2008 - The Consequences of Love.

by Sulaiman Addonia; Prefers to remain anonymous

  “We are not Mecca, why don’t you face the right direction?”Yahya shouted at him.

  The nerd started reciting the same sum again, his eyes still fixed on us. When he finished reciting, he shut the door behind him and walked up the road, with his hands crossed behind his back, now and then glancing back at us.

  The Pleasure Palace was an abandoned palace that had once been owned by King Saud Ibn Abdul Aziz. He had been deposed about twenty-five years previously in a coup staged by his own family and with the backing of religious scholars.

  The palace was only a few minutes’ drive from our street. It was a gigantic place, crumbling under the weight of its own loneliness. Yahya and I left Al-Nuzla and took the familiar shortcuts down to the deserted boulevard that led to the King’s Palace. I was sitting in the front seat and could see the tall towers that stood equal in height to the columns of the surrounding mosques. But this grandeur was an illusion. By daylight, you could see the golden paint peeling off.

  We knew that the government or the religious police didn’t want to come near the palace because of King Saud’s history with alcohol and women. It was deemed such an evil place that we could roam around it, drink our perfume and sniff glue confident that the police would not chase us there. When we arrived in the back street behind the palace, Al-Yamani, a Saudi friend of ours who lived in Mecca Street, was already there, waiting by his car.

  We greeted one another, then Yahya said, “You won’t believe what I saw earlier today. Zib Al-Ard outside the mosque with the mutawwa’in. He was dressed exactly like them. Oh ya Allah, he is even growing a beard. How could this have happened? This is our friend Zib Al-Ard we’re talking about. I am going to kill whoever made this happen.”

  I walked over to the part of the palace wall that had fallen down and was replaced by a zinc sheet. My urine clanged against the zinc and splashed in front of my feet.

  On my way back, my heart suddenly felt heavy. I fell to my knees. I vomited, but because I hadn’t eaten all day, the vomit contained only fragrant fluid. My insides were growling. I breathed in and out, slowly. I didn’t want to be ill. I just wanted some time with my friends before they left, because after that I was going to be alone for the rest of the summer.

  “Are you OK?”Yahya asked, staring at me. “You’ve got to stop drinking that perfume,” he said.

  “We all have our habits, don’t we?” I replied, looking him straight in the eye.

  He rubbed his hands, as if suddenly remembering something. He turned his back to Al-Yamani, took out his wallet and pulled out a small photo. It was a picture of a light-skinned boy with a smooth face and soft smile.

  “Where is he from?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he replied casually.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “He just moved with his family to our street and he can’t speak Arabic.”

  “How do you communicate with him then?”

  “Arabic is the language of Islam, ah? Who said it was the language of love?” he chuckled.

  Yahya turned to Al Yamani and said, “Come on, tell me what made Zib Al-Ard change. You are the one who knows him best.”

  Al-Yamani started explaining between puffs on his cigarette. “He was changed by the blind imam and Basil.”

  “I know the blind imam, but who is Basil?”

  “He is the blind imam’s guide.”

  I interrupted, “I have seen him a few times with the imam in the street. But he is not from the neighbourhood, is he?”

  “No, Basil is from Kharentina. You know, he used to be one of the bad boys there, a boy who was into drugs and owned a fleet of motorbikes. But everyone knew his main weakness was pretty boys and he had his fair share of them. But one day he had a serious bike accident and the boy who was sitting at the back of his bike almost died.”

  “Which boy?”Yahya asked. Yahya stretched out his arm and leaned on my shoulder. I didn’t like it when he did that. .

  “Don’t worry,” Al-Yamani said, “there are still some boys out there you haven’t managed to sleep with.”

  Yahya looked at me and said with a sly smile, “A few perhaps. But it’s only a matter of time.”

  Al-Yamani continued, “So when Basil returned home from the hospital, he decided to go to his local mosque to pray his thanks to Allah. That day, the blind imam was the invited guest. Everything changed during a speech in which the imam described hell so vividly it was as if he had seen it himself. Basil was so gripped that he threw his past behind him, including all his friends, lovers, and even members of his family, and dedicated his entire life to the imam and Allah. He is trying to make up for his sins in any way and as quickly as he can.”

