Term began. On Saturday, Hisham went to College, which was packed with students, unlike the day he had first visited it. He was tense and fearful as he embarked on this new phase of his life. Doubtless everything would be totally different to what he had been used to at school. Here ‘doctors’, not teachers, gave the instruction. The mere mention of the word ‘doctor’ was enough to conjure fear and awe, so how would it be when they were seeing them and dealing with them every day? Here there were ‘lectures’, not ‘classes’, and only oneself to rely on instead of everything being completely mapped out as it had been at secondary school.
When he entered the big hall there was a large crowd at the announcements board, which listed the names of the students, their level of study, their lecture rooms and the names of the doctors who were lecturing. He joined the crowd and, once he’d found his name on the board, wrote down all the vital information.
The first lecture was on economics, a subject he had studied a lot in order to crack the riddles of Das Kapital – a book he still couldn’t touch without a slight feeling of awe and a strange tremor passing through his whole being.
In came Doctor Mahmud Behnis Jaljali, Professor of Economics. Unlike the other doctors he did not wear the traditional head cord, and he would even take off his headdress, throwing it down on the table in front of him until he had finished his lecture, when he would sling it over his shoulder and leave. Doctor Mahmud was a typical Meccan, from a traditional quarter of the town. He was witty and well-versed in his subject, but he was also demanding. He asked them to buy an enormous book – The Principles of Economics by Paul Samuelson – then told them that this book would be no more than a work of reference; the meat of the subject would lie in what he had to say during lectures. Some of the students disliked Doctor Mahmud for his strictness and pedantry, so in order to explain away the humour and courage he displayed in tackling political subjects normally reckoned off-limits, they accused him of drinking before he came to lectures, and some of them swore blind they’d smelled whisky on his breath while he was speaking.
The second lecture was on ‘General Administration’ by Laith Abd al-Wadud. He made a bad impression from the start. Gloomy and morose, he looked as though he carried the burdens of the world on his shoulders; when he did occasionally smile, he looked as though his jaw cracked in the process. Their dislike of him was increased by the fact that he didn’t require one set book but a whole collection, most of which were not to be found in the bookshops of Riyadh or the college library. When they told him this, he gave one of his rare smiles and said, ‘Not my problem. I give you the references, it’s up to you to get hold of the books.’ Despite the fact that he tried to be more human later, they maintained a deep dislike for him.
The third lecture, ‘Political Principles’, was given by Doctor Muharib al-Khayzurani. He stood out immediately because he was very tall and extremely heavily built, with a tiny, delicate voice. The words twittered from his mouth with a speed and harmony that was utterly captivating. On top of all this, to relieve the atmosphere from time to time he would smile and crack jokes in a broad Gulf accent. What made them like him even more was that he didn’t give them any references, but said that if they came to his lectures and listened attentively that would be enough. His lectures, despite their richness, were more like stories and folktales – which made politics the most popular subject among the students.
The last lecture that day was on the subject of general international law, and was given by Doctor Ahmad al-Mukannaz. He came into the room with a glass of tea in his hand, which he put down on the table in front of him. He then began to sip it noisily, speaking slowly and chewing over his words in a way that made sleep tickle their eyelids. He asked them to get a copy of Ali Sadiq Abu Hayf’s book, General International Law, then told them it was unavailable in the commercial bookshops and that they would need to ask someone to bring it from abroad. Doctor Ahmad was uncouth in his appearance and in his behaviour. His habit of always bringing tea into the lecture room was roundly condemned. They had had to get used to a long list of ‘don’ts’ in the lecture room, including eating and drinking. When some students concluded that behaving like this must be a natural thing to do in the university, and brought glasses of tea with them into one of Doctor Ahmad’s lectures, he reprimanded them severely and turned them out of the room while he himself went back to noisily slurping his tea. He and Doctor Laith were the butt of the students’ jokes, sarcasm and vehement dislike.
The day’s lectures were over. Some of the tension and fear that had dogged Hisham all morning disappeared. It was still early, only a little after twelve o’clock, and he didn’t want to go back to his room yet. The college caretakers were rolling out decorated carpets in readiness for the noon prayers, and some students were already sitting on them while others were heading for the canteen at the back of the building, from where you could see the walls of the Agricultural College. Hisham made for the canteen and ordered an egg sandwich and cola from Amm Wardan, who was in charge, choosing an out-of-the-way seat at one of the wooden tables spread around. He looked around as he ate and drank, filling his lungs with air that was heavy with the smell of cow dung – a smell that is quite acceptable, even pleasant, once you are used to it. Amm Wardan was extremely thin and tall, and quite dark. His eyes were always red, tinged with a hint of yellow, and he had very fine features with prominent veins on his forehead and hands. He always wore a white, flowing tob and a striped skullcap, which could not hide the bald head that shone through the holes in its design. Despite his attempts to look stern, it became clear that he was extremely kind, and that this stern expression was just a first line of defence against the students’ horseplay.
Hisham munched quietly and took it all in. His old sense of wonder returned. Why all this architectural extravagance, as if the university were a towering palace? Again he looked around: just a handful of students and Amm Wardan, leaning on the edge of the serving window enjoying a cigarette after getting the students’ orders. Hisham went up to him and ordered a glass of tea. As he made it Hisham asked – trying to seem casual – ‘It’s strange, this place. More like a palace than a college.’ Amm Wardan laughed as he stirred the sugar in the glass, revealing a gappy mixture of black, yellow and white teeth. In one corner of his mouth glittered a gold tooth. Handing the tea to Hisham, he spoke in a rapid Sudanese dialect: ‘It was a palace, man ... It was a palace belonging to one of the elite.’ He took the quarter riyal for the drink, then added with a meaningful smile, ‘But he moved to a new residence, and leased his palace to the university. That’s the story.’ He moved away as he spoke, ready to greet a customer. Hisham returned to his seat and drank his treacly tea. He didn’t finish but got up, resolving to stop by his friends’ house for a short time before going home.