2008 - The Consequences of Love. (30 page)

When we arrived at the Pleasure Palace, Hilal looked around like a young boy taken to a mysterious forest and left there alone: his mouth opened wide and he was shaking his head in disbelief.

I chuckled and sat on the pavement watching him. He looked up at the wall behind me.”Oh
ya Allah
,” he exclaimed, “this looks like the middle of nowhere and yet we’re only ten minutes from Al-Nuzla Street.”

He laughed and staggered towards me. As he sat down next to me, he asked me, “What do you call this place again?”

“The Pleasure Palace.”

I pulled a cigarette and a lighter out of my pocket.

Hilal threw his stick at a passing rat. “Rats, I can handle,” he said, “but are there ghosts around here too?”

“They say the King loved women and that he had lots of them. Can’t you smell their lingering perfume?”

“Oh, yeah, now that you mention it, I agree with you. A woman’s scent is eternal.” He put his arm around me and laughed. “Let’s hope they are around us now as we speak.”

The usual spell of muteness when a woman was mentioned fell over both of us. We set off on our separate dreams. I imagined I was looking up at the nine-storey building through the darkness. I focused on her third-floor window, and could see her sitting on her bed, as she told me she did at night, feeling lonely and longing for the next afternoon when we would lie together, warming each other’s faces with our breath and enjoying each other’s closeness.

My whole being flew back to that building, my heart gliding in front of me like a kite swinging in the air. I imagined that she was getting ready for bed; that for once she had thrown her window open, that she was taking off her clothes, combing her hair and rubbing oil on her neck, and caressing her breasts with her long damp fingers.

Hilal nudged me and asked, “Are you all right?”

He took out his small box of chewing tobacco, put some in his palm and slowly rolled it into a small ball. He carefully placed the ball on the inside of his cheek and then, using his tongue, he moved it around and put it between his lower lip and teeth. The ball of
toombak
pulled out his lower lip and exposed his yellow teeth.

I looked at him for a long moment without blinking. “Hilal, I am so happy that your wife is coming to Saudi. I was starting to wonder how you could manage to live without her for so long. I mean, you must really miss her.”

“Of course,” he said. “But her letters keep me going.”

“She writes you letters?”

“And she writes beautifully,” he replied. “I do miss her. But our letters give each other hope. If it were not for her letters, worries would be wound around my heart like the turban on my head.”

I laughed at his expression.

“But I am a lucky man,” he said, beaming. “She is coming soon. When I was in Port Sudan, we arranged everything. Now, it is just a matter of small details. I hope it will take no longer than a month or two now. I am sure everything will be fine.”

Hilal heaved his shoulders forward and stretched his hand out to his healthy leg to massage his knee. “Anyway,” he said, “I am sure you didn’t bring me here to show me the Pleasure Palace. I have a feeling what this could be about, but do you want to tell me first, my dear friend?”

“OK,” I said. “Please listen carefully.”

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON, after we laughed and talked about our planned escape—telling each other how unbelievable it all was—Fiore suddenly fell silent.

“But what will happen if our plan fails?” Fiore asked. Her warm voice dropped to a whisper. “What will we do if Jasirn doesn’t keep his word?”

I could feel her anguish. I wished my embrace could calm her fears, or my kisses convince her that everything would be fine.

Jasim was our only option. We had tried to think of alternatives, but the reality was that there was no one else to help us. The only other choice we had was to stay in Jeddah and continue our lives the way they were. But we were both convinced that this was bound to come to an end. We were living like two fugitives in Jeddah. All we had was Fiore’s room, with her father just yards away, the religious policemen patrolling Al-Nuzla Street, and the blind imam preaching about the evil sins. The small kingdom we created in her beautiful room was as weak as if it were a castle built of sand.

“It will be fine,” I tried to reassure her.

Fiore buried her face in her hands. I reached out to her and lifted her chin.

