He remembered a boy named Musa who’d been his classmate in eighth grade. He remembered how he’d avoided him the entire school year. He’d avoided all contact with him, even looking him in the eye. Musa’s eyes were always red, and that was what had frightened him. Fags’ eyes are red. For a long time he’d seen Musa hovering around certain boys, and it terrified him, since he himself was no fag.
Besides, he had that pungent, obnoxious smell like everybody else of his race. It was most noticeable when he sweated, as though his body gave it off especially at those times. But Musa had gone away, and after that school year he’d never seen him again. Two years later he’d heard that he was in prison. He hadn’t been surprised. A lot of them seemed to end up there. The ones that weren’t good at playing ball or singing were good at committing crimes.
Maybe the animal had escaped playing ball, singing and living a life of crime and was good at something else. But that didn’t make him any different from the rest of them. And it would never mean that he had the right to breach his limits and aspire to things he wasn’t entitled to. Wasn’t he satisfied with what he’d achieved so far?
God damn him, and God damn her! After all, she was the one who’d started the whole thing. But everything would go back to normal. Everything. At least that was what he could think about now. How? He didn’t know. However, he’d be sure to make things go back to the way they had been in the beginning, and to do what he hadn’t had a chance to do before. If he couldn’t, he’d invent a new beginning to his relationship with his sister. This way, things wouldn’t get out of his control, and he wouldn’t find himself in another mess he didn’t know how to get out of.
Quba’ al-Tali’ Street
Would it be possible for me to make a new start?
The question shot through his mind like a bullet. He breathed deeply, and his nostrils were filled with a mysterious fragrance. He’d often wondered, almost hopelessly, whether he had anything to look forward to. He wasn’t bitter about his life. In the end, though, it wasn’t a life he could depend on: without a degree, without a job. He often claimed it didn’t matter to him. But deep down, it did matter to him. When he compared his life to his sister’s, he felt himself being stabbed by something small and hot. Her life was certainly not to his liking. But it had meaning – or so it seemed to him – since she had something to do, something to look forward to, something to dream of. It didn’t seem to him that she enjoyed her life away from her books and her work. However, she didn’t seem dissatisfied. Sometimes he suspected that she was never bored. When he saw her engrossed in her papers or books, writing or reading, or sitting at her computer screen reviewing something she’d written, he envied her, since he realized that she did what she did out of pure enjoyment. There was nothing in his life that he enjoyed that much. He didn’t even enjoy girls that much. Once he’d emptied his semen into one of them, he would withdraw without even a thought of coming back to her again. It was like a burden he was happy to be rid of, and beyond that, nothing mattered to him anymore. For a long time he’d thought he must be abnormal to feel this way – not to enjoy what he went running after with such gusto. But when he asked some of his friends about it, he discovered that they were just like him. Unlike him, however, they weren’t worrying about it. ‘You get the hots for her, you try her out, and that’s that!’ That’s what they told him. And that’s what he kept trying to convince himself of. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t really that way, and that it shouldn’t be that way. He knew that if there was something wrong, the fault lay not in things, but in the way he did things.
One evening his sister had said to him, ‘Show some fear of God in the way you treat people’s daughters, Hashem.’
But if God had given him this body and planted in it this burning desire, how could he help giving in to it? Should he get married? No! He had too much sense to tie himself down to a single woman at his age. Besides, how was he supposed to get married when he had no job and no hope of finding one? He hadn’t gotten married since there were women willing to give him their bodies at reasonable prices, and sometimes they settled for nearly nothing. There were women you could pick up on Sultana Street, Quba’ Street, or King Faysal Street. One of them would get in the car and, if she didn’t like the price – though most of the time she would agree to it – she would either get out or bargain a little.
He remembered the little girl he’d picked up one evening on Sultana Street. He’d been happy that nobody in his family was at home. He’d driven her back to the empty house and taken her to his room, but when she uncovered her face, he was shocked to discover how young she was. He guessed she wasn’t more than fifteen years old. She’d plastered her eyes with kohl and painted her cheeks and lips. Even then, she looked to him like some little girl who’d snuck into her mother’s room when she wasn’t looking and spattered her face with cosmetics. A wave of warm affection for her came over him. Seating her in front of him, he took a packet of tissues and began wiping her face. When she objected, he told her he didn’t like make-up. How he’d lied! He’d wanted desperately not to touch her. However, she stripped and flung herself down on the bed, waiting for him. (If she’s only fifteen years old now, since when has she been working as a prostitute?) The question kept going through his mind, but he didn’t dare ask it, maybe because he didn’t want to hear what he already knew, or what he’d guessed. He hurriedly satisfied himself with her, then got up quickly and put his clothes on. Wanting to get her out of the house before his parents or sister came home, he waited impatiently as she got dressed and ready to leave. But no sooner had they started down the hallway between his room and the small inner parlor than he saw his sister coming in their direction. She let out a short gasp when she saw them, the expression on her face a mixture of bewilderment and shock. It seemed she was so upset that she didn’t know what to do or say. She quickly looked the other way and went to her room. Late that night, she opened the door to his room and said in an offended tone of voice, ‘Fear God in the way you treat people’s daughters, Hashem. Leave your dirty messes outside the house, not for my sake, but for Mom and Dad’s sake.’
