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  As soon as Hisham’s uncle disappeared Hamad went back to bed, muttering something incomprehensible, and moments later began to snore. Ahmad, who had stretched pleasurably, soon went back to bed too. Abd al-Rahman likewise dived back onto his mattress. “God save us,” he said. “Every day the same thing ... Can’t they postpone the prayer until later in the morning?” He threw the sheet over his face and began dribbling again. Hisham was left standing there, not knowing what to do: should he go to the mosque with his uncle, or return to sleep like his cousins? Eventually he decided on sleep; his cousins were bound to know best how things were run in the house. He lay down on his mattress, and the cool breeze and the dawn humidity began to make him feel sleepy; by the time the muezzin began chanting, “Prayer is better than sleep ... Prayer is better than sleep,” he had dozed off completely.

  21

  Everyone gathered around the breakfast table, and for the first time since he had arrived, Hisham met Muhammad. They embraced and exchanged the traditional greetings and questions, then joined the others who were already eating. There was complete silence, except for the sound of their chewing hot, white unleavened tamis bread and stewed beans with tomatoes, and sipping tea with ‘Abu Qaws’ milk. Moudhi was standing by the door; she had lowered her veil over her face and was asking, as she did every day, whether they needed anything else. When no one answered she made to leave.

  “Fine,” she said, “then I’ll go and milk the cow and churn the milk.”

  “Churn it well,” Muhammad yelled after her, bits of tomato flying from his mouth. “Yesterday’s milk was no good. It was too watery and didn’t have any flavour or enough cream.”

  At this Moudhi putting her head back round the door and adjusted her veil. “Why don’t you tell that to your wife?” she said, with a mixture of anger and sarcasm. “Why don’t you tell that to that little princess al-Anoud of yours?”

  “Al-Anoud has enough on her hands with the children and their problems,” replied Muhammad calmly, paying no attention to his sister’s scorn. “She spends all day hard at work.”

  “The children!” retorted Moudhi. “And ‘all day hard at work’! Poor little darling. What children, what work are you talking about, my fine fellow? I’m the one who cooks and does the laundry and sweeps the house and does the milking and churning, while her ladyship sits in her room doing I don’t know what, apart from making herself nice and pretty for his lordship.”

  The derisive force of Moudhi’s tone embarrassed Muhammad in front of his father and brothers and particularly the new member of the family, Hisham. All eyes were on him, and Ahmad was smirking. Abd al-Aziz could sense his son’s embarrassment. “Moudhi,” he said, looking at her, “don’t go too far.”

  Muhammad seized the opportunity and would have beaten his sister, who ran off, but his father told him to sit down. “Calm down, Muhammad,” he said. “Calm down. Women have neither sense nor religion.”

  “You’re right, Father, you’re right,” said Muhammad, sitting back down.

  Everyone went back to tearing the bread into pieces and dipping it in the stewed beans and drinking their tea. Once the storm had subsided, Abd al-Aziz addressed Muhammad again, mildly reproaching him this time. “Your sister’s right, Muhammad: your wife doesn’t pull her weight in this house. She’s become a great burden on Moudhi since Munira got married.”

  “Al-Anoud has great burdens of her own. The children and –”

  “Don’t make excuses,” his father said firmly, interrupting him. “I’m warning you, that’s all. You know I don’t like interfering in your private affairs, so don’t make me.”

  “Yes, Father, yes,” answered Muhammad, who stole a glance at Hisham as he bowed his head. His handsome face was blushing. Everyone busied themselves with eating, but Ahmad and Abd al-Rahman looked at one another and then at the food, trying not to laugh. Hamad drank his tea remarkably quickly but scarcely ate anything as he observed the proceedings with indifference. Of all of them, Muhammad was the one who most resembled his father, but he had not inherited the personality along with the physical appearance.

