In the Country of Men

by Hisham Matar

  The section of the sky visible through my window was darkening. Thin veils of cloud drifted in and were brushed orange and crimson by the setting sun taking its last deep breath before sinking into the sea. The merciful breeze that came in the early evening was gently turning around us. My limbs relaxed, and I wished, silently, deeply, that nothing would come to disturb us, that the telephone and the doorbell would remain silent. I even hoped Baba would delay his arrival. We were both captive, our house and the past our prison, but it was familiar, not full of shadowy urges and cold alienation. I remembered the boys, the ambulance, Sharief, and squeezed Mama’s arm more tightly, darkly content with the world I was given, thankful to be hers, happy she was a mother because, as Sheikh Mustafa had confirmed, all mothers will enter Heaven. I was surprised how easily his words spilled out of my mouth: ‘ “God has promised every mother Paradise because the suffering endured by women surpasses all kinds of human suffering.” ’

  ‘Once, when I was near your age,’ she said. ‘I stood talking to the next-door neighbours’ boy. He had said something and I laughed. Your grandfather saw us. I still recall the lash of the hemp rope chasing me down the street, the people on the street, their eyes savagely curious, my own uncontrollable and hideous yelps, the rope making the sound of hiccups behind me, and your grandfather’s mysterious silence and strained smile that he always had on his face at such times. I ran into our house screaming. When your aunt and grandmother saw him they screamed, begged him to stop. He said nothing, chased me into the courtyard. I was closed in, trapped. His hand fell with the weight of a sandbag on my cheek.’

  Mama’s description of my grandfather’s smile reminded me of Ustath Rashid’s smile when he was breaking up the fight between his two students in Lepcis, and Baba’s smile when Nasser called on Eid.

  ‘Later, when Khaled told your grandfather that he had seen me in the Italian Coffee House sitting in mixed company, they locked me in my room for thirty days and rushed to find me a groom. Khaled had sentenced the flower, the young, stupid, naive fourteen-year-old girl, to life imprisonment.

  ‘For one month I was locked in my bedroom,’ Mama said dreamily. ‘One month,’ her arm tightening round me. I felt such immense love for her. ‘When your grandmother said, “Stay here until you have contemplated your actions a thousand times,” I thought of your Scheherazade. The word “thousand” was what evoked the memory of that wretched woman. But, somehow, thinking of her, I didn’t feel so alone. I remember promising myself I would read more, widen my choice of companions, but part of the punishment was to leave me with no books. “Don’t give her any more ammunition,” your grandfather had said. “A corrupt mind twists everything to its advantage.” I missed reading. I missed school. But most of all I missed him, the boy who was sitting opposite me at the Coffee House – I don’t even remember his name. After Khaled paid for our cappuccinos and left, I was so moved I held his hand across the table, not below it as we had been doing before in secret, there where all could see. My eyes were brimming with tears of pure happiness. The boy – I wish I could remember his name, he had such beautiful eyes, I can still see them – was more embarrassed than I. He blushed so sweetly. In my captivity I thought of him, and thinking of him made me stronger. I thought to myself, “All of this doesn’t matter because he and I exist in the same world, with the same rivers and seas and mountains.” The foolish girl I was. “No matter where he is,” I told myself, “and no matter how hard they try to keep us apart they’ll never stop us gazing into the selfsame sky, the selfsame moon, and being warmed by the selfsame sun.” It gave me great joy to glimpse one of those eternal objects; the sun, a cloud, the blueness of the sky made me feel victorious over their punishment. But, in the end, it was they who won. My arsenal of literary characters shrank rapidly from then on, even Scheherazade would betray me. Now I am unable to read anything longer than a poem or a newspaper article. Books demand too much trust.

