His room seemed ready now. He’d got everything he needed: a small metal bed, a rack for his clothes, a wooden table and chair, a bookshelf, a gas cooker, a radio and second-hand tape recorder, and a large blue lamp that gave the room a particular glow and a hidden beauty that the soul felt before the eye saw it. He’d bought it all at an auction and it hadn’t cost him much. He still had most of the money he had brought with him from Dammam. It would be enough to see him through until he received his first instalment from college. He had turned the window sill into a small store, where he put tinned foods and fruit: tins of milk concentrate, yellow cheese, melon jam, tea, sugar, an orange or apple or banana, and the remains of a loaf, always wrapped in newspaper and usually thrown away after going stale before anyone had touched it, especially once Ahmad’s raids on his modest store had stopped. Moudhi had given him a small silver teapot, a saucepan for boiling water and several glasses, which he put on a wooden fruit box draped with a piece of blue cloth, not far from the door, beside the gas cooker. This was despite Moudhi’s protests; she didn’t think that there was any call for him to make tea for himself. She was always there, and he had only to give the order. But he persuaded her when he pointed out that she went to bed early and he needed tea late at night, which she grudgingly accepted. However, she continued to make tea for him without his asking and he didn’t object, since it pleased her. The fact was that he didn’t like the weak tea made in Riyadh, which was usually very sweet, with a colour more like leaf tea than proper tea.
His room was lovely, despite its simple furnishings – better than Ahmad’s and Abd al-Rahman’s which, though they were filled with splendid furniture, still lacked beauty. Moudhi cleaned and tidied his room every day herself. She sprinkled rosewater on his bed, and sometimes lemon balm, which made it wonderfully fragrant. She took no notice of Abd al-Rahman’s grumblings and protests as she left his room to be cleaned by Said. ‘You are a disgrace,’ she said to him, ‘and your room is a tip! Hisham’s room doesn’t need any effort to clean or tidy. As for your room … God Almighty, it needs a whole army of workers!’ Then she would laugh and go away, leaving Abd al-Rahman to snort and pick his nose, which he always did when he was angry but unable to find a retort. Hisham went out of his way to relieve Moudhi of her chores. He made his bed as soon as he got up and usually didn’t sleep in it except in the afternoon, for at night he slept on the roof with the others. There were just those stubborn patches of dust that defied all his attempts at cleaning.
The room became a refuge for his cousins, who came as their own needs dictated. Ahmad would raid it at midnight, devouring any food he could find and enjoying Hisham’s hot tea without bothering to bring replenishment. If Abd al-Rahman wanted to smoke, the room was his favourite place. Several times he had declared his intention to bring girls round, but Hisham was adamant on this point. Abd al-Rahman gave in, sorry that he had not realised the value of the room until Hisham moved in. As for Hamad, he would bring his supply of arak, no more than a bottle, or part of a bottle. Sometimes it would be in a plastic bag, forcing Hisham to pour it into a bottle so that it did not split and spill its revolting-smelling contents all over the room. Hamad would hide the arak and, when he felt like getting tipsy before going out, would make for the secret store in the room and have a glass or two. No one at home would be awake apart from Hisham, who was normally reading or studying. Hamad had tried to persuade Hisham to join him in a drink, but he flatly refused. Hamad always smiled and shook his head. ‘Idiot!’ he would say. ‘Just like your uncle’s children, you don’t know a good thing when you see one.’ Then he would gulp down the arak and chatter on, unheard by Hisham, who was immersed in the book in his hands. To begin with, Hisham was afraid that Moudhi might find the arak and he spoke frankly to Hamad about his fear. Hamad replied with a shout of laughter that almost made his eyes disappear up into his head. ‘Don’t you worry,’ he said, ‘Moudhi doesn’t know the difference between water and arak. And she has no idea what wine is, either! I used to leave it in my room. When she was good enough to clean it sometimes, she took no notice of what she found. You’re above suspicion in her eyes, so don’t worry about her or Said, he’s a stupid fellow.’ Then Hamad laughed loudly again and returned to his glass. When Hisham asked why he didn’t keep the arak in his own room, he said he was just being cautious, and that anyway he liked the company. Hisham couldn’t object. Hamad’s family owned the house, and he was their guest; he didn’t want to antagonise his cousins at any cost.
Hamad was almost right. When Moudhi found the bottle she did ask Hisham about the foul liquid inside. But he told her it was something to do with his studies, and she didn’t suspect anything and sighed. ‘If only my father had let me finish my education, I would be like you today. But praise be to God, I can at least read. I have my elementary certificate.’ Her eyes glistened behind her veil as she spoke. ‘My poor sister Munira,’ she went on sadly, ‘never went to school at all. May God forgive our father. Everything about him was fine, except that he was afraid of girls’ education. But never mind. What God has chosen is best.’ Then she took the used glasses and went off to clean them. After that, Moudhi looked after the bottle with great care, like a woman fussing over her child. Hisham would smile, feeling his stomach contract painfully when he saw what she was doing. As for Muhammad, Hisham never saw him except occasionally at lunchtime, or when they had breakfast together. As the oldest son, Muhammad was always preoccupied with his work, his wife and his two children in the other part of the house.