Where Pigeons Don't Fly (36 page)

Fahd was like a five-year-old who had become separated from his mother at a wedding, looking about in bewilderment and listening to his uncle make phone calls as he tried to get hold of a judge he knew to make their retraction official. Saeed whispered in his ear, ‘Why are you backing down so easily?'

Looking lost Fahd replied, ‘The point is to bury the dead and honour them. At least I'll clear my conscience after neglecting her in her last days.'

Saeed raised his voice. ‘But now you're neglecting her even more. You're giving up the right to take revenge on her killers.'

His hands raised in grief and helplessness, Fahd grew agitated. ‘Saeed, I'm suffering enough. My conscience is eating me alive.'

Taking his hand, Saeed led him like a blind man to the hospital mosque next to the garden and removing his sandals guided him up the three steps.

‘Pray for guidance!' he advised and went into the garden, lighting a cigarette as Fahd found a place in the far corner of the mosque beneath the tall glass window.

There was no one there except a cleaner in his yellow boiler suit, who sat at the front facing the
mihrab
absorbed in the Qur'an between his hands while Fahd prolonged his prostration, praying and invoking God. He got to his feet, eyes closed in humility and contentment and as he bent to perform the
rakaa
he saw a tiny, soft white pigeon feather on the edge of his
thaub
. He held his position, weighing up the life that was embodied by the feather. He didn't know what he had recited as he prayed; had he performed two
rakaas
or three? He sat down and asking God's forgiveness he plucked the feather from his
thaub
, moving it slowly over his faint moustache and imagining the vile pigeon from which it had fallen. He imagined the feather grumbling, muttering and rambling as it slumbered lonely and miserable on the mosque's red carpet.

 

–53 –

I
N FRONT OF A
large palace in the Ghadeer neighbourhood of North Riyadh, the white Land Cruiser stopped and four men got out. First came Abu Ayoub, who hurriedly unfolded his bundled
mashlah
, then threw it on his back, fastening the embroidered collar about his neck so that the garment hung down over his shoulders. He was followed by the other three—Ibrahim, Fahd and Yasser—and they were admitted by an Indonesian guard with a long beard like a billy goat.

The palace gardens were breathtaking, causing Fahd to look about in wonder, lost in contemplation of the large rose bushes that bordered the lawns' vast expanse. They waited in the
majlis
where an ancient Eritrean circled with cups of coffee.

Like a man signing a death warrant, Fahd took hold of the pen and began slicing over the page as if cutting into his mother's heart, his uncle and himself signing their consent to withdraw the case against the Egyptian sheikh, Mohammed Abdel Muati. Ibrahim kissed his head as the judge spoke of the importance of Qur'anic healing and the legality of beating, though not without an understanding of the limits proscribed by Islamic law. He made reference to tolerance and forgiveness in religion and prayed that the deceased might receive the mercy of God and His forgiveness, that her torment and suffering in this life might be accepted coin for her sins. Following every prayer, Yasser responded ‘Amen' with simulated sorrow,
sobbing and dabbing his eyes with the edge of his
shimagh
while with his left palm he hastily wiped his leaking nose.

Fahd recalled an absurd incident reported by the newspapers in which the relatives had relinquished their rights following the death of their son.

Family of traditional healing victim in Jeddah withdraw case; Healer freed on bail

Watan,
29 August 2006

Police sources have revealed that the family of a sick man treated by a traditional healer in Jeddah's Rehab neighbourhood, who passed away two days ago in the evening, have submitted their waiver of rights to the circuit judge of the Bureau of Investigation and Public Prosecution to be legally ratified by the Jeddah courts.

The healer, who has been released on condition he make himself available for further questioning, told police that the man he was given to heal had been possessed by
jinn
since a young age. He claimed the victim had been possessed by three female
jinn
, giving the names of two as Mabrouka and Habeesa.

Yesterday, the North Jeddah Police transferred the case against traditional healer T.H.A. (45 years), accused of the manslaughter of patient M.A.A. (27 years) from the city of Qalwa in the Makhwa District, Baha Province, to the circuit court of the Bureau of Investigation and Public Prosecution.