I feared going back to my lonely room. I didn’t want to leave her. I wanted to be with her for ever. I didn’t want to let go of her pink painted nails, her parted lips. I loved looking at her eyes; the fact that one was slightly smaller than the other gave the impression that she was eternally searching for something, for her life. As I caressed her delicate lips with my finger, and gazed at her wild hair, I was happy that she was my woman and I was her man. It felt right. We belonged to each other, I thought. We deserved to grow old together because we had made the impossible possible. I hoped fate would be kind to us.

Later that night, I went to the Corniche to say goodbye to my mother.

I sat for hours staring at the sea, until it turned as black as the sky.

Then, I stepped into the cool water of the Red Sea, wearing only my shorts. I had not felt this good for a long time.

Only swathes of darkness lay ahead of me. But when I looked behind me to the Corniche, I saw the street lights flickering and they reminded me of the oil lamps hanging from the camels when my mother sent me away to Sudan.

Now it was my turn to say goodbyes in the darkness.

“Mother, Semira, I’m sorry that I couldn’t make my brother love me as much as he loved our uncle. And now that I have decided to take my life elsewhere, I am sad that we will all live in different parts of the world. Where I am going is a long way from here but if, as they say, all the seas of the world are connected then I will pray that the country which takes me will be surrounded by the sea on all sides, so that I can talk to you from wherever I am and you will still hear me as clearly. So this is not a farewell. I love you. Please keep safe from the bombs until we meet.”

D
ECEMBER WAS COMING to a close and January, the month of new beginnings, was only two days away.

It was almost three weeks since Jasim had agreed to give me the money for the smuggler businessman. He called to say that he would have the money ready later that evening.

Before I went to meet Fiore, I went to my tree with a bucket full of water. I had started to look after it again—as well as watering it, I would sit underneath it just as I used to. It was returning to life as if its thirst was not only for water but also for a friend’s company. I wished I could tell Yahya and Hani about my imminent departure so that they could look after it in my absence.

The Jeep was parked in front of the big mosque. Hamid was standing beside the Jeep next to another shorter man. He had a white beard and was wearing a red and white chequered
gutm
and a white
thobe
, which fell slightly above his ankles. He had a stick in his hand.

For once, I was relieved to see a new policeman. He must be Basil’s replacement, I thought.

After Basil led me inside the park that night,Yahya had arrived on his motorbike. He jumped over the fence and went for Basil.

It was Fiore’s idea that the best way to get rid of Basil was to strip him of his beard since it was that which gave him religious authority over others; then to threaten him with such an earthly force that fear would spread in his weak heart for the rest of his life.

When Yahya held Basil by his neck, he yelled at him, “It is not enough that you have recruited two of my best friends and sent them to Afghanistan? Yes, do you know them? Faisal and Zib Al-Ard? But I promise you this. If you come near Naser ever again, I will make sure you will die in Al-Nuzla Street and not Afghanistan.”

Later that afternoon, I was in Fiore’s room celebrating the good news of Jasim agreeing to help us. We were in bed dreaming about our future life in Europe. Over at the mosque, we could hear the blind imam delivering his sermon. We lay naked next to each other on Jier bed, facing the ceiling, with one of her legs between mine. The room glowed under the candles. We both closed our eyes and thought about what was coming. We were silent for a while.

“Quick, close your ears,” said Fiore, sitting up and putting her two fingers on them.

The imam was about to end his speech and as always he finished off with the supplication: “Oh
ya Allah
destroy the infidels’ lands, as they are destroying our lands. Oh
ya Allah
tear down their towers and their houses.”

As the
amens
of the faithful rang through the street, Fiore lay back on the bed and hissed, “He is praying for the destruction of our future home.”

“We are going to Europe,” I said to Fiore. “But…”

“But what, Fiore?” She whispered, “It still scares me.” She took away her hand from my chest and caressed my face. She turned on her side and looked at me. Her lips on my neck felt like rose petals. My hand slipped down from her waist to the top of her hip. My hand pressed on her hip bone; her body was getting warmer. I could feel her warmth as she rested her chin on my chest. I looked at her parted lips, and her half-shut eyes. “Will the Europeans accept us?”

