The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (10 page)

“When?”

“Al-Sahhaf came here to broadcast a live speech from the studio. An hour later the building was bombed.”

“And nothing happened to the other buildings?”

“No, but they torched the library and all the air conditioners were stolen.”

“Who stole them, who torched the library?”

“I really don’t know, son. No one does. I couldn’t be here when the bombing was going on. It was very dangerous. But when I returned, I saw they were gone. The rooms had locks and the locks were not broken. So those who stole them knew. Thank God some of the students came back to clean away the rubble and put things back together.”

“Are any of the professors here?”

“No, none are here today.”

“Excuse me. I’d like to go inside and see.”

“Sure, sure. Go ahead.”

I walked to the library. The iron door had been unhinged and lay a few meters away. There were pieces of rubble and metal scattered around it. I stood at the entrance and a strange smell assaulted my nose. The desk that the librarian usually sat behind was still in its place, but her chair was gone. Most of the rectangular blocks of the thick stained glass wall were hollowed out by the heat of the fire. Some of the blocks had melted and changed shape. The ceiling was covered with soot. I took two steps inside and went to the left where the book stacks used to stand. I felt a pang in my ribs when I saw heaps of ash everywhere.

I remembered the hours I had spent reading and leafing through glossy art books here. This is where I had been captured by the works of Degas, Renoir, Rembrandt, Kandinsky, Miró, Modigliani, and Chagall, de Kooning, Bacon, Monet, and Picasso. This is where I spent hours poring over images of statues by Rodin and Giacometti, my beloved Giacometti.

I stood there for ten minutes, letting my eyes wander, then walked toward the audiovisual arts department. I passed by the bench where Reem and I had sat many times. Two students were perched on it. I greeted them in passing. I saw the face of Picasso, which occupied the wall of the department of plastic arts to the right. His features looked sterner that day.

The front wall of the audiovisual department had collapsed in its entirety. The rubble was piled in front of the building, blocking the first floor. I climbed through the debris. When I got to a point high enough to see into the building, it looked like a corpse that had been skinned and then had its entrails burnt and its ribs exposed. The studio was charred and both the ceiling and floor had collapsed. The hall next door had scores of burned film reels scattered across its floor. I jumped over and went to the left. I could see the projection room. Its floor was charred and parts of the collapsed ceiling and shards of glass glittered in the sunlight. The empty seats and walls, which had witnessed so much before, were now blinded by blackness.

I climbed back over the mound of rubble and felt the wreckage I’d been carrying inside me mount even higher, suffocating my heart. I passed by the department of plastic arts. Its building was intact except for the windows. The glass had been shattered and the air conditioners removed from their metal racks. Before leaving I said goodbye to the doorman and asked him to tell Professor al-Janabi that I’d asked after him.

I’m standing next to a washing bench. It isn’t in the
mghaysil,
but rather in some other place I’ve never visited. There are high ceilings, but no windows. There are neon lights, some of which blink. The bench is very long. It extends for tens of meters and has a white conveyor belt. Bodies are stacked on it. The belt moves toward the right and leads to a huge opening, and outside men wearing blue overalls and white gloves carry the bodies and throw them into a huge truck. Scores of water faucets protrude from the wall, each with an empty washbasin and a bowl under it. I hear a voice yell: “What are you waiting for?”

I turn to look for the voice and see Father sitting on a chair in the corner, his worry beads in his hand. Again the question: “What are you waiting for?” But now it comes from a different direction. I turn and see Father in another corner. I rush to the closest faucet to open it, but there is no water. The same happens with all the other faucets. I look everywhere, but Father has disappeared from every corner. The corpses keep moving to the opening on the conveyer belt.

The beginning of the summer break after my first year at the academy had been a pivotal point in my confrontations with Father. I’d agreed that I wouldn’t work with him during the school year in order to focus on my studies, but that I would be by his side during my summer breaks. But after my first year of studies, I became convinced that I should channel all my energies on art and not go back to the suffocating atmosphere of the
mghaysil
—no matter what. I’d heard from one of my colleagues about the possibility of getting work as a house painter. He said it paid well, and I figured it could help me buy my art supplies. I could even contribute a bit to expenses at home.

Father came back from work one evening soon after I had passed my final exams and said: “Come on! Haven’t you had enough rest already? When are you coming to work?”

I told him that this was something I wanted to discuss with him.

He stood at the door of the living room, his worry beads in his hand. “What is going on?”

“One of my friends … his father is a contractor. He paints houses. He has work for me this summer and it pays well.”

Father frowned. He looked down and then stared me right in the eye and said: “Why would you want to do that? You have a good job with me.”

“I thought I’d just give it a try for a few days and see.”

“Do you even know how to paint?”

“It doesn’t take much, Father. He said he’d teach me.”

Father’s disappointment was visible on his face: “So that’s what it
comes down to? A painter? I’ve been waiting all these years for someone to help me out on the job and ease my burden.”

“It’s just for the summer. And I’ll help out with expenses here at home.”

He repeated the word “painter” again as if it were a disgrace.

“What’s wrong with it?” I said. “It’s a decent job.”

“And our profession isn’t decent? Not good enough for you, is it? My father, my grandfather, and his grandfather all did it. Now you’re too good for us. Well, thanks ever so much.”

He went into the hall on his way to the stairs. My mother had overheard our conversation and came in from the kitchen to ask what was the matter.

“Your son would rather be a painter than do what I do,” he told her as he climbed the stairs.

She asked: “Is that true, Jawad?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why, son? Your father needs you to be by his side.”

“What? Is it so shameful to work as a painter?”

I got out of the chair, turned the TV off, and went out for a walk. I wanted to avoid the tense atmosphere which would continue all evening if my father and I stayed in the same room. I hadn’t expected him to be happy with my decision, but I didn’t think he would be totally surprised. He must have known that this day was coming. It’s impossible that he didn’t sense that I had lost all interest in his line of work. Once when I was young I had asked whether he had ever thought of closing the
mghaysil
or selling it when the war with Iran came to an end and Ammoury would be discharged and able to practice medicine. He said he would never retire and that his work wasn’t some ordinary job but rather a way to gain favor with God. He said that I would inherit the job from him just as he’d inherited it from his father, and his father from his.

My mother told me to donate my first month’s salary to Father, as tradition dictated. I did so, but he pushed my hand away and said, “Give it to your mother.” My mother refused to take it—so I gave her fifty dinars as a gift that day. I used to give her a good amount of my
income every month and told her to spend it on herself. Our economic situation wasn’t that good, but Father owned the house, so our monthly expenses were less of a burden than for others.

My mother said that she was going to save the money I was slipping her for my dowry.

I laughed and said: “Who told you I intend to marry?”

“Sooner or later you will, my son.”

When my brother Ammoury came back on leave from the front line, I told him what had happened. He scolded me because I had spoken of my plans with Father without awaiting his return. He would have known how to talk to Father and convince him, he said, or at least soften his reaction to my decision. Ammoury knew well that I could no longer deal with the
mghaysil
and its corpses. I also told him that the wages I would make from painting were twice what my father would have paid me.

Ammoury told Father that there was no sense my doing something if my heart wasn’t in it. As long as I was doing something decent, he added, why not painting? He reminded Father of his own words: that in washing bodies, volition is crucial. How could I wash if I possessed no desire to do so, he asked. Ammoury made him see reason, but Father never forgave me for straying from the path.

Firas, the friend I painted with, had a great sense of humor. Although the work hours were long, they passed quickly. His father was in charge of the work and coordinated between the owners of the houses and the workers. He provided the supplies, paints, instructions, and other details. Most of the houses we worked on were newly built and unfurnished. Their owners had yet to move in.

A third coworker, Salam, was a bit older than both of us, and seasoned. He was the one who mixed the paints. If it was an old house, before we started painting, we would scrape the walls with sandpaper and fill any cracks. We would start with a coat of primer and then add the second one. I enjoyed the various stages of the process, but especially seeing how beautiful and spotless the walls and ceilings were when we were done.

After my military service, I was appointed as an arts teacher in Ba’quba. The salary was barely enough to cover one week’s transportation to and from work. Why was I so naïve as to nurture the illusion that I could make a living as an artist, especially during the years of the embargo? There were some artists who were selling their paintings to foreigners. The number of foreigners had dwindled, but some journalists, diplomats, and activists still visited Baghdad and frequented the Hiwar gallery, looking for artwork. Artists also sold to Iraqi expats returning for a visit. However, most preferred traditional works or natural landscapes over abstract art. And so I began to feel bored and bitter in the late 1990s, especially as we were painting the houses of the nouveaux riches who had acquired obscene amounts of wealth by exploiting the embargo.

When I started painting houses, I’d thought that I’d only use those thick-bristled brushes temporarily before returning to the fine and feathery ones with which I felt more intimacy. But instead of the blank canvases that I could color any way I wanted and on which I could spread my imaginative visions, I found myself, for years on end, reduced to using no more than two or three colors. Pale colors on cold and monotonous surfaces. Surfaces without details or surprises, except for the odd electric switch panel or the occasional hook for a chandelier. At times a stupid fly would buzz into the sticky surface of paint and struggle there for a few seconds before dying.

Father rarely mentioned my uncle Sabri, who was eight years his junior. The few times the topic of Communists and their clashes with Ba’thists came up, he would say: “Sabri’s people.” Uncle Sabri used to visit us every now and then when I was a kid and would sleep on the floor of the guest room. He was a jovial man who always filled my pockets with sweets and played soccer with Ammoury and me in the street in front of our house. He was obsessed with the al-Zawra’ team and he told me that I, too, would one day become a Zawra’ fan. He was right.

The first time I attended a soccer match was with him. I was only eight years old. We went to the opening game of the national league season. I don’t remember why Ammoury didn’t come with us that day. It was scorching hot and there were throngs of people when we got out of the car at the Sha’b stadium. After standing in a long line, my uncle bought two pink-colored tickets for the south of the stadium. Then we stood in another line with lots of pushing and shoving to get inside. A man standing at the gate tore the two tickets in half. We made our way in and climbed to our seats in the bleachers.

The seats were beginning to fill up with fans. Some of them sang and others were beating drums. Uncle Sabri chose a spot high up, next to a group of fans carrying the white flags of Zawra’. From that spot, the field looked like a beautiful green rectangle. My uncle spread newspapers on the concrete seats and we sat down and waited for the game to start.

When the al-Zawra’ players emerged from the underground
locker rooms wearing their traditional white jerseys, everyone got up. The stadium filled with applause and cheers. Uncle Sabri lifted me high so I could see. The entire team stood in the middle circle, and the players raised their arms to salute the fans on the opposite side. Chants rose. When they turned around and faced us, the applause grew even stronger. They took the field, warming up, passing balls to each another or taking shots on goal. I saw a group of photographers surrounding a bald player wearing the number eight. I asked my uncle about him. “That’s Falah Hasan, the fox of Iraqi soccer,” he said.

Suddenly I heard everyone around us booing and someone yelled: “Tayaran are sacks.” I figured that they were heckling the opponent, Tayaran, who wore blue. But I couldn’t understand “sacks.” My uncle explained: “It means we will score so often they will be like sacks full of goals.” My uncle put his hand on my head and stroked my hair saying: “You are a diehard Zawra’ fan already.”

After a scoreless first half, Falah Hasan scored with a header in the first few minutes of the second. My uncle was ecstatic and lifted me again so I could see the players hugging one another. But our joy was short-lived, because Tayaran equalized with a penalty kick. The game ended in a draw, and my uncle called the referee blind: the Tayaran striker had faked being fouled to win the penalty kick, he said. The fans chanted “Zawra’, Zawra”’ as we left the stadium. We walked to al-Andalus Square to catch a bus back to Kazimiyya.