He was drenched in sweat when he woke the following day to the sound of the muezzin calling the dawn prayers. His own smell had mingled with that of the blanket; together they smelled like an abandoned toilet. He got out of bed, feeling extremely weak, with a needle-like pain in his bones and joints. He must really have caught flu, as he had told the officer at the airport. His shirt was a soaking wet rag and his underwear smelled foul, as if it had been steeped in a barrel of excrement. He took a long time adjusting to his surroundings, then got up and moved wearily over to the door. There was a new guard there, older than the previous one, but with the same loose clothes. He was fighting off sleep. Hisham asked permission to go to the bathroom, promising himself a cold shower, but once there he could see no shower. He took a bowl from beside the lavatory and filled it with water which he poured over his body, until he felt a little better. Then he dried his body with his vest and went back to his room.
The nightmares returned. He read the walls again, and leaned against the window to gaze over the waters of the Gulf, listening with pleasure to the sound of car horns coming from the distance. He went on switching from the grafitti on the walls to the window over the sea, until he heard the guard’s voice calling him for breakfast.
Breakfast came in a grease-lined paper bag, the contents of which Hisham spread out onto the blanket on the ground … a loaf of bread, a plastic bag containing some warm beans, a boiled egg and some pickles. He asked the guard for a plate and a glass of tea. The guard grunted, called another soldier, then brought a plastic plate and a glass of lukewarm tea, which he gave to Hisham.
‘God strengthen the government,’ he said, looking Hisham straight in the eye. ‘Amen,’ replied Hisham casually, then went back to his breakfast. He didn’t feel hungry but he knew he had to eat – he’d eaten nothing since yesterday. He forced down the boiled egg and some of the beans, then lit a cigarette, which he smoked with the glass of tea. His nausea had completely disappeared, but he remained gripped by an anxiety he could not overcome. He finished the tea and asked for another glass, but the guard refused in a harsh voice.
‘It’s forbidden, prisoner,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’re at home? God bless the government that feeds you!’ Hisham went back to his bed, but soon felt the familiar nausea return. He got up, lit another cigarette and moved back to the window, looking at the horizon and puffing his smoke into the distance, envying it as it blew away into the sky. Everything was perfectly still, both time and space – the very waters of the Gulf seemed to have died … everything had conspired to assassinate time.