One evening, when the uncle was with his first wife, Umm Yasser, Saeed called Fahd up to invite him out to Yamama College.
‘We’ll catch a play and get a break from studying.’
Fahd agreed and told him that he would wait at Tareeqati Café, to avoid the possibility of his uncle surprising him outside the door as he got into Saeed’s car. He had no desire to bring the man’s rage and ranting down on his mother. When it was time for the sunset prayer he put his shimagh over his shoulder, told her he was going out and hurried off.
Saeed was sitting in his car outside the café. Before getting in Fahd motioned with his hand to say that he would fetch some coffee. Saeed nodded. When Fahd pushed the glass door he found that it was locked. He peered inside where the dim lights glowed but saw no one. He rapped his knuckle against the glass. Saeed got his attention with a soft honk of the horn and held his hand in front of his mouth like a megaphone, indicating that it was a prayer time. Inside the café a little sign dangled down above the door: Closed for Prayer.
Fahd got in and Saeed told him that he had been to the college the evening before and there were cafés and restaurants by the main entrance. They set off towards Qaseem Road and as they approached Quwa al-Amn Bridge, Saeed moved to the right lane and turned left, heading back to Riyadh on the service road. At the corner of the college’s outer wall he turned right and they passed through the northern gate, finding a parking space some distance from the main building. It was still early but they walked until they had almost crossed the courtyard in front of the entrance.
‘Some coffee or tea?’ Saeed asked.
‘Ummm … There’s a poetry evening that should be wrapping up now. Let’s go and watch some.’
‘Fahd, I don’t feel like modern poetry, and anyway I don’t understand any of it.’
‘Fine, we’ll just take a look. It’s still half an hour till the play. Enough time to get a tea or coffee. What do you say?’
‘OK.’
They entered the half-full auditorium, found a place in the centre and quietly sat down. In front of them were four bearded young men. One had long hair that flopped down over his shoulders despite being covered by a shimagh, while in the front row the other three sat wearing brown mashlahs.
‘I want to try and understand this,’ whispered Saeed.
‘Concentrate and you will.’
The words were not difficult, emerging slowly, precisely and rhythmically from the mouth of a poet in his sixties who waved his right hand as he looked out at the audience through his spectacles, his intonation staccato as he pressed on the words to mould and shape them. After him there was a younger poet who recalled his time in prison and coming home a stranger, the kisses of his friends and girlfriends …
‘Girlfriends? What? The kisses of his girlfriends! In front of these people, in a city like Riyadh?’ It was the bearded man in the brown mashlah, rolling his eyes so the whites showed as he tried to interrupt the poet. ‘This is not permitted. This is promoting disgusting behaviour!’
But the audience were applauding the poet enthusiastically and the extremist began muttering, ‘God suffices me and is my best provider. God suffices me and is my best provider,’ as one of the others, a sparsely bearded teenager, shouted, ‘Peace be upon you!’ into a mobile phone in an attempt to create a distraction.
Fahd gave Saeed a kick and gestured towards them: ‘They’re going to wreck the show. Trust me.’
Saeed drew closer and whispered with bitter sarcasm, ‘I’d be worried if they hadn’t already wrecked the country a long time ago.’
The men in the dark brown mashlahs, some of them with their shimaghs pulled back to leave their skull-caps half exposed, were being joined at regular intervals by groups of teenagers with shaven temples, who took their heads and kissed them to break people’s concentration on the poets and draw attention to themselves.
As soon as the reading came to an end they tried to mount the stage and hand out advice to what they saw as the sinning, misguided poets and guide them to the path of righteousness. But the security guards in their sky blue uniforms smoothly blocked their way, asking them to remain calm while the poets were led off backstage, and so the event ended peacefully.
Fahd left the auditorium followed by Saeed and got a plain, black coffee, while Saeed had tea. They found an empty table and sat down, parking their paper cups. The smell of fried chips filled the air. By the entrance the young extremists huddled around the men in mashlahs.
‘Don’t they look like football players gathered around the coach at half-time?’ Saeed said.
‘Well they’re certainly playing with the country. I get the feeling we’ll have problems tonight.’
Squeezing a Lipton teabag around his spoon, Saeed said casually, ‘No. They’re all talk. Trust me.’
‘You’re wrong, Saeed. That’s what you think.’
‘After all the terrorism they’ve lost their hold over people.’
A cold northerly breeze had made the coffee cool quickly, though Fahd drank black Americanos no matter how cold. He took a short sip: ‘Believe me, they’re not done yet. They’re like locusts. We’ve got them at school, my friend: they lure the students into the Islamic Awareness Society or the Islamic Club.’
Crushing the paper cup powerfully with his hand, Saeed whispered, ‘OK, then, do you know what those two groups are?’
‘They’re terrorists.’
Saeed laughed and winked. ‘Don’t turn into a takfeeri and declare them all infidels! Islamic Awareness is the Muslim Brotherhood and the Club is the Surour Group.’
‘Surour my arse. Listen Saeed, that lot are the furthest thing from happy and carefree. They’re always scowling. It’s like the whole world is wrong and they’re the only ones who are right.’
‘No. Listen here Fahd: it’s nothing to do with surour, the word for happiness. I’ve read a lot about them online. They’re called Surourists after Mohammed Surour Zein al-Abedeen from the Syrian Muslim Brotherhood. He fled Syria and came to Saudi Arabia and preached among you lot in Buraida until he got together a group of young acolytes. They became teachers and sheikhs and that’s how a number of tributary organisations branched off, known as the secondary Surourist parties. They’ve split from the Muslim Brotherhood; there’s disagreement between the two, I mean.’
‘I don’t think these types have real disagreements; they’re all cut from the same cloth.’
‘On the contrary. They get into serious quarrels and they fight dirty. Take the Islamic Awareness Society and the Islamic Club at schooclass="underline" if you look closer you’ll find there’s a hidden conflict between the two, and sometimes it comes out into the open. The students think that every teacher is trying to increase the number of students in his club, but in reality he’s recruiting for the parties that lie behind them.’
Saeed jumped to his feet. ‘All the seats will be taken.’
Fahd hurried after him and the pair entered the huge theatre. The audience had crowded towards the stage and they could only find space in the high seats at the back.
The lights dimmed and the stage curtain parted to reveal a white plastic board displaying the name of the theatre along with those of the author, actors and playwright to a subdued musical accompaniment. Suddenly, sandals began to fly through the void of the hall, sandals that emerged from the darkness and clattered against the illuminated whiteboard, followed by many more shoes, until a figure in the shadows stood up and shouted, ‘Stop up the pipes of Satan! This is not permitted.’