Throwing Sparks (25 page)

His aunt, Tahani’s mother, had no idea where her daughter had ended up. When Salih Khaybari had returned from the village, he told her that he had married their daughter off to one of his relatives and that she, the mother, was never to ask about Tahani again.

It took her twenty years to discover her daughter’s fate; when it emerged, the news shook the neighbourhood to its core.

The day Salih’s soul gave up the ghost, his eyes welled up with tears as he asked his wife and children for their forgiveness. He told them in short, halting sentences that he had cleansed the family honour with his own hands the day he had travelled with Tahani to his birthplace because he was not prepared to let her maidenhood wither as he searched for its raptor. He gave no one the opportunity to rebuke him; closing his eyes, he breathed his last breath.

Tahani’s mother screamed with grief, but not for her husband. His corpse was left lying in the room for two nights while Osama’s mother remained at her sister’s side, consoling her. It was she who later related all this to her son.

Those twenty years later, people still had no inkling about Tahani’s attacker. Now, speculation was rekindled as the women of the neighbourhood tried to figure out who had ruined the young girl’s life.

They remembered that it had been the night of the condolences for Samira, when Salih Khaybari was heard shouting at the top of his lungs that a thief had broken into the house and robbed him. As word of his final confession began to circulate, everyone understood just what had been stolen and that the thief in question was ultimately responsible for sending Tahani to her death.

14

From Osama’s perspective, either I was innocent of the crime, in which case he could share his woeful story with a friend, or I was the thief in question, in which case his story would weigh down unbearably on a guilty conscience. Either way, he finally divulged every detail surrounding Tahani’s death.

When Salih told his wife that he had married off Tahani to one of his relatives in the village, she believed him. She also bowed to her husband’s wish, albeit reluctantly, never to mention her name; she was sure that given enough time, Salih would change his mind and she would see her daughter again. She knew that the family honour had been defiled and that the culprit had vanished into the night. She was more than willing to accept whatever course of action would spare her family further disgrace.

She would never have believed that her sweet and gentle husband had a rock for a heart. His harshness and cruelty came to light on his deathbed when he revealed the bloodletting he was responsible for in his village, unbeknown to anyone there.

With his last remaining breaths, Salih claimed that all he had wanted was to hold his head up high, and that there would have been a different ending had Tahani been willing to reveal the identity of the scoundrel who had destroyed her life and run away.

It hurt Osama to think that she had loved the intruder so much that she had said nothing, despite the severe beating she had to endure. Tahani swore she did not know him and that surely her cries for help were proof of her innocence. Salih interrogated her all night and thrashed her so hard that she lost consciousness several times. But she stuck to her story. Salih was so furious that no one in the family dared to intervene.

In life, Tahani’s mother had loved her husband; in death, she came to despise even the mention of his name and regretted every last bit of love she had shown him. She hated him for dying before she could vent all her fury and, with her heart ripped by the waves of hatred swelling inside her, she started to hate herself for acquiescing to his wish and waiting for twenty years in the vain hope of seeing her daughter again.

She did not observe the requisite mourning period or receive the mourners who had travelled all the way from his village for the obligatory condolences. Rather, she went to the village to take proper leave of her daughter. She wanted her sister – Osama’s mother – to go with her and so Osama offered to drive them.

None of her own sons came along because she did not want to be reminded of Salih in any way. She cursed him throughout the long journey to Salih’s village, begging God to show him no mercy. Every time her tears subsided, she would pray for the mercy of Tahani’s soul and for the eternal damnation of Salih’s.

They took the coastal road and avoided going through any towns or villages. She refused to let Osama stop for anything besides fuel. ‘Tahani is waiting for her mother to grieve, Osama,’ she wailed. Tahani’s death was still raw even though she had died twenty years earlier.

The closer they got to her husband’s village, the more hysterical she became. She cursed anything and anyone to do with Salih: his background, his village, his tribe, his children and even herself, his wife.

They stayed with a distant relative of her recently deceased husband and as news of her arrival reached the women of the village, groups of them who had not been able to make the trip to Jeddah came to offer their condolences. They were greeted with the same response as those who had made the trip to the city.

‘Whoever has come to mourn Tahani is more than welcome,’ she said, adding sternly, ‘but if you’ve come for Salih, then you’ll need to leave now.’

This caused a scandal and the women started to say she was mad for coming to the village and expecting people to condole with her over a daughter who had been dead for decades.

There were so many different accounts of Tahani’s death that it was impossible to know what to believe. There was no one left who had a clear recollection of her passing. According to the older folk, Salih had come to the village with his daughter to visit relatives and family; he was seen the next day taking her corpse to be buried on the northern outskirts of the village with only his brothers and nephews in attendance. He left for Jeddah immediately without hosting the customary condolence gathering.

According to the oldest of Tahani’s uncles, she had died in an unfortunate accident, choking over a piece of meat. He recounted that Salih had shown up unexpectedly with his daughter and that he offered them hospitality in a room off the main hall of the house. When he called them to join him for dinner, they declined and asked to eat in their room. Moments later, the uncle heard a choking cry and the clatter of falling cutlery and of plates shattering. He knocked on the door and when there was no response, he and his brothers forced their way in. They found Salih holding his daughter against him, smoothing the hair from her brow to either side of her face.

Salih was weeping copiously and his brothers could not ascertain what had happened. After the burial, he gathered them together and pleaded that the news of Tahani’s death should not reach her mother or brothers. His wife, he said, suffered from heart trouble and if she heard that their daughter had died, her heart would not withstand the shock – and he would then have lost both his daughter and his wife in less than a week.

