Shumaisi Read online

  The fear and tension finally disappeared. Hisham soon saw that it was simply a matter of a change of names; at heart it was just the same as school. The teacher had turned into a doctor, the school into a college, the class into a lecture and the classroom into a lecture theatre. As the lectures went on, he became frustrated as he worked out that the knowledge he was seeking wasn’t to be found here. He wanted to study capitalism, socialism, Marxism and the political and economic systems he had fallen in love with since reading Studies in Systems and Regimes by Louis Awad and Major Economic Systems by Rashid al-Barawi. Here, though, they taught subjects that he not only did not like but actually felt an aversion to, because they bore no relation to what was going on in his mind: Accounting, Business Management, General Administration, Insurance, Mathematics, Statistics, Law. Even the economics they taught in college had no connection with political economy, the basics of which he already knew but into which wanted to delve deeper. They learned the law of scarcity, advantage and diminishing returns and the complexities of supply and demand, without any mention of capitalism, socialism or their historical laws. As time went on, he felt that they were teaching him capitalism and its laws on the basis that this was economics. He realised that Marx had been right when he talked about warped consciousness, and about the ruling class imposing this consciousness as the true consciousness. Despite the fact that he found something in politics to quench his thirst, it wasn’t enough.

  When he went back to his out-of-the-way room, taking the college coach that spared him walking or being herded into the local bus, he shut himself in and made tea, then began to read what really interested him, as well as forcing himself to study the college subjects he didn’t like. When he got bored with revising or reading, he would go to his friends’ house, and spend hours with Muhaysin, chatting and drinking tea in his room. Sometimes Muhammad and Dais would join them. As for Muhanna, he was either be out or in his room, sometimes reading but more usually twiddling the knob on his radio. The needle would invariably come to rest on the ‘Voice of the Arabs’, after a long detour that took in London, the ‘Voice of America’ and the Moscow Arabic service.

  7

  One afternoon, bored with reading and with Abd al-Rahman’s never-ending complaints, Hisham went to his friends’ house. He knocked on the door several times, but no one answered. It seemed his friends were out. He turned away, intending reluctantly to go back the way he had come, and happened to turn towards Muhaysin’s closed window. Through the blind, he spotted a fan turning. He was surprised that Muhaysin should be so extravagant as to leave the fan turning when he was out. As he stepped from the threshold, he thought he heard a whisper. He listened more carefully, but heard nothing. Again he was about to leave, when this time he heard the sound of a stifled laugh. He was sure he wasn’t just imagining it. With nothing else to do, and overcome by a burning curiosity to know what was happening in Muhaysin’s room, he retraced his steps to the top of the alley and waited at the first corner, watching the house with great anticipation. Then the call to evening prayers sang out. A few minutes later the door opened and Muhaysin’s head popped out and looked anxiously left and right. As soon as he was certain there was no one walking down the street, he disappeared. A girl wrapped in black slipped from the house and headed quickly for one of the houses opposite. She ducked inside and shut the door quietly behind her. Hisham smiled and sensed the ghost of Raqiyya teasing him again. Tension and lust consumed him. He waited for ages, he didn’t know how long, until he saw the window open and Muhaysin’s head emerge briefly. Then he walked back to the house and casually knocked on the door. Muhaysin’s head soon emerged again, this time smiling to greet him. He opened the door wearing a white vest and a pair of white trousers that reached just short of his knees. Droplets of sweat had gathered on his brow.

  The two of them went into the room that to Hisham’s mind still bore all the hallmarks of a female guest. Muhaysin donned a white tob that was hanging from a wall-hook. There was little out of the ordinary about his room, just a tea tray with two glasses and a small silver teapot on the desk, and a small towel lying on the floor. Hisham looked at the towel, then up at his friend, with a knowing smile. Muhaysin flushed. He snatched up the towel and chucked it into the bathroom, then came back, saying in a sheepish voice, ‘Forgive me. A bachelor’s mess, as you can see.’ Hisham said nothing but smiled – an inscrutable smile that seemed to Muhaysin to conceal a multitude of meanings.

  The two sat on the floor, Hisham still smiling, while Muhaysin continued to look very embarrassed. He soon got up, saying quickly, ‘I’ll make some tea … excuse me.’ He shot off to the kitchen with the tea tray. Hisham followed him with his eyes. A few minutes later his friend returned carrying two glasses and the small silver teapot.

