Читать книгу Oh, Salaam! - Najwa Barakat - Страница 9

CHAPTER 3

The light hadn’t gotten out of bed again that morning. The were still many clouds, wandering back and forth indecisively. They didn’t move on, nor were they persuaded yet of the need to dump their load of rain.

Luqman went down the street, thinking, “Perfect weather for a storm. Yellow clouds and no wind. Certainly time for a storm. Or maybe an earthquake.”

The shutters of the shops were closed. Where could he get a pack of smokes now? When he got to the festival, if he hadn’t found an open shop, maybe he would ask someone to give him a cigarette.

Here was that vile half-human coming, as always, between the cars! Coming, indeed, on his hands. Half of a human, relieved of his lower body, moving with the speed of a hare—or a tortoise. Whenever Luqman went out, he saw him. And whenever Luqman saw him, he was seized with an overwhelming desire to kick him. Didn’t he ever sleep?

If Luqman still owned his Range Rover, he would have slowed down a little to give the beggar the idea that Luqman would offer him a bit of money. That way, the beggar would stop and wait. Suddenly, at the last minute, Luqman would turn the wheel and run the beggar down. He would enjoy the screech of his rubber tires crushing bone. If only...

The mendicant half-human raised his hand with a pack of cigarettes. Luqman reached down to pay and take it. The beggar smiled! Oh, well. Luqman would put off the kick until the next time. Today he would forgive him on account of the smokes and his own good mood, and especially because of the festival.

But one morning, Luqman would get up just for him. This dead man who was up for sale. Or rather, this dead man who was free for the taking. Let’s say half a dead man. And when there was no one who would demand blood money, isn’t half a dead man better than a whole?

--

He arrived to find they had beaten him there.

A surging human sea of mixed ages, inclinations, religions, colors, and associations. They gathered together in every open space. The edges of the crowd hung like bunches of grapes from balconies, rooftops, electrical poles, and delivery trucks.

Goddamn them! When did they wake up? Most likely they had spent the night here to arrive before him, he and all the other sleepers.

Luqman forced his way with difficulty between shoulder-to-shoulder lines of humanity, heading for the edge of the square where someone had put up a tent with some low chairs underneath.

Out of breath, Luqman said, “A cup of coffee, please.”

The vendor said, “I wish I could! Between yesterday morning and dawn today, I’ve sold more than I normally sell in a week. I don’t have any coffee left. What would you say to a cup of tea?”

Luqman nodded in assent.

The vendor went on, “Man, everyone has been bored to death! We kill ourselves for festivals!”

Luqman looked over to where the people were gathering. “No kidding, and what a festival it is!” he responded. Meanwhile, his eyes roamed over the tables, covered with breakfast, that formed a circle around the square with the platform in its center. The platform was roped off to prevent the onlookers from getting too close.

The occasion was marked by a festive commotion.

Coffee, juice, and snack vendors made their way among the people, who had come alone and in groups. Vendors clinked glasses and tapped colored bottles with metal bottle openers, urging everyone to have fun and celebrate.

There were cookies, grilled corn, boiled fava beans, sandwiches, sweets.

Mothers spread blankets on the ground and took out their breasts to suckle their babies in plain sight.

Old folks were carried from their homes and set on low folding chairs.

Soldiers and police officers gathered here and there. They spoke in low voices as they smoked and watched the crowd out of the corners of their eyes.

There were photographers, reporters, tape recorders, cameras, telephoto lenses.

There were Boy Scout troops, civil defense squads, and other groups. Placards on sticks bore illustrations and slogans supporting one thing or another.

A pack of teenagers carried a drum and a small tambourine, improvising the cheering section that would have been seen at a soccer game or a wedding.

Girls wore their Sunday dresses and adorned themselves with their prettiest bracelets and necklaces. Perhaps they would turn some heads or catch the long-awaited husband.

And the men! Such manly men! Fathers and sons. They played backgammon, twirled their mustaches, or scratched their heads with a satisfied air, all the while guarding their women from stray glances and wayward thoughts.

“How did they know?” Luqman asked the vendor while dissolving an extra spoonful of sugar in his plastic cup.

“How did they know?” the vendor repeated. “From every television and radio! They’ve been announcing the news, day and night for a week.”

Luqman said, “Sure, but they didn’t specify the date, only the place.”

The vendor said, “That’s the way they are. They always think they are smarter than the people. All the same, the news leaked out. Don’t ask me how, but it leaked. Of course, if they had announced the date, you would have seen the entire country on the march, and—”

The vendor had not finished his sentence when he noticed movement in the front rows surrounding the platform. He dropped whatever he was holding and ran. Luqman followed.

A convoy arrived, composed of a truck, together with some cars and motorcycles, their sirens blaring. They stopped. A number of police officers got out and formed a solid perimeter between the public and the area near the platform on all sides. As Luqman watched them, a smile came over his face. “They think they’re in a movie, and—God!—they are acting it up!”

The crowd applauded. The teenagers’ drum resounded with vigorous pounding. The graceful torsos of girls who were born to dance swayed back and forth.

The vendor grumbled, “Man, come on! We’re tired! What are they waiting for?”

Luqman shrugged his shoulders. He turned away, having decided to move out of the vicinity so the vendor wouldn’t spoil the spectacle for him with his chattering questions and stupid comments.

“God! It’s an awesome sight!” he heard one person say as he forced his way with effort through the compact throng.

A woman shouted, still chewing her food, “Where are these heroes? Let’s go! Bring them out so we can see them!”