The healer is charged with blowing into the victim's mouth, causing his teeth to enter his throat, blocking the airway and suffocating him. The case was overseen by the Chief of the Jeddah Police, Major Saad Bin Daajam.

The incident had been promptly reported by the Head of Investigations in North Jeddah, Major Mohammed al-Khodari, and the Chief of the North Jeddah Police, Colonel Mohammed al-Malaki. Islamic Law specialists have criticised a number of traditional Qur'anic healers for undertaking cures without a proper understanding of the correct procedures.

Sheikh Radwan al-Radwan, Imam of the Ikhlas Mosque in Jeddah, has emphasised the need to give more powers to the committee made up of the Mayor's Office and the Ministry of Islamic Affairs, Religious Endowments, Proselytising and Guidance, to enable it to pursue illegal acts resulting from such circumstances.

Al-Radwan added that the profession of traditional healing has become debased, stating that he had personal knowledge of incompetent healers who had been granted licenses to practice. He remarked that when the Qur'an is recited over a victim of possession the
jinn
will speak on the victim's behalf, which can have a deleterious effect on the healer. He went on to criticise certain healers for hiring female secretaries and specialising in treating women in contravention of Islamic law and called on all traditional healing to be overseen and ratified by scholars competent in the field.

 

–54 –

T
HAT NIGHT FAHD VISITED
Lulua, and in the dining room overlooking the street he placed his head between his hands like a man coming round after a near-fatal car crash. Lulua stood before him and consoled him, stroking his hair, lighting the stove to make him a cup of tea and telling him to give thanks to God: their mother had been a believer, she had loved Fahd dearly and he had been a devoted son in turn.

Fahd recalled his mother's enjoyment when he would lay his head in her embrace while she made a show of searching for some louse lost in the wild jungle of his hair.
Everything on the top floor carries your memory: your small bedroom facing east, your prayer mat, the blue prayer robe you bulked out when you prayed, the large Japanese radio, the seven-columned oil-fired radiator by your bed, the oil pan atop it and the small bottles of mineral water surrounding it, the Rico wafers with their thin chocolate filling, the covered tub of dates, the small silver pot filled with dried figs, your cotton shirt hanging on the wardrobe door, the head covering stuffed between the radiator's columns to keep it warm and drive the cold from your head, the new curtain in the dining room, lined to hide the light from your tired eyes, your brown handbag hung from the curtain rail, the plastic box inside the bag where you stored your lumps of bitter asafoetida, the bottles of medicine for blood pressure, digestion, inflamed bowels and migraine—your Zocor, Scopan, Coli-Urinal and Panadol—everything that forced you out of your room, out of the
living room where you would stretch out your legs as you sat on the bearskin rug, the Singer sewing machine before you, whose wheel you delicately turned to patch a
thaub.

Silence filled the house while Fahd sat on a plastic chair in the kitchen remembering, his groans cutting through the awful hush.

‘Take refuge from Satan, Fahd,' said Lulua.

She offered some words of consolation as she placed a cup of tea before him, then closed the kitchen door behind her as she headed to the living room.

He felt suffocated. He carried the cup of tea over to the west-facing window and slid it back on aluminium runners. The bridge by the soaring edifice of Mamlaka Tower was lit up. He took a deep breath and wept loudly and bitterly as a black butterfly settled on the peeling paintwork of the window's metal frame. It took off and landed on the chilly aluminium runners.

Silence filled the dust-choked skies. The heat spilled over and descended on people's heads. Fahd threw his body down on a bolster and resting his elbows on his knees he knitted his hands together over his eyes and sobbed passionately.

He heard the raucous message tone from his phone.
God comfort you and grant your deceased forgiveness!
The number was unknown to him and he paid it no mind.

He switched on the air conditioner and closed the window. The black butterfly flew inside, first landing on the fabric of the lampshade in the corner then upon the table's edge by the cup of cold tea.

