In Praise of Hatred (23 page)

Anderson proposed to include Abdullah in a spy ring, and granted him the prerogative of choosing the places where he wanted to work – anywhere from Moscow to Riyadh. He brought out a dossier of 180 pages and allowed Abdullah to examine it, whereupon he found his entire life story before him. Anderson was not pleased by Abdullah’s sardonic tone when he laughed and suggested that Anderson sell him the dossier to help him in writing his memoirs. Threatening to return to Riyadh immediately and seek out other partners, Abdullah got up angrily and curtly informed Anderson that he was a politician not a mercenary, and one convinced of the necessity of killing unbelievers and driving them out of Afghanistan. He mocked the American’s depth of analysis; from the way Anderson spoke about those matters, they might as well have been ordering a quick breakfast in a diner. Abdullah took his leave abruptly, without asking permission. Anderson watched him from the window of the apartment as Abdullah put his hands in his pockets, whistling like any carefree man, and looking in shop windows.

Abdullah waited in a deserted restaurant for his former student Saleh, whom he had mentored in the Communist Party. He had nominated him for several successive posts, until Saleh had become an important man in his own right and tried to convince the Americans to increase the level of their diplomatic representation in Aden. Once the two were sitting together, Abdullah quietly asked, ‘Why have you betrayed me?’ He pushed away Saleh’s glass of whisky and soda, and asked for a portion of chicken and a plate of Russian salad. Saleh cleared his throat awkwardly and then launched into a confused tale of dispute within the Party. Abdullah ate calmly and thought about what a good student Saleh had been, as he was drowned in a torrent of the other’s words. Abdullah’s silence was unbroken until Saleh surprised him with an invitation from his old comrades to return to Yemen. He took out a letter signed by the head of the Yemeni Mukhabarat, who had shared his room in Moscow for four years. He took hold of the letter and calmly tore it up; then he rose to his feet and spat in Saleh’s face. Abdullah left swiftly, leaving his old pupil in utter disbelief at the transformation of the teacher who had taught him the art of diplomacy, and how to smile to the enemy’s face while searching his eyes for his weakness.

Saleh wiped the spittle away and finished drinking his whisky, as if what had just happened was an old folk tradition of farewell in some distant country. He regretted telling Aden of their meeting, blamed himself, and remembered the sweetest moments of his life, when Abdullah spoke to him for the first time at one of the Communist Party meetings. Immediately, he could see his talents as a statesman who had perfected demagoguery and a certain economy with the truth. Saleh came out of the restaurant feeling depressed. He left his car behind and walked absently along the crowded streets, recalling discussions which used to carry on till morning. His teacher’s contempt pained him. He remembered when Abdullah sent him to study law at the University of Damascus, bearing enthusiastic letters of recommendation to Syrian officials. Saleh played backgammon with them and taught them the basics of chewing
gat
. He joined the staff of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, demonstrating to all his talents. When he and Abdullah were later walking alone in the streets of Aden, they would recall their nights in Damascus, when Abdullah would arrive as a surprise guest for a day or two, and they would escape like two impish young men into the alleys of Bab Al Tuma, taking note of the Levantines’
politesse
in evading difficult questions. Saleh felt choked up. He resolved the matter by delivering a long report in which he advised Abdullah’s assassination, because he had sold Communist Party secrets to the Americans in exchange for a steady supply of arms to the Arab fighters in Afghanistan so they could overthrow the Soviet-backed government.

When Abdullah returned to his hotel late that evening, he found Philip Anderson waiting for him. They embarked on a deep mutual understanding which turned to friendship; this would later cost Anderson all his ambitions for advancement through the upper echelons of the CIA. The pair stayed up till morning, outlining the necessities for supporting the mujahideen. Anderson understood the need for military intelligence and hardware. Abdullah spent four days in Washington to ensure that Philip recognized his dedication. He respected Anderson for his precision, his ideas, his elegance, his wide-ranging knowledge, and his passion for antiquities.

Abdullah was not surprised when he found Safaa waiting for him at the airport with her driver and his children, who noisily asked him for presents. He took her hand in the car and desire coursed through their blood. From his pulse, she felt that everything was fine. That night, Safaa didn’t take long to convince him to let her travel to Aleppo to give birth to her baby there.

