‘Are you Hisham Ibrahim Muhammad al-Abir?’ Hisham’s sarcasm got the better of him.
‘What’s wrong with your eyes? … Unless there are other people here I can’t see – or perhaps a djinn?!’ The guard glared at him angrily.
‘Are you taunting me, prisoner?’ he scolded. ‘Are you making fun of the government, prisoner? Come on, the sergeant wants you.’ He opened the door and dragged Hisham out by the wrist. Hisham’s heart stopped beating completely; then it pounded violently – then it stopped again. He was hardly conscious of his surroundings. The dreadful hour had arrived. He forgot his bones and joints, aware of nothing but these dreadful contractions tearing him apart from within.
The guard led him into a neighbouring building very like the first, but cleaner. They stood in front of an enormous officer wearing four stripes, who reminded him of Sergeant Atiyya in Ismail Yasin’s films* – he was the spitting image. The guard went out – once Sergeant Atiyya had given him permission – leaving Hisham standing there while the officer perused some papers in front of him, sipping milky tea and smoking without uttering a word. He didn’t know how long he stayed standing there – in those moments of eternity, time ceased to exist. Meanwhile, the officer drank his tea and smoked.
Then, lighting another cigarette, he looked up at Hisham and asked:
‘Are you Hisham al-Abir?’ The urge to be sarcastic surged in him again, but his fear stopped him from saying anything.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, may your life be long!’ Sergeant Atiyya’s features relaxed at Hisham’s use of this phrase, which is usually only said to important people or to the very old. He puffed vigorously at his cigarette.
‘It seems you’re a good lad,’ he said at length. ‘What’s brought you here?’ Hisham was confused and hesitated.
‘God must know,’ he stammered. ‘Because I don’t.’ The officer laughed, displaying his brown, gap-filled teeth.
‘You mean,’ he said. ‘they’re doing you an injustice?’ He picked up his cap from the desk and got up. ‘Either way. The cane always reveals everything. It will loosen your tongue!’
Sergeant Atiyya led him down a long corridor with several rooms on either side. It ended in what appeared to be the largest of these, with a bigger door than the rest. The sergeant knocked, then entered, pushing Hisham in front of him, and stamping his foot quietly on the floor. It was an extremely spacious room, painted a fresh-smelling white gloss. A large red Isfahani carpet with blue and yellow decorations covered most of the floor. The middle of the room was taken up by an enormous desk, obviously made of expensive wood, behind which sat a trim gentleman dressed entirely in white civilian clothes. Hisham caught a powerful smell of perfume that reminded him of the perfume of the man behind the desk in the airport … yesterday … God! Yesterday seemed a long way off, almost centuries ago. Flanking this desk were two huge shiny black leather sofas arranged around a large glass table. It held a giant crystal ashtray. Beside the desk was the largest radio Hisham had ever seen in his life – completely covered in knobs and dials. The table was covered with carefully arranged papers and files and displayed a small black plaque, on which was engraved in golden letters: ‘Colonel Masrour al-Sayyaf.’
The colonel was reading a file when they entered. He carried on for some time, before raising his head.
‘The prisoner who was summoned, sir!’ said the sergeant. The colonel nodded, and Sergeant Attiya stamped his foot on the ground again and went out. Smiling broadly the colonel looked at Hisham, inviting him to sit down on the sofa to his right. He studied him for some time before saying:
‘Brother Hisham al-Abir, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir, yes,’ said Hisham, using the same form of address that Sergeant Atiyya had used. Everyone was checking his identity here; it was as if he was no longer himself. He’d even started checking himself that he was who he said he was. The man’s smile grew wider still, and he relaxed on his leather revolving chair, took a cigarette from the packet of Kents thrown on the desk, and offered the packet to Hisham.
‘Cigarette?’ he asked, ‘Or don’t you smoke?’
Hisham took a cigarette and the man lit them both with a stylish gold lighter, then leaned back in his comfortable chair.
