by Hisham Matar
Beside me, where Mama had slept, I saw the sheets disturbed, the form of her head in the pillow. There was no reason why, I thought, we shouldn’t sleep like this every night, she and I together in her bed. She never spent the night here when Baba was home, and because my bed wasn’t wide enough for the two of us she slept alone on the sofa in the sitting room. A good solution, I thought, was to have Baba sleep in my room and, because neither Mama nor I snored, we could have the big bed all to ourselves.
That was the excuse Mama gave for sleeping on the sofa. I never heard him snore. ‘Of course you never have,’ she would say, ‘he only snores when he’s very deeply asleep and that only occurs in the middle of the night when you yourself are deeply asleep.’ I found it hard to believe, particularly that when he snored, Mama said, it was so loud the mattress vibrated. I didn’t ask any more questions because I sensed in her voice, in the repetition ‘you yourself’, an irritation that was as much aimed at me as it was at Baba or even at herself.
During those nights, when Baba was home and Mama dragged her blanket behind her to the sofa in the sitting room, I felt something rise like a dark liquid from around our feet, separating us, sending each one sailing alone through their individual night where morning seemed too distant and abstract to be trusted. It wasn’t until we were gathered around the breakfast table in the sun-flooded kitchen that I felt it recede.
Lying in bed, I would see the light from the television in the sitting room flicker on the darkened walls outside. From her makeshift bed she would lie late into the night watching Egyptian romance films where lovers and love are never satisfied and where after a single word or glance violins would begin to whine. As I live now in the country that produced those films I am familiar with their shortcomings. Their melodrama seems to mock love. That’s how I explain the melancholy I felt then as a boy, lying in my bed until the early hours of the morning, listening to the violins blaze out before Mama quickly turned down the volume. She must have sat on the edge of her seat, ready for the violins, impatient for the moment that would come to strengthen her doubts about love and confirm her instinct to go without it, accepting – always accepting – a life forced upon her.
Some nights she started in her room but in the morning I would find her pillow and blanket in the sitting room, her shape within them, an ashtray beside her full of crumpled tissue paper.
On some winter mornings when the sky remained stubbornly dark, I sneaked into her makeshift bed fully dressed in my school uniform, feeling my tie tug at my neck as I coiled within the cave of her blanket, my cheek warmed by her pillow, wondering how can Heaven be anything other than this?
They, Mama and Baba, only lay together for their afternoon nap, and that was because the curtain in their room was made of thick velvet that kept the sunlight out and, I assumed, the two-hour nap didn’t allow enough time for Baba to reach the depths of sleep necessary for snoring.
I always suspected there was a different reason why, when Baba was home, Mama didn’t sleep in her room. I don’t know why, but something in me blamed her for it. Irritation rose in my throat when I questioned her about his snoring. But this changed when one night I saw them together. Everything inside me changed.
Something seemed to wake me that night and take me to their room. Baba’s bedside lamp was the only light on, and under its faint glow I saw him on top of her, moving back and forth the same sad, short distance, like one of those old ladies mourning the dead. I was standing in the dark, at the entrance of their room, where they couldn’t see me. She lay beneath him, unmoving, looking away. I couldn’t see her face. One of her arms lay stretched beside her, the hand open and slack towards the sky. He moaned a strange moan, stubborn like a saw. Then suddenly he froze, his back stiff and shuddering, before he fell to one side. He lay breathing heavily, staring into the ceiling. I could see his penis sloped to one side, glistening under the light of his bedside lamp. She, too, was naked. Her night dress was rolled up to her armpits. Her breasts quivered oddly when she moved to grab the bed sheet. She pulled it up to her chin, turning away from him. She cleared her throat, said, ‘Turn off the light, I told you to turn off the light.’ He put out the lamp and from within the darkness I heard his body move. I wondered if he was coming close to her again.
