In the Country of Men

18

That night the rain fell for hours. Swamps covered our street and reflected the house lights. Our roof was a shallow pool of rainwater. I walked in it, relishing the resistance of the water against my bare feet. I lay in bed going over the dark episode, looking for how it could have been different, but I couldn't imagine a happy ending. Shut or open, my eyes continued to see the slim figure of Ustath Rashid swinging in mid-air, the dark stain of urine expanding around his groin, his ankles shuddering one last time the way sheep kick after slaughter, men hugging his legs, women ululating into the night air.

Mama, too, was unsettled. When at some point in the night I woke up frightened and went to lie beside her, she jolted. 'No,' she said, her hand against my chest, her voice murky but urgent in the dark. 'Go. Sleep in your bed,' then, as if checking herself, she added, 'habibi.'

The following morning Mama was gone. A bottomless fear propelled me from room to room searching for her. Then I heard her keys in the front door. She walked in, calling my name.

'You're not dressed yet?' She was all in black, her face bare of make-up, her hair tied in a ball. 'Quick. You must come to say goodbye.' She was collecting empty plastic bags. 'Salma and Kareem are going to Benghazi. She has a brother there, he has come to fetch them, drove all night. Remember to say your commiseration.' Then she pointed her index finger and said, 'Say: "May God compensate you and have mercy on Ustath Rashid."

I got the same hollow feeling in my belly as on the mornings when we had to take the anti-flu shot at school, when we all had to stand in line with one sleeve rolled up to the shoulder, watching those at the front cry with pain. Once I ran away and was chased by two teachers who dragged me to the head of the line: 'Do him now so we won't have to chase him again,' they said to the nurse. Somehow the prospect of seeing Kareem after what had just happened to his father frightened me just as much. 'Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo,' Mama had said.

I followed her in my pyjamas and when I had gathered enough courage I said, 'I want to stay here.'

'Don't you want to say goodbye to Kareem? Poor boy, he looks like he's had a terrible night. His eyes are swollen like two tomatoes.'

I didn't know what to say. I imagined his face and imagining it made me want to run to him.

'It's up to you,' she finally said. 'After all, he's your friend.' She was busy collecting other things now: napkins, a bottle of water. 'But if you want to see him you must hurry, they are loading the car.' When I didn't reply she said, 'Shall I tell them you are still asleep?' I nodded.

She left and I walked slowly, aimlessly, around our house. I went out to the garden. It was morning, but the sun was as strong as it would be at noon, bleaching everything. I remembered Salah Abd al-Sabur's words:

Noon, you fill my heart with fear and dread, showing me more than I want to see. The rain puddles had vanished, in their place the earth was a shade darker. I climbed up to the roof to spy on them. Kareem's garden was empty. All the windows were closed and sealed with curtains. A car stood in front of the house, its sides brushed with sprays of caked dirt. It's a twelve-hour drive to Benghazi. I could see a pair of knees beneath the steering wheel, a man's knees. Then I heard him yell, 'Come on!' Mama appeared out of their house, walking hurriedly, carrying the plastic bags she had collected, bulging full now. The man got out of the car, slamming the door hard behind him. 'It's unbelievable how long they are taking!' he said, irritably. He opened the boot for her. 'They'll be out soon,' Mama said, carefully placing the plastic bags in the car. He must be the uncle Mama mentioned. Mama stood beside him, rubbing her hands together. His fists were visible in his pockets. I wondered how Kareem will get on with him. Then Auntie Salma appeared. She too was in black. She hugged Mama and sobbed. Mama patted her back and said, 'Patience, dear, patience.' The man yelled again. 'Kareem, what are you doing in there?' I imagined Kareem walking through his house, maybe smelling his father's pillow one last time. Then he appeared, walking slowly and not paying any attention to his uncle. He opened the car door and sat in the front, in the seat beside the driver. He looked ahead, I could see the side of his face. I felt that at any moment he was going to turn and face me, then they drove away. I watched the dust gather behind them.

Mama spent that whole day on the telephone, taking calls from relatives. I answered the first few. 'People are gossiping,' they said. 'Saying that the man yesterday, God forbid, was your neighbour and a good friend of Bu Suleiman. We had hoped it wasn't true.'

Then, by early evening, Um Masoud brought over our crystal cake plate full of cookies. 'I haven't come empty-handed,' she said, smiling mischievously. 'And I don't mean the cookies. I bring news.' She marched ahead and into the kitchen. The expression on Mama's face was suspended between hope and grief. Then Um Masoud turned towards us, smiling. Mama rushed to her side.

'Settle down, girl, settle down,' she said laughing. 'First, make us tea.'

And without hesitation Mama switched to the task. I watched Um Masoud sitting at our kitchen table and wondered if this was the way her husband, Ustath Jafer, behaved towards her. She seemed to relish the silence that had to be assumed while Mama made the tea. Mama's hands trembled as she arranged the cups.

'Well,' Um Masoud began. 'Jafer called and…'

'What did he say? Has he found him?'

Um Masoud smiled, and when Mama asked, 'Where is he?' she held out her hand and shut her eyes. 'Now I don't have all the facts. But I am sure you'll see him very soon.'

Mama began to cry. 'Thank you, thank you,' she said.

On her way out Um Masoud said, 'He might not look well,' then, looking at me, 'You know how the little ones can get nightmares.'