“I hope they will,” I said to her. “Fiore, no place in the world is perfect. But at least we are going to a place where we can fight to achieve our ambitions. Mossa said it won’t be easy. He told me life as an immigrant can be tough, but you are a daring woman. You will tame the place.”

I could feel her warm breath as she laughed.

Like a scarf, she pulled her long curly hair to one side and spread it out across my chest.

“I couldn’t believe it when Hajj Yusef said that some of the people he helped smuggle five years ago to Sweden came back to visit Mecca with Swedish passports. Five years and they let them be citizens of their countries.”

She turned back to lie on her back and was now staring at the ceiling. She closed her eyes.

“Fiore?”

“Yes.”

“I know it will depend on the smuggler, but where would you like to go?” I asked her.

Without hesitation, she said, “To where I can be whatever I want to be. But if I can choose, I would want to go to Paris.”

“Why?”

“My favourite Egyptian photographer studied there. Plus I want to go and see the River Seine. I read it is the Mecca for lovers. Its water ripples with lovers’ laughter. If we don’t end up there, we should visit it at least once. Oh,
habibi
, I feel like I am waiting for heaven. Heaven is for people resurrected from their death, and I feel a spark in my soul.” She stepped out of bed and walked through the room.

She sat straight down on the chair, facing me. She crossed her legs, and rested her left hand over her right thigh. Her painted fingernails hung like pink flowers next to her dark skin. She tied her hair up in a ponytail, all the while with her eyes fixed on me, but not really looking, as if her mind was somewhere else. Her fingers played with her dangling earring. The light from the candle flames darted around her, painting golden spots on her skin.

I moved towards her and sat by her feet.

“
Habibati?
” She moved her hand to my face and caressed me silently.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“I am trying to imagine every possibility, everything that could go wrong in our plan and come up with alternatives. Believe me,
habibi
, I am a woman in a man’s world and I find it hard to trust anyone.”

“Fiore,” I whispered, caressing her hands. “Don’t worry. I already told you, everything is taken care of. Trust me. OK?”

She nodded her head. “OK.”

That evening, I was lying on my bed waiting for Jasim’s call. The breeze wafted through the trees and drove a leaf or two through the open window. I watched as they landed on my legs. I looked at my watch, it was half-past seven. The phone rang. I rushed to pick it up. Jasim asked me to come to his café to collect ‘the best present you will ever receive’.

Al-Nuzla Street was glowing. The street was packed with boys playing football, kids whizzing up and down on their bikes, and men strolling along the street as if they were on the Corniche. A group of older men, some of whom were holding strings of Islamic prayer beads, were sitting outside the Yemeni shop.

A sudden wind hit the street. It looked as if we were all about to be blown away: everyone was pulled back by the wind, the men bowed their heads, white clothes were whipping up, some
gutras
were stripped off heads and were gliding like kites above the street, and even the stiff front garden trees on both sides of the road were bending more than was normal.

I folded my arms over my chest and continued to walk against the wind: two steps forward before I was pushed back one step. My arms were like swords slashing against the dirt flying in the air. I turned around and stood against my tree, leaning my back against the wind and waiting for it to pass.

When things calmed down, I continued on my way to Jasim’s café.

A familiar smell of musk was in the air; the blind imam was up ahead being led along by a young boy. The imam was talking, the boy listening intently. I didn’t need to see his mouth to lip-read, nor catch his words on the wind, words he had repeated so often that they now echoed continually on Al-Nuzla Street. I put my hands over my ears to shut out the past. I was looking to a new future with
habibati
instead.

As I entered the café, the men’s eyes followed my every stride, and then switched to the boy coming out from the back holding a teapot and a few glasses. A man slipped a note in the back pocket of his velvet trousers. I looked around and saw Hilal sitting at the back, at the only table with a single chair. His face almost disappeared behind the coiling smoke of his cigarette. He nodded in my direction, and I smiled back.

I strode forward. “Naser, I am here,” Jasim called from the other side of the café, waving his arm. I went over to Jasim’s table and he stood up, took my hand and pulled me towards the back room. In the corridor, he leaned towards my lips. I pushed him away. “Stop it, Jasim.”