He remembered an old folk story from Buraida that he had heard as a child, about a young carpenter whose mother lived with him in a house with a yard where a large thorn tree rested against the top of the wall. The young carpenter sat in its shade all day making doors and windows, until his mother grew sick of his constant presence, which prevented her from meeting her lover and being alone with him. She wracked her brains for a way to make her son go to work outside the house. One day she summoned up her old woman’s cunning and came up to him, mumbling and mortified, to complain that the birds in the thorn tree were watching her naked and that the only way to get rid of these peeping fowl was to cut down the tree. She got her wish and her son lost his cool shade. He left to work beneath a distant tree and she, free of his constant company at home, could have her lover visit whenever she wanted.
— 27 —
AFTER PASSING GHABEERA ON Manfouha’s main road, Yasser stopped the car outside a dilapidated old building below which were shops for pots and pans and a cheap goods emporia (Everything for 2 Riyals). He adjusted his spectacles in order to dial the Egyptian sheikh’s number.
‘Peace be upon you, Sheikh Mohammed.’
In stately tones Sheikh Mohammed Abdel Muati informed him that he would be down in a few minutes. Yasser stared out at the road ahead: the female street sellers, the Egyptian women in their hijabs out shopping on the high street, two Egyptian youths waiting outside a stall selling sugar cane juice, municipal buses parked by the roadside, Bangladeshi labourers carrying buckets full of water and car-washing gear on their shoulders, Pakistanis in Punjabi dress driving their motorcycles next to the kerb, Indians, Afghans and children queuing outside the Temees Afghan bakery on the other side of the street, an old beggarwoman, black, hunchbacked and tapping on his car window. Yasser pointed his thumb to the sky and his lips moved: ‘God is generous.’
There was a tap at his other window and he swung round in irritation only to find the Egyptian sheikh smiling at him. His face was round and pink, rimmed by a reddish beard, a dark prayer-bruise on his forehead. He wore a pristine and well-pressed white ghatra, slightly raised to reveal a sieve-like string prayer cap, while his collar hung open where he had forgotten to button up his thaub. This he now did as the car left Old Manfouha for Ulaya and ‘the Jordanian woman’s place’ as Yasser called the house of his father’s third wife.
The Egyptian was talking about corruption in Manfouha and the Bangladeshis who traded in alcohol, prostitution and other banned commodities.
‘God suffices me and is my best provider!’ he exclaimed, combing his fingers through his beard while Yasser expressed his agreement. Then he changed the subject and asked if Abu Ayoub was well. Almost playfully he said, ‘Wouldn’t it be better if we found him a jolly young Egyptian girl, Sheikh Yasser? A real salt of the earth type, instead of the hassle and problems of a sick woman who needs her kids, not a husband.’
Yasser nodded, ‘Just as you say, sheikh.’
At home, Lulua was in the dining room with the green bolsters, changing the foam mattress for her sick mother, while Soha walked slowly and listlessly to the kitchen and from there to the bedroom, where she put on a long-sleeved shirt and a black headscarf. Then she wrapped herself in a blue, spotted prayer robe and faced towards the qibla, raising hands tattooed with henna and imploring her Lord to treat her kindly or take her to the side of Abu Fahd, who had left one morning never to return. Whenever she thought of Suleiman and their outings in the Riyadh night a tear sprang to her eye and a sob grumbled in her little chest.
The steel gate at the bottom of the stairs creaked and the sound of the Abu Ayoub’s coughing and incantations grew louder as he mounted the stairs, a plastic gallon jug of zamzam water in his hand, which he set down by the entrance to the kitchen from which wafted the smell of fried eggs.
‘This zamzam water’s been blessed,’ he said to Lulua.
She poured a glass and handed it to her mother, who staggered towards the dining room. Minutes later the doorbell rang and Sheikh Mohammed Abdel Muati entered accompanied by Yasser. The pair of them waited in the men’s majlis for the five minutes Soha needed to dress herself in her prayer robe, over which Abu Ayoub placed her black abaya.
The Egyptian sheikh sat facing her, reassuring her that God had great compassion for His servants and that He, praised be His name, would cure her of what ailed her. From time to time he tugged at his white ghatra as it slipped backwards. Then he approached her, and laying his heavy hand upon her head, began to recite surat al-najm—‘ “By the Star when it goes down, your Companion is neither astray nor is he misled …” ’—first chanting, then muttering, then reciting in his head and blowing so hard that her niqab almost flew off.
Soha felt no relief. She sighed to herself, resisting the rough hand that weighed upon her. It was heavy and his breath stank of rotten eggs, but for twenty minutes she kept her composure until he mixed some oil with caraway seed, stirring them together with his thick thumb. He left, having first prayed for her speedy recovery and told her that to show resistance and steadfastness in the face of God’s test made amends for any sin committed by man.
Part 4. The elephant’s last dance
— 28 —
TWO GUARDS, ONE BALD, the other short and slender, both wearing the uniform of a private security firm, stood outside Entrance Three of Le Mall inspecting the men and women entering the mall complex through the sliding glass doors. Outside, Fahd reduced speed but instead of turning left at the roundabout by the entrance he continued along beside the wall of Ibn Khaldoun School, then stopped and called Tarfah’s mobile. Tarfah, wandering around a shop next to Entrance Three and exchanging a pair of earrings, suggested that he circle the roundabout and stop directly outside the doors. She had taken precautions and entered via Entrance Two on King Abdul Aziz Road and the guards here wouldn’t be the same.
Tarfah, or Scarlet — the name she used in the message boards of Kanoun’s art page — had got to know him two years before but neither had thought of getting any more intimate than interactions on the site’s discussion threads, emails or Messenger.
A phone call had never been an option, despite Scarlet being an active member of the site and her many charming contributions and astute observations. Fahd had even sent her a private message when she first registered, suggesting she change the signature line that appeared at the bottom of her posts—Suwaidi and Falluja are the two eyes in the face of terrorism—and explaining that the website was an art forum and did not permit discussions of security issues and politics. Despite all this irregular correspondence they had never held a conversation until the night he found a request from her to be added to his Messenger contacts. He consented and in the excitement of their late-night exchange she had sent him a mobile phone icon. He paused for a few seconds, unsure whether to write his number.
Forget it! Don’t bother! She wrote, but she had him hooked. He sent the number only for her to respond with a winking smiley.