Days of Ignorance (2 page)

Damn!

She’d even had the audacity to inform his father! And why not? He loved her. He really did love her. He loved her in a way that he, her brother, couldn’t understand. He couldn’t stand it, and he suspected that his father ‘understood’ the situation. ‘Understanding’ – that beloved word of his!

‘Try to understand your sister’s situation, Hashem, and accept her the way she is. I know my daughter, so you should try to know your sister. Don’t be her enemy just because you’re a man and she’s a woman. Why do you think your being a man means you have to harass her?’

His sister, his sister, his sister! Did he have to have a sister? A woman who was neither his mother nor his lover? A woman he could neither trust nor amuse himself with? A woman his father refused to give him the authority over to keep her from doing herself harm? His father was depriving him of the authority to protect her from what he knew of the world around him. Here was a woman whose mistakes he was supposed to understand and tolerate no matter what. He was supposed to watch her fall, then encourage her to get up again. What kind of a man was his father, anyway? How could he stand knowing that his only daughter was in a relationship with a man? And what man? What man? He’d never be able to hold his head up again. He’d never be able to do that unless he did something to stop them.

God damn her, and God damn him. God damn her whole kind. And the animal, I suppose he can’t believe his good luck.

Sitteen Street

Why wasn’t time passing?!

Bleep, bleep, bleep.

The speeding alarm was going off. He looked at the alarm light out of the corner of his eye, thinking: Why can’t ordinary cars go 500 km/hr?

That would be great. Nobody would have to suffer. People would die just like that. Imagine just one car going 500 km/hr and crashing into another one. B-o-o-o-o-o-m! Certain death. But never mind. Even 200 km/hr isn’t bad!

Y-e-a-h . . .

If only he could climb the age ladder at that speed so that the age difference between them would be on his side, so that, if even just once, he could be the eldest. If only . . . But ‘if only’ wasn’t going to do any good now. His mother had made a mistake by having her so many years before she’d had him. That’s right, she’d made a mistake. When he told her this, she’d laughed and said, ‘I saved the best till last!’

She was older than he was, but it wasn’t often that she’d shouted in his face, and never once had she scolded him. Not even when she’d found him hunting pigeons on the roof of their house. She’d gotten a sad look on her face that day when she saw a slingshot in his hand and a wounded pigeon nearby. She’d said, ‘Medina is a sanctuary, Hashem. Hunting its pigeons isn’t allowed.’

‘You think I’m the only one in the whole city who hunts them? All the kids hunt them and raise them.’

‘All right, then. Buy yourself a couple of pairs from the pigeon market. Then you won’t need to hunt them.’

‘Why should I buy them when the sky is full of them?’

Before leaving, she looked at him with a perplexed half-smile on her face and said, ‘It’s wrong for you to hunt them, Hashem, when we live so close to the holy precincts.’

Then she went downstairs. That had happened a long time ago. He’d been a young boy at the time. She would speak to him every now and then, the way she did about the pigeons, then go her way. He’d realized early on that she was unimpressed with a lot of the things he did. She would often complain about his behavior to their mother. But their mother would just shut her up, saying, ‘Let him do whatever he wants.’

So she’d grudgingly let him be. Now, too, he was going to do whatever he wanted, and he wasn’t going to let
her
be. Nor would his mother say, ‘Let her do whatever she wants.’ No. She’d never said it in the past, and she wasn’t going to say it now. Instead she’d say, ‘Do whatever you want. Defend your honor!’

She’d say a lot of things. But he needed to finish the job first, then go back to her. He wouldn’t talk to her about the pigeons. He’d search Leen’s room again, and he’d take what he hadn’t taken the first time. His father wasn’t going to stand between them this time, and if he tried to, he wasn’t going to keep his mouth shut. His father didn’t realize what kind of a predicament his ‘understanding’ might land them in. He hadn’t experienced what his son had, and he didn’t know what his son did. His good-hearted father had lived his youth without going through anything to speak of. What did his father know about women and their minds? How was he supposed to know he couldn’t trust a woman no matter how mature she happened to be? After all, a single word might numb her mind and wipe it out as though it had never existed.

