The head of the company asked to meet Suleiman and struck up an acquaintance with him, because when Suleiman was calm he was reasoned, persuasive and well-spoken, a manner he had learnt first studying with the sheikhs and then from his time in prison. Suleiman spoke of the hard times and crises he had been through and told him that the very Jordanian they were so set against had led him to rediscover himself and convinced him to go back to the classroom to take night classes and literature lessons at secondary school and pursue business studies at King Abdul Aziz University.
After that Suleiman abandoned his little delivery van and worked first as an accountant and then as head of the accounting department, before finally being placed in charge of the company’s book distribution operation.
Suleiman was supported not only by Abu Essam, but also by Soha, his loving wife, who relieved him of the burden of the children, packing his suitcase when he was due to take his examinations in Jeddah and removing herself and the little ones to her family’s apartment in Khazan Street by Jawhara Mosque. There, Fahd could get some relief from long periods he spent indoors. He messed around with a ball in the building’s wide entryway with Rami and Mohammed the Egyptians and enjoyed playing with his grandfather, Abu Essam, dressed in his short-sleeved jellabiya and open-work skullcap, who would lift Fahd on to his shoulders, the boy pulling on his hair as they made their way to Nisma, the supermarket at the bottom of the building. Held aloft he would look down at people and feel proud whenever he saw Rami or Mohammed. They looked so small as they shouted and hopped around him.
Occasionally Soha would consent to her parents’ request to take Fahd out and he would leap on to the back seat of the Caprice to fiddle with the plastic dog on the car’s rear shelf. When they reached the shops in Sulaimaniya selling Palestinian and Jordanian delicacies, Abu Essam would pick him out a Jordanian olive, fresh, green and pickled, and a piece of salty white cheese and make young Fahd try everything to decide whether it was good or not, fighting back loud laughter along with his wife and the salesman when they saw the boy wince at the sour and salty flavours.
Soha was stunned by their effrontery, and the effrontery of Ibrahim, who not only had taken their side in such a matter but had accepted the idea despite the still-present trauma of her husband’s unexpected death. Though Fahd was pleased at his mother’s rejection, he knew how unpleasant his Uncle Saleh could be. He still remembered the first days of mourning when his uncle would visit them constantly, stroking his head and hugging Fahd, speaking humbly and warmly with Abu Essam and shamming respect, refusing to take his coffee before the old Jordanian. He would even open a jar of dates and press Abu Essam to take one, talking about free trade in Saudi Arabia, the entry of foreign companies into the country as a positive influence on the private sector, and inquire about opportunities for trade and new projects in Jordan. Had he been laying a new trap? Was he wanting to erase his old image, his extremism and his enmity with his brother, just to get closer to Abu Essam and leave the way open to asking for Soha’s hand in marriage?
— 12 —
TWO MONTHS AFTER THE death of his brother, Saleh dusted himself down and travelled to Amman. He met Abu Essam and showered him with insincere smiles and gifts and sacks of preserved dates, packets of klija from Qaseem and date cakes which filled the back of his Toyota Land Cruiser; all that effort and ambition in order to claim Fahd’s mother, on the grounds that he alone had a duty to protect his brother’s household and two teenage children. His words were convincing, caring and compelling enough to wear away at Abu Essam’s heart and mind, or perhaps it was the money that weakened his resolve.
Saleh was known to the congregation at his small mosque in the East Riyadh neighbourhood of Quds as Abu Ayoub, after the Prophet’s most militant companion. He was fat but light on his feet with a beautifully combed beard and a thaub that was always spotlessly clean, while his shimagh sent out the scent of incense and agarwood oil wherever he went; you only had to embrace him for the smell to linger on you for days.
When he entered the mosque he would bring a censer with him and hand it to the man at end of the row of worshippers, or humbly carry it past them himself, though at the same time he was skilled at sniffing out any new congregant, greeting them attentively and tenderly and welcoming them to the mosque. Sometimes, when the prayers were done he would turn his plump frame towards the line of worshippers behind him and peer at them, muttering invocations and fingering his prayer beads as he searched for a new victim. As soon as he spotted a newcomer he would send him his charming smile or a nod of the head in greeting, leaving the worshipper doubting himself and wondering, ‘Does he know me, or is it just that I look regal and majestic?’ at which instant he was snared.
The worshippers came to his little mosque from most of the neighbouring districts of East Riyadh, from Riyan, Roda and Khaleej, and the building’s parking spots and the surrounding streets were filled with their cars. They claimed he had a wonderful voice, that his recitation brought on humility and tears, and in Ramadan they came like raindrops because he could wrap up the night prayers in fifteen minutes: anyone praying behind him who didn’t know him would lose track at the end of the Qur’an recitation as he ran on in a single breath into the exaltation of the rakaa: …forGodistheonewhoseesandhearsallthingsGodisGreat!
He attacked the prayers like a startled crow hurriedly pecking at the earth before flapping back into the sky.
Many of those who called him Abu Ayoub had no idea that his eldest son was called Yasser and not one knew the secret of his extensive contacts and influence, nor how he had convinced the country’s leading sheikhs and muftis to come and pray behind him, nor how he was able to announce that one of them would be giving an address at his humble mosque. This won him considerable renown; men such as these were the unsullied of the earth, their honesty and purity doubted by no one. So not one of the congregation could find it in themselves to take Abu Ayoub to task if he missed the odd prayer or made use of the mosque for his agarwood oil and incense business.
He put a door in the room that led to the mosque’s courtyard and after prayers he would open it to welcome his guests. Brushing the back of a worshipper’s hand and suffusing his ghatra with the fragrance from the sweet white smoke, he would make him a gift of one of the minute vials that held less than three grams of oil, while the Bangladeshi mosque guard served coffee and preserved dates.
Abu Ayoub and the Bangladeshi guard had perfected the art of stalking worshippers and running them to ground. After the free gifts Abu Ayoub would leave it until another day to show his wares to the victim, who would be forced to buy more oil or quarter of a kilo or more of fragrant agarwood sticks, either because he liked them or out of a sense of embarrassment and good manners. Guests were impressed by the fact that Abu Ayoub had taught the Bangladeshi to wear a pressed white thaub and new red ghatra and to comb his sparse beard exactly like a Saudi; he even spoke their dialect. ‘Greetings, by God! Wonderful to see you. A cup of coffee in God’s name. Taste these dates, God grant you Paradise.’