Throwing Sparks (3 page)

Whenever I thought of her, I imagined her entering the marble foyer, taking off her abaya
and – right before the Master’s eyes – inviting me to kiss her. She would hold me tearfully for a while and then jump out of my embrace to offer her body to whichever man happened to be in the vicinity. She would surrender every last drop of her womanliness, then spit in my face and leave, gathering up the sadness. This was how a woman would lose a beloved who had been so unworthy of her true heart.

Tahani was one of my victims.

I fled thirty-one years ago, severing our relationship so brutally that there would be no chance of mending it.

What had become of her? If she had really ended up in the Palace, into which of its many crevices had she fallen?

Whenever I felt a longing to recapture our lost innocence, I would recall her story. It was Osama who reminded me of how I had shattered her life. We had agreed not to talk about Tahani so as to avoid bitter rows and all-out hatred. For each of us to be able to sleep at night in our cocoons of regret, we lay down the bone of contention between us and refrained from digging it up.

But whenever news of Tahani reached him, Osama would forget the agreement and our lives would turn into a battleground again. On those occasions, we could not stand the sight of each other as hatred resurfaced to course through our veins.

As friends, each of us felt forsaken and we lay in wait for the right moment to throw the other down in the dirt and relieve the aching wound in our hearts. It was like needing a mirror to see a disfiguring outbreak of acne; each needed the other’s gaze to grasp how bad the condition had become.

I needed time to recover, but whichever way I turned, there, before me, was the implacable servitude demanded by the Master. He wanted us around every waking and sleeping moment. Osama and I attended the wild parties at the Palace, avoiding the Master’s eyes. But in any case, the Master was invariably busy checking out the women who swayed to the musicians’ beat, and scrutinising the dancers to decide which of the bodies he would most like to ride. He was always the centre of any gathering, with his inner circle fawning over his every word and marvelling at his every discovery. He would raise a finger as soon as his glass was empty and a servant would magically appear to refuel his intoxication.

During one such meaningless party, Osama leaned in close and hissed into my ear, ‘How much more of this until we can get out?’

He had always had a sense of urgency about him, even when we were younger and lived outside the confines of the Palace, life still pumping through us. At that time, the Palace was at the periphery of our neighbourhood and entire families would sit mesmerised by its brilliant lights and dream of entering its walls.

I believe that even to this day, some on the outside are still haunted by these old dreams and continue to ask themselves how they can enter the Palace.

Whereas those of us on the inside count the days to our escape.

2

The palace was visible from every direction and anyone entering Jeddah would see it. But while the Palace was there for everyone to behold, few were granted the privilege of seeing the man who built it – the first Master.

Were it not for Crazy Jamal, the residents of our neighbourhood would never have even glimpsed his features.

The Palace stood right across from our dilapidated neighbourhood, but its massive walls and gates were well fortified against our avid curiosity. We became so eager to catch sight of the man of the Palace that whenever we thought we might see his white Rolls-Royce, we gathered in a vacant lot between our houses and the road that led to the main gates. We poured out of every nook and cranny of our neighbourhood and on to the main road for a chance to see him, causing a hubbub. Determined to prevent the din from spoiling the occasion, we shushed each other loudly as we tried to catch a glimpse of him.

Day after day the white car sped past, denying us even a fleeting peek. We could just make out the curtains – which we assumed were made of silk – that hung on the windows to conceal the face of the man reclining in the back seat. Only the Sudanese chauffeur stood out clearly with his spiralling white turban like an uneven mound of snow. His body leaned away from the crowd as he sped away as though protecting a sugar cube from a swarm of flies.

The car soon receded into the distance, slipping into the Palace like a knife slicing through butter, finally disappearing as the massive gates closed behind it. The towering Palace walls stood their ground against our gawking eyes.

But our curiosity was satisfied the day the car’s front bumper hit Crazy Jamal, throwing him to the ground. The white Rolls-Royce was forced to stop and we were finally able to take a good look at the man from the Palace. He was elegant and his features were immaculate despite the scowl and cheeks flushed with indignation at the crowd that had mobbed his car and was gaping at him. He was a man of advanced years; the bluish arteries that bulged around his ears and Adam’s apple bore witness to the many decades they had strained to pump life through his body.

All of us would later revel in recounting some aspect of this sighting. Our listeners hung on our every word and they too went on to enhance and embellish the story with additional details. The sighting set off such a flurry of gossip in the alleys of our neighbourhood that, with countless retellings to friends, neighbours and even casual passers-by, the event became all but unrecognisable.

Issa Radini had been dismissive of our daily attempts to see the Master of the Palace. During one of our neighbourhood gatherings, he had even offered to put our curiosity to rest by describing the man’s features. But no one had believed him and even his closest friends made fun of his description. He had stormed off, vowing that they would live to regret their mockery.

We were all too fascinated by the Palace and its owner to listen. Never before had we seen such imposing walls. We lived in the shadow of dying dreams, fantasies that withered and perished inside us before that impenetrable barrier. All that our feeble gaze could accomplish was to imagine what went on behind those mighty walls.

In the first bloom of youth, when we still entertained ourselves by counting the number of lights illuminating those walls, we imagined that the din of excitement that drifted from the Palace was caused by the descent of
houris
– virgin companions from heaven. This seemed to be confirmed by the barely audible love songs that accompanied the excited voices until dawn.

The high walls fuelled our desires; they were impenetrable barriers that blocked our vision only to unleash our imagination.

Construction of the Palace had dried up the sea before our very eyes and hundreds of tonnes of cement had walled in our tears, which seeped into our souls and collected there in pools of sadness and regret.

