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  “And also with you,” replied Hisham, and left.

  The world was scarcely big enough to contain his joy: at last he would achieve his aim of studying economics and politics as he wanted. He would be able to read Das Kapital and understand it properly (he had tried before, but all those equations and abstractions proved impenetrable). He would learn more in depth about how states rose and fell; more about systems of government and their different forms; he would learn all about Marxism, starting with its fundamental principles, and other political philosophies.

  These were the tantalising thoughts Hisham had on his way home. He looked out at the surrounding gardens and smiled. Four whole years to enjoy this beautiful place! And they would be giving him a grant of three hundred and twenty riyals a month – what a fortune! He would be able to buy whatever he wanted: books, magazines, meals in restaurants ... But one question occurred to him as he walked through the gardens. Why had they built the faculty like this? It was more of a palace than a normal college building. Why had they not made it like the Faculty of Engineering he had passed earlier? He made up his mind to ask someone about it at a later date.

  23

  On his way home Hisham passed by a small bookshop on New Shumaisi Street and bought a few magazines: ‘Arab Week’, ‘The New Public’, ‘al-Jadid’ and of course ‘Superman’. He still loved the comic, and had been reading it for years. He and Adnan were two of Superman’s greatest fans. Week after week they would amass copies, boasting to their friends of their collection. But about two years earlier Hisham had begun reading it in secret, embarrassed to be seen with it – he, the young intellectual who read Marx and Mao Tse-Tung, Dostoevsky and Naguib Mahfouz, interested in Superman! But what could he do? He enjoyed it, and could see no alternative!

  It was about twelve o’clock when he reached his uncle’s house; the men were still at work, except for Abd al-Rahman, who was off somewhere in the city. Hisham knocked and heard Moudhi’s voice in the distance calling out, “All right, all right.” She opened the door. “Hello, cousin. Come in,” she said cheerfully, drawing her veil when she saw him, but not before he managed to catch a glimpse of her face. She was quite pretty, he noticed, in fact even prettier than before, despite an outbreak of acne. He went into the sitting room, and noticed that his suitcase was no longer there.

  “We’ve taken it up to your room on the second floor,” said Moudhi before he could ask. “It’s the only free room in the house. It’s big and airy. Please have a seat; I’ll bring you some tea straight away.” She turned to go back into the main part of the house, but Hisham called her back.

  “Moudhi, if it’s all right with you, I’d like you to show me my room. I want to rest for a bit.”

  “Fine, fine,” she said, returning. “Follow me.” She began climbing the stairs opposite the sitting room, with Hisham behind her. He could not help noticing the erotic sight of her buttocks as she walked in front of him, but averted his gaze as they swung back and forth with every step she climbed.

  “Where’s Said today?” he said, trying to distract himself. “Why didn’t he open the door?”

  “I sent him to get a few things from the shop next door,” she replied, panting. “Did you want him for anything in particular?”

  “No, just asking.”

  Before they got to the second part of the staircase that led up to the roof terrace, Moudhi passed through a door between them that opened onto a small, narrow landing with a room on each side overlooking the courtyard. Moudhi opened the door to one of the rooms and invited him to go in. The room really was big. It had a very high ceiling from which a huge fan hung, and two small windows. He noticed that his suitcase had been placed carefully at the far end of the room and a smart, clean mattress laid on a clean yellow rug, beside which was an elegant if inexpensive carpet.

  “This is your room; I hope you like it,” said Moudhi as she opened a window.

  “It’s excellent. But ... what about the room next to it?”

  “It’s empty. We sometimes use it for guests, but you’re not a guest. And also,” she said, looking at him, “this room is bigger and airier. And it faces my room on the other side. You’ll only have to call me if you need anything. I’ll leave you to rest now,” she said, moving quickly towards the door. “I’ve got to start getting lunch ready. You’ll have your tea in a moment.”

  “Thank you, Moudhi. I don’t want anything more, just to rest for a little while,” he called out to her as she closed the door and disappeared, leaving a trace of that distinctive scent of hers. He picked up his magazines and went over to the mattress, but before he could lie down the door opened and Moudhi looked round again.

