Shumaisi Read online

  Hisham nodded to show that he understood, even though deep down he had misgivings. He sipped his cold black tea quietly, without enjoying it much. They all fell silent, as the gentle moaning of the fan induced a feeling of lethargy. After asking his friends if they minded, he slumped back against the wall and stretched out his legs, and his two friends followed suit. He soon dozed off, but was woken by the sound of the front door being opened. He straightened as Dais, with his thin body and tall frame, came into the room with a book under his arm. Hisham stood up. They shook hands and embraced, exchanging kisses and the traditional greetings, then sat down as Dais tried to shake the last drops of tea from the pot.

  ‘I’ve just come from the Ibn Qasim auction beside the big mosque,’ he said, with obvious enthusiasm. ‘What a place!’ Draining the dregs from his glass he added, ‘You can find things there you’d never imagine. Even banned books – books that have been burned – you can find them there dirt cheap!’ He fiddled with the teapot again. ‘Can you believe it? I found this book there and bought it for just one riyal. If the bookseller had asked for two I’d have given it to him.’ He chucked the book down in the middle of the floor for them to see. Muhammad picked it up and read out the title in a loud voice. ‘The Philosophy of the Revolution, by Gamal Abdel-Nasser.’ Then Hisham took it and began to flip through its pages. He had already made up his mind to go to the auction again. He had been there before when he was buying stuff for his room and found a lot of books he hadn’t expected to see such as the Baathist Aflaq’s On the Path to Revival; Munif Razzaz’s Features of the New Arab Life; an extremely ragged copy of the first part of Marx’s Das Kapital; two stories by Maxim Gorky and Fyodor Dostoevsky; as well as a complete set of the Pillars of Freedom series by Qadri Qalaji.

  ‘Muhanna will be so pleased to get a book like this,’ said Dais happily, looking at Muhammad and Muhaysin, who glanced at Hisham. This Muhanna, who appeared as a shadowy presence behind everything they said and did ... Hisham was beginning to get annoyed at hearing his name repeated at every turn. He got up and excused himself. ‘I have some things I must do before term begins,’ he said, and making for the door he said goodbye. Their farewells trailed after him. But before the alley could swallow him up, Muhaysin leaned out of the window and shouted after him.

  Hisham turned back. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Muhaysin. ‘But some friends will be spending the evening with us tonight. Why don’t you come? It’ll be a reunion for the Qusaim holiday!’

  ‘Okay. I’ll come – God willing,’ said Hisham. He began to walk back towards the Umm Salim roundabout. Before reaching the end of the alley, however, he turned back towards the students’ house and saw Muhaysin still leaning his elbows on the windowsill, and a girl standing outside the door of the house opposite. She had covered her face with a thin veil, and was putting the rubbish out in a way that seemed slightly too casual. He gave it no further thought, however, and carried on walking. The muezzin was about to call people to the sunset prayers.

  4

  When he returned to the house that evening, he found everyone gathered in the hall around the teapot. As well as the regular members of the household, there were three newcomers. He already knew Salim al-Sinnur and Salih al-Tarthut, whom he had met before in Qusaim, and he was introduced to the third man but instantly forgot his name. Muhanna al-Tairi sat in the middle and everyone hovered around him. He was talking about the latest Rogers peace initiative, and the reasons that had induced Nasser to accept it. Muhanna was not enthusiastic about Hisham’s presence. He had looked at him with suspicion when he came in and only got up sluggishly to greet him. The smile on his face was obviously forced as he said, ‘Greetings to the newcomer! Greetings to the shepherd of Marx!’ Hisham gave an equally forced smile. They exchanged cold kisses, then Hisham said, ‘How nice to see you, brother Muhanna!’

  ‘May you have good health, brother Hisham … Or should I say “comrade”?’ Muhanna sniggered. He reminded Hisham of a cornered rat, the way his gaze shifted round everyone. Then he went back to where he had been sitting, while Hisham chose a place in the circle between Muhaysin and Muhammad. Before Muhanna started talking again he studied Hisham, frowning.

