by Ibrahim Essa
“This way, Mawlana.”
“Thank God you’re safe,” he added in a mutter, strangely.
Sirhan might have used that expression if Hatem had returned from a journey, if he recovered from an illness, or if he had been released from prison, but it wasn’t clear what Sirhan imagined in this case.
They hadn’t touched him and they hadn’t beaten him. They hadn’t attacked him or tortured him, so why did he feel it would have better if they had done so? The humiliating isolation he had experienced through the night hours had given him a taste of a degradation that was worse than being tortured, because being tortured means you’re an enemy and important, a rival that has to be broken by this bestial cruelty. But being ignored and isolated in a room, as if that was enough to make him learn his lesson to behave properly and be compliant, sent him a message that he didn’t want to hear: that he was already their man and there was no need to resort to crueler methods, or that he was so weak and cowardly that just a few hours in a room without windows would break him.
When he sank into the back seat of the car, a question hit him with full force: was it Sirhan who had stolen the things that Mukhtar el-Husseini had left with him, and given them to State Security? He had left them in his office at home, either in the cupboard or in a drawer or on top of his desk, all places within easy reach for Sirhan, but maybe it was the guard or the cleaning women who came and whose names he didn’t know because Omayma changed them so often. Or was it Hassan himself? The kid was rebellious and stubborn. Or had the State Security people broken in, without anyone in the house noticing and even though the house was never left unattended? But who’s to say that people like them would be seen when they broke in?
When he reached home, he just wanted to recover from the long ordeal. But Hassan and Omayma rushed toward him anxiously. Hassan almost carried him in his arms to a seat, while Omayma looked on sympathetically and tenderly in a way he hadn’t seen almost since they got married. So they must know what had happened and was happening, and who was behind it.
Hassan didn’t leave any space in his mind for doubt. On the contrary he swept all doubts aside. His face looked older and more mature in his anger and the indignation that he made no attempt to conceal.
“I told you they were bastards,” he said.
Leaving aside the fact that Hassan hadn’t in fact ever told him they were bastards, and although he wasn’t sure if Hassan meant the State Security people, Hatem agreed with him by staying silent.
Omayma hurried to the kitchen meanwhile and came back with a glass of hot milk and a bottle of water and asked the maid to run a hot bath for Hatem.
“Umm Omar,” said Hassan.
Hatem smiled at the name he used for Omayma. The sound of Omar’s name eased his pain.
“Umm Omar heard from Sirhan that you were at State Security and that they told Sirhan to go away and they said they would give you a lift back. She didn’t understand what was happening, but I did. Luckily for me, and for you, I woke up after that shit you gave me. After I took that pill and slept I woke up feeling dizzy and with a headache but relaxed, so I decided to have two more pills and I slept so much I lost track of time, and that was kind of amazing. But when I went downstairs during the night to have a drink from the fridge I heard Umm Omar talking to Sirhan on the phone, and I gathered that you were with them, and I realized at once that they had evil intentions. Imagine, the bastards were going to drag you into the Mukhtar el-Husseini case. They were going to frame you as the intermediary between him and Iran and accuse you of collecting money for the secret organization.”
Hatem didn’t believe him. That was perfectly clear from the indifference on his face, and this provoked Hassan.
“You don’t believe me,” he said. “For your information I called my father and he answered me because I hadn’t spoken to him on the phone for three years. He answered quickly and he was stunned, because I let rip at him and told him that if he or his son-in-law did anything dirty to Sheikh Hatem in their usual way then by the living Christ I’d go on television and YouTube and expose them and say I’ve converted to Christianity and I’d drag his son-in-law’s reputation through the mud throughout the world.”
Hassan was speaking without inhibitions, proud of himself and strong for the first time. He had abandoned his defeatism and his depressed appearance.
“The man didn’t believe what he was hearing, so I said even more and told him Hatem was in State Security as we were talking and if they touched a hair on his head I would reveal everything. I was saying, ‘You’re trying to get rid of him so that he doesn’t talk about me, or you’ll frame him on some charge so you can break him, because he knows your secret and all about your son who’s secretly abandoned your religion. Do you in fact have any religion, you brutes?’ He started answering back and he was so angry he didn’t know what he was saying. ‘Come to your senses, Hassan!’ he said. ‘Enough of this nonsense. I’ll have you thrown in the madhouse, you worm. I’ll ask about that sheikh of yours, and who told you anyway what they’re going to do with him? Now mind your manners and shut up. Give me a quarter of an hour and come back to me and I’ll give you an answer when you’ve calmed down.’”
Omayma was nodding in agreement at his story and confirming it, because she had heard him herself. She interrupted Hassan’s story with a smile.
“Sheikh Hatem,” she said, “you know that Incredible Hulk film when he gets annoyed or has an argument and his shape changes and he inflates and gets very tall and his clothes tear and he turns green? That’s exactly how Hassan was when he was speaking to his father. I was making signs at him to calm down, because I didn’t understand how he had been transformed into this creature. But I can tell you, he was very happy as he was doing it.”
