His new room was not as comfortable as his old one. It was actually quite cramped, but it was warmer, and it was cosier because it was his own room in his own house and not the house of his uncle. It was enough that he could completely relax in this room. On the walls he had pinned pictures of Marx, Engels, Lenin, Guevara, Ho Chi Minh, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Bardot, Suad Husni, Shadia, Hind Rustam and Nadia Lutfi. But the most striking pictures in the room were those of Abu Ali, the name he had given Adolf Hitler after being told that was what people called him during the Second World War. He had a strange, hidden admiration for Hitler – although he had absolutely no faith in his ideas – and in a vague sort of way he loved him. He’d read Mein Kampf several times, and even though he disliked the ideas expressed in it he continued to dip into it occasionally. Did he actually believe any of it – although he did not want to admit to it – or was he finding that a leftist like himself could not be persuaded by Fascist ideas? He didn’t know, and perhaps he didn’t want to know. It was enough for him to love Abu Ali, believe Karl Marx and support Ernesto Che Guevara … and die of desire for Jayne Mansfield …
The days passed in the new lodgings in the usual way. Little had changed, apart from a few chores that Hisham wasn’t used to. They followed the same routine in the new lodgings as they had in the old: Muhaysin would look after the house one day, and Hisham the next. So far as provisions and other essentials were concerned, they both contributed to the weekly shop on Friday afternoon from the supermarket, where prices were cheaper. Attending to household matters was a novelty for Hisham. But there were no particular problems apart from the cooking, which was a burden despite the fact that they only cooked kabsa stew for lunch and had boiled eggs or tuna for supper. Still, with the help of Muhaysin, he believed he might become quite a good cook. The two of them developed a routine of going every Thursday after evening prayers to the elegant Wazir Street in the middle of town, where they would eat in a classy restaurant. Usually they had lentil soup, roast meat and plates of hummous and mutabbal, with a couple of bottles of cola. They would round off the meal with two cups of Turkish coffee. Then they would pace up and down the street, looking in the elegant shops and following the prettiest women in Riyadh; they would fill their nostrils with alluring perfumes and carefully scrutinise the details of slim bodies wrapped in translucent abayas that hid nothing. They would gaze into the most beautiful faces one could find, made even more so by the women’s transparent veils, wondering how such slender hips, such fleshy thighs and such rebellious breasts could be brought together in a single body. Once they tired of wandering around and following women, they would make for a big bookstore, buy any newspapers and magazines they could find, then take the local bus back home where they would spend the rest of the night drinking tea, smoking cigarettes and listening to songs. Then they would go to their separate rooms, each of them dreaming of the women of Wazir Street, and feeling that he owned the whole world.
This Thursday routine could vary if there was a better alternative. At first infrequently, and then more often than not, Muhaysin’s friends would come round for the evening, and they would play cards and chat. That didn’t stop them going to Wazir Street, however. They would simply go and come back early in time to meet their friends. Hisham only joined them when Muhammad, Dais and Abd al-Rahman were among the visitors. He remained wary of too many people, and was amazed that Muhaysin could stand all these gatherings and all these friends. The only thing that actually stopped them going to Wazir Street at all was when Hamad paid them a delicious surprise visit, carrying a paper bag containing a bottle of best quality arak. Then they would shut the door and refuse to allow anyone in, no matter who, until eventually they took to letting Muhammad and Dais join the group. Hisham was surprised to find that Muhammad and Dais also drank. ‘My God, you have got surprises in store!’ he exclaimed when he saw them drinking for the first time. Muhammad’s reaction was to pour his half-full glass into his mouth all in one go, then to laugh merrily, looking at Hisham. Hamad didn’t always sit with them, for he had his own group of friends, but these days he supplied them with arak once they’d all got the money together.
Hisham was responsible for the ice and snacks, which were never more than a few cucumbers, tomatoes and nuts, while Muhaysin’s job was to prepare the kabsa stew, at which he was reckoned to be an expert. They sat in Muhaysin’s room, where they drank and listened to Talal Maddah, Muhammad Abduh and Tariq Abd al-Hakim. They would listen and then gradually grow deaf to the music as the intensity of the political discussions increased with the first few glasses. After the fourth glass, they listened to Umm Kulthumm, Abd al-Wahhab, Abd al-Halim or Farid, swaying with pleasure to The Remains, Cleopatra, Mister Bold Eyes or Spring. They all talked at the same time, though in reality everyone was talking to himself. Dais talked about the heroes of the novels he was reading, all of them wronged or oppressed; Muhammad talked about his plans for travel and the places he wanted to see; while Muhaysin talked only of America and the good life there. When Hamad was there, he would discuss his problems at work and home, and his hopes for a place of his own.
