From Khaled Alesmael’s ‘Selamlik’ – ARABLIT & ARABLIT QUARTERLY

Selamlik, out this April from World Editions, is the story of a man finding love in Syria just as his world is shattered. This excerpt, from early in the novel, gives a sense of both the sexual heat and the fear of Syria’s dictatorship that twine together to propel the novel forward. It is a scene marked by new beginnings, desire, and a lurking threat of unrest.

In Room 333, Part 1

By Khaled Alesmael

Translated by Leri Price

The heat of the room enveloped me as I removed my T-shirt and tossed it on top of my bag on the bed that was to be mine. He seemed to have left the windows closed and the blinds raised, so the room had been exposed to the boiling midday sun. I left the door open for some air. His bed smelled of his perfume. I turned on the light and stood in the centre of the room, scrutinising every detail of it. His bed was unmade, his pillow folded and thrown on top of the blanket. There were used, dried-up maté leaves in the bottom of a cup abandoned on the table beside a metal teapot and a jar with more maté leaves inside, a cassette player, and a red plastic alarm clock. Medicine boxes were scattered along shelves in among books and cassettes. A sheaf of papers covered the seat of the chair. When I opened the window a cool breeze blew through the room, sending the papers on the chair flying as the wind left through the door to the corridor. I hastily locked the door and collected the papers from the ground.

I cleaned the table and the floor, tidied up the medicine boxes on the shelves, and designated one shelf for tapes and another for books. I left his bed as it was. I took my clothes from my bag. There wasn’t much: a pair of shorts, three cotton T-shirts, and some briefs. I realised he had left me an empty corner of the wardrobe, so my clothes went there. To his books, I added two I had brought with me, Where Angels Fear to Tread and an assigned text of theatre criticism. I tried to familiarise myself with Ali’s books but didn’t have the stomach for photos of skin diseases and inflammations, so I looked through his music collection instead.

Most of the tapes were by a singer called Mustafa Youzbashi; I’d never heard of him. I chose a cassette at random and scanned the list of songs: “I Missed Your Eyes,” “How Can Your Heart Have Deserted Me?” I would later learn he was one of Ali’s favourite singers. I was about to press play when I remembered the whole country was in mourning and music wasn’t permitted. So instead, I took the tape and threw myself onto his bed, imagining the kind of music it played and picturing Ali listening to it.

At about two in the morning I was sitting on his chair with the window open as wide as it would go. The night was filled with an unfamiliar silence, and my body refused to relax. Frightening thoughts came to me: what would the country’s first morning be like without the president? His face would no longer be everywhere, hanging on the front wall of classrooms in every school and college and institute throughout the country. What would happen now? The country had been under his gaze for so long, I had almost come to believe he was God-like, immortal. I checked the door was locked, took off my underwear and slipped into Ali’s bed. I let myself inhale every trace of himself he’d left in the bed. Fatigue finally overwhelmed me, and I fell into a deep sleep.

I was woken by the sound of suitcase wheels and footsteps in the corridor. Sunlight filled the room; I’d forgotten to draw the curtains. I checked the alarm clock and saw it was already midday. My back, chest, and arms were drenched in sweat, and the sheets were soaked. When I put on my shorts and opened the door, I saw a group of students hurrying along the corridor, carrying or dragging suitcases behind them. I passed them on my way to the toilets, which were empty. Outside I could hear students chatting and the sound of engines running. I glanced through the window and saw a long line of buses with students clustered around them.

“Where are you from?”

I turned around to see who was speaking. A young man in his late twenties had appeared from nowhere. He was short, and his tousled hair betrayed that he too had only just woken up. He wore glasses with thick lenses. Startled, I answered honestly that I was from Deir Ezzor.

He introduced himself as Doctor Omar. He came towards me, stopping at the window to look out, and said, “The
Alawite students will go back to their villages in the mountains.” Then he turned to me and smiled. “They are grieving because they thought their hero and leader would rule forever… idiots. They’re scared of what might happen now. Their man sowed a lot of resentment towards them, so they think it’s best for them to leave. Particularly a place full of young people rebelling against the policies of a dead ruler. Don’t you think?”

His accent indicated he was from near Idlib. I knew not to reply freely—his speech was suspiciously provocative, and I wondered if he was one of the Mukhabarat, trying to draw me out.

