In the Country of Men

by Hisham Matar

  ‘What about my father?’ he demanded, taking a step towards me.

  I studied my fingers. ‘People are talking.’ If I could have pulled those words back I would have, but they were out and I had committed myself.

  ‘And what are they saying?’ he said through gritted teeth. His narrowed eyes fixed on me, they were impossible to ignore.

  ‘Everybody knows your father is a tr—’

  Kareem leaped on me. His weight threw me to the ground. He didn’t punch, we didn’t roll on the ground, he just kept squeezing his arms round me. I remember thinking: what if I wasn’t going to say ‘traitor’, Kareem; what if I was going to say another word that started with the same two letters? You would have leaped on your friend for nothing then. Osama pulled him off me. Kareem’s face was so red he might have been crying. Only a few minutes before it was I who had feared crying in front of him. Masoud pulled me up and dusted my back, slapping it a little too hard. I thought, perhaps in his house, with his fat and certain mother, his powerful and well-connected father, such firmness was always necessary. I noticed then that in one hand Kareem was clutching the knife. He could have stabbed me. He still loves me, I thought. We are still friends.

  ‘He’s younger than you,’ Osama said. ‘You can’t fight him.’ It was the only time I was thankful for Osama’s strength. ‘If you want to beat him, beat him in My Land, Your Land.’ Then matter-of-factly he added, ‘It’s the only way.’

  Sensing Kareem’s hesitation, I said, ‘I dare you.’

  ‘Go on,’ Masoud and Ali urged him.

  ‘I don’t feel like it,’ he said, his voice low and trembling now.

  ‘Coward,’ I said.

  He tried to charge at me again, but the mighty Osama held him in his place.

  ‘If you are a real man,’ I said, ‘you should prove it by playing My Land, Your Land.’

  ‘Yes,’ Masoud said. ‘There’s no other way.’

  Ali repeated his brother’s words with an earnestness that made him look ridiculous.

  Kareem stared at the two brothers scornfully. I remembered then what he had once told me about Masoud and Ali: ‘two baboons that mirror their gossiping mother in every way, even in the way they wiggle their fat bums when they walk’. I recalled how much we had laughed then, and how out of character it was for Kareem, who rarely mocked anyone, and how that made me feel privileged somehow. And when I relayed his words to Mama she laughed and repeated them to Baba, who smiled broadly, his eyes gleaming with pleasure, causing me to feel proud of my friend’s wit and accuracy.

  He stepped out of the circle drawn in the ground and aimed the knife.

  ‘How’s the beloved?’ I heard myself say.

  ‘What beloved?’ the boys asked.

  ‘Shut up, you little swine.’

  ‘Tell us, tell us, who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Leila.’

  ‘Not the one in his class?’

  ‘Not the smart one who always sits in the front row?’

  ‘Yes, that one,’ I said. ‘He can’t stop dreaming about her.’

  They laughed. Kareem stared at me.

  ‘Every time he heard a love song he would go all soft in the stomach for her. He told me!’ I said, pointing at him.

  Osama and Masoud slapped their thighs and each other on the back. Ali tried to imitate them. Kareem hurled the knife so hard its blade was entirely buried in the dirt. It was a good, clean throw.

  ‘Listen, you, you have no word, you are not a man because you have no word.’ His words left his pursed lips like small explosions. I thought I saw tears in his eyes. He turned and walked away. I remembered him walking like this towards his house to comfort or shout at his mother after his father was taken. Like then, we all watched him in silence.

  Then I heard myself call after him: ‘Crybaby!’ But not even that made him turn round. ‘Girl!’

  After he had vanished inside his house, the boys looked at me. I pulled Kareem’s knife out of the earth, erased the circle with my foot and said, ‘I don’t know why he’s so upset. It’s only a game.’

  Osama, Masoud and Ali said nothing. It was lunch time anyway. We all went to our houses.

  10

  The Revolutionary Committee Mama and Moosa were expecting, those for whose sake Baba’s books were burned, never did come that day. We ate lunch expecting them, cleared the table expecting them and went to have tea in the sitting room expecting them. Moosa was still there. He didn’t leave to do the things he said he needed to do. I went to my room, closing the door behind me. I sat on the foot of the bed and thought about what had happened with Kareem. Voices in my head started telling me off:

  ‘You know what you’ve done, don’t you?’

