From Mohammed Alyahyai’s ‘The War’

It’s publication day for Mohammed Alyahyai’s The War, in Christiaan James’s translation. Rather than depicting the Dhofar War directly, The War unfolds through memory, (mis)perception, and the instability of the self. In this opening passage, Issa Saleh prepares for an evening gathering—only to find that something, or someone, has slipped out of reach.

From The War

By Mohammed Alyahyai

Translated by Christiaan James

When he emerged from the kitchen with a silver tray adorned with larks and golden roses, she was nowhere to be seen. Two martini glasses stood tall on the tray, each holding a pair of olives, bobbing in the clear liquid like disembodied eyes. Alongside the stemware rested small ramekins of bottarga and avocado-tomato-mint dip, drizzled with lemon juice to temper its spicy tang. Still, he could not find her.

Soheil Muhhad manned the wet bar, engrossed in his phone, while Khalil Zahir lounged on the sofa beneath the bookshelf, lost in thought as he stroked Antonio’s white fur and talked with Said Qaysar.

In the corner of the living room, the television emitted a faint glow, displaying five dark-skinned girls silently gyrating in a line, accompanied by a whisper of music.

He had deliberated over the evening’s playlist, making sure to include her beloved ‘Bolero’ as the finale. Yet, to start the night on the right note, he had chosen Ella Fitzgerald, whose soulful voice had always captivated her. “A voice like the delicate kiss of a cool morning breeze as it caresses a verdant field,” she once poetically described it, in a memory now lost to time.

She prescribed music to him like medicine, as she believed it was the therapy he needed, and he willingly complied. However, at times, that remedy had unexpected side effects, as angels departed and devils descended amidst the howling winds and roaring floods. Now, despite scouring every corner of the room, he failed to find her, even though she had arrived just ten minutes earlier.

He delicately placed the tray on the counter, wary of spilling the shimmering liquid, then glanced over at the guests. Soheil Muhhad remained in his usual spot, absorbed with his phone, a habit he rarely deviated from except when interrupted by a call or text. Only then would he retreat to the balcony or a secluded corner of the living room. They would jest with him, asking if he’d managed to repair a jet engine over the phone. Nevertheless, when he did manage to fully engage, unencumbered by distractions, his company was enjoyable, if filled with banal jokes. The aircraft engineer had little interest in “serious talk”, unlike Krystyna Said and Khalil Zahir, who immersed themselves in discussions about literature, art, and politics.

As for the unfamiliar guest, Krystyna Said had introduced him upon their arrival, identifying him as a friend from their homeland named Said Qaysar. His name slipped from Issa Saleh’s memory almost immediately, but he saw Said seated on the sofa next to Khalil Zahir, engrossed in conversation and exchanging warm smiles as if they had been friends for years.

Returning to the kitchen, Issa Saleh entertained the idea that she might have slipped out through a side door, mirroring his own exit into the living room. Yet she was nowhere to be found. Glancing out the kitchen window, he spotted her magenta VW coupe gleaming under the parking-lot lights, bathed in the evening drizzle. His gaze shifted to the powder room adjacent to the living room, finding the door slightly ajar with the light on. He then turned his attention to the balcony, where the curtain was drawn shut.

Anxiety began to gnaw at him, causing his legs and hands to tremble uncontrollably. He climbed the stairs, methodically searching each bedroom, en-suite bathroom, walk-in closet. He looked under every bed and behind every curtain. Secretly hoping she had ventured upstairs and was concealed in one of these hiding spots, his imagination ran wild with erotic fantasies, recalling past surprises she had sprung on him.

Leaning against the bedroom door, he wiped his misty eyes on a shirt sleeve. She has a way of surprising me, despite not being one for surprises herself. But she does it for me. She knows just how excited I get to hear the jangling of keys in the door. She would stop by regularly and, every time she did, he would jump like a child.

Her dates with him were fixed; she would phone just before leaving her office at the university or her apartment on Massachusetts Avenue.

Before their breakup, he had settled into a comfortable routine with her, meeting every weekend or sometimes every other, as occasionally her work would interject itself into her life, reducing their meetings to twice a month.

In the days leading up to their breakup, he endured constant torment and anguish. His insides churned, his appetite vanished, and he felt like a mere shell of himself, sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of despair. He would hear the familiar sounds—the jingle of keys, the creak of the door, her footsteps on the parquet floor, and the clank of her keychain landing on the kitchen counter. Eagerly, he would rub his hands together, anticipating her arrival, yet when she finally appeared, he found himself unable to connect with her. Though he spoke, she remained unresponsive, meeting his affectionate words with a vacant stare and grey, lifeless eyes, as if she hadn’t heard him at all.

Stepping back, he positioned himself in front of the bed. With closed eyes, he summoned his vision of true love: a man and woman entwined, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, their bare bodies illuminated by the flickering flames. He envisioned the man’s gentle touch upon her porcelain skin, igniting a fervent passion that surged through his veins, leaving him trembling in awe of such a profound connection.

From below, the strains of music and the hum of conversation drifted up to where he stood. Was she now engaged in conversation with Sohail Muhhad, tucked away in a corner of the living room, and he had simply missed her? Sohail, who must surely be clinking his glass against hers, had studied aeronautical engineering at the University of Houston in Texas and worked for a subsidiary of the Boeing company in Herndon, Virginia. With his charm and good looks, ladies took note. He was jovial and quick with a joke. Yet all his relationships seemed to fizzle, and he would always show up at their evening get-togethers with some new young thing in tow. Tonight, though, he’d come alone.

