‘Since you haven’t got any money on you, we shall have to –’ Hisham’s heart began to beat faster, and every part of his body started to tremble. Adnan’s face turned pale and they looked at each other for help. This was his mother’s worst fear – that which she had warned him about was going to happen. The leader stepped forward and the other two grabbed them and marched them to a pen in one of the narrow alleyways. Without thinking, Hisham started to shout and scream like someone struck by a fit of madness, and Adnan did the same thing. The youths tried to gag them, but Adnan bit the hand of his captor so hard that he let him go with a scream. Hisham hit the boy holding him with his school bag and he let go as well. They were both free and took to their heels, still screaming. The youths caught them up, but they had to stop and retreat when a man appeared from one of the adjoining alleyways. Fate had intervened to save them again. After this incident, they went back to walking along the main roads – let the shopkeeper see them, and be that as it may.
He looked at his watch again: eleven o’clock. It must be broken. Time stood still, and the heat was unbearable. How he missed his mother. He wanted to leave this ‘safe house’ and head off to Adama, come what may, but he didn’t dare. He went to the bathroom and took another shower, then returned to the room, smiling thoughtfully. Perhaps this room was just a rehearsal for what was to come. His cravings for a cigarette had worsened and he considered going to the sitting room in the hope of finding some among Abu Salih’s things, but rejected the idea. He looked around and found the book he had been reading last night thrown onto the bed. He picked it up but could find no enthusiasm for it it today, so he took House of the Dead out of his bag and escaped to Russia.
46
Life flowed through the house once more. Abu Salih came back from work and Salih returned from school. He was a boy of about Hisham’s age, but he had failed twice in school. Abu Salih greeted him with a smile, then went to the bathroom to take a reviving cold shower and wash off the grime caused by the humidity. Salih sat with Hisham in his room, his eyes full of questions about Hisham’s arrival, which he refrained from asking. They talked a lot about the adventures of Superman, the last ‘Giant Beauty’, the adventures of Sindbad and Tintin and Captain Haddock, then about Laura and her sisters and those vast plains of the American West, until Salih’s father could be heard from the sitting room, calling them to lunch.
The three of them gathered around a large plate of white rice, with a whole chicken sitting on it, and three small plates of courgettes arranged around a bright red sauce. The air was beautifully refreshing since this was the only time of day when the one air-conditioning unit in the house was switched on. Hisham sat where Abu Salih indicated, at his side, while Salih sat opposite his father. They both waited for him to say grace before eating. But before Abu Salih began, he looked angrily at his son:
‘Haven’t I always told you to wash as soon as you come in from outside? Your smell would bring the birds down from the sky!’ Salih was mortified. His brow glistened with sweat and he glanced at Hisham out of the corner of his eye.
Abu Salih began by dividing up the chicken. He threw one of the thighs to Hisham and quickly polished off the other one. Salih didn’t eat much. It was clear he wanted to finish as quickly as possible, but couldn’t leave the table before his father. He ate with his eyes downcast, occasionally glancing surreptitiously up at Hisham. When their eyes met, he looked away hastily. Hisham knew that Abu Salih had another son, several years younger than Salih. He asked about him, and Abu Salih replied sarcastically, crushing a bone with his teeth:
‘Nasir? He’s his mother’s son. He only eats with her!’ Forming a large ball of rice and sauce with his hand, he added, ‘I’ve given up on that child. I’ve tried to teach him the ways of men, but it’s useless!’ He threw the ball of rice into his mouth, scattering grains of rice all over his lips. ‘I’ve two sons. One is his mother’s darling, and the other is a filthy brat!’ Salih stopped eating, his gaze stuck fast to the floor. As soon as Abu Salih said ‘Praise be to God’, belching noisily and getting up, Salih jumped up and disappeared into the house.
