, as if he’d forgotten something. ‘Don’t forget, Abu Hisham,’ he said. ‘We have a lunch date tomorrow … and we will expect you tonight, you will sleep with us, your bed is ready.’ But Abu Hisham refused.

  ‘No, I will spend the night here,’ he said. ‘Give my greetings to your father … and God help us with these bachelors!’

  ‘Goodbye, then.’

  ‘Goodbye!’ And Abd al-Rahman left.

  Muhaysin brought the refreshments. ‘I hope our bachelors’ tea will prove favourable,’ he teased. Abu Hisham said nothing, but smiled at Muhaysin in an approving way. Meanwhile Muhaysin poured the tea, offering the traditional words of welcome, and they all drank.

  While Muhaysin chatted with Hisham’s father about the past and the harsh lives people once suffered, often travelling miles to find work, Hisham seethed in a whirl of questions. What had brought his father to Riyadh? It was not like him to leave his work and come to Riyadh without an important reason. Was his mother all right? Hisham’s mind filled with the worst possible scenarios. He shot Muhaysin a look which his friend understood perfectly.

  ‘Excuse me, Uncle,’ he said, getting up. ‘Our fridge is empty. A bachelors’ fridge, as you know! I’m going to buy some food for our supper. Please forgive us for being so inhospitable,’ he added, turning towards the staircase. ‘This house is yours, and we are your children!’

  ‘God bless you,’ replied Abu Hisham. ‘You’re not at all inhospitable. Bounty belongs to God!’

  The time had come to put an end to this anxiety. As soon as he heard the sound of the front door being closed, Hisham turned questioningly to his father.

  ‘Is everything all right, Father?’ he asked, with obvious unease.

  Abu Hisham calmly returned his look. ‘Don’t be anxious,’ he said. ‘Everything is fine.’

  ‘Is mother all right?’

  ‘I told you, don’t be so on edge. Everything is fine.’

  If everything was fine, what had brought Abu Hisham to Riyadh? Hisham could bear it no longer. His father’s tranquillity disturbed him, though he knew it was characteristic.

  ‘Do you have some business in Riyadh, then?’ His father gave a short laugh as he saw how agitated Hisham was.

  ‘I missed you,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that excuse enough to come to Riyadh?’

  No … missing him wasn’t the only reason … he knew his father too well. A silence descended, which he took to be the calm before the crisis. His father was in Riyadh for something important, but what could it be? Hisham sipped mechanically at his tea, expecting the bomb to explode at any moment. He wished it would explode. Waiting in such agitation was terrible.

  At last Abu Hisham turned to him, his face like a freshly squeezed lemon. It was clear that he was several times more agitated than his son. ‘Hisham … tell me the truth,’ he said. ‘What have you done?’

  Hisham’s stomach turned upside down and his head ached; the blood pumped madly in his veins, and a sticky sweat clogged the pores of his body; black thoughts occupied his mind. Had his parents found out about his relationship with Suwayr and her pregnancy? It would be a disaster if his father had found out – and a calamity if his mother knew! But how could he know? Who would have told him? Was anyone aware of their relationship without Hisham’s knowledge? If so, who? Alyan? … Abd al-Rahman? … Moudhi? … Impossible, unless … unless Suwayr had told someone about them. Moudhi, for example, or her husband. But she would be mad to have done so. Perhaps she was mad? Impossible that madness should have affected her to that extent. But then again, why not? Yet how would his father in Dammam know that the relationship was public knowledge before Hisham himself knew? He had seen Suwayr today, and there’d been nothing to indicate anything was wrong.

  But perhaps Abu Hisham was referring to his drinking. Who could have told him? Perhaps it was Hamad. The wretch. What gave Hamad the right? It was certain that his father had found out about his drinking. With great effort Hisham pulled himself together and asked in a shaking voice:

  ‘What do you mean, father?’

  His father looked him straight in the eye. ‘Don’t pretend to be stupid,’ he said severely. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Everything was out, then. The drinking and his relationship with Suwayr. Hisham didn’t know how, but all his secrets were out.