  Al-Yamani paused to take another drag.

  “So, all Basil thinks about is collecting rewards. He is on a mission to build steep mountains of good deeds. Things like converting a bad boy to become a mutawwa, or sending a man to Afghanistan.”

  “So how did he change Zib Al-Ard?” asked Yahya.

  “Well, I don’t know exactly,” replied Al-Yamani, “but it must have happened at the prayer service to his martyred brother.”

  “Khalid is dead?”Yahya and I asked in unison.

  “Yes. Martyred in Afghanistan a few months ago during the heavy fighting between the communists and the mujahideens. The news of his death arrived recently. You would have wept if you had heard Basil’s speech at the funeral. All the men were crying. Basil praised the martyr Khalid through beautiful poems,” said Al-Yamani. “As Basil described what awaits martyrs in heaven, he was staring at Zib Al-Ard as if to tell him that he should be jealous of his brother’s martyrdom. And I think he was. A few days later, Zib Al-Ard was dressed like a strict mutawwa and started acting like one. He stopped wearing ogal over his headdress and shortened his thobe to show his ankles. He threw away all his music tapes, pornography magazines and films. He even broke his TV and destroyed all his photo albums. ‘Pictures’, he said, ‘are forbidden, because angels do not enter a house full of pictures and whoever takes them will be punished on Judgment Day, and will be challenged by Allah to give life to his creation.’ Only Allah creates, Zib Al-Ard said.”

  “So why is Zib Al-Ard going to Afghanistan? I thought the war was finished,” remarked Yahya.

  “Yes,” replied Al-Yamani, “but according to Basil the mujahideens are involved in another equally important jihad against the pro-Moscow regime of Najibullah. That’s why, Basil said, the Arab Afghans need more recruits to defeat the traitors and apostates. And Zib Al-Ard is answering the call.”

  Al-Yamani paused. He mumbled, “Astaqfirullah, Astaqfirullah ”

  “Why are you asking Allah’s forgiveness?”Yahya asked, irritated.

  “I’ve just realised that now that he’s became a mutaunva, it is haram to call him Zib Al-Ard. We must call him by his real name, Murad.”

  “Oh, come on!”Yahya barked at Al-Yamani. “He is still a midget and as far as I know his long dick still touches the ground when he walks. He will always be Zib Al-Ard.”

  Al-Yamani shook his head and walked away, still mumbling, “Astaqfirullah, Astaqfirullah ”

  There was a part of me which thought Zib Al-Ard was a perfect name and I wanted to yell it in every corner of the city to get back at him for following the blind imam and becoming Murad, but then there was another part of me which still liked him and couldn’t forget that he and I had been good friends for a long time.

  Who would be next to fall into the hands of the blind cleric and his Basil? Not me—or at least that’s what I thought that night as I watched Al-Yamani leave the Pleasure Palace.

  Yahya and I went to sit on the pavement outside the Palace. He passed me the Pepsi can. I put my fingers around the can, closed off one nostril with my finger, leaned my head forward and stuck my open nostril in the tab of the Pepsi can. I shut my eyes and breathed in the glue deeply. I held my breath for a while and as I breathed out, I slowly tilted my head backwards. I stayed like this f
or a while.

  I put the can between us. The evening breeze caressed my legs. I looked over to the palace tower, the crumbling walls and the only palm tree still standing in the midst of the dry grass.

  I felt sick again. I turned to Yahya: he was almost breathing on my neck, his eyes gleaming. I slid away from his hot breath.

  Yahya stretched out on the pavement, lying down on his side with his legs pointing towards the grass. He put his hand on my thigh.

  I pushed him away. He laughed.

  I wanted to punch him, but I knew he was stronger than me. So I just looked away. My gaze settled on the palm tree again.

  I felt Yahya’s hand on my chest. I grabbed the Pepsi can and bashed it against his arm. His eyes widened. I closed mine, waiting for his retaliation. He stood up and picked me up by the shoulders and threw me across the pavement. I kept as still as the palm tree.

