White Masks (20 page)

But he was stunned by Dr. Saleem's answer.

“They're of absolutely no value to us, those corpses. Nowadays, we train our students on the real thing: they participate in real-life surgical operations. You know how it is, we get a lot of hopeless cases, and we let the students practice on them. Some of them even do brain surgery, and you know how difficult that is.”

“What's that you're saying?”

“Dear Dr. Marwan, you're from the old school. We have new training methods nowadays.”

“But that's criminal,” Dr. Bitar replied. “It's illegal. I didn't teach all those years for you to end up doing this sort of thing! It's a complete violation of our professional ethic. A surgeon's not a butcher, Saleem. God is my witness, butchers are less barbaric!”

Dr. Bitar left the hospital and never went back. He won't visit Saleem anymore . . . that man's no student of his, he's just a common criminal . . . how can they let students play around with people's brains and organs like that, even
if
they are hopeless cases ... and anyhow, there aren't any hopeless
cases. Doctors do everything in their power and the rest is up to the Good Lord. It's an act of blasphemy against the Creator. What a generation!

And so it was that Dr. Bitar spent all his time at home. The phone no longer rang for him and he no longer went out. Doctors nowadays aren't what they used to be . . . Where are the likes of the famous Prussian doctor who could diagnose a patient's ailment just by looking at him? This new generation doesn't know a thing!

The war's over, that's what people are saying. But where are the authorities ? Every sort of army in the country but the legitimate one . . . Still, at least work has picked up again and he is getting paid 500 lira for every report he produces. It's better than nothing . . . How he wishes he were in charge though: he'd have brought out the gallows and hanged all those doctors! But in charge he isn't, and 500 lira is better than nothing: the building doesn't bring in a piaster anymore, it's full of refugees and he won't take money from Ghassan, he couldn't, not from his own son.

Ghassan came to him one day saying that if they paid 100,000 lira, the political cadre would get the refugees out. But Dr. Bitar's not having it, he's not paying anyone off, and anyway, he doesn't need money. The refugees will leave eventually, he'll get the building back, and then Ghassan will inherit it and become the landlord of several properties. But the boy really should marry ... if he doesn't, who is going to come into all this wealth? We have to get him married off, he kept telling his wife. She should be on the lookout for him, but she doesn't give a damn . . . she spends all her time playing poker - and losing! So, here he is, chasing around after corpses while she gambles. He wonders where she finds the money. She must get it out of Ghassan. Still, he wishes she'd take an interest in marrying him
off . . . she's his mother after all. But she's not interested in anyone but herself really: all she cares about is putting on her makeup in the morning and waiting for evening to come. She often invites him to join them but he doesn't like playing cards, he'd rather go to bed early. Staying up late shortens life expectancy and it's not good for your nerves.

The telephone started ringing again and there was work to do . . .

It is 7:30 one morning when the telephone rings. Lieutenant Yasseen is on the line. Dr. Bitar dresses quickly, runs a comb through his hair, and, without even bothering to wash his face, grabs his doctor's bag and hurries down the stairs. He turns the ignition, waits a little while for the engine to warm up, and drives off. When he reaches the UNESCO roundabout, he parks the car a little way from the statue of Habib Abi Shahla, and walks over to shake the officer's hand. He briefly bends to peer over the mound of garbage, straightens up and goes back to the car, puts on his white doctor's coat and a mask over his nose and mouth, and returns to the corpse. He once again bends over the corpse, then, squatting down, pulls back the white sheet covering it, lifts one of the hands, and lets it drop. He rolls the corpse over slightly, notices the red ants crawling on the back of the neck, and tries to brush them aside, but they stick to his hands. He straightens up, rubs his hands together and blows on them, then blows on his white coat, and gets back to the job. He turns the corpse over onto its stomach and inspects the back. He stands up again, steps back, squats down once more, turns the corpse over one more time, and finally covers it with the white sheet.

He walks away, reaches his car, opens one of the back passenger doors,
takes off his coat and mask and tosses them onto the seat. Lieutenant Yasseen comes up to him. The doctor tells him the murder must have occurred at least four days earlier, as the corpse has begun to putrefy and decompose, and there are clear traces of beating and torture. Lieutenant Yasseen nods.

“When was the corpse found?” the doctor asks.

“Just now - about half an hour ago.”

“That's impossible . . . unless, the corpse was dumped elsewhere initially and then was moved here.”

