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  “I don’t understand.”

  “Please, forget about it.”

  “All right. Anyway, we’re originally from Bahrain. We came to Dammam ages ago, but most of our relations are still there, and they’re all Sunnis. My grandfather says we’re distantly related to the al-Khalifa family,” he said, referring to Bahrain’s ruling dynasty with obvious pride in his voice. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of tea. “And you,” he said, “you’re evidently not from the Eastern Province.”

  “Not exactly. I was born here. My mother and father were both born in Qusaim, but they’ve lived here in Dammam for most of their lives.”

  There was another pause as Rashid began looking through the books he had brought in. “Have you read these?” he said, looking at Hisham. He handed him the books and Hisham began looking at the titles: The Communist Manifesto by Marx; Lenin’s What is to Be Done? and Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism; The Origins of Marxist Philosophy by George Pulitzer; Engels’ The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State; three novels by Yasin al-Hafiz and a booklet called ‘The Theoretical Principles of the Arab Socialist Baath Party’, brought out by the party’s sixth national conference in 1963. Hisham had read all of them, except the works of al-Hafiz and the Baath Party Theoretical Principles. He gave the books back to Rashid, keeping back the ones he had not read and leafing through them.

  “I’ve read all of them before, except the al-Hafiz and the Principles ... I prefer Marxist thought, actually.”

  “Great, that’s wonderful,” Rashid cried enthusiastically. “But you must read the al-Hafiz books and the ‘Principles’; those are very important. The next time we meet we’ll discuss what you’ve read. You can keep those books until our next meeting.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Same day, same time every week, here in this house. But I don’t want you to be late again. A freedom fighter must be punctual,” Rashid said, as though giving him an order. For the first time Rashid’s tone provoked him, but even though his blood was boiling Hisham kept quiet, flicking through the books to suppress his reaction.

  “From now on I’m responsible for you,” Rashid went on. “Anything I say you must do immediately, without discussion. Act first, talk later – that’s the first lesson the organisation teaches you.”

  Another provocation! Hisham was more used to giving orders himself and having them obeyed: he would speak and everyone else would keep quiet; that was how things were at home and with his friends, as well. “All right, all right,” he replied irritably, fired up inside like an oven as he began to regret what he had let himself in for. There was a long silence, broken only by the buzzing of the flies around them and the faint, sleepy squeaking coming from the fan.

  “The session’s over,” said Rashid. “We’ll meet again next week.” Rashid got up quickly, as though throwing him out; at least that was how it seemed to Hisham, who was not used to this kind of behaviour. Hisham in turn got up, humiliation eating him up inside. He, who had abandoned his friends so that Goat-Face could kick him out! ‘I deserve better than that. “I’ve done myself wrong,” as the song goes,’ he said to himself as he descended the stairs on his way out, with Rashid leading the way.

  “I’m sorry,” Rashid said to him as they parted company by the front door, as though he had realised what was going through Hisham’s mind. “Maybe you think me rude or bad-mannered. But I’m just trying to train you in the tough ways of the organisation. We’re not friends; our relationship is not a purely social one. We’re comrades. The relationship of comrades is far superior to any other, but it has its own limitations and restrictions. You might not realise that now, but later on you’ll come to understand them.”

  Rashid shook Hisham’s hand vigorously while patting him on the shoulder with his other hand. Hisham smiled wanly, feeling slightly better, and quickly slipped outside. When he reached the turn into al-Imara Street he looked back one last time and saw Rashid still standing at the door. Rashid waved to him and closed the door, and Hisham disappeared down the winding route back to his house.

  16

  On the way home it seemed to Hisham that everyone he passed was looking at him and knew where he had come from and what he had been doing. He took the books Rashid had lent him and slipped them under his vest where they stuck to his skin, sticky from the humidity. As soon as he arrived home he slunk into his room, locked the door behind him and hastily put the books in his desk drawer, which he locked. He threw himself on the bed, trying to catch his breath and give his heart a chance to slow down. His whole body was perspiring and damp from the humidity outside. Moments later the doorknob turned, and his mother’s voice called from the other side of the door.