She paced up and down the hallway. She washed her arms to the elbow, her feet, put a towel over her head and spread a prayer rug. Her lips mimed the words, she didn't look comfortable sitting on her bent knees. When the telephone rang she ran to it.

'Yes, Um Masoud. Here's his number,' she said. 'His name is Moosa Yaseen.'

Then she called Moosa. 'Stay by the telephone. They will call you to fetch Faraj. Call me as soon as you hear anything.'

She smoked incessantly even though she wasn't ill. When I said I was hungry she made me a sandwich with a cigarette between her lips. She couldn't be still.

Around ten Moosa called.

'Any news? Why are you calling, then? What if they call now and find the line busy? Hang up.'

It was getting late. I could barely keep my eyes open. She put me to bed and when she kissed my forehead she seemed to linger.

The following morning she came to my room.

'Good news,' she said, pulling the curtain open. The morning light was brilliant and harsh. She opened the window. Birds were busy chanting and seemed too eager. Her face was overtaken with what seemed to be happiness. 'Something wonderful has occurred. God has looked into our case.' She went around my room, picking up and folding clothes. 'We must slaughter a sheep, no, a calf, and invite Jafer and Um Masoud and their two sons. What decent people they are.'

The doorbell rang. It didn't ring in Baba's special ring.

'Praise be to God,' Mama said, then, 'You stay here. Don't leave your room.' She closed the door behind her. I heard Moosa's voice struggle under a heavy weight. I wondered if he was bringing in another picture of the Guide – perhaps now, I thought, we must hang one in every room. 'Wait,' Mama whispered. 'OK, bring him here.' I heard them enter Mama's room and close the door behind them. They remained there for a while. Then I heard one of them leave the room. I went to the kitchen and found Moosa sitting there. He seemed far away, like someone who had just survived an accident. His shirt had dark brown spots on it. When I asked him what they were he said, 'Just a bit of blood, that's all.' Then after a short silence he added, 'I lost a tooth.'

I heard Mama go from her room to the bathroom a few times, always closing the bedroom door behind her.

'I will pass by later,' Moosa said and left.

I went to Mama's room and knocked.

I thought I heard a man's voice first, then she whispered, 'Don't worry, don't worry.' The door opened wide enough for her to squeeze through it. 'What?'

'Who's in there?'

She took me by the hand to the kitchen. 'Now listen, Suleiman. I am going to tell you something very important. Baba is home. He's a little unwell and so needs peace and quiet.'

'Baba is… He's…' Whatever words I tried to utter shattered in my mouth. But she understood.

'Yes, yes. But he's not feeling well. He's resting. You mustn't disturb him, you mustn't disturb him at all,' she said, walking away, back to their room.

When I went to use the bathroom I found the mirror above the washbasin covered with a white bed sheet. I lifted one corner and saw nothing different about the mirror.

After a while Mama came to ask, 'Where's Moosa? Where did he say he was going? At a time like this we should stay together.'

'He said he'll pass by later.

'Did he say when?'

'Later. He just said later.'

'At a time like this we should stay together,' she repeated.

'Why is the mirror in the bathroom covered?' I asked.

'He knows I need to talk to him. I hate it when he leaves without saying.'

'Why did you cover the mirror?'

'Did you remove it?' she said anxiously.

I shook my head.

'Don't touch it.'

I wasn't allowed to even peek in on Baba.

'In the morning,' Mama said, standing between me and the entrance to their room.

The door was left ajar, but everything inside was black. I didn't hear Baba's heavy breathing, nor did the room smell of sleep, but it had the silence of someone in it.

'Baba?' I called.

'In the morning,' she repeated, pushing me away. 'And don't come to him. If he feels up to it he'll come to see you.'

At first I didn't think anything of it, but when I was brushing my teeth I remembered that it was Thursday night, that the next day was Baba's day off, and it puzzled me why Mama didn't want me to wake him up when on Friday mornings I always ran to his bed and pounced on him. It made him sit up startled, blowing air.

How could it be so easy? What was absent in the Stadium? What didn't intervene to rescue Ustath Rashid? Perhaps it was all the cowboy films with their logic of happy endings that made me think this way, that perhaps it wasn't God but they who had invented hope and the promise that just at the point when the hero had the rope round his neck, suddenly, and with the Majesty of God, a shot would come from nowhere and break the rope. The hero would kick the man beside him, and the rest of the mob – the cowards - would jump on their saddles and ride off, up and over the hill. Everyone at the cinema would jump and shout and clap and hug one another as if it was a football match. Tears would come down my face, but it wouldn't matter because many cheeks, grown men too, would shine with tears. I recalled the joy of such moments and how they seemed to burn a hole through my chest. Where were the heroes, the bullets, the scurrying mob, the happy endings that used to send us out of the dark cinema halls rosy-cheeked with joy, slapping each other's backs, rejoicing that our man had won, that God was with him, that God didn't leave him alone in his hour of need, that the world worked in the ways we expected it to work and didn't falter? Something was absent in the Stadium, something that could no longer be relied on. Apart from making me lose trust in the assumption that 'good things happen to good people,' the televised execution of Ustath Rashid would leave another, more lasting impression on me, one that has survived well into my manhood, a kind of quiet panic, as if at any moment the rug could be pulled from beneath my feet. After Ustath Rashid's death I had no illusions that I or Baba or Mama were immune from being burned by the madness that overtook the National Basketball Stadium.