In the Country of Men

by Hisham Matar

  ‘You can’t blame me for this,’ he said.

  ‘You are children playing with fire. How many times I told him: “Walk by the wall, feed your family, stay home, let them alone, look the other way, this is their time not ours, work hard and get us out of here, let me see the clouds above my country, Faraj, I want to look down and see it a distant map, reduced to lines, reduced to an idea. For your son’s sake. In five years he’ll be fourteen, they’ll make a soldier out of him, send him to Chad.” How many times I repeated it! “Five years!” he would mock. “In five years everything will be different.” Now look where his recklessness has led us.’

  ‘Bu Suleiman is an honourable man who wants a better Libya for you and for Suleiman.’

  ‘And who does he think he is to want that,’ Mama yelled back. Her voice was strained, it made it impossible to argue with her. ‘They are mighty. He thinks he alone can beat them?’

  ‘He’s not alone.’

  ‘Oh, my apology, I forgot about the handful of men with nothing better to do but hide together in a flat on Martyrs’ Square and write pamphlets criticizing the regime. Why hasn’t anybody thought of that, I wonder? Of course, that was the answer all along; how foolish of me. Look now where it has led you. A massacre is in the making. God knows if Rashid will make it, the poor man, stupid enough to believe your dreams.’

  ‘They are his dreams too. Have hope, strengthen your heart.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me. You are all fools, including Rashid and Faraj. But no, I must be a good wife, loyal and unquestioning, support my man regardless. I’ll support nothing that puts my son in danger. Faraj can fly after his dreams all he wants, but not me, I won’t follow. I will get my son out of this place if it takes the last of me.’

  Mama seemed to have boundless anger; all it needed was a word, a gesture, to come lashing out. Moosa seemed to know this; he kept his eyes on the table. She paced the room.

  ‘Inflating his chest,’ she said under her breath, then louder, ‘Inflating his chest,’ as if the first time was a thought, a rehearsal of what was to come. ‘Yes, that’s what you do when you sit at his feet, reading and re-reading to him the newspaper articles that you know kindle the fire in his heart, urging him on, pushing – always pushing – and if the printed words weren’t hot enough you would add in your own bits, because you need a hero, you need someone to pluck you out of your own failures, a pair of strong hands always there to rescue you and send you to places you don’t belong, to be something, to prove to your good father that in the end you were right to go against his will, that unlike everyone else you don’t need a university degree because you were destined for greatness, riding the wave, clutching the coat-tails of history, while all along you knew that the man you chose to lead you was no hero, but an ordinary man, a family man, inflating his chest, making him think he had powers he didn’t have, that he could face the volcano, and you – what did you do? – beating the drum that urged him on, nudging him forward, forward.’

  She sat opposite Moosa. I was sitting in between them. The kitchen table was still covered with breakfast. And suddenly she laughed. It was astonishing to hear her laugh at this moment.

  ‘Even the location of the flat,’ she said, ‘your headquarters on Martyrs’ Square, was your idea. How indiscreet! It’s hardly out of the way, hardly underground, now, is it? Wasn’t it you who told him that one day it’ll be a museum?’ Moosa stared wide-eyed at her. ‘I remember now how you put it: “Like Sigmund Freud’s home in London,” you had told him, “like Constantine Cavafy’s flat in Alexandria, where people have to pay to enter,” stoking the fire. “Had to be conveniently located,” you had argued. How considerate of you. That’s what I call forward planning!’ she said and laughed alone. We waited for her to stop.

  I held my stomach, doubled over and began rocking.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Moosa asked.

  ‘This is a new habit. Whenever he’s upset he does this,’ Mama told him, her voice distant, banished by anger or grief.

  But it wasn’t a new habit. I had done this for a long time, she knew I had, to stop myself from talking, from repeating the things she had told me when she was ill, the things that upset her to hear, the things she made me promise not to tell a living soul.

  ‘What’s the matter, Slooma?’

  ‘Leave him,’ Mama told him. ‘He’ll stop when he gets tired.’

