Throwing Sparks by Abdo Khal

Author:Abdo Khal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Qatar Foundation Publishing
Published: 2014-05-07T16:00:00+00:00

12

It had been a riotous night at the Palace and the Master and his companions were wasted.

The ashen threads of dawn seeped into the large hall strewn with bodies. Revellers were sprawled out everywhere, bloated with intoxication and slurring their words.

The evening had begun in a large circle that gradually disintegrated and scattered to the loud music of the band. The guests had shed their stiffness as a Khaliji ensemble, brought in especially for the occasion, belted out rhythmic dance tunes and the lead singer whipped the crowd into a wild frenzy. The girls shimmied and shook their bottoms skilfully while the men, their joints loosened, leapt around them gracelessly. By the closing number everyone had shed the last of their inhibitions and sprung to their feet. The excitement abated when the performance was over and the musicians packed up their instruments and left quietly with the singer.

The languid and dewy breeze had not yet dispelled the last of the night, and the Palace lights shimmered against the glassy surface of the sea, tinged with the first light of dawn. The glow cast by the lanterns suspended from the Palace balconies turned the waters into a vast turquoise canvas streaked with gold.

Fighting his hangover, a guest called Jalal Ma’eeni struggled to a half-standing position from his stupor. He turned his feet in the direction he thought was due east and his musical voice lifted in the morning call to prayer. By the time he was done, he had called the prayer in all four cardinal directions and was now facing north.

Still pitched on their stomachs, the other guests responded with almost involuntary motions. They could hardly move in their drunken daze. Joseph Essam, claiming he wanted to break down the barriers of religion, asked someone to demonstrate what he needed to do to join in the prayer. He lined up next to everyone else and began reciting from the Holy Bible until someone silenced him and suggested he should stand away from them if he wanted to pray.

Everyone lined up in two crooked rows behind Ma’eeni, who looked right and left and invited the women to form their own separate row next to Joseph Essam. Before he had completed the very first words of the prayer cycle – the takbeer – the Master struggled to his feet.

‘The only one who leads prayers around here is me, you ass,’ he exclaimed, grabbing Ma’eeni by the shirt-collar.

Ma’eeni sank to the ground and did not try to pick himself up. Sprawled on his back, he reached out for the closest liquor bottle and slugged whatever was left in it.

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

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