  ‘It’s all over, Hisham. What has happened, has happened. Tell me the truth, my son, then perhaps I can help.’

  Hisham’s resistance crumbled before his father’s severity and compassion, and he prepared to confess everything: his relationship with Suwayr, his flings with Raqiyya and her like, his relationship in Dammam with Noura, the arak drinking, his sessions with the gang … everything.

  He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but his father was quicker:

  ‘Yesterday, the principal of your high school came to see me. He is one of the ‘establishment’, as you know. He told me that certain persons had been asking about a group of people among whom numbered yourself and Adnan. Tell me the truth, my son … Have you acted against the government?’

  So this was it, then. Hisham felt vaguely relieved, and managed a faint smile of satisfaction, though he was immediately struck by anxiety of a fresh kind. He had forgotten the organisation and his comrades; forgotten prison, and the fear of arrest. But now, here from nowhere, was the past returning in full force. If Hisham had forgotten the past, it seemed that the past had not forgotten Hisham.

  He hid nothing from his father. The government knew everything now, so why shouldn’t his father? The thing that oppressed the soul most was secrecy; it strangled the person with the secret. Unburdening was a great relief.

  His father remained silent as he listened to Hisham’s confession. It was clear that he was stunned by the shock. Abu Hisham had suffered a lot in his life, and he fully understood that trifling with the government was a matter of the utmost gravity. How could it be that his own son played around like this? It had never occurred to Abu Hisham that his quiet, introverted son could embark on an adventure so dangerous. It was a shock he had never anticipated, even in his imagination, and now here it was confronting him. Conflicting emotions flared up in Abu Hisham’s mind – feelings of fear, nervousness and pride. He was fearful and anxious for the fate of his only son, and at the same time he felt hurt. He’d thought that he knew everything about Hisham’s life. He had brought Hisham up to be open and not to hide anything, and here he was, suddenly revealing that what Abu Hisham didn’t know about his son was more than he did know. And who was to say? Perhaps what Hisham revealed today was only a fraction of it. Doubts began to overwhelm him. Despite these, mingled with his other feelings was a secret suggestion of pride. His son, whom he had down as shy, solitary and addicted to reading, had demonstrated a rare courage: he had challenged the government. But challenging the government was the height of folly, and there was only a thin line between courage and folly. Abu Hisham didn’t know that Hisham’s entry into the secret organisation had been unintentional, with absolutely no planning at all; that it had no connection with either courage or folly. Appearances suggested it showed courage. But Abu Hisham thought that any trifling with the government was folly, exposing one to inevitable danger. Yet what made him at once fearful and proud, was that this folly had been undertaken by the last person on earth he would have expected: his own son Hisham. All these competing emotions crowded his thoughts as he looked silently at Hisham, stil
l telling him things that seemed more fantasy than fact. It had never ocurred to Abu Hisham that the reader of Superman might have a different and more dangerous face.

  ‘I had no idea you were a great revolutionary …’ he said, smiling, but with sorrow etched on his face. ‘But you only had to meet the Baathists to become one of them,’ he added, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘The worst sort of people. There’s no one like them except the Communists and the Brothers … Is this the consequence of our trust in you?’ he continued, after a short silence. ‘How do you think your mother will react when she finds out?’

  The sharp blade of guilt planted itself forcefully in Hisham’s chest, as his father continued:

  ‘I know that you haven’t committed any crime impinging on our honour, but you have committed a folly to beat all follies. A stupid thing to do. Pure madness! You are our only son. Have you thought what would become of us if anything happened to you? You work against the government! What have you got to do with the government? Do you lack for anything? Your mother and I have struggled to reach where we have for your sake, and at the end of it you put us in this position! To work against the government! Do you think you’re in some sort of Arsène Lupin story,* or a game that’ll soon be over? The government is a red death … do you understand?’