Airport Road

He smiled to himself. His father could never imagine how many women he’d known. He’d been busy with them for years. God damn them. What would life be like if God hadn’t made them? How had his life gotten so confused now because He’d made them? If only He’d created them without their having anything to do with anybody. If only He’d made it so that they weren’t mothers, sisters or wives. If only He’d made them for nothing but enjoyment!

W-o-o-o-o-o-w.

If that were the case, he would only use his car for the sake of being with a woman. The two of them would have a good time for a while, then go their separate ways without a care. He’d never have to worry about his sister, wondering where she’d gone, who she’d gone to see, who she’d gone with, when she’d gone, or how she’d gone.

Ugh . . .

His sister! His sister, who wanted the . . . to lay her . . .

The animal. Do you suppose he’s done it? No . . .!!

C – r – a – s – h!

‘God damn you. Where did
you
come from?’

Be careful, Hashem. Be careful! You nearly died just now because you were thinking about that animal. But he’s the one who ought to die, not you!

He slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. He picked up a bottle and began wiping his face with water from it before taking a drink. He took a deep breath. He looked around for a while, pondering the stores along the right side of Airport Road. As he pulled out onto the road again, he could see he needed to leave these thoughts aside. If he went on thinking this way, he’d never do anything. He’d never do what he had in mind.

He needed to think about other things that didn’t make him so tense. He turned in to the Falah Station and pulled up in front of the gas pump. He asked the attendant to fill up the tank. Neither of them smiled. Nobody smiled at anybody. Everybody looked glum. He saw his furrowed brow in the rear-view mirror, but it didn’t occur to him to soften his facial expression. The sun’s glaring rays reflected harshly off the metal of the cars passing by. The air around him was heavy with the smell of gasoline.

He gazed at his car’s leather interior. He remembered the first time he’d touched it. When had that been? At least two years earlier. That’s right. He’d been happy as he inspected it. As he ran his hands over one part after another, a vague sense of exhilaration had come over him. Before that he’d had a used Caprice. He hadn’t been happy with it. But he hadn’t been miserable with it either. He just wished he had a big fancy car like lots of other guys he knew. For a long time he’d dreamed of having a Porsche. But that would be a luxury he couldn’t come by easily. At other times he’d dreamed of having a yellow Ferrari that would catch people’s eye. But we don’t always get the things we dream of. He cursed high school, which hadn’t been what he’d hoped for, and his silly diploma. Even more, he cursed Fortune for not making his father rich. And now he was leaving the gas station cursing his sister and the moment he’d become a brother.

He’s laid her. The animal’s laid her! He’s laid her.

And he? How had he failed to notice? He’d been busy laying other women.

‘What goes around comes around, Hashem. You’ve got a sister, and some day you’ll be sorry.’

That was what Sahar had said one evening before getting out of his car for the last time some years earlier. He’d heard a tearful tremor in her voice, but he hadn’t done anything. Everything she’d done, she’d done of her own free will. He hadn’t forced her to do anything. He hadn’t promised her anything. He’d thought he was in love with her, but as soon as the blood flowed between her thighs, everything was over. The thrill of getting to know her was gone. The longing to touch her was gone. Even the pleasure of looking at her pretty face was gone. What he’d been looking for or expecting wasn’t there anymore. He kept thinking to himself:
She’s easy, easy. She opened her door too quickly.
He hadn’t been able to tell her that he’d been ridden with misgivings, just the way he’d ridden her, because she hadn’t resisted long enough, because she’d opened the door to her house, saying, ‘Come on in. Nobody’s home.’

When, the first time, he’d tried to kiss her, she hadn’t gotten angry. When, the second time, he’d reached out to touch her, she’d smiled. And by their third meeting, she was moaning under him with a strange expression on her face that almost made her ugly. But he hadn’t been concerned about that, since it hadn’t been important for her to be pretty at that moment.

His relationship with her hadn’t lasted long. Just a few weeks. Then it had all been over. He’d met her for the last time in response to her insistent pleading. She looked as though she’d just recovered from some protracted illness. Her eyes were sunken, her face was ashen, and she wasn’t pretty anymore. But he hadn’t wanted to think about what or who had changed. For a long time she didn’t say a word. But it didn’t occur to him to break her silence with a passing question about her, or about anything else for that matter. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, waiting for her to say something, anything. But she didn’t say a word. She just cried. Then she blurted out those words of hers: ‘What goes around comes around,’ and hurriedly got out of the car. He never heard about her again. He never saw her. He didn’t even try to ask about her. And why would he have tried? She wasn’t the way she’d been before. She wasn’t the rowdy girl he’d met one evening on Quba’ al-Nazil Street after just two telephone conversations.

