Shumaisi

by al-Hamad, Turki; Starkey, Paul;

  The time came to leave. They said goodbye to everyone and Hisham took a seat beside his father in the green Peugeot. The car set off, and the boys chased it down the street amidst the cloud of dust it raised. As the car approached New Shumaisi Street, Hisham looked back and saw Muhaysin and Muhammad standing in the middle of the road, between his uncle’s and Suwayr’s houses. He felt sure Moudhi was looking from one of the windows, and that Suwayr would hear the noise of the car – but she wouldn’t know it was carrying Hisham away, and that she would probably never see him again. He felt guilty at not being able to see her before he left. She would certainly ask Moudhi about him, but he couldn’t predict how Moudhi would receive her – if she received her at all, now that she knew about their relationship. Suwayr would think he had abandoned and betrayed her, but now he could always say that he was thinking about her during his last moment in Riyadh.

  At the junction, his father headed east and his friends and the house disappeared, leaving just their pale shadows in his mind … and one burning question: was the child in Suwayr’s belly his, or Alyan’s, or someone else’s? At times he was certain it was his, at others sure that it wasn’t. And now it looked as if he would never know. Or perhaps he would one day find out; for no one knows what the future holds …

  44

  When they reached Dammam, the night was almost a third gone. The city was dead; nothing moved except for a few police cars on routine street patrol. He had missed and yearned for this city so much! Last time he’d left, he had returned to missing it before a single week had gone by. But tonight it seemed lonely and repugnant, like a rotten corpse. Even the smell of the sea, even the smell of the vapour given off by the oil wells near Dhahran and Baqiq, now seemed putrid – more than they ever had in the past. On previous occasions, whenever they had returned from Riyadh and the blazing fires appeared along the route, he would breathe in the smell of the gas with pleasure and longing. Now though, it smelled far worse than it ever had before.

  Camp Bedouin was the first quarter of Dammam. Soon they would reach Adama, where their house was. His father, however, did not turn left to Adama, but continued on the road towards the Workers’ City quarter. Hisham was surprised at this and jokingly asked:

  ‘Have you lost your way, father?’

  ‘Our house will be under surveillance,’ he replied, without turning towards Hisham. ‘We’ll go to Abdallah al-Zafarani’s house. You’ll stay with him for a bit, until your affairs are sorted out.’ Fear overwhelmed Hisham again. It was true, then … he really was being pursued. For a long time he’d willed everything to turn out to be a terrible nightmare from which he could one day wake, but now he was certain this was no dream.

  Abu Hisham got out of the car and walked towards the decorated iron door. He banged on it so hard that Hisham could imagine the whole neighbourhood waking up and police cars surrounding them immediately. The silence was so intense he could clearly hear his own heartbeat and breathing as he crouched inside the car, staring wildly in every direction. The knocking continued. With each knock, Hisham’s heart leapt out of his skin. Then he would start breathing again, looking in every direction, then staring at his father as if to beg him to stop knocking so that they could go back home to the security of his mother’s warm embrace. At last the door opened and Abdallah’s face peered out, looking furious. Who could this annoying fellow be, who went visiting people at such a late hour of the night? But his expression soon brightened when he saw Hisham’s father before him. He greeted him with loud exclamations of joy, and invited him in.

  Without saying a word, his father motioned to Hisham to get out of the car and they all went into the house. Abdallah closed the door, baffled by this nocturnal visit. They all sat down in the sitting room, saying nothing. Abdallah’s tiny eyes, still full of sleep, betrayed intense curiosity as he scratched his bald pate through his ever-present skullcap. Hisham smiled when he glimpsed Abdallah’s smooth scalp, with its dark skin; as a boy he had often asked to touch this scalp.

  Finally, his father broke the silence.

  ‘We have just arrived from Riyadh,’ he said. ‘Could you possibly help us with some cold water and coffee?’ Abdallah’s mouth fell wide open, and again he scratched his head.

  ‘Riyadh!’ he said. ‘Everything’s all right, I hope? What’s going on? Tell me –’ Abu Hisham interrupted.