  My mind escaped to a memory: Baba was sitting reading a book by the light, I beside him. I had tried to snuggle into his side, but his body didn’t give, didn’t arch over me the way Ustath Rashid did over Kareem on the bus back from Lepcis. His jallabia was unbuttoned, and through it the hairs on his chest sprouted like little curled wires. I said something, but he didn’t react. I rubbed his earlobe. His breath was steady and rhythmic. I pulled one of the hairs. He still didn’t react. I took hold of a few and pulled them as hard as I could. The skin round them stretched out and slowly pulled them back from my grip. He held his breath for a second but that was all.

  Later I asked him, ‘How come you didn’t feel any pain when I pulled your hair?’

  ‘When did you ever do that?’ he asked.

  ‘Earlier today, when you were reading.’

  ‘Your father feels nothing when he’s reading,’ Mama said, then after a cold silence added, ‘He loves his books more than anything else. One day they’ll come to burn them and us with them.’

  Baba left the room. I looked at Mama for an explanation. Then we both heard him slam the door to his study shut.

  I began to rock faster. I couldn’t stop my lips quivering, I had to suck in air.

  ‘He’s crying,’ Moosa told her.

  ‘Why did you burn Baba’s books?’ I yelled at them. ‘Baba loves his books.’

  For a moment neither of them spoke. I sensed guilt in their silence. Then Mama said, ‘It’s not like you didn’t participate.’ I must have looked at her in horror because she said, ‘I saw you standing there, watching Moosa working the fire,’ then turned to Moosa for confirmation.

  Something boiled in my throat, and like an explosion I yelled, ‘I’ll tell Baba when he comes home that you burned his books, I swear I will.’

  ‘It’s for Baba’s own good,’ Moosa said. He was beside me now, standing on his knees the way he did a few minutes before in front of my tin bucket on the roof, my favourite bucket with the picture of a Greek family waving and smiling in an olive grove, blackened now with soot and ash, ruined for ever. He tried to whisper something in my ear. I pushed him.

  ‘You are crazy. Crazy!’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Mama said. ‘Behave. This isn’t how I taught you to speak to your elders.’

  I covered my face. Moosa carried me to the bathroom. ‘Calm down, Champ,’ he said and began washing my face with cold water. I sighed deeply. He held his handkerchief to my nose and said, ‘Blow.’ He combed my hair with his fingers, kissed my hand and shook it, as if to say, ‘Firm up, Champ.’ Then, looking into my eyes, he said, ‘We mustn’t tell the men coming here about Baba’s books. You must promise.’

  I inhaled deeply and said, ‘I promise.’

  Then the doorbell rang, over and over, in Baba’s special ring.

  9

  ‘Baba!’ I said and shot past Moosa. I was first at the front door.

  ‘Hello, Slooma,’ he said, walking right past me. ‘Where is your mother?’

  There was so much I wanted to tell him, I didn’t know where to start.

  He slapped his hand into Moosa’s. Moosa asked him something, and Baba answered, ‘God willing, God willing. Where’s Najwa?’ then looking at me, ‘Where’s your mother?’ It had been a long time since I had heard him call her Najwa. Mama walked through the hallway swing-doors. Something was different about her. He kissed her on the cheek and I noticed then that she had combed her hair and painted her lips. She must have run to her room when she heard the doorbell.

  ‘I have been so worried,’ Mama told him, following him into the kitchen.
/>   ‘Baba,’ I said, ‘Moosa and Mama burned your books.’

  Baba looked at Moosa. ‘Did you burn everything?’

  ‘Yes, Baba, even your papers.’

  ‘What did you do with the ashes?’

  ‘We buried them.’

  ‘Well done,’ Baba said and patted Moosa on the shoulder.

  I was confused. Why wasn’t he furious?

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Moosa said. ‘We think they are on their way.’

  ‘I am leaving now,’ Baba said confidently and walked to his bedroom. Mama and I followed him.

  ‘I saved your dream notebook,’ I said, pulling it from beneath his pillow. ‘I didn’t let them burn it. See?’ I handed it to him, but he wasn’t interested.