  ‘I saw her,’ said Hisham, after his first sip of tea, staring hard at Muhaysin and smiling. Muhaysin squirmed uncomfortably, in the process spilling tea on his clothes. ‘I saw her slipping out of the house like a snake.’ Hisham gave a short laugh, while Muhaysin smiled faintly, looking from Hisham to the floor and back. ‘It was the first time, wasn’t it?’ he continued coolly. Muhaysin did not reply, but concentrated on pouring more tea. ‘The first time is always hard,’ added Hisham. ‘What’s the story? Tell me how it happened?’ Hisham remembered what Abd al-Rahman had told him about his first time on the Kharis Road. He was eager to hear what had happened between Muhaysin and the girl, and whether his feelings about her were like his own feelings about Raqiyya.

  Muhaysin was reluctant to talk but Hisham insisted, and in the end his friend said falteringly, ‘The fact is … the fact is … this wasn’t the first time. The first time hasn’t happened yet …’

  ‘I don’t understand. You are talking in riddles,’ said Hisham, turning to face Muhaysin, whose brow dripped with sweat which he wiped away from time to time with his hand. ‘I’ve had several relationships in the past,’ said Muhaysin. ‘And this was a relationship of the same sort. Nothing more …’

  ‘You mean you didn’t go the whole way?’

  ‘Yes. We do everything except … you know. There have been other girls, and the one you saw was the same …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Hisham, again thinking of Raqiyya and the Kharis Road and his conflicting feelings and emotions at the time. He wanted to say something, but Muhaysin spoke first: ‘And you?’

  ‘And you?’ he said again, swallowing half a glass of tea in a single gulp. ‘Haven’t you tried it? I mean … Well, you know what I mean.’ Hisham remembered Raqiyya, then thought of Noura in Dammam. But he immediately thrust Noura from his mind, ashamed of himself for comparing her with Raqiyya. It was Raqiyya he had in mind when he said, ‘There have been some opportunities, but nothing happened. Even what you have been doing yourself, hasn’t happened. The fact is, I haven’t dared …’

  ‘It will happen, it will happen,’ said Muhaysin, giggling. All traces of embarrassment and confusion had vanished from his face. Hisham laughed with him and they sipped their tea, each sunk in his own reverie.

  8

  After this revelation, Hisham visited his friends’ house only when he was certain from the open window that Muhaysin was inside and alone. If the window was shut but the fan was on, these were sure signs that one of his ‘guests’ was there. Muhaysin’s window was not closed much – in fact it was only closed twice after that first episode – but Hisham stuck to the new ritual. His relationship with Muhaysin grew stronger, so much so that he was reluctant to see the others when Muhaysin wasn’t there except occasionally, and then only Muhammad and Dais. As for Muhanna, it was obvious that the two of them did not get on. It wasn’t hatred, but it was something pretty near it – a kind of aversion or incompatibility.

  The discovery of Muhaysin’s exploits stirred a strange desire in Hisham that he had never suffered from before; an overpowering lust controlled him completely, so that he was aroused by the least movement or mere suggestion of a woman. Everywhere he looked he saw the arousing
parts of a woman’s body. For days he could not banish women from his imagination. At last he decided to do something about it. He approached Abd al-Rahman and asked him to arrange a meeting with Raqiyya, or some other woman he knew. His cousin simply laughed. ‘Just what are you suggesting?’ he taunted. Hisham shrank with embarrassment, but his lust was tearing him to pieces inside. ‘Can you or can’t you?’ he demanded. Abd al-Rahman snorted with laughter. ‘My God!’ he said. ‘At this time of day! Are you giving me orders, Hisham, my friend?’ But the following day Abd al-Rahman brought him the good news: Friday, after the afternoon prayers, with Raqiyya. Desire flooded Hisham’s veins. His body was a furnace on the point of exploding. Friday, the best day of the week!

  Friday came. From the moment he awoke he was gripped with excitement. But the nearer his appointment got, the more he felt his nerves would betray him. In a flash he remembered the bottle of arak hidden under his wooden box. He found it more than a third full. His face lit up. He could have hugged his cousin Hamad. Hisham had heard that alcohol put an end to embarrassment and nerves, and this was exactly what he needed today. He said the Friday prayers with his uncle and his cousins and went back to his room. He was driven to distraction by all his conflicting emotions. He felt amorous, but also afraid and confused, and at the same time he was plagued by a sense of worthlessness. These feelings became more oppressive as the minutes passed and the appointment drew nearer, but he struggled to suppress them. This time he was determined to see the experience through to the end.

