Adama Read online

  19

  When they returned from the mosque, Moudhi had prepared supper and laid the table with a large plate of saliq, grain cooked with cinnamon and fennel, in the middle of which she had placed two great chickens. There were also small plates of hot mixed salad dotted around the dish of saliq. The men took their places at the table: Abd al-Aziz at its head, Ahmad on his right and Hisham and then Abd al-Rahman on his left. They all remained silent around the table until Hisham’s uncle mumbled, “In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,” and reached for the food, after which everyone else followed suit.

  Everyone was helping themselves to the saliq, with their eyes on the chicken. Hisham’s uncle tore a leg off one of the chickens and put it on Hisham’s plate, and he began eating it quietly as Ahmad and Abd al-Rahman glared at him. Before long his uncle cut another leg and put it in front of him; he did the same thing again, as the glances of the others grew even more enraged. Then his uncle took a piece of breast meat and began chewing it softly, and at that point the others reached for the rest of the chicken, tearing off pieces and quietly eating them. A little while later Hisham’s uncle stood up, licking his fingers and muttering, “Thanks be to God, Lord of the Worlds” as he made his way to the washbasin and then from there to his room, where he would read a little of the Qur’an before saying the night prayers and going to sleep.

  No sooner had Ahmad and Abd al-Rahman made sure that their father had left than they pounced on the remains of the chicken and began fighting over them. Hisham watched them, dumbfounded; later he realised that if he wanted any meat to eat in this house he had to behave like a wolf at the dining table.

  They finished their supper, with nothing left of the two chickens but a few little bones, and washed their hands in the bathroom next to the sitting room. Then they went upstairs to the roof terrace to have tea and talk into the evening and enjoy the light breeze. The tea tray had already been prepared; it had been set down between four mattresses facing each other, spread with fine clean, fresh-smelling sheets. They all undressed and put their clothes neatly aside, keeping on their undergarments, which were long white shorts and vests. Lying on the mattresses, they propped themselves up on their elbows with their heads cupped in their hands and the tea in the middle waiting for someone to pour it.

  After a while Ahmad got up and poured himself a cup. “I’m not responsible for anyone else,” he said. “Whoever wants some tea can pour it themselves.” He retraced his steps to his mattress and began slurping his tea, leaning on his elbow and looking at his brother.

  Abd al-Rahman heaved himself to his feet and poured a cup of tea for himself and another for Hisham. “Some people have no shame; they don’t even have respect for their guests,” he said, holding Hisham’s cup out to him and looking at Ahmad out of the corner of his eye. But Ahmad paid no attention to his brother’s comment and continued drinking his tea.

  “If you’re referring to me,” he said, “you’re wrong. Hisham’s a member of the family.”

  Abd al-Rahman went back to his mattress, grumbling something that no one caught. The two brothers were curious in that they were alike in almost every respect but their personalities. Ahmad was the opposite of Abd al-Rahman: he was calm and collected to the point of coldness, and loved making money with a passion. Abd al-Rahman, in contrast, would fly off the handle at the slightest thing and never managed to hold onto his riyals for longer than the twinkling of an eye.

  Hisham leaned on his pillow, drinking his tea and savouring the breeze, which one did not always find on such clear nights. Meanwhile the brothers were arguing over who was going to accompany their father to the market the next day to buy household supplies.

  “Brother, make the most of the car Father bought you,” said Ahmad frigidly, paying no attention to Abd al-Rahman’s edginess. “Go to the market with him and take him wherever he wants. It’s the least you can do.”

  “Oh God,” Abd al-Rahman replied tersely, “as if he wasn’t your father too. Why don’t you take him in your car? Or is it too precious for that?”

  “I paid for my car with my own hard-earned cash, unlike some people.”

  “I know you,” said Abd al-Rahman, raising his voice. “You’d sell your own mother and father if the price was right.”

  “Of course I like money,” said Ahmad, unperturbed. “Haven’t I earned it by the sweat of my brow?” He smirked at Abd al-Rahman.

  “You’ve got the grace of God to thank for that, not yourself. I’ll go with Father, and I hope your stinginess does you good.”

  “Look, you’re just talking nonsense. It’s time you stopped acting like such a baby.”