What a strange butterfly
, Fahd said to himself.
A butterfly dark as night. I remember reading once that the souls of the departed become black butterflies, roving about. Are you my mother? Come here
my darling one, light upon my heart, or rather, light upon my eyelash and tell me how it happened, how they stopped your heart, how they laughed, the Egyptian, my uncle and my trickster cousin, as the heat began to trouble you and you felt the air about you drain away. You raised the hem of your
thaub
and the Egyptian laughed, saying, ‘This is what I want!' My uncle laughed, certain that the hands that raised the
thaub
were those of the
jinn
, for you no longer counted for anything. Here, come closer, Mother; tell me all that happened …'

When his hand approached it, the black butterfly flew to a small bookcase by the door. Would it make its way inside a book and re-emerge as Soha?

Just think, Mother, what kind of wasteland we're living in. A few days ago the Shura Council discussed setting limits on the beating allowed in traditional healing. As easily as that! In other words, it admitted that the beating itself was legal. Just two years ago the Council turned the world on its head when a member, on a whim, proposed a vote on whether to debate a matter so trivial it never deserved debate in the first place: should the Shura Council debate the matter of women drivers, or should it not? Those religious scholars approved beating, which is forbidden by the laws of every land and religion in the world, and because of that your slender, pure body deserved to be flogged to death to exorcise a
jinn!
Come here, Mother, don't fly too far. The doors and windows are sealed shut. Come here. Don't go into the book, I want to talk to you, to tell you of my pain.

This strange country on whose soil we live in fear, at home and in the street, at work and in the car, this strange country, where we never wake without a tremor in our hands or our skin crawling: it ate your heart. It tossed you in the morgue. Wasn't there something a few days back about an African witch who rode a broomstick black and naked and flew from the second floor to the fourth a Medinan apartment block? Our newspapers printed the story—our glorious press—as if
to lend credence to the statements of those moral guardians, the men of the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, who saw witches flying through the air.

At times, Mother, I feel that I am not in the real world, but in a dream or film. I sense some legendary creature seated in the heights, winding the reel of some epic movie, enjoying himself at first, then roaring with laughter and thinking how, when the reel is spent, he will throw it in the bin and go on his way, while we hop about like puppies dumped in deep trenches filled with filth, while in the distance the sound of a vast tractor draws nearer, pushing the dirt to send it heaping over us.

Absent-mindedly he reached out to the cup of cold tea and the black butterfly fluttered abruptly from on top of the bookcase and clung to the mirror. It reminded him of
King of the Butterflies
, a story he had bought with his father at Jarir Bookstore in Ulaya years before. It told of the ruler of the butterflies who flew from his kingdom to find work for his young butterflies and caterpillars. He alighted on a window at the Fara Palace and was just peeping inside when the heavens thundered and torrential rain poured down. Before the servant could close the window he nipped in. He flew to the bedroom and there he found eternal love. In the mirror he saw a brightly coloured butterfly queen, looking much like himself but slightly smaller. Every time he approached her, she drew closer, too. She was his reflection, no more, and when a sudden bolt of lightening and roar of thunder shattered the mirror, the beautiful queen fled. Downcast, the butterfly king returned and told his subjects, who became convinced that the lightning, that bright light, had swallowed up their queen, and from that day forward butterflies have fluttered around any light they found.

Are you searching for the king who flew from you, my mother, my queen? Is it the fate of kings to hunt for that which might hold their kingdoms firm, until like every king in the world before them, they are swallowed by a light that becomes a burning, all-consuming fire?

In the days that followed Fahd would dwell on that night, the night in which his mother slept in the morgue.

As he lay in bed he saw black butterflies flying around him and after rising to drink cold water from the fridge he dozed and saw himself in a dream, asleep, as ants crawled over his body and face, invaded his ears and mouth, tramped over his closed eyelids until his skin shuddered. He saw himself awake in terror and turn over on his right side. Just before dawn warplanes circled above Mamlaka Tower, directing their bombs and cannon fire towards their little building. As the neighbours fled into the street he searched the roof for Lulua. There was a grey pigeon there, barely able to leave the ground, just sprinting about on scarlet legs. He flicked his hand towards him to make him fly before he could leave a feather on the roof or on his
thaub
.