Saud Alsanousi - The Bamboo Stalk

Abdullah and Mahdi sat cross-legged in front of the television and fought it out at their favourite game. Turki started tuning his musical instrument. Jabir lay on one of the mattresses, busy sending and receiving text messages. Mishaal pestered Jabir by blowing kisses at him as he fiddled with his phone. Then he picked up his own mobile phone and started jabbing at the keys like Jabir. He whispered words of love in Arabic, and also in English to include me in their circle: ‘Darling. . I love you.’

My heart suddenly missed a beat and I felt the same electric shock I knew from the past. It was Turki on the oud, filling the diwaniya with magic. He ran the plectrum across the strings in the middle of the oud while the fingers of his other hand slid up and down the strings on the neck. He only had one instrument but it sounded to me like the notes were coming from several instruments at the same time. Mahdi shouted in jubilation when he won the football match. Mishaal was still pestering Jabir by blowing kisses and saying, ‘I love you.’ Abdullah invited Mahdi to play again to get his revenge.

As for me, I was in the diwaniya , but my heart was in the Philippines with Merla.

12

I rested the laptop on my knees. The email homepage appeared on the screen. How long before I plucked up courage? How long could I keep clinging to a hope that was tinged with doubt? Without thinking I wrote the password in the box. There was just one step left: clicking on the ‘sign in’ button.

I left the page as it was, with all my data inserted, without moving on to the next step. I moved the laptop aside, off my legs. I stood in the middle of the sitting room of my flat and looked around at the walls. ‘Which direction would it be in?’ I wondered. I spread the prayer rug, a gift from Awatif I had never used. There were many possible directions. I chose the direction that took my fancy. How many times did I have to bend forward? How many times did I have to touch my forehead to the ground? Should I put my hands together on my chest or leave them hanging by my sides? I didn’t know, but I did pray.

I stood on the prayer rug. ‘ Allahu akbar , God is the mightiest, You have been kind to me. You sent me the crazies that I dreamt of meeting. I’m grateful to you, my God.’ I leaned forward and put my hands on my knees. ‘ Allahu akbar . God is the mightiest. I’ve been waiting for a message for some time. Isn’t it time the message arrived?’ I stood up straight again. ‘Make my dream come true. Don’t ruin my life by allowing the person I love to die.’ I lay down on the floor and touched it with my forehead. ‘I have plenty of money, I have wonderful friends.’ I sat up. ‘ Allahu akbar , God is the mightiest. I pray to You as a believer, in the hope that You will accept my prayer. Amen.’ I looked to the right and then to the left to finish off my prayer.

Someone rang the doorbell. It was my Filipino neighbour inviting me to someone’s birthday party. I stood facing him at the door. I looked towards the laptop screen, then at my neighbour. I began to interpret things Grandmother’s way. Perhaps Fate had sent him to spare me the torment of not yet receiving the message. I accepted his invitation with a nod, with complete faith in Grandmother’s view of the world.

* * *

Filipinos, at home or abroad, are always the same: they attach an almost reverential importance to some occasions. Birthdays are very important. They celebrate them every year with the same enthusiasm, as if it were the first time. They give each other presents, even if they are modest, and the recipients are happy with them, however inexpensive they might look. The person whose birthday it is looks delighted, even before he or she knows what the present is. Sometimes the present is important but the most important thing is that the giver hasn’t forgotten the occasion and has taken the trouble to look for a present to make the person happy. It doesn’t matter if it’s just a pair of socks, a key ring, a picture frame or a leather wallet pretending to be a well-known brand. The only thing that matters is that it’s a present. Filipinos aren’t only interested in birthdays. Holidays also have a special meaning for them. Why for them instead of for us ? Am I choosing my words properly? What a muddle I’m in!

At Christmas celebrations in Manila, you can feel the occasion as much as if you were in the Vatican. Am I exaggerating? I’ve never been to the Vatican to know, but anyway, it’s nothing like in Kuwait. In the Philippines, the occasion has a special warmth and you can almost see the effect on the faces of those around you. There’s an atmosphere of faith. Prayers. More people going to churches and cathedrals. That might be easy to explain, given that ninety percent of the population is Christian — eighty percent of them are Roman Catholics and the other ten percent of various other Christian denominations. But what is odd is our interest in other celebrations, such as the way Filipinos mark Chinese New Year. People come out on the streets to celebrate and some streets are decorated with Chinese lanterns and coloured streamers. People beat drums and some of them wear traditional Chinese costume and dance with brightly coloured dragons. We’re people who love to celebrate like no one else. We’ll never miss an opportunity to party.

As usual my neighbours had decorated their sitting room with streamers. On one wall there was a sign reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU . The place was full of singing and dancing and all kinds of food and drink, including home-brewed alcohol — what the guests most wanted to find, however foul it might taste. I drank a lot that night. Everyone stopped dancing and the lights were turned off, leaving the place romantically lit by candles. It was time for videoke, the Filipino version of karaoke. The microphone was ready and the television was playing famous songs, with the words on screen. Being in Kuwait had helped me see Filipinos more clearly. We Filipinos love to sing.

We ?

Yes, we .

The microphone was passed around. People sang solo or in groups. Helped by the words on the screen, they sang to the music song after song. I couldn’t help joining in when the music started up for Parting Time by the Filipino singer Erik Santos. I grabbed the microphone and I didn’t need the words on the screen. I listened to the piano intro and waited for my cue to start. I shut my eyes to sing and thought only of my memories of Merla.

Everyone listened to my song in silence. I sang louder as the end of the song drew near and the rhythm picked up. I gave a bow with the microphone still in my hand. As the piano music faded out towards the end, I whispered the last line: ‘I remember the days when you’re here with me.’

The sitting room broke into whistles and clapping. People toasted me with their drinks. I bowed theatrically and blew kisses around in the air. The music began again. People gathered round the microphone to sing together and I withdrew quietly to my own flat.

I put the laptop on my knees. The browser was still on the email sign-in page. The fact that I was only half sober made it easier to press the ‘enter’ button. The inbox had many messages. Adverts, messages from my mother, pictures of her with Alberto and Adrian. The pictures reeled drunkenly in front of my eyes. I smiled at my brother’s big smile in the picture, and the stream of drool from his mouth. I missed my chubby little brother. There were pictures of my mother’s house and of our house. The money I had sent them had changed many things. But my sense of happiness with the messages and the pictures didn’t last long.

Merla, why?

13

The atmosphere in the diwaniya was no longer what it had been and the crazies weren’t the crazies I had known. They had given up everything to devote themselves to the parliamentary elections. Their conversations had become more intense. They were no longer interested in including me in the conversation so Arabic dominated their discussions.