  When they returned from the mosque after afternoon prayers, Abd al-Rahman told Hisham that he would wait for him in the car in ten minutes’ time. Hisham went up to his room with his heart pounding. He put the bottle of arak and a bottle of cola in a paper bag – Hamad had once told him, by way of encouraging him to drink, that the flavour of arak was greatly improved by cola. Then he went down the outside stairs, to where Abd al-Rahman waited for him in the car.

  To Hisham’s surprise Abd al-Rahman headed for the General Government Hospital. ‘Is everything okay?’ he asked. ‘I see that this time we’re going to the hospital!’

  ‘The hospital is safer today than anywhere else,’ said Abd al-Rahman. ‘She can get in with us without anyone having the slightest suspicion. They’ll think we’re her male relatives, come to get her after some treatment. Also, going to the hospital is a convincing excuse for her to leave her own house.’ Abd al-Rahman laughed loudly. ‘A really amazing situation: everything forbidden and outlawed, but everything also permitted in an unimaginable way.’ Hisham glanced at him and smiled, saying nothing, while Abd al-Rahman spotted the bag Hisham was clutching.

  ‘What’s that in your hand?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Hisham smiled. ‘Just some cola if we’re thirsty. Though it may have other uses …’ The two of them laughed as their car approached the hospital.

  They approached from the east, so Abd al-Rahman drove round until he was parallel with its western perimeter. From there, he drove on a little until he reached one of the outpatient clinics. The pavement outside thronged with black abayas. He stopped the car some metres away from the crowd, then got out a cigarette, which he smoked while waiting quietly. Hisham was terrified, but he was slightly reassured when he saw women getting into a number of other waiting cars. After a few minutes, Abd al-Rahman opened the back door and a moving lump slipped inside, swathed in black from head to foot. As soon as she had settled in the car, Abd al-Rahman set off east towards the Kharis Road.

  The Kharis Road was crowded that day, as it was every Friday. It was as if the whole city had come out to gather there. Abd al-Rahman smacked the steering wheel angrily. ‘I should have thought! … It’s Friday. Everyone comes to the Kharis Road or the Salbukh Road today. How stupid of me!’ No one spoke. He jostled through the other cars, swearing and cursing at them nervously. The jam forced them to drive further than before, through Khashm al-An, until they were less than ninety kilometres from Kharis itself. Here, Abd al-Rahman turned the car off into the soft sand and drove for some distance, following the tracks of a desert road for fear of ‘spies’. When the trail gave out he parked the car in some very soft sand.

  Like last time, Abd al-Rahman got a carpet out of the car and spread it on the sand, then he fetched tea and water. Raqiyya meanwhile threw her abaya and veil as far as she could and spread herself out on the golden sand beside the carpet. Hisham stared at her with awe and lust. This time she was wearing a black dress that revealed the tops of her breasts, while the remainder was clearly discernible beneath her dress. He grasped his paper bag and made towards the carpet where Abd al-Rahman squatted, smoking a cigarette. Raqiyya wriggled about on the soft sand, arousing, seductive and enticing all at the same time. Hisham sat down beside Abd al-Rahman and produced the bottle of arak, which he put between them saying, ‘What do you think of this little surprise?’ Abd al-Rahman looked at him, nonplussed. ‘Water? Where’s the surprise in that?’ But Raqiyya understood the nature of the surprise. She sat up, made for the carpet and grabbed the plastic bottle. She took out the stopper, held the bottle to her nose, inhaled deeply and smiled; her eyes closed in a daze and she squealed, ‘Arak! This will certainly help things along!’