  “I forgot to tell you. Lunch is at about three o’clock. I’ll call you when it’s time.” As she closed the door again it seemed to him that he saw the shadow of a smile behind her veil.

  Hisham looked around. He really did like the room. It was large, private and clean; all it needed were a few essentials, but he would provide those: a bed, a desk, a clothes rail and a small stove for making tea. It did not make sense to ask Moudhi for tea every time he wanted some – she had enough to do already. He stripped to his underwear and threw the rest of his clothes carelessly on top of his suitcase. Then he turned on the fan and sat down on the mattress, leaning against the wall, and began reading a story about Superman on one of his journeys into the past. Hisham looked up after awhile, and as he did the film in his mind began again.

  24

  When Hisham arrived at Rashid’s house for their next meeting he found someone else there he had not met before, a young man of about twenty-six who was as white as a ghost and grossly overweight with a conspicuous paunch. He had short, curly black hair, a huge moustache and a wide mouth with thick, dark lips and large, regular teeth stained dark yellow. He was wearing a white robe and the cheap sort of trousers used by Aramco labourers. When Hisham entered, the man was smoking a Jordanian ‘Reem’ cigarette, the square packet lying beside him. He struggled to his feet when Hisham and Rashid came in.

  “Comrade Fahd, Comrade Abu Huraira,” said Rashid, stepping forward to make the introduction. They shook hands and all sat down around the empty teapot. When Rashid picked it up to pour Hisham a cup, the lid fell off and only a few drops of tea spilled out.

  “I’ll ask for another pot,” said Rashid, getting up.

  “There’s no need,” Fahd said in a domineering tone of voice, catching Rashid by his loincloth so that it nearly slipped off. “We’ll be leaving in a moment.”

  Rashid sat down, retying the loincloth. He lit a cigarette and calmly began smoking without uttering a word; at the same time Fahd took the last drag on his own cigarette and, as Rashid watched wide-eyed, stubbed it out on the tea tray despite the fact that the ashtray was next to him.

  Fahd looked at Hisham with little, bloodshot eyes. “Comrade Khalid has told me about you and says you’re ready to join the party. I’m in charge of the cell you’ll belong to.”

  ‘So Khalid is Rashid’s movement name,’ Hisham thought. ‘But I know Rashid by his real name, so why bother with a movement name?’ “Who is this Comrade Khalid?” he said, plucking up courage. “I don’t know him, so how come he knows me?”

  Rashid smiled. “No, you do know him,” said Fahd, giving Hisham a nasty look. “He’s Comrade Rashid. But I want to train you to use the movement names. I know your real name’s Hisham, and Khalid is Rashid. But you don’t know my real name, and nor should you.”

  “But what’s the point of having movement names if we all know each other anyway?” asked Hisham in surprise.

  “You were bound to know Rashid from your school,” said Fahd, “and I had to know your real name in order to make inquiries about you when you were nominated to join the organisation. But you must only know me and any other comrade you haven’t met before by our movement names.”

  “And Mansur ...” Hisham said without thinking.

  “What?” said Fahd, looking at him sternly.
/>   “Nothing ... Sorry.”

  “You have nothing to do with anyone except me, is that understood?” said Fahd angrily, as Hisham began to feel a loathing for this person in front of him.

  “But you know Rashid – sorry, I mean Comrade Khalid,” said Hisham after a short silence, “without the two of you having been acquainted before?”

  “So what? And anyway, I have to know everyone I’m in charge of.”

  “So what’s the point of movement names?”

  “Security, comrade! If one of us gets arrested, he won’t be able to give away the other comrades’ names.”

  “But you know everyone’s real names; what if you got arrested?”

  “It won’t happen. Only the comrades who joined the struggle before me know my real name. And there would be nothing to fear from them, even if they were arrested. In any case, the chances of that happening are very remote, because no one knows who they are.”

  “So the little people will be the ones to be sacrificed?”

  “Who said that? No one can get arrested unless the comrades in the leadership get arrested, and there’s no reason to be afraid either for them or of them.”