  Hisham watched in astonishment; these family dynamics were new to him. In Dammam his mother, father and he would eat together at the same table and sometimes his father would joke with them. He would also occasionally cook lunch when he came back from work early, even though both his parents were pure Nejdis. His father left Qusaim before he was fourteen years old and went away with the aqilat, the itinerant traders of Nejd, just as their era was drawing to a close. He settled in Kuwait for a while, before eventually making his home in Dammam. There he found a steady income, initially with Aramco and later with the government. Aramco paid better, but the company ‘sucked one’s life away,’ as his father used to say. But the customs of Hisham’s family and those of his friends’ families were completely different from anything that went on in this house, despite the fact that they were all from the same place and proud of Nejd and its people to the point of chauvinism, even if not one of them had ever set eyes on Nejd in his entire life. (“We love Nejd and we’re proud to belong to it,” Hisham’s father once said to him, “but we wouldn’t like to live there. Nejd has many children, but it doesn’t feed them.”)

  “I didn’t see you at dawn prayers today.” Hisham’s uncle addressed everyone at the table without looking at any one of them in particular. For a few moments there was quiet.

  “We were there, Father,” Ahmad said, breaking the silence with amazing audacity. “We were praying immediately behind you. But we came straight home after the prayers were over.” The father looked at his son with a certain mistrust, but then looked away at his teacup which still had a drop left in it. “God bless you all,” he said, drinking the remains of his tea. “What is due to God must never be neglected.” Abd al-Aziz then left for his room on the second floor, where he would put on his work clothes – a pure white robe and headdress, brown cloak and shiny black shoes – and go to the ministry where he worked as an under-secretary. Hisham’s uncle did not wear the iqal cord1 around his headdress unlike most other civil servants, preferring to wear only the head kerchief itself as did older men and young boys.

  “What a lying hypocrite you are,” said Abd al-Rahman to Ahmad when their father had gone. “I don’t know how Father can believe all your lies and hypocrisy.”

  Ahmad smiled calmly and took a large gulp of tea, which he held in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “And what would you like me to have said?” he asked. “‘We didn’t say our prayers?’ You’re naive, brother.” Abd al-Rahman was silent. He knew his brother was right, and he, too, found his father’s religious zeal trying, as much as he appreciated that Abd al-Aziz did not keep a sharp, spying eye on his children like some other fathers he knew of. He was also aware that their father was a good and tolerant person: Abd al-Aziz knew that they sometimes did not pray, and that they played Kiram and Plot and listened to music, but he turned a blind eye to all that. However, his sense of religious obligation and duty as a father compelled him to encourage them to pray, to wake them for the dawn prayers in particular and comment when he did not see them in the mosque. When they answered, “Yes, we were there, we said our prayers,” he would feel relieved at having done that duty. But he tried to appear severe in order to prevent them from becoming any more lax than they already were, even though his favourite aphorism was, “All we can control are outward appearances, for the secrets of men’s souls are known to God alone.”

  “It’s time to go, I’m almost late,” said Muhammad, getting up and heading for his room on the other side of the house. Then Ahmad got up, cup still in hand. Finally Hamad heaved himself to his feet, grumbling; he had not said a word throughout the entire meal.

  Abd al-Rahman and Hisham were left alone, and no sooner had Hisham made sure of that fact than he addressed his cousin. “Abd al-Rahman,” he said, “there was something I wanted to ask you last night.”

  “Go ahead, ask whatever you like,” replied Abd al
-Rahman, trying to extract the last drop of tea from the pot.

  “Doesn’t my uncle suspect Hamad? I mean ... I mean ...”

  “You mean about the arrack, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Abd al-Rahman put the teapot down and laughed, having given up hope of getting any more tea out. “Your uncle doesn’t even suspect that there’s any alcohol in this country to start with, so how would he suspect it in his own house, his own son? Even if he saw Hamad staggering along he wouldn’t suspect anything like that.”

  They both fell silent when Moudhi came in with Said in tow to take away the leftover food and clean the room. She folded the tablecloth after Said had collected the crockery. “I hope you liked our breakfast,” she said to Hisham.

  “It was wonderful; God bless the hands that made it,” he replied, smiling and looking in her eyes, which somehow defied her veil.

