Their house was in a narrow alley that branched off one of the streets leading from the Umm Salim roundabout. It was mudbrick, with a narrow iron gate bordered with rust that led directly to a short, narrow corridor. The most spacious room in the house stood on the left of the entrance. On the right was a small bathroom. The corridor ended in a door leading to a hall that took up most of the house. On the left of the hall were two smaller rooms. The hall ended in a door leading to a kitchen linked to another tiny room. On the other side, a stairway led to the roof. The kitchen held a small gas stove and an enormous earthenware jar covered by a wooden slab on which sat a large, shining aluminium water jug, a medium-sized pan and large cooking pot, a saucepan for boiling water, a teapot and some tea glasses and spoons thrown carelessly into a washing-up bowl. In the little room to the side lay bags of rice and sugar, a small bag of coarse salt, a box of tea, some tins of tomato paste, a bag of onions, a tin of vegetable oil and a few cockroaches looking for food, which disappeared as soon as they entered various crevices in the walls. As for the roof terrace, it was quite spacious. It overlooked the alley and the rest of the neighbours’ roofs, where one could usually see a woman or girl hanging out washing or making beds, her face covered by a fine veil that revealed more than it hid.
Muhaysin showed Hisham around, then took him back to the room where Muhammad was sitting, having made tea. This was the nicest and most spacious room, with a white fan hanging from the ceiling and a large window overlooking the alley. A red carpet completely covered the floor; it had a metal bed like Hisham’s and a desk with a dark wooden chair. None of the other rooms had fans or windows. In fact, the room beside the kitchen was unbearably hot, damp, dirty and dark. As they sipped their bittersweet tea, Muhaysin explained that he had kept this room for himself in exchange for paying a larger share of the rent than Muhammad or Dais, while Muhanna had chosen the small room in exchange for paying less.
Under the dreamy breeze from the fan, revolving lazily and noisily, Hisham suddenly said, ‘It’s a strange thing, that water jar … Why didn’t you buy a fridge? Wouldn’t that be better than a jar?’ Muhammad and Muhaysin hurriedly exchanged glances before the latter replied, ‘You’re right. That was our original plan, but Muhanna persuaded us there was no need, so long as we bought what we needed on a day-to-day basis.’
‘The person responsible for the household that day,’ interrupted Muhammad, ‘buys a quarter-of-a-kilo of lamb for a riyal and a half, or half a kilo of camel meat for the same price, and some tomatoes, then prepares the kabsa stew. Actually, we usually make it without tomatoes, just with tomato paste. So there’s really no need for a fridge; there’s nothing to put in it.’
‘What about breakfast and supper?’ asked Hisham.
‘Everyone looks after himself; that’s what we agreed, except on special occasions,’ replied Muhaysin.
‘But wouldn’t it be easier to buy what you need once a week and keep it in a fridge, as well as cold water?’ asked Hisham, offhandedly.
Muhaysin said, pointedly, ‘We talked it over when we rented the house, but Muhanna said that it would cause us difficulties we could do without.’
‘Like what?’ probed Hisham.
‘If we split up, for instance, who would get the fridge? What would we do if none of us wanted it? Problems like that …’ said Muhaysin, before hastily adding, ‘Besides, water from the jar is as cold as water from any fridge.’ He sprang up and left the room, then came back carrying a bowl full of water. He thrust it towards Hisham, saying, ‘Here you are; taste it and judge for yourself.’ Without enthusiasm, Hisham took the bowl, took a quick sip of water, and handed it back.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s very cold. I had no idea earthenware jars were so good at keeping water cool.’
Muhaysin smiled and sat down again. He poured himself a glass of black, stewed tea and gulped it down with relish. Hisham was humouring his friend; the water wasn’t cold at all. As for Muhammad, he had been silent the whole time, with the trace of a smile on his lips. Hisham couldn’t stop himself wondering about the hold Muhanna seemed to have over them. ‘What’s up between Muhanna and yourselves?’ he asked eventually. ‘Do you do everything he says?’ Again Muhaysin and Muhammad exchanged glances.
‘The fact is he’s a lot older than us,’ said Muhammad, as if to apologise. ‘He got his school-leaving certificate from night classes, because he worked during the day. He resigned from his job to enrol in medical school, so our families have a lot of faith in him. They were very pleased when they found out that we would be living together in one house. That’s why we’ve left control of the household affairs to him.’
Hisham nodded to show that he understood, even though deep down he had misgivings. He sipped his cold black tea quietly, without enjoying it much. They all fell silent, as the gentle moaning of the fan induced a feeling of lethargy. After asking his friends if they minded, he slumped back against the wall and stretched out his legs, and his two friends followed suit. He soon dozed off, but was woken by the sound of the front door being opened. He straightened as Dais, with his thin body and tall frame, came into the room with a book under his arm. Hisham stood up. They shook hands and embraced, exchanging kisses and the traditional greetings, then sat down as Dais tried to shake the last drops of tea from the pot.
‘I’ve just come from the Ibn Qasim auction beside the big mosque,’ he said, with obvious enthusiasm. ‘What a place!’ Draining the dregs from his glass he added, ‘You can find things there you’d never imagine. Even banned books – books that have been burned – you can find them there dirt cheap!’ He fiddled with the teapot again. ‘Can you believe it? I found this book there and bought it for just one riyal. If the bookseller had asked for two I’d have given it to him.’ He chucked the book down in the middle of the floor for them to see. Muhammad picked it up and read out the title in a loud voice. ‘The Philosophy of the Revolution, by Gamal Abdel-Nasser.’ Then Hisham took it and began to flip through its pages. He had already made up his mind to go to the auction again. He had been there before when he was buying stuff for his room and found a lot of books he hadn’t expected to see such as the Baathist Aflaq’s On the Path to Revival; Munif Razzaz’s Features of the New Arab Life; an extremely ragged copy of the first part of Marx’s Das Kapital; two stories by Maxim Gorky and Fyodor Dostoevsky; as well as a complete set of the Pillars of Freedom series by Qadri Qalaji.
‘Muhanna will be so pleased to get a book like this,’ said Dais happily, looking at Muhammad and Muhaysin, who glanced at Hisham. This Muhanna, who appeared as a shadowy presence behind everything they said and did ... Hisham was beginning to get annoyed at hearing his name repeated at every turn. He got up and excused himself. ‘I have some things I must do before term begins,’ he said, and making for the door he said goodbye. Their farewells trailed after him. But before the alley could swallow him up, Muhaysin leaned out of the window and shouted after him.
Hisham turned back. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Muhaysin. ‘But some friends will be spending the evening with us tonight. Why don’t you come? It’ll be a reunion for the Qusaim holiday!’
‘Okay. I’ll come – God willing,’ said Hisham. He began to walk back towards the Umm Salim roundabout. Before reaching the end of the alley, however, he turned back towards the students’ house and saw Muhaysin still leaning his elbows on the windowsill, and a girl standing outside the door of the house opposite. She had covered her face with a thin veil, and was putting the rubbish out in a way that seemed slightly too casual. He gave it no further thought, however, and carried on walking. The muezzin was about to call people to the sunset prayers.