Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (14 page)

Abd al-Barr looked at her from head to toe for a long time as he sat cross-legged. He waited until she finished while suppressing his exasperation and said, “She leaves the house anytime she wants to. Would you believe it, Ma’am, that she left the house while my daughter Amal was still nursing? I had to feed her myself using a bottle. Sharbat did not feel she had a sacred duty called motherhood.”

Then he went on to say, “Would you believe that she reported me to the Iraqi police saying I was pushing her to engage in immorality? They detained me for several days on her account until I proved myself by witnesses to my good character, neighbors who testified that I was above suspicion, and she couldn’t prove what she alleged.”

I said, “Please, folks, we are your guests, so let bygones be bygones. Thank God you’re both all right.”

She said, “He beats me until I vomit blood.”

He said, “My lot is not a good piece of land and it doesn’t get enough water, and yet my rate of production is high to the amazement of the whole village. I am an excellent farmer. Today, early in the morning I gathered okra and cucumbers. I sorted the produce according to quality, separating the better from the lesser quality so
I could sell it for a higher price. When I came home I found that she had mixed the two piles together again, wasting my hard work all morning long.”

We talked to them about cooperating to cope with being away from home and to bear life’s hardships, and how they needed to work side-by-side in order to succeed and to keep the family strong. Then we left after sensing that things were returning to normal.

Tahani came back with the airport manager and a waiter carrying in one hand a large brass coffee pot and dozens of round demitasses stacked together in a column in the other hand. He began to pour us bitter coffee fragrant with cardamom. The women cheered joyfully and Tahani passed around pieces of chocolate and cookies, saying, “Just a snack to tide us over.”

The coffee and the sweets dispelled our boredom and a merry mood prevailed. Umm Kulthum’s voice came over the airwaves after a long time that we spent listening to Fayrouz. Farida Sabri swayed with the music, mouthed the words in admiration and said in a loud voice, “Ya salam ya sitt!”

Sleepless and alone, rapt in ecstasy,

I talk to your ever-present likeness,

Tears flowing down my cheeks,

Not dreaming you’d be pleased with me,

Despairing of attention,

I am even deprived of your displeasure.

The airport manager engaged in a conversation with Angel Rushti about his school days in Egypt. There was a commotion at the outside gate and passengers arriving.

Widad Iskandar said as she pointed at the passengers standing outside the airport, “What have these people done to deserve this?”

The manager said, “For the time being, there’s nothing we can do for them. There’s a plan to upgrade the airport but it is still being studied.”

Tahani al-Gammal said, “If you built just a tent or even a tin roof, it would provide some protection and their suffering would be alleviated a little bit until God provides a better solution.”

Sarah Badr said, “It’s a lot worse during pilgrimage season in the port of Aqaba.”

The airport manager said, “I am at your service. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

Memories came back, playing games with me. They didn’t want me to enjoy any relaxation or companionship with the group I was sitting with, even though we didn’t get to meet much in Cairo. Abd al-Halim Hafez was now singing about love, eyes calling out and longing and hearts.

After I came back from Baghdad I was busy house-hunting in Cairo, being pregnant, giving birth, and caring for a young son. I didn’t have enough time to connect again with professional colleagues and friends. My life in Egypt was quite different from the life I made for myself in Baghdad. But it was a temporary phase that would soon come to an end, especially with my mother and motherin-law nearby. I tried to convince myself to overcome my fear of not knowing where I was heading, as the voice of Abd al-Halim Hafez sang his pleas to his heart not to run away but to give in to love and its commands.

This present trip would not bring
al-Zahra
Baghdad bureau back to life and would not bring its scattered personalities back from all corners of the world. It was a phase that had come to an end, the good with the bad. If only I could find out where Anhar was now, that would be the best news of all and I could correspond with her from Cairo without any fear on her part. Early on, during the first days of her disappearing without a trace, I had concluded that she most likely had run away from Hilmi Amin and that he alone held the secret and could answer the question whether or not this is what had happened. He was the only one who knew whether their story together was behind the disappearance or there were other
reasons for it. I couldn’t ask him even though I imagined that our relationship allowed me to broach the subject; I decided to leave it up to him to find the appropriate time to tell me himself. I soon changed my mind as I heard the pained voice of Tante Fatma, Anhar’s mother, as she received me in tears asking, “Did you find anything about Anhar, dear daughter?”

