2008 - The Consequences of Love.

TO BE PROOFREAD

Title:

The Consequences of Love

Author:

Sulaiman Addonia

Year:

2008

Synopsis:

As a corrective to Rajaa Alsanea’s recent novel Girls of Riyadh, Sulaiman Addonia’s affecting debut provides a glitz-free version of romance, Saudi Arabian-style. It’s the summer of 1989 and Nasser, a 20-year-old refugee from Eritrea, fritters away his days dreaming of his lost mother.

The women of Jeddah—untouchable, shrouded figures—can offer little in the way of comfort. Then one day Nasser’s luck changes when a girl, wearing bright pink shoes, drops a love letter at his feet.

So begins a courtly love affair carefully conducted out of view of the religious police, and just yards away from Punishment Square. Medievalism and modernity collide in this tender-hearted and reader-friendly first novel.

W
HATEVER DREAM I had for myself in the future, my mother was always central to it. But now that dream was escaping my grasp. She was sending me away: me, a ten-year-old, and my brother, only three.

We were in a makeshift café at the armpit of the river. At the side of the hill lay a bush and in the bush was a hidden route from our village in Eritrea to east Sudan; a route that was so narrow and arid that it could only be travelled by camel.

Some of the smugglers had already arrived. I watched the flickering oil lamps bounce against the flanks of their camels. There were many people standing around, but not everyone was there to flee the war. Some, like my mother and the other women who lived on Lovers’ Hill were there to say goodbye. But most, like my brother and I, were there to escape. My mother was all I had in the world, and I dreaded the moment the oil lamps would be blown out and the camels would set forth in the bush to begin our journey. The world I had known and loved so much would be over.

I was standing next to Semira, my mother’s best friend. My mother was just a few yards away buying warm milk for Ibrahim from the tea maker, with her back towards me. The tea maker scooped milk from her pot and put it in a tin cup and gave it to little Ibrahim.

More camels arrived. The men were walking behind the camels, hitting them now and then with a long stick. They were famous smugglers, Beja men from the Beni Amir tribe.

They all had knotted hair and were wearing white
jallabiyahs
with blue waistcoats; swords swung over their shoulders.

My mother came back towards where I was standing with Semira. It was strange that there weren’t many tears now. Everyone—Semira, my mother and even me—seemed to have cried all day long and now the only thing left to do was say goodbye.

As I saw my mother approaching, I looked at her face. She was wearing a long black dress and her favourite red Italian-made shoes, a gift from Semira. My mother was tall but the shoes made her even taller.

When she came by my side, she gave Ibrahim to Semira and held my hand. Semira joined the other women who were waiting close to the camels and the light of the oil lamps, waiting to say goodbye to us.

Suddenly I heard a loud thundering noise. I looked up at the sky and saw an Ethiopian fighter plane over our village. I squeezed my mother’s hand and pressed my head against her. I closed my eyes, and said a prayer, “Please
ya Allah
make these planes go away for ever. Please
ya Allah
. Please
ya Allah
”

When quietness returned to the sky, one of the smugglers came to my mother and said, “The camels are ready, Raheema. Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to your children.”

My mother picked up our oil lamp. She clutched my hand and started walking towards the caravan. But I pulled her back, planting my feet firmly in the sand. “I am not moving, Mother.”

She stooped in front of me. Her earrings dangled and swung in the breeze. A beautiful odour arose from her neck like swirls of frankincense gum from an incense burner. I looked at her long black hair. I rested my head on her chest.

She wrapped her arms around me. I wished I could stay like this for ever.

My mother whispered, “My sweetheart, I am doing this because I love you.”

I begged her one more time, “Please, Mother, don’t send us away. I want to stay here with you. Please, Mother.”

She gently pulled herself away, and said, “I want to look at you, my sweetheart.”

She held my face.

“Let’s make a promise to each other,” she said in a soft breaking voice, the silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Let’s make a promise that we will always be like this wherever we are.” She wove her fingers between mine and bowed her head to kiss my hand.

