Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (50 page)

She said in anger, “Aren’t they your friends?”

In a tone of resignation he said, “Yes. But they hardly have enough to eat themselves.”

She said, “I am not convinced. Why do you insist on staying here? This is not our country. And it is not safe.”

Then she started sobbing. The girls got up and stood around her. Mervat said, “Mom, don’t you get tired of this? Every day?”

Fayza said, “I won’t give up on this demand until he leaves. I want him to get out of this place.”

I took Yasir and Rana by the hand and asked Rasha to come with us to buy some sandwiches. As I was moving away I could hear him screaming so hysterically that people noticed and stopped to watch the two of them.

The quiet in the park amplified the sounds of the argument despite the isolation that we had assumed would insulate us from the crowds. I began to cry in silence. Yasir said, “Are you crying because Rana took the pigeon?”

I said, “No. Because we forgot to bring the ball.”

Rana said, “Let’s play with the pigeon, Tante.”

I hugged Rasha, telling her: “Don’t be afraid. Tante Fayza is afraid that your father would be arrested here. He is not engaged in any political activity that would get him arrested. The only problem he might face is that they would ask him to leave Baghdad. She has every right to be afraid and suspicious because she hears every day about the arrest of one or another of his Iraqi friends. These are regimes that should not be trusted at all.”

Mervat came over and said, “She’s calmed down a little.”

I wondered whether Hilmi Amin was trying to secure a permanent place that Anhar could reach at any time, so that they wouldn’t lose each other forever if he were to move somewhere else. But after all, he was a journalist who signed his articles, and if he moved to work for any Arabic newspaper the news would spread and Anhar would undoubtedly find him. Why was he so attached to Baghdad? Was it just financial security or was there something else that I didn’t know which he had not revealed? Maybe I’d find the secret in his memoirs. Why didn’t I give the memoirs more time? Why was I reading them at such a slow pace? Was I afraid? Yes. Why? I didn’t know. Perhaps it was because I didn’t really want to know. Perhaps because I wanted everything that happened to us to remain mythical, and that would be lost if it were revealed; it would be turned into something ordinary and everyday, even if it were the everyday of a valiant warrior.

The waiter placed before me a plate of tikka, tomatoes, grilled onions, and hot bread, and said, “Enjoy it in good health.”

I thanked him and reached for the sweet onions and began chewing in silence, staring at the distance, absently following indeterminate figures standing up or sitting down and going about their business. I wished I could go back to my house in Dora and sit in the garden on the metal swing and its cushions that knew my body well, next to the charcoal grill, and hear its crackling sound, following Yasir as he ran after Hatim who held onions in his hands, shouting, “Let me put it on the fire,” and Hatim answering, “The fire might burn your hand.”

I could hear a voice in the distance singing. It was a recording of Nazim al-Ghazali singing about love between a Muslim man and a Christian woman. I asked the waiter to turn up the volume a little and let the song make its way to my ears as I remembered buying the same cassette for the second time.

A long time had passed since Tante Fayza and Hilmi Amin’s daughters visited him. The arrival of any letter from the family gave him joy and rejuvenated him. I would know it right away when I saw him
smiling in the morning instead of that frown that gave his face those deep furrows over the last few eventful months. When I arrived at the office that day he hadn’t gotten ready for work yet. He hadn’t shaved in days, leaving coarse white straggling hairs on his face, wearing the same pullover and shirt that he had on when I left at four in the afternoon the day before. The only difference was that he had slippers rather than shoes on. The effects of staying up late showed on his swollen eyes and his reddened nose that looked as if a professional boxer had dealt him a knockout blow. I noticed that his lips were pale. I said as the surprise tied my tongue, “Good morning.”

He said, growling as he removed with his stiff hand the remnants of a cigarette, the ashes of which had fallen onto his chest: “Hello, Nora.”

I went into the office and found the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts that bespoke his wounded solitude and the bitterness of his watchful wait. I noticed a number of empty beer and vodka bottles. There was no trace of any food. On the desk there was a letter whose edges were burned and which lay opened next to an envelope. I thought to myself: Oh dear God: how did it catch on fire? From the cigarettes? Could that be?