She’d said, ‘I’ll wait for you on the sidewalk on the right side of the street, across from the Ahli Bank. I’ll be carrying a small white purse.’

When she settled onto the seat next to him, he’d begun to tremble. It was his first time. He’d been afraid she would notice how flustered he was. He squeezed the steering wheel as hard as he could. In the meantime, he took another look at the white purse without saying a word, waiting for her to say something.

‘If you aren’t going to say hello for my sake, say it for God’s sake at least, you . . .!’

He breathed a sigh of relief. The purse was white, and this was her voice.
Her
voice. That’s right, hers. Even so, his stomach started doing flip flops. By this time they’d left Quba’ al-Nazil Street and were headed up the Safiya Bridge, and he was afraid his insides would give out on him.

God damn streets that don’t have any public bathrooms!

When the car headed down the bridge in the direction of al-’Awali, he pulled over, making some excuse he couldn’t remember anymore. Then he ran off in search of somewhere he could do what he needed to do. No sooner had he returned than half his fears had been allayed. She was still waiting for him. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he. She was still breathing calmly and deeply. He thought to himself: Maybe she’s from the secret police. But he resisted the silly idea. Maybe she’d noticed how flustered he was. Then she uncovered her face, turned to him calmly and said, ‘Damn you. So all you think of when you’re with me is going to the bathroom?’

He laughed. That was just what he’d needed to calm him down: laughter. He pulled over again, still laughing. Then he said, ‘Would you believe I thought you were with the secret police?’

She started with fright. ‘My God, what a horrible thing to think! Lord, keep them in their places! What on earth gave you an idea like that?’

He laughed again. Then they took off. He drove her all over the city that day. He sped like crazy with her sitting beside him, talking her head off and laughing as though she’d known him for years. He took her to Sultana Street, where they drove up and down. She told him how much she hated the traffic light in front of Amer’s Furniture Store.

‘You nearly have a heart attack waiting for it to turn green,’ she quipped.

Then they took off for Al Jamiat Road, where they drove slowly along the wall of the King Abdulaziz University. Its paint was peeling off, and its color had faded from having the sun beat down on it for so long. She told him her dream was to finish high school as fast as she could so that she could go to the university. There was a sweet tone in her voice. He looked at her thoughtfully, and was startled to see how pretty she looked when she spoke with such joyful abandon. Her eyebrows were fine and arched. Her eyes were small, but they were captivating when she turned suddenly or looked down, showing her thick eyelashes. She didn’t have a beautiful nose, but it seemed to fit her face. As for her lips, they were tantalizingly full. Above them there was a slight moustache, and he remembered being bothered that day by her lack of concern to get rid of it. As he sat there looking at her, he didn’t know how he felt about her.

Had he loved her? Love wasn’t something he’d been looking for at the time. And he wasn’t looking for it now, either. He’d often wondered whether he would ever love a woman. Besides, what was love? Why was it that when he asked this question, he found no answer? And why did it bother him – sometimes, at least – not to find an answer? Of all the women who’d passed through his life, which of them had he loved, if even just a bit? All the women he’d known – the tall ones and the short ones, the thin ones and the fat ones, the shy ones and the forward ones, the ones looking for love and the ones just looking for a good time – all of them had come and gone without pain, regret, or . . . hope. He’d forgotten a lot of them. They’d fallen through the cracks in his memory. So why hadn’t he forgotten Sahar? Maybe it was because a man doesn’t forget his first time, or his first woman. He hadn’t forgotten her. But afterwards he’d decided to be careful, and only to go after the ones who were just looking for a good time, especially married women, since none of them demanded any love and devotion. With them he could be sure there wouldn’t be any headaches. They knew what they wanted, and what he wanted. So as soon as boredom set in, the party would break up and it would be, ‘So long, have a nice life.’