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  “Where are you going?” Abd al-Karim shouted after him. “Are you angry?”

  “Why should I be angry?” came the reply. “You’ve all got your religion and I’ve got mine. God didn’t send Ibrahim and his sort to lord it over us, did he? Or you lot to lord it over all Muslims, for that matter.” And with that the door slammed shut and all the others burst out laughing.

  30

  That night Hisham, Adnan, Abd al-Karim and Abd al-Aziz met up, joined by Ibrahim al-Shudaykhi. He was about thirty-five years old, short and thin, with long hair, grey sideburns and a huge, flowing beard from which a few white hairs shone. His face was faintly pockmarked and he had a slight squint in one eye, but overall he had an air of great dignity. Ibrahim was wearing a white robe and headdress without iqal cords, and gave off a scent of fine incense and sandalwood oil.

  Abd al-Karim brought over a transistor radio and tuned in to ‘Voice of the Arabs’, on which the presenter was just announcing that President Nasser would soon give his speech. Abd al-Karim got up to look both ways down the alley, then shut the windows firmly and sat back down with the others, all of whom were silent. A few moments later the presenter announced that the president had arrived, and shortly afterwards Nasser’s voice came floating over the airwaves, fine and delicate, belying the physical size of the man. (This was in contrast to King Hussein of Jordan, whose rich, deep voice gave the impression that he was of enormous stature when quite the opposite was true.)

  “My brother citizens,” Nasser began, before going on to speak about how the colonialist powers had set upon the Arab nation and its liberal forces. Then he discussed a new peace initiative and declared Egypt’s willingness to accept any solution that would lead to a just peace. His speech ended amidst a storm of applause, followed by the Egyptian nationalist anthem ‘A Long Time It’s Been, O My Weapon,’ from the days of the Suez crisis.

  It was a strange business about this man, Hisham noted to himself. Since the Setback Nasser had offered nothing new, yet he was still worshipped by the masses. Even his speech that very night had nothing new in it; it was a retreat, in fact, from his ideas before the war, and even from the famous ‘no’s of the Arab summit in Khartoum afterwards: no peace with Israel, no recognition of Israel, no negotiation with Israel concerning any Palestinian territory. In this latest speech Nasser announced that he would even accept peace and reconciliation, yet his words still had that mysterious galvanizing effect. Hisham remembered the overwhelming impact of Nasser’s pre-’67 speeches, which had the power to shake one physically. (The President’s words from previous years still rang in his father’s ears. To this day Hisham would hear him quote the speeches with a kind of wonder: “Lift up your head, brother ... The age of colonialism is over ...” His father used to say that “if there had been another prophet after Muhammad, it would have been Nasser.”) Yes, despite the spectre of defeat Nasser was still defiant, and was loved. If one were to have gone out just then into any Arab street from the Atlantic to the Gulf, one would have found them empty: everyone was listening to Nasser, just as the first Thursday evening of every month was given over to the radio, in front of which everyone would sit and listen to the great Egyptian singer Umm Kulthumm, ‘The Lady’, give one of her shows. Nasser and Umm Kulthumm: they weren’t merely two individuals; they embodied their times.

  “What do you think of the speech?” said Abd al-Karim, trying to initiate a discussion after he had turned off the radio. There was a short silence during which they all looked at one another and then Ibrahim spoke up quietly, his face a picture of dignified gravity and wisdom.

  “I trust Nasser. No doubt he only accepted the peace principle once he found it expedient to do so, during this current phase, at least.”

  It was plain from Ibrahim’s last phrase that he was looking for some justification for the Leader’s new position, which no one had been expecting after all the refusals and the War of Attrition and all that talk about colonialism and Zionism and the American conspiracy.

  “That’s odd coming from you, Ibrahim,” said Abd al-Karim in amazement. “Weren’t we talking about this the other day, when you said quite confidently that Nasser would never accept anything less than the total liberation of Palestine?”