‘Aren’t you too young to be smoking, brother Hisham?’ he asked. ‘How old are you?’
‘About nineteen, sir.’ The man made gestured with his hand in the air, and twisted his mouth a little, saying:
‘My word … you are very young. Even though your thick moustache would suggest the opposite.’ He laughed, while Hisham secretly cursed moustaches and those who grew them. Then the man said in an apologetic tone:
‘I’ve forgotten the duty of hospitality … Would you like to drink coffee, tea, a cold drink, or something else?’ Arak immediately suggested itself to Hisham, but he replied:
‘Tea, please.’
‘With milk, or black?’
‘Black, please.’
‘With sugar, or not?’
‘With sugar, please.’
‘A lot, or just a little?’
‘Just a little, please.’
Finally the hot tea came. He sipped it pleasurably and smoked another of the colonel’s cigarettes. He was utterly bewildered. Was this the investigation that had terrified him for so long? Tea, cigarettes, and a kindly face … Where was the torture they talked about, where was the cane that Sergeant Atiyya threatened him with? How people exaggerate! He finished the tea and the cigarette. His spirits revived, and he was feeling quite relaxed when the colonel suddenly asked him, still smiling:
‘Why were you trying to escape, brother Hisham?’
Instantly his nerve failed him again, and he lost all trace of calm, stammering:
‘No, no … I wasn’t trying to escape, sir, I was travelling to Bahrain. Then again, why should I escape? Escape from what?’ The colonel laughed.
‘Then to Beirut, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Be truthful with us,’ he added, wagging his finger in the air. ‘The truth is always the best solution.’ Hisham started to shake.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘I was travelling to Beirut. I want to study there.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said his white-suited interrogator, ‘But why didn’t you travel before now? You passed your school-leaving exams almost a year ago, and your university reports show you are doing well, so why travel now?’
‘I’ve always wanted to study abroad, but my mother wouldn’t agree. Now she’s agreed, after we insisted. That’s all there is to it, sir.’
‘Really? A fine thing. And which university will you be studying in? The American University, the Arab University, the Lebanese University, the Jesuit University, or somewhere else?’
‘I don’t know. Whichever one will accept me.’
‘Strange! Are you going to enrol in a university without having got an acceptance, and without any papers or documents?’
Hisham started to tremble again. He hadn’t taken his file to the airport. They’d all been so agitated that they’d forgotten all about it and the things needed for registering at a university in Beirut.
‘Actually …’ he tried in desperation. ‘Actually, I sent the documents by post some time ago, because things had to be done in a hurry, as you know, sir …’ The colonel laughed again.
‘Sent the documents to whom? Didn’t you say that you didn’t know which university you were going to enrol at? So who did you send the documents to?’
By now Hisham was drenched in sweat and shaking uncontrollably. The tips of his fingers were cold.
‘I didn’t send them to a university, I sent them to a friend of my father’s in Lebanon so that he could look for a suitable university.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Who?’
‘Your father’s friend.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You sent something to somebody and you don’t know his name?’
‘Actually, it was my father who sent the documents.�
�
‘You mean, your father knows …’
‘Knows what?’
‘Knows that you are trying to flee.’ Hisham got up.
‘No, no. Father doesn’t know. I mean, Father has agreed that I should travel,’ he continued, sitting down again, ‘because I insisted, and because I want to study abroad.’
‘And does your father know about you joining secret organisations?’
‘No. I mean, I haven’t joined any secret organisations for him to know about or not know about.’
‘Then why did he have a passport issued for you with an incomplete name?’
‘It’s me that had the passport issued.’ The colonel laughed again.
‘How did you get it issued when you were in Riyadh, or supposed to be in Riyadh, when it was issued by the passport office in Dammam?’
The colonel leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk.
‘Didn’t I tell you that the truth is the best policy? You don’t need to lie. The passport has “Granted at the request of his father” written on it.’ Now Hisham was seized with fear for his father. But the colonel showed no mercy. ‘And since your father had the passport issued with an incomplete name, he must know something that he wants to hide. Isn’t that so? You’re an intelligent university student. You must understand logic!’