  “It’s not your fault you’re such a pain,” muttered Abd al-Rahman, covering himself with his sheet, “it’s other people’s fault, for even trying to talk to you.”

  Peace and quiet returned again, and Hisham went back to gazing at the clear sky teeming with stars. Moudhi came to his mind. What a fetching girl she was, and an excellent housekeeper, too. It was she who had prepared the supper and laid it out, spread the mattresses on the roof terrace, made the tea and did all the housework. She certainly had enough on her hands with the demands of all her brothers. No doubt whoever married her would be a lucky man. Moudhi was less than a year older than Abd al-Rahman and less than a year younger than Ahmad. Their mother had had her first three children, Muhammad, Hamad and Munira, one after the other, and then had no more for about five years. After she had Ahmad, Moudhi and Abd al-Rahman in succession, she stopped having children for good.

  “You haven’t said what you are going to read at university,” Ahmad’s voice came from the other side of the roof terrace, interrupting Hisham’s musings.

  “Economics and political sciences, at the Faculty of Commerce,” he answered, taking a sip of his tea, which had gone cold.

  “Politics and economics!” said Ahmad, pouring himself a fourth cup. “Why don’t you study something useful, like engineering or medicine? Politics? What does that mean? It’s a load of rubbish.”

  “Politics is important,” cried Hisham. “It teaches you about systems of government and international relations and political philosophy and all kinds of things.”

  “Systems of government? And what’s government got to do with you? The traditional rulers are the ones who know all about that. You mind your own business. Do you really want to get yourself into serious trouble? Eat, drink and be merry and forget about politics; leave that to the people it really concerns.”

  “Politics concerns all of us,” said Hisham with feeling, sitting up. “I don’t want to bring about a revolution. I just want to understand.”

  Ahmad huffed dismissively. “Do as you like. It’s got nothing to do with me. Talking to you could land a person in jail ... You’ve always been stubborn, but I thought you’d come to your senses.”

  Ahmad fell silent and sipped his tea while Hisham lay back down, convinced that there was no point in talking to this cousin of his.

  “Why can’t you keep your mouth shut?” he heard Abd al-Rahman say, addressing his brother. “What would you know about it, anyway? You don’t know anything. You left before you’d even finished primary school to work as a debt collector, you love money so much. An ignoramus arguing with an educated person: how ridiculous! And Hisham,” he added, addressing his cousin, “you’re to blame as well for talking about things like that.”

  Abd al-Rahman looked at his brother out of the corner of his eye, but his comments had no effect on Ahmad, who remained leaning on his pillow. “Knowledge and understanding have nothing to do with diplomas, fart-face,” said Ahmad. “But that’s you all over: in secondary school, but stupid as an ox.”

  Abd al-Rahman flew into a temper and jumped up, looking daggers at his brother and ready for whatever might happen next. “Me, an ox? That’s rich coming from you, thicker than a donkey! At least I’m a student, whereas you, you ... You’re just a pathetic little clerk in a pathetic little company.”

  “If
you weren’t such an ox, you wouldn’t still be in the first year of secondary school. Look at Hisham: he’s the same age as you and he’s about to go to university. Yes, you’re a stupid ox, and unfortunately you’re my brother as well. God knows where they found you.”

  Abd al-Rahman hurled himself at Ahmad and would have hit him, but Hisham intervened to break up the scuffle. Just as this was going on they heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs; everyone stopped fighting and went back to their mattresses, thinking it was Abd al-Aziz coming after overhearing their row. They all pretended to be asleep until a familiar voice broke the silence:

  “Greetings, all ye faithful.”

  Whoever it was guffawed and then clapped his hand over his mouth, looking over at the other side of the terrace. All the others jumped up from their mattresses, throwing off their sheets.

  “Damn you, Hamad,” said Ahmad angrily. “You gave us a fright. And you’ve been at the coffee as well.”

  “Good evening, Hamad,” said Hisham, as Ahmad lay back down and covered his head with his sheet.

  Hamad pricked up his ears at the sound of this unfamiliar voice and looked over in Hisham’s direction, squinting in the darkness. “Hisham!” he cried ecstatically. “What brings you here? I mean, what good fortune is it that brings you here?” he added, laughing. He went over to Hisham, who got up from his mattress, and they embraced.

