A week had gone by since he had been imprisoned in Salih’s room. Hisham’s father visited every day, but his mother hadn’t yet appeared. He was fed up with his situation. It wasn’t as if he could blame his incarceration on the authorities, yet still he had no freedom of movement and he had not travelled to Beirut. One afternoon, he stood in front of the window, watching the sun travel towards its inevitable destination, when he heard someone at the door of his room. Soon his mother’s face appeared. He couldn’t stop himself from throwing himself at her, shouting, ‘Mother, mother!’, as if he was a small child, not a hounded young man. He wanted nothing in the world more than to smell his mother’s scent and feel her embrace. He kissed her brow repeatedly, and hugged her, while she in turn kissed him everywhere she could reach with her mouth. Their tears mingled as she savoured the smell of his neck. She was her usual brave self, and tried not to cry too much. Her mouth wore a calm smile, which didn’t prevent Hisham from noticing the deathly pallor of her face, or her tired bloodshot eyes, their red veins more numerous than he had ever seen before. His mother’s eyes were her most prominent feature – wide and clear, with very long eyelashes. He thought he could see wrinkles on her face for the first time, although his mother was no more than thirty-six years old.
The two of them sat on the bed, each examining the other closely. It was clear they were both trying to stop themselves crying, though the tears refused to emerge from their eyes, or find their way to the surface. A sad silence prevailed, only punctuated by their glances. Then Hisham spoke in a broken voice, full of sorrow and regret:
‘I am sorry, mother. I have caused you and father pain that you do not deserve. I have not deserved your love and trust … I … I am a disobedient child.’
Then the tears choked him. His mother embraced him tenderly and stroked his hair with her hand, saying with affection:
‘May God save you from any evil, my son … I never imagined that I would experience days like these … may God have mercy on his servants … A whole week you have been beside me, and I haven’t seen you,’ she went on, wiping away a tear that had fallen. ‘When your father told me about it yesterday evening, I didn’t believe it. I haven’t been able to do anything, it’s as if I’ve been paralysed. My instinct told me that something terrible had happened ever since your father travelled to Riyadh. I was praying to God for my feelings to be mistaken, but a mother’s heart never lies, and a woman’s instinct is never wrong …’
He felt the hurt from his aching wounds again, made fresh by his mother’s words. Suwayr’s tearstricken image entered into his mind. The image of Suwayr mingled with his mother’s image, and he suddenly needed to vomit. He ran towards the bathroom and spewed up the contents of his stomach, then filled himself with water, washed his face and went back with a face resembling a freshly squeezed lemon. When he returned, his mother was drying her tears, the faintest of smiles on her mouth. Some trace of the sparkle of earlier days radiated from her eyes as she said, almost enthusiastically:
‘Your father told me that he will be sending you to Beirut … that is the best thing. You will study there and stay there until God grants relief … But watch out for the women of Beirut,’ she went on, smiling. ‘There is no modesty there, and you are a handsome young man now. Take care! There is no God but Allah!’
His mother gave a short laugh as she said this, and he laughed with her, though images of Raqiyya, Suwayr and others floated through his mind. ‘Better to have warned me about the women of Riyadh,’ he said to himself. For a second he entertained the crazed notion of confessing to his mother what he had done in Riyadh and seeing her reaction, but it soon evaporated. He felt bad even thinking of it – he had caused his parents enough pain. His mother was still warning him about the temptresses of Beirut, when his father appeared.
‘Hisham,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you. Follow me to the sitting room.’
Hisham got up, followed by his mother, who embraced him again and kissed him on his neck. He could feel the warmth of her breath and tears. Then she went into the interior of the house, while he went into the sitting room.
His father and Abu Salih were sitting opposite each other, with a coffee pot between them. Their heads were close together and they spoke in whispers. He kissed his father’s brow and sat down opposite him. His father looked at him sternly, though still affectionately.
‘Today I’ve managed to get you a passport,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t have been so easy if I didn’t have influential friends in the passport office.’
He sipped the last drop of coffee in his cup, then stretched out his hand with the cup to Abu Salih, shaking it and saying, ‘They told me that your name was on the blacklist and that it was impossible to give you a passport. Then I had a brilliant idea …’
He went on with all the enthusiasm of a man who has undertaken a successful adventure.
‘I asked them to issue the passport with just your name and your father and grandfather’s name, and without your family name. Hisham Ibrahim Muhammad. After some hesitation, they agreed. God bless them, they are exposing themselves to repercussions, and I’m extremely sorry for that, but what can one do? There’s always something lurking behind to destroy one,’ he said, looking at Abu Salih.
‘Hisham is an excellent young man, but a bit of a hothead!’ said Abu Salih.
‘Oh, well! … now the axe has come down on his head, and that’s the end of it!’ said Abu Hisham, sighing deeply.
Salih came in carrying a tea tray, which he put down in front of his father. Then he sat down, but Abu Salih rebuked him, ordering him out of the room. Salih left angrily, looking at Hisham.
‘I’ve reserved a seat for you to Bahrain tomorrow afternoon,’ said Abu Hisham. ‘You will stay the night there, then leave for Beirut the following morning. Tomorrow morning I will try and send a telegram to Abu Muhammad in Beirut to meet you and help you sort out your arrangements.’ He turned to Abu Salih. ‘You know him, I think – a pharmaceutical salesman. He lived here some years ago, but it seems that he likes Lebanon. He married a Lebanese girl and lives there most of the time. He only comes at holiday times, despite the fact that his first wife and their children live in Riyadh … he’s besotted, that’s for sure,’ Abu Hisham laughed. Abu Salih laughed too.
‘Yes, indeed … could anyone see Lebanon, and the women of Lebanon, and not be enchanted? Or do you prefer the humidity of Sharqiyya and the drought of Nejd?’
The two continued to laugh, then Abu Salih said:
‘God bless Abu Muhammad… Yes, indeed. I still remember well the flavour of evenings spent with him!’ Abu Salih again laughed merrily, puffing smoke from his cigarette in every direction, while Hisham’s father bit his lower lip and glanced at Abu Salih, unaware that Hisham saw this. Then silence fell, and everyone slowly drank their tea. Abu Hisham finished the last drop, then got up.
‘God reward you, Abu Salih,’ he said. ‘Thank you! We have imposed on you more than we should have done.’
‘Remember God, my friends! Hisham is my son and you are my brother. If we are not afraid now, when will we be afraid?’ answered Abu Salih. Then he got up and walked off with Abu Hisham. Hisham followed them. His father shouted, ‘Umm Hisham … we are going!’ In a few moments, his mother appeared, still putting on her gown and veil.
‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘I’m coming. Good evening to you, Abu Salih … we won’t forget this favour!’
‘Good evening, Umm Hisham. And God grant you happiness and joy. There are no favours in a family. I just hope that God will make it turn out for the best.’ Then Umm Hisham embraced her son, giving him a final piece of advice about keeping away from women and anything that would displease God, and telling him to write as soon as he reached Beirut. Then the person he loved best in the world disappeared behind a door and Hisham went back to Salih’s room, where he smoked cigarette after cigarette, his chest tighter than a tin of sardines.