  She reached for a glass, filled it roughly half-full of arak, and then added some water, joking, ‘I don’t suppose you have any ice.’ Downing the glass in one, she poured herself a second. ‘Very thoughtful,’ she laughed. ‘How sweet of you!’ She drank a quarter of the second glass, and then lowered her eyes. Her full mouth opened into a foolish smile, ‘Should I drink all alone? I don’t think so. The pleasure of drinking is in company.’ She laughed coquettishly, pushing the bottle between them. Hisham and Abd al-Rahman exchanged glances, then Hisham produced the bottle of cola and looked around for something to open it with. Raqiyya snatched it with a merry laugh and used her teeth. She passed it to Hisham, saying in an impish voice, ‘Here you are, my darling.’ Again that coquettish laugh. ‘How nice you are,’ she repeated. ‘How kind, how thoughtful. Cola and arak, indeed. You have reminded me of my youth …’

  Hisham poured a quarter of a glass of arak, added cola and took a quick swig, which he savoured in his mouth. Then he swallowed the whole lot. His throat burned with a fire that moved straight to his stomach. Saliva poured into his mouth and he felt like vomiting, but he got a grip on himself. More saliva poured into his mouth and then he felt a certain comfort in his stomach. At the same moment a curiously pleasurable ache pervaded his head. He drank another quarter, and more saliva flowed into his mouth, but the burning sensation was weaker this time. He pushed the glass to Abd al-Rahman, who refused it: ‘Cigarettes are as much as I can take.’ Hisham swallowed the rest of the glass, this time without any burning sensation at all, and then turned to look at Raqiyya. She had become extremely beautiful. In fact, everything had become extremely beautiful. His guilt and awkwardness vanished, as had his embarrassment. His mother’s face appeared to him clearly, but he carried on gazing at Raqiyya, not caring. He felt the urge to slap his mother, but the thought pained him, so he banished her image from his mind and immersed himself in Raqiyya. Nothing concerned him any longer except Raqiyya; life was Raqiyya. He leaned over her, and she quickly took his lips. For a few moments, they were unconscious of everything around them. Everything inside him became aroused, and everything in Raqiyya as well. He poured himself another glass and drank half, while Raqiyya drank the other half. She took a cigarette and smoked it greedily. Then she took a deep breath, held it in and moved closer to Hisham. She held her lips against his and blew her smoke inside him. It made him cough for ages, but nothing mattered. Pleasure and a feeling of total release came over him. He felt like the first person at the beginning of creation, when nothing was taboo or forbidden. Raqiyya was completely at ease. She looked like a dark Aphrodite with Oriental features. Abd al-Rahman slipped away, and everything closed in on everything else … just like a flood …

  On the way back, Raqiyya wrapped herself in her black abaya and A
bd al-Rahman lost himself in a cigarette. The voice of Fawzi Mahsun flooded out from the radio: ‘Oh birds, why do you cry?’ Hisham himself was lost in the memory of that moment when pleasure had taken him from himself. The delicious headache still gripped him, and he was dozing off with his pleasurable thoughts. It was amazing, this life. How could one thing be a source of ugliness and beauty at the same time, a source both of pain and pleasure? He remembered how Raqiyya and her wet, tangled triangle had disgusted him last time, yet today she was beauty personified, pure pleasure. He wished he could stretch out his hand and touch her soft skin again but the road was crowded with lines of cars returning from their Friday excursions, so he abandoned the idea. Still, he had been mortally embarrassed when Abd al-Rahman said Raqiyya cried out so loudly during orgasm that he had been scared and would have run away if the crying hadn’t suddenly stopped – this was by way of a joke.

  They dropped Raqiyya off near her house. She was a little drunk. Hisham grudgingly gave her ten riyals, which she slipped nonchalantly between her breasts, then walked off, swaying slightly.

  When he entered his room that evening, the pleasurable headache had gone. In its place was a different kind of headache; one that made him giddy and nauseous. He ran to the bathroom and spewed out the contents of his stomach, then drank a lot of water, which soothed him a little even though the nausea lingered. He went back to his room and lay down, while the world spun and he felt as if he was falling off the bed. He shut his eyes, promising inwardly, ‘I’m not going to drink after today, so long as I live.’ Then he fell asleep.

  9

  When he woke the following morning to the sound of his uncle’s call to prayer, he felt as if his skull had detached itself from his body. He had a hammering headache, and when he tried to move the fluid in his brain seemed to swell and shift about as if it could ebb and flow like the sea. This was no headache, but something else he had never known or suffered in his life before, and to top it all he was suffering from continual and wretched nausea. He attended prayers with his uncle without performing his ablutions. He could have excused himself the trip to the mosque, but really he wanted to go. Afterwards he went back to his room and made himself tea and a cheese-and-melon-jam sandwich. The tea made him feel a little better, but he only took one bite of the sandwich. He had completely lost his appetite.