Umm Salih had cleared the table when Hisham went back into the sitting room. Abu Salih sat there, his legs stretched out casually, smoking a cigarette and picking his teeth with a matchstick as he chewed the remains of his meal with a noise like the cooing of a turtle dove. Beside him was a large pot of tea. Abu Salih invited Hisham to sit beside him and poured him a glass of tea, which Hisham drank contentedly, feeling completely relaxed with his stomach full, the cool drafts of air from the air conditioning and the delicious smell of smoke lulling him to sleep. He was desperate for a cigarette but he couldn’t smoke in front of Abu Salih. He breathed in the surrounding smoke with pleasure. Abu Salih stubbed out his cigarette and looked at Hisham:
‘What have you been doing with yourself, my boy?’ he asked. ‘What have you been doing with your parents? The government never shows mercy in things like this, however straightforward they may appear.’ He laughed. ‘Anything except getting your father into trouble. Don’t play around with him.’ He poured himself another glass of tea, which he drank quickly, then turned to Hisham and said with some passion:
‘You want the honest truth … congratulations! God be praised, you’re a real man! I wish Salih could be a man,’ he added, leaning back again. ‘Even if he was put in jail.’ Just then, Salih appeared at the door, his hair wet and dressed in a flowing white tob, from which the smell of lemon perfume wafted. His father looked at him and said sarcastically, ‘Talk of the devil …’ Salih’s face betrayed failure and sorrow, but he said nothing and took a seat beside Hisham. He pulled the tea tray towards him.
When Abu Salih had finished the last drop from the teapot and smoked three more cigarettes, he pulled a cushion towards him and threw himself back on it with a loud sigh. It wasn’t long before the sound of his snoring filled the entire house. Hisham smiled at the sight of his father’s friend, then considered stealing a cigarette from his packet, but stopped himself, despite his desperate cravings. Instead he looked at Salih, and after some hesitation whispered:
‘Salih … I need you to do something for me.’
‘What is it?’
‘I want you to buy me a packet of cigarettes … Is that OK?’ Salih paused before answering.
‘Anything you say, Hisham.’ Hisham smiled happily, took a riyal from his pocket and handed it to Salih.
‘A packet of Abu Bass,’ he said in a whisper, glancing at the sleeping man. ‘Quickly, for God’s sake.’
Salih returned shortly with a packet of cigarettes and the box of matches that usually came with it. Hisham took them and went back to Salih’s room, with Salih in tow. The air was extremely hot and humid, but still he locked the door shut and opened the window. Then he sat on the floor, while Salih sat on the bed. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, the saliva flowing into his mouth. His head ached slightly as the image of Raqiyya appeared, shyly and hazily. Salih stared at him in amazement. This was the first time he had seen him smoking. Hisham ignored him. He was beginning to feel a little relaxed, despite the heat and humidity, and the fear and anxiety.
47
A week had gone by since he had been imprisoned in Salih’s room. Hisham’s father visited every day, but his mother hadn’t yet appeared. He was fed up with his situation. It wasn’t as if he could blame his incarceration on the authorities, yet still he had no freedom of movement and he had not travelled to Beirut. One afternoon, he stood in front of the window, watching the sun travel towards its inevitable destination, when he heard someone at the door of his room. Soon his mother’s face appeared. He couldn’t stop himself from throwing himself at her, shouting, ‘Mother, mother!’, as if he was a small child, not a hounded young man. He wanted nothing in the world more than to smell his mother’s scent and feel her embrace. He kissed her brow repeatedly, and hugged her, while she in turn kissed him everywhere she could reach with her mouth. Their tears mingled as she s
avoured the smell of his neck. She was her usual brave self, and tried not to cry too much. Her mouth wore a calm smile, which didn’t prevent Hisham from noticing the deathly pallor of her face, or her tired bloodshot eyes, their red veins more numerous than he had ever seen before. His mother’s eyes were her most prominent feature – wide and clear, with very long eyelashes. He thought he could see wrinkles on her face for the first time, although his mother was no more than thirty-six years old.
The two of them sat on the bed, each examining the other closely. It was clear they were both trying to stop themselves crying, though the tears refused to emerge from their eyes, or find their way to the surface. A sad silence prevailed, only punctuated by their glances. Then Hisham spoke in a broken voice, full of sorrow and regret:
‘I am sorry, mother. I have caused you and father pain that you do not deserve. I have not deserved your love and trust … I … I am a disobedient child.’
