Yousef Al-Mohaimeed - Where Pigeons Don't Fly

They had come together years before, first at Fantoukh Mosque’s Qur’an school and then at Sudairi Mosque where they attended a study circle memorising the Qur’an. Later, they would go in the afternoon to the public library in Suwaidi, borrowing books by al-Albani and perusing the bound volumes of The Meadows of the Righteous and The Guide for the Fortunate . For years now, Abdel Kareem had taken part in meetings and trips with other large groups and his proselytising activities had increased, while Ahmed had begged off, preoccupied with family affairs, his sisters especially, following the death of his father, Ibn al-Sameetan. He often alluded to his virtuous sisters in front of his friend and to his desire to ensure their well-being with an upright husband who would appreciate them and keep them safe.

The matter of Tarfah’s failed marriage was no trivial matter. Her brothers had got her involved with a failed actor deficient in morals, humour and manners, but the victor in all of this was Ahmed. He felt his view of the matter had been correct, that here was a world of degradation and filth, which encouraged Ahmed to speak directly to his friend after a number of hints and intimations. He took the plunge: ‘As our forefathers said, “Arrange your daughter’s engagement not your son’s.”’

And with that the offer of his sister Amal was broached. He affirmed his brotherly love for Abdel Kareem and his faith that with him, Amal would be in the hands of one who feared God and sought His reward.

It wasn’t Amal that Abdel Kareem sought, however, but Tarfah. He wished to deliver her from Satan’s wiles into the kingdom of God and His justice, to bring her back, after two whole years spent astray, to the right guidance of the Creator and His servants who feared Him, His punishment and His vengeance. He would be rewarded twice over: once for his own sake, for completing his religious duty through marriage, and once again for offering protection to a weak woman ensnared by the devil Art.

So he took her and the three months she lived with him were some of the loveliest of her life.

Calm and self-possessed, he never hit or betrayed her. It was only that he sometimes felt he was betraying his religion and neglecting his work: his evangelism and his jihad . On warm evenings he would tell her that he appreciated and respected her but feared that growing used to idleness and comfort would divert his attention from spreading the word, the summer activities and retreats, not to mention his longstanding ambition to commit to jihad and not just with financial contributions.

Three times he took her to Jaffal Centre on King Fahd Road and once she persuaded him to go to Faisaliya Tower, but emerging at the end of a tense half hour spent wandering about he informed her it was her duty to remove herself from temptation and that he, too, must shield his sight from those ornamented women.

During the first two weeks he ploughed Tarfah twice daily and showered her with such great passion that she fell in love with him and gradually began to change, dressing as he wanted, placing her abaya over her head instead of her shoulders so that her breasts were no longer visible to the naked eye, and replacing her niqab with a full face covering lest her beautiful eyes be an enticement to the weak hearted. After two months of this affectionate relationship, without him asking anything of her or making a single suggestion, she bought black gloves and thrust her hands into them whenever she left the house.

Following afternoon prayers Abdel Kareem would stay behind at Sudairi Mosque on Sudar Street in Shubra to study with some of the Brothers, observe the sunset prayers and attend a lesson or lecture at the mosque. Then he would return to his flat, in the same street as the mosque, bringing tames bread and either stewed beans or bean paste. These he would eat with his wife after she had brought him stewed tea, two sprigs of mint, a wedge of onion and a couple of slices of lemon. He would fondle her as they ate, then he would take her to bed.

Returning one evening as usual he came across a copy of Riyadh in the little living room. He glanced at it and asked, ‘Who was here?’

‘My brother Ayman.’

‘I don’t like that guy. Anyway, you know I don’t like newspapers and magazines in my house.’

Tarfah asked his forgiveness and kissed his head. He smiled and stroked her cheeks and round face.

Everything about him was wonderful: his delicacy and playfulness, even his anger was serene and self-possessed.

His lovemaking was neither too short nor too long, a delightful balance, yet he wouldn’t take her from behind. She had once shifted around during their drawn-out preliminaries, but he had backed off and returned to his familiar missionary position. Tarfah had got in the habit of doing it with her previous husband and learned to relish its pain, knowledge she would pass on to her lover, Fahd, when she slept with him.

One afternoon, talking to Nada on the phone, she said that she had found the perfect man. True, he was an extremist and very conservative, but he loved her and worried about her. Nada laughed and said, ‘You idiot, he’s an insecure paranoiac!’

In Nada’s eyes, men might act in various ways, but they were all paranoid. Tarfah would not accept this.

‘Abdel Kareem’s not like that!’

That’s what she thought: that she would live with him forever.

— 44 —

THE MODEST HOUSE WAS melting into the darkness as Lulua buzzed about on her own like a bee, lighting the oven in the kitchen, putting a kettle of water on to boil and listening out for the sound of bubbling. All of a sudden a fly began circling about. Lulua had no idea why she became so terrified whenever she saw flies and ants swarming together as if about to feast on a corpse.

Two days earlier she had made a dash for the can of insecticide and sprayed it at a column of ants marching beneath the skirting board of the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room, telling herself that they were trying to devour her mother, whose body had become as lifeless and limp as an autumn leaf. And here she was now, hunting through the kitchen drawers for the plastic swatter and pursuing the fly like girls in fairytales who chase butterflies through the forest, slapping at it as it perched on the upper door of the fridge. The fly exploded, sticky blood and splayed wings, and Soha’s voice piped up, asking about the noise.

‘A fly, Mum,’ Lulua replied. ‘I was only killing a fly.’

Trying to remove it from the white of the fridge door she felt nausea flip her guts, the opposite of the great satisfaction her father had felt in prison as he executed his cockroaches en masse.

Fahd was taken aback to discover that Lulua had swapped her ring tone for a prayer.

‘God, I am Your servant,’ said the humble voice, ‘born of Your servants, man and woman. We are guided by Your hand, Your judgement carried out, Your verdict just: we beseech You in all the names that You possess.’

Lulua was silent for a moment then said, ‘This is my business. Prayer is a comfort and brings one closer to God. Mother needs prayer, Fahd, not Fairouz and Khaled Abdel Rahman.’

Her impersonation of their uncle irritated him. ‘He’s made fools of you and ruined you. He’s wrecked every loving and affectionate relationship that my father ever made.’

She sighed. ‘For your information, my relationship with my mother is better than it’s ever been. Prayer and being close to God increases people’s love for one another, but you’re stubborn. You’ve got a head like a rock because you hate my uncle.’

Lulua opened the lower half of the fridge and took a sealed plastic container from inside the door. She had undone it and smelled the mint’s green leaves, then plucked off a chilled sprig, washed it in lukewarm water and slowly lowered the leaves into the teapot, before swaying over to the dining room where the forty-year-old body lying on the bed had shifted upright. The woman smiled at her daughter.