*   *   *

We had needed Safaa so much. She was as welcome as a cool breeze in the long, scorching heat; she was laughing, warm, engaging as she swapped reminiscences with us. Radwan observed everything from the threshold of his room, waiting for a question from her which wasn’t long in coming. She saw the sad smile of an embalmed man, barely recognizable. When she saw Khalil lying on the hastily prepared bed, it seemed to her surreal – our house had become a nursing home and the dead left it in coffins. She didn’t need long to understand everything. She lost hope that the situation might be less grave than it first appeared when she saw Marwa celebrating her chains, waiting for her butterflies to rise up from their torpor and liberate her, as she said sarcastically when showing off her drawings full of glowing colours. We all shared Safaa after she felt our isolation from each other. She drank tea with Khalil and Radwan in their room; we heard laughter and the sound of Radwan singing, which we hadn’t heard for some time. He regained his joy; the fool returned, who loved playing, making perfumes and composing odes in a heroic attempt to leave something behind which might immortalize him – after being emasculated by life in a house of women whom he led on their few, repetitive walks. They were ladies, and he was sometimes a servant, sometimes a family member. Safaa sensed his regret at having wasted his life with us, but despite repeatedly gathering his possessions in a bundle and leaving without even saying goodbye, he had always returned sheepishly after a day or two.

It is difficult to be alone – for solitude to be a never-ending fate marking you like a tattoo. With Zahra’s care and Safaa’s presence, Radwan was made very happy and he returned shyly to sharing our meals, filled with hope for a proper old age. Safaa didn’t succeed in getting Marwa to sit with us, however, and Maryam’s heartfelt tears as she implored Marwa to forgive our cruelty were of no use. Marwa and I had exchanged our roles in hatred, which added a piquancy to her glances at me and Maryam, who now seemed like my grandmother. She lost the gleam of a woman who hadn’t celebrated her fiftieth birthday yet, and had never blown out a candle in her life. Her bottom grew fatter and her anxiety ended; she was relaxed after bouts of nerves which had almost led to madness, when she used to go out into the courtyard at night and doze on the large cane chair. She hated her bed; it distressed her with dreams that kept her awake. The Samarkandi’s son returned as a distant memory, with his quiet smile and his scent. His image mixed with those of other men; I thought Radwan was among them – Radwan standing in front of the door to his room at night listening to the city’s sounds and smiling; or, on one occasion, undressing to perform his ritual ablutions and exposing his sexual parts which Maryam saw as they dangled and proclaimed his inactive virility. She was furious – she couldn’t move, or he would discover her presence. She was overcome with confusion as for the only time in her life she watched a man wash his body. He celebrated his body with his fingers and smiled.

It was a critical year, in which we saw Maryam pray for God’s forgiveness as she begged for the death of her desires. She grew dizzy when she wondered, for a moment, why she hadn’t married and immersed herself in pleasure – but at a glance from us she soon regained her senses and thanked God she had never tasted that murderous need for men which transformed girls from good families into shameless whores. Her conversations were tedious for Safaa, but Safaa bore them out of love and respect for an older sister who had begun to behave like a mother to all the family. Like a grandmother, Maryam destroyed her own dreams; she began to resemble a snail with its calm, submissive slide.

Safaa spent a night in my room, and her affection made me very happy. My equilibrium was restored; we spoke like friends and I didn’t object when she opened my wardrobe, reproached me for neglecting my body and tossed aside my coarse clothes which looked like they belonged to Maryam. Out of her bag she took two glass bottles of perfume which I kept but didn’t use for a long time. I asked her about Abdullah and she replied tersely. She had returned to me, and I gradually came to comprehend my anxiety, and the fear of being arrested which had clung to me for weeks but now no longer – as if I no longer cared after the news of how thousands of our young men had been tortured, suffering broken limbs and skulls, death, exile to unknown destinations. I had an equal chance of death or life. Safaa possessed a strange power; I wasn’t aware how much it helped me to master myself and my anxiety, and my misgivings disappeared.

