The Mirage

6

This state of affairs between my mother and me led to a delay in my school enrollment. I got to be nearly seven years old without having received the least bit of education. Finally, though, my grandfather intervened. He called me one day as he sat on the porch on that long seat of his that rocked back and forth. He tweaked my ear playfully, then said to me, “For a long time you’ve wanted to be able to join other boys your age. Well, now God has set you free, and we’re going to let you share their life for a long, long time. You’re going to school!”

I listened to him in bewilderment at first, since I didn’t know a thing about school. Then, realizing that he was granting me my freedom, I looked at my mother questioningly, not knowing whether to believe him or not. And great was my amazement when I saw her smile at me encouragingly with a look of acquiescence on her face.

Nearly bursting with joy, I asked my grandfather excitedly, “Will I play at school like the other children?”

“Of course, of course,” replied the old man with a nod of his hoary head. “You’ll play a lot and learn a lot. Then later you’ll become an officer like me.”

“When will I go?” I asked impatiently.

“Very soon,” he said with a smile. “I’ll register you tomorrow.”

Autumn was upon us, and the next morning they dressed me up in a suit, a fez, and new shoes, which brought back happy memories of the holiday. My grandfather took me to Atfat Qasim, which wasn’t far from our house. We went into the second building we came to on the left, which was Roda National Primary School. The school, which had been chosen due to its proximity to our house, consisted of a medium-sized courtyard and a one-story building with three rooms: two classrooms and the principal’s office. The principal — who was also the owner of the school — received my grandfather respectfully and even reverently, and in his presence he treated me with kindness, complimenting me on my cleanliness and my new clothes. Consequently, I felt friendly toward him and expected good things from him in the future. Within minutes, I’d been enrolled along with the other students in the school. My grandfather paid the fees, and we headed home.

As we left the school my grandfather said to me, “Now you’ll be an excellent pupil! School will start next Saturday.”

My mother announced her satisfaction with the new development. However, she wasn’t able to conceal the melancholy she felt. Seeing this, my grandfather was annoyed with her and said to her somewhat sharply, “What will you do if, once he’s seven years old, his father reclaims him?”

“Over my dead body!” she cried, gaping at my grandfather with horror and anguish.

On the appointed Saturday, my grandfather took me to school, then returned home. As he was about to take leave of me I clung to his hand, feeling a sudden pang of fear that caused me to forget how I’d longed for this very moment. I even suggested that he take me back home with him, but he simply laughed that resounding laugh of his and, pointing to the other pupils, said, “Meet your new family!”

I stood near the door feeling more flustered than I’d ever felt in my life, and a feeling of regret came over me. Looking timidly and apprehensively at the pupils scattered about the courtyard, I hoped no one would notice me. But my smart new clothes caught people’s attention, and I lowered my gaze feeling agonizingly shy. How long will this torture go on? I wondered.

However, a boy came up and greeted me, then stood with me as though we were friends. Then he asked me for no apparent reason, “Did your father bring you?”

Since I considered my grandfather both a grandfather and a father, I nodded in the affirmative.

“What does he do?” he asked, “and what’s his name?”

Even though conversation was a cause of distress for me, I still welcomed this question in particular, and replied proudly, “Colonel Abdulla Bey Hasan.”

The boy told me that his father was So-and-so Bey too, though I’ve forgotten his name now. Then, as though he’d grown weary of my quiet, stuffy manner, he left me and went to join some other buddies. Feeling lonelier than ever, I wondered: Will I be able to fit in with these boys? Will I really be able to play with them, or will the disaster that befell me in our courtyard at home be repeated here too? My heart was gripped with fear, and if I’d had the courage to retreat and go home on the spot, I would have. Then the bell rang, delivering me from my thoughts, whereupon they stood us in a line and brought us into the classroom. It hadn’t occurred to me up to that point that school was anything but a huge playground. However, when I sat down at one of the school desks and the elderly teacher began the new school year with the traditional instructions having to do with maintaining order and not moving around or talking in class, I was certain that what I’d entered was nothing less than a prison. Perplexed and disturbed, I thought: Did my grandfather make a mistake, or did they deceive him? My imagination went soaring home, where I pictured my mother sitting alone. Do you suppose she’s forgotten me? I wondered. At around this time she’ll be overseeing Umm Zaynab as she sweeps the rooms and dusts the furniture. Hasn’t she thought about me? Can she bear to part with me for the entire day?

