Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (54 page)

My rage lasted for four long days in which I turned into a nervous wreck. Illusions dispersed and I found out how fragile I really was despite my strength, which was legendary among my fellow prison inmates. I turned into a shadow of my former self before a young girl my daughter’s age racing toward her future while I was preparing to leave my years on death’s door. Then I was surprised when you knocked on my door one day. It was Friday, the evening I spent with friends at the Writers Union. You came into the office. You said, “For days I have been trying to understand, but I couldn’t. I felt too shy to
tell you that before even taking off my clothes, my desire had risen to such heights that I couldn’t handle it. So it had an orgasm while you were kissing me. That was my own water. I thought you knew. That was my mad love for you. You forget that I am a virgin. All I know is what you’ve taught me. Please don’t open the door to hell.”

I wanted to believe you. I waited for you to extend your hand and touch my face, to embrace me. But you just sat before me, humiliated, with tears running down your cheeks. Then you suddenly got up and ran downstairs and disappeared into the Baghdad night.

When you came the following afternoon, I, the fool up to his ears in love with a girl his daughter’s age, took you into my bosom as if nothing had happened.

I closed the notebook and got up to wash my face, wondering what I would find in Anhar’s notebook. Would it give me the other side of the story I’d just read? I told myself that maybe I’d read some of its pages while waiting for my plane at the Amman airport, even though they told me it was going to be a three-hour layover, rather than seven hours as happened on the way to Baghdad.

I left the hotel with Layla with tears that I tried to hide. I had slept only two hours after spending the previous night sleepless until the morning, sorting the papers from the office. That crazy night will remain etched on my memory as long as I live. I didn’t know for whom I should cry: for myself, for Hilmi Amin, or for our people in Iraq and Egypt, for our children or for other people’s children. Should I cry over knowledge or ignorance? Impotence or fulfillment? Steady balance or falling?

Traveling to Cairo alone apart from the official delegation was not safe. No one would wait for me at Amman airport. The authorities there might force me to wait outside as they did with ordinary passengers. No, Layla actually checked the arrangements carefully. But even if things went as arranged, the waiting time depended on other plane schedules. Waiting could take from three to seven hours. Only God knew. It was also a time of war.

I left the hotel that I never liked even though it was my only way to stay in the city that I loved, from which I couldn’t imagine being completely cut off. I looked over my shoulder as the car sped away and I saw the snow-white hotel, the ground washed with rain, the small green bushes, and the flowers on both sides of the road, and I asked myself, “Will I come back to you, Baghdad?”

I answered myself, “I don’t think I will. Not for a long time, at least.”

I was afraid of being seized by another crying fit and I struggled to keep the potent scent of longing from assailing my nose. From the bottom of the river the memories erupted a plethora of intermingling sensory fragments: the smell of overripe dates, fragrant anise, bitter coffee and cardamom, cracked wheat cooking, the din of drums, taps of feet dancing dabka, gunshots fired in joy, the breaking of glass, the shushing sound of the rain falling on various parts of the house, the rustling sound the wind made through the palm tree fronds, the yellowness of an expansive desert, the indifference of towering trees, very high green mountains, the grayness of stagnant ponds, cities in clouds of sand, suitcases and a necklace made of clove buds, drunken bodies and kisses. I shooed away those fragments as I prepared to be forcibly dissociated from the city. I was overcome with the trembling silence of anticipation. I felt Layla’s hand patting my hand. Her understanding touch gave my heart a promise of security. She saved me from the trap of wallowing in pain. We passed roads that I knew by heart and the outer shell of my solid will cracked. Images of friends whom I have lost, by death or long separation, came tumbling down on me, breaching the wall of my soul: Hilmi Amin, Anhar, Engineer Adel, Nariman, Sulafa, Jamal Abu Sargon. I looked at the towering, giant picture of Saddam Hussein hanging on top of Salihiya Gate before Gamal Abdel Nasser Square. My memory was overcome with pictures of the vice president’s morning fieldtrips to factories and government schools to make sure everything was working properly as he was preparing to become president. I recalled his
sweeping popularity, with people crowding around him screaming for more. I recalled when he was declared president, and his proud, self-confident parade in an open car and how he waved to the masses. The memory brought another one: Gamal Abdel Nasser, waving to us on the Alexandria Corniche during the celebrations of the anniversary of the July 23 Revolution, and how people crowded to shake his hand as the car moved slowly. What a difference between the two!