Many months had passed and so many things had changed before I could turn the story of her disappearance into a game of riddles, using clues from Papa Sharo’s famous children’s programs on the Egyptian radio, by asking for instance, “I wonder where you are, Marzuq?” Then in a surprised tone of voice, “The island’s crown?” Then in a tone of despair, “The bowl?” When I pull this away, Hilmi Amin would smile calmly and change the subject.

I shrugged my shoulders. I wanted to shake off the memories but, instead of falling off, they climbed onto and into my head.

I had noticed that Hilmi Amin was growing more tense. He put off going to Cairo until several issues had been resolved. At one of the conferences we met Samir Latif, a former high-ranking media official. He was very reserved with Hilmi but I didn’t want to draw the bureau director’s attention to that. I did not express any objections when Hilmi asked him to take a letter to Tante Fayza, saying, “Please call her and tell her that the shawl she wanted me to send to her will be a little late.”

Samir said, “What shawl?”

Hilmi said, “An Iraqi shawl for the winter, I won’t be able to go to Egypt in the near future. I’ll find a way to send it with one of my colleagues.”

Two days later I was surprised when Tante Fayza called me at home. She sounded very worried. She asked me about Hilmi’s news, the story about the shawl and whether he was sick.

I told her no, that he was not sick but that the colleague he had asked to carry the shawl said that he was carrying extra baggage and couldn’t bring the shawl to her, and that Hilmi wanted her to know that he would send it to her at the earliest opportunity.

She said, “He frightened me and the girls very much. I was surprised when he called at midnight, then he hung up without telling me who he was. I gathered from the sounds of car horns around him that he was calling from the street as if he were afraid of something or another. Please, Nora, tell me the truth.”

I said, trying to calm her down, “Please don’t be upset, Tante, and I’ll have him call you tomorrow evening because telephone service in the morning is really lousy. If there’s no service at all he will send you a telegram.”

I told him what happened. He got very upset and promised to call her in the evening. I told him, “Anhar can help you if you can’t get through. She can use the telephone at the Iraqi News Agency. We don’t usually ask them for anything, but this is an exceptional circumstance.”

He said, “Keep Anhar out of Fayza’s business.”

I said to Hilmi Amin as we were on our way to al-Khalsa that I noticed that I liked the homes that I entered by chance better and that I found in them all the information and human-interest stories that I needed for my work. Then Abd al-Barr would come quickly if he found out that I had entered a house other than the one he had recommended, and he would just sit there like a monkey on my back. And of course I would not be able to shake him off, especially at meal times. I asked Hilmi not to accept his invitations. I said to him, “Last week I reluctantly accepted all invitations from peasants while at their homes and insisted it just be some aged cheese and Egyptian bread, all just to keep Abd al-Barr at arm’s length.”

At the entrance of the village a young boy told us that Engineer Mahdi wanted to have some tea with us.

When we finished the tea, the peasants who had gathered in the engineer’s office exploded, all asking, “Why do you know this man? Why do you support him? He is bad. He steals his neighbors’ crops and beats his wife and doesn’t give her any food. He is quarrelsome for no reason and he even doesn’t know how to farm.” One of them said it and they all burst out laughing.

Mahdi the engineer listed many details about the problems that Abd al-Barr created. He concluded by saying, “I want to keep Abd al-Barr away from the village so that the project can proceed the right way.”

Hilmi Amin said, “I’ll vouch for him one last time and I promise you that his attitude and actions will improve.”

He went to him in his house and came back. I didn’t find out what took place in that meeting, but I noticed, as the days passed, a change in the way Abd al-Barr treated me and that he behaved more calmly. The village realized that Abd al-Barr’s personality was changing.