  ‘By the way, brother Hisham,’ he asked, ‘are you still a communist?’ While speaking his eyes once more shifted around the gathering, then he turned back to Hisham who answered coolly, trying to hide his anger.

  ‘Who told you I was a communist? I’m a socialist. Isn’t Gamal Abdel-Nasser one too?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Muhanna. ‘But he’s not an atheist like you. I mean, like the communists.’

  ‘Who told you I’m an atheist? Or is that an accusation?’ retorted Hisham angrily. Muhanna was silent for a moment, then started talking about the Rogers initiative again, and how wise Nasser had been to accept it just at this precise moment, now that the war of attrition had achieved its objectives. Hisham listened silently, his thoughts returning to the time of the organisation.* He was furious, not hearing a word of what was being said around him, until Muhaysin dragged him out of his gloom. ‘Are you really a communist?’ he asked in a whisper.

  ‘You asked me before, and I gave you an answer.’

  ‘It was a vague answer. I want a precise answer, yes or no.’

  ‘There is no definite “yes” or “no” here. Yes, Marxism attracts me. But no, I am not a communist.’

  ‘What’s the difference? The one implies the other.’

  ‘Not exactly. It’s a long story. We’ll discuss it later.’ At this point, Muhammad, who had been listening to their whispering, interrupted.

  ‘Do you really not love Nasser?’ he asked, also in a whisper. Before Hisham could reply, Muhammad added, ‘I can’t imagine that there is anyone who doesn’t love Nasser ... except for traitors and agents. And sorry, I don’t think you’re one of them.’

  ‘It’s not a question of love or hate, but a matter of principle. I don’t hate Nasser personally. On the contrary, I love and admire him totally. But he doesn’t satisfy me intellectually, that’s all there is to it.’

  Hisham was whispering without paying attention to the blazing looks Muhanna was directing at him. He soon felt their heat, however, when, in a voice clearly betraying intense anger, Muhanna challenged, ‘What’s all this whispering, friends? If you don’t want to talk to us, why don’t you go elsewhere?’

  Muhammad and Muhaysin were silenced by Muhanna’s outburst. They lowered their heads and stared at the ground. But Hisham was unable to bear the insult. He couldn’t curb his headstrong nature. With wide eyes and reddening cheeks he said in a voice quivering with rage, ‘Brother Muhanna. You are simply talking to yourself. You’re giving a lecture, and I, for one, am not obliged to listen.’ He got up, making as if to leave, but Muhaysin grabbed him by the hem of his tob.

  ‘Hisham, stay,’ he begged. ‘It’s too early to leave.’ Then he looked at Muhanna. ‘He’s our guest, Muhanna,’ he said weakly. ‘At the very least, he’s my guest.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he’s a guest, Muhanna,’ repeated Muhammad and Dais. Muhanna sighed stagily, glaring at Hisham, who smiled evilly and sat back down. Now Muhanna could not remember where he had left off, and started to flounder and stop before reaching the ends of his sentences. He got up suddenly and made for his room, adding in a tone he made as sarcastic as possible, ‘Reading is better than all this time-wasting. I’m going to reread the 30 March Declaration, the best political document of the age.’ He gave Hisham a filthy sideways glance.

  As soon as Muhanna had shut his bedroom door, Salih al-Tarthuth shouted, ‘Cards! Cards! Who will play?’ Then the company became heated and began to shout. Muhammad got up to get the playing cards from his room, while Dais went into the kitchen to make tea.

  ________________

  * While at school, Hisham joined an ill-fated illegal political organisation. See Adama.

  5

  Term began. On Saturday, Hisham went to College, which was packed with
students, unlike the day he had first visited it. He was tense and fearful as he embarked on this new phase of his life. Doubtless everything would be totally different to what he had been used to at school. Here ‘doctors’, not teachers, gave the instruction. The mere mention of the word ‘doctor’ was enough to conjure fear and awe, so how would it be when they were seeing them and dealing with them every day? Here there were ‘lectures’, not ‘classes’, and only oneself to rely on instead of everything being completely mapped out as it had been at secondary school.

