Two days before the start of term, on Thursday to be precise, he had a surprise encounter that signalled the return of his stomach cramps. He was relaxing with Abd al-Rahman in his room after lunch, pretending to be buried in a magazine in an effort to escape Abd al-Rahman’s never-ending complaints about his father, his work and the dawn prayers, not to mention his brother Ahmad and his unbelievable stinginess. Hisham could tell when Abd al-Rahman was really annoyed – when the words started coming out of his nose. Right now he was snorting and pulling at his nose while he remembered Ahmad’s behaviour at the lunch table. Their father had finished and left as usual, when Ahmad cut up the remaining meat, chewed on it, then put it back on the plate. The oldest brother Muhammad had already left, immediately after his father. He only ate a little, knowing that his wife Anoud would be waiting for him with a special lunch for his own little family. Hamad was only half there – at lunch he was only ever half there, and often left the table without saying anything. He only ate properly after he’d had a siesta to make up for the sleep he had missed the night before.
So for all intents and purposes only Abd al-Rahman and Hisham were witness to this particular lunchtime incident. Hisham was stunned by Ahmad’s behaviour. Abd al-Rahman, however, did not take it lying down, but took a piece of the mangled meat and chewed it himself. Ahmad watched and fiddled with his nose. Then he grabbed the two remaining pieces of meat. At this Abd al-Rahman got up from the table snorting, ‘God curse you, Ahmad. Anything goes with you. You don’t respect God’s bounty or anyone else’s.’ Ahmad just laughed, then carried on eating, the drops of fat dripping from his fingers as he moulded more meat into a large lump of rice.
Abd al-Rahman was ranting and raving about this incident when Moudhi suddenly came into Hisham’s room. ‘There are two people at the door asking for you,’ she said. Hisham felt as if he had swallowed a lump of lead, and his thoughts lurched towards prison. Now his turn had come. They had to be from the authorities. He got slowly up from the bed, heart racing. In no time at all, his hair had become drenched with sweat. Yet despite this, he felt horribly cold. He was shivering – in August. In a state of extreme agitation he dragged himself down the stairs, unaware of Moudhi behind him.
The front door was ajar. He pushed it open, hands trembling and dripping with sweat. He almost fainted as he looked at the two people waiting there, fully expecting them to grab him by the collar as soon as they caught sight of him. But his eyes widened further when he recognised his two friends Abd al-Muhsin al-Taghiri, whom he knew as Muhaysin, and Muhammad al-Ghubayra. He felt as if every friend he had made last summer in Nejd stood there grinning on the doorstep. Without thinking he rushed towards them, embracing them roughly. ‘How happy I am to see you!’ he exclaimed, laughing and hugging them all over again. The other two were taken aback by Hisham’s unusual display of emotion. They had seen nothing like it when they had all been together in Qusaim.
Hisham invited them in and they went up to his room, where he introduced them to Abd al-Rahman. He was about to offer them refreshments, but Moudhi was too quick; in only a few moments Said brought tea and a small plate of salty biscuits of the kind usually only offered to unfamiliar guests, especially women. As soon as everyone had settled down on the floor, Muhaysin handed Hisham the small paper bag he was carrying.
‘I didn’t want to come empty-handed,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ve brought you something that my mother gave me for my life in exile.’ He laughed. ‘She thinks that living in Riyadh is the worst exile of all.’
Hisham smiled back, taking the bag and opening it immediately to reveal four pastries. He took two of them out of the bag, put them on the tea tray, then carefully wrapped the other two and put them in his little store by the window. He promised himself to move them later, fearing one of Ahmad’s midnight raids. Then he went back to his seat. ‘What a delicious surprise! … Oh. And the two of you,’ he said, jokingly. He smiled as he poured the tea and offered it to his guests, while Muhaysin said fervently, ‘These aren’t just any old pastries … They’re homemade by my mother. Everything in them is the real thing, cardamom, sugar, treacle, flour, fat – you name it.’ Hisham took the round pastry, cut off a piece for himself and bit into it. He washed it down with a quick sip of tea. Then he offered the rest of the pastry to Abd al-Rahman. The leftovers from the cake crumbled from his mouth.
‘You haven’t told me how you knew where I was living,’ he said, as soon as could speak again.
‘That’s easy,’ replied Muhammad. ‘You told us in Qusaim that you would be living with your uncle in Shumaisi. We asked around for him here, and a couple of people showed us to his house. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Anyway,’ said Muhaysin, laughing. ‘A Bedouin moves on and just asks, isn’t that so?’
They all laughed. ‘How long have you two been in Riyadh?’ asked Hisham.
‘Over a week,’ replied Muhammad, crunching on a dry biscuit.
‘A week!’ reproached Hisham. ‘A whole week, and you only inquire about me today, when term is about to start!’
‘We were busy,’ said Muhaysin. ‘First of all, we were looking for a suitable house to stay in, then we were furnishing it, and before that we had to present our papers to the university. We were almost turned down, as we were late for the submission deadline, but God arranged a go-between for us in the shape of some acquaintances of Muhammad’s father, who smoothed our path. We only began to sort things out yesterday, and today we’ve been out looking for you.’
A silence descended, broken only by the sound of slurping tea and crunching biscuits. Abd al-Rahman popped the last bit of pastry into his mouth; then Hisham broke the silence, saying, ‘You haven’t told me yet where you are staying.’
‘In a house not far from here,’ replied Muhammad.
‘A clean, spacious house,’ said Muhaysin, ‘with four rooms, a large hall and a big roof, even though it is a bit expensive. Four thousand riyals a year. The landlords of cheap houses refuse to rent to unmarried men. But never mind, there are four of us to share the rent.’
‘Four people?’ asked Hisham quietly.
‘Yes,’ replied Muhaysin. ‘As well as us, there are Dais al-Dais and Muhanna al-Tairi … I think you know them.’
Muhaysin and Muhammad exchanged furtive glances as they said Muhanna al-Tairi’s name, and Hisham, who had never got on with Muhanna, was annoyed to hear it mentioned, but he tried not to show it and busied himself pouring more tea while Muhammad said, ‘Why don’t you come with us so that we can show you the house? It isn’t far from the Umm Salim roundabout.’
Hisham cheered up at the mention of the roundabout, remembering Raqiyya and her moist, wild triangle. This had been his introduction to Riyadh’s forbidden pleasures. He and Abd al-Rahman had picked Raqiyya up at the Umm Salim roundabout before driving off for that unforgettable afternoon in the desert. He looked at his cousin, smiling. Abd al-Rahman grinned back before gulping down the rest of the tea. ‘Why not? Let’s go,’ he said, getting up, with the others following. Hisham took off his house tob and put on his outdoor tob, with his headdress and skullcap. He slipped his feet into his expensive Nejdi slippers then hurried outside, where everyone was already waiting. Abd al-Rahman invited the two young men to lunch the following day. They accepted, and asked him to come with them to their new house, but he excused himself on the grounds that he was busy while looking at Hisham out of the corner of his eye and smirking. The three old friends hurried off in the direction of New Shumaisi Street, exchanging fond memories of Qusaim and its picnics.