Why had Soheil Muhhad come without a woman tonight? Had he just somehow missed her sitting in the living room?

As Issa Saleh descended the stairs, he mulled over these thoughts, taking each step cautiously, to ensure his unsteady legs would not betray him.

When she first had introduced him, she called him al-Jibali, the mountain man, and said he had left his cattle to roam on Mt. Samhan so that he could rear his “aeronautical cows” out in Texas. Chuckling, Soheil corrected her, “My cows and I travelled on the same plane, but they abandoned me as soon as they learned to moo in English. Ever since, I’ve had to adapt to life without them, my dear.”

On their first meeting, he failed to notice the Dhofari’s engineer-like sense of humour. It wasn’t until later that he recognized it and grew to admire the man, who lived his life in America much as he had back home, atop the winding terrain of Mt. Samhan: entirely unencumbered by the past. Carefree and fiercely independent, al-Jibali was, in essence, his antithesis, contrasting sharply with Issa Saleh, who was burdened by the weight of memories and shackled to the past.

He re-entered the living room, his presence fleeting, like a dusty shadow passing before them. Opening the front door, he stepped outside into the chilled evening air. With a press of the garage-door button to his right and a flick of the light switch, he illuminated the cluttered space, ensuring he wouldn’t trip over the scattered paint cans, firewood, lawnmower, and assorted odds and ends left behind by the previous owners. Dodging a near-trip over the rake, he continued onward, navigating carefully through the lifeless objects, his destination the door that separated the garage from the backyard, where, on sun-filled Saturdays, Krystyna used to relax on the wooden deck chair, the one on which he’d carved “Love is a deception” in Arabic. He had intended to inscribe “War is a deception,” but the knife slipped, changing حب to حرب, altering the words forever. He gave the cold wood a gentle pat, reminiscing about the times she would sit there, observing the drifting clouds against the vivid blue sky with her hazel eyes. Oh, the torment of memories!

Bathed in the glow emanating from the house, he surveyed the backyard. The lights revealed frozen puddles and a hoary dusting of frost over the grass, casting an ethereal aura over the scene.

How could she give up the warmth inside and slip out here so late at night—unless, of course, her goal was to torture me?

On that cold dark night, the wooden chair sat empty.

Returning to the living room, he scanned the space once more with weary eyes, his hands still trembling. Faces seemed to loom out from the walls, their smiles haunting him as he felt a tumult brewing within. Khalil Zahir, solemn and contemplative, gazed into the empty space, a cigar dangling from his lips and a glass of bourbon in hand. Antonio nestled into Khalil’s embrace, seeking a bit of warmth, while Said Qaysar (whose name he could not remember) sat beside him, smiling.

He felt ill at ease. Why are these faces all staring at me? And who is this stranger I’ve never seen before? And what’s he doing in my house?

Had Issa Saleh really already forgotten that Krystyna Said had introduced the man, when the two of them had entered a short while ago?

He wandered aimlessly, casting a glance at Khalil Zahir and Said Qaysar as they exchanged looks. Navigating past them, he narrowly avoided colliding with Sohail Muhhad, lost in his own world at the bar. Making his way to the balcony, he drew back the curtain and slid open the glass door, though he knew instinctively she wouldn’t be there. Still, it was his last hope.

Yet there she stood. Leaning against the wooden rail, she exhaled a puff of smoke, wrapped snugly in her burgundy leather coat, while icicles began to crystallise, hinting at the harsh winter ahead. Her gaze was fixed on the forest, illuminated by a faint smudge of moonlight peeking through the clouds, casting a soft glow upon the bare branches that stretched outward like gangly giants. Drawing in a deep breath, he felt his nerves settle and his shivering body gradually relax.

She looked at him. In that glance, he sensed both reproach and censure, and he felt the tips of her fingers pull him by the collar of his unbuttoned shirt.

“The cold is killing me. What took you so long?” she whispered in his ear.

His tongue was as heavy as a rock.

“Did you say you’d be standing out here? I looked for you everywhere. Even under the bed. I never would’ve expected you to be on the balcony in this weather.”

She smiled, and he saw the glint in her eye, a green amorous ocean. “You looked for me under the bed?” she said with a laugh.

Mohammed Alyahyai is an Omani author, journalist, researcher, and documentary filmmaker whose work spans fiction, essays, and political and historical studies. He holds a PhD in modern history and has worked across media and cultural institutions in Oman, the United States, and Qatar, while also contributing to the development of Oman’s literary scene through various cultural initiatives. His publications include several short story collections, novels such as The Pool of Desires, The War, and Hawalees, and the study The System of Governance in Oman: From the Elective Imamate to the Hereditary Sultanate, as well as the essay collection The Coming Spring: On Hope, Freedom, and Change. His writing has been translated into multiple languages, including English, Spanish, German, and Swedish. In 2023, his novel The War was awarded the Katara Prize for Arabic Novel (Published Novels category), consolidating his position as one of the leading contemporary voices in Omani literature.

Christiaan James is an American diplomat and literary translator. He holds a degree in Middle Eastern Studies from Harvard University and has lived and worked throughout the Middle East and North Africa, including Yemen, Tunisia, and Egypt. His first translation of Yemeni author Badr Ahmad’s Five Days Untold was longlisted for the Republic of Consciousness prize in 2022.