Hassan roared with laughter, showing a childishness that Hassan the adolescent had been trying to hide. Hatem and Omayma joined in the laughing.
“I couldn’t wait a quarter of an hour,” Hassan continued. “So I spoke to Abul-Makarem el-Sebai.”
Hatem looked at him quizzically. He had finished his glass of milk and the maid had taken his shoes and socks away and put a cushion under his feet to raise them for comfort.
“Who’s this Abul-Makarem el-Sebai?” he asked.
Hassan smiled as he stood up. He went up to Hatem, gently took off his turban, and handed it to the maid. Hatem and Omayma were surprised, especially when Hassan helped Hatem take off his gown, folded it, and put it next to him.
“Sheikh Hatem, on that day when we went to Father Mikhail’s church, you were speaking as if you were the chief detective of the universe and yet you didn’t know the man who came to see you at dawn today in the State Security headquarters. Of course they treated him as if he was senior to them and more important than all their leaders because he’s a director in presidential security and he’s the person in charge of my brother-in-law’s security and something close to his private secretary. That’s Abul-Makarem el-Sebai. Of course I know him from home and socially and I know he works with my brother-in-law in Zamalek, but to get to the point, he’s more important than any minister in Egypt. Even the interior minister doesn’t mess with him and the president’s men grovel at his feet and do what he says in case he turns the president’s son against them and they end up in deep shit. ”
So that was the man Hatem had met in the security headquarters and then in State Security. The man had behaved as if he ran the whole country by remote control.
“Abul-Makarem answered my call and I laid into him. He puts up with me, reluctantly of course because no one’s allowed to shout at him, but even if I converted to Christianity or went mad or lost my mind, he’s ready to take my shit so that the president’s son doesn’t get angry with him. I gave him hell and told him State Security was definitely trying to frame you and I wouldn’t keep quiet and I made up a couple of things, such as my brother-in-law definitely didn’t know about this nonsense. He said ‘You mean he’s innocent?’ I decided to tell a white
lie. I didn’t see why not if it would make him act. So I said the president’s son would never forgive them and I’d spoken to Father and he’d promised me he’d stop this nonsense.”
“Strangely he too asked me to wait a quarter of an hour and before he called back I found Father on the line and I ignored him because Abul-Makarem is more important. He said, ‘I’m going in person to get him out, sir, so don’t you worry about it, and tell his wife she’ll have breakfast with him tomorrow morning.’ After that I called Father and found my sister Farida answering the phone and she told me Father was angry with me and didn’t want to speak to me, but he assured me that Sheikh Hatem was now drinking coffee with them and would be coming out right away, but Farida’s nice and she knew of course from Father what they were planning to do. The bastards were just about to put you in detention and torture you, and they’d recorded a confession from Sheikh Mukhtar that you were in with him. Of course, God damn it, they tortured him and he said what they wanted, but with one call from Abul-Makarem they fell into line. And probably my brother-in-law knows all the details and agreed because they wouldn’t torture a mouse, let alone a man, without asking him for permission, but when I threatened to make a scandal they backed off, though I’m worried about their next step, because we’re never safe from those evil bastards.”
This deluge of information overwhelmed Hatem, and Omayma realized he was confused. She knew her husband wasn’t strong. She went over to him and whispered, “Go and have a bath so you can sleep and have a rest.” He nodded submissively, but when he tried to stand up the effort was too much and Hassan hurried over to help him.
“But Hassan,” he asked, “what made you feel I’d be in danger in the meeting with State Security?”
“Because you hadn’t seen what they did to Sheikh Mukhtar el-Husseini on the satellite channels. They ripped him to pieces. They slaughtered him, and some of them seemed to have such strict orders that they flayed him alive. I knew he had visited you here and was dear to you.”
“How did you know that?” Hatem asked, intrigued.
“What do you mean, Sheikh Hatem? I’ve been living in your house. And, by the way, I want you to explain to me about the Shi’a and how they differ from the Sunnis and on what exactly.”
Hatem laughed. “Are you planning to give up converting to Christianity and turn Shi’ite instead?” he asked.
“Well? Would it be better or worse?”
“Ask your brother-in-law.”
They had reached the bathroom and Hassan insisted on coming in with him. He asked Omayma to go out, then helped Hatem take off his clothes. Hatem lowered himself into the bath and, oddly, as he was laughing at Hassan’s comment he found red blotches on his chest and arms and the lower part of his stomach like an allergic rash or insect bites. He was puzzled but his body relaxed as it slipped into the soapy water. Hassan sat opposite him on the toilet seat.
“You promised me that when I’d swallowed the sleeping pills and woken up again you’d give me advice on what I should do about my conversion,” Hassan said.
Hatem looked at the signs of the cross cut on the inside of Hassan’s wrists.