  Moudhi laughed and looked at her brother. “That’s a nice way to talk, really. God bless you too,” she said, and then left with Said following her. Hisham kept smiling and watching her until she disappeared from sight.

  “That sister of mine’s got a sharp tongue on her,” said Abd al-Rahman bitterly.

  “You shouldn’t all be so hard on her,” remarked Hisham with a smile. “Anyway, what have you got planned for today?”

  “Nothing special,” said Abd al-Rahman, his face brightening as he spoke. “I’m going to meet some friends and we might go to the Suwaiqa market together, or to one of their houses and play Kiram. Won’t you come with us? You’d have a good time.”

  “Not today,” replied Hisham. “I’ve got to go to the Faculty of Commerce to hand in my application. Term starts in a fortnight.”

  “Damn term! Do you have to remind me? Let me enjoy the holiday without anything spoiling it,” grumbled Abd al-Rahman. “Fine,” he went on, “today you’ll finish your business at the faculty. What about the rest of the days you’ve got left? What are you going to do with the two weeks you’ve got left?”

  “I don’t really know. I might go back to the Eastern Province. Or read. Or see the sights in Riyadh: you know I don’t know it well, this city where I’m going to live for four whole years. Who knows?”

  “Forget about the Eastern Province and all that other rubbish. I’ll get you to know Riyadh like you’ve never known anywhere else before. I’ll show you another Riyadh, another world.”

  Hisham smiled. “Goodbye,” he said. He went to his suitcase, still in the sitting room, took out some clean clothes and went to have a shower before going out.

  ________________

  1. The iqal cords are ropes used to hold men’s headdresses in place. Standard accessories for public wear, they are sometimes left off in more informal circumstances.

  22

  Having asked Abd al-Rahman how he could locate the Faculty of Commerce, Hisham was furnished with clear directions to the building, which was situated in Alisha. He was surprised his cousin knew the way, given that he was not interested in that sort of thing, but Abd al-Rahman told him he often passed it on his way to see some friends who lived in the area.

  Hisham left the house with his papers in his hand and Moudhi’s voice in his ears, telling Said to do something or other. He turned right towards the dusty road that divided Old and New Shumaisi Streets. It was not a long way, but far enough for him to get dirt all over the new Nejdi shoes his father had bought him as a going-away present. New Shumaisi Street was one of the smartest streets in Riyadh, newly paved with two lanes divided by a row of trees. On either side there were shops of every description: greengrocers, butchers, tailors, barbers, estate agencies and restaurants. But above all the street was known, along with Asir Street nearby, as the place where the best camel calf meat in Riyadh was sold. The only place with anything like its reputation was Hillat al-Abid, where one could buy the finest, most famous camel calf’s liver in the city.

  Hisham stood at the top of the street, waiting for the ‘City Line’ bus to al-Assarat Street. The bus came quickly and the driver stopped without Hisham’s having to wave. The bus, a small Volkswagen, was packed. Hisham pushed his way to a small seat at the rear; at first he was almost knocked out by the smell of sweat from the other passengers, who were mostly Yemeni labourers plus a few locals, but he soon got used to it. The bus drove west towards al-Assarat Street and, once there, turned right to go north. When it reached the junction of al-Assarat and al-Khazzan Streets, Hisham waved to the driver to stop, fought his way off the bus as the other passengers grumbled around him, and paid the driver four fils.

  He stood still on the pavement for a few moments to take in some fresh air and get his bearings, as he recalled Abd al-Rahman’s description of the place. He saw the Television Building not far off to the east and an enormous abandoned palace to the west, and headed in that direction with the palace on his right. After several minutes and a few more turns he came to a small, ugly building marked ‘Riyadh Water Department, Alisha Branch’. He continued until he reached a building surrounded by soldiers with a forest of transmission masts on the roof, but without any sign identifying it. He knew from Abd al-Rahman’s description that this was the Secret Police building and as he passed it his heartbeat quickened along with his steps and he shivered as he remembered how Abd al-Rahman had described the place: “They think no one has any idea what the building is, but everyone knows it’s their headquarters. God protect us from evil.”