There were aspects of our dilapidated neighbourhood that people were glad to forget: the fetid alleyways swollen with rubbish and the crumbling houses propped up by makeshift metal girders and trusses. After the neighbourhood was made to relinquish its original name and consented to being improved with broad, well-lit streets that were paved and lined with trees, the Palace became our new address.

It became the landmark reference for anyone coming into the city.

Strategically located on a large expanse of coastline, its exquisitely crafted white marble shimmered all night long in a sequence of rainbow colours. These were projected from lights that had been subtly concealed by a state-of-the-art lighting design.

The Palace was built concentrically, with its back to our neighbourhood, in an arc that enveloped the north of the city and extended all the way out to the sea, effectively denying us access to the shore.

References to the Palace became so dominant that the name of our neighbourhood was soon forgotten. We knew it as ‘Hell’ or the ‘Firepit’, but newcomers to the area just referred to it as the ‘Palace District’.

The Palace was at its most magnificent after dark when all the lights came on; boys from the neighbourhood competed to count them all and then argued heatedly over the tally.

But it was also resplendent during the day. The Palace seemed like a gift from heaven, as enchanting as a droplet of water turning into a snowflake as it floats to the ground. It was suspended between the great blue of sea and sky, at once mesmerising and redeeming. Gazing at it, all one wanted was to enter and see it from the inside.

Going in was like entering a world of underwater glass chambers where one shared the space with all the creatures of the sea. They floated so close one could almost reach out and touch them. Ascending the marble staircases, the sight was breathtaking: the city unfolded like a man in a gesture of supplication. The towering outer walls were dotted with golden domes, the bases of which were embossed with dark green calligraphy inside double-helix crowns. Above these, precious stones glinted, set in the veins of polished pink marble imported from Spain.

The Palace had been furnished from the outer reaches of the world; its grounds were a succession of lush gardens, luxuriant with flowers and fruit trees, and also with birds, horses and other animals. Whenever the space grew too confined, the sea was there to be reclaimed, making way for the arrival of the latest models in luxury cars, yachts and motor boats, as well as ornamental statues.

Despite their lofty stature, the towering walls could not block from view all the branches of the trees that hung heavy with fruit. Those young or reckless enough tried to shimmy up the walls to snatch a mango or orange from a low-hanging limb; others pelted the branches with stones until they broke, bringing the fruit down with them.

Loitering around the Palace to steal fruit was a risky business, but we carried on until the day one of the boys from the neighbourhood was caught in the act and sent to jail for an entire year. Not only had the boy climbed the wall and stolen fruit, but he had inadvertently seen white bodies splashing and frolicking in the sea between the rocky breakwaters. This was before the Palace courtyards were enclosed by additional walls that swallowed up more of the adjoining land.

In the beginning, there was all manner of speculation regarding the owner of the Palace. No one knew his exact name, where he was from or why he had chosen this spot on which to erect his imposing structure.

Rumour and speculation abounded. Since we could never quite agree on who he was, we felt ambiguity was the safest course when discussing the anonymous owner. In that way, the mystery remained whole, full of potential and promise. We settled on calling him simply the
Sayyid
– the Master.

When he began living at the Palace, an aura of mystery came to surround his person and we would venture out to catch a glimpse of him coming or going at various times. We would see him in the distance as his white Rolls-Royce took the road between the western flank of the neighbourhood and the main gates. He was always seated in the back seat, seemingly indifferent to the faces gawking at him. We watched the car as it crossed the unpaved section of road that was still within the boundaries of our humble neighbourhood, before that piece of land was also expropriated for the Palace. The car sent a thick cloud of dust into the air like a miniature cyclone unleashed from the sleeve of a skilled sorcerer.

We barely caught sight of the man’s handsome features as he reclined against the back seat of the car. We were only able to confirm our impressions after Crazy Jamal blocked his way and we came in for a closer look. Rumours spread that Jamal had been deliberately pushed in front of the speeding car by someone who was tired of the daily disturb­ance caused by our gatherings. Whatever the truth in the matter, Jamal was struck by the car and fell, groaning and bleeding on to the unpaved road.

The chauffeur hopped out of the Rolls-Royce and began to curse us. He dragged Jamal by the sleeve and flung him to the side of the road, seemingly unperturbed. By contrast, the Master was visibly fidgety but remained seated in the car. Only his darkening brow betrayed his impatience.

We were probably little more than parasites to him, creatures who had surfaced from the primeval mud to annoy him with our childish stunts. But we stood transfixed by his noble complexion, amazed that a man with such shiny and fair skin could roam the face of the earth. We forgot all about Crazy Jamal lying in a pool of blood and crowded around the car to stare at this person whose patience had, by now, been exhausted. His right hand flew up to wipe his brow and cheeks as if to remove dirt that had stained his face.

Finally, at a short, sharp movement of the Master’s lips, the chauffeur returned to the driver’s seat and took off, delivering his passenger from our gawking. The car sped away in a whorl of dust, leaving us behind to shout and gesticulate madly.

*  *  *

Just as we ventured out during the day to catch a glimpse of the Master
,
we came out at night to watch the illuminated Palace shimmering with lights. We would bet on the number, colour and even shape of the lights. But our enthusiasm for that game soon receded before the impossibility of the task.

One evening we noticed the bright lights had gone dark. It was so dark that we imagined the sea, raging with fury at the inroads made by the reclaimed land, had consumed the entire Palace. We considered the absence of light more seriously the following day when the Palace remained shrouded in darkness.