Had the Great Throne been disturbed, I wondered? I remembered Sheikh Mustafa’s words: ‘Every time a man and a woman lie together outside of wedlock God’s own Seat shudders.’ Baba and Mama weren’t like that, they were married on God and his prophet’s Sunna, but something about what I saw disturbed me so deeply that I couldn’t imagine how God’s Seat, His Great Throne, didn’t shudder as my heart did.
I lay that night unable to sleep, wondering – and feeling fear, guilt and anger at my wondering – if I shouldn’t have done something to stop it; if unbeknown to me Mama needed my help. I became certain it was Providence that woke me. Why else, then, was I woken at such an hour? Providence it must have been. And what a failure I proved myself to be. A failure for lacking the courage – or whatever it is that enables people to act quickly, decisively and without doubt – to rise to the occasion, to prove myself one of the faithful. I was called to stop something terrible, something that the angels I was certain never blessed, something that made Mama leave her bed every night to sleep on the sofa alone, fading, as I was fading, into sleep on the ridiculous violins of an Egyptian romance film.
I was lying in their bed thinking all of this when I heard the doorbell ring, then Moosa’s voice. From the way he spoke I suspected he was either carrying something heavy, like a new sack of rice, or hot fresh bread from Majdi the baker.
‘What do I want with that?’ Mama told him.
‘It’s a camouflage,’ he said.
‘But it’s huge!’
‘Did you gather all the papers and books I told you about?’
‘Yes, everything is ready.’
‘Are you sure? Bu Suleiman doesn’t want us to miss a thing.’
When they heard me walk out they stopped talking. After a short silence Mama whispered, ‘He’s up.’ ‘Slooma!’ Moosa yelled in the exaggerated way football fans do when their star player appears on the field, whistling, making the sound of a crowd’s roar, raising his fist above his head.
I went to the bathroom. I heard them resume their conversation, whispering. When I entered the kitchen they fell silent again. He was sitting at the breakfast table, she stood with her back to me, washing fruit.
‘How did you sleep, Champ?’
‘Good,’ I said.
‘Mama told me you had a bad dream.’
‘I don’t remember,’ I said.
‘Well, it might have been the after effects of the sunstroke. The heat probably melted your brain,’ he said and laughed so loudly even Mama couldn’t resist. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, but she made no sound. She could have been crying for all I knew. She turned and placed a plate of fruit on the table. I looked into her eyes, they weren’t crying.
‘How did I come to be in your bed?’ I asked.
‘Good morning, habibi.’ She kissed me. ‘You had a bad dream. You don’t remember? You were crying.’
I shook my head. I remembered the dream I had of Baba in the sea, his silver fish spine beneath the water.
‘You lay beside me mumbling and trembling.’
I held her hand to kiss it as I did every morning, but the telephone rang, and she went to answer it.
Moosa grabbed an egg, cracked it against his forehead, peeled it, squeezed half a lime on it, rolled its shiny white body on the three small mountains of salt, black pepper, and cumin, then handed it to me. He took to reading the paper out loud, but I was feeling myself become restless, as if I was neglecting something else much more important. This made me unable to concentrate, and it irritated Moosa. He flexed his jaws, jiggled his leg, lit a cigarette and read to himself.
Resting behind him against the kitchen counter was the back of a framed picture. This must have been the he
avy object he had carried in. Mama was right, it was huge. She ran back into the kitchen.
‘That was them,’ she said. ‘I am sure it was them. I could hear a man breathing on the other end. I tried to get him to speak. But he hung up.’ She was rubbing her palms together. ‘Come on, let’s get on with it before they arrive.’
Moosa stared at the table. His jaws flexed rapidly and every time they did two small round pockets inflated below his ears. ‘Where’s the hammer?’ he said.
‘I don’t think we’ve got a hammer,’ Mama said, pulling open a few drawers in the kitchen. ‘Honestly, I don’t think we’ve got one.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said and took off his shoe. ‘Just give me a nail.’
‘I don’t think we’ve got nails either.’
