Then the new plaything caught hold of me. It took hold even more firmly when I learned how to use e-mail and surf the Internet. I could follow the news, read the papers and the magazines, and look for whatever I wanted to know on one subject or another.
One glorious morning I announced, like a cock crowing, ‘News of the hour: I’ve now got my own blog!’ The boys shouted as if the team they were cheering for had scored a goal — they clapped and cheered.
‘What’s your blog called?’
‘ “Mendicant dervish.”’
‘Beautiful!’ said Nadeem.
But Nadir retorted, ‘That’s pathetic. Think of another name.’
‘Such as?’
‘ “Aziza, the sultan’s daughter,” Or,’ he added, ‘ “Princess Qatr al-Nada” — dewdrop, like the meaning of your name.’
‘ “Mendicant dervish,” ’ said Nadeem. ‘It’s beautiful — if you decide to change it, make it “I wonder”.’
‘I’ll leave it the way it is!’
Hamdiya disliked the computer. She felt it had taken Nadir away from her, then Nadeem, and then I, too, started putting in long sessions in front of it. The boys and I would often find ourselves absorbed in conversation that made her feel left out, since she didn’t understand what we were talking about. She kept saying that the computer wasted time and strained the eyes. Days went by when I didn’t enter the kitchen at all, and I noticed how tense she was when she set the table. Rather than put the plates, forks, and knives down calmly, she banged them down with a clatter loud enough to jangle my ears, even in the next room.
I resumed my quarrel with Hamdiya when Nadir applied for, and was offered, a job in Dubai. I was amazed when she rejoiced at the news. I objected. ‘You like your work,’ I said to him, ‘and you earn good wages by it.’ I tried to talk him round, but he maintained that the job that had been offered to him would afford him mobility within his field, broader experience, a bigger salary, and higher status.
He’d made up his mind, and he went abroad.
We were in touch every night by e-mail, but it seemed that Nadir had a great deal of work in hand, so his communications were brief, except on Thursdays and Fridays. He seemed to be happy with his job, and with the large salary he was earning.
Nadeem had no luck finding a job. All the architectural engineering firms gave preference to those with experience, and he couldn’t find a job that would provide him with such experience: a catch-22. He moved around from one job to another in private computer firms. He enrolled in a graduate programme, hoping that if he got a master’s degree in architecture it would improve his chances of work in his field.
The firm he had left allowed him time for his academics, but was late in paying its employees. Nadeem would receive his pay packet in the latter half of the month, or at the end of the month, or sometimes the following month. They would say they were waiting for some cheque to come through before they could pay their wages. ‘This is a small firm?’ I asked him. He said, ‘No, it’s a large firm, with hundreds of employees. The owners know we need work, and they know that the number of qualified candidates is limitless. If one of us leaves, there’s a queue of thousands of unemployed people looking to take his place. They put it bluntly: “Nobody’s forcing you to stay.” ’
The new firm he transferred to paid wages regularly, and therefore squeezed him hard, like juicing a sugar cane. He would leave the house at seven-thirty in the morning and come home at one o’clock in the morning, every day, six days a week. He would come in like a sleepwalker, eat his meal in a semi-somnolent state, then go to bed. (Had Marx been alive, he would have added a new observation regarding the surplus value produced by university-educated white-collar workers. I wonder how he would classify them: as a middle class, or a toiling workforce?)
Fridays were my only opportunity to communicate with Nadeem. We would have a leisurely breakfast and stay seated at the kitchen table, chatting and at ease. He would tell me about his co-workers and their situations, and about what he saw on the microbus he took back and forth to work. (It took him more than an hour to get to work — an hour and a quarter or an hour and a half each way.)
Months went by, and Nadeem said to me, ‘The driver used to play a recording of Qur’anic recitation. The volume was turned up high and reverberated throughout the bus, but it didn’t stop the passengers talking. They made their comments, and gossiped, and told their stories, sometimes making fun. No one tells jokes now. Lately a strange thing has come about: The driver doesn’t play recordings and none of the passengers talk — silence has fallen on the microbus, everyone is lost in his own thoughts — it’s as if a bird had landed on everyone’s head. That’s what I’ve observed on the different microbuses I take every day. But the strangest thing I’ve noticed is that if the passengers do talk — which happens only rarely now — if one person speaks and another answers, then conversation breaks out, and people talk provocatively about politics, and in stronger terms than you can imagine. Their criticism touches on everything, from the price of bread to government corruption to the gunboats moving in to strike Iraq.’
Nadir surprised us with an unannounced visit. There was a knock on the door Thursday evening, and there we found him. He had a small case in his hand, with another smaller bag slung from his shoulder. The commotion of our reunion was followed by mad excitement, as we hugged him one after another, with Hamdiya weeping, me laughing, Nadir talking, and Nadeem emitting odd sounds, so it was as if a flock of birds were fluttering and squawking and singing. Nadir announced, ‘First of all, this is one of those visits of the kind that go, “Is so-and-so with you? No? Then I’ll be on my way.” ’
‘You mean one week?’
‘Thursday, Friday, and then Saturday morning I’m off.’
‘No!’
Nadir continued, ‘The reason for this visit is Nada’s birthday. I said to myself, “This is the first birthday with me a solid working man earning a solid wage.” ’
With that he set upon me, kissed me on both cheeks and on my forehead. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said, ‘and many happy returns — you’re the best!’ He handed me the bag that had been hanging from his shoulder since he appeared on the doorstep. ‘Open it.’
I did so. I didn’t say a word, for I couldn’t have uttered a sound without shedding tears. Nadir understood me, and didn’t prolong the moment. He turned to Hamdiya. From his jacket pocket he drew a small box, opened it, and presented her with an elegant little watch. She wept some more. He said, ‘As for Nadeem, he’ll have to wait until the next visit, since my salary goes only so far. I bought two shirts, one for you and one for myself.’
Within seconds, the boys had taken off their shirts and begun taking the wrapping off the new ones, pulling out the pins and plastic collar-pieces, and undoing the buttons. Each donned his new shirt — the two garments were identical. Then Nadir announced, ‘If I don’t eat straightaway, I’m going to die and miss the chance to go out in my new shirt!’
‘Didn’t you eat on the plane?’
‘I ate, but only Hamdiya and Nada’s food can fill me up!’
The four of us stood in the kitchen, as I fixed one dish and Hamdiya another, while Nadeem made a salad, and Nadir told us his news. Then we carried the plates to the dining table. We stayed at the table talking and drinking tea until the call to prayer at dawn. Only then did we go to bed.