  “But what if –”

  “You ask a lot of questions,” said Fahd, interrupting him sharply, “and I’ve put up with enough from you already. In our work it’s not allowed to ask a lot of questions. The important thing is action. Didn’t Comrade Khalid explain that to you?” Fahd looked at Rashid. “Didn’t you explain that to him?” he asked angrily. “You said he was quite ready.”

  Rashid was caught unawares and gave such a jump that he almost choked on his cigarette, scattering ash onto the carpet. “He is ready,” he replied, stammering, “but he’s the kind that asks a lot of questions. I mentioned all that in my report about him.”

  Fahd looked at Hisham. “Look, comrade,” he said, his anger having abated a little, “if he didn’t tell you, I’m telling you now: asking a lot of questions is forbidden in our line of work. Now let’s go. It’s time for our meeting with the other comrades.”

  Fahd got up and Rashid and Hisham followed. Together they went down to the front door. Fahd looked at the other two. “After today you two don’t know each other,” he said peremptorily, wagging his finger. “The connection between you is over, even if you happen to meet anywhere, at school or anywhere else. I hope that’s understood.”

  They both nodded without saying anything, and as Rashid shut the door Fahd and Hisham set off towards al-Hubb Street.

  25

  It was approaching five o’clock when they arrived at an old house built, like Rashid’s, out of sea stone in one of the narrow, sandy alleys off al-Hubb Street. Fahd took a key out of his pocket and opened the dilapidated wooden door, which they passed through into a tiny, bare room. At the far end stood a small gas stove, and a wooden chest covered with a piece of grease-stained material atop which stood a teapot, cups, a small cooking pot and some utensils. Nearby, various items of food had been left in a mess, including packets of tea and sugar, a few tins of sauce and a small bag of rice. Halfway along one of the walls there was a small sink filled with water in which some plates and spoons had been left to soak. There were two more doors, one on either side of the sink, leading to two other rooms; in one of them Hisham noticed a metal bed covered with a red and blue striped sheet and next to it a clothes rack with some garments casually thrown over it. Fahd pointed towards the other room, inviting Hisham to go in.

  A shabby blue carpet dotted with burn marks was spread on the floor, and on top of it was a row of old, red cushions. Several metal ashtrays were also scattered about on the carpet, and not far from the door was a faded green fan peppered with flies’ droppings. Fahd gestured to Hisham to sit, which he did, in a corner as far away as possible. Hisham drew his knees up, feet on the ground, and leaned against one of the cushions. Fahd turned on the fan, then walked out of the room.

  “I’ll go and make some tea,” he said as he left. “The comrades will be here any minute now.”

  Fahd left Hisham on his own staring at the walls of the room, which had begun to crumble in the damp sea air, and trying to adjust to the odours of decay, damp and cigarette smoke. Shortly afterwards he heard a knock on the door, followed by the sound of the bolt being slid back and then the door being closed again. A moment later someone entered the room. Hisham jumped up to greet him and they shook hands. Hisham returned to his place while the person who had just arrived sat down cross-legged opposite him, leaning forward with his hands in his lap. His complexion was dark and he had fine, handsome features, straight, black hair and a small, black, arch-shaped moustache. He was tall and thin and was wearing an old black suit with a white shirt and sandals without socks. He and Hisham smiled at one another, then gazed at the ceiling without speaking.

  After that there were two more knocks on the door. The first heralded the arrival of a clean-shaven man of average height and build; his curly hair was uncovered and white robe open at the neck. Everyone shook hands, and the new arrival sat down next to the first man. Then a short, thin person arrived; he had a pale complexion and a huge moustache that was doubly conspicuous because he was obviously no more than nineteen years old. His appearance was all the more remarkable for his enormous head, bulging eyes and jutting ears. He too shook hands with everyone and sat down not far from Hisham. Shortly thereafter Fahd returned, carrying a large tray with a huge, oval-shaped teapot. He had changed his clothes and put on a red loincloth with white checks and a white, short-sleeved vest.