  His father was in an extremely emotional state and it was obvious he was having to restrain his tears. As usual, however, he kept his feelings under strict control. Meanwhile, Hisham listened in silence, though he was insulted when his father compared his actions with those in an Arsène Lupin story. He was extremely hurt to see his father so upset, and he was terrified of how his mother would react when she found out. And she would certainly find out. What could he say to self-justification? Would he say that everything had happened unintentionally? That was an excuse even worse than the mistake; it would imply he had compromised himself and his parents without any thought or feeling of responsibility. Hisham could not think of a suitable reply and opened his mouth with difficulty.

  ‘You are quite right, father,’ he said. ‘If repentance and apology were any use, I would be apologising to you to the end of time, and repenting for the rest of my life. But what has happened has happened … And no one can undo God’s destiny.’

  His father smiled sarcastically.

  ‘“What has happened has happened”!’ he echoed. ‘No one can undo God’s destiny! Is this all you have to say, Sheikh Hisham? You do something like this and then you say “God’s destiny”! … Leave God out of it! He is not a doll to play with when you want to, and abandon when you feel like it!’

  Before his father could finish, they heard the front door opening. Hisham was immediately paralysed by fear, though he knew that it was only Muhaysin coming back. He looked hurriedly at his father.

  ‘The important thing is … what is to be done, father?’ he said, panicking.

  ‘What is to be done? Didn’t you think of that before embarking on all this?’ said his father angrily. ‘I don’t know,’ he added, quickly calming down. ‘We’ll think about it at leisure. Anyway, don’t go to the university tomorrow. They may be waiting for you there.’

  Hisham suddenly thought of Adnan.

  ‘And what about Adnan?’ he asked. ‘He ought to know that they are looking for him … I ought to go to the university. Has the principal told Adnan’s father what he told you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Does Adnan or anyone else matter to me? Do what you like but don’t go to the university. Listen to what I am saying this time.’

  His father looked at him with a sternness Hisham had never seen before. Then he looked away and said, bitterly:

  ‘You have been doing as you pleased, while all along we thought you were doing what pleased us … this time, do as we want!’

  Again Hisham felt the sharp stab of remorse. ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll go to his house before he goes to university. He has to know!’

  While they spoke, Muhaysin appeared at the door to the staircase carrying a large tray, which he put down in front of Abu Hisham.

  ‘A blessed time,’ he said. ‘This is not worthy of you, but blessings come from God, may your life be long.’

  ‘In the name of God,’ said Hisham’s father, as he cut the loaf of warm dry bread and dipped it in a plate of beans soaked in butter. Muhaysin was a really superb cook. He’d made beans with butter, boiled eggs, and a plate of tuna decorated with slices of tomato. They all ate in silence. His father finished quickly:

  ‘Thank you very much, Abd al-Muhsin! May your table be full, God willing!’

  ‘What’s this? You haven’t eaten anything, Uncle! Praise be to God … no one should be shy in their own house!’ Reluctantly Muhaysin made to take the tray back to the kitchen. ‘I’ll make tea then,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got any coffee.’ Hisham got up.

  ‘Let me help,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, father.’ They put the almost untouched plates of food in the fridge, then Muhaysin asked curiously, putting the kettle on the gas:

  ‘Everything’s all right, I hope? What’s brought your father to Riyadh?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing … the authorities are looking for me,’ said Hisham casually, washing his hands at the kitchen sink. Muhaysin looked as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt; his eyes bulged and his mouth was wide open. He spoke like a startled idiot: ‘What? … The authorities? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that the authorities want to detain me … I was once a member of a secret organisation, and now everything has come out.’

  ‘Everyone knows about it now,’ Hisham went on, towelling his hands dry. ‘The authorities, my father … so why shouldn’t you know as well? Why shouldn’t everyone know? It’s not as if it matters any more.’

  Muhaysin was speechless. He stared dumbly at Hisham, until the kettle whistled and broke the silence. Muhaysin lifted it with a shaking hand.

  ‘Go back to your father,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll make the tea and join you in a moment.’