Then the tears choked him. His mother embraced him tenderly and stroked his hair with her hand, saying with affection:
‘May God save you from any evil, my son … I never imagined that I would experience days like these … may God have mercy on his servants … A whole week you have been beside me, and I haven’t seen you,’ she went on, wiping away a tear that had fallen. ‘When your father told me about it yesterday evening, I didn’t believe it. I haven’t been able to do anything, it’s as if I’ve been paralysed. My instinct told me that something terrible had happened ever since your father travelled to Riyadh. I was praying to God for my feelings to be mistaken, but a mother’s heart never lies, and a woman’s instinct is never wrong …’
He felt the hurt from his aching wounds again, made fresh by his mother’s words. Suwayr’s tearstricken image entered into his mind. The image of Suwayr mingled with his mother’s image, and he suddenly needed to vomit. He ran towards the bathroom and spewed up the contents of his stomach, then filled himself with water, washed his face and went back with a face resembling a freshly squeezed lemon. When he returned, his mother was drying her tears, the faintest of smiles on her mouth. Some trace of the sparkle of earlier days radiated from her eyes as she said, almost enthusiastically:
‘Your father told me that he will be sending you to Beirut … that is the best thing. You will study there and stay there until God grants relief … But watch out for the women of Beirut,’ she went on, smiling. ‘There is no modesty there, and you are a handsome young man now. Take care! There is no God but Allah!’
His mother gave a short laugh as she said this, and he laughed with her, though images of Raqiyya, Suwayr and others floated through his mind. ‘Better to have warned me about the women of Riyadh,’ he said to himself. For a second he entertained the crazed notion of confessing to his mother what he had done in Riyadh and seeing her reaction, but it soon evaporated. He felt bad even thinking of it – he had caused his parents enough pain. His mother was still warning him about the temptresses of Beirut, when his father appeared.
‘Hisham,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you. Follow me to the sitting room.’
Hisham got up, followed by his mother, who embraced him again and kissed him on his neck. He could feel the warmth of her breath and tears. Then she went into the interior of the house, while he went into the sitting room.
His father and Abu Salih were sitting opposite each other, with a coffee pot between them. Their heads were close together and they spoke in whispers. He kissed his father’s brow and sat down opposite him. His father looked at him sternly, though still affectionately.
‘Today I’ve managed to get you a passport,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t have been so easy if I didn’t have influential friends in the passport office.’
He sipped the last drop of coffee in his cup, then stretched out his hand with the cup to Abu Salih, shaking it and saying, ‘They told me that your name was on the blacklist and that it was impossible to give you a passport. Then I had a brilliant idea …’
He went on with all the enthusiasm of a man who has undertaken a successful adventure.
‘I asked them to issue the passport with just your name and your father and grandfather’s name, and without your family name. Hisham Ibrahim Muhammad. After some hesitation, they agreed. God bless them, they are exposing themselves to repercussions, and I’m extremely sorry for that, but what can one do? There’s always something lurking behind to destroy one,’ he said, looking at Abu Salih.
‘Hisham is an excellent young man, but a bit of a hothead!’ said Abu Salih.
‘Oh, well! … now the axe has come down on his head, and that’s the end of it!’ said Abu Hisham, sighing deeply.
Salih came in carrying a tea tray, which he put down in front of his father. Then he sat down, but Abu Salih rebuked him, ordering him out of the room. Salih left angrily, looking at Hisham.
‘I’ve reserved a seat for you to Bahrain tomorrow afternoon,’ said Abu Hisham. ‘You will stay the night there, then leave for Beirut the following morning. Tomorrow morning I will try and send a telegram to Abu Muhammad in Beirut to meet you and help you sort out your arrangements.’ He turned to Abu Salih. ‘You know him, I think – a pharmaceutical salesman. He lived here some years ago, but it seems that he likes Lebanon. He married a Lebanese girl and lives there most of the time. He only comes at holiday times, despite the fact that his first wife and their children live in Riyadh … he’s besotted, that’s for sure,’ Abu Hisham laughed. Abu Salih laughed too.