  ‘When they released me I went to the garden to stretch my eyes and breathe the fresh air. My only protest during that month was not to bathe. My knee-long hair was bound up in a bundle and ignored. My eyes fixed on things in the distance that melted. Being able to stretch my sight was like yawning. A breath of stale air escaped from within my blouse. In the fresh air my stench was stronger. I smelled of boiled potatoes. I wondered how he would smell on the nights I will have to lie beneath him? The impulse to cry was replaced by what I understood as anger, but now know was hate. I felt its sudden and swift grip, warm and dependable, mine. That was what spurred me to talk aloud to myself like a mad girl, revealing my thoughts to my father, who I didn’t know was on the other side of the wall, listening. I raised my voice in argument, as if Libya and my family had all appeared before me. “What do you want her to do?” I said into the wind, “Die? Disappear off the face of the earth? You forbid her school, lock her away for thirty days and now want to marry her to a complete stranger with a big nose. How fantastic!” I saw him coming towards me with that strange serene smile that preceded every beating, not so much a smile as an expression of pain. His lips strained and affected his eyes, he seemed almost regretful. This time the inevitability of it drained me, I couldn’t even get myself to speak, to say “No,” let alone run. I remained still, sitting under the grapevine-shackled trellising that shaded an area spread with rugs where we sometimes gathered in the late afternoons to drink tea and roast almonds, listening to your grandmother recite from A Thousand and One Nights.’

  I felt my heart tense in fear for her, wondering if he was going to strike her down again with the sandbag-weight of his hand.

  ‘Discussing the nose of a suitor suggested desire, a suggestion I preferred to die before making in the company of el-haj Muftah, your grandfather.’

  Mama liked to refer to her relatives by how they were related to me: her father was ‘your grandfather’, her brother ‘your uncle’. It made me feel responsible, as if I were to blame for their actions, and made the fact that they were completely absent from our lives even more peculiar. My grandparents’ house was in Benghazi, where the family is from, twelve hours’ drive away, where my uncles, Auntie Nora and my countless cousins also lived. I always thought that it was because of the distance they never visited, but I later discovered that it was my father’s political involvement that had scared them away. People were sometimes arrested just by association. It had seemed quite normal then, as most things in childhood do, but, thinking back on it now, I realize how isolated we were.

  ‘A good, virtuous, chaste girl,’ Mama continued, ‘ought to only be concerned with the character of her suitor, not his nose. A beating, I thought, was now inevitable. But there was something in the way he had prolonged the moment that made me think he relished it. My hate tightened round my heart. Then he sat beside me, wrapped his arm around my shoulders and spoke in a way he had never done before. At that moment his strange smile gained a new meaning. Because it had always accompanied the beatings, I had come to read it as an expression of regret towards something he felt he was obliged to do; that the inevitability of the situation was causing his spirit to stir with the contradiction of love and justice. I never suspected he took pleasure in hitting me. In fact, although I always disagreed with his punishment, I also believed that perhaps due to an ancient failing that kept father and child from ever being reconciled I must endure the receiving of it as he must endure its administering. And so I came to interpret his smile as the smile of a troubled man, torn between desire and duty, between what he would rather do and what he must. In this way I rescued him in my memory. Because I never doubted his love. But now, as he sat beside me, his smile seemed to mean something else. Along with his gentle voice and embrace, it was also there to comfort me. I cried. I cried because his mercy was harsher than his justice; I cried because I understood that I was now the property of another man, that beating me was no longer a privilege he could allow himself. That stifled smile now looked like his farewell.

  ‘ “Would I ever sell
you?” he said, sitting beside me beneath the entangled grapevine. “Would I ever give you to a man that didn’t deserve you?”

  ‘And that was how I knew it was over. A word had been given and a word had been received, men’s words that could never be taken back or exchanged. My eyes were no longer yawning, I could focus well now. I remembered his beatings and felt my back grow taller at the realization that they had for ever ended. I looked down at my knee touching his and was amazed at how able and enduring the human body is.’

  I remembered how my back too had grown taller after the white car stopped following us. Then I thought of Ustath Rashid – I had no idea what Baba was going through – how he must be locked away, his body bruised and dirty. Perhaps he too was now sitting beside one of his interrogators, and they had suddenly, and to Ustath Rashid’s utter astonishment, placed an arm around his bruised shoulders, then smiled at him. And perhaps he too looked down at their two neighbouring thighs and was amazed at how strong the human body was. I touched the places on my chest where Osama’s palm-heels had stabbed me, and although they still ached the pain was duller, felt less crucial.