  “Welcome, comrades,” he greeted everyone, setting the tray down on the floor in the middle of the room and sitting down behind it. “The rest of you already know each other,” he said, indicating Hisham, “but let me introduce you to Comrade Abu Huraira; Comrade Abu Huraira, this is Comrade Hudaijan, our representative in the desert.” With this he pointed to the dark, handsome young man and chuckled; Hudaijan’s face betrayed his irritation, which he tried to conceal with a faint smile that quickly faded. “Comrade Abu Dharr,” Fahd went on, indicating the clean-shaven man; then, pointing to the pop-eyed youngster, “Comrade Hasan al-Sabah.”

  Once the introductions had been made, Fahd asked everyone to stand and repeat the party slogan to mark the beginning of the cell’s meeting. They all got to their feet, including Hisham, who did not yet know his role, and bowed their heads.

  “One Arab Nation,” said Fahd solemnly.

  “With an Eternal Mission,” the others repeated after him in the same tone.

  Afterwards they all sat back down and Fahd began pouring the tea and handing it out to the comrades. Hisham was watching with all the astonishment of someone who has said prayers for the first time after embracing a new religion.

  Fahd lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke high up into the air. He took a sip of his hot black tea, slurping as he did so, while the others remained silent, waiting for him to begin the discussion.

  “Comrades,” he said, “our nation is passing through dire straits and a difficult phase of our glorious history. The Setback has proven that the petty bourgeoisie is incapable of leading the nation. The project of the petty bourgeoisie fell with the defeat of ’67, just as the project of the feudalists and the rotten compradorist bourgeoisie fell with the defeat of ’48. Now it is the turn of the working classes, the proletariat, to put forward a progressive project that will express the aspirations of the struggling masses and the oppressed classes. The hope of our nation hangs on the project of the working class and its allies, which through its own liberation will liberate all society and the entire nation. Our party, the Arab Socialist Baath Party, and its revolution against the opportunists and vacillating petty bourgeoisie and all those who benefited from the compradorist bourgeoisie and the feudalists, has come to express the project of the working class and all the deprived classes in society. It is the sole nationalist party that represents the aspirations of the nation and the working classes of society. The forces of reaction, feudalism an
d the bourgeoisie, and behind them imperialism, colonialism and world capitalism with its protégé, Zionism, are standing in the way of our great party and fighting to sabotage its progressive project. But historical inevitability is on our side! We shall be victorious in the end, the nation will return to its glory and its natural role in history and scientific socialism will become a reality in the unified Arab State. History is on our side. This is what makes us fight, certain of victory over all our enemies.”

  Fahd finished speaking and paused to catch his breath. He took a few sips of his tea, lit another cigarette and with his lips pursed looked at the others to see the effect his words had on them.

  Hisham had been listening carefully, but remained worried by the question of Nasser’s position on all of this. He was the Orchestrator of the July Revolution, the Destroyer of the Tripartite Aggression of Israel, France and Britain in ’56, the Creator of the United Arab Republic between Egypt and Syria and the Socialist Laws of ’61 ... Yes, he had been defeated in June ’67, but that was the result of a global conspiracy, and in any case the conspiracy had not succeeded. Its aim had been to bring Nasser down, and he had not fallen. Nasser, for whom the Arab streets would empty when he gave one of his speeches, whose words had the power to make listeners tremble: what would he think about all of this? Was he part of the reactionary groups Fahd had mentioned, or what?

  Hisham steeled himself and looked at Fahd. “Comrade Fahd ...” he said, stammering a little.

  Fahd looked at him indifferently, nodding his permission for Hisham to speak.

  “Comrade Fahd, how should we categorise Nasser, and how should we evaluate him in this historic phase of the nation’s journey?”

  Fahd gave a half-smile and nodded several times. “Nasser is certainly an important nationalist figure,” he said, “but this phase has gone beyond him. He represents the petty bourgeoisie that fell with the defeat. We need an organised party, not an individual leader; a party with a comprehensive, scientific project, not just the exertions of one person. Nasser’s mistake from the very beginning was that he didn’t establish a party, and did not co-operate with ours. If he had done, the picture would be different now. The Setback wouldn’t have happened. In any case, he couldn’t have done anything; he belonged to the weak-willed, opportunistic, petty bourgeoisie that fell with the Setback, and he with it. The present phase is the phase of the party, and only the party.”