‘Yes, indeed … could anyone see Lebanon, and the women of Lebanon, and not be enchanted? Or do you prefer the humidity of Sharqiyya and the drought of Nejd?’
The two continued to laugh, then Abu Salih said:
‘God bless Abu Muhammad… Yes, indeed. I still remember well the flavour of evenings spent with him!’ Abu Salih again laughed merrily, puffing smoke from his cigarette in every direction, while Hisham’s father bit his lower lip and glanced at Abu Salih, unaware that Hisham saw this. Then silence fell, and everyone slowly drank their tea. Abu Hisham finished the last drop, then got up.
‘God reward you, Abu Salih,’ he said. ‘Thank you! We have imposed on you more than we should have done.’
‘Remember God, my friends! Hisham is my son and you are my brother. If we are not afraid now, when will we be afraid?’ answered Abu Salih. Then he got up and walked off with Abu Hisham. Hisham followed them. His father shouted, ‘Umm Hisham … we are going!’ In a few moments, his mother appeared, still putting on her gown and veil.
‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘I’m coming. Good evening to you, Abu Salih … we won’t forget this favour!’
‘Good evening, Umm Hisham. And God grant you happiness and joy. There are no favours in a family. I just hope that God will make it turn out for the best.’ Then Umm Hisham embraced her son, giving him a final piece of advice about keeping away from women and anything that would displease God, and telling him to write as soon as he reached Beirut. Then the person he loved best in the world disappeared behind a door and Hisham went back to Salih’s room, where he smoked cigarette after cigarette, his chest tighter than a tin of sardines.
48
The airport was quiet that afternoon, as it usually was, when their white Opel stopped in front of the terminal door. Hisham got out of the car. He wore black trousers and a white shirt, shiny black shoes and white socks, all brought to him by his father early that morning with his passport and tickets. Abu Hisham had given him the enormous sum of one thousand riyals to draw on during his temporary residence in Lebanon. His mother had not come, forbidden by his father, who was frightened of attracting the attention of the people watching the house, who might suspect something if they saw both Hisham’s parents leaving unusually early. She had reluctantly accepted, after instructing Abu Hisham to kiss her son on both eyes. It was easy for Abu Hisham to come – he left for work every morning – and it was easy for him to go wherever he wanted from there.
Abu Salih parked the car some ways away, then returned to Hisham,
who had stayed by the door nervously looking in every direction. It was extremely humid. The humidity accumulated as moisture on his lenses and he was forced to take his glasses off to wipe them from time to time. Abu Salih marched past quickly, his eyes darting about in every direction, although his head stayed completely still. He picked up Hisham’s black bag and hurried inside, taking a careful look round the whole hall, while Hisham walked behind him, hesitant and nervous, carrying a small school bag which held his passport and money. Despite Abu Salih’s advice, he was unable to stop turning around nervously. The terminal was quiet and almost deserted. A few voices echoed around the enormous hall, and some workmen had found the air-conditioned hall a good place for a comfortable snooze. Abu Salih told Hisham to sit in a corner while he went to the airline counter with the passport and ticket in his hand.
Hisham took off his glasses and wiped them again. Once more memories flashed through his mind. He had often come as a spectator to the airport with his friends, or the many relatives and acquaintances who came to them from Riyadh and Qusaim as guests. It was the grandest airport in the country, with its original design and its door that revolved automatically as soon as you put your foot in front of it. This door, in fact, used to arouse the admiration and surprise of everyone, for it was the first time they had seen a door open by itself, so they would come and go through it repeatedly, laughing. On the terrace outside, they had a direct view of the planes leaving and arriving. They would cover their ears and laugh each time a plane took off or landed, then examine the new arrivals, searching out the women with rosy cheeks, crimson lips, and pure white complexions, coming from a beautiful world, some of which they could see on the television screen …
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