  “Yes,” said Ibrahim, becoming a little agitated, “but we were analysing the situation based on speculation, not concrete facts. As for Nasser, he must make his decisions on the basis of detailed information, and he wouldn’t make any decision unless he knew it was the most appropriate and the most advantageous for the Arab nation.”

  “Yes, like the decision to close the Straits of Tiran to Israeli shipping in 1967, eh, brother Ibrahim?” said Abd al-Aziz with overt scorn.

  Ibrahim flew into a rage, losing all of his dignity in one fell swoop. “1967 was an obvious conspiracy,” he said. “Yes, a conspiracy. Everyone took part, even the Soviet Union, which used to make itself out to be a friend of Nasser’s. ‘Don’t attack first,’ they said, and Nasser trusted them. It was a conspiracy stitched up from all sides.”

  “Conspiracy my foot,” yelled Abd al-Aziz, gesticulating wildly. “Any half-wit knows that closing the Tiran Straits means strangling Israel, and that means war. So how come our revered Leader, if he wasn’t ready for war, why did he provoke the other side into it? He’s a joke of a leader, as the Egyptians say.”

  “He was ready for war,” said Ibrahim, breathing hard, the eyes and the veins of his face bulging. “But there was treachery! The treachery of Field Marshal Abd al-Hakim Amer and his frantic retreat from the Sinai!”

  “God, what did you want him to do?” Abd al-Aziz said caustically. “The air force had been destroyed and the army was left in the desert without cover. If he hadn’t retreated, there would have been a complete and utter massacre. Treachery? Conspiracy? Look for another excuse to pin it on, brother.”

  Ibrahim looked furious. “He should have resisted to the last soldier,” he replied. “He shouldn’t have surrendered so easily!”

  “To the last soldier for the sake of the immortal Leader, right?” said Abd al-Aziz, throwing back his head and laughing. “Sorry, Ibrahim. Can’t you see that your love of Nasser has blinded you to the naked truth? Look at Syria. The Golan Heights only fell after the fall of Sinai and the collapse of the Egyptian army, the most powerful fighting force in the Middle East.”

  Hisham followed the conversation, caught up by what Abd al-Aziz had said. He’d make a good element in the organisation; perhaps he’d invite him to join one day.

  “You’re obviously a Baathist, brother Abd al-Aziz,” Ibrahim said, giving him a filthy look. “The Baathists are the only ones who hate Nasser so vehemently.”

  Abd al-Aziz sat up straight. “It’s not a question of love or hate,” he said sharply. “It’s about where the truth lies. Now that you’ve lost the argument, you’re trying to change the subject.” He leaned back again and caught his breath. “And supposing I am a Baathist,” he went on, “what’s wrong with that? Aren’t you a Nasserite? With all due respect, Ibrahim, I’m sorry to say you’re naive. Naive in your analysis of politics, and naive in your atheism. If you analyse religion like you do politics, Salim must be right.”

  Ibrahim went pale and gave Abd al-Karim a look of reproach for apparently having betrayed a confidence. For several moments he remained silent, his embarrassment plain to see on his face. Then he got up quickly and headed to the front door, waving abruptly. “Pleased to meet you all,” he said, his voice trembling. “Goodbye.” Abd al-Karim got up after him and the two of them remained standing by the front door, whispering something vague and incomprehensible. Then Abd al-Karim came back, glowering.

  “You’ve insulted the man,” he said to Abd al-Aziz, as he was about to sit down again. “You had no right to speak about religion. You’ve really embarrassed me.”

  Abd al-Aziz jumped up. “Don’t embarrass me and I won’t embarrass you! I was wrong to come here in the first place,” he added as he took his leave. “Salim was right.”<
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  He had already got to the front door when Abd al-Karim stood up and went after him, but by the time he reached the door, Abd al-Aziz was already in the street and Abd al-Karim retraced his steps, repeating the traditional phrase, “There is no power and no strength save in God, there is no power and no strength save in God. Why are people like that?”

  He sat down beside Hisham and Adnan and poured himself a cup of tea. Hisham said, “You were the one in the wrong, Abd al-Karim. We’re a gang, and you brought along a stranger. He’s older than us and wanted to look down on us and become our leader. That wasn’t right of you. That wasn’t right.”

