Adama Read online

  “Hisham, Hisham! You haven’t moved house, have you?” Adnan’s voice reached him from another dimension.

  “No ... No, why?” he answered in a voice that seemed not to belong to him.

  “Because we’ve already passed your place and you’re still going!” said Adnan, clearly astonished.

  Hisham came to his senses and looked around. Indeed, he had gone much further than his house. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment.”

  “Mansur, obviously,” said Adnan with a jealous edge to his voice. “You haven’t been yourself since you started going around with him.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Hisham, looking at him calmly. “It’s got nothing to do with Mansur or anyone else. We really have gone way past my place,” he went on with a smile. “We’re almost at your house. Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I tried, but you carried on walking regardless and I thought perhaps you were going somewhere else.”

  “Never mind, never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t we meeting at Abd al-Karim’s place this afternoon, then?”

  “I don’t think so ... My father’s got me doing a few things I have to finish today. Bye.”

  Adnan watched Hisham set off, perplexed, jealousy eating him up inside. ‘He often doesn’t turn up when the gang meets these days. What’s going on?’ Adnan wondered to himself, watching his friend disappear down the alley leading to his house.

  13

  At home Hisham still felt as though he were spinning, and neither his mother’s smile nor the feast of a lunch she had made – a large dish of potatoes with lamb – could dispel the images that kept flashing in his mind’s eye.

  “And how’s the best son in the world?” his father said to him as usual when he returned from work. But instead of answering, “He kisses the hands of the best father in the world,” as Hisham normally did, he gave a listless traditional reply without conviction. He ate his food with none of the pleasure and relish he would otherwise feel when his mother made one of her special dishes as a surprise. As he ate he wondered what would happen if they knew what he was up to. Was this what their love and their pride had been for? He was throwing himself into something most people would be afraid even to mention. A clandestine organisation; the government; politics: his involvement with one of these alone would be enough to shatter them. ‘I’m such a disobedient son,’ Hisham agonised. ‘The only thing I think about, the only person I’ve got any time for, is myself.’ Wasn’t it just the same making sacrifices for these two as making them for the Islamic community, for the people, for the homeland? He couldn’t be bothered with the latter, but he could kiss his mother, and he saw his father every day. He only had to look at them to see the pride in their eyes. Was he going to throw all that away for the sake of a few things someone he didn’t know or like had said? Was he going to abandon genuine love for the sake of a supposed duty? Didn’t love itself bring with it its own kind of duty? No, he wouldn’t go to the meeting. Goat-Face would turn up and not find him there. And then they would leave him be.

  When Hisham came to this decision his face lit up and he gave a grin. “You’ve done a great job, Mother,” he said, smiling. “The food was absolutely wonderful.”

  His parents looked at one another, completely bewildered. “Praise be to the Changer of Circumstances,” his father said, getting up to wash his hands before his afternoon rest. Meanwhile his mother cleared the table, washed up and came back with a pot of tea. She and Hisham would drink it while she attended to her knitting until it was time to wake Hisham’s father.

  “You’re in a funny mood today, Hisham,” his mother said, looking at him without a pause in her handiwork. “While we were eating your father and I were wondering what was the matter with you, sitting there silent and distracted, and all of a sudden you come back to life and start telling me how good the food is when you’d hardly even tasted it. What’s the matter? Is something bothering you?”

  “Everything’s fine, Mother,” he said, looking at her affectionately, with a genuine smile. “I’d never do anything you’d disapprove of. I’m sorry if I upset you earlier.”

  His mother looked at him lovingly, putting down her crochet. “We just want you to be happy,” she said. “We were blessed when God gave you to us.”

  Hisham felt a lump in his throat, and he made up his mind once and for all not to go to his meeting with Rashid. His mother carried on with her knitting while he picked up a copy of ‘The New Public’ magazine and flicked through the photos of society women in Beirut.

  14

  It was coming up on four o’clock. Hisham’s mother was still in her favourite place in the sitting-room, absorbed in her never-ending needlework directly opposite the television, and his father was still resting. A few minutes hence his mother would get up to make more tea and wake his father, and the television would begin to broadcast the cartoons, Hisham’s favourite programmes. He never claimed them as favourites, but his mother knew they were and would smile when he made a show of not liking them in front of other people; in reality he was usually glued to them. Hisham looked at the clock on the sitting room wall in the corner opposite his mother, and it seemed to him as though the hands had turned into real hands and the minutes ticking by faintly had become drops of water, dripping onto his head. The closer it got to four o’clock the more depressed he felt. He began sweating profusely all over, despite the freon air-conditioner his father had spent months saving for. All their neighbours coveted it, privately accusing the family of being rich while pretending to be poor. But Hisham knew his parents were middle-class, neither poor nor wealthy. Dammam’s rich people were well known and could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Even then Hisham’s family had only become comfortable through his parents’ hard work, since they were not notables and had not inherited any property. His father was just a civil servant, paid one thousand riyals a month. It was, in fact, a substantial salary, but he was still only an official with a limited income. However, with the help of his mother’s thrift, his father had managed to build the house they lived in as well as another house which they let for one hundred and fifty riyals a month.