When the first lesson ended, I hadn’t heard a word the teacher said. And it was no wonder, since I’d decided that this first day would also be my last. During recess I saw the principal passing by the classroom door, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Not having forgotten the kindness he’d shown me when I came to enroll with my grandfather, I approached him without hesitation. As I came up to him timidly, he turned toward me with an uncomprehending look on his face. Then he cast me a harsh, quizzical gaze, and I thought he’d forgotten who I was.

In a voice that was barely audible I said, “I’m Colonel Abdulla Bey Hasan’s son.”

“And what do you want?” he asked in astonishment.

Gathering up my courage, I said, “I want to go home.”

“Get back to your desk, damn you!” he thundered in my face.

Stunned by his shouting, I returned to my place, nearly swooning from fright and anguish. From that moment onward, I stayed put, terrorized and distraught. As the day dragged on I started to feel I needed to go to the bathroom, but I was so afraid, I held it in. Not once did I think of asking the teacher for permission to leave the class. Even during recess, I was so apprehensive, I couldn’t bring myself to ask someone to show me where the toilet was. I started fidgeting and writhing like someone who’s been stung, pressing my knees together in torment and anguish. The time passed heavily and miserably until, when the bell rang at last, I took off as fast as my legs would carry me. I reached the house in a matter of seconds and ascended the stairs in leaps and bounds. In the flat I found my mother waiting for me, and when she saw me she exclaimed, “Welcome, light of my eyes!”

But when she happened to glance at my trousers, a look of distress came over her and she murmured softly, “My Lord, you’ve wet yourself!”

As for me, I burst into sobs, saying, “I’ll never go back to school! Grandpa doesn’t know anything about the place. I hate the principal, the teachers, and the pupils. Tell me I don’t have to go back, and I’ll never leave you as long as I live!”

Drying my tears and undressing me, she said gently, “Don’t say things like that. You’ll get used to it and like it. After all, how can you stay at home when all the other boys are in school? And how will you become an officer like your grandpa if you leave school?”

I kept up my crying and my importunate complaints as she spoke soothing words to me in an attempt to alleviate my distress. However, she warned me not to let my grandfather hear me complain lest he be angry with me and look down on me. So, for the first time in my life, she turned a deaf ear to my laments.

* * *

As a way of encouraging me to persevere in my new life, my mother decided to escort me to school every morning. We would arrive there together, after which I would go into the schoolyard while she stood on the opposite sidewalk. Once inside, I would stay glued to the fence, exchanging glances and smiles with her through its iron bars as melancholy descended over my heart and angst gripped me about the neck. I loathed school and everything about it. Nevertheless, I was forced to go, and neither defiance nor tears got me anywhere. Hence, I knew for a certainty that I’d been doomed to a long imprisonment. For the first time I found myself envying adults their freedom, and housewives the luxury of staying at home.

My love for Thursdays dates back to that time. Of all the days of the week, Thursdays were my favorite. As for the other days of the week, I shrank from them, finding them heavy and tedious. Late on Friday afternoon I’d feel a depression coming on. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday would pass in weariness and boredom until, when Wednesday morning arrived, I’d start breathing more easily. Then I’d waken at dawn on Thursday and turn over under the covers in blissful delight, hardly able to contain my excitement. Consequently I excelled in Thursday’s lessons, which included nothing but memorizing passages and religion classes.