  “Hisham, open the door.”

  He jumped up and went to the door, trying to look as calm as possible. His mother stood there with a worried look on her delicate features.

  “What’s the matter, son? Is everything all right?”

  “It’s nothing, Mother. I’m just a bit tired today,” Hisham replied.

  “You don’t usually come in without saying hello, and anyway you normally go straight to watch television. Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “Yes, it’s just that I’d rather have a rest. I’m sorry if I worried you.” His mother calmed down a little, but retained a somewhat suspicious expression. “And locking the door!” she said. “That isn’t like you.”

  Hisham felt as though he were about to collapse, but kept his cool as he said, “Did I really? I hadn’t realised. Maybe it was because I’m so tired. Believe me, Mother, everything’s fine.”

  His mother looked at him tenderly, a smile returning to her lips, and she kissed him on the cheek. “Did something happen at Abd al-Karim’s house?”

  “No, nothing, nothing at all. Just the usual. Having a laugh and a few games of Kiram and Plot. The same as always.”

  “How’s his mother, by the way?”

  “Fine, fine. She sends her regards.”

  At last his mother left. Hisham heaved a sigh of relief, while at the same time feeling a pang of guilt: it was the first time he had lied to her since childhood. He lay back on the bed, crossing his hands behind his head. Why was he so afraid, so nervous? The books he had brought with him were no more dangerous than the ones he had acquired in Amman, Damascus and Beirut. Was it the meeting with Rashid, then? But the gang would meet at Abd al-Karim’s house almost every day and talk about things that were far more serious than anything Rashid had said. So why this fear? It was a clandestine organisation ... Hisham shuddered. It was just talking and reading, which was what he always did in any case; the only difference was that now he had comrades as well as friends. But that imperious tone Rashid had used with him! Hisham felt the bitterness of the insult again. For a long time he remained lying down, until he felt it growing dark around him and heard the sound of the television along with his parents’ voices in the family room. He got up and turned on the light, then went to the sitting room where he greeted his father. Hisham sat in his usual place, watching television without taking anything in while his parents chatted and drank Turkish coffee. A presenter was introducing a programme called ‘The Three Provinces Culture Contest’ when he jumped up and went back to his room. His parents watched him go without comment. He locked the door, removed the books from the desk drawer, sat on the floor and began to read.

  17

  He was impressed by al-Hafiz’s books and the ‘Principles’. They were a fascinating combination of Marxism and Arab nationalism. He found in them something he had felt was lacking in the Marxist texts and the various nationalist works he had read. He had read Michel Aflaq’s On the Path To Revival and some of the works of the Jordanian writer and guerrilla leader Munif al-Razzaz and Salah al-Bitar, co-founder with Aflaq of the Baath movement, as well as a few Nasserite texts such as The Philosophy of the Revolution by Nasser himself and books by Anwar al-Sadat on Nasser and the Egyptian Revolution of 1952. He also knew Muhammad Hasan
ayn Haykal’s column ‘Frankly Speaking’, published in the Egyptian newspaper Al-Ahram every Friday; he would listen to it broadcast on the ‘Voice of the Arabs’ from Cairo, as Al-Ahram itself was banned in Saudi Arabia. The Marxist texts were mainly concerned with social and international questions, ending the capitalist mode of production and the advance of the world communist revolution; but whereas he passionately believed in the importance of the former, Hisham was less sure about the latter. He felt he was an Arab nationalist to the core: it flowed in his veins. Nasser’s speeches would shake him up, and the nationalist slogans used by Baathists, Nasserites and Arab nationalists alike had an intoxicating effect on him. Still, he felt something was missing, that these people did not attach the importance to social issues that they warranted, especially concerning such matters as the class struggle, scientific socialism and historical inevitability. And so, despite his reservations, he came to believe that Marxist thought could light the way and offer a comprehensive philosophy of life. He admired the writings of al-Hafiz and the ‘Principles’ because they combined nationalist and social issues, bringing together in a single philosophy the ideas to which he felt the strongest affinity. He was impressed by his new discovery and looked forward to discussing it with Rashid.