  ‘You’ll find out everything later,’ he said. ‘The most important thing now is coffee!’ Abdallah went off into the house, repeating:

  ‘At once, at once!’

  After a few moments, he came back, having changed his pyjama trousers for a white tob, and sat down opposite Hisham’s father.

  ‘Ha! … what’s going on?’ he asked animatedly, sticking his neck in Abu Hisham’s direction. ‘Tell me your story … I can’t wait a moment longer!’

  Abdallah al-Zafarani was one of four friends bound together by a close friendship. Abdallah, Abu Hisham, Hammud al-Shahham and Yahya al-Ali, Adnan’s father, formed a close-knit foursome that was known as such to all the elite in Dammam. He was a very cultured man and loved books, although he could not himself read. He had a relaxed and happy face, with a natural smile. Easy-going and quick-witted, it was impossible not to like him from the first meeting, although his external appearance was not in the least handsome. He was short, with a hefty body and a large paunch, dark skin, thick lips and wavy hair. In the middle of his head shone an enormous bald scalp, and his nose was just two openings in the middle of his face. Hisham could only remember him ever talking about politics. He was famous among the Dammam elite for his political analyses – indeed, he had become something of a local authority. Many times Hisham had sat with his father, Hammud al-Shahham and Yahya al-Ali round the portable heater on a cold winter night, drinking hot milk and ginger and twiddling the knob on the radio in every direction to find news from one station or another; the dial would always settle eventually on ‘Voice of the Arabs’ or ‘London Calling’. Then they would start their discussions and analyses, and Abdallah would soon take the lead. During the warm days of summer they would lie on the ground in the little garden, drinking tea and debating the weather itself. As for Fridays, these were reserved entirely for the pro-Nasser journalist Haykal and his ‘Frankly Speaking’ column in Al-Ahram, which they listened to live on ‘Voice of the Arabs’, trying to read between the lines and decipher for themselves what the Great Leader was thinking. He remembered coming back from school one ordinary hot, humid Dammam day, and finding Abdallah parked in front of their house in his white Opel car. As soon as Abdallah saw him coming, he quickly got out of the car holding a carefully folded paper bag in his hand. Without a word, he led Hisham to a corner at the back of the house, then thrust the bag into his hand, glancing as he did so from right to left and saying hurriedly:

  ‘Here’s a present … something that’s just right for you, and no one else. I got it today, and I said to myself, “This is just right for Hisham, no one else, and it’s come at the best possible time.”’ Then he thrust the bag towards Hisham, saying with a smile, ‘You’re going to like it,’ and rushed back to his car.

  Hisham had gone straight to his room, full of excitement, and opened the bag at once. There were two books – one of them al-Kawakibi’s The Nature of Tyranny, and the other The World is Not Rational, by Abdallah al-Qusaymi. He was familiar with some of al-Kawakibi’s ideas, but this was his first acquaintance with al-Qusaymi. He read The World is Not Rational, lost himself in al-Qusaymi’s sceptical, playful, bohemian jaunts and found great pleasure, as well as confusion, in the exercise. The Nature of Tyranny he soon knew by heart. It was really an amazing gift, and whenever he saw Abdallah, the image of al-Kawakibi would come into his mind, with his turban, his beard, and his welcoming face …

  ‘Now, what’s going on? I want the details,’ said Abdallah, pouring the coffee that his wife had left in front of the sitting room door. Abu Hisham drank one cup of coffee immediately and poured another, from which he took a sip, then
placed on the floor. Then he drank a glass of water. Abdallah’s eyes never left Abu Hisham’s mouth the whole time. As for Hisham, squatting there like a forgotten quantity, drinking his tea, he might as well have been in his own private world.

  After Abu Hisham had finished his third cup, he felt prepared. He looked at Abdallah, said, ‘This is what’s going on …’ then told him everything. He finished by saying, ‘I’ve decided to send him to Beirut until things quiet down.’ Taking another slow sip of coffee he added, ‘But before that, he will stay in Dammam for a few days, so we can arrange things. My own house is no doubt under surveillance, so I thought that I could leave him here … at your house, for a while. If you don’t have any objection?’