  Abd al-Karim looked at him blankly as he sipped his tea, then looked at the teapot, repeating, “Whoever goes away always returns ... Whoever goes away always returns,” while all the others remained silent.

  31

  The following afternoon, Hisham went to Adnan’s house with one of the organisation’s pamphlets about internal matters, which he folded carefully and hid under his vest. Adnan’s little sister Samiya let him in, and he went to the sitting room he knew so well, where Adnan and his brother Majid were playing Kiram. Hisham was livid. Adnan had promised he would be alone yet here he was, casually playing cards with his brother. He took a seat between the two of them, pretending to be calm and follow the game which Majid seemed so keen on, but inside he was seething with rage, and all the more so when he saw how indifferent Adnan was.

  Ibtihal, Adnan and Majid’s half-sister by their father’s Syrian wife, brought him some tea on a tray with various kinds of cakes and put it next to Hisham, giving him a quick smile and glancing at him with her honey-coloured eyes before leaving the room, her lovely, clear cheeks blushing. Hisham followed her with his gaze as she vanished beyond the door, unconsciously comparing her to Noura. Ibtihal might have been more beautiful, with those eyes and her pure white complexion, wavy, chestnut-brown hair and slender figure, but Noura was still the more attractive.

  Hisham was woken from his reverie by the sound of Majid shouting for joy after throwing down an ace and following it up with the trump card, marking his victory. In the meantime Adnan was stacking the cards again in preparation for another round, trying to avoid Hisham’s angry glances. While the two brothers were engrossed in the new game, Hisham poured himself another cup of hot tea and began sipping it and munching a cake with no real appetite as he slipped back into his daydream.

  The game ended with another of Majid’s cries; Adnan began stacking the cards for another round, but Majid stopped him, laughing sarcastically.

  “No, I’m not playing with you. I need someone who can give me a real challenge,” he said. “What do you know? You’re better off sticking to painting.” Majid poured himself a cup of tea and drank it down quickly, still laughing. “Are you any good,” he asked Hisham, “or are you like your friend here? I’ll bet you four fils you can’t beat me, however many times we play.”

  Hisham forced a quick smile to his lips as he raised his thick eyebrows and shook his head. “No, man, don’t bother with me. There’s no beating you at this sort of thing.”

  Majid grinned with pride and poured himself another cup of tea, which he began drinking slowly, savouring it as he looked at his brother. “It looks like there’s no one else on the battlefield, brother. Come on, stack the cards.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation Adnan began doing so, still avoiding Hisham’s gaze.

  “Adnan,” said Hisham, jumping in before a new round could begin, “have you forgotten our rendezvous with Abd al-Karim?”

  Adnan glanced at him and then looked at the teapot. “No ... no,” he said in a whisper, pouring himself some more tea, “I haven’t forgotten. I’m ready to go when you are.”

  Hisham put his cup down on the tray still half full and stood. “Let’s get moving, then. If you’ll excuse us, Majid.”

  Hisham got up quickly and Adnan followed, but just before he stepped outside the house Majid called out from the sitting room, “You silly fools! Every day these stupid meetings of yours. Don’t you get bored of them? They’re such a waste of time.”

  Majid was the second son in the al-Ali family and Adnan’s blood brother from their father’s first wife; their father had a total of three wives, six sons and seven daughters, and they all lived in the same house. Majid was only a year younger than Adnan, but his complete opposite. Adnan was highly sensitive; he disliked confrontation to the point where he would be reluctant even to enter into a discussion or debate, and if he did so would always let the other party take the initiative and steer the conversation. His favourite moments were those he spent alone with his paintbrushes and pictures, or with Hisham, with whom he could speak freely and fluently about his impressions and art.