The book began to take shape and whenever I finished transcribing one cassette tape, I went back to record another, as Hilmi Amin encouraged me to get it done before the bureau’s circumstances, the country we were living in, and the situation in Egypt changed. I did not have the same worries nor did I feel any impending changes on the horizon. I wondered what would make Iraq close the bureau and what conditions would make the magazine close it. We didn’t cost the magazine anything. They could change the bureau director or terminate my job, but our success made that impossible now. Surely Hilmi Amin was just exaggerating everything.

The 18th and 19th of January demonstrations in Egypt provided a rude awakening from my dreams. Hilmi Amin’s words about the necessity of finishing certain tasks quickly before conditions changed now appeared logical and the idea of freezing the activities of the bureau or changing its management and workers seemed likely despite all the success that we had attained.
Al-Zahra
magazine’s newest issue came out with the sensational title on the cover: Days of Fire.

On the cover was the picture of an old woman wearing an ordinary black galabiya that women of the poorer classes usually wore, carrying a bottle of whiskey. Behind her were broken shop windows and smoke. The headlines inside read: “The government opens juvenile houses of correction, letting out inmates to turn the people’s
uprising into an uprising of thieves,” written and reported by Fahmi Kamil, Sabri Hanafi, and Mahmoud Othman. Other headlines read: “Another Cairo Fire”; “The Hungry, Deprived People’s Uprising.” Among the reports was one that read: “The vice president’s house in Alexandria was looted and sixteen television sets were found in the house. Central Security forces used tear gas to disperse the masses that came out to demand a life of dignity.”

I felt as if I were on a small boat tossed by giant waves in a tumultuous sea. The sense of confidence that I had acquired working in an Egyptian press bureau disappeared. I was in a sea without end, facing an unknown destiny. The problems that concerned me were not just Iraqi problems, now they were joined by Egyptian problems. Iraqi journalists gathered around us asking us about the news. We answered their queries and we accused the Egyptian government of collusion in the incidents. They expressed admiration for the Egyptian press, especially
al-Ahali
(The Population) newspaper and the magazines
Rose al-Yusuf
and
al-Zahra
.

Muhammad al-Jaz’iri said, “We learn from the Egyptian press everything against the government.”

Hilmi Amin said, “There has been a liberal tradition for a long time in Egypt. If opinions of the opposition did not find an outlet in the press, they would find their way in some other manner. But generally we go through phases: sometimes the government is forced to allow some freedom of expression, then suddenly attacks the press and once again shows its vicious fist.”

Mahmoud Bulhaj whispered in my ear, “Our press used to be more free before.”

The Egyptian government accused the left of inciting the masses and we heard of widespread detentions among journalists and accusations that leftists were lackeys and agents of foreign powers and that they took part in plots to overturn the regime. New waves of Egyptian leftist youth, most of whom were members of al-Tagammu‘, began to arrive in Baghdad. They came to our office, most of them with letters of recommendation from Khalid Muhyiddin or Rifaat al-Said
or some veteran leftists who were colleagues of Hilmi Amin, to help them find jobs. Some had been arrested and detained previously in the student uprising of 1972 or during the latest uprising. Some of them were still pursued by the police. They would pay a visit, or, for some, several visits, to the office before I’d hear of them settling down in or around Baghdad. Among them was Basyuni. There was also a woman who puzzled me for a long time and of whom I changed my opinion several times. Hilmi Amin had introduced her to me one morning in the office, saying, “Dr. Ragya, M.D.”

After she left he told me, “She and her husband are members of a new communist party. Her husband was arrested by chance as the police were raiding an apartment in Heliopolis. They thought they were the intended targets, so they quickly burned their papers and the rising blowing smoke gave them away. Her husband helped her escape from a door in the back of the apartment. She stayed in hiding until she was able to travel. A member of al-Tagammu‘ brought her to me yesterday and I took her to Mahmoud Rashid’s house to spend the night. We’ll find a job for her in a nearby hospital, God willing.”

I said, “Did Mahmoud Rashid agree to put her up so simply?”

He smiled and said, “Isn’t it enough that I introduced her to him?”