The smugglers made their final call for our departure. I hugged my mother and her oil lamp fell to the ground, lighting her red shoes in the darkening night.

As the camels started walking, I looked up at her face. I wanted to see it for the last time. But the light at her feet died slowly and my mother disappeared from view.

THE BLACK AND WHITE MOVIE

T
HE EVENING OF the second Friday in July was an evening of departures. It was 1989 and Jeddah was about to be abandoned by all of those who could afford a holiday. I had left my window open to let the humid breeze into my room. I breathed in the spicy
kebsa
meat mixed with the spice of men’s cologne; the smells of the day turning into night.

The phone was ringing. After six rings I picked up. It was Jasim. He wanted me to come to the café to say goodbye. He was off to Paris the following day. He regularly travelled abroad and always came back from his trips with presents; he claimed they would encourage sensuality in those he loved.

He also said that I needed to collect the latest of my letters to my mother. I had tried many times to send letters home but they were always returned to sender. I had used Jasim’s café as my return address ever since I had known him.

At that time I lived in a tiny flat in a small two-storey building. It was all I could afford, given that I was earning just four hundred riyals a month at the car-wash. The flat was at the poor end of a long street that swelled at the middle, like a man with a big belly and long thin legs. At the roundabout it was surrounded by shops and restaurants, before it stretched thin again all the way to Kharentina.

By day, its rows of white-painted buildings glistened under the sun and men in white
thobes
outnumbered women in black
abayas
. The scene made you feel like you were in an old black and white movie.

I walked past the villas, where the breeze had turned the garden trees into slow-moving ballerinas. Peering down Al-Nuzla Street, I could see the tallest building of our neighbourhood. It stood out because of its nine floors and was well known for the rich people who lived in it.

In front of me, on the pavement, two young men were strolling, holding each other’s hands. They made their way into the Yemeni shop. A few moments later I stopped to let a man past, dressed in
jallabiyah
and
tagiyah
and carrying a box full of plastic Pepsi bottles. I tucked my T·shirt into my tracksuit and continued.

The fragrance of musk filled my nostrils. It meant I was getting close to the biggest mosque in the neighbourhood. At one time I had been living with my uncle right next to the mosque; my new home was a few blocks away in the same street, but this mosque was still the nearest.

I saw a group of six bearded men standing outside. They stood so close to each other that they looked like they were joined at the hips and shoulders.

They stepped aside to give way to the blind imam who was leaving the mosque. It was because of him that I no longer attended prayers. He was clutching the arm of a tall man who was holding a black leather bag. Their long beards quivered softly in the wind.

I quickly crossed the road and bowed my head as I started to walk in the opposite direction to where they were heading.

Then suddenly, a familiar Jeep with shaded windows swerved towards me and screeched to a halt. I froze. Religious police. I wanted to run but my legs felt heavy. Three bearded men jumped out and came towards me. I couldn’t move an inch. But they passed and entered the building behind me.

Seconds later, they came out of the building with Muhssin. Although I had never spoken to him, I recognised him from school. Muhssin was unmistakable—he modelled his look on the romantic style of Omar Sharif, the Egyptian actor from the Sixties. I pulled myself back to the wall. Muhssin’s mother followed them, weeping, begging them to spare her son for the sake of
Allah
.

“Please forgive him, he is my only son, my only breadwinner.
Allah
is merciful.
Allah
is love.”The religious policemen bundled Muhssin into their Jeep and turned to his mother.

One of them brandished a stick and ran towards her, yelling, “Go inside and cover your face, may
Allah
curse you.” He hit her on the back and buttocks as he herded her inside the building.

A moment later the Jeep sped off towards Mecca Street. I hurried into the building to find Um Muhssin. Through the small window pane, I could see that she was sitting on the staircase weeping. Her hand was shaking when she tried to get up. I knocked on the door but she didn’t look up.

When I reached the junction of Al-Nuzla and Mecca Street I paused to consider my route. I didn’t want to pass Abu Faisal’s villa and face the possibility of a chance meeting with Jeddah’s most prominent executioner. He was the father of Faisal, my school friend; but when I looked down the road and saw the white Cadillac parked outside his house, I immediately went the other way.