  ‘You know it or do you need us to tell you?’

  ‘You betrayed him.’

  ‘That’s what it was: betrayal.’

  ‘There’s no other word for it.’

  ‘Why, Suleiman? Why did you do it?’

  ‘You are wrong about yourself.’

  ‘You are a terrible person. You thought you were good, always believed it, but the truth is that you are a traitor.’

  ‘Traitor! Traitor!’

  ‘Remember what you wanted to be, dreamed you would be, were certain you would be, for Mama, for Baba, for Moosa?’

  ‘An aeroplane pilot. An art historian like Ustath Rashid. A great pianist, although you hated the piano, with a black tailcoat that you would flick behind you before taking your place to play in one of the great halls of the world, just so that you could see their smiling faces in the front row, looking up at you.’

  ‘Like kissing Baba’s hand in front of his friends, you imagined these things too would make your chest glow with happiness and pride.’

  ‘How many times you imagined their eyes gleaming with pride!’

  ‘But you were wrong about yourself.’

  ‘You have always been bad. Just waiting for your true nature to rise.’

  ‘You see how bad you are now? This is only the beginning.’

  ‘Things only grow in this world.’

  ‘What you are now is what you’ll for ever be.’

  ‘One’s nature is like a mountain, you can’t change it.’

  ‘The only difference is, unlike a mountain, one’s nature grows.’

  ‘The devil has found a home in you.’

  ‘And when the devil finds a home it likes it never leaves.’

  ‘Warm, comfortable, he sleeps in your belly.’

  ‘When the Day of Judgement comes, when all that’s unseen will become visible, your heart will be seen for what it is: empty and cruel.’

  ‘As empty as a rotten chestnut.’

  ‘Your deeds will be visible then in Eternity.’

  ‘You’ll never feel the pleasure of that secret warm glow smouldering your heart, that warm glow that is goodness.’

  ‘Do you remember it tickling your chest every time you kissed Baba’s hand?’

  ‘Or when Kareem entrusted you with his secret love for Leila?’

  ‘You loved that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. “He’s twelve,” you said to yourself, “and I am nine, but he has entrusted me with his secret.” ’

  ‘And you betrayed him.’

  I felt the first sting of tears in my eyes. I hoped they would come.

  ‘And why did you betray him? Could you say why?’

  I shook my head to say no.

  ‘You can’t tell him you didn’t mean it.’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘You can’t say it was an accident.’

  ‘A slip of the tongue.’

  ‘No,’ I heard myself say, and heard the tremor in my voice.

  ‘You meant to hurt him.’

  ‘No,’ I said again.

  ‘You did.’

  ‘You even enjoyed it, admit it.’

  I nodded.

  ‘But Kareem is your best friend.’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered, and the tears fell.


  ‘Oh, Kareem is certainly kind-hearted. “You can see it in his face how white his heart is,” these were your words. Traitor!’

  ‘Traitor!’

  I buried my face in my hands.

  After a while I came out and washed my face. Moosa had left. I saw Mama getting ready to take a nap, pulling the curtains shut, turning on her beside lamp. She didn’t notice me. When she was about to turn around I moved out of view. An excitement rushed through me. I thought this must be how it feels to be a police officer or a thief in one of those American films.

