Throwing Sparks (22 page)

The Master stumbled through the Qur'anic recitation: he wrestled with his memory to dredge up the verses of a particu­lar
sura
and came up with those from another
sura
instead. He faltered through the opening words, ‘Have We not soothed your heart, and relieved you of the burden—' He stopped abruptly, unable to remember the rest.

The Master roared, ‘Help me out, sons of bitches!'

Since none of the congregation could complete the Qur'anic
sura
, he bowed and sank to his knees, not in reverential prostration but simply keeling over drunk. He fell asleep on the spot and began to snore; he was soon joined by several guests, with their mouths hung wide open.

Servants picked their way carefully around the sprawling bodies to collect bottles and glasses. The few remaining guests who had not dozed off fought their torpor and staggered off to their bedrooms to see if they could rekindle their pent-up lust.

*  *  *

In addition to my original crime, there was now another – one that could see me hang if it were ever discovered. But what bothered me more and plagued me with doubt was the video tape the Master had handed me. I remained baffled by it and assumed that, somehow, a spy with a camera had been hiding inside the villa and following my every move.

One day, out of the blue, the police raided the villa. Thankfully I was there when it happened.

It was during the summer holiday when the Master and his family were away on a tour of Europe. Before me lay the prospect of three months of freedom in which to do anything I wanted. I considered a trip to Casablanca, where a group of Palace employees had arranged to spend their holidays, but felt hesitant about leaving my aunt alone at the villa.

I toyed with the idea of taking her back to her house in the Firepit. It offered the prospect of getting rid of her once and for all since she would never be able to tell anyone what had happened to her and it would be practically impossible to convey the story in sign language. But I thought better of the idea when I recalled that the two women I had hired were able to communicate with her perfectly well. They understood all her hand gestures even when she was so angry she was fit to be tied.

It was one of those women who came to tell me the police were at the door.

I took my time going downstairs, trying to think of a reason for their visit. I momentarily panicked at the thought that the Master might have gone ahead and handed a copy of the video tape to the authorities in order to get rid of me. I thought of a whole host of possibilities but decided that delaying would just further complicate matters.

I came down the stairs pretending to have a stomach ache and apologising for keeping them waiting. I was at the door, talking to three policemen and I could see two cars in the driveway. As soon as I appeared, a higher-ranking officer hopped out of one of the cars. I introduced myself and told him where I worked. For the first time ever, I used my work address and the power of the Palace for a private purpose.

‘How can I help you?' I asked politely.

‘Maybe you can tell us why we keep getting emergency 999 calls from here,' the officer said. ‘But there's never anyone on the other end of the line saying anything intelligible. We just hear stammering and shrieking.'

‘My sincere apologies, sir,' I answered quickly. ‘I stored the number on my phone in case of an emergency. Looks like some of the kids figured out which button to press and have misused the phone.' I apologised again and began shouting out random names that came to mind. ‘Hattan! Ghassan! Ma'een! Get over here!'

We waited in silence.

A few moments later, I tried again. ‘Hey kids, come here!'

I worried that I would have to keep on calling fictitious children till I turned blue in the face. I apologised again and praised the police for their vigilance. Then I realised it was a grave mistake to suggest that children were the culprits. The police had probably investigated beforehand and would know that a bachelor lived in the villa. Now, I thought, their suspicions would be aroused and I would be found out.

So I stopped calling out any more names and decided I would tell the officer it was my nephews or the neighbours' pesky children or maybe a friend's brats. But I did not know anyone who had relatives with those names. I was getting more and more worked up, and decided the best thing would be to say nothing.

Luckily the officer took his leave and left it to me to warn whoever was dialling the police station to stop. He concluded by reminding me that it was unnecessary to store the emergency contact in my phone since it was such an easy number to remember.

I took a long and deep breath as I watched the two police cars disappear into the distance.

Cutting off her tongue had not been punishment enough.

While I was talking to the police officer, I could see her watching us from the window. As soon as the officer climbed back into his vehicle and shut the door, she began pounding on the shutters. She was crying and whimpering, but the sound was fortunately very faint. After I had made sure the police were on their way, the first thing I did was to call the phone company and request a temporary suspension of ser­vice. The customer service representative told me apologetically that he could not process my request and that I would have to go and fill in a form at the main office in person before service could be suspended.

I ended the conversation hurriedly, fetched a pair of pliers, and disconnected the phone line on the outside of the villa. I called in the two women who helped with my aunt, paid them a full month's wages and then dismissed them.

They were taken aback and asked nervously if they had neglected any of their duties with my aunt, but I reassured them that all was well on that score and that my concern was for them. The police had been checking on domestic workers who had overstayed their visas, I said, and they were returning momentarily with a female officer who was going to search the house. The two women thanked me profusely for my consideration, gathered their abayas
about them, and left the house hurriedly. I instructed the driver to drop them off wherever they wished.

After locking the door, I went up to my aunt's room and found her crouching in a corner, under a big pile of clothes. I pulled off the top layer that covered her head, grabbed her white hair and pulled hard. She gasped, her eyes widening like saucers. As I had done the previous time, I tied her hands behind her back with telephone wire, stuffed a wad of tissues in her mouth, and sat on her, bearing down with all my weight. Her bones practically snapped under me and she groaned and growled as her eyes fixed on the pliers in my hands.