  “It’ll be good to have a fresh face among all the cows we see every day,” said Hamad, sniggering at his two brothers.

  “What about him who always turns up in the middle of the night? He’s the cow,” said Ahmad quietly from under his sheet.

  “Why are you such a pain, brother? Can’t you take a joke?” said Hamad, going over to his mattress and throwing himself down on it without taking off his clothes. There was no reply from Ahmad. Hamad yawned deeply and gave a loud groan, and moments later the sound of his snoring rose into the night sky. Hisham went back to his bed, lay down and looked at Abd al-Rahman, whose mattress was next to his.

  “Abd al-Rahman ... Abd al-Rahman, are you asleep?”

  “No one can get any sleep in this house,” said Abd al-Rahman.

  “Hamad doesn’t look normal. His eyes were red and he was slurring his speech. And he wasn’t walking straight and his breath smelled bad, like burnt plastic. Is he ill?”

  Abd al-Rahman chuckled. “No, he’s not ill or anything. He’s like a genie ... Just a bit of a coffee man.”

  “A coffee man! What does that mean? He drinks coffee?”

  Abd al-Rahman laughed again. “No, silly! He drinks arrack.”

  “What kind? Western arrack? Sadiqi arrack?”

  “No, the local stuff. It looks like piss, tastes like sick and smells like shit, if you’ll pardon my language.”

  “Where does he get it? I thought there wasn’t any alcohol in Riyadh!”

  “Everything’s possible in Riyadh. Some people make it locally for profit. Did you know that one bottle can go for twenty-five riyals?” Hisham whistled, and Abd al-Rahman continued to enlighten him. “Yes, and I’ll tell you another thing: foreign drink can fetch even more; you can sell one bottle of whisky for fifty riyals!”

  Hisham whistled again, louder this time. “But who brings it?” he said.

  “I don’t know. It must be smugglers and other people with their own ways. Who knows?”

  “Are you a coffee man too?”

  “No way. I don’t like it. But I can get you some, if you want,” he went on. “You can buy it in the neighbourhoods behind al-Wazir Street and by the Umm Salim roundabout, and in Hillat al-Abid and al-Atayef, and the lanes in al-Batha, and a few other places.”

  “Don’t get me anything and I won’t get you anything, either,” said Hisham, turning over onto his other side and throwing the sheet over his head. “Twenty-five riyals! Fifty riyals! I could live on that for a month ...! Good night.”

  They were so tired that within moments a cacophony of snoring could be heard.

  20

  Ghosts passed before Hisham in a fitful series of dreams. Faint images appeared, some with distinct faces, others shrinking away and unrecognisable. He saw Mansur and Rashid, Rashid and Adnan and Moudhi and that girl Abd al-Rahman told him about, calling him to her and laughing; no sooner would he approach her than she would run away, giggling. At one moment he found himself in Dammam, at another walking down al-Salat Street in Amman. Suddenly he was whisked away to al-Marja in Damascus, which in turn transformed into Martyrs’ Square in Beirut. In al-Safat Square in Riyadh, Ivan Karamazov came into view; then the head of Jean Valjean from Les Misérables emerged, Cosette behind him with her golden hair stealing glances at him. He heard Ahmad Abd al-Jawad from Naguib Mahfouz’s Cairo Trilogy reproaching someone, Zubayda giggling in front of him and Kamal dancing between them both as Yasin bit Zanuba’s bottom. The images became jumbled up, and suddenly there was Amina from the Trilogy dancing and Christine Keeler praying and in the distance Hisham’s mother, anxiously biting her fingers like Jacob warning Joseph not to go near Zuleika. He saw Noura, his young love, pouting; he went towards her, holding out his hands, but when he tried to embrace her she was not there. On top of the Empire State Building, he sensed someone standing behind him and looked round and saw Fahd, his superior in the party, hurtling towards him; he tried to duck but Fahd pushed him over and he fell, screaming as he went down.