I left without a word and took refuge in my room. The sight of the buses outside, and that brief interaction, had finally made me notice the tension, even the danger, starting to pervade the campus.

My bag was still in the middle of the room, wide open, staring into my face like it was pleading with me to leave. I felt an urgent need to flee. My overwhelming desire to seduce Ali was fraught with danger—he came from an Alawite family, one with military authority no less. If I made a single false move in front of him, especially regarding current events, it could put not only me but my entire family in danger. I hoped he wasn’t coming. Then I hoped he would surprise me and open the door right at that moment, as my thoughts whirled. I picked up my novel for distraction, but it didn’t work.

I left the room to call my sister, taking E. M. Forster with me, and ran downstairs to the public telephone that stood in front of the building. I took my place at the end of a long queue of people, my book stuck to my left hand. The sun beat down mercilessly on the queue and I used the book to protect my head from burning. Everyone looked sullen. Inside the phone cabin I could see a huge man; all I could make out of him was his shaved head and his back. He was shouting but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. His accent was strange. His voice rose as he hurled abuse down the receiver. Eventually he ended the conversation by beating the handset against the telephone as if hoping to smash it. The man emerged from the booth glowering, his eyes flashing, and now I saw that a thick black beard covered the lower half of his face. He passed the rest of us in the queue, screaming at us like an army officer: “Hafez Assad isn’t dead, you sons of bitches. The only dead people around here are the ones who think the leader has gone anywhere.”

He spat into the air—spat on God, as we say—and left.

“I’m so glad to see you.” A voice came from behind me, bringing with it a cool and refreshing smell. I turned around to face the sun and squinted, only to see Ali’s smile through my eyelashes. The beads of sweat on his forehead were on the verge of sliding down and in the two days since I’d seen him his beard had grown. “Let’s go back to the room, it’s too hot out here,” he said quietly. He was wearing a grey cotton shirt and black shorts. I didn’t risk clinging to him the way I wanted to, but as I went to shake his hand in greeting I found myself reaching for a hug.

Room 333 felt small with him there, and a certain friction between our bodies seemed to raise the temperature every time we moved. He sat on the chair, removed his shoes, lifted his feet onto his bed, and undid the top buttons of his shirt. He glanced down to his dishevelled bed and then to mine, which was bare.

“I’m glad you slept in the room last night,” he said. I was excited to be alone with him but mortified he knew
I’d slept in his bed. He took off his shirt to reveal a toned torso and a light scattering of chest hair, and skin bronzed from hours spent basking in the sun. “It was kind of you to tidy up,” he said, hanging up his shirt in the wardrobe. I couldn’t take my eyes off his chest, though part of me wanted to say I was leaving and going back to my sister’s house.

I turned away, clutching E. M. Forster so tightly that my hands were shaking. I was terrified of giving in to my desire. But before I could do anything, Ali drew me towards him, taking my hand and kissing it softly. I moved away instinctively, but he held me close from behind. I felt his hands slide over my arms and take hold of my wrists, his warm lips on the nape of my neck. His chest hair brushed against my back as he held me firmly against his body. I could feel his warm breath on my ears and neck. I closed my eyes and tumbled freefall into the expanse of his body.

Khaled Alesmael is a writer and journalist from Syria, where he was co-founder of a major music radio station. Now based in London, his writings on sex, LGBTQ+, and migration–in both English and Arabic–have a dedicated international readership. Throughout his career, he has lived and worked in several capital cities in the Middle East and Europe and received the International Visitor Program to the US for his work as an environmental journalist. His debut novel Selamlik has been widely acclaimed and was shortlisted for the 2021 German SKOUTZ Award.

Leri Price is an award-winning literary translator of contemporary Arabic fiction. Price’s translation of Khaled Khalifa’s Death Is Hard Work was a finalist for the 2019 National Book Award for Translated Literature and winner of the 2020 Saif Ghobash Banipal Prize for Arabic Literary Translation. Her translation of Planet of Clay by Samar Yazbek, also published by World Editions, was a Finalist for the 2021 National Book Award for Translated Literature. Price’s other recent translations include Sarab by award-winning writer Raja Alem and Where the Wind Calls Home by influential Syrian writer Samar Yazbek.