  Outside in the garden the crickets sounded. Out of nowhere a bird broke into song, then, as if embarrassed, realized it was alone and fell silent. After a little while Mama’s breathing became deep and long; she had fallen asleep. Her arm, still wrapped round my waist, became slack. I imagined what I would have done to save her. In my fantasy I would tap on the window of the room where she was held captive and help her jump out. We would run away somewhere where no one could find us. And to avoid people’s gossip we would pretend to be brother and sister, because I would be nine and she fourteen. I would make sesame sticks and sell them to children, delivering them on my big motorcycle. I would spend the money I made on books for her. And one day she would meet that boy she was with in the Italian Coffee House – perhaps by the sea shore, or at a café, or in a line in a bakery – and fall in love with him again. Many times I would drive by on my motorcycle and see them holding hands above a table in a café, big, silent smiles on their faces. And after they had found many reasons to be together and all the books in the world were read, it would be time for me to be born. My imagination turned the tale in my head – I saved her, went away with her, then came back to save her again – until sleep curled itself round me and I sank in it, feeling the dark, warm glow of hope spread itself within me.

  17

  The following morning I sprang out of bed the moment my eyes opened. I could still feel the warm shadow of Mama’s arm wrapped round me. First thing I did was to shower – something I usually had to be asked to do – then I dressed in shorts, T-shirt and sandals. She was already up, sitting with the newspaper spread in front of her on the breakfast table. I kissed her hand and chattered on.

  ‘When are we going for a drive? Let’s go to Signor Il Calzoni’s.’

  She placed a finger under the line she was reading and said, ‘Why don’t you go play with your friends, habibi?’

  I didn’t want to see the boys. I went and played in my workshop up on the roof for a while, then I suddenly felt worried about her. I went to find her. She wasn’t in the kitchen, and her bedroom door was closed.

  ‘Mama?’

  The silence before she spoke seemed endless.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her voice wasn’t right. My instinct was to go in and stay beside her.

  ‘Have you got the time?’

  ‘The time?’ Then I heard her say to herself, ‘What a question!’ She cleared her throat then said, louder than necessary, ‘It’s nine. Go and play.’

  I went out to the garden again and lay in the shade of the glue tree. The sunlight filtered through the branches and leaves, burning their edges white. I recalled a dream I had had that night. Out of nowhere it returned. Mama was ill again. She was laughing at me because I couldn’t walk. When I looked down I saw that I had no legs. She giggled in that crazy way she did when she was ill. I realized then that I had grown wings, wings as long as Mulberry Street. She clapped her hands and laughed so hard her eyes were crying. Remembering the dream gave me an excuse to run to her.

  I opened her door without knocking. She was lying in bed, newspaper in hand. ‘I have just remembered a dream, can you work it out for me?’ I only got as far as saying, ‘You were ill again,’ before she interrupted.

  ‘Why beckon disaster?’

  ‘I am not. It was a dream.’

  ‘Don’t let such bad thoughts take hold of you.’

  I faced the ground. ‘What are you going to make for lunch?’

  ‘Lunch? It’s too early for lunch. Are you hungry?’

  ‘No,’ I said and left the room.

  I was walking around the garden when I spotted Sharief talking to Ustath Jafer. I ran to my room, fetched the book from beneath the mattress and ran out. I stood beside them, not wanting to disturb their conversation, but unable to calm my excitement. They both looked at me.

  ‘What do you want?’ Ustath Jafer asked.

  I shook my head and walked away. I put the book on the pavement in front of our house and sat on it, pretending to be drawing in the sand. Sharief nodded several times while Ustath Jafer spoke, pointing at our house, then at Ustath Rashid’s. Then he waved his hand at Sharief as if to say, ‘Off you go,’ and walked into the dark shade of his house.

  Sharief got into his car. I went to him.

  ‘This is the book I told you about,’ I said, handing him Baba’s book, Democracy Now.