I heard the door to the bathroom closing. I took out the article that I had started writing the day before. But I couldn’t begin to work, given the mess all around me. I looked at the high waves in the painting hanging on the wall in front of me and the sailboat visible on the horizon at a distance. I got up and carried the empty bottles and threw them in the garbage can. I gathered the ashtrays and glasses on a tray and carried it to the kitchen. I cleaned the place quickly before Abu Ghayib, the office messenger, could come and see what happened the previous night. Hilmi Amin had always taken pains to keep the office separate from his living space, even after hours. I felt pity toward him. I didn’t know what happened exactly nor what was in that accursed letter. Ever since he came back from Beirut his affairs had been in disorder. He had been talking about exile the whole time. I closed the letter and put it in the
desk drawer and sat down to finish my article. After a short while I got up to make some tea for myself. I noticed that the window in his bedroom was open. I realized he must be lying down or asleep, as two hours had passed without my hearing any sounds at all. I prepared the papers that I would take to the Iraqi Ministry of Information. I called out his name and knocked on the door and went in. He was fully dressed in his business garb, resting on the back of the bed, with a totally burnt-out cigarette butt dangling from his mouth. The room looked like a battlefield.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Please tell me. I’ll make you a glass of tea or get you some milk with a piece of cake.”

“Go to work.”

“Please, for my sake.”

“Nora! Go. Let me sleep for a little while.”

“It’s obvious you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday. When did you last eat?”

“With you at noon.”

I took him some cake and milk. He pushed the tray forcefully. The milk spilled on the bed and the glass found its way to the window pane before reaching the floor in smithereens. I was taken aback and stood there transfixed after retreating two steps.

“What happened?”

He said, with sparks flying from his eyes that by now were bloodshot, “I told you to go. Go to your work and come back quickly.”

“Did you write your article for
al-Jumhuriya
?”

“Yes. Take it with you. It’s in the desk drawer.”

I took the papers and closed the door behind me. I thought of knocking on the door of the neighbors next door and asking Dr. Michael if he had seen him the day before. I stood hesitantly, then Tante Violette opened the door.

“Hello, hello. Where have you been? We hardly ever see you even though we’re so close.”

I said, “We’ve been very busy the whole time. How’s Dr. Michael and Abuna Hydra?

“They are well, thank God. We don’t see Ustaz Hilmi much these days. Where is he?”

I said, “He’s around. I just wanted to say ‘good morning.’”

“Good morning.”

So, Tante Violette didn’t know anything despite the strong friendship between Hilmi Amin and Dr. Michael. I didn’t think Ustaz Hilmi told the doctor anything about his political circumstances. For him and his family, he was just the director of an Egyptian newspaper bureau. I thought of getting in touch with Abd al-Rahim or Atef, but I realized they would be at work by now. I thought, “Why don’t I call Sawsan and arrange to meet with her under some pretext or another?” I recalled the events of the last few days. His loneliness must have gotten the better of him and increased his sense of exile, his feeling that he was on a boat waiting before his island but forbidden to enter it. He was thinking and talking about Sinuhe, the ancient Egyptian exile, all the time and writing with great pain as if he were a prisoner.

“But you are not a prisoner.”

“Exile is worse than prison. I am away from my beloved.”

When he came back from Beirut, his cheeks rosy, looking happy, I jested with him, “All this joy from such a short trip?

“No. It is the sea breeze and its smell that filled my chest. I sat on the beach, following the waves with my eyes, as they traveled to the coast of my town and brought me its fragrance from there. They were well-behaved, obedient waves that gave me all I’ve asked for.”

“And I am supposed to be the poet here?”

“It’s Egypt that makes poets of us all.”

“Tell me the truth. I won’t tell Tante Fayza about your escapades.”

“It’s not about young women and, as you know, if I wanted women I’d find beauty queens here.”

“Daughters of Ishtar, temple priestesses! They’re all around you!”