  Hisham kept his rendezvous with Rashid, returned the books and asked for more, relating the strong impressions they had made on him. Rashid responded generously, giving him more books by Yasin al-Hafiz as well as works by the Iraqi Baath politician Ali Salih al-Saadi, the Lebanese Baathist ideologist Elias Farah and others. Hisham read them all with great enthusiasm, discussing the theories contained in them with Rashid during their subsequent meetings and forgetting his initial fear of the organisation. It transpired that all it was about was sessions organised around reading and discussion. What more could he want?

  One day he was sitting with Rashid at one of their usual meetings, discussing the failure of the petty bourgeoisie in the aftermath of the Setback; they agreed on the need for a new revolutionary project to express the thoughts and hopes of the oppressed classes of workers, peasants and allied intellectuals. Hisham spoke passionately on this point; Rashid was listening intently, it seemed, sitting with his left leg bent and his hands crossed over his knee, his other leg stretched out; his loincloth had fallen away from his skinny thighs and he was unaware that part of his pubic area was exposed. Hisham, who was facing him, felt slightly embarrassed, but could not say anything without causing embarrassment himself. He continued talking, trying to look Rashid in the eyes, when suddenly Rashid sat up and spread his loincloth over his legs.

  “Hisham,” said Rashid, interrupting him, “what’s your opinion of the Arab Socialist Baath Party?”

  Hisham stopped talking, taken by surprise like a car crashing into a wall that suddenly appears from nowhere. “I think you know my position,” he replied after a moment’s hesitation. “We’ve talked about nationalist ideology before.”

  “True, but I want a more specific answer. Tell me frankly, what’s your view of the party?”

  Hisham thought for a while. “To be honest, I don’t have much time for Aflaq and al-Bitar and al-Razzaz’s ideas. I think they’re too sentimental, though I do agree with their general argument. What we need is an all-embracing philosophy. And I think that Marxism is the solution, even if it does lack a few things that would need to be added to perfect it.”

  “Who’s talking about the likes of Aflaq?” said Rashid with a smile.

  Hisham looked bewildered. “How can you talk about the Baath without talking about Aflaq?” he said. “The two go together, don’t they?”

  “Haven’t you read the ‘Principles’?” answered Rashid, exhaling cigarette smoke. “Haven’t you read Yasin al-Hafiz? What do you think of all that?”

  ‘What an idiot I am,’ Hisham reproached himself, feeling embarrassed. ‘Everything was clear in the “Principles”.’ “I told you before how impressed I was with all that,” he said aloud, stammering noticeably and slightly blushing.

  “That’s the new Baath ideology,” said Rashid, crossing his legs. “And as you know, it has no connection with Aflaq, except for the fact that he was the founder of the party – and not the only one, either. But apart from that they’re different things. So, what’s your opinion of the Baath Party?”

  Hisham paused for a moment before speaking. “If what’s in the ‘Principles’ is the Baath ideology, it appeals to me: it combines nationalism with Marxism, and that’s what I believe in.”

  “So what would you think about joining the party, as long as its ideology was the same as yours?” Rashid said, leaning forward and looking Hisham in the eyes.

  This time Hisham felt afraid, but his fear was nothing like what he had felt the first time Rashid spoke to him about the organisation. In fact, when he thought about it he doubted his intelligence; he ought not to be surprised by this kind of proposal, considering that the books Rashid had given him and their discussions had all distantly revolved around the Baath. Admittedly Aflaq and his associates were out of the picture, but it looked as though this was all about the other Baathists. ‘What a fool,’ he thought, ‘I should have understood.’

  “You haven’t said. What do you think?” said Rashid, hurrying him on.

  Hisham looked at him with a half-smile. “I knew from the start that all this had something to do with the Baath, Yasin al-Hafiz and the ‘Principles’ and all that. But I didn’t want to discuss it till you brought the subject up.”