  Hisham awoke with a shout, his face wet with sweat. Everything was quiet. ‘Thank God, I haven’t woken anyone up,’ he thought. He lay back down and looked up at the mass of stars in a flawless, tranquil sky that was never as clear in Dammam. There were a great many more stars too, shining more brightly than over his home town. Dammam stars were a dull grey colour, while these in Riyadh sparkled silver. A refreshing breeze blew, and Hisham’s body drank it up as a parched man would water. Hisham looked over towards the other side of the terrace, from which they were divided by a high mud-brick wall. Over there Moudhi and the other female members of the family were sleeping and nearby, separated by another wall, slept Muhammad, his wife and their children Abd al-Aziz and Faisal. As for his uncle, he only ever slept in his room, summer or winter.

  That Moudhi was sleeping just across was an exciting thought. Hisham wished he could see her asleep. How did she sleep? Did she take her clothes off like her brothers, or sleep with them on? At the thought of her taking off her clothes he trembled and felt a hot sensation flowing through his veins.

  Hisham looked around again and saw Hamad with his mouth gaping open like a dead person’s, lying on his back with his sheet off, robe pulled back. Ahmad was sleeping quietly, with one hand clutching his sheet and the other under his head. Abd al-Rahman was on his right side; his head had fallen away from his pillow and some saliva was dribbling down the side of his mouth. He was curled up, with his hands between his thighs and his sheet scrunched up under his feet. Hisham got up from his mattress and covered up Hamad, who gave a loud snore, and Abd al-Rahman, who mumbled something incoherently and then stretched and turned over. Hisham returned to his mattress and tried to doze off for a while, enjoying the dawn breezes unique to this place. His mattress was cool and dry, which made him smile; when they slept on the roof terrace in Dammam they could hardly breathe – the humidity would soak you through, as though you had wet yourself in your sleep. They used to struggle to find even a waft of fresh air, but when the humidity became unbearable, especially in July and August, they would be forced to sleep inside and turn on the air conditioning despite the expense. The electricity bill for that period would almost exceed fifty riyals a month, a huge amount that the family budget could never have stretched to all year round, even with Hisham’s father’s high salary.

  But notwithstanding the Nejd east wind, Dammam was still more pleasant than Riyadh; people were gentler and kinder there. Perhaps it was just that he was used to them. Perhaps.

  Moudhi came to mind once more, and he remembered Noura in Dammam and then thought of Abd al-Rahman’s girl ... The hea
t and tension returned. Hisham turned over first onto his right side, pressing his thighs together, and then onto his left. It felt as though Hell itself were burning inside him. He lay on his back and opened his legs, his breathing growing more audible. Suddenly he jumped up with a start as he heard his uncle under the stairs, calling:

  “Prayers, prayers. All of you pray, and may God grant you guidance. Morning has come and all power is in the hands of God, the One and Only,” he continued in a murmur. “There is no god but Allah. I am glad of Allah as my Lord, of Islam as my religion and of Muhammad as my Prophet.”

  Hisham looked about, and finding that no one had stirred, remained lying down; but a moment later his uncle appeared. He was wearing a white, flowing robe with the sleeves turned up and a white skullcap. His hands and face were still dripping water from his ritual ablutions. Hisham leaped up and greeted Abd al-Aziz.

  “Good morning, Uncle.”

  His uncle smiled. “Good morning, son,” he replied cheerfully. “God bless you. You’re up already?”

  “Yes, long may you live,” Hisham answered formally, as his uncle folded the sleeves of his robe back down and looked around the terrace at his sleeping progeny.

  “What’s the matter with these layabouts? Why don’t they get up?” he muttered. “God curse the Devil: he stops people from waking up and doing what is due to the Lord. Hamad,” he went on, raising his voice, “Ahmad, Abd al-Rahman. Wake up, and may God grant you guidance. Time for prayers, time for prayers.”

  Hamad stirred sluggishly when he heard his father’s voice, while Ahmad nimbly sprang from his bed and kissed his father on the forehead. Abd al-Aziz could not help smiling and repeated, “God bless you, son, God bless you.” Abd al-Rahman got up yawning and stretching as he said good morning to his father. But instead of replying, his father simply glanced at him and turned towards the stairs, reminding them, “Prayers, prayers: don’t miss prayer time.” With that, the stairwell swallowed him up and the rhythmical sound of his footsteps clicked into the distance.