‘I should’ve known,’ he said irritably and with his shoe in his hand limped to the reception room. I followed him. He took down Baba’s picture, the one that hung too high up on the wall. He tested the strength of its nail, then whacked it a couple of times with the heel of his shoe. ‘That should do it,’ he said to himself and left the room.
Baba’s picture stood on the floor, leaning against the piano stool. His smile changed, he looked as if he was embarrassed now, and the trees behind him looked even less lifelike. Moosa returned, hugging the huge frame. On either side of him I could see a man’s shoulders. They were decorated with stars and eagles. Moosa was breathing heavily. He nudged the picture up, came down a little, then pushed it up again. ‘Suleiman,’ he said hoarsely, and I put my ear against the wall. ‘Up a little,’ I said. But he put the picture down. He caught his breath then gripped the frame again. ‘Down a little,’ I said. ‘A bit to the right.’ We stepped back and watched the Colonel stare up and into the distance. His cap down to his eyes, as if something in the sky bothered him, black tufts of hair gathered around his temples and ears and the sides of his neck, two mysterious lines carved into his cheeks like brackets on either side of his mouth. The brass plaque on the frame read: Colonel Muammar el-Qaddafi, the Guide of the Libyan Popular Revolution. ‘The Benefactor, the Father of the Nation, the Guide!’ Moosa said with a smile. He punched the air with his fist, chanting, ‘El-Fateh, el-Fateh, el-Fateh,’ pretending to be several thousand people. I didn’t laugh. He then hid Baba’s picture behind the piano and put on his shoe. When we returned to the kitchen Mama wasn’t there. Moosa took his chair by the table and lit a cigarette. I remained standing, watching him. After a little while he yelled, ‘Um Suleiman, how are you doing?’ And under his breath he said, ‘The bastards.’ When he saw that I was watching him he smiled weakly. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ I didn’t know why I didn’t want to sit down, and didn’t like feeling the pressure of having to explain myself.
‘Come and give me a hand,’ Mama yelled from her bedroom.
He put out his cigarette and said, ‘Sit down.’
I remained standing. He left the kitchen. He was acting as if suddenly he was the man of the house and I the guest. His broken cigarette burned in the ashtray, I watched it until it died.
Then they both reappeared carrying mountains of books and papers. He held the garden door open for her, she ran out. Before he could follow a book fell. I was about to fetch it for him but hesitated. He looked at me. I saw a shadow of disappointment in his eyes. I wonder now in what way I had disappointed him: was it by not picking up the book, by lacking that thing that enables people to act quickly and without doubt? Was it by not obeying him when he asked me to sit down? Or was it something else, something more intangible than a single act? Disappointment was a series of shadows each pointing to the other. He left the book on the floor and went after Mama. After a moment I picked it up and followed them.
Outside, the morning air was sweet and the birds sang as if they were clearing their throats for the day. When I reached the stairs I saw the peacock on Mama’s house-robe disappear on to the roof, Moosa following close behind, taking two steps at a time. I climbed at my own pace, occasionally slapping the book against my thigh, rubbing it against the wall. On its spine the word ‘Democracy’ was written, below it the word ‘Now’.
Moosa was on his knees beside the water tank where I had my workshop. He took the tin bucket where I kept my tools and with one motion chucked its contents to one side. He tore a few pieces of paper, then lit and threw a match after them. Dark smoke appeared. He blew at it, and it stopped smoking, and although you couldn’t see the flames you knew they were there by the way they made the air around them ripple. I thought of protesting the use of my bucket, but it was too late. Their urgency seemed to cancel everything around them.
Mama quickly shuffled through the papers in her hand, and when the fire was good and strong she began throwing them, one at a time, as if feeding a dog, into the bucket. I watched Baba’s writing curl, turn red, grey and vanish into black ash. I came closer to hand Moosa the book, but caught Mama, from the corner of my eye, looking at me. I feared she would send me away to practise my scales so I held the book behind my back and didn’t move. Moosa continued tearing the books. I was surprised by how easily they came apart in his big hands.