Even so, that era wasn’t without its happy memories, though at the time they appeared to me against a background of severity and harshness. One of those memories is of the way we used to buy donut-shaped loaves of bread with sesame seeds on top during recess and, if we had no salt to put on them, we would use in its place the lime that came leaching out of the courtyard walls. Our aged teacher used to like to drink a glass of licorice tea during the first period. As he drank it, he would command us to stand up and turn our backs to him for fear that some harm might come to him from our voracious eyes. He came to class one day with a sour look on his face. He said that he’d had a stomachache the night before and that he had no doubt but that one of us had stolen a glance at him as he drank his licorice. He warned us that unless we revealed the culprit’s identity, we’d all get a smack on the hand. And since we were ignorant of who the culprit was, we all got the promised smack. Our other teacher was also an elderly man. However, being a gentle soul, he never struck any of us unless he was at his wits’ end. His favorite method of getting us to be quiet and maintaining order was to frighten us with talk of the goblin that had lived since ancient times under the room’s floorboards. He would tell us that the goblin didn’t like loud ruckuses, and if things got out of control, he would crouch down and tap on the floor. Then, in a tone of meekness and dread, he would say, “Pardon them, master! They don’t realize what they’re doing! Don’t ride their backs, please, and forgive them this time!”

On the academic plane, I learned nothing whatsoever. I suppose the only thing I mastered at Roda National Primary School was the art of measuring time by watching the sunlight move down the classroom walls as I counted the seconds before the bell rang. If the teacher addressed a question to me, all it meant was that I would get so many smacks with a ruler on the back of my hand, and in the course of an entire academic year, all I memorized were a few short suras from the Qur’an that I used to hear my mother recite during her prayers. When it came time for the final exam, I earned a set of zeros that, if it had come in some context other than that scandalous report card, would have sufficed to make me a millionaire.

When my grandfather saw the report card he was furious.

“This is the result of your pampering,” he told my mother sharply. “You’ve spoiled him, Madame!”

Then, threatening to make the school principal pay the consequences, he went to meet him at the school. An hour later he returned, saying with satisfaction, “Well, sir, you’ve passed by force! And don’t you dare fail next year!”

I’d entertained the hope that in view of my failure, they might decide not to send me back to school again. So when my grandfather announced the glad tidings of this “success” of mine that he’d wrested by force from the powers that be, I felt disappointed. When the second year rolled around, it was no better than the first. In fact, my misery was intensified by a slip of the tongue that made the remainder of my days at the Roda National Primary School even more loathsome than the ones that had preceded them. One day I raised my hand to request the teacher’s permission to leave the classroom. However, instead of saying, “sir,” I called him, “Mama” by mistake!

The whole class roared with laughter. The teacher himself laughed, replying sarcastically, “Yes, mama’s boy?”

And with that, the class broke into loud guffaws all over again. Speechless and mortified, I sat there in a stupor while my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t have a single friend or companion among them, and in fact, it was during that time so long ago that I began suffering the inability to make friends. Not one of them had the least compassion for me. From that time onward they called me “Mama” until they even stopped calling me by my real name. Defeated and helpless, I avoided them, though a fury raged within me.

At the end of the year, I got another report card filled with zeroes, and this time my mother accused the school of negligence. My grandfather decided to enroll me in a public primary school, but because I’d graduated from a private school, the principal stipulated that I’d have to take an entrance examination. Shortly before the academic year was to start, my grandfather took me to the school, then waited for the results to be announced. In fact, there was nothing to wait for. My grandfather pleaded with the principal to accept me in spite of the test result, and the man wanted to oblige him in view of his advanced age and his eminent standing. Hence, he asked simply that I write my name, “Kamil Ru’ba.” However, I wrote Ru’ba incorrectly, so the man apologized, explaining that it wouldn’t be possible to accept me after all. My grandfather mocked me all the way home. Then, heaving a sigh of disgust, he said to my mother, “It’s no use sending him back to kindergarten. I’ll get him a tutor this year.”

I could hardly believe my ears. Trying to conceal my delight, I asked, “Will I stay home this year, then?”

Glowering at me with his green eyes, he said heatedly, “Yes. That ought to make your mother happy!”