He left the alley in the direction of the street where flowers were sold and drove south until he reached Jazeera Mall, then took a left towards Iblees Street where the Bangladeshis had their shops, selling illegal satellite dishes and receivers and cards for encoded porn channels. He crept into a little street behind Sadhan Mall and, at exactly ten in the morning, carrying all the necessary forms and his plane tickets, he stopped outside a company issuing travel visas to Britain.
When he presented his papers, having passed through the routine security check at the door, the long-haired clerk asked him a number of questions, sent him to a room where his thumbprint was taken, then handed over a receipt stating that Fahd’s application would be processed in two days.
Fahd left. By the outer gate he breathed a sigh of relief and wondered what had happened to Tarfah. Had they handed her straight back to her family or taken her to the women’s shelter? What was her family’s view of what had happened, especially that of her brother Abdullah? What had they told Sara about her mother? Good God, how merciless this country was! How exorbitant the cost of a coffee with a random girl!
Fahd muttered to himself as he made for Tahliya Street, where he stopped at a Dunkin Donuts to drink a cup of black filter coffee with a bear claw pastry, taking out his mobile every now and then to check that it was working and that he hadn’t received a message.
The Filipino closed the long curtains as the afternoon call to prayer sounded and Fahd went back out to the car. As he was turning the key in the ignition, the mobile buzzed like a cockroach and he opened its message folder: I swear to God I’m going to create a scandal in front of everyone, at every exhibition, at every artists’ gathering, you rat!
Selecting ‘Reply’ he wrote: Screw you, screw ‘everyone’ and screw your country, too.
He imagined Thuraya the Hejazi, waking late to the sound of her squabbling children, feeling the air conditioner wash against the semi-naked body that gave off the powerful, penetrating fragrance of her perfume. There was no man beside her to ravage her, and she wrote to curse the young man, the immature stranger, who failed to fill her life, who refused to surrender to her will. The phone buzzed again: See here, Syrian. You’ve got the right to swear at me and other people, but I’ll be saving that comment about my country. It’ll get you fucked up.
My God, thought Fahd. How can people bear to live in a racist, conspiratorial society, a society that hates and cheats and dupes and gossips and steals and murders, a society for which I have a representative sample at my fingertips: my uncle, Yasser and Thuraya? True, there are selfless friends like Saeed, and there are those in search of certainties and absolutes, like my father, Mushabbab and Abdel Kareem, and then there are those, like me, like Lulua and Tarfah and Sami, who are lost. But just thinking of it makes me want to vomit.
— 63 —
INSIDE THE LOCKED OFFICE in the Committee building, Tarfah contemplated her moment of shame. She imagined what might have happened had they taken her to the women’s shelter and placed her on the register, to spend the following day sitting in front of a sheikh with knotted brows who would question her about the crime of going out to drink cappuccino with a stranger. She imagined the supervisor calling her broken-hearted mother to inform her of the incident, requesting that her father come to pick her up:
Her mother is completely thrown and decides not to tell Abdullah for fear that he might lose his temper and exact revenge on his sister. She hastily rounds up Ayman and the two of them drive off, following the supervisor’s directions. They lose their way more than once and Ayman pulls over to question passers-by, once by the Passport Office and once by the Girls’ Education building, asking them if they know where the women’s shelter is.
When they arrive, her mother goes in to see the supervisor and requests that she might take her home.
‘Not allowed, auntie!’
‘I’m her mother!’
‘Sorry, only her father can pick her up.’
‘Her father’s dead, my girl.’
‘Well, her legal guardian, then, and he has to bring the original of his custody document and a picture of the girl.’
‘Her brother’s the guardian!’ says her mother, then adds, ‘Her brother’s outside with the security guard.’
‘Does he have a court-certified custody document in his name?’
‘No, her guardian’s the older brother.’
‘Then he has to come here and pick her up in person.’
Damn! It was as though they were arranging Tarfah’s death, quite blithely and in cold blood. Her mother imagines Abdullah coming with a killer’s calm taking her away — forgiving, understanding, affectionate — without mentioning the subject, as though he didn’t care. Then he would drive her home, apologising for having refused to let her study at the nursing college. But not to worry, a friend of his would make sure she was accepted on to the course. On the way, he would drive her to dark parking lot in the basement of some building, butcher her with a huge, razor-sharp knife and put her body into a black bag, which he’d heave on his shoulder and throw into a large yellow skip.
Tarfah imagined her mother contemplating her fate for a few moments, thinking of a way to get out of this fix.
‘Her older brother’s travelling,’ her mother says.
‘She’s stays with us until he’s safely home again.’
‘Listen, my girl, he’s gone abroad on a study trip. Anyway, Tarfah has a young daughter at home. She can’t sleep at night unless her mother holds her. God have mercy on your parents, my girl,’ she pleads. ‘God watch over you in this world and the next.’
Tarfah heard the rattle of a key in the lock and sat up, alert; she was in the Committee building, not the women’s shelter. Wrapped in serenity, the man in the cream mashlah entered in the company of a lightly bearded youth with shaven temples, who was holding a sheet of paper and a blue ink pad. The sheikh told her that the Committee would protect a guilty woman for a first offence but for a second offence — God forbid! — she would go to the women’s shelter and be handed over for questioning there. She might stay there for six months or a year, and if convicted and sentenced, she could be sent to women’s prison.
‘This is a pledge. Place your thumbprint here, promising not to commit any more offences against the law, and we will keep it safe with us, in complete confidentiality. We might need it again if, as I mentioned, you engage in any immoral act a second time.’
The sheikh turned to young man beside him. ‘Brother Saad will take your confession and help you sign it. I am going to call your family so they can sign for your release.’
The sheikh went out, leaving the door open behind him. The bearded youth approached, placed the sheet of paper in front of her and pointed at a sentence at the bottom of the page: Write your name here. He handed her the pen and she wrote her name, her hand shaking. He uncovered the damp blue fabric of the inkpad and placed it on the table beside her, then taking her full white hand, he spread her left thumb, pressed it on to the pad then held it next to her name for a few seconds, fondling her hand until she pulled it away from him. He coloured instantly.