2008 - The Consequences of Love.

by Sulaiman Addonia; Prefers to remain anonymous

  I got inside the car and shut the door and we drove off.

  Basil slipped in a tape of the Qur’an read by the grand imam of Mecca.

  “What a beautiful voice,” he said. “He is the luckiest man on this earth to be blessed with such a voice and to be the imam of Mecca. You know what that means? It means he is the imam of all the mosques in the whole world.” He circled his index finger in the air as he said that. “Masha Allah. Masha Allah.”

  “Sheikh Basil, I would say that your voice when you read the Qur’an is better than any other I have heard. It merits to be recorded and distributed all around the world,”Abdu said.

  Basil’s face lit up. He looked in his rearview mirror in Abdu’s direction and said, “May Allah bless you.”

  Not to be outdone, I needed to think of something nice to say to Basil. After a moment, I exclaimed: “In fact ya sheikh, I have been to Mecca on countless occasions, and I prayed behind its imam, and let me say this, once he retires, there will be no better person than you to be the imam of the Holiest place on earth.”

  He swerved his car aside and stopped. I was worried that I had said something bad. I looked in shock when he stretched both of his arms towards me and kissed my forehead with his hands tightly holding my face.

  Basil parked his car on a wide street between Al-Nuzla and Mecca Street. It was where Al-Nuzla police department was based next to a big scrapyard where the police kept cars damaged in accidents. “Here we are,” Basil said to Abdu, and told him to get out of the car. I turned my head to the back seat and for a moment I thought I saw Abdu’s proud shoulders sink into his chest.

  “Come on, move it, Abdu. I am in a hurry,” Basil yelled.

  The moment Abdu was out of the car, Basil accelerated so fast that my shoulders pressed against my seat.

  The park was darker than the last time Basil and I were there. The only working light post was now flickering on and off.

  I looked at Basil, his face disappearing every time the light flicked off. When it flicked back on, he was still there gazing at me. I felt a deep disgust and I looked away.

  He took my hand and he held it. This time, he didn’t ask forgiveness. Instead, he squeezed tighter.

  “Naser?” There was a soft gleam in his eyes, something I had seen before in many of the men’s eyes at the café.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  The light went out again and took his face with it, but his voice remained: “I am going to tell you something.”

  The light came back on. “You know, it is now four years since I have become mutawwa.”

  “Yes,” I said again.

  “You know what that means for a former bad boy like me?”

  “Four years of virtue,” I replied.

  The light flickered over his face. “Four years since I last have been with my boys.”

  I remembered what Al-Yamani had said about Basil. “The blind imam,” he said, “found Basil at a moment of extreme weakness, having just escaped death on his motorbike. It was easy for the imam to convert him like that. But deep down, Basil is a street boy, he always was and always will be.”

  I looked at Basil and said, “You will be rewarded, insha Allah. I heard that you have sent ten young boys to Afghanistan.”

  “Insha Allah,” he said in a hurry. The customary glimpse at the sky and bowing of the head were absent. I suddenly felt his hands under my thobe. And when the light returned his face was almost touching mine. He tilted his head slightly to the side, and his eyes looked to my lips. He moved his head forward.

  I grabbed his neck with my two hands, and hissed, “Do what you are thinking of doing and I can assure you, in the name of Allah the merciful, I will break your beautiful white teeth.” I was surprised at the cruel threats coming from my mouth, but I seized my opportunity. “And tomorrow, I want you to make me the imam’s guide in front of the group. I want to collect rewards as well. If you don’t, I will tell the blessed imam what you tried to do tonight.”

  I pushed him away. The light went out again. I found my way out of the park without looking back.

  At home, as I went over the incident with Basil once again, I still couldn’t believe what I had done. The pursuit of love, it seemed, was opening up another side to me I didn’t know. But this was a battle to pursue love, and in battle blood is spilled, I told myself with a heavy heart, feeling that worse was still to come because I was in no doubt that Basil would seek revenge somehow. Basil was a street boy and in Jeddah, street boys have a long memory.