  Abdallah leapt up. ‘Objection? Hisham is my son as much as yours! All this trouble,’ he said, turning to Hisham and laughing. ‘We were afraid for you, you were so introverted, such a loner! Hisham will be fine with me,’ he added to Abu Hisham. ‘You can go away feeling quite secure.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Abu Salih. If I hadn’t been completely confident, I wouldn’t have entrusted you with him.’ Abu Hisham made to stand up, then he and Hisham went to collect his things.

  Hisham sat in the sitting room, waiting, while Abu Salih prepared a place for him to stay indefinitely in the interior of the house. Abu Salih soon reappeared and led him to his son Salih’s room, saying:

  ‘Umm Salih saw no need to make you up a special bed. You can use Salih’s room. He is sleeping on the roof and no one is using this room. If you need anything, you only have to call Salih,’ he said. ‘Goodnight!’ Abu Salih shut the door, leaving Hisham to the mercy of the dreadful damp filling every corner of the room.

  Salih’s was a small room, with a wide window overlooking a small garden like Hisham’s family’s own garden. In the middle of the room was a small carpet, and in one of the corners a small bed like his bed in Riyadh, but smaller than his bed in Dammam. In another corner was a study desk and chair, as well as a shelf containing novels and magazines. The heat and the humidity were intolerable, even though summer had officially not yet begun, for this was still the first half of June. But this was Dammam … it showed no mercy. Hisham was ravenous. He’d eaten nothing since the meal in Riyadh, which he’d hardly touched. Abu Salih hadn’t offered him anything, and he was too embarrassed to ask at this late hour of the night – it was almost early morning. He took off his clothes and tried to sleep but the hunger, combined with the heat and humidity, prevented him. He tossed and turned on the bed, surrounded on every side by demons. Eventually he got up and browsed through the stories and magazines on the shelf. He picked a book called Our Happy Golden Years by Laura Ingalls Wilder, went back to bed and began to read. Soon he was in another world, escaped with Laura, Mary, Carrie and Almanzo to the plains of the American West.

  45

  In the morning a knock on the door woke him. He was drenched in sweat, and the humidity had made his body smell unbearable. He got up quickly, put on his tob, and opened the door. Umm Salih was holding a small tray, her veil over her face. She put the tray on the little desk. Hisham inquired about Salih and was told that he had gone to school early. He was forced to reflect that for most young people today was a normal school day and that the world did not stop for one person …

  He took a quick shower in the bathroom next door, then gobbled down all his beans and bread. Then he drank his tea with something a little short of absolute pleasure, because he was so desperate for a cigarette. He wondered what Abu Salih had told his wife to explain Hisham’s sudden arrival. No doubt he hadn’t told her the truth. Her manner when she brought in his breakfast didn’t suggest that she knew anything – unless she possessed a very cool head and was in complete control of her emotions; or perhaps she had no emotions at all; or she had concluded that the matter did not concern her in the least, as it was her husband’s business. Umm Salih was the epitome of the traditional Nejdi woman. Her world was restricted to pleasing her husband and master, and serving her children. This was why Hisham’s mother hadn’t grown close to her, as she had to Hammud al-Shahham’s wife. His own mother’s world and interests were much broader – without impinging on her husband’s rights, of course. Hisham saddened when he thought of his mother. He missed her a lot. He wished she were beside him now, so that he could fall into her arms and give vent to his tears. Perhaps they would cry together – she always shared his suffering. Just having his mother beside him would make him feel secure, but where was she now? They were in the same city; he breathed the same air as she, they were scorched by the same heat and stinking with the same humidity, but she was further from him than she had ever been before. The image of Noura floated through his mind, but he banished it nervously, and soon the image of his mother returned to fill his whole mind.

