Where Pigeons Don't Fly Read online

  WHERE PIGEONS DON’T FLY

  WHERE PIGEONS DON’T FLY

  Yousef Al-Mohaimeed

  Translated by Robin Moger

  Contents

  Part 1 A neck, a sword and leaden air

  – 1 –

  – 2 –

  – 3 –

  – 4 –

  – 5 –

  – 6 –

  – 7 –

  – 8 –

  – 9 –

  Part 2 Sandals emerging from the darkness

  – 10 –

  – 11 –

  – 12 –

  – 13 –

  – 14 –

  – 15 –

  – 16 –

  – 17 –

  – 18 –

  Part 3 Love, fear and darkness

  – 19 –

  – 20 –

  – 21 –

  – 22 –

  – 23 –

  – 24 –

  – 25 –

  – 26 –

  – 27 –

  Part 4 The elephant's last dance

  – 28 –

  – 29 –

  – 30 –

  – 31 –

  – 32 –

  – 33 –

  – 34 –

  – 35 –

  – 36 –

  Part 5 An old black bag

  – 37 –

  – 38 –

  – 39 –

  – 40 –

  – 41 –

  – 42 –

  Part 6 No one picks the lock

  – 43 –

  – 44 –

  – 45 –

  – 46 –

  – 47 –

  – 48 –

  Part 7 The jinn's deadly laugh

  – 49 –

  – 50 –

  – 51 –

  – 52 –

  – 53 –

  – 54 –

  – 55 –

  – 56 –

  Part 8 Dear Lorca, I stole no olives

  – 57 –

  – 58 –

  – 59 –

  – 60 –

  – 61 –

  – 62 –

  – 63 –

  – 64 –

  – 65 –

  A Note on the Author

  A Note on the Translator

  It is the severest of torments to be granted a mind that protests in a society that does not

  Abdullah al-Qaseemi

  Part 1

  A neck, a sword and leaden air

  Riyadh:

  Shepherds

  Driving the flock

  To the wolves.

  Ali al-Amri, The Widows’ Sons

  As the train moved out of Liverpool Street station at sunset on that mild July day in 2007 and headed north towards the coastal town of Great Yarmouth, Fahd al-Safeelawi felt happy.

  He had granted himself a two-day break from his exhausting job at the print and copy shop in order to wander the streets and parks of London, taking up residence in a modest hotel in Queensway near Hyde Park. He had frequented a small Lebanese restaurant where he tasted white rice again after a long abstinence and an unassuming Iranian place where the tubes from shisha pipes crept like serpents between the cane chairs scattered about the entrance. He had discovered a little pub with a wonderful Victorian atmosphere called The Happy Lion and spent his time roaming between Oxford Street and Trafalgar Square and sitting in new bars and cafés down by the river near London Bridge.

  Once inside the carriage he found a seat by a table on which he placed the backpack that had become part of his body and from its side-pocket pulled out a bottle of water and a box of Panadol Extra bought from a chemist’s on Edgware Road. He pushed a tablet to the back of his throat, followed it with a swig of water, then did it again. From the bottom of the bag he took out The Painted Kiss by Elizabeth Hickey, a novel about the relationship between Gustav Klimt and his young lover, Emilie, whose name Klimt had uttered as he died. Grown old, Emilie looks back over her life, from when she was a twelve-year-old schoolgirl taking art lessons from Klimt to the moment she moved his paintings from Vienna to the Austrian countryside. The book reminded Fahd strongly of a film he had seen a year ago, Girl with a Pearl Earring, adapted from a novel about the life of Dutch artist Johannes Vermeer, who painted a portrait of the same name. There was a delightful interplay between the two great novels.

  Fahd followed the flocks of words and then rested his head against the cold windowpane. He almost immediately dozed off and while he slept the train began to move. He woke suddenly, to find himself confronted with an elderly Englishwoman, sitting in the seat opposite and smiling at him. She was turning the pages of an interior décor magazine with a fascination only broken by his startled coming to. He began looking out at the greenery, the tiled houses, the cows and sheep as they passed before him like a rapidly spooling film reel.