  Yahya looked at me and screamed, “No one hits me, you understand?”

  I said softly, “And I have told you a million times not to touch me.”

  “Why?” he asked, as he came towards me.

  I got up, and we looked at each other as I dusted the dirt off my arms and legs.

  “Yahya, we’re supposed to be friends.”

  “I know you have been playing around,” he said.

  I leaned my head back, closing my eyes, tensing my jaw.

  “Is it because I am not a Saudi?” he asked.

  “I’m off,” I said. “Have a nice time in Abha.”

  As I walked past him, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “Answer me,” he said. “Is it because I am not a Saudi? Don’t I have enough authority or prestige for you?”

  “No, Yahya, it has nothing to do with all that.”

  “What is it then?” he yelled. “Come on, tell me.” He let go of my arm. He spat on the pavement, pulled up the sleeves of his T·shirt and flexed his pumped-up muscles. “How about these?” he barked at me. He then kissed his biceps and added: “Do your men have anything like this?”

  “Yahya, you are not listening,” I insisted, “I am waiting for a girl.”

  He started laughing like a hyena. He couldn’t stop himself. “You are becoming like Hani. You know he is going around with a magazine photo of an Egyptian actress, saying how deeply in love he is with her. He talks about her as if she is real. He talked about how he will spend nights with her in an apartment overlooking the beach, and how he will buy her anything she wants.” He paused and calmly took out a packet of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it. “Be careful and don’t lose your mind as well.”

  He took a long drag and then offered me one. “Where do you think you will meet this girl? In a cinema? A theatre? That happens in other places, like Egypt, or Beirut, but not here in Saudi. Look, we live in a separate world, until we meet when we marry. In the meantime, I say, let’s enjoy each other’s company. Just like what you got up to in Jasim’s café. That is your real destiny, you just need to accept it.”

  I pushed him aside. I left him standing next to the palm tree and didn’t even say goodbye as I walked to the bus stop to get a ride to the Corniche.

  I must have stayed for a few hours sitting on my rock, accompanied by the nostalgic voice of the Saudi singer. I envied his tears of love, his sadness for a woman whom he said was his sweetheart as well as his best friend. I wanted to join him singing so I could just taste the yearning of his heart. But, as always, I chose not to bother him. Instead, I just dreamed along with his songs, my heart wandering to somewhere in the future where Allah would bring a miracle to me and a girl would hold my hand and I would tell her all the things lovers say to each other.

  6

  THAT DAY, AT the end of the night, I took a shower and retired to my bed.

  My body ached for a female touch. I closed my eyes and imagined the world of my past where I lived with my mother and her female friends. I started visiting this world many years ago to stop the burning pain in my stomach whenever I feared I might never see my mother again. But later on, when the pain became less strong but still there, dull and persistent, it became the only place where I could meet women. My mother’s world was now a refuge for my growing desires.

  In order to earn a living, my mother braided women’s hair and made henna drawings on their hands and feet. She worked from our hut, and used to sit on a stool next to her bed, which was in front of my bed. Her clients, many of whom were her friends, came to our hut whenever they liked. Her busiest working times were before weddings, Eid, Easter and Christmas.

  Lying on my bed, I heard them talk. I listened to their stories about love, their husbands, and about what made them happy and sad. And whenever women came over to spend the night with my mother, I would pretend I was asleep but I would catch glimpses of them in unguarded moments. Semira, my half-Eritrean, half-Italian godmother, was the one who came most to our hut.

  And now, with my eyes closed, I saw Semira in front of me. She wasn’t the godmother I had known, lending me wisdom and advice, but she was a goddess of love and desire. She was the only woman I had ever seen naked and the memory of her curved body made me feel alive.