But since he returned he had been feeling sorry for himself. And even though the Iraqi Ministry of Information had appointed him at
al-Jumhuriya
newspaper with a regular salary close to his previous salary at
al-Zahra
magazine since he was an exile, and even though all he was required to do was to write a weekly article for the paper, he was thinking a lot about his freedom and his inability to write what he really wanted to and his being unable to go back to Egypt. He was thinking about Rana, who had been born unexpectedly, late in his life. I wondered what he had written in his article that day. I opened the envelope as I sat in the minibus I was riding and began to read the article. I was surprised by its title, “Sighs for Rana.” The article was a piece of literature filled with bitterness and despondency, written by an Egyptian intellectual in exile, pained by his separation from his homeland and family. Tears filled my eyes as I entered the building housing
al-Jumhuriya
paper in al-Bab al-Mu‘azzam. I met Muhammad al-Jaza’iri, editor in chief of the Literary Supplement. I gave him the article. He asked me, “Where is Hilmi Amin?”

I said, “He has a cold.”

The editors and journalists there asked me to convey their greetings. One of them asked me, “He is your uncle, right?”

I said as I smiled, “Yes.”

I ran back to Tahrir Square, then to the Ministry of Information. I delivered the papers and went to the cafeteria. I bought lunch for him and myself, praying to God that he had gone to sleep and gotten over the crisis. I had never seen him drunk before. When he sat down among people who drank, he would drink a little till he got a little high and became merry in a reserved way that was different from the way young people in my age group overdid it, not that he noticed.

I arrived at the office. It was about one o’clock in the afternoon. I rang the bell. No one answered. I opened the door with my key. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The apartment was full of broken glass. The woolen kilim was piled up in a corner in the office, with
the pillows scattered on the floor and the chairs overturned in the hallway. He was slumped over the desk, his tears flowing. I stood in front of him in silence. Then I took him in my bosom and wiped his tears. He gave in to a spell of crying, sobbing loudly. Then he got up suddenly and started pushing me outside, saying, “Everyone is a traitor. I don’t want anyone. All are traitors!”

“What happened?”

“Go home.”

“Should I call Abd al-Rahim or Atef?”

“No. Go home. I don’t want you here.”

“What’s in the letter?”

“None of your business.”

“Did anything bad, God forbid, happen to Tante or the girls?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Where’s the letter from?”

He started screaming again and breaking everything he got his hands on and pushing me out.

“Okay. I’ll get my bag. I’ll just get my bag. Whatever you say.”

My tears ran down my cheeks as I tried to keep our voices from reaching the other apartments in the building to avoid a scandal. I remembered that Tante Violette was getting ready to go out when I saw her earlier. Abu Ghayib was not sitting in front of the building, and the other inhabitants were at work. I walked to Saadun Street to look for a telephone far from the office. I called Hatim at the factory and told him what was happening briefly.

He said, “If you want me to come, I won’t arrive before two hours at the earliest.”

I said, “No. Go home for Yasir, because I am going to be late. I’ll go to Abd al-Rahim in his office which is closer, and if I don’t find him, I’ll go to Sawsan and stay with her until Atef comes back and then I’ll return to the office with him.”

“Why didn’t you call Mahmoud Rashid?”

“He is his wisest friend, but I think Abd al-Rahim Mansur is his closest friend.”

I asked the man at the front desk to put me through to Abd al-Rahim. A colleague of his, a woman, told me he was out of town on official business and was not expected back in the office that day.

What could I do? I started walking aimlessly in Saadun Street, with which I was quite familiar. I stopped absently in front of a bookstore. But it was not a day for books or bookstores. A store clerk smiled and came over to shake my hand. I scanned the book titles without thinking. I just wanted to kill the time until Atef came. I wanted to go back to the office to make sure that Hilmi was all right. He might not open the door for me or he might make a scene again. Was it not better to let his angry fit run its course? But perhaps he would hurt himself: he could fall, injure himself, or his heart might even stop. Dear God, what should I do? Tears ran down my face and I just let them flow. I kept walking in the general direction of Atef’s house in Karrada Maryam. I got tired. I looked around for a café catering to families. I found one next to the Babel cinema. I went in and ordered tea. The waiter asked me as he placed the tea on the table, “Are you Egyptian?”