  He could do nothing but wait; a deadly boring waiting. He was extremely anxious about travelling to Beirut and terrified by the danger of arrest. At the same time, he was dying a slow death by boredom with every moment of waiting. He looked at the time and found that it was not yet ten. My God, how slowly time passed! He had showered, eaten breakfast and drunk his tea in less than half an hour. He got up and began to pace up and down the room, then stopped in front of the window and inspected the garden. It wasn’t a garden in the proper sense of the word – just a patch of ground with some neglected couch grass scattered about. There was no one like his father for looking after a garden and bringing it to life. Hisham’s mother was always saying, ‘Abu Hisham, what wonderful hands you have … they are magic … you must have green fingers!’ He smiled to remember that. His eyes travelled beyond the garden to the public road – or his ears, rather, for the wall around the house was too high for him to see over. Beyond the street stood the Middle School, where he and Adnan had spent three years. What memories! His head spun with images; memories reeled in his mind like the films they used to watch at home on the projector they hired when they didn’t want to go out to the cinema, when the film was of the exciting sort best watched at home. Events and faces crowded with amazing rapidity in his head; things he thought he had long forgotten still lurked there, just waiting for him to rediscover them in all their detail. Most striking of all was that for the first time Hisham understood how significant Adnan had always been. He was present in every event in his life he could remember. The pair of them had been like a single entity, and he had never realised this before.

  Hisham smiled faintly to remember the day they had stolen something for the first and last time. It wasn’t stealing in the true sense of the word, more a search for excitement. On their way home from school they passed a small shop owned by Hali. They used to stop by the shop and drink a bottle of cola or share a can of tomato juice or orange juice, which they would drink with a pastry. This particular day Hisham announced to his friend that they would eat and drink whatever they fancied without paying a single penny. He explained his plan. Adnan tried to dissuade but Hisham insisted, so Adnan had to accept. They stood in front of the counter. Hisham asked for two large cans of tomato juice, two cans of orange juice, two cheese-and-jam sandwiches and two pastries. It was a lot to order, and the shopkeeper doubted whether they could afford it, so he asked for the money in advance. Hisham replied brazenly:

  ‘What’s the world coming to? We’re regular customers, we’ll pay when we’ve finished, or else you can keep your stuff!’ By this time they had already opened the cans of juice and eaten half the sandwiches, so the shopkeeper had no choice but to accept. Adnan looked at Hisham and whispered in a frightened voice:

  ‘Hisham, the bill’s two and a half riyals, and I’ve only got four piastres, you’ve really got us in a fix!’ Hisham laughed, his mouth full of bread and juice:

  ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t even got a piastre, but don’t worry …’ They finished everything, then Hisham said to Adnan:

  ‘You go now … go on!’ Adnan hesitated at first, but eventually did as he was told and left. The shopkeeper’s eyes were glued to them, and as so
on as Adnan left, he asked Hisham to pay. Hisham fumbled in his pockets as if he were fetching money, then suddenly took off at full pelt. This initially startled the shopkeeper, but his surprise didn’t last long, and he abandoned the shop and gave chase. Hisham was very quick, but the shopkeeper almost caught him, and would have done had fate not intervened – at precisely the moment when the shopkeeper reached out to grab Hisham, his loincloth fell down, and he wasn’t wearing anything underneath, so his private parts were completely exposed. The shopkeeper stopped to cover himself up, while Hisham disappeared into the distance, amazed at his escape. From that day on they took a different route to school, avoiding Hali’s shop, but they remained terrified for several days. They were afraid that the man would complain to their school principal, and would look for them. Then the news would reach their families, which would be a real disaster. But ‘God preserved’ and nothing happened, though they never repeated the stunt.

  Hisham left the window and paced around the room again, the memories still crowding his head. He would never forget the day when they’d almost lost the ‘dearest thing they possessed’. This was a few days after the shop incident. They were coming back from school, talking and joking, as they walked along a side road from which several alleys branched off, trying to avoid the main road and Hali’s shop. Three slightly older youths stepped out of one of the alleys. They stopped the two friends and searched their pockets, but found nothing. One of them, apparently their leader, blocked their path, took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply as he looked at the two of them. Finally he said: