My Friends by Hisham Matar

Author:Hisham Matar [Matar, Hisham]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2024-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

49

Mustafa’s friends now came from a different circle entirely, a world of political Libyans living in exile. He joined one of the opposition groups that had its headquarters in Cairo but with several members in London. He had given an oath of loyalty in a special ceremony, witnessed by the leaders of the group. A lunch followed.

“It was a celebration,” he told me proudly.

“Did you have to prove you’ve been circumcised?”

“Go on,” he said, “mock away. Live your reluctant life. One day you will see.”

“See what?”

“See that you have to commit to something.”

“But I have.”

“I mean something beyond yourself.”

“I have,” I said again, and was thankful when he did not persist.

He must have sensed my relief, because I then saw pass over him a shadow of that magnanimity that the merciful experience when they are reminded of their power over others, and reminded too of the pleasure that they take in their ability to restrain and moderate it.

We sat in that silence before he asked, “Why not come to one of the dinners, see with your own eyes?”

I refused, and in the weeks that followed each time he asked again it weighed heavily on me how best to refuse. Then, one of the leading members of the group passed away. There was good reason to suspect that he was poisoned. Mustafa had liked and admired the man very much, which, given his general reluctance toward praise of any kind, made me take note. A wake was being held at the dead man’s house in Willesden Green in northwest London. Mustafa was unusually nervous and did not want to go alone. We took the tube there. When we emerged from the station, the sky was thick with clouds. The sun was entirely shut away. I could tell Mustafa appreciated my being there and, even though I silently regretted having come, as we walked down the unfamiliar suburban streets, I was consoled by the fact that I was pleasing my friend.

The house was huge, occupying an entire block, and had a fleet of black BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes parked outside. Mustafa had that same air of pride as he had when he first brought me to the brothers’ house in Kensington. The wealth of his friends fortified him and, although the confidence it brought never lasted long, or perhaps exactly because it did not, he sought to regain it.

He pressed the doorbell and we waited. There was something outrageous about the familiar scents of orange blossom and Libyan cooking: lamb and cinnamon and steaming couscous and the sharp edge of freshly made harissa. I said I could not go in and turned to leave when Mustafa grabbed me by the arm.

“If you leave now,” he whispered, “I’ll never forgive you.” The true volume of his words was in the eyes.

We were welcomed in by a servant. Judging by his manner and features, I asked if he was from the Philippines.

“No, sir,” he said, smiling. “Malaysia.”

“What is it to you?” Mustafa asked me in Arabic.

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