“What should we do?”

The doctor says the corpse must be removed to the hospital morgue.

“The autopsy should be conducted immediately, before the body decomposes any further and it becomes impossible to determine the circumstances of the crime.” The doctor gets into his car, the officer leans against his rolled-down window, and they finish the conversation. “You should advise the hospital administration that I'm on my way so that they get everything ready.”

The doctor drives off while the paramedics lift the corpse onto a stretcher and carry it to the ambulance. Onlookers gather to watch as the ambulance sounds its siren through the busy streets. “It's just for show,” ventures a passerby. “Ambulances switch on their sirens even when they're empty. There's never anyone in there ... just the drivers who're in a hurry to get somewhere, or want to show off!”

 

Outward appearance:

Lower abdomen:

Thoracic cage:

Left hand:

Head:

CHAPTER V

The Interrogation

 

It was the morning of April 12. I was in the party office, making tea and listening to Western pop music on Radio Monte Carlo; I was getting myself some breakfast-a boiled egg, a few olives, a little cheese - and wasn't particularly
expecting anyone to come by or anything to happen. Everyone was gone and I hadn't been following events very closely. We spent all our days sitting around the office waiting for our orders, and I was waiting for mine.

That's when they walked in, with him in tow. He was soaking wet from the rain, even his scrawny little beard was dripping. They led him to the small room and I joined them. The man was shivering from head to foot, and he said absolutely nothing when they questioned him. I went over to where he sat and looked into his dilated eyes; he shivered inside the coat seemingly glued to his frail body.

I hadn't been following the story - actually, I knew nothing about it. I'd been out of it for a while . . . all I did was sit and wait in that office, and I wondered why they'd brought him in. He looked like one of those beggars the city is so full of nowadays. To me, he looked like something out of my childhood - you know, the character from the ditty we sang, “Abu Hashisheh the drunkard, who sold his wife for a tankard.” But it couldn't be him, because his clothes weren't all ragged like Abu Hashisheh's, and he didn't look like he'd been drinking.

But, boy, did he smell! That smell was the worst thing about him. When he took off his pith helmet, I saw that his white hair was black wiht grime, and the hand he smoothed it down with was no more than a claw of bony fingers. When he sat down, he just collapsed into the chair with a thud, as if there were no muscles in his legs. One of the boys offered him a cigarette, but he indicated that he didn't smoke with his index finger pointed up.

And then they took him away - I'd left the room by then, I couldn't stand the smell. Anyway, they took him and I never saw him again ... and no one
talked about it again . . . not much, anyway . . . but that smell, oh, the smell was so awful, like the smell that time on the mountaintop, so faraway . . .

We were trudging through the snow. Our feet sank with every step and we were giddy with laughter as we could practically touch the clouds with our outstretched arms. We tried to break into a run, but couldn't. It felt like we were holding the sky between our very fingers, as Mohammad Saleh said - he died over there in the snow, and they never did find his body. I don't remember how the sky looked that day, but every time I see Mohammad's picture hanging on the wall, with the word “Sanneen” scrawled across it-I feel like crying. Though even crying isn't the same any more . . . I can't now, the tears just don't seem to come.

I don't know exactly what happened, but one day, there on the mountaintop, I found myself suddenly being dragged by the scruff of the neck across a huge expanse of gravel and stones - at least, that's what it felt like. I wanted to tell them to stop, stop it now! The pain was excruciating, it felt as if my head had been severed from my neck and was rolling away. But no one heard me, as if they'd all gone deaf. There was no other sensation besides the pain and this terrible echo reverberating inside my head . . . every sound multiplying endlessly inside my ears. But I couldn't hear. I kept saying, please . . .

And then, somehow, I found myself somewhere else entirely. No, not quite . . . I don't know how to describe it, when I moved my head it felt like the gravel and stones were inside it now, so I cried out, “
Ya immi
- oh mother of mine, where are you?” And then I opened my eyes . . . or I thought I did. But there was nothing there, everything was black. I tried to sit up. So I'm dead, I thought, this is what death must be like, I must be dead. I felt a terrible
stab of grief, like something sharp was piercing my gut. I said to myself, it's over for you, Fahd. And then I saw my mother's face as she said “it's all over” . . . and then planes were circling overhead like locusts, white planes, blowing dust into everyone's eyes. So I lay completely still. I was dead.