Yousef Al-Mohaimeed - Where Pigeons Don't Fly

The unlit road came to an end and he emerged on to a brightly illuminated main road. Gathering himself, his attention was caught by a car following behind them. No sooner had it drawn level, than the driver flicked on his headlights.

She laughed. ‘That’s a well-known signal between us roadside romantics.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘Nothing serious. It means, take it easy, you’ve been busted. Go back to the road we just came out of.’

He turned around and headed north, then took a right, passing a petrol station on his right and a wedding hall on his left. He saw a number of hotels spread out in the darkness.

‘Take any road to the right and go into the dark,’ she said.

He turned in, proceeding eastwards until the road gave out at a packed earth barrier, giving him the choice of going right or left. He went right, the illuminated hotel buildings and the main road now to his left and switched off the car’s lights, leaving the engine running in case of emergency.

She lunged and embraced him, kissing him roughly as she murmured: ‘I love you … I love you …’

He returned to the main road. She sat up straight and put her niqab over her face. But they weren’t silent for a single moment, both of them chattering away, full of joy and the desire to discover one another.

‘I forgot to pull your hair!’ she said.

He lifted his shimagh .

‘God knows I’ve got enough.’

She laughed and said that young men these days aged quickly. They got treatments for their depressing bald spots and took Viagra, and despite it all: nothing. He smiled.

‘And what about me, then?’

She unfurled her thumb. ‘Like this!’ she said then tugged at his hair, screaming, ‘Oh God, I love you.’

He asked if women liked baldness, or if it had become fashionable. How else to explain those football players who shaved their hair off with a razor?

He returned to Le Mall.

‘Where’s the poster of the Klimt painting?’ she asked.

Turning behind him he pulled out a sealed cylinder and said, ‘Forgive me, sweetheart. I was going to pick out a nice frame, but I didn’t like to weigh you down.’

‘So what? I’ll put it in my room without a frame.’

She pointed. ‘Don’t drop me at the Basic House entrance. Entrance Two, I mean. Look, Entrance Three is close by.’

After he left her he grabbed a hot mocha and set off, distracted by the echo of her anxious voice asking, ‘So, how did you find me?’

— 30 —

SAEED WOKE UP AT eight the following evening. He glanced at the clock on the wall opposite. His thoughts drifted to his distant childhood and the days spent in his grandmother’s house in Khamees Mushait, recalling that evening five years ago when she had told him the story of his father, Mushabbab.

Mushabbab had taken her and Saeed’s mother, Aida, on a trip to perform the umra . This was nothing but the flimsiest of pretexts. The goal was to take over the Grand Mosque and proclaim the coming of the Mahdi at the dawn of a new century, rebelling against the government and its troops and awaiting the sally of the infidel horde from Tabuk that God would swallow up into the earth.

Saeed turned his face to the ceiling, knitting his fingers over his forehead, and his ever-active memory started roaming mournfully over the past. Fahd moved on the adjoining bed. His eyes were open and he gave a languorous yawn. ‘You look like you’ve been up for a while,’ he mumbled in a muffled voice to Saeed.

Saeed’s memories flowed on unchecked as he answered, ‘Know something, Fahd? There’s this very strange story that took place a couple of months before I was born. I keep thinking about it.’

Fahd snorted, his eyes puffy with sleep. ‘Don’t tell me you remember everything that happened before you were born!’

Unfazed, Saeed said, ‘Seriously, Fahd; my grandmother told it to me, and my mother confirmed it. While I was still in the womb and my father was in prison with Suleiman, my mother got up one morning at dawn to make Arabic coffee for my grandmother: weak coffee without cardamom. While she was busy washing the pot out over the sink her earring fell out and she cried out. My grandmother took fright at the harsh sound. You see, it didn’t resemble my mother’s voice, or to be exact, it wasn’t a voice that came from my mother’s throat but the throttled voice of a jinn .

‘My mother told me that my grandmother became alarmed and got up to help her, the two of them walking slowly towards the coffee room where the tongues of flame were dancing in the pot of coals. She was weeping and groaning and my grandmother was muttering, “What God decrees is good …” But that morning, my mother sobbed as she told my grandmother that they had killed Mushabbab at dawn, cut off his head with a sword, and as she patted her other earring, the one in her ear, she laid her hand on her belly, crying and repeating over and over: “God preserve my only child!”’

Saeed’s body bent at the waist as he propped himself up on his elbow and went on. ‘At that very moment your father was in prison, having bid Mushabbab farewell with a final glance as he put on the leather sandals they took turns wearing when one of them went to interrogation. But the sandals didn’t return after that final interrogation. There was no interrogation when they woke him on an early spring morning, in the final hours of the night. That night was the only one, your father told me, that he didn’t pray the voluntary late night prayer, but slept instead, troubled and ill at ease. As they led him away at that early hour, Mushabbab said, “Don’t forget my last wish, Suleiman!” This is what he said as he walked out, without turning round or stopping to say goodbye. That night he felt the chopping block. I was that final wish. I still remember the first time you came with your father to my grandmother’s house in Khamees. Do you?’

‘I remember you showing off!’ Fahd said, smiling.

‘I remember you being scared and hiding behind your mother’s abaya while I strutted around in front of you, acting like I didn’t fear a thing. Do you remember me running towards the fig tree in the courtyard, trying to climb it and flashing my skinny legs? After several attempts I remember falling on my back, which made you laugh and brought you out from behind the abaya . I still remember those first moments. I remember your father coming, laden with presents and food. God have mercy on your soul, Suleiman!’

He paused briefly.

‘You know what, Fahd? Your father was like a man who runs a child over in his car. For years his conscience keeps him up at night, and all the time he’s trying to bring some happiness to the little boy he paralysed. It was a rare instance of loyalty on your father’s part, and you know there’s no such thing as loyalty in this country and its conscience has been asleep for a century.’

Fahd lay there listening.

‘I still remember my paternal grandfather’s death five years ago. Can you believe that a retired army general, a man who led a battalion in the Yemen war, defending the southern pass into the country tooth and nail, died at home like an old dog, forcibly ejected from Khamees Hospital to free up a bed? Think of him vomiting up blood while myself, my two uncles and my relatives looked on. No one cared. How could they, when they were busy separating those twins who had been brought here from the ends of the earth to have their photos taken and splashed on the front covers of local newspapers beneath the headline Medical Miracles . How could this happen to my grandfather, whose bones had been rattled by whining bullets in the seventies, who was almost killed by a stray round, but could find no one to tend and care for him?’