  Hisham kept walking until he reached the Faculty of Engineering nearby. Soon he caught sight of some high walls with a magnificent palace set between them. ‘From the way Abd al-Rahman described it, this must be the Faculty of Commerce,’ Hisham thought as he approached the building. On the huge, green gateway made of beautiful wrought iron two signs indicated ‘Faculty of Agriculture’ on one side and ‘Faculty of Commerce’ on the other. Inside, Hisham found himself before a vast expanse of green planted with all kinds of flowers and trees, bisected by an elegant paved avenue leading to the doorway of the palace. Slowly, quietly, he followed the avenue and climbed the seven broad marble steps to the palace’s main door.

  Hisham entered the palace through a large wooden door flanked by two vast columns of white marble. It led to a spacious hall in which everything was also made of marble, sparklingly clean and so quiet one could hear the slightest movement. The hall ended in a marble flight of stairs that led up to the second floor, and a back door that opened onto a number of animal pens, from which cows’ lowing and the bleating of sheep could be heard. Numerous rooms with gleaming ebony doors were located in a circle around the hall. Hisham did not know where to begin. The hall was completely empty and silent but for the echoes of voices coming from somewhere he could not make out. The vacation period had not quite ended, which greatly reduced the chances that any students or professors would be about. Eventually he decided to go through the rooms one by one in a circle, starting on the right. The doors were marked ‘Dean of the Faculty of Commerce’; ‘Director of the Faculty of Commerce’; ‘Head of the Department of Accounting and Business Administration’; ‘Head of the Department of Economics and Political Sciences’; ‘Accounts’; and ‘Registrar’.

  Hisham knocked on the last door and entered without waiting for permission. He found himself in a large room with black leather chairs at the sides and a black, semicircular desk with a glass-covered top at the end. Behind the desk sat a grossly overweight man in a white robe and a white headdress without iqal cords. He had a nose like a hawk’s beak and a tiny moustache with a very sparse beard that was barely more than a scattering of little hairs. On the wall directly above the desk there was an enormous portrait of the king, standing, in a cream-coloured cloak, white headdress and iqal cords decorated with gold thread.

  “Peace be upon you,” Hisham said as he approached the desk.

  “And also on you, with God’s mercy and His blessings,” mumbled the man sitting behind the desk, without looking up from his papers. “What can I do for you?”

  Wit
hout sitting or being invited to do so, Hisham held out his file. “I would like to join the faculty ... and these are my papers,” he said.

  “The deadline for registration has already passed,” the registrar said, as he took the file. Hisham’s heart began to sink. “But never mind,” the registrar continued, smiling, “the faculty isn’t full yet.”

  The last comment raised Hisham’s hopes. The registrar leafed through the papers in the file, nodding from time to time, and then closed it and looked at Hisham.

  “Your average is sixty-four per cent,” he said, “and you had to retake two subjects.” He paused for a moment. “But it doesn’t matter. Please, do sit down.” He pointed to a chair opposite. Hisham sat down as the registrar opened a drawer and took out a printed sheet of paper, which he held out. “Your papers are all in order; the only thing missing is your application form to join the faculty. Fill this out, and good luck to you.”

  Hisham took the form and did as asked, leaning on the table in front of him. The registrar added the completed file to the rest of his papers.

  “The course starts in two weeks, God willing,” said the registrar, as he began shuffling the papers in front of him to indicate that the interview was over.

  “Thank you,” Hisham murmured. He got up from his chair and walked rather hesitantly to the door, but when he reached it he turned with his hand on the doorknob and looked at the registrar again. “Excuse me,” he said.

  “Yes?” muttered the registrar distantly, looking up.

  “Are you sure I’ve been accepted by the faculty?”

  The registrar smiled and went back to his papers. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just come along in two weeks’ time.”

  “But my grades aren’t good, and I’m concerned that –”

  “Don’t fret,” the registrar said. “The main thing is that you’ve got your high school diploma; that’s all that’s required. God be with you.”