  Majid, however, was pragmatic in the extreme and sociable, where social relationships could lead to direct personal benefit, that is. He used to criticise his brother for his preoccupation with ‘nonsense’, as he put it, his obsession with drawing and his relative insularity. “Money’s what counts in this world,” he would always say, “and the only thing worthwhile is making it and saving it.” Majid worked as much of the time as possible in order to make money; when he finished school he would rush to do his homework and then look for a way to make money. Some days he would buy a bottle of concentrated mulberry juice, heavily dilute it and sell it to the children in the neighbourhood; other times he would sell sweets and dairy products on the black market. On Fridays he would buy vegetables, meat and fish for some of the neighbours in return for a small fee, or go to auctions of basic goods and resell them at a considerable profit. During the long summer holiday he would work in a shop for a monthly salary or spend his time at auctions if he was unable to come by any steady work. His greatest pleasure was rushing to the bank to pay whatever money he had made into a savings account, without spending a penny either on himself or anyone else in the house; on the contrary, he would still take pocket money from his father like any of his siblings, and even strive to save as much of this small amount as possible. The Eid festivals were paradise to Majid. He would get up early in the morning to wish his parents a happy Eid and receive his Eid present from them, before shooting off to see his friends and relations, his eye always on the presents he would get – and all this before midday. Then he would go to one of the traders he knew and buy a certain quantity of fireworks, which he would sell to the neighbourhood children. By the end of the Eid, Majid had always scraped together a small fortune, and he would never feel that it was truly Eid until he had deposited it safe and sound in the bank.

  Adnan’s father was full of admiration for his son Majid and would frequently take Adnan to task in front of his brother, also for his preoccupation with ‘nonsense’. “Why can’t you be like your brother?” he would say. “You’re the older one. He makes the most of his time, while you just waste it on drawing and all that rubbish. Drawing! What kind of future is there in that?” And smacking his hands together dismissively he would leave, shaking his head and saying with pious resignation, “There is no power and no strength save in God”. In the meantime Majid would burst with pride, while Adnan seethed and glared at his brother without saying anything, before going off to spend time with the gang or his paintbrushes.

  The two friends went out into the street as Hisham quickly thought of a place where they could be alone together. He happened to set eyes on the mosque of Sheikh Mousa, an ascetic who had renounced worldly things after a lifetime spent drinking heavily. He had built this mosque and devoted himself exclusively to worshipping there and offering his services to anyone who needed them.

  “The mosque’s the best place to get some privacy at this time of day,” Hisham said, now smiling at his friend. “It’ll be completely empty. Let’s go.”

  They set off towards the mosque as the sun was beginning to set. It really was empty when they entered, apart from an old man leaning against one of the walls and nodding his head as he recited from a small Qur’an that he held in his right hand.
They both recognised him as Sheikh Mousa, from his thick, snow-white beard and the moustache twisted with an elegance only he could muster. The sheikh glanced at them when they entered and smiled with genuine affection, reciting and nodding his head before once again becoming completely immersed in his Qur’an. They made towards a corner far away from the sheikh, Adnan following Hisham’s lead. They sat down, each of them leaning against one of the walls, and for a while they both remained silent, Adnan’s eyes full of questioning about the ‘important thing’ his friend had spoken to him about.

  Without a word, Hisham looked about, then slipped his hand under his vest and took out a carefully folded piece of paper which he quickly gave to Adnan. “Take this,” he whispered, looking around again. “Read it quickly.”

  Adnan took the paper, spread it on his lap and began reading, his eyes growing larger the further he got. Hisham repeatedly urged him to finish, looking left and right and saying, “Quickly, quickly.” By the time Adnan had finished reading his eyes were wide open and he was in a cold sweat, the drops of perspiration running down his forehead. His hands were shaking as he gave the pamphlet back to Hisham, who hastily folded it again and slipped it back under his vest.

  “So? What do you think?” he said.

  Adnan tried to speak, but his tongue would not obey him; his hands were visibly quivering. “Thi ... thi ... this is dangerous talk,” he stammered, in a voice dry and faint. “The sort of talk that could land you in prison.” He swallowed and wiped the sides of his nose with his palm. “Where did you get this paper from?” he asked. “And what is this National Union of Students of the Arabian Peninsula?”