Saud Alsanousi - The Bamboo Stalk

The guard came running over. ‘Please! Please!’ he cried.

The session broke up.

7

‘José, José, José.’ It wasn’t Mendoza calling me this time. It was my mother on the phone, calling me after midnight, crying and struggling to say my name.

‘José, José.’

She caught her breath and tried to put together the words to tell her news. ‘My father’s just died,’ she said.

She went on crying. She sobbed and wailed. ‘Come at once. You have to be here,’ she told me.

* * *

When I took the ten-minute boat ride from Boracay to the airport on the other island, the young Kuwaitis were on the boat too. This time I wasn’t the man who stood on the bow. I was one of the people leaving the island, even if I thought I would be back after no more than a week of unpaid leave.

The Kuwaitis were as cheerful as ever, singing and laughing and playing tricks on each other. They were just as crazy on the boat as they were in the hotel or later on the plane.

On domestic flights the airline crew usually organises amusements for the passengers, such as competitions. They ask general knowledge questions and give the winners token prizes. But on that flight with the Kuwaitis the cabin crew didn’t know what to do. Nobody paid any attention to them and the activities they were trying to organise because everyone was focused on the crazy Kuwaitis, who were singing and clapping in their traditional way.

One of them stood up in the middle of the aisle and addressed the passengers. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. Pointing to the passengers sitting on the right, he said, ‘You clap like this’ and began clapping. ‘That’s the beat,’ he explained.

Then, turning to the passengers on the left, he said, ‘And you, clap like this — tak, tak, tak. . tak, tak, tak. Is that clear?’

He went back to his seat and shouted out, ‘One, two, three, now!’

The man with the oud played a piece with a rapid tempo and the others sang.

It was crazy the difference those Kuwaitis made to the flight: the smiling faces, the laughter, the cameras recording everything.

It was such fun that I forgot I was going to the funeral in the church near Mendoza’s land. I didn’t feel sad at losing my grandfather, but when the plane landed at the domestic airport I did feel sad that these crazy Kuwaitis were going off to my father’s country without me.

At the airport gate I was about to get in a taxi when one of them called me. ‘Isa! Isa!’ But the name didn’t catch my attention. It was just another noise in my head, along with the noise of the cars and the horns blaring, the people in the crowds and other noises.

One of them grabbed me by the shoulder. ‘Isn’t your name Isa?’ he asked.

It was the man who had been drinking beer.

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

He pointed to his friends in a van nearby. They were looking at me from behind the windows and smiling. ‘Me and my friends,’ he said hesitantly, ‘we’re going to Ninoy Aquino International Airport to go back to Kuwait.’ He put out his hand with a large wad of cash. ‘We didn’t have time to spend this money. It’s yours,’ he added.

‘But that’s a lot, sir.’

He ignored what I said and looked into my face. ‘I’m not sure that what you said was true, about being Kuwaiti, but. .’ He paused. I wanted to swear to him that my father was Kuwaiti and I was born there and I had papers to prove it, but I let him go on with what he wanted to say: ‘But whatever you are, don’t even think of going there unless you’re a real Kuwaiti.’

He turned away and headed back towards his friends in the van. I looked after them, the money in my hand and a puzzled look on my face. Before getting into the van, he looked back and said, ‘Stay here, my friend, and drink Red Horse.’

‘I can drink it there,’ I said in surprise.

‘The Red Horse there won’t accept you. It’ll crush you under its hoofs, my friend,’ he said. He rubbed his foot against the ground as if stubbing out a cigarette butt, then pulled the sliding door open and plunged in among his friends packed into the van.

As the van drove off into the traffic, the man with the oud leaned out of the side window. ‘We don’t know what that drunk was telling you,’ he shouted, so loud that people turned towards me to see what was happening. ‘But come back to Kuwait if you’re telling the truth. You’ll find you have lots of rights there.’

People were looking at me. The taxi driver asked me to get in. Through the back window of the van, the man who had been drinking shook his head and wagged his finger as if to say, ‘Mind what I say.’

The van disappeared into the traffic. The crazies were gone, leaving me a pile of cash and a head full of uncertainties.

8

In the small church where I had been baptised years earlier, the family received condolences on Grandfather’s death. Many people had come from places far and near to console us and say goodbye to Mendoza after he was gone. It’s strange to say your farewells after someone’s departure.

I sat next to Mama Aida, who turned up reluctantly after my mother and Uncle Pedro insisted. She told me how she had learned of her father’s death. ‘It was horrible, horrible, José,’ she said, looking towards the coffin where Mendoza lay. ‘I was in my room smoking, late at night. The old dog Whitey started barking. The barking soon changed into a howl like a wailing. My head felt numb and I felt an itching like ants in my scalp. I shook my head like someone trying to wake up from a bad dream. But Whitey didn’t stop wailing and then one of the cocks started crowing. Can you imagine the sound they made — the dog howling and the cock crowing at the same time? The cocks never dared to crow when Whitey was barking but this time they were crowing non-stop. One would stop for a rest and another one would take up where the other left off, and Whitey kept howling horribly.’

Mama Aida ran her hands along her arms, as if trying to stop her hair standing on end. ‘I ran downstairs in my nightclothes and went out without shoes,’ she continued, crossing herself. ‘Whitey was crouching at the door of Father’s house, howling at the sky. Someone had undone the collar that was tied to his kennel. The cocks were still crowing. But what really scared me and sent a shiver down my spine, José, was seeing Inang Choleng stooped at the window of her house in the darkness. She was topless and had her arms crossed under her shrivelled breasts. She was looking down, as if she had something in her arms.’

Aida leaned forward, put her elbows on her knees and covered her face with her hands. ‘I didn’t dare go near my father’s house. I hadn’t gone inside for years. I ran off to Pedro’s house without looking back at Inang Choleng’s house. I knocked on his door with both fists. Pedro asked what had come over me. “Father’s dead, Pedro, he’s dead in bed,” I told him. “Who told you that, Aida?” he asked, because he was sure I wouldn’t have gone inside. I pointed to the patio outside father’s house. “Whitey and the cocks,” I said.’

Uncle Pedro came and sat down on the other side of me and his sister left straight away. ‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘Enough. I can’t bear to stay here any longer.’ My uncle didn’t look at her, but he picked up the story where she left off.

‘After Aida told me I ran to Father’s house and opened the door. Whitey beat me inside. It smelled like the candles had been blown out only a short while ago. I pressed the light switch but nothing happened. I lit my lighter and found my father lying naked on his side, with his knees folded up against his chest, like the foetal position. He had covered his face with his hands like someone who doesn’t want to look at something horrible.’