Drink made Hisham extremely amorous. He would fantasise about Raqiyya, Suwayr and even Noura, and sometimes imagine arousing scenes from films he had seen in cinema clubs. He wished Suwayr or Noura were there so that he could show them things they would never dream of, or else that the room was full of naked women and he the only man among them. At the same time, he would talk about Marxism, Existentialism, Sufism, God and the Devil. The closed room became full of smoke, the smell of arak, the sighs of Umm Kulthumm, Abd al-Wahhab’s tears, Farid’s groaning and Abd al-Wahhab’s imprecations. But it was an expansive universe, limitless for those that were in it.
The evening would conclude with a meal of Muhaysin’s kabsa, then – if he was there – Hamad would leave at the end of the evening, while Dais and Muhammad would stay and sleep where they were. In the morning, everyone would get up, their heads horribly transformed into seas of clashing waves. They would find the leftovers from yesterday’s kabsa (God knows how they ate it!) and drink an enormous pot of thick tea, then Dais and Muhammad would leave. Hisham would take a long shower, then go to Friday prayers with his uncle, and have lunch in the big house. Muhaysin sometimes accompanied him but sometimes stayed home, smoking, drinking tea and eating whatever food happened to be there, which was usually boiled eggs or leftover kabsa, if there was any.
One Thursday evening, Hisham and Muhaysin were getting ready to go out to Wazir Street. They hadn’t any arak yet, although they’d asked Hamad to buy some, because Dais and Muhammad had come round unusually early. Dais was carrying a large plastic bag, which looked like it had something heavy in it. Everyone went to Muhaysin’s room, where Dais took out the contents of the bag, which consisted of four bottled water containers filled with a clear reddish liquid. He took one of the bottles and raised it in the air, saying with a proud smile, ‘Here’s my latest invention … local wine, not Bordeaux!’
‘He’s been preparing this surprise for three weeks,’ said Muhammad. ‘He’s turned his room into a secret wine factory for you!’ They all laughed. ‘Even our two colleagues at home have begun to complain about the strange smell coming from Dais’s room,’ continued Muhammad, laughing, ‘but he persuaded them that this was what his room always smelled like at this time of the year.’ There was fresh laughter, then Muhaysin got up and went to the kitchen. He came back with four glasses, unusually clean and sparkling. Dais filled them roughly halfway, then raised his own glass, saying, ‘Cheers!’. He took a great gulp, and everyone copied him.
It wasn’t a good taste: there was a strong smell and taste of yeast, and the acidity of the vinegar had not been absorbed at all. But Dais still stared round anxiously, seeking their opinion of his handiwork. Hisham was the first to comment.
‘Good wine,’ he said. ‘Better than arak, anyway.’ He was being polite, afraid of hurting Dais’s sensitive feelings. He preferred arak, which had a more immediate effect, and always reminded him of his first outing to the Kharis road.
‘At least it doesn’t cost as much as arak,’ said Muhaysin. ‘Or am I wrong?’ he asked, looking at Dais.
Dais smiled proudly and said, ‘Not at all … a little grape juice, a tin of yeast, and lots of water and sugar. That’s all there is to it. Isn’t chemistry one of the blessings of the age?’
Everyone laughed. ‘And of every age!’ they said, emptying the remains of their glasses into their mouths and holding them out for more, which made Dais very proud. After the second glass, Muhaysin got up.
‘It looks as though we’re not going out this evening,’ he said, looking at Hisham. ‘I’ll shut the doors and start getting the kabsa ready.’
Meanwhile, Dais was sifting through the tapes. He sighed loudly as he took one of them and put it on the small tape recorder. It was only a few seconds before the sound of Nazim al-Ghazali’s singing resounded round the room: Camel driver, the people who were here have gone … A dark, Christian girl, I saw her ring a bell, and I said, ‘Who taught that beauty bell-ringing?’ The smell of vetch filled the entire place.