Then she shut the door behind her. He hadn’t needed her to say that. He already knew he would never do it again. Never again would he bring somebody to the house only to discover in the end that she was a child – a mere child.
Qurban Street
He drove down Qurban Street, and everything was ready for him. For hours he’d been gripping the steering wheel, driving around aimlessly just to pass the time, and now he felt a little tired. He slowed down and pulled over near some cars whose owners had turned them into vegetable and fruit stands. He turned off the engine and opened the car door, and the air came rushing inside. When he stood up his bones cracked, and the wind caused his robe to billow. He stretched a bit, thinking about a glass of tea. It pleased him to see that he felt like indulging in his everyday routines in spite of everything. He walked around his car and inspected it. Then he got in again and sat there watching the world around him.
As soon as it was time, he’d call Ayman, and they’d decide what to do. He had a lot of confidence in Ayman, his old neighbor and schoolmate. They’d parted ways during high school, but hadn’t lost touch. They’d continued to get together from time to time, and had spent quite a number of days together. They’d also pulled stupid pranks that they were sure to laugh about later on.
He’d hesitated when it first occurred to him to ask for Ayman’s help. He didn’t know what he’d say to him, or how he would say it. However, his hesitation was short-lived. He’d been rehearsing the story, and as soon as Ayman heard part of it, he expressed his willingness to lend a hand. Consequently, there’d been no need to relate the details he’d invented, which had come as a big relief to him. In fact, it had relieved him of having to say much of anything at all. He’d been afraid there might be gaps in his story, that Ayman might ask questions, or that he might notice how flustered he was, how jumbled his words were, or how unst
eadily he spoke. However, Ayman’s unbridled impulsiveness made things simpler for him. He didn’t ask about any details, and he took no notice of Hashem’s uneasiness. Instead, as soon as he began telling him the story he’d made up about the way the animal had harassed his sister, Ayman was gripped by a rage that reminded Hashem of the rage that had gripped him when he discovered what he’d discovered. All that remained was for the two of them to carry out what they’d set their minds to. They hadn’t decided on anything in particular or laid out any plan, but their thoughts always moved in the same direction, and they still had enough time to exchange opinions.
He hadn’t eaten lunch, but he wasn’t hungry. All he wanted was some hot tea, preferably with mint, possibly on account of all the thoughts that had been raging in his head for the last few hours, as well as the thoughts, if there were any, that would be raging in his head in the hours to come.
Ayman was waiting for him. As for Hashem, he was waiting to get his hands on the animal. He ground his teeth. He was still seething, and the heavy stone was still weighing on his chest. But he wasn’t willing to think about the stone. Not now. Not when he was about to put the animal-at-large in his proper place. Let the stone stay where it is, he thought. He’d deal with it when he’d finished the task at hand. He had lots of things awaiting his attention once he was finished, one of which was to look for a job. He’d been jobless for four months, ever since the evening when the owner of the accessory shop had fired him, saying, ‘Find somewhere else to look for what you’re looking for.’
That was all he’d said. Then Hashem had understood everything. He’d understood the secret behind the shop owner’s surprise visits, and the close watch the other sales personnel had been keeping on him. Yet in spite of everything, he’d enjoyed the time he spent there, and he might not find another job like it. His former boss might even have turned other shop owners against him. But he’d keep looking until he found something.
He breathed in the air, which was redolent with the fragrance of farms and the smell of burning palm trunks. It had been a long day, but it had passed. Once he and Ayman had carried out their plan and he’d gone home, would his anger subside? Would silence dog him on the way back? What would he think about? And why should he think? He’d been thinking for too long already. There wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought about. New ideas might come, but what was the hurry? He’d think about those when their time came. For now, there was nothing but the streets of Medina, which came into view one after another as he tore down the road in his car, waiting to hunt down the animal that had hovered around a trap which looked like a sanctuary and . . . fallen into it.
Jubar * the 13th of Wail,
the twelfth year after Desert Storm
2 a.m., the Bab al-Tammar neighborhood
He heard the cracking of bones, and suddenly realized that he didn’t want him to die. He pushed Ayman away from him, saying, ‘That’s enough! If you keep on this way, he’s going to die!’
Ayman extricated himself from his grip, saying, ‘So let the dog die, then.’
He pushed him farther away this time and grabbed the stick out of his hand, screaming, ‘Enough! Enough!’
The heavy stone became hot, and heavier than before. All his strength left him, giving way to fear. He knew now what awaited him. He knew Musa’s fate wasn’t far from him. Why had he assumed that he was immune to such a fate?
He didn’t want to turn to see the beaten body again. But he did turn. When he took a good look at Malek’s body for the first time, he discovered to his pained surprise that there was nothing wrong with him. He wished he’d discovered some defect in him – any defect. But all he saw was a humble aspiration being buried without a shroud. Everything seemed still as death as the cool, pallid evening glow enveloped everything in sight. With difficulty he shuffled over to the body and stood near its head. He bent down and, placing his hands under the body’s armpits, began pulling it away from the sidewalk toward the entrance of the building. Then he took off hurriedly in the direction of the car that stood parked nearby.