Tahani’s mother listened to that account and swore that her husband and his people were uncouth and barbaric, so devious and cunning in fact, that they did not deserve to be considered men at all. They, for their part, could not for the life of them understand what had prompted Salih to marry a woman with such a sharp tongue.

The women of the village were particularly outspoken and critical of her behaviour. They were outraged by her refusal to receive their condolences and for speaking to them so condes­cendingly. They condemned her for her city ways, which they considered contrary to hallowed traditions and in defiance of the natural order. Only a woman from the city could abandon her duties as the wife of a recently deceased man and go off to visit a grave that had been filled for twenty years.

In the village, they referred to Tahani’s resting place as the ‘grave of the damned’. No one could explain why the grave was in a remote location on the outskirts of the village. A stone’s throw from an abandoned well, it was overgrown with thorn bushes and bounded by sand dunes as high as ramparts. The villagers claimed that the well had dried up some twenty years earlier, soon after Tahani’s burial there.

Some of the women had wanted to visit the grave, but Tahani’s mother declined the offer. She gathered some basil plants and a couple of jerry cans of water and the three of them – she, her sister and Osama – set out for the gravesite. They had to go on foot, scrambling up two large sand dunes, and then down to a level area that was scattered with bushes and scrub. Tahani’s grave was off in an isolated corner.

Osama could swear that Tahani’s presence was almost palpable, as if she had come back to life. They wept before the packed mound of earth enclosed by a wooden frame as they imagined her rising to greet them, with a reproachful look for the long absence. As they stood there at the foot of her tomb, a desert wind stirred up whorls of sand from the surrounding dunes.

Tahani’s mother was convinced that it was her daughter’s spirit howling. ‘That’s Tahani breathing and cursing us,’ she moaned and, slapping herself, she started to scoop up handfuls of sand to pour over her head. She would subside for a few moments and begin again as soon as another gust of wind stirred up the sand, scooping up the dirt and slapping it over her head.

When the wind finally stopped, she asked Osama to fetch the basil plants and the jerry cans of water from the car. She poured the water over the grave and laid out the basil plants, and then she took out a handful of flower seeds from a pouch stuffed in her cleavage. ‘These will grow for you, Tahani,’ she said, scattering the seeds.

‘Poor Tahani,’ she continued tearfully, taking in the barrenness of that wasteland. ‘Even your final resting place is withered.’

A few villagers stood a little way off and stared from behind the dunes at this scene of grief over a long-gone corpse. Tahani’s mother hurled sand at them, cursing, and then threw herself down on the grave and clawed at the dirt.

Osama pulled her away with his mother’s help, and they got in the car and drove straight back to Jeddah.

15

Pain is like a mythical creature. It subsides but never dies, and when it returns, it comes back with a vengeance. It is compounded as we endure the pain of both the original event and its recollection. Pouring salt over a rival’s wound reopens our own wounds.

That is how I became afflicted with Tahani all over again.

Whenever his boss, Nadir, was around, Osama could not leave his side. But when Nadir, who was also the Master’s brother, went out of town, Osama would spend the entire time tormenting me with the memory of Tahani.

When Osama disappeared for an entire week, I assumed Nadir had sent him on some business outside Jeddah. He wore a stony expression when he resurfaced at a function put on by the Master for a group of businessmen. He sat at the back of the hall with his sunglasses on, fingering gold prayer beads. He remained impassable as waves of enthusiastic applause greeted the Master’s speech. Reclining in his chair with his legs stretched out, it was impossible to tell exactly where he was looking because of the dark glasses.

‘Why is Osama wearing sunglasses at night?’ Uncle Muhammad asked.

It went without saying that our employers paid us no heed; it was up to us to look out for one another. Uncle Muhammad’s remark shamed me. I certainly had not been paying much attention to anyone and I was generally indifferent to people’s actions. I interacted with others like a casual passer-by whose only purpose was to reach his destination. Not that I had a destination. I did not know where I was heading, but I kept going like a robot and my heart kept pumping blood through sclerotic veins, unaware of how tainted it had become.

Osama seemed impatient for the party to end. As soon as the guests jostled to gather their belongings and bid each other goodnight, he sprang to his feet. As he passed me he whispered urgently, ‘We’re hanging out tonight.’

It was more of a command than a suggestion. He did not wait for my response and turned to attend to his boss. He leaned down slightly to hear Nadir’s instructions and then stepped aside so that the two servants assigned to him could pick him up and carry him to his wheelchair.

Osama did not want to stay indoors, so we stepped out together.

The humid air of the night was somewhat relieved by the movement of the waves lapping against the earth-moving equipment parked across from the eastern wing of the Palace. There, a large sandy expanse had been levelled and planted with date and coconut palms. Spiralling beams of light bathed the tips of the trees with a glowing radiance that spread all the way to the surface of the water.

Osama’s eyes were puffy and red, and when I asked him if he had been crying, he did not answer. He just led me by the hand and walked in silence towards the seashore, clutching a small bag against his chest.

‘You’re not worried about getting your clothes dirty, are you?’ Osama asked, inviting me to sit down on the ground next to him.

Opening the bag, he reached in for a half-empty bottle of Black Label and took a swig. As he offered me some, he said almost casually, ‘They say you were the thief in Tahani’s bedroom.’

He was looking for some certainty that would put his suspicions to rest, but I did not oblige him. ‘Who’s
they
?’ I countered immediately.

‘For the last time, I’m asking you, was it you?’

‘And for the last time, I’m telling you, no, it wasn’t me.’

‘OK,’ he said slowly. His words now came out haltingly, as if he were having trouble breathing. ‘I have been crying,’ he admitted, ‘and I’ll tell you why so that you can help me look for that bastard who took Tahani’s life and ruined mine. And then we’ll kill him together – you and me. OK?’