Hisham was no longer bothered about himself, he just wanted to get his father out of the mess he had landed him in. His brain began to work furiously.
‘Logically, you are right, sir,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘But you know the chaotic state of the passport office. Sometimes they write your family name, sometimes the name of your tribe or sub-tribe, and sometimes none of those things. You can get two passports issued with two different names. There’s nothing for my father to hide …’
The colonel grinned and settled back in his seat.
‘An intelligent young man,’ he said, pointing at Hisham. ‘An intelligent young man, but very devious.’ Then there was a knock on the door and a soldier came in, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and two glasses of water. He put one of them in front of the colonel and the other in front of Hisham, then left after stamping his foot again. The colonel offered Hisham a cigarette.
‘Does your father know that you smoke, Hisham?’ he asked, lighting it.
‘I believe so, sir. You can’t hide a smoker’s smell from anyone. But I don’t smoke in front of him. Anyway, I’ve only smoked for a short time, about three months.’
‘Do you drink, Hisham?’ Hisham hesitated before replying.
‘Sometimes, sir … On special occasions.’ The colonel shook his head and slurped his cup of coffee noisily, then blew smoke at the ceiling. Only the noise of the air-conditioning disturbed the silence. Then suddenly the colonel spoke again:
‘Hisham. Who brought you to the airport? Don’t say your father. He wasn’t with you.’ Drops of coffee spilled onto his shirt. He put the cup down on the table with an unsteady hand.
‘No one,’ he managed to say. ‘Believe me, sir, no one did. I came by taxi.’
‘OK, where were you last week? You weren’t at home and you weren’t in college. Where were you?’ Hisham sank into his seat. He could think of nothing to say. Sweat poured from him as he gazed dumbly at his questioner. The colonel put an end to his dilemma.
‘Listen, my lad,’ he said. ‘We know who brought you to the airport, and how. A white Opel … I think that’s enough to let you know that we know.’ He paused briefly and clasped his hands together, resting his elbows on the desk. A fresh anxiety now gripped Hisham. He feared for Abu Salih. Still leaning on the desk, the colonel went on:
‘We know that your father was trying to get you out of the country, and I know what is going on in your mind. Don’t be afraid for your father or Abdallah al-Zafarani. Nothing will happen to them. What they did is perfectly natural. We wouldn’t expect a father to hand over his son under any circumstances, or a friend not to offer a friend a bolthole. That’s how people always behave, we understand that perfectly well. We’re from this country as well. Or did you think otherwise?’ He lit another cigarette.
‘We’re not trying to put people in prison for no reason, my lad,’ he went on. ‘We’re not putting people in prison for the sake of it. We want to get inside the secret organisations, that’s all … we want information and certain people.’ Hisham’s fears subsided a little.
‘But sir,’ he said, ‘I don’t have any connection with any secret organisation.’ The colonel laughed.
‘Really! And what about those books on Marxism and nationalism and Baathism that we found in your house this morning?’ They had searched the house. God help you, Umm Hisham!
‘I like to read everything,’ said Hisham. ‘Reading everything doesn’t mean believing in it …’
‘That’s true,’ said the colonel, offering Hisham another cigarette. ‘But finding leaflets means a lot.’
‘What?’
Hisham was caught off-guard by the officer’s words. He hadn’t expected there to be any leaflets in the house – he had gradually been getting rid of them. The colonel laughed again, and shook his head.
‘Yes, leaflets,’ he said. ‘We found one in one of the books in your library.’
Adnan was right when he accused me of being careless in those days, Hisham said to himself, struggling to find a way out of this latest corner. ‘A leaflet doesn’t mean someone belongs to a secret organisation,’ he said aloud. The colonel looked at Hisham for a long time, then said quietly:
‘You’re an intelligent young man, but unfortunately you are barking up the wrong tree … Anyway,’ he continued, trying to find some dregs of coffee in his cup. ‘We’re just chatting here. The investigation will be in Jeddah. Everything will become clear there. By the way, your father is here. He came with us this morning.’ The colonel pressed a button beside him on the desk and Sergeant Atiyya appeared again. He asked him to bring in Abu Hisham.