“Look, Hassan, you don’t know enough to abandon Islam for Christianity or even to revert to Islam from Christianity, because you don’t know anything about Islam, as I’ve told you a hundred times, and you don’t understand anything about Christianity. Your problem was solved last night when you saved my reputation and my health and my life by getting your father and your brother-in-law to intervene. You hate your family and you’re angry with them. You have a low opinion of what your father does and it’s clear you know all the family’s dirty secrets in politics and business. So you’re rebelling against them and this conversion business was a good opportunity for you to punish them and give them a fright, so you decided to abandon your religion. But as soon as you give up your family and depend on yourself and people know and treat you as Hassan and not as the son of this man or the brother-in-law of that man, you won’t feel the need to convert to Christianity or Shi’ism or shamanism or whatever. Look for something you love to do and fulfill yourself that way. Find a girl you love and marry her. Travel, study abroad, even go to the Vatican and study Christianity, and if you understand anything come and see me, or do proper Islamic studies at a university in London. The main thing is to throw away your identity card that carries the mark of your relationship with this family that you hate, and all the problems will be solved.”
Hassan bowed his head and stayed silent for a while. Then, drained of all enthusiasm, he said, “It’s hard to think after all this that I’ve converted to Christianity just to annoy my family. No, Sheikh Hatem, I believe that the light of the Virgin Mary has come to me and that Jesus loves me.”
Hatem restrained himself. He didn’t want to make fun of Hassan’s confusion.
“So what? Muslims believe in the light of the Virgin as well as Christians, and as for Christ loving you, that’s something we all look forward to, because Christ spoke in God’s name and is the Prophet of God and we believe in him as Muslims, and we think he’s living too. To be loved by him there’s no requirement that you be Christian. So are you just being stubborn? As I told you, you’re an idiot when it comes to religion and you don’t know anything. The truth is, you’re a disgrace to Islam and a disgrace to Christianity.”
Hassan stood up in anger, or was possibly just pretending to be angry.
“After all I’ve done for you, is this what it comes to, Mawlana?”
He headed toward the bathroom door to leave but Hatem called him back. As he moved in the bath, the water spilled onto the floor with a splash.
“Come back, boy,” said Hatem. “Or else I’ll stand up naked and we’ll have a public morals and homosexuality scandal on our hands, and converting to Christianity or Shi’ism would be a million times less serious.”
Hassan came back laughing.
“Of course you know they won’t give up at this round,” he said. “And anyway you’re damaged goods, compromised, and they won’t forget that you know more than you should.”
“So how do we get out of this mess?” asked Hatem sadly, sunk in gloom.
“You’re asking me, Sheikh Hatem, when I’m a disgrace to Islam and a disgrace to Christianity! You answer that one please, you great scholar of Islam and philosopher of Christianity.”
Hatem threw soapy water in his face and wet his clothes.
“Right then, you ignoramus, pass me the robe.”
Hatem had to go to see Mukhtar el-Husseini’s mother. She looked tired and frail in her large white dress, sitting like a woman in her seventies on whom the world has thrown a sudden burden, leaving her broken and sad in a spacious, empty house that once bustled with people who came to see Mukhtar. She was harsh with people and fearful. Perhaps her fear explained her harshness, because people had abandoned the house, and its master and mistress, as soon as the smear campaign began against everyone and everything to do with them. They had turned their backs on Mukhtar’s house and denounced it. Then people came shouting insults and abuse from under the windows and through the keyholes. People who hated Mukhtar el-Husseini or were envious of him started banging on the doors in the middle of the night, cursing and calling him names. For three days in succession after dawn prayers, people gathered in the Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiya Mosque on the edges of the town, marched to Husseini’s house, and made speeches in the courtyard and at the door. They woke people up and caused unrest, describing Husseini as a Shi’ite heretic and an infidel. They accused Shi’a of heinous crimes, and slandered the people in the house and those who came to visit them, and those who liked the Husseinis, those who sought their blessings, and those who believed in them. Mukhtar’s mother had put up with this day after day; she had decided to stay, unlike Mukhtar’s wife and the rest of the household, who had left for Cairo because they were frightened by what had happened and by what might yet happen. The mother, exhausted and offended, had tried one day to go out onto
the first-floor balcony and speak back at them.
“We’re not Shi’a and we have nothing to do with the Shi’a. We’re the descendants of the family of your Prophet,” she said in a hoarse voice.
But they just threw stones at her.
The stone-throwers shouted insults denying she was related to the Prophet’s family and offended her with accusations of heresy. The woman screamed and stumbled and fell as she was closing the balcony door. Someone was about to run and help her but people told him to stop and he was pulled back, then there was silence for some minutes and some concern that the woman might have died.
As the people walked off, one of them shouted, “You have a week to get out of town, mother of the heretic!”
So she was a broken woman when she received Hatem. It was like a breath of fresh air when she saw him and felt there was a glimmer of hope in the darkness. Hatem tried to reassure her.
“A week at the most and Sheikh Mukhtar will be out, and back in your arms,” he said.
“And back in people’s arms, Hatem my son,” she said tearfully.
“Never mind about the people,” he replied. “What matters is that he’s back in your arms. The good Lord knows all about it.”