I wanted a few moments of peace and closed my eyes and tried to stop the assault of the images and memories on my consciousness. I sought refuge in Layla who was sitting next to me. I held onto her arm. She patted me. I was still having a hard time freeing myself from the captivating city even though I realized that those last few minutes belonged to Baghdad and should always. I burned the incense of my memories in places I walked, played, ate, slept, grieved, sang, breathed, and met people.

Layla said, “I’ll miss you very much, Nora. Don’t forget us. Try to come to Baghdad whenever you have a chance.”

I said, “That’s not so easy. I am going back full of wounds. Seeing is not like hearing.”

She said, “Are you crying?”

She hugged me hard and didn’t let go of my shoulder until the car stopped in front of the airport.

I said as I got out of the car, “Please pardon the excess baggage. You know how crazy we are about books.”

She said, “Come to the guest hall. Leave everything for the driver.”

I tried to say goodbye at the airport gate but she insisted on staying with me until the plane took off. She took my passport and ticket to finish the procedures. It was the same beautiful glasscovered airport that I had arrived at and departed from dozens of times. But now it was dark and looked a little desolate, having lost the joyous feeling of Iraqi pride and security. I was used to traveling and moving around since childhood. I was also used to passing
through airports lightly and dealing with them in a very practical manner. I would be touched by tears of reunion and farewell, but I would also shake them off quickly, so they wouldn’t slow me down. On my first visit to Iraq the airport was small and simple. Hatim told me that they were building a brand-new airport in the latest, ultramodern style. Security was conventional until that explosion which was blamed on the Syrian government. After that, security procedures were changed totally in Iraq. For the first time, buildings learned about and used metal and weapons detectors. My first trip after the airport explosion turned into a catastrophe.

I was going to visit Yasir for the first time since I left him in Egypt. I couldn’t sleep the night before my departure because I was worried. I hadn’t seen my son for quite some time and I was scared. Would he recognize me? I tried to convince myself that he hadn’t forgotten me, that he was fine as they told me several times on the phone. I tried to visualize him. What had changed in him? Would the doctor agree to my taking him with me to Baghdad? Did he really get better in Egypt’s milder climate? How have Iraqi babies survived if the climate was behind his health problems? It wasn’t his problem but yours. You could have rejected the doctor’s opinion or sought a second opinion and brought your son to Baghdad, enrolled him in a daycare center during your workdays like all mothers here. My God! I should stop this guilt trip. What has been, has been. Tomorrow I would see him and make sure he was fine.

My joy anticipating seeing Yasir outweighed my fear. My enthusiasm for going back to Cairo was quite overpowering as Hatim was driving me to the airport. But I remembered that I would be leaving him alone during my absence. I felt bad about that. Hatim smiled as he kissed me and pushed me to the passport control area, commenting in the meantime on how good I looked in the new rose-colored woolen dress with the high collar that I was wearing. He said, “Come back quickly, you and Yasir, otherwise I’ll cancel the contract. You have one week.”

I pleaded with him, “Two weeks?”

“One week only.”

He pushed the suitcase onto the scale and stood with me until I finished checking in and moved to the “passengers only” area. The female officer standing there motioned me to go to a security booth for women. I turned to Hatim, and laughing, I said, “Goodbye.”

I turned to face the officer. I raised my hands so that she could pass the metal detector security wand that I was seeing for the first time, around my body. I detected some anxiety in her movements. I tried to respond to her gestures to give her an opportunity to move around me more easily. For one reason or another that I couldn’t figure out she became more tense and said in a loud commanding voice, “Don’t move.”

I said, “I didn’t.”

“Stay in place.”

Then she pointed at the dress collar and said, “What’s this?”

“A high collar.”

“Open it.”

“It doesn’t open. This is a one-piece dress.”

“What are you hiding inside it?”