  ‘Can you pack me some clothes?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Don’t make a fuss, please, I don’t have time. All of this will pass and you will see how right I was.’

  ‘They’ll destroy you …’

  ‘Najwa.’

  ‘… us, everything.’

  ‘Najwa, please.’

  ‘Baba?’

  ‘Yes, Slooma,’ he said, happy for the distraction.

  ‘You need a new one. See, there’s only one page left, barely enough for one dream.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said with exaggerated interest. He took the book from me and began to flick through the pages. ‘You know what, you are right. I must remember to buy a new one.’

  ‘I didn’t read it,’ I said, but he was talking to Mama now.

  ‘Underwear, socks. I mustn’t forget my wash bag. Put it all in a plastic bag. I am famished.’

  ‘There’s food on the table, or shall I make you something?’ she said, her eyes anxious.

  ‘No. I am in a hurry.’ He walked out, adding as if to himself but knowing she could hear him, ‘Haven’t you made lunch yet?’

  This froze her in the middle of the room. Then she began collecting his clothes, mumbling, ‘I haven’t had time, and it’s too early anyway, we haven’t even finished breakfast,’ knowing he couldn’t hear her. She opened his underwear drawer, her hands trembling. I stood by the door watching her, then I left for the kitchen.

  I found Moosa and Baba not sitting at the table, but standing, leaning against the counter. Baba seemed excited. His cheeks were rosy and he was busy telling Moosa something. Every so often Baba would lean over the breakfast table and pick a piece of cheese or a slice of the apple Moosa had carved. There was plenty of food on the table.

  Mama walked in, carrying a small suitcase, and caught him picking at the food.

  ‘I’ll make you something to take with you,’ she said.

  ‘No, I must go.’ He slapped Moosa’s hand again, and the two men looked into each other’s eyes for a couple of seconds. Then he took the small suitcase from Mama, lifted it to his waist. ‘It weighs a ton,’ he said and Moosa laughed. ‘Do you not want me to come back, Um Suleiman?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘You want to get rid of me, I get it.’

  ‘Of course not, I just wasn’t sure … I wanted to …’

  Baba was already walking out, smiling broadly at Moosa.

  Outside, there was a car waiting for him. Someone was sitting behind the wheel. I ran after him to the car, but stopped when I saw the driver’s face and realized I didn’t know him. When Baba got into the car with the stranger he reached above his head and pulled down the big sunglasses that I saw him wear on Martyrs’ Square. They had been perched on top of his head all along.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ Mama asked, clearing the dishes noisily.

  ‘Nothing,’ Moosa said calmly, sitting at the breakfast table smoking a cigarette.

  ‘What do you mean, nothing?’ Mama shouted at him. ‘He spoke to you didn’t he? What did he tell you?’

  Moosa left the kitchen.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she called after him, then in a lowered tone told me, ‘Go. Make sure he doesn’t leave.’

  I went looking for him and found him sitting in the reception room, opposite the huge photograph of the Guide. He pulled an ashtray close to him, tapped his cigarette twice on its rim, exhaled and said, ‘How are you, Champ?’

  Then Mama walked in with a tea tray.

  Any minute now, I thought, our house will be filled with men from the Revolutionary Committee, turning everything upside down, and I am not to tell of the papers and books we burned. I remembered the book, Democracy Now, that I had hidden beneath my pillow, and my skin itched with panic.

  We sipped our tea in silence. I wondered how long we would have to wait. What if the person who had called had got the wrong number and so hung up before speaking? After all, that’s what I would do, hang up without saying a word. Then Moosa looked at his watch and said, ‘I must go.’ Mama sighed and nodded in the way people do to say, ‘Of course you must.’ Her hands were still trembling slightly.

  ‘Do you need anything?’

  ‘Why do you ask,’ she said harshly, ‘didn’t you just say you have to go? Well, if you truly must go then go,’ and left the room.

  Moosa sighed and went after her.

  I sat for a while looking up at the huge picture of the Guide. It was impossible to ignore, so big it took over the room. The piano looked small in comparison. How long will we have to keep it there, I wondered. Then the urgent thought returned that I must find a better hiding place for Baba’s book than beneath my pillow.