  He thought of his close friend Saeed, who had called to check up on him three times in the nearly eleven months he had spent in Britain. Fahd considered rewarding him for these phone calls and his rare loyalty by surprising him with a call of his own from ‘the lands of the Franks’ as Saeed called them. There weren’t many names in his mobile’s address book: Hank, his friend Badr al-Ha’ili, a young Frenchwoman called Linda, Santia, his girlfriend and fellow student at the Spanish language school, and Neil, the young accountant who ran the print shop. And then there was Saeed, his friend from childhood and his shameless, wild youth in Riyadh.

  When he dialled the number and put the phone to his ear it wasn’t the standard ring tone that he heard but a song: a song that wiped out everything that had become his world and hurled Great Yarmouth into the sea, as though this unexpected song had the power to shove the peaceful town, with its old buildings, churches, pubs and promenade of white sand, its funfair and kind-hearted people, into the North Sea. And not only had the town flown away, but with it all the language, companions and contentment of his new life.

  Fahd felt a great yearning squeeze his neck and set his eyes streaming. At the same instant he was possessed by fear, a terror of the sheikhs—the fat men with long black beards he always saw at night, advancing with sharpened lances with which they pierced his pillow and riddled it with holes, the white feathers flying out until he couldn’t breathe, and he would awake in a panic, feeling that he was choking.

  He put the mobile down in front of him and, resting his elbows on the table, he held his head in his hands and began to cry, his slender body shaking with a strange hysteria. The elderly Englishwoman started towards him, gently touched his arm and murmured, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, mortified, ‘I’m fine,’ and turned his tearful eyes to the window.

  –1 –

  TARFAH AL-SAMITAN DIDN’T LIKE books that much, though she read crime stories and romances; she much preferred music and dancing. She loved Khaled Abdel Rahman’s melancholy voice, just as she loved Snickers and the Hilal football team and was obsessed with fashion accessories and sex.

  Late one morning in July 2006, Fahd had pulled over to wait for Tarfah outside Jarir Bookstore on King Abdullah Road, and she emerged at her slow, assured pace carrying a red carrier bag and a handbag. She got into the little car and as always, warned him not to set off until she had settled comfortably in the passenger seat. He turned the key and said, ‘Where to?’

  She didn’t have much time; she had to be back at the Academy in an hour.

  ‘Shall we get a coffee at Starbucks?’

  ‘Sure, but I thought Java Café had nicer coffee.’

  Raising her abaya over her head she said, ‘As you like, sweetheart!’ He went with her suggestion, though h
e didn’t agree that they should take the coffee with them as they drove around in the Riyadh morning.

  At the Starbucks in Wuroud he veered right towards the entrance to the family section.

  There was nobody about that morning other than a solitary van with an Indonesian driver sitting inside. Fahd parked next to him and turned off the engine. Tarfah hesitated.

  ‘Do you still want to do this?’ she asked.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to bring the coffees to the car and go?’

  He pulled the key from the steering column. ‘It’s better that we sit down, so I can get a look at you.’

  She glanced over at the Indonesian. ‘I don’t know. To be honest, the morning is a scary time.’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself; it’s all fine,’ he said confidently, opening the door.

  He got out and she calmly followed holding her carrier bag and the handbag embroidered with shield-bearing horsemen. They entered through a door on which swung a sign: Families Only. The place was filled with the invigorating smell of coffee. The glass door slid open and as the door glided slowly shut she held her forefinger to his mouth, touching it then taking it beneath her veil and giving it a kiss.

  ‘Honey!’

  Casting his eye over the partitioned wooden rooms with their hinged doors, he chose the furthest and held open the door, stepping back to make way for Tarfah, who brushed past, her eyes on his.

  ‘Cappuccino?’ he asked.

  ‘Anything from my sweetheart’s hand is sweet.’