I laughed, “A rabbit.”

“I asked you: what are you hiding inside it?”

I said in surprise, “Nothing. The money is in my purse and I have the change voucher.”

“How many dinars do you have on you?”

“Not more than a hundred dinars for expenses on my return trip from Cairo.”

“Are you returning? Where is your passport?”

“Here it is. I am a journalist in the Egyptian
al-Zahra
magazine bureau here in Baghdad.”

“Turn around. Raise all your clothes upward and take off your underwear.”

“Why?”

“Take off your clothes.”

She placed her hand quickly between my thighs before I knew exactly what was happening. I cried, gasping as my tears coursed down my cheeks.

“Bend over forward.”

“I will not bend over. I want the representative of the Ministry of Information right away. You are making a big mistake.”

“Stand up straight.”

“I want the ministry representative or the director of the airport.”

“Put on your clothes.”

My tears flowed as I remembered. Layla, who was coming toward me, thought I was crying because I was leaving Baghdad. She put her hand on my shoulder. I got a hold of myself and forced myself to smile. She accompanied me to a security partition. Now the security was much more complex than before. I entered the women’s booth with a beautiful woman with the rank of captain. She passed the wand over my body while smiling gently. I looked at her shapely figure in the military uniform and remembered the arrogant manner in which that woman who insulted me with her crude search and her rigid demeanor, despite her beauty and her curly blond hair, and the hunter–quarry game she played on me. I remembered my father saying as he laughed, “Write an article demanding gentler handling of women. You, as a journalist, should know that she is just doing her job. You yourself admit that the security situation in Baghdad has changed greatly since last year. What should the Iraqis do to combat sabotage? Security is the most precious thing in life.”

Yes, father. I understand it quite well.

I sat with Layla waiting for the call to board the plane. I looked with my eyes for the monitor indicating departure times. I found that the flight was on time. I remembered Fathallah and Maha and their inability to come to Baghdad to meet with me. So I thought I should call them to say goodbye. I asked Layla, “Where can I find a local telephone?”

She pointed to a wall to the side nearby and asked me, “Do you have change?”

I said, “No. I only have dollars. I’ll change them at the bank.”

She laughed as she reached inside her purse, saying, “Here. Take this. Keep the dollars. They’ll come in handy if you want to drink tea at Amman airport.”

I put the money in her hand saying, “Here. Let’s spend the last penny. Why don’t you buy some gifts to your liking while I make a call.”

She laughed, “You Egyptians don’t give up! I’ll buy you some snacks you might need in Amman.”

I dialed the number. Maha answered. Her voice sounded worried. Maha was Maha: her feelings as clear as the sun. I said, “What happened, Maha? What’s bothering you?”

She said, “All I said was ‘hello.’ I didn’t say a single word that would tell you I am upset.”

I said, “Maha. I don’t have the time to explain everything to you. Give me Fathallah.”

She said, “To tell the truth, Basyuni disappeared suddenly from work and took with him a Land Cruiser belonging to the Roads and Logistic Support Authority. No one knows if he had been injured somewhere or just ran away. Security has been looking for him all over, but has turned up nothing so far. They interrogated Fathallah today at work but he knows nothing about him since he visited us in Mosul last month, with the exception of that message he left for him to meet you and his telephone call to confirm that meeting. He never mentioned any plans. He was laughing and telling us stories about the war. I am very scared that he might be injured somewhere or another, God forbid. Fathallah wants to talk to you.”

I felt a hidden anxiety in his voice. He said, “Nora, where exactly are you now?”

I was quite alarmed and felt as if I had a sudden drop in blood pressure. I also felt the milk drying up in my chest. I said, “I am boarding the plane in a few minutes.”

He heaved a deep sigh of relief, saying, “Thank God. I hope you get out all right before security can give you a headache. The scoundrel did it. He ran away.”

I said, “Do you think he took the car and escaped from Iraq?”

He said, “No, he definitely left it somewhere. True, it’s a half-million-pound car but he couldn’t have done it, because, number one, he is not a thief and two, he wants to cross the borders and he doesn’t have any papers to prove he owns it.”