  Back on the roof, Hisham found his father deep in prayer. He waited for him to finish. When Abu Hisham had completed his devotion, he looked at Hisham. Calm had returned to his face.

  ‘I asked God for guidance,’ he said. ‘And with His power, He has inspired me to take the correct decision.’ He sat up straight and went on,’ You will travel to Beirut, and stay there until God does whatever has to be done … you will study there, so you will have lost nothing.’

  Hisham stood passively like an accused man receiving his sentence, playing no part and offering no opinion. His father, meanwhile, continued:

  ‘I will go with you tomorrow morning to the university and retrieve your file. Then we will go to your uncle’s house and in the afternoon leave for Dammam. We’ll arrange your journey from there. It will allow time for your mother to see you,’ he added pointedly. ‘She has some rights over you too, as you know.’

  Muhaysin arrived with the tea and began to pour it.

  ‘Hisham has told me about his brush with the authorities,’ he said, without any preliminaries. ‘And I have an idea.’ He handed Abu Hisham his tea and continued to speak, ignoring the angry looks Hisham’s father directed at his son. ‘Please don’t be angry, Uncle. Hisham is right. If the authorities know everything now, why shouldn’t everyone know? There are no secrets any longer. And anyway, I’m not just anyone, … Or is that wrong?’ He gave Hisham a glass. ‘I have an idea,’ he said excitedly, without waiting for them to reply. ‘Why doesn’t Hisham go to Qusaim and hide there … I can arrange things. No one will be able to reach him there. What do you say?’

  Muhaysin’s passions were running so high that his whole body seemed to be talking, sensing an adventure on the horizon. Hisham’s father smiled, and looked at Muhaysin approvingly.

  ‘God bless you, my son,’ he said. ‘You are a good fellow, God be praised! But I have arranged something different. And God will do what is best …’

  ‘We will leave for Dammam tomorrow,’ said Hisham in an
resigned voice after glancing at his father. ‘After that, only God knows what He will do.’

  Muhaysin was startled by the speed of their decision.

  ‘So soon?’ he asked immediately. ‘I didn’t know that our time here would end like this, suddenly, and without warning. But you will come back, won’t you?’ he added, his voice shaking a little.

  Hisham smiled, trying to suppress his tears and looking upwards to avoid Muhaysin’s eyes. ‘God knows,’ he said, his sorrow plain.

  There fell a heavy silence. Hisham felt as if the heavens had fallen to earth and that he was trapped between the two, unable to escape. He heard his father’s voice as though it came from another dimension, or from distant aeons, across the barriers of time.

  ‘I think that I will sleep on the roof,’ said Abu Hisham. ‘Hisham’s room will be too crowded for both of us. There is no need for a bed, just bring me a blanket and pillow.’ Muhaysin jumped up nimbly.

  ‘At once!’ he said. ‘Everything will be ready.’

  He left, and Hisham’s father followed him with his eyes.

  ‘God be praised, he’s a good young man,’ he said. Muhaysin returned with two blankets and a pillow. He spread one blanket on the carpet, placed the other, still folded, to the side of the carpet, then put the pillow beside it.

  ‘You must be tired, uncle. It’s a long way from Dammam.’

  ‘You’re right. And we have a tiring day ahead of us tomorrow.’ said Abu Hisham, yawning. He took off his headdress and head cord and threw himself on the bedding.

  ‘I’m going to talk with Muhaysin a little,’ said Hisham. ‘Who knows when I may see him again. If I see him, that is.’

  He got up, his friend following. Abu Hisham’s voice trailed after them:

  ‘Don’t be late. We need to get up with the morning star.’

  Hisham and Muhaysin talked until just before dawn, smoking and drinking tea together. He was tempted to drink arak, but Muhaysin stopped him.

  ________________

  * Arsène Lupin, French gentleman-thief turned detective, featured in more than sixty crime novels and short stories by Maurice Leblanc (1864–1941). The stories were very popular in the Arab world.