Hisham’s father came in hesitantly, but with his usual dignity. Hisham kissed him on the brow, feeling that he wanted to burst into tears and run away. He felt his throat choking him, and his stomach contract. His father sat on the sofa opposite Hisham and handed him a small leather bag.
‘These are some clothes that your mother put out for you,’ he said. Hisham took them and placed them beside him. The image of his mother filled his mind. He could almost smell her in front of him.
‘Don’t worry, Sayyid Ibrahim,’ the officer said. ‘Hisham will be perfectly okay. All his needs will be supplied. We want some information. It won’t take long, and then Hisham will be back at home again.’ His father smiled as he thanked the colonel, praised the government, and prayed for a long life for the ruler. Then he looked at Hisham.
‘Your mother sends her greetings,’ he said, ‘and says to you, be honest, as you always have been. An honest man has nothing to fear.’ Then he looked at the colonel, who was smiling, his fingers pressed against each other, relaxed on his chair. Abu Hisham looked back at his son. ‘Don’t worry, and don’t be afraid, son. Everything will be all right, God willing!’
He knew that his father did not mean what he said, for he was several times more anxious and afraid than Hisham was, but he was trying to encourage him, even now that the game was up. Then his father put his hand in his pocket and took out a bundle of ten-riyal notes, which he pushed towards Hisham.
‘They gave me your hand baggage today … I know that the government never fails in its duty … take this, in case you need it!’
‘Sayyid Abu Hisham,’ interrupted the colonel. ‘There is no need for that. He will be looked after and provided for. Don’t worry!’
‘You are right, colonel. God strengthen the state! But a little extra never does any harm!’ Abu Hishamtried to smile. The colonel shook his head.
‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘Though he doesn’t need money, believe me, Sayyid Ibrahim!’ Then he pressed the button beside him on the desk again and Sergeant Atiyya returned, as
usual stamping the ground with his foot. ‘Take Sayyid Ibrahim outside,’ ordered the colonel. Abu Hisham got up, embraced Hisham and they kissed. Then he disappeared behind the door, Hisham feeling that his heart had been torn from his body. It was the first time in his life he had seen tears in his father’s eyes.
He remained standing, looking at the door for he didn’t know how long, barely conscious of anything around him. His parents occupied all his thoughts. Then the sound of the sergeant’s footsteps brought him back to reality and to the colonel, who was ordering him back to his room.
‘Don’t make yourself anxious, Hisham,’ he said. ‘As I told you, telling the truth is the safest course of action. One way or another you’ll own up to everything … so don’t worry, my lad.’ Then he returned to the file he had been reading before Hisham’s arrival.
________________
* Ismail Yasin was an Egyptian comic actor who starred in a series of films playing on his own persona, beginning with Ismail Yasin in the Army (1955).
52
Two skullcaps, plastic sandals, underwear, a bar of soap, toothpaste and a toothbrush. When Hisham got back to his room, he went straight to the bathroom, washed and put on clean clothes. He felt a little calmer afterwards. Then he gave the guard five riyals and asked him to buy two packets of cigarettes and a glass of hot tea, and to keep the change. This time, the guard did not hesitate. He called one of the soldiers downstairs, and it was only a few minutes before he was enjoying a glass of warm tea and a cigarette, while the sun was once again sinking into the waters of the Gulf.
It was nearly eleven o’clock at night when he heard a noise at the door of the room. Then it opened. He had been standing at the window, gazing at the distant lights of Bahrain, all sorts of thoughts and ideas clashing in his head as he strained his ears in the hope of hearing that sad voice singing again. But every voice had disappeared, and there was only a total silence, as calm settled over the surface of the Gulf.
Shumaisi Page 20