  The next day, just after the Sunday morning prayer while we were sitting in a circle, Basil stood behind me and putting his hand on my shoulders announced in front of the group, “Naser, from now on you will be the imam’s guide.”

  I looked at the floor in a daze. I couldn’t believe it. Finally, my Fiore, we will get to write to each other.

  I looked up at Basil to thank him but he wasn’t smiling.

  PART SIX

  THE LOVE-LETTER COURIER

  22

  AT EXACTLY HALF-PAST six on the morning of Saturday, 2nd September, I left my house on my way to guide the blind imam to the girls’ college. The humidity that had been sitting over Jeddah the entire summer was finally receding. It was a sign that autumn was coming, my favourite season of the year in Saudi—the cool air always refreshed my soul.

  There were lots of students in new uniforms heading back to school. I left my house and immediately bumped into the nerd. He stood stock still and looked me up and down with his unwavering eyes. I stared back, stretching my eyes wide open with my fingers to match his gaze. “So you are a mutaunva now?” he asked me in his high-pitched voice.

  “Yep,” I replied, “Alhamdulillah.”

  “Since when?”

  “Look, nerd…”

  As soon as I said that, he shouted, “You see, you can’t be a good mutauwa. They would never call others bad names.”

  “It is a slip of the tongue, may Allah forgive me.”

  “You are not a mutawwa,” he insisted.

  “Why not, is Allah yours only?”

  Just then I saw the Pink Shoes in the distance. I left the nerd for what he was and turned my back on him. She was walking a few yards behind a man, who must have been her father, and whom she had referred to in one of her notes. Then with bated breath, I realised I could actually try to guess what she looked like from his features. He looked an attractive man. He was of medium height, dark-skinned, with a round face, deep brown eyes, full lips, and a tightly trimmed black beard. His elegant face inspired awe in me, like that of the famous Egyptian actor Ahmed Zaki. Saudis’ complexions varied dramatically. There were very light-skinned Saudis, as well as brown and dark-skinned ones. He could easily be a Saudi, I thought to myself. But he could also be from any country in the Gulf, or maybe even from Africa?

  I wondered whether she had inherited any of his features.

  He walked with his left hand resting on his round belly, holding the hem of his headscarf in place with his fingers. His head was high, and he didn’t make eye contact with anyone along his path. Perhaps he was walking her to college.

  I hurried towards them. As I approached, I looked over his shoulder at Fiore. I knew it couldn’t be long before I would finally write to her.

  By a quarter to seven, I was outside the imam’s house. Before I went inside, I said a prayer, “Please ya Allah forgive me for taking advantage of the sheikh’s blindness, but I hope that I will only be balancing his sermons of hate with my search for love.”

  The imam’s door was open. I entered after knocking three times, as Basil said I should do. “I am on my way, Naser,” he yelled from the women’s side of the house. “OK, may Allah prolong your life,” I called back. I took off my shoes and made my way to the living room. It was a small room with modest furniture. His living room had traditional Arabic majlis seating, with cushions and mats on top of a thick blue carpet. To the left of the room, there was a long shelf full of Islamic books. Next to the shelf
there was a door which led to the rest of the house, to the imam’s study, his bedroom and the women’s section. The old black leather bag was lying on one of the mats. I looked towards the door to check that it was safe. I sat next to the bag and opened it. I peeped inside to see where I could easily hide my future letters to Fiore—that morning I just had with me a small note. It was a test really, to see if our plan worked, and to say that I had successfully recruited the imam and that now we could send each other as many pages as we liked. There were four small Islamic booklets, a bottle of musk, some pens and a small address book.

  I tucked my note to Fiore between the booklets, making sure it wasn’t visible when you just opened the bag. I stood up and went to sit down on a cushion opposite the bag. I crossed my legs, and fixed my eyes on the bag hoping nothing would go wrong.

  The imam came in, walking slowly but steadily as if he was a seeing person. I noticed his feet stuck in brown sandals. He had neatly trimmed nails, but his skin looked dry. I stood up and kissed his forehead. I picked up the bag, swung it over my shoulder and took him by the arm to lead him to the door.

  We left his house in Al-Nuzla Street and turned right into Market Street, which was busy with many shops and traders. After about ten minutes, I could see the girls’ college: a tall white building fenced by high walls. I turned to the imam and said, “We are almost there.”

  At the gate, as I helped the imam pass through, I said in a loud voice: “Dear imam, your servant Naser will pick you up again ten minutes before the day ends, so I don’t need to see the girls coming out of the gate.” I shouted to make sure that Fiore, on the other side of the door, would hear me and know that I had finally managed to open a new path of communication with her.

  “Speak more quietly, may Allah curse the Satan,” the imam hissed. “I am blind, not deaf.”

  23

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I returned to the college to pick up the imam and guide him home. I arrived at the building, as I had been instructed, ten minutes before the end of the school day, so that I wouldn’t be around when the girls left.

  I buzzed at the heavy iron gate and announced over the intercom: “My name is Naser, I am here to bring the imam home.”

  I waited by the gate and it opened a few minutes later. Fiore. I knew she was the girl chosen to bring the imam to the gate. I stood still, hoping to hear her voice, hoping that she would wish the imam goodbye or warn him to be careful, or pray a short prayer. But the only sound I heard was the imam as he struggled to pass through the small exit door. He handed me his stick first and then his black bag. I hooked his arm through mine and tucked the black bag under my other arm, close to my chest.

  On the way back to his house, all he did was talk. I listened without really hearing anything. My mind was elsewhere: did she find my note? Would she have read it by now already, and did she have the chance to write back? I brought the bag close to my face, as if somehow I would find out by inhaling the smell of the old leather.

  As I helped the imam through the door of his house, he asked me to put his bag in the living room. “You order me, ya sheikh and I will do it,” I replied.

  Once in the living room, I opened the bag and took out the books. There, in between his booklets, a white envelope was hidden. I almost ripped the cover off a booklet as I snatched the envelope from its hiding place. I dropped it into my pocket and was about to run when I remembered to replace the imam’s pamphlets and close the bag.

  With the envelope safely tucked in my pocket I called out to the imam, who was safely in his study: “I will see you later, insha Allah.”

  “May Allah bless you, son. Walk slowly and make sure you pray with every step you take,” he demanded.

  “I will, insha Allah.”

  As soon as I had closed the door, I sprinted back home.

  I got home in no time, ripped off my thobe and sat bare chested on my bed. Two whole pages from Fiore. When I read the first paragraph, I looked up at the ceiling. My hand moved across my open mouth in disbelief.

  Like me she had Eritrean blood; she was the daughter of a second-generation Eritrean man, the man I had seen her with that morning. How strange, I thought, that I never guessed he was Eritrean. But now, thinking back, I realised it was entirely possible, as Eritreans had mixed for centuries with the people from the other side of the Red Sea.

  Her father called himself Saudi even though the government never recognised him and never granted him Saudi citizenship. Even so, he was relatively well off because of his job as a personal assistant to a wealthy Saudi businessman of Southern Yemeni descent, who owned many properties and large shops in Jeddah. Her mother was the daughter of an Egyptian man. But unlike her father’s family, her mother’s side had been granted Saudi citizenship.

  I quickly glanced over the rest of the letter and flipped the pages back and forth in my hands.

  Fiore said it would be too dangerous to tell me her real name in writing in case any of the notes got lost, but she loved my new name for her—she wanted me to call her that. Fiore. She was nineteen, she said, and the number was underlined in pencil. Then she went on to tell me the story of how her mother and father met and were married.

  The marriage happened after my father and my mother’s father met in a café. They started talking and seemed to like each other from the very first word they spoke to each other.

  Just days after they first met, the two men had many deep conversations. It would start off with talking about the weather, but soon they realised that they actually had a lot in common: they thought alike and finished each other’s sentences.

  So one day they both agreed that it was about time that they cemented their relationship. “Have you got a daughter?” my father asked the Egyptian Saudi. “Yes,” the older man replied. “So,” my father said, “I would like to ask for her hand and make her my wife.”

  “I would be honoured,” replied my mother’s father.

  On the hottest day Jeddah had seen for a decade, the two men stood in front of a sheikh. The sheikh told my mother’s father, “I pronounce this man the husband of your daughter. For a long and happy marriage, insha Allah.”

  But that decision didn’t go down well in my mother’s father’s family. “Make him divorce her,” the elder of the family ordered my mother’s father.

  “Never,” he replied. “Give me one good reason.”

  The elder stood up and said, “Well, I am in a generous mood today, so I will give you two reasons: he is not an Arab, and he is black.”

  “But there is no difference between an Arab man and a non-Arab,” came the reply.

  “That was in the old times. Now there is. If you don’t divorce your daughter from this Eritrean man, you will be kicked out of our family.”

  My mother’s father shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t care.

  My father was also disowned by his Eritrean family for not taking an Eritrean wife.

  I was born a year after my mother and father were married.

  I am sad that I don’t have a family from either side of my parents, but at least I have a strong relationship with my mother. She is my best friend and means so much to me.

  She then wrote about what happened after her parents’ marriage. Apparently, she was the only child because her father couldn’t visit her mother’s bed at night any more. When her mother asked him why, her husband thundered, “Because of this,” waving a doctor’s certificate declaring that he had ‘an acute medical condition’.

  But, according to Fiore, her mother believed that her husband’s inability to pull his fat legs over to her bed had nothing to do with any medical condition, but everything to do with his lifestyle: too much fatty food, smoking shisha, and spending all his time with his wealthy friends in cafes around Jeddah drinking one sweetened coffee after another.

  The next morning, in the imam’s living room, I hid my reply to Fiore between the pamphlets in his bag. We walked out of the house and turned right into Market Street. Today he didn’t talk muc
h, which was good as my mind was with the letter in the bag, wondering how she would react to it.

  Fiore,

  Beginnings are always the hardest. And it is easy for my mind to succumb to the impossibility of composing even one sentence for you. But I am resting the stricken poet inside me and obey your order, my Fiore, to introduce myself without a moment of delay.

  My name is Naser, but you know this already. I am from Eritrea and I don’t know my father’s name. But in my United Nations Travel Document, my full name is Naser Suraj. Suraj was the name my uncle chose when he came to take me and my brother tojeddah from the refugee camp in Sudan.

  When we first arrived at the camp, I was told to find the man with the red cross on his shirt, to register our names in the camp list as new arrivals. It was only two days earlier that I said goodbye to my mother in Eritrea. My little brother Ibrahim, who was three years old at the time, was strapped to my back.

  Inside a tent, I stood in front of the man who would register us. He greeted me smiling. I told him my first name and when he asked for my father’s name, I replied, “Raheema.” He peered at me through his glasses and asked if Raheema was a woman’s name. “Yes, but it is my father’s name too because she is also my father.”

  He laid down his pen and held my hand, urging me not to be scared because there would be no bombs dropped on the camp. And he tried again to make me tell him my father’s name. “Raheema. There is no father in my life. There is only our mother and like I said, she is our father, mother, and our best friend.” But he insisted that he could only put a man’s name down, and that my mother couldn’t have had me without a man. I said I had only seen that particular man once and it was when he came to visit my mother one night. That man was my father, I told the officer at the refugee camp, but I only knew him as ‘The Perfume Man’.

  When my uncle arrived he insisted I take his own father’s name, Suraj. Even though my mother’s name was not on the forms, I was pleased because Suraj was her family name too.