  I went to my room, closed the door behind me, took the book out and lay with it beneath the bed. There were no photographs or drawings in it, just stacks and stacks of word-lines. When I flipped through the pages all I could see were blocks of black print, separated by the occasional white space. I remembered Nasser, how once he tried to teach me to type on his typewriter. I was slow, and he was impatient. On the first page someone had written something, a dedication: ‘To my eternal friend and comrade, Faraj Bu Suleiman el-Dewani. With my undying loyalty, Rashid.’ It was a gift from Ustath Rashid to Baba. I didn’t like seeing my name there. Why wasn’t he content with just Faraj el-Dewani? Above my head the mattress bulged through the gaps between the wood beams of the bed. I got out, lifted the mattress and hid the book beneath it. This way, I thought, even if Mama came to change the sheets she wouldn’t find it.

  I climbed up to the roof and looked down on Ustath Rashid, Auntie Salma and Kareem’s house, their curtains drawn and still, the garden silent and empty. There were days when the two houses seemed as one. Ustath Rashid would be with Baba in his study, Mama with Auntie Salma in her kitchen, and Kareem and I in the street, silently calmed by the knowledge that our fathers were brothers, our mothers sisters.

  I went out to the street and found Kareem standing alone, throwing a blade into the dirt.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he said, and I immediately felt guilty. I had withdrawn from him ever since his father had been arrested, I was sure he had noticed.

  The sun was shining brightly above us, but my teeth were chattering.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  I nodded and suddenly felt myself close to tears. A place in my chest ached as if something sharp was pressing into it. I felt an infinite longing for nothing specific, as if a void in my soul was announcing itself. My throat tightened and I thought if Kareem put a hand on my shoulder I would explode. He might then think I was a crybaby, a girl, so I bit on my teeth and nodded again.

  ‘Do you want to play My Land, Your Land?’ he said.

  This was the first time in a week, since his father had been taken, that Kareem had wanted to play. So although I wasn’t in the mood I took his blade and drew as wide a circle as I could round myself. My shadow was directly beneath me, it was noon. I divided the circle into two equal halves, his land and my land, and gave him the knife handle first. He was still observing my drawing, and even though his face was serious it was approving. We stood outside the circle and began. My Land, Your Land was our favourite game; Kareem and I played it often bec
ause all it required was two players, a good blade and the dirt beneath us.

  Kareem was good at most games and it was always easy losing to him, not only because he was older but more because he would never show that he enjoyed his victory. In fact, on winning, a look of regret often cast itself on his face. Although I was much younger than Kareem, he always treated me as an equal. Even if there was always the acknowledgement on my part of the three years that separated us: I sought his advice, and when there was a dispute between him and any of the other boys I always took his side.

  His first throw was bad, the knife fell flat on its side. Mine was good, the blade left a clear mark on Kareem’s half of the circle that meant most of his land had become mine. That determined the first game, and luck stayed with me for the next two. I beat Kareem three games in a row. This had never happened before. Never before had I been so confident in my throws; before the knife left my hand I was certain of success. The tightness in my throat had eased and tears were the furthest thing from my mind.

  Osama, Masoud and Ali joined us.

  ‘You let a boy beat you?’ Masoud said. This was made worse because Ali usually repeated what his brother said. ‘You let a boy beat you,’ he echoed.

  Then Osama too teased him, saying, ‘Serves you right for befriending a child.’

  ‘I am not a child.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Kareem said, with an irritation that made the betrayal harsher. ‘He seemed grumpy, so I let him win,’ he told them.

  ‘You’re a liar,’ I heard myself say.

  ‘Who are you calling a liar?’

  ‘Losing three games in a row is shameful, but to lie about it and say you let me win, well, that’s just not right. No surprise there, I suppose,’ I said, feeling a dark, unstoppable force gain momentum.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Come on, Kareem,’ I said, looking at the boys and letting a smile escape me. ‘Everybody knows about your father.’