‘Which of these fingers dialled the phone, eh?' I demanded as I held her fingers and examined them. ‘It seems to me that you're looking for more punishment.'

Her muffled scream was barely audible.

I placed her right index finger between the pliers and squeezed hard, but not so hard as to sever it. Then I moved on to the other fingers: her pinkie, her middle finger and her ring finger. I squeezed each one until I heard the snap of a bone breaking, before proceeding to the next one.

She had stopped screaming and lost consciousness. I untied her and left her lying where she was.

*  *  *

How I wished she would die. If she did not, I would have to kill her. In the meantime, I was well and truly her prisoner.

Life at the villa had become intolerable: I was stuck with this aunt who, though she was a near-corpse, refused obstin­ately to take herself off to the next life. I was restless and consumed by the idea of getting rid of her before she could do any further damage and have me hang for it. I brought in a succession of women to attend to her, rotating them before they could bond with her or develop any empathy for her.

Aunt Khayriyyah had grown used to dressing her own wounds and was so exhausted she no longer did anything besides moan, grind her teeth and chew on her palms. Her eyes had lost all their ferocity and she kept them mostly closed. It was as if the years of her life were gathering themselves for the final journey.

The Master returned from his tour and was greeted by a line of servants and staff welcoming him back. I was among them and he asked me explicitly to stay behind.

I felt I could not stomach one more ignominious act of sodomy. I was so dispirited that I would have gone to my death willingly and was steeling myself to refuse his next request.

He busied himself with the well-wishers, discussing the various cities he had visited and other things he had enjoyed seeing.

I stood there for a long time, like a guard from the Abbasid era at the sultan's disposal day and night, primed and ready to plunge his sword into whichever miscreant was at the execution block. I stood there, seething with resentment, certain that I was about to be tasked with another assignment.

The Master gave everyone a beautifully wrapped gift and then dismissed the other members of the staff. They began to disperse and the accompanying hubbub died down.

When we were alone, he handed me my gift and said cryptically, ‘You need to get rid of your aunt before she dies on you.'

I accepted his advice unquestioningly, relieved that this was his reason for asking me to stay behind; there was no other business, no punishments scheduled for that day.

Later, I unwrapped my present to find three things in the package: sexual enhancement pills, a bottle of cologne and a video tape. I hurried home and inserted the cassette into the video player to witness the entire sequence of my aunt's fingers being crushed.

Aunt Khayriyyah had become frail and withdrawn, and spent the entire day moaning plaintively.

She paid no attention to me when I got home and I no longer provoked her terror. If I ventured near her, she just shut her eyes and wrapped her arms around her head, and her body tensed with apprehension.

I had given up hurting her.

I had also figured out the mystery of the two video tapes.

I was checking in on Uncle Muhammad, who was still holed up in his quarters. I broached the subject of the Master's uncanny ability to be aware of everything that happened around him. Uncle Muhammad interrupted me and launched into a eulogy, praising the Master's treatment of his staff, his pursuit of their well-being above all else and his vigilance in protecting them from mistreatment by others. Then he changed the subject completely.

‘They say that Sheikh Omar is in a really bad way,' he said, ‘and that he's dying. Is that true?'

I was not interested in talking about the former head fisherman. ‘But I'm asking you—'

‘I think I should visit him right now,' Uncle Muhammad interrupted. ‘You can come with me if you like.'

For the first time since the night he was humiliated by the Master, Uncle Muhammad left his quarters, pulling me along as he negotiated the meandering hallways of the Palace.

He was clearly uneasy, but this discomfort was not linked to his advanced age. After a while, he leaned in towards me and hissed, ‘All this time and you haven't learned a thing.'

‘Learned what?'

‘If you come to my room to talk about him, what do you expect me to say? Don't you know that all of the staff quarters are bugged and that there are people whose job it is to film everything and pass it all on to him?'

I did not respond.

‘You're never going to get it, are you?' he exclaimed and was seized by a sudden coughing fit so acute he practically choked.

*  *  *

Around me, my aunt was completely silent. I felt nothing but revulsion when I saw her. It was as if her tongue had been the source of her vitality, and all that was left now was this decrepit, old and emaciated hag. Just as her screaming had been a form of torture, so now her silence was a torment. She avoided me and I avoided her.

The villa became a wasteland in which two housemaids and a Filipina nurse roamed with nothing to do but watch my aunt. They made sure she kept to her room and prepared food for her if she requested it.

I could no longer invite anyone over and the huge villa became a hotel where I spent part of the day sleeping and left at three o'clock in the afternoon without seeing anyone.

I needed to get away from the twenty-four-hour surveillance.

I had become cautious and was circumspect at all times. I moved like a rat trying to get across an open space full of hungry cats: security precautions preceded my every step. I became increasingly desperate to leave the villa.

The only obstacle was my aunt, a constant thorn in my side; I could not just pack up and leave.

Then I hit upon the idea of transforming her room into a prison cell – a jail without warders or guards who might inadvertently let their captive escape. Since I did not know where the hidden cameras had been planted, I decided to cover the walls and ceiling with wallpaper.

First I dismissed the guard who watched the villa, as well as the nurse and the two servants. After going about the rest of the day as usual, once night fell I switched off all the lights and applied layers of wallpaper. I brought in crates of water, milk, canned goods, biscuits, and dried fruit and vegetables and stashed them inside the room with her. I locked everything up, including the front door, and drove away.