  He took it, turned it in his hand, then handed it back.

  ‘It’s from Ustath Rashid to Baba.’

  ‘Umm,’ he said, uninterested.

  ‘Look,’ I said, opening the book, pointing to the dedication. He squinted at it. ‘I have names too.’ He didn’t seem to know or care what I was talking about. ‘Names to vouch for Baba, remember? I have Rashid,’ I said, pointing at Ustath Rashid’s house. ‘Nasser. And Moosa.’

  ‘Nothing new,’ he said irritably, reaching for the keys in the ignition. I could see the line where the dry, dark skin of his lower lip ended and the moist, paler flesh on the inside of the mouth began. I looked at the infinite pockmarks etched on his cheek, each a different size and shape, the skin in them shiny and a shade lighter. He turned the engine on. ‘I wouldn’t worry if I were you,’ he said. ‘Your father was very cooperative, melted like butter.’ He motioned towards Ustath Jafer’s house. ‘And now a mighty hand has come to his rescue.’ I was leaning against the car. ‘Move,’ he said and drove off without saying goodbye.

  I stood in the street, unable to make any sense of what Sharief meant by ‘cooperative’, ‘melted like butter’. The sun had nibbled away all the shade, burning our dirt street white. It seemed an effort just to keep my eyes open. I walked into our house, thankful for its cool shade, thankful for the roof above it, blinking to erase the blotches of light stamped into my retina.

  Later that day Moosa arrived. He was in a very agitated state and seemed unable to settle in one place.

  ‘Tripoli is being turned upside down. They took everyone, gathering them like sheep.’

  ‘Where’s Faraj?’

  ‘I don’t know. Turn on the television. Rashid. Rashid will be judged … Judged? I mean … The bastards.’

  ‘When, when?’ Mama asked. His restless anxiety had been transmitted to her.

  He turned on the television in the sitting room and sat on the sofa. She sat beside him. Every time she tried to speak he raised his hand in the air.

  Ustath Rashid was sitting down, a spotlight on his face. The broadcast was a repeat of what I saw during nap time, but now it was evening, the whole world awake to see it. ‘Were you present at the meeting?’ Ustath Rashid hesitated, then nodded and said, ‘Yes, I was present.’ Then repeated, ‘Present, present,’ loud enough now that there could be no doubt. Then the picture changed, they didn’t show him saying, ‘No,’ to Baba’s name
. Instead, a man now sat at a desk strewn with papers. He sat like a news reporter, but from his clothes and his helmet of curly hair I knew he was a member of the Revolutionary Committee. ‘Dark elements,’ he said in the high, barking tone in which Revolutionary Committee announcements are usually delivered. ‘Traitors who despise and envy our revolution have been detected. We, the Revolutionary Committee, the Guardians of the Revolution, have captured all members of this misguided group and those who harboured and funded them and will punish them severely.’ The man looked straight into the camera and added, ‘The enemy has been miserably defeated. Long live the Guide, long live the September Revolution.’ The camera stayed on him for longer than was necessary. He eventually called out, ‘Enough. I am finished.’ Then the screen went black for a few seconds before the flowers came on again, this time accompanied by revolutionary songs.

  I was standing in the doorway, the same doorway where Sharief had stood, Sharief who by now must have returned to sit in his car outside our house, loyal, eternal, sure of his place in the world, heavy with a man’s odour. I walked into the room and sat on the floor midway between the sofa and the television. Neither of them told me to leave. We watched the pink flowers and listened to the confident songs of the revolution, when, without explanation, the broadcast returned. All you could see was the dark night sky and, at the bottom of the screen, heads burnished by spotlights. Someone whispered, ‘Zoom,’ then irritably, ‘Zoom, zoom out.’ The camera swung down and now all we could see was the concrete floor. A foot stepped into the picture. I could see the threadbare stitching on the man’s black leather shoe and the motif of an eagle with its wings outstretched on the narrow metal buckle that went across the front. ‘I said zoom out, you idiot. Move.’ The foot stepped out and the camera moved up and zoomed out.