If it were up to Luqman, he would have rained down blows upon her and kicked her fat belly. He would have yanked her hair back and spat in her dirty mouth, full of food. If only...Ah, rest in peace, Albino! Everything you said about them is true. Scum! I swear to God, they are even worse than scum. A herd. Animals deserving slaughter at the guillotine!

Luqman stopped in despair. An immense desire to go back home to bed would have overpowered him had he not noticed that elegant, pretty blond standing nearby, apart from all the rest. She carried a radio transmitter in one hand, and she was fixing her hair with the other.

A huge man mounted the platform and said in the loudest imaginable voice, “If it isn’t completely silent this very instant, I’m going to clear the place out!”

Complete and total silence reigned.

The rear door of the truck opened. The two “heroes” got out and stood holding onto each other. The crowd went wild. Women trilled, children whistled. The two men lowered their eyes in shame. No, not shame. Something like a daze. Just like what happens to amateur performers when they go up on stage for the first time and are surprised by the size of the audience.

Luqman looked at the broadcaster. He saw her lifting the transmitter to her mouth and pouring into it a veritable flood of words mixed with saliva. What could she be saying?

He turned back to the “heroes” of the festival. They were clinging to each other even more than before. Oh, well. He’d leave them for a while and then return. Strictly speaking, these were only the preliminary preparations. The decisive moment, the essential moment he ought not to miss, was when they mounted the platform. Everything else was just details.

Luqman drew away from the throng in order to approach the broadcaster and come into her line of sight. She turned towards him. He smiled at her, and she smiled back flirtatiously. Then she returned to her transmitter, spitting out her stream of words.

A radio broadcaster! Luqman felt a stab of disappointment, and he pursed his lips. He would have preferred the smile to come from a television broadcaster.

He stood with his arms folded, leaning against a tree, his back turned to the stage where the festivities were unfolding. He began to stare at the broadcaster, not taking his eyes off her. He observed her closely this time, he did more than observe her. His ravenous gaze took her captive and began to grope her firm, luscious body. He knew she felt it from the beads of sweat gathering on her upper lip, which quivered slightly, and from the tone of her voice, which shook and jumped all over the place.

“...and after pronouncing the death sentence passed against them by the criminal court, the sole civilian judge approached the condemned and asked them whether they had any last wishes, or anything they wanted to say, before the sentence was carried out. The first man was shaking. Tears ran from his eyes, and his face had gone white. He said, ‘My last wish is that my mother won’t fall dead from sorrow on account of me.’ The other said, ‘I don’t have any last wishes.’ His strength failed him, and he wept.”

Luqman put his hand to his crotch. Come on! Get up, Partner! Stand up and enjoy the view of this splendid blond festival.

The broadcaster lifted a hand to scratch her breast with long, shiny red fingernails until a hard nipple protruded distinctly through her thin, white shirt. She produced the same effect on Luqman, only double.

The bitch! Luqman thought to himself. She was aroused but not at all distracted. Indeed, she went on smoothly without losing her train of thought.

“...They became even more terrified when they saw the scaffold and the nooses. They were unable to walk and visibly wilted after four steps. The first collapsed entirely and fell to the ground; the other stumbled. This prevented them from being dressed in the customary white execution gowns. So the guards carried them onto the platform.”

Luqman looked around. No one was watching him...watching them. Everyone was fixed upon the platform and what was taking place there. What if his partner gave the broadcaster a “good morning”? After being constricted, it could get some relief and a breath of fresh air...

“...The executioner swiftly put the head of the first man through the noose. Then he moved to the other and wrapped his neck with the rope. The wooden platform beneath their feet fell away, and the two men dangled in the air and began to jerk around until, after a few moments, they gave up the ghost. When the sentence was carried out, all the people cheered jubilantly and applauded. The number of those witnessing the execution is estimated to be in the thousands, from all different regions. The packed balconies and rooftops of the buildings surrounding the square testify to the size of the assembly.”

--

Luqman lifted his head and said, “Why don’t we go to your place?”

“Because I live with my parents,” she answered, grabbing his ears and bringing his mouth back down to her crotch.

Luqman lifted his head again and said, “No problem. What do you say we go to my place then?”

The broadcaster, both irritable and mean-spirited, responded, “My shift isn’t over yet! But in any case, it’s fine. You can leave right now, if you want to.”

Luqman laughed. “Are you serious? Where would I go? There’s no need to get angry, Miss...I’m at the lady’s command!”

The young lady dug her fingernails into Luqman’s back when she came, then her face relaxed all at once. She pushed herself back up in her seat and opened her eyes to stare at Luqman.

When Luqman moved to get on top of her, she pushed him away. “Sorry, I can’t help you. I’m still a virgin.”

Luqman smiled and nodded. He pulled away a hair that was stuck to his tongue and said, “No problem!”

But when he asked her to repay him in kind, she shook back her hair and fanned a hand in front of her face to show how uncomfortable she was from the heat. Luqman repeated his question in another way, grabbing her hand to...She jerked it away and fumbled with her key as she put it in the ignition and started the car. She folded her arms and began staring straight in front of her at the road. She was shaking.

Luqman kept watching her silently. Then he said, “Can I see you again?”

She turned and slapped his cheek. “Hell, no! Forget you ever saw me today. The best thing for you to do is forget about it. If you don’t, I’ll send someone who’ll make you forget your own name, got it?” She leaned across him to open the door. Then she pushed him out with her bare foot.

Luqman stood with his hands in his pockets. He lifted his eyes to the sky, laden with clouds. “That’s life, Partner! You win some, you lose some.”

He walked off.