  Rashid gave him a searching look for a while and then grinned. “I knew from the start you were a clever guy who wouldn’t miss that sort of thing. So, now, are you going to join the party?”

  “Why not? I haven’t found anything that goes against my convictions. And anyway, I’m already a member of the organisation,” Hisham answered without much enthusiasm, but without hesitation either. Rashid smiled broadly again, and lit another cigarette from his packet of Abu Bass. He took a deep drag, then blew the smoke up to the ceiling out of the corner of his mouth, adding to the odours of fish, incense, smoke and damp that the fan spread throughout the room.

  “Great, great,” he began repeating over and over in a near-whisper as he continued smoking voraciously, looking even more wide-eyed at Hisham. “In that case, this time next week another comrade will join us: he’ll be in charge of you from now on. He’ll take you to the cell you’ll belong to.” Rashid paused briefly as Hisham crossed his hands over his knees, listening in obedient silence. “And from now on you must also have a movement name that your comrades will know you by.”

  “A movement name?” asked Hisham. “What does that mean?”

  Rashid gave a brief, arrogant laugh, and Hisham’s feelings of humiliation returned. “Your movement name,” said Rashid, “is like a mask that you wear so as not to be recognised. We use them for reasons of security, as comrades are not allowed to call one another by their real names. Now, do you want to choose your name, or shall I?”

  “No, I’ll choose,” cried Hisham.

  “All right. What’s it to be?” asked Rashid, trying not to laugh while Hisham began thinking of a name, his sense of mortification growing ever stronger.

  “Abu Huraira,” he blurted out, a name that for some unknown reason had just popped into his head. “Yes, Abu Huraira. That’ll be my movement name.”

  “Why ‘Abu Huraira’?” Rashid laughed out loud. Why not choose the name of a freedom fighter, like Guevara or Castro? Or do you just like ‘Abu Huraira’?”

  Hisham felt as though a knife were cutting through his insides and blood rushed to his head, but he kept his cool and tried to sound as calm as possible. “I think it’s a good name. Have you got anything against it?” he asked, with an edge to his voice.

  “Not in the slightest, Comrade Abu Huraira,” replied Rashid with a scowl before standing up, bringing the session to an end in his usual way. Hisham got up too, and they went out towards the stairs.

  “Next week will be our last meeting,” R
ashid said by the front door.

  “Your help has been a godsend,” said Hisham, automatically using a traditional expression as he set off without looking back; treading on the salty patches of sand in the road he felt an obscure pleasure as he heard them crumble, a sound that to his ears might have been a symphony.

  18

  “This is Old Shumaisi Street. Where did you want exactly?” The taxi driver’s voice seemed to be coming from far away, jolting Hisham out of the imaginary film that had been unreeling in his mind like an afternoon siesta dream.

  Hisham looked around. “Do you see that mosque?” he said, pointing to one about halfway between the al-Muqaibira cemetery and the central hospital. “Take the street immediately opposite it on the left.”

  The driver set off accordingly and turned into a dusty, narrow street. Hisham was trying to remember where his uncle’s house was; he had only ever been there twice before with his parents, on their way to visit his grandmother in Qusaim. A few children began running after the car, laughing and revelling in the dust storm it stirred up in its wake. In the distance, a shop selling gas canisters appeared, above which Hisham remembered his uncle lived.

  “You see that gas shop?” Hisham pointed it out to the driver. “Stop just there, please.”

  The driver braked by the house, sending up even more dust. Hisham got out, followed by the driver, who opened the boot but left his passenger to struggle with the suitcase himself. Annoyed, Hisham paid the driver, who took the money and returned to his seat, muttering, “God, a job like that’s worth four riyals. God sustain us ...” As the car drove off, Hisham heaved his suitcase through the dust over to a little iron door near the shop. He knocked and waited, then knocked again, harder this time, but still no one answered. ‘It’ll be a disaster if they’ve gone away,’ he thought to himself as anxiety began creeping over him. Before he had a chance to knock a third time he heard a faint voice from behind the door.