  I went to watch television in the sitting room. I sat on the floor, cross-legged, only centimetres away from the screen. A man was sitting in a chair in a room. I turned the volume up slightly. The upper half of the wall behind him was the colour of sand, the lower green. It was chipped in several places, showing white beneath the paint. The man looked thin. He faced slightly to one side. His knees were touching, he looked like a school boy in detention. He wore a white shirt under a grey jacket. His clothes seemed too big, his shirt collar almost touched his ears. His cheeks were grey with stubble. Suddenly, and with such speed it was dizzying, the camera zoomed in on his face, moved left, right, until he was in the centre of the picture, then focused. A light was shone on him. His eyes squinted against it. It was Ustath Rashid. I waited for him to speak. Another voice mumbled something. I turned the volume up a little. It seemed that Ustath Rashid, too, didn’t hear what the voice had said, he tilted his head slightly to one side. A shadow of a big hairless head fell on the wall behind him. The voice repeated the question: ‘Were you present at the meeting?’ Ustath Rashid nodded, then said, ‘Yes, I was present.’ But the word ‘present’ was barely audible. He was asked to repeat. ‘Present, present,’ he said. ‘Who else was there?’ Ustath Rashid looked again at the man with the hairless head. ‘We will read a list,’ the voice said calmly, ‘and you will answer yes or no.’ I heard the sound of shuffling paper before the voice spoke a name. Ustath Rashid hesitated, looked at the shadow, the shadow came closer, his head becoming bigger on the wall. Tears gathered in Ustath Rashid’s eyes, he looked thirsty, his Adam’s apple rose and fell, then he nodded. More names were read out, and Ustath Rashid continued nodding, sometimes before a name was even fully read. Then I heard Baba’s name: ‘Faraj el-Dewani?’ It was strange to hear Baba’s name on television. Ustath Rashid hesitated a little. He looked to one side, his stubble made a strange noise against his shirt collar. The voice reread the name, this time inserting ‘Bu Suleiman’ into Baba’s name, which again, like when I had read it in the book Ustath Rashid had gifted Baba with his ‘undying loyalty’, made me feel implicated, dragged by my name into something I knew nothing about. Then Ustath Rashid spoke. He said, ‘No.’

  I ran to Mama, but found her asleep. I knelt beside her bed. ‘Wake up, Baba’s name is on television,’ I whispered. Her cheek was resting on her hand, her lips distorted, her breath came and went in deep swings. She was over-perfumed. I felt the urge to slap the air beside her.

  I returned to the television. The screen was covered now in a still photograph of pink flowers. This was the picture that meant the broadcast was temporarily interrupted. I heard it said that the Guide had a switch in his sitting room, beside his television set, so that whenever he saw something he didn’t like he flicked the flowers on. I sat and watched the flowers, hoping Ustath Rashid would come back on. I wondered if Kareem was watching. I had seen such interrogations before broadcast on television. They are meant to show the nation the ‘faces of the traitors’. Ustath Rashid said, ‘No,’ when Baba’s name was mentioned. I knew that this was the opposite of betrayal.

  I ran back to Mama. I put my nose beside her distorted lips and was certain that she had had some medicine before sleeping, maybe after I saw her draw the curtains and turn on the beside lamp, maybe before, maybe while Moosa was still here. Maybe he, too, was made to swear on her life not to tell a living soul? I felt anger blister my cheeks. Her medicine bottle was beside her. It was as big as a water bottle and had nothing written on it, the liquid inside it the colour of water. She had left it standing open on her bedside table. Without thinking I took it to the kitchen and began pouring it down the sink. I stopped to imagine what she would do when she found out. She could always go to Majdi the baker and buy another, I thought. I emptied it all.

  At this point the doorbell rang. Whoever it was kept their finger on the bell. The continuous ringing didn’t wake Mama; she didn’t come running towards the door, anxious, saying, ‘Coming, coming.’ By the time I was halfway down the hallway I heard myself shout, ‘Take your finger off the bell.’ I was surprised by how quickly my order was obeyed. I looked through the peephole. It was Bahloul the beggar. His head, his long and knotted hair and beard, straining to hear. When I opened the door he hesitated, looked like he was almost going to leave.

  ‘You haven’t given me any money lately,’ he said.

  ‘Not now, Bahloul. Mama’s asleep and Baba’s on a business trip. Go away.’

  ‘You are rude. You plant nothing for the hereafter. A kind word is a seed you’ll find as a tree in the hereafter.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. A strange exhaustion came over me.

  ‘Feed me,’ he said.

  I let him in. Bahloul had never been in our house before. When he was out of the sun, in our hallway, I smelled him and saw how dirty his jallabia was and how black his bare feet looked against the carpet. His toenails were like bird beaks or things made of wood. ‘No,’ I said and pushed him out. I was surprised by how easy it was to get rid of him, how willing he was to obey me. It made me feel guilty. So I said, pretending that it was my plan all along, ‘Go around the house. I’ll let you in through the kitchen.’ When he didn’t react, I added, ‘It’s better this way,’ and closed the door in his face.