  Fahd stood facing the Filipino employee while a young Saudi with his back turned scoured a milk jug with steam. He ordered a large cappuccino and a hot chocolate and had just glanced at the doughnuts and cookies behind the glass when he felt a draught brush him from behind. He wasn’t sure: had the outer door to the family section opened? Was it the wind of some ancient angel, lying in ambush? Was that the odour of Friday prayers? Of a damp toothpick? Was it agarwood oil, perhaps, or Indian incense from a Friday night wedding? Perhaps it was all of these. But one thing it most certainly was not, was the scent of a female body preceded by her perfume.

  ‘Peace be upon you and the mercy of God.’

  ‘And upon you be peace.’

  Fahd’s hand was pointing at a cookie decorated with pieces of chocolate but the moment he turned it began to tremble. He saw a face staring at him, a cream mashlah, delicate and striped, and a carefully groomed beard. The man said only, ‘Peace be upon you and the mercy of God,’ and left the rest to Fahd’s terror and his fear, which were more than enough to expose him. The sheikh was like a wily fox, startling his prey with his flashing eyes.

  Fahd’s shaking hand betrayed him as the man waited for him to fold without need for further questioning: That’s right, she’s not my wife, nor my sister, my mother, or one of my close female relatives: she’s my friend. In fact, I’ll be completely honest and up front with you: she’s my girlfriend, my lover. We came here to drink cappuccino and hot chocolate together while she consoled me over the death of my mother, whose passing has left me utterly alone. I can’t be sure, sheikh, if I would have kissed her today, or rather waited until the sadness had lifted from my wounded heart. But she may well have comforted me by hugging me and stroking my hair, might even have granted me light kisses.

  The mellifluous voice broke in on Fahd’s thoughts. ‘How are you, brother?’

  ‘Praise be to God.’

  ‘Your good name?’

  ‘Fahd.’

  ‘Are you here with anyone, Fahd?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fahd said, and, flustered, pointed to the last booth at the back.

  ‘Who is she?’

  Here he was, aiming his lance at Fahd’s eyes and pricking them out, as Fahd thought of all the stories he had read in the papers of people trying to make a run for it. A man in his forties tried to sneak out of a fourth floor window and was smashed to pieces when he fell … A young man fled with his girl and driving wildly they collided with a reinforced concrete barrier and died … Two men and their female companions drove the wrong way down the road in a bid to escape, hit an oncoming vehicle and all four died … A story from Tabuk, another from Sharqiya, a third from Ha’il, and now … This time the papers would write of a young woman from Starbucks who committed suicide by throwing herself into the roaring torrent of King Abdullah Road, the car wheels grinding her to paste in her black abaya, her beautiful shoes sent flying.

  ‘Who is that with you?’

  ‘My wife.’

  He could only lie and Fahd was certain the sheikh had seen the lie for what it was. There was even a small smile forming around his eyes as he said, ‘She’s not your wife, young Fahd. Tell me, and don’t be frightened. All we do is look after people and correct their behaviour.’

  Fahd recalled an interview in the newspaper Ukaz, in which the head of the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice had said they covered up over ninety percent of cases of illegal association between the sexes. Would Fahd and Tarfah be part of the ninety percent? The man’s face overflowed with sympathy and compassion, comfort and certitude. With his tall and slender body he was like a man standing by his son at the edge of a swimming pool, persuading him to take the plunge: right there beside him, ready to rescue him if it comes to it.

  ‘She’s not my wife. She’s my girlfriend.’

  Just like that he took the decision not merely to dive in but to strip off his swimming trunks and hurl himself at the water’s surface.

  ‘Don’t be worried. Come along with me. Just a few simple procedures and you can go on your way with the protection of God.’

  ‘But what about her? How can I leave her on her own?’

  He had scarcely finished the sentence before the man set off, saying, ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry: this is our job.’

  They were joined by a short, plump man with the eyes of a hawk and no mashlah.