My hatred only increased for the death squad soldiers, vain as painted peacocks. One day I saw a large military lorry crossing Baron Street with six bodies of our mujahideen on display. A soldier smiled and pointed to the lifeless eyes. Behind them, a Soviet-made armoured vehicle dragged a corpse bound with steel cables; it was being torn up by the rough asphalt, while the driver joked with his friend, relaxed and unafraid of any sudden gunfire. They were assured of their victory and our defeat. Their movements through the city grew more confident, more light-hearted, as they felt that they had been saved from the death that had been looming over them, making them afraid that bullets and shrouds would pour down along with the rain.

Marwa grew quiet; she returned to her silence, then closed her door and her window after receiving the most recent letter. She didn’t open the door and made do with a few dates and a pitcher of water. On the third day Nadhir came, leaning on a crutch and limping a little, and he brought with him a sheikh, two witnesses and three soldiers. Marwa opened the door to her room and hastily adorned herself like a bride. The two exchanged smiles as one of the soldiers sawed through her chains, and they all sat together in the courtyard where the sheikh began to prepare the marriage ceremony. Maryam hit her head with a shoe, wailed, and then threw herself at Nadhir’s feet, pleading with him not to open up a river of blood which would drown us all. Safaa took Maryam by the hand and led her back to her room, trying to understand what had happened. Nadhir took out of his pocket thirteen love letters Marwa had sent him, and his replies in the same vein. He was kind as he tried to explain their mutual desire to marry despite coming from different sects. I couldn’t bear it; I wished I had a pistol or a rifle to take my revenge on a smiling Marwa, who didn’t object when Nadhir reached out a hand to her hijab and removed it. She shook out her long hair like a gypsy and released the smell of sweet perfume. The marriage was quickly concluded and one of the soldiers carried away her small bag. Marwa waved to us as she went out of the door, dawdling like a bride and without properly bidding goodbye to any of us in the midst of our bewilderment. Zahra distanced herself from it; she didn’t try to explain what had happened. She gathered up the chains still attached to the bed and put them in Marwa’s emptied wardrobe, its doors hanging open. Marwa had taken a picture of my grandfather, her small carpet and a few clothes with her, and left everything else in a pile on the bed as witness to her permanent escape from our life.

Maryam rushed outside like a madwoman, and I followed her. Radwan couldn’t keep up with us; Maryam’s quick footsteps frightened me. We went to Selim’s house and found him sitting in his inner room, completely bare of furniture except for a rug and a few pillows; incense burners were ranged around him and green fabric hung from the speckled walls. A dozen copies of the Quran in various sizes were stacked on the low table. The place seemed neglected. Maryam didn’t reply to his wife’s welcome; Um Jalal seemed demented to me, nodding and praying to God to keep everyone safe while her children sat around looking like vagrants, dividing up brown bread and bowls of soup and wearing robes made from some coarse material. It was as if I didn’t know them; Uncle Selim’s house had changed so much. Maryam took hold of his shirt and shook him, weeping and pleading with him to do something to protect his public standing. He shrugged his shoulders as if he was high on drugs and hadn’t heard what she’d said; or as if, faced with a barrage of stones from children attacking him and blocking his way, he was content to pray and place his hands on his head, escaping even from self-defence.

Maryam wept and related Marwa’s abduction, calling her a prostitute who should be slaughtered, and a traitor who had gone over to the other sect. I didn’t recognize Maryam when she was angry. Selim listened to this leaden speech, so distant from his own vocabulary. He turned away and began to read again from the Quran but she snatched it away from him and flung it against the wall, screaming at him to get up and return to the world to see what had happened in it. The blood froze in my veins; Selim wept and gathered up the scattered pages, kissing them and calling Maryam an infidel and a madwoman. His gaze scared me when he looked at us like fallen women and then left us to rush to the nearby mosque. He sat beside the head of the
wali
who had been buried in the courtyard, bemoaning his fate and grieving that Maryam had been overwhelmed by the material world; he was bewildered by the idiocy of forsaking the Quran like any atheist who had abandoned Paradise for the absurdities of this world.

Maryam sought refuge in God and calmed down a little as she walked in the street. She leaned on me and we sat with Sheikh Daghstani who listened to her, nodded, and promised to visit us; we needed visits from strangers so we could complain to them of our weakness and reaffirm our hatred for the other sect to which Marwa now belonged, our virtue turned to delusion in the wake of her departure.