  When he entered the big hall there was a large crowd at the announcements board, which listed the names of the students, their level of study, their lecture rooms and the names of the doctors who were lecturing. He joined the crowd and, once he’d found his name on the board, wrote down all the vital information.

  The first lecture was on economics, a subject he had studied a lot in order to crack the riddles of Das Kapital – a book he still couldn’t touch without a slight feeling of awe and a strange tremor passing through his whole being.

  In came Doctor Mahmud Behnis Jaljali, Professor of Economics. Unlike the other doctors he did not wear the traditional head cord, and he would even take off his headdress, throwing it down on the table in front of him until he had finished his lecture, when he would sling it over his shoulder and leave. Doctor Mahmud was a typical Meccan, from a traditional quarter of the town. He was witty and well-versed in his subject, but he was also demanding. He asked them to buy an enormous book – The Principles of Economics by Paul Samuelson – then told them that this book would be no more than a work of reference; the meat of the subject would lie in what he had to say during lectures. Some of the students disliked Doctor Mahmud for his strictness and pedantry, so in order to explain away the humour and courage he displayed in tackling political subjects normally reckoned off-limits, they accused him of drinking before he came to lectures, and some of them swore blind they’d smelled whisky on his breath while he was speaking.

  The second lecture was on ‘General Administration’ by Laith Abd al-Wadud. He made a bad impression from the start. Gloomy and morose, he looked as though he carried the burdens of the world on his shoulders; when he did occasionally smile, he looked as though his jaw cracked in the process. Their dislike of him was increased by the fact that he didn’t require one set book but a whole collection, most of which were not to be found in the bookshops of Riyadh or the college library. When they told him this, he gave one of his rare smiles and said, ‘Not my problem. I give you the references, it’s up to you to get hold of the books.’ Despite the fact that he tried to be more human later, they maintained a deep dislike for him.

  The third lecture, ‘Political Principles’, was given by Doctor Muharib al-Khayzurani. He stood out immediately because he was very tall and extremely heavily built, with a tiny, delicate voice. The words twittered from his mouth with a speed and harmony that was utterly captivating. On top of all this, to relieve the atmosphere from time to time he would smile and crack jokes in a broad Gulf accent. What made them like him even more was that he didn’t give them any references, but said that if they came to his lectures and listened attentively that would be enough. His lectures, despite their richness, were more like stories and folktales – which made politics the most popular subject among the students.

  The last lecture that day was on the subject of general international law, and was given by Doctor Ahmad al-Mukannaz. He came into the room with a glass of tea in his hand, which he put down on the table in front of him. He then began to sip it noisily, speaking slowly and chewing over his words in a way that made sleep tickle their eyelids. He asked them to get a copy of Ali Sadiq Abu Hayf’s book, General International Law, then told them it was unavailable in the commercial bookshops and that they would need to ask someone to bring it from abroad. Doctor Ahmad was uncouth in his appearance and in his behaviour. His habit of always bringing tea into the lecture room was roundly condemned. They had had to get used to a long list of ‘don’ts’ in the lecture room, including eating and drinking. When some students concluded that behaving like this must be a natural thing to do in the university, and brought glasses of tea with them into one of Doctor Ahmad’s lectures, he reprimanded them severely and turned them out of the room while he himself went back to noisily slurping his tea. He and Doctor Laith were the butt of the students’ jokes, sarcasm and vehement dislike.