  Just five minutes to go before four o’clock. Hisham was becoming increasingly nervous. He picked up ‘Arab Week’ magazine and tried to read an article by Yasser Hawari about the Palestinian resistance, but found himself passing over the words without taking anything in. He tossed the magazine aside and turned on the television. The broadcast had not begun yet, the screen still filled with the Aramco Television logo and the picture of that Red Indian. Hisham sighed irritably.

  “Good old Mickey Mouse,” his mother said with a smile.

  Hisham looked at her without comment, then picked up a copy of ‘Al-Jadid’ magazine and began reading a report about youth camps in the Soviet Union, full of pictures of girls of all races in their bathing costumes, in all kinds of poses. Hisham gazed at the photographs, trying to make out the bodies under those bikinis.

  His mother got up from her chair. “Time to wake your father up,” she said. “It’s four o’clock exactly. I’ll put the kettle on, too.”

  Hisham shuddered and threw down the magazine. ‘Boy, you’re strange,’ he said to himself. ‘Haven’t you decided not to go? So why are you so nervous, then?’ For a few moments he remained quite still as though paralysed, absently watching the green flag waving on the television screen. Suddenly, as though in a dream, he heard the whistle of the kettle boiling. He sprang up as though an electric charge had shot through him and dashed out, passing the kitchen on his way. “I’m off to Abd al-Karim’s house, if that’s all right with you, Mother,” he said hurriedly. With this he took off; in the distance, he heard his mother asking, “Isn’t it a bit early for that?” Her voice blended with the sound of the Qur’an reciter Abd al-Basit Abd al-Samad reciting part of the Sura of Joseph.

  15

  Hisham had no idea what had made
him rush out like that. Almost without noticing he found himself walking down Thamantash Street towards the primary school, not far from the fish and vegetable market in al-Adama, the area where he lived. When the school appeared in the distance he noticed the skinny figure of Abd al-Jabbar in his white robes and headdress. He looked so tiny that it was almost impossible to make him out, but the thick cloud of smoke coming from his mouth showed he was there. Hisham thought of turning back; he had been hoping he would not find Rashid waiting for him, but some indefinable urge pushed him onwards. Rashid was tense and agitated when he reached him, looking in all directions and drawing heavily on his cigarette, his hand trembling slightly.

  “You’re late. It’s a quarter past four. I’d almost gone,” Rashid said quickly, manifestly nervous and exhaling the last drag of his cigarette in Hisham’s face; he threw the butt on the ground and trod on it with his plastic sandal.

  “I wish you had,” muttered Hisham, looking at the stubbed-out cigarette. “The truth is I had a few things to do for my father,” he went on, raising his voice. “I finished them and came here as quickly as I could.”

  “Let’s go, then. We’re already late as it is.”

  Rashid walked ahead briskly, lighting another cigarette from his packet of Abu Bass and drawing on it voraciously while checking behind him from time to time. They headed in the direction of the beach via al-Hubb Street, al-Dawasir and the old city souks. Hisham walked alongside Rashid as though stripped of his will, thinking of nothing, like an automaton.

  They emerged into al-Imara Street and continued until they reached the al-Dawasir area, where Rashid took the first turn right, Hisham following him like his shadow. After about two minutes they entered a very narrow alleyway near the end of which Rashid looked at Hisham, his face now relaxed and a broad smile visible under his moustache.

  “Here we are at last,” he said, calmly enjoying another cigarette. “Please, you go first.” He pointed to a house at the end of the alley. Hisham looked around; he was in a part of the city he had never been to before, full of small houses packed together and giving off a smell of fried food and raw and cooked fish. The house Rashid had pointed out was a little larger than those around it, though built from the same materials.

  “We’re considered rich here,” said Rashid, with a certain pride.

  “Yes,” Hisham answered mechanically, mentally comparing his family’s house in al-Adama with this one by the coast. Their house was built of bricks and mortar, whereas these houses were made of sea stone. It was the first time he had seen this kind of house close up, though he had spent his entire life in Dammam. He had only seen homes like these occasionally, in some of the areas he and his parents used to pass through on their outings to Qatif, Saihat and Safwa in the Eastern Province, or when he and his friends came to the beach. For the first time he realised that he did not know his city inside out, or rather for the first time realised that it was not one but several cities. He looked at Rashid and without thinking, asked,

  “By the way, Mr Rashid, are you a Shi‘ite?”

  Rashid stiffened. “Not at all,” he said sharply. “Why?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Sorry.” Hisham wished he had not asked the question. “Please don’t get me wrong. For me there’s no difference between one sect and another. In fact, I don’t care about any of them. It just crossed my mind. Again, I’m sorry.”

  Rashid looked at him and smiled. “Don’t worry about it. But for your information I’m a Sunni. I mean, I come from a pure Sunni family.”

  Hisham was surprised by his use of the word ‘pure’ and the way he pronounced it, stressing the syllable and clenching his fist at the same time: it made him smile for the first time since they had met by the school. Rashid invited him to enter the house.

  “Please go ahead. And by the way, don’t call me ‘Mr Rashid’ from now on. Save the ‘Mr’ for school: here we’re all comrades. Call me ‘comrade’.”

