Fiction

By Paul Ulrich
(Second of Two Excerpts)

The following comes from Saudi Match Point (2007, Blacksmith Books, 268 pages, HK$80), a thriller novel set in Saudi Arabia and about espionage, terrorism, oil and superpower rivalries. This excerpt, published with permission from Blacksmith Books, introduces Hajar, a naive local girl, the daughter of a radical cleric, terrified at the prospect of an unwanted arranged marriage. For more information: www.blacksmithbooks.com.


From the air, Riyadh's slum of Suweidi looked no different from the rest of the city: it had the same grid of streets, boxy white and tan buildings, tile-roofed residences surrounded by high walls and the occasional tree barely distinguishing one block from the next. Up close, the visitor saw migrant men, dressed in the garb of other Middle Eastern Countries, of North Africa, the Indian subcontinent or Southeast Asia. Perhaps more males in Saudi dress were apparent than elsewhere -- some running small roadside shops, a few toiling with deliveries of goods, but most lounging together at tea houses or cafes, unemployed, smoking from water pipes, drinking sugary tea and conspiring to get a better life.

Occasionally, a lone man accompanied a shrouded black figure on an errand. Presumably, these were Saudi women because most slum dwellers could not afford the immigrant servants, drivers, and maids that did the work for the more affluent Saudis living in the rest of the city. Even if a Filipino or Indonesian girl hid beneath the shroud, one would not know unless she spoke. Only a foolhardy woman would dare walk uncovered and risk the wrath of the mutawwas, the bearded and ill-mannered religious police who patrolled the streets in search of moral laxity. “Cover yourself, woman!” they would scream while beating the offender with a stick. If accompanied by a regular policeman, as was often the case, they would haul the criminal off to prison.

Westerners, and particularly Americans, did not venture into this part of this city. Nevertheless, the most visible signs of their fast-food culture had long ago spread even here, and as in other parts of the country, served as an obnoxious reminder to locals of their dependence on foreigners.

The state also feared the religious zealots, and this neighborhood was their stronghold, these were their people. In Friday sermons, the local clerics railed against all manner of evil -- from the West and from the ruling royal family itself, which was desperately trying to appease two masters in conflict: foreign governments, the buyers of its oil, and conservative mullahs, from whom the ailing king and his extended family of several thousand princes claimed their precarious legitimacy. At the urging of the U.S., these members of the ruling elite made token reforms, pursued homegrown al-Qaeda terrorists, or muzzled particularly obnoxious preachers who were inciting still further violence. To many, the efforts seemed perfunctory, perhaps even staged. Not free to voice concerns in public, wary foreigners made their views known in private and left. An exodus of Western specialists, some of whom had lived in the country for decades, had begun.

One cleric of Suweidi who exulted in these departures was Sheikh Saleh al-Qaatil. A large, heavyset man in his early fifties, Sheikh Saleh wore his thick head of hair dyed jet black atop a leathery face frozen in a near-permanent scowl. Perhaps the mask-like features marked the onset of Parkinson's disease; more likely, as his hands shook only when he became agitated, the rigidity reflected a man set firmly in his views. The product of a “weekend marriage” in Cairo, where a Saudi visitor married and divorced his mother in the space of a weekend, Sheikh Saleh came on the hajj to Arabia as a young man and never returned, but instead renounced all things from his home country except the accent, which he couldn't shake.

Now at home, lord of a cramped four-room apartment divided between two wives and their five children, he was speaking to his only son in the one room, the largest, that served as the men's quarters. “Tariq, what did you think of my sermon today?”

“Your finest and most inspiring. Afterwards, the worshippers continued to murmur angrily, and some that I know vowed they would take action. I'll do what I can to help them.”

“Good. Just don't tell me what plans you have. Those same two men who came last week again warned me to stop.” The sheikh paused, thinking. “But I won't, even if it means going to al-Hair prison. If they do take me, it'll be hard for you. The brethren may provide the family with some financial support, but not so much as my usual wages.”

Although the women in the household busied themselves with chores in the adjacent rooms, they strained to hear through the thin walls.

Sheikh Saleh continued, his voice rising, “It's high time we marry off your half-sister. At 20, she's becoming an old maid like Aisha. I've put up with Hajar's pleas long enough. An unmarried woman is useless to a family—consuming food, taking up space, requiring constant vigilance.”

His words carried into the neighboring rooms; in one, Aisha fumbled with the piecework knitting that brought some income to supplement the sheikh's salary; in the other, Hajar sat frozen beside her mother.

Tariq asked, “Who do you intend for Hajar? With her beauty, she could fetch a handsome dowry.”

“I've already spoken with Sheikh Muamar. He's willing to take her.”