Jasim greeted me, a smile decorating his face. His trimmed goatee curled upwards, accentuating his grin. He was wearing Saudi dress, with the sleeves rolled up, his hairy forearms resting on the counter.

Some of the customers craned their necks to look at me. The smell of
shisha
—smoky, sweet—was gradually overlaid with the smell of hot coffee prepared with plenty of cardamom. Jasim was busy, so I sat down and waited.

I scanned the room and got a glimpse of the new waiter. He was young and agile and he glided through the tight spaces between tables as if his lower half were made of jelly. He squeezed past me and I watched as other customers reached out to touch him. He brushed aside their hands as though they were soft curtains.

The tables were deliberately close together:Jasim wanted men to rub against each other and produce a fire. “There is nothing sweeter than seeing two men caressing each other with their bodies,” he once told me. “It makes me imagine that flames of love might be created.”

Back then, I hadn’t understood. “But if the men think for a second that they are touching each other for any other reason than lack of space, then surely they will burn down the cafe?”

Jasim shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

Jasim’s café was full of colour. And his obsession with colour co-ordination extended from the walls to the tablecloths, to what the boy was wearing.

The walls were painted in two sections. The top half was a misty rose, and the bottom half, with sporadic wild flowers sketched by Jasim, was a warm grey.

At the table always reserved for Fawwaz and his cronies—their whispers muffled by their thick moustaches—the boy stretched across to clear the small coffee-cups. He put the cups on a tray and sped to the furthest corner of the room to seek the shelter of an air conditioner. He stood facing the wall and he slowly circled his head as he lifted the hem of his
thobe
to wipe his face. I could see his tight beige velvet trousers contrasting perfectly with the blue tablecloth next to him.

The men were setting up a game of dominoes. Fawwaz placed his chin on his hand and peered at the boy. His stern expression could not hide the lust in his eyes. He leapt to his feet and went towards the boy.

Fawwaz stood in front of the boy and held his hand. I stared through them. Memories were starting to come back to me from my time as a waiter.

Jasim was sitting at the table with Omar, one of his closest friends. I loved those early smoke-free hours of the morning, when the café was quiet and the warm colours of the walls wrapped you like a silk robe.

I was polishing the counter while listening to an interview that my
kafeel
—the Blessed Bader Ibn Abd-Allah—was giving on the radio. He was a police chief in the Jeddah region and he was talking about young people and morality. He suddenly broke off from the calm one-to-one chat with the interviewer and steered into a sermon, quoting from the Qur’an and the Prophet’s sayings to warn youth against malevolent behaviour. “But,” the
kafeel
said, “we are working together with the religious police to combat immoral behaviour.
Insha Allah, Allah
will bless our important work.”

I shut off the radio, went to the kitchen and lit a piece of charcoal. Holding it with the clamps, I brought it over to Jasim’s table and placed the burning coal on the edge of the clay bowl. I pulled up a chair and sat down. Jasim passed me the pipe. I put the mouthpiece on my lips and as I inhaled I moved the charcoal around using the clamps. Omar was talking about a local controversy: a teenage boy had been arrested by the religious police for receiving a note from a girl while walking to school one morning.

“To my knowledge,” said Omar, pinching his left cheek as he talked, “it is mostly princesses and rich girls who go around and toss notes at boys’ feet. They do it for fun and to ease their boredom. Then when they have had enough these girls disappear back to their hidden world as quickly as they came; leaving behind heartbroken boys.”

“So how come I never had notes dropped at my feet?” asked Jasim.

“Well,” said Omar, “I am telling you that these are rich girls and princesses, and they have a fine taste.”

Jasim stood up, surrounded by smoke and shouted, pretending to be offended, “Are you saying I am not a handsome man?”

Omar laughed and pulled Jasim down. “Just sit. You know you’re not. Plus, you’re smart, and smart people don’t risk the consequences.”