  ‘Go with him, my son,’ the sheikh said.

  The man encircled Fahd’s wrist with an iron grip and tugged and it was at that precise moment that he realised today, Wednesday, 13 July, was to be his Day of Reckoning. There was a Day of Reckoning for everyone in this city: you died instantly, or passed safely across its threshold and were saved, or you carried it with you wherever you went, never to be forgotten, like a thief’s brand on your face.

  The sheikh left them, heading over to where Tarfah was sitting unaware, removing the red rose from the carrier bag where she had put it. She was sniffing it and waiting for her cappuccino, waiting to talk about the terrible week Fahd had spent following his mother’s death and his attempts to move her from the emergency ward of King Khaled Hospital to the department of forensic pathology at Riyadh Central Hospital. Now Tarfah would never get to wash away his sadness with her laughter and chatter. Instead, loathsome black ants would scale her ripe body and enter the chambers of her living heart. Her heart, her love and her life would die, the music and the gentle Gulf dances would die and the sash about her hips would become a hangman’s rope.

  As Fahd left the coffee shop the yellow sun was beginning to grow harsher and a thin policeman in baggy trousers, belt sagging beneath the weight of his holster, stood waiting by the door of a GMC SUV. He opened the two rear doors and indicated to Fahd that he should climb into the third row of seats. The policeman got in and was followed by the short, plump man who inclined his bulk towards Fahd and opened a bag under his nose: ‘Put your things in here. Everything in your pockets.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Fahd stupidly, then, seeing the man’s irritation, added, ‘The sheikh told me it was just a few basic procedures out by the car, and now you’re putting me in the car. Where are we going?’

  He spoke like a child refusing to go in on his first day at primary school. He put the bag down in front of him as the soldier looked over with evident distaste and shouted in a reedy voice: ‘Do what you’re told, boy.’

  Fahd took out his wallet and keys and placed them in
the bag.

  ‘Your mobile,’ the plump man said coldly, without looking at him.

  Shit, he thought to himself. What would he do if they opened the phone and searched through the names, the messages, the swapped pictures, the Bluetooth records, the …? Why hadn’t he asked to go to the bathroom in the coffee shop and chucked it down the lavatory?

  Taking the phone from his pocket he made an attempt to at least remove the SIM card. His hands were concealed behind the armrest but the man caught him at it and with unexpected strength plucked the phone from his grasp and put it in the bag. The man opened the ID and read out the name: ‘Fahd Suleiman al-Safeelawi …’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he added, with mocking relish.

  He opened the wallet and found a photograph of Fahd’s father in his forties, just before his death. That’s my father, may God have mercy on his soul. He switched on the mobile phone and paused at the password. He handed Fahd a pen from his pocket and the folder he was carrying.

  ‘Write down the password.’

  ‘No.’

  Surprisingly, the man didn’t become angry; he didn’t slap Fahd or set the skinny cop on him. Instead, he said quite simply, ‘No problem: it’s up to you.’

  Tarfah emerged following the sheikh, stumbling in her abaya as she wept and pleaded. From the other side of the window Fahd saw the hands he had kissed so often lifted to the sheikh’s face as though she were begging.

  She would be kept waiting outside the Starbucks for half an hour, even after the Committee’s vehicle carrying Fahd had left. Every luxury vehicle that passed by would slow down, the young drivers peering curiously out, while some of the café’s customers turned to the window to enjoy the show as though they were watching some drama from the natural world on the Discovery Channel. The lioness stalks her unsuspecting prey through the bush, moving her paws very slowly so as not to make the grass rustle, and thus did the sheikh move his paws, quiet and assured, as he guided his quarry to the ambush.

  Fahd put his head between his hands as he sighed and said, ‘There is no recourse nor strength save through God.’ Then, firmly and with a faint tremor, he muttered, ‘Oh Lord! Oh Lord, help us!’

  The short man with the eyes of a hawk and a brown spot on his forehead rebuked him. ‘You discover God after you’ve committed the sin.’