  I remembered one evening, when I was nine years old and I was sitting on Semira’s lap. She was chewing gum, which appeared between her red lips now and then. She was wearing a white shirt, tightly wrapped around her upper body and low-cut, revealing the place where her breasts sprung out of her chest. It was my favourite shirt. I was looking at the movement of her hands as she combed her hair. “Can I have your chewing gum?” I asked her. She nodded, pushing the gum to the edge of her lips with her tongue. I reached with my fingers to her parted lips and collected the warm gum that had been in her mouth. The gum didn’t taste sweet any more, but was full of the taste of her mouth. As I slowly chewed, my eyes wandered down her long neck and along the golden necklace that complemented her light brown skin. They stayed on the raised curves of her breasts, transfixed. She smiled and looked away.

  7

  THE NEXT MORNING, I got up at five o’clock and made my way to the car-wash. It was my last day at work before I started my two weeks’ annual holiday.

  The car-wash was in a small road off Al-Nuzla Street in one of the neighbourhoods populated by Chadians. It was right next to a makeshift school where a Chadian man taught French and English.

  Our main clients were wealthy Saudi families who lived in the affluent Al-Nuzla Al-Sharqyhya. Their cars were brought to us by their chauffeurs.

  But since most of these families were away during the summer holiday, mainly in Europe, we had fewer cars to wash. So that’s when my fifty-year-old Chadian boss let me have some time off. He gave me two weeks holiday per year, which was a lot compared to some of the other jobs that were available to foreigners like me. In a way I was lucky, but I had to work extra hard during the year, working from the early hours until late in the evening, and in case a client needed to travel to meet someone important I had to be on hand to make the car look brand new.

  So by late afternoon, after I had cleaned a Rolls-Royce and two Mercedes, my boss informed me that I could start my summer holiday.

  It was my time to spend long uninterrupted hours under my palm tree with the warm memories of the past.

  PART TWO

  SUMMER LONELINESS

  8

  JEDDAH WAS EERILY quiet in July after the summer departures. Al-Nuzla Street was deserted, even during the cooler evening time. The streets which had been so busy a week or so before were now empty.

  Nearly everybody I knew was away from Jeddah. My friends Faisal and Zib Al-Ard were fighting in Afghanistan. Jasim was in Paris, buying presents and probably searching for new ways to decorate his café. Yahya was camping and no doubt looking for love on a hillside somewhere. There was no one around, just me. I gave up thinking about my brother and my uncle—there was no point trying to be with people who didn’t want to be with you. Besides, they would never talk to someone who worked in Jasim’s café. Those who knew, knew. And what m
y uncle didn’t know, which was a lot, he assumed the worst of. That was his religious way.

  In our neighbourhood, there were only four kinds of people who didn’t go away during the summer vacation: those who didn’t have the money, those who didn’t have any relatives to visit, those who thought of holiday as a forbidden, vulgar pastime, and those who preferred Al-Nuzla when it was quiet. Although I had some money saved from my time at Jasim’s café, the only thing I would want to do is visit my mother and Semira. But they were in a country where the war never seemed to end.

  Although I sometimes could find happiness by myself, shadowed by memories, I could not bear the searing heat and heavy silence in the empty streets of Jeddah during the holiday season.

  The days seemed longer than usual and time was passing slowly. There was nothing to do, so there was nothing to write in my diary. With every minute I spent stuck in Jeddah, I felt myself sinking further.

  On Tuesday afternoon, three days into my holiday, I decided to go outside and sit under the shade of my tree to take a break from reading.

  I stepped into the hazy afternoon heat. I looked in both directions before crossing the road, but there was nothing moving. The street was deserted. With my sandal I scraped away the dirt on the pavement and sat down. I wanted to take a long rest. It was beautifully still at that time of the day. It was so quiet you could imagine a tumbleweed from one of those old cowboy movies rolling its way through Al-Nuzla. There was not one sheriff or religious policeman to stop it.

  As I lay down, I noticed a woman—covered head to toe in a full black veil—walking briskly from the corner of the street. I wondered why on earth she was rushing around in this heat. I stretched out on the cool pavement, with my face turned to the street.

  The sound of hurried footsteps was coming closer. I lifted my head. The woman was heading towards me, so I sat up.

  She stopped, looking left and right. She was inches from me, looking at me through her black mask, her nose marked through her veil. She tossed a crumpled piece of paper into my lap and scampered away.