He placed his hands under Malek’s armpits, and if he had brought them up to his nostrils now he could have smelled his odor. If he had, he might have realized that there was nothing to warrant the trouble he’d gone to.
This was the last thought he could remember. After that he didn’t know what or who he’d thought about. The image of the blood-spattered body lying motionless on the sidewalk had forced all the other details out of his head. He wished he could get away from them, but he was dragging something heavy behind him: his mother, his sister, his father, the life he’d lived before and would never live again, the things he’d thought awaited him only to discover that he was the one who would go on waiting for them although they might never come; and death, the death whose nearness he’d fled from, the death that had waited for him, guffawing shamelessly, on a back street of Medina.
‘Get in,’ he said to Ayman.
But how did he know that the person he and Ayman had left behind wallowing in his blood had actually ridden his sister? Oh, God! Things had seemed so real just an hour earlier! But now, all the things he’d thought about were nothing but impressions and apprehensions that had been passing through his mind.
He saw everything shunning him as he drove away. Everything was moving backward, fleeing from him: the buildings, the trees, the lamp posts, the neon signs, and the strings of lights. Everything was moving away from him, leaving him with nothing but silence and death. For years he’d been running away from silence and death, yet now he suddenly realized that they’d always been in front of him. He’d been running in the belief that he was moving away from them. Little did he know that they would be waiting for him, there at the very moment when he thought he’d escaped from them.
4
The scent of sorrow
. . . According to statements published yesterday, Mohamed ElBaradei, Director-General of the International Atomic Energy Agency, said there is still nothing to indicate that Iraq possesses banned weapons. However, he added that more work will need to be done in order to confirm this. In an interview with Egypt’s Ahram newspaper, ElBaradei said, ‘There is no evidence thus far that these installations have undergone any change since 1998,’ in a reference to the year in which searches for Iraqi weapons of mass destruction came to a halt. However, ElBaradei added, ‘This needs to be confirmed. Inspections are still in their beginning stages.’
Munis * the 15th of Wail,
the twelfth year after Desert Storm
4:30 a.m., her room
Leen shrank into her chair as she saw her universe, whose details she had worked so diligently to arrange every night, fall apart before her very eyes without her being able to do a thing. She couldn’t even cry. The only thing she could think about was Malek’s face at the Dar Al Iman InterContinental with his unkempt sideburns and his somber handsomeness. She thought about the fact that she’d never told him what a special touch those unkempt sideburns added to his face. She couldn’t say exactly what that ‘special touch’ was, but it was enchanting.
What harm would it have done for her to tell him that? If she’d kissed him, she would have known what they felt like. But she hadn’t kissed him. She’d shut herself up alone in the bathroom and cried. Now her brother was telling her that he’d beaten him and that he might be dead, and she couldn’t even cry.
She’d said to Malek, ‘If you don’t want to hurt me, you mustn’t die.’
How could he die now without having told her that he was going to die? He’d called her at noon on the day of the beating, but he hadn’t told her he was going to die! They’d talked a bit and he’d told her he was going to approach her father again about the matter of marriage. And, as always, he said to her, ‘Take care of yourself.’
Then he’d said goodbye. But she hadn’t said, ‘Take care of yourself,’ since she never said that to him. And even if she had, would that have kept him from dying?
Death!
; She’d seen death numerous times. It had always come to her from its own place of safety. Death had no need to arrange its appointments. So how had she thought that Malek would call her just to inform her that he was going to die today or tomorrow, or that he’d died the day before, but hadn’t had a chance to tell her until today?!
Oh my God.
She saw her father’s face and remembered that she was in her room. She didn’t know when Hashem had left the room, or when her mother had followed him out. However, she could make out the sound of her mother’s weeping and mumbling. And she herself, why wasn’t she weeping?
‘Leen, are you all right?’
She looked into her father’s face and saw everything he’d told her before. Had she done something wrong by loving a black man? Had she sinned against God or others? She’d loved a human being. She’d loved a heart of gold. She hadn’t looked at his color. But her brother had looked at nothing but his color, and then he’d punished her for it.
Her father had said to her, ‘People will never look at anything but his color, and they’ll punish you, and I don’t want you to suffer.’
Little had her father known that her brother would be the first one to punish her. Little had she known. The right half of her head had begun to throb. Time after time she’d complained to Malek about the migraine headaches that would come over her. He’d told her to stop hurting herself. But she hadn’t hurt herself. She’d been hurt by others.
‘Leen?’
She noticed her father’s tone of voice, and could tell he was worried to death. She looked at him, wishing her face wouldn’t betray what was churning deep inside her. She turned off the computer she’d been working at, then lay down on her bed and pulled her blanket over her. She felt a vague chill enveloping her heart, and when her eyes met her father’s, she said, ‘Dad, I want to sleep for a while.’
Days of Ignorance Page 3