  Hisham nodded and entered with Rashid through the front door, which led directly up a steep flight of stairs to a room furnished in a simple style, with a red and blue striped carpet covering the floor and a few red cushions stuffed with straw around the edges. At the end of the room there was a small door which led to the rest of the house. Rashid pointed to a particular place in the room, inviting Hisham to sit down.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Rashid went out through the small door without closing it behind him, so that Hisham was able to steal a glimpse through it. He saw a narrow passage ending in a half-open door, behind which a woman was standing wearing a loose-fitting green dress with a shiny black veil over her face and a black scarf covering her head and chest. ‘She must be his mother,’ Hisham thought. Rashid walked up to the woman and the two of them disappeared beyond the door. Along the sides of the passage there were three other doors, one on the right-hand side and two on the left. The house was permeated with a distinctive smell of fried food and cheap incense, mingling with the smell of the sea and the stifling humidity. From the ceiling hung down an old fan that had once been white, but was now covered all over with the innumerable small black marks of flies’ droppings. The heat and the humidity were unbearable: Hisham felt as though he were suffocating. He got up and turned on the fan, which began revolving sluggishly, emitting a high-pitched squeaking sound as it circulated the damp and the smell of the place without doing anything to alleviate the heat.

  The house was also smaller than, and very different from, those of Hisham’s family or acquaintances. In Hisham’s house the front door led to a small garden area, at the end of which four steps led to the main entrance, opening onto a small passage. On the right-hand side of the passage was the men’s sitting room and on the left-hand side the dining room. At the end another door led to a wide hall off which four rooms were distributed: his parents’ bedroom, his own bedroom, the family room and the women’s sitting room, as well as the kitchen and the family bathroom. The men’s bathroom was located outside the house, in the garden. At the end of the hall was a doorway leading to the back of the house, where the women had a door that gave onto a side street. Everyone he knew, Adnan and Abd al-Karim and others, lived in houses like theirs. But this house looked strange, even though its owners were apparently middle class like them; it reminded him of the poor people’s shacks he had seen in the ‘Bedouin camp’ on the outskirts of the city going towards Dhahran.

  “Sorry,” said Rashid, interrupting his thoughts, “I hope I wasn’t too long?” He was carrying a silver-coloured tray with a huge, red and green striped teapot, two teacups and a plastic container with something red, shiny and wobbly inside that Hisham could not identify. Under his arm he had a collection of books. Rashid had taken off his robe, headdress and skullcap and put on a loincloth with blue and green stripes, firmly tied at the waist, and a white short-sleeved vest. For the first time he saw Rashid with his head bare and found that among the many uses of the headdress, the most minor was to cover those barren expanses of the head: he was surprised to see that Rashid was bald, even though he was young.

  Rashid set the tray in front of Hisham, who was leaning on a cushion, and sat down opposite him.

  “No, not at all,” said Hisham, sitting up. “Take your time.”

  Hisham began looking curiously at the red, wobbly substance in the plastic container. Rashid poured the tea and picked up the container, dipped three fingers in it and scooped up a large helping, which he put in his mouth and began chewing with visible relish.

  “Go ahead,” he said, offering the container to Hisham. “It’s a Bahraini pudding. There’s nothing like it.”

  Hisham dipped his fingers in the container and took a small piece, which he began chewing for a while, nodding to show his approval. “It’s delicious,” he said. “What’s it made of?”

  “Actually I don’t know exactly. But it doesn’t matter; the important thing’s just that it’s delicious.”

  “You’re right. It’s ho
w it tastes that counts.”

  “It’s funny that you’re from Dammam and you’ve never had Bahraini pudding before!”

  “No one we know has had it either, to tell the truth.”

  “You’re definitely not originally from Dammam!”

  “Is anyone?”

  They both laughed and chewed the pudding. “Some people insist that it’s originally from Oman,” said Rashid, as he dipped his fingers in again, “but there’s a difference between the Omani version and the Bahraini one: the Omani pudding’s greasier and has more cardamom in it. The Bahraini one’s better.”

  Hisham nodded in a mechanical, meaningless way. They both began drinking their tea quietly and dipping their fingers in the container from time to time. Each of them was looking at the other, and when their eyes met they would dip their fingers in again or take a sip of their tea.

  “It tastes even better with coffee,” Rashid said finally. “Or so my mother says. But I don’t like Turkish coffee; I prefer instant. I drink it a lot at the house of a relative of mine who works at Aramco and lives in al-Munira. Especially with milk. Wow ...”

  “I don’t like Turkish coffee either,” Hisham replied. “But my father loves it. He’ll only go to work in the morning once he’s had a whole pot.”

  They both laughed again briefly but then once more fell quiet, the silence broken only by the sound of sipping tea as they glanced at one another.

  “By the way,” said Rashid, “why did you ask me if I was a Shi‘ite? Do Shi‘ites have some special mark that distinguishes them from other people?”

  How embarrassing, thought Hisham; here he was, bringing up the subject again. “I told you, it was just something that crossed my mind,” he said. “I was comparing the houses and thought that – I don’t think I can make you see what I mean. No offence.”