Summer is sputtering its last in Riyadh; the burning heat of memory and of August is slipping away and a relative cool pervades the mornings and the evenings. By nine in the evening, the temperature is barely above thirty-five celsius, the sun having dipped below the horizon a little before six.
In the darkness and the cool, a calm descends. Around the secure compound I am staying on, lights flicker on. Smoothed curves alternative with ramifying diamonds in Arabic designs crawling up the front of the porches facing the empty streets. In front of each house stands a watered lawn; a lone, proud and tall-standing palm; and a single lamp. Away in ordered ranks they stretch: house after house, lawn after lawn, palm tree after palm tree, lamp after lamp. And over it all spills the gentle pinky-orange light of the compound’s lights, as gentle as the air is still.
My evening run takes me past each one. A cat stirs. A lonely fellow jogger smiles as we pass. But life is hidden behind the drawn curtains. I am alone, caught in the spell of a compound watchtower, its bright flood lamp washing over me. And as I run in this new compound with this new job, do I feel the old being washed away?