  If one family refused to give Bahloul money he talked about them, said they were ‘mean, greedy, short-sighted, they think Heaven is near,’ and things like that. He told everyone that he was saving to buy a small fishing boat, but after he got the boat he continued to beg. Um Masoud said, ‘Of course, it’s easier to beg than work. The boat was an excuse, now he’s got it – paid for out of our money – he’ll find another reason to beg, the lazy cockroach.’

  By the time I had reached the kitchen he was already standing at the door, his nose touching the glass, steam gathering below it. He must have run, happy for my kindness. I suddenly felt affection towards him. I let him in. I took out some bread, cheese, honey, and poured him a glass of milk. He ate slowly.

  ‘There’s a strange smell in here,’ he said.

  My skin itched. I remembered I had promised Mama not to let anyone in the house when she was ill. I silently mouthed the same prayer over and over, one I had heard Moosa say before: ‘Concealer, conceal our faults.’

  Bahloul saw my lips move. He screwed up one eye, pointed his finger at me and said, ‘I see you, I see you.’ He peered around the room suspiciously. ‘You haven’t let the devil in, have you? When the devil enters he clings to everything.’

  ‘Come on, Bahloul,’ I said. ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘Give me some money.’

  ‘I haven’t got any money.’

  ‘I get no help from you. How am I ever going to become a fisherman?’

  ‘You have already got your boat.’

  ‘You are short-sighted. You must do for the hereafter as you do for today. Fishing boats are expensive. Or don’t tell me you’ve believed Um Masoud’s rumours? They are lies, partly true of course. All lies have the truth in them somewhere, but still, thanks be to God, no lie is ever completely true, not really. I’ve got the boat, that’s true. But I swear on the prophet’s grave that it hasn’t touched water yet. It’s swimming on sand. I sleep in it. I have no money to buy nets. I need nets to trap the sea.’ He took a sip of milk, the edge of his moustache turned white. ‘Serious business, fishing.’ Then his eyes fell on the medicine bottle I had just emptied. He slowly floated towards it,
sniffed it, then stared at me. I grabbed his hand and begged him: ‘Don’t tell, please, please. Promise on your life that you’ll never tell a living soul, ever.’ He looked at me as if I was going to bite him. His hand, dark and flaked with dirt, as coarse as bark, began to tremble. I squeezed it and said, ‘Promise.’

  ‘Protect me from the devil,’ he suddenly yelled towards the ceiling. I fell back. ‘God!’ he screamed like a horse and shot out to the garden. ‘Protect me from the devil, keep him at bay.’

  I ran after him. He ran around the house several times, like a trapped animal. I chased him. On one of his laps he noticed the garden gate as if for the first time, he thought of returning to it, but when he saw how close behind I was, he yelped and bypassed it. His jallabia filled like a balloon against his back. I dropped to the ground, breathless. When he appeared again and saw that I was now sitting in front of him, he yelped again, turned and shot in the opposite direction. I grabbed a handful of stones and hurled them at him. One pierced the balloon of his jallabia and made a deep satisfying thump on his back. He screamed like a horse or a monkey in the jungle. He wrapped his hands round his head, hunched over and hopped a few times. I found more stones and threw them at him. Every time I missed my anger hardened. Bahloul found the gate and escaped, screaming and running down Mulberry Street.

  I had never frightened anyone so much before. I watched him run, reach the end of the street then turn right towards the sea, towards his home, his fishing boat in the sand. I was suddenly frightened by what he might do the next time we met. Perhaps then he will understand that there was nothing to fear, that I am the boy and he the man, I thought.

  I sat on the pavement for a while, drawing lines in the sand with my finger. I am sure Bahloul won’t tell, he’ll be too frightened to speak, I thought. When I realized how hot my head had become I went back indoors.

  11

  Something in me was ashamed of what I had done to Bahloul. It was the first time I had heard a grown man scream like that. I was glad no one had witnessed it.

  I went to see Mama. Her room was dark and smelled of sleep, but she wasn’t in bed.