Holding the hot tin bucket with his white handkerchief, he took it down to the garden. Mama followed him, saying, ‘You find a spot, I’ll get the spade.’
I remained on the roof, holding the book behind my back, looking down at them. He chose the spot I had flooded in the garden by the glue tree. Mama came running, her peacock robe flying behind her, and handed him the spade. I watched him digging and burying the ashes. After they were finished they walked back to the kitchen.
Standing on the roof, I remembered how once, when she had woken from her nap, I brought her up here. She was still lazy with sleep, walking behind me in her long, loose robe. I, too excited to wait, pulled her up the stairs to my workshop to show her what I had made: a horse out of wood, bubble gum for ears, and radio wires coiled together to make the tail. I made it because the day before she had said, ‘You are my prince. One day you’ll be a man and take me away on your white horse.’ She kissed me, walked to the edge of the roof to look out on to the sea. The sun was dying, pouring itself into the water. I stood beside her, leaning against her leg. When I looked up her eyes were fixed and squinting at the light. ‘The sea has changed again,’ she said. ‘Every day the sea changes.’ Then she was silent. From within my core, a place mysterious until that moment, I felt I was melting, that I, too, like the sun emptying itself into the sea, was pouring myself into her.
I stuffed the book into my shorts, covering it with my T-shirt, and sneaked into the kitchen. Mama was standing at the sink. I ran to my room. The moment I closed the door behind me I heard Moosa leave the bathroom, then the sound of the cistern filling up. I had just missed him. A sweet sensation of guilt and excitement ran through me, reminding me of the time I had once stolen a cigarette from him and lit it beneath my bed. I was seven or maybe even six. When Mama caught me she slapped me on the back of the hand three times. I hid the book beneath my pillow and, fearing my absence would raise suspicion, returned to the kitchen.
I sat at the table, opposite Moosa. When his eyes met mine he smiled. He grabbed an apple, sliced it and gave me a piece. I held it between my fingers, feeling its cool moisture against my sweaty skin.
‘Why do the Revolutionary Committee want to search our house?’ I asked.
Moosa’s eyes looked past me at Mama.
‘You can’t keep a thing to yourself,’ she told him.
He put his hands up as if something was about to fall from the sky. ‘I didn’t tell him a thing, he saw us burning the books.’
‘And who brought him to see? Why, Moosa? Why? Can’t you keep anything to yourself?’
Seeing how upset Mama had become made me, too, feel angry at Moosa. He wasn’t trying to defend himself any more; he sat, arms folded, facing the table. I placed the slice of apple he had given me on my plate, its flesh already beginning to brown.
‘Children aren’t suppose to know these
things. I wish I hadn’t told you, I wish I had never told you anything.’ Then came the long silence that usually succeeded their arguments.
‘Why did you burn Baba’s books? Baba loves his books.’ Neither of them looked at me. ‘I don’t think Baba will be happy that you two burned his books.’
‘There you go. What are you going to tell him now?’ Mama said. ‘Go on, tell him,’ she shouted. Moosa stared at the table. ‘Tell him about his father, your hero.’ She was beside him now. She nudged him several times, repeating, ‘Tell him, tell him.’ For a moment she seemed to hesitate, then she said, ‘Tell him that you encouraged him, looked up to him to guide you, inflated his chest with your adoration.’
Moosa’s leg began to jiggle. ‘Enough,’ he said.
‘Now you say “enough”, after pushing him and pushing him.’
‘I never wished him harm.’
‘It’s different for you. You are Egyptian. The most they could do is deport you.’
‘I would give my life for him.’
‘You can die ten times over, it would do no good now.’
Moosa’s lips were red, and a purple shadow covered his cheek bones. He looked as if he had been slapped. I wondered if that was the way he looked when the man from the Revolutionary Committee, the one with the old woman’s voice, shouted at him, asking all of those questions about where he lived and who he lived with, questions you would ask a small boy lost in the street.