  The day’s lectures were over. Some of the tension and fear that had dogged Hisham all morning disappeared. It was still early, only a little after twelve o’clock, and he didn’t want to go back to his room yet. The college caretakers were rolling out decorated carpets in readiness for the noon prayers, and some students were already sitting on them while others were heading for the canteen at the back of the building, from where you could see the walls of the Agricultural College. Hisham made for the canteen and ordered an egg sandwich and cola from Amm Wardan, who was in charge, choosing an out-of-the-way seat at one of the wooden tables spread around. He looked around as he ate and drank, filling his lungs with air that was heavy with the smell of cow dung – a smell that is quite acceptable, even pleasant, once you are used to it. Amm Wardan was extremely thin and tall, and quite dark. His eyes were always red, tinged with a hint of yellow, and he had very fine features with prominent veins on his forehead and hands. He always wore a white, flowing tob and a striped skullcap, which could not hide the bald head that shone through the holes in its design. Despite his attempts to look stern, it became clear that he was extremely kind, and that this stern expression was just a first line of defence against the students’ horseplay.

  Hisham munched quietly and took it all in. His old sense of wonder returned. Why all this architectural extravagance, as if the university were a towering palace? Again he looked around: just a handful of students and Amm Wardan, leaning on the edge of the serving window enjoying a cigarette after getting the students’ orders. Hisham went up to him and ordered a glass of tea. As he made it Hisham asked – trying to seem casual – ‘It’s strange, this place. More like a palace than a college.’ Amm Wardan laughed as he stirred the sugar in the glass, revealing a gappy mixture of black, yellow and white teeth. In one corner of his mouth glittered a gold tooth. Handing the tea to Hisham, he spoke in a rapid Sudanese dialect: ‘It was a palace, man ... It was a palace belonging to one of the elite.’ He took the quarter riyal for the drink, then added with a meaningful smile, ‘But he moved to a new residence, and leased his palace to the university. That’s the story.’ He moved away as he spoke, ready to greet a customer. Hisham returned to his seat and drank his treacly tea. He didn’t finish but got up, resolving to stop by his friends’ house for a short time before going home.

  6

  The lectures continued over the following days, and Hisham’s fear of university finally disappeared as he got to know the rest of the lecturers. They were a collection of peculiar and contradictory types. There was Doctor Najar al-Shatartun, an inexcusably ill-tempered man who behaved as if he were perpetually at war with the rest of the human race. He demanded that they read a lot of references in addition to what he said in lectures, in spite of the fact that his academic shallowness was obvious from the start. Although they did everything they were told, they could never get good marks from this professor until one of the students discovered his secret: he used a book not mentioned in his list of references, and had borrowed all the copies to be found in the college and university libraries. The students managed to get hold of copies of this book, which they passed among themselves with smiles on their faces; Doctor Najar turned into a walking question and exclamation mark all in one, which increased his extraordinarily bad temper.

  There was Doctor Talba Abd al-Mutajalli, Professor of Business Management, who fiddled with his nose the whole time. A fine spray flew from his mouth as he spoke, which encouraged everyone to avoid the front row of the lecture hall. Doctor Hasan Luzanji, Professor of Economic Resources, was so relaxed with the students th
at he even cracked some risqué jokes during his lectures and had no embarrassment about mentioning matters that are not usually brought up in public. There was Doctor Muhammad al-Hizbar, Professor of Accounting, who caused them considerable anguish despite his strength of personality and depth of knowledge, for he squinted so badly that if he asked one of the students a question, that student wouldn’t reply, thinking that the professor meant the person next to him. The professor would then explode with anger and castigate him in a broad Upper Egyptian accent, then hastily apologise with exaggerated politeness, pointing with his finger at the pupil he actually meant. Doctor Muhammad was one of the professors dearest to their hearts. He was extremely learned, with a strong personality and fluent style, and on top of all that he was pleasant company. He was the exact opposite of Doctor Najar al-Shatartun.

  Then there was Doctor Said al-Ghadban, Professor of Islamic Culture. He spent most of the time talking about himself before starting his lecture, so that the bell would ring almost before the lecture had got underway. The main concern of Doctor Sutuhi al-Mifakk, Professor of General Finance, was to get to know the students from rich families so that he could cadge a lift home with them at the end of the teaching day. There was also Doctor Mutawalli Shahtuti, Professor of Financial Mathematics, who was constantly talking about his failure to take the opportunity of settling in America when he had been a student on a scholarship there. But he was one of the best-loved professors by the students … because he was so often absent.