Mothballs (20 page)

I went to the gate of the house, opened and closed it behind me, disappeared into the passage and waited.

He removed his jacket and dropped it to the mat, then walked down the hallway that led to the bathroom.

In a flash I mounted the steps and stood panting in front of Farida.

“Auntie, Munir is here.”

It was as if the gates of Hell had opened. She got up, her face blazing, her lips dry, her eyes bulging out, pushed me aside and raced down. I was behind her. Her voice was like my father's when he dragged me down the stairs by my braids.

“He came and didn't bother to see me? Munir Effendi! Where is he?”

She turned to me: “Where is he? Where is my fine, gallant cousin? Today is your judgement day, Munir. Come out.” She began trembling: “You little bitch, are you trying to fool me? Only you haven't fooled me. Where is Munir? Tell me, or I'll kill you instead of him.”

She had my hair in her hands: “I swear, he was here a minute ago.” She turned and saw the jacket and his cigarette butts, and looked all around: “Where is Adil?”

“In the bath.”

It was as if Farida's face was spiked with thorns; the whites of her eyes were bloodshot and half her tongue was hanging out as she raced to the bath, opened the door, and thrust her head in. I was behind her. Adil looked stung, holding a basin of water in his hand, his face covered with soapsuds. He turned his head quickly and put the basin down on his thighs: “Did I hear Uncle Munir's voice?”

“He opened the door on me a minute ago.”

She was dripping with agony. Her piercing voice hunted him through the rooms of the house. She came out, went into the water closet and stood at the door. She heard the sound of water pouring out of the pitcher, and banged at the door: “Come out, Munir. Come out.”

In seconds everything turned to terror. I watched her, not moving or uttering a word. Farida had been preparing for months; what she gathered was scattered by her voice, which grew heavier and more tense; her tragedy could be heard. She pushed against the door and banged on it. Then we heard his heavy, mocking voice:

“Wait a little. You're truly mad.”

The door moved, and there was a glimpse of his baldness. She reached out her arm and started with his head and neck. She pulled him out by his tie, then pushed him back inside and followed him in. She pushed his head into the toilet and then pushed him outside, grabbed him around the waist, and they ended up in the long, narrow corridor. Their voices clashed and there was the sound of blows.

“Huda, call the neighbours, and you and Adil come – all of you come and see your aunt's wedding.”

He escaped from her arms but she caught him. He looked at me and nearly fell: “Surely your aunt has gone mad.”

Farida opened her arms and raised her voice: “Yes, mad. You took a year and I waited. Every day I said, today he'll come. Today he'll open the door and come up. Today will be Munir's day.”

This was one of the
sayyid
s. My aunt collapsed on him, pulled him, and he slipped away. She grabbed him by his shirt and brought him down to the floor as he kicked about. She gathered her rage and screamed, “Even if I kill you with my own hands I won't be satisfied.” I wanted to reach out and beat him myself. She shone and whimpered and bent over as if she were in the market bath. She pulled him to the middle of the house, snatched the pillows and threw them at him, stepped on him and pushed him, got on top of him and sat on him. She raved and called out, got up and sat down: “I'm going to kill you with my own hands!”

I watched, and the man hacked and choked. He twisted his arms and kicked his feet. Farida's chest shuddered. She grasped his thighs tightly, and repeated, between gasps for breath: “Come here! Grab his legs with me!” I did not move. She got up and put the pillow over his face, sat on his chest, opened his legs, seized his leather belt, and began to undo his trouser buttons, then pulled down his trousers, worked up like a lunatic. In a flash she stripped him naked in front of you. You watched the movement of his legs as they kicked and flailed.

Everything was before you now: the hunting rifle and the unicorn.

She spat on him and beat him, shouted and cursed him. She bit him and formed fists, raining blows on all his limbs. “I don't want you to die. Death is too good for you.”

She beat him and howled.

“Listen, Munir, I'm going to throw you out. Get out before I kill you.”

She turned and exploded, then collapsed a distance away from him, poisoned. She knelt on the floor and rent her clothes from top to bottom, smote her cheeks and tore her hair. She wept and wailed, and suddenly set upon him in his resigned state, His feet were still, his trousers were halfway down, and what was between his legs looked like stale meat. Your aunt's voice had trailed off; she wailed almost inaudibly, crying softly but not rising. She called but no one came to her. She exclaimed “
Allahu akbar
,” beat her neck and fell on him again, only her arm threatening. She was sweaty and her hair was matted, the bosom of her dress was open with her breasts exposed, now jiggling outside, now back inside. Adil walked through the house, terrified but silent; he did not stop or see anything. He went into our grandmother's room and buried his face in her bed.

Mr Munir felt himself, pulled up his trousers and pushed the pillows away from his head. She went to him and kicked him in the chest and forehead, stood over his head and spat on him as if she were about to vomit. His bald pate shone with spit and sweat, his harsh, wrinkled forehead withdrawn a little. He closed his eyes, covered with spittle. She pushed him in the stomach and muttered and she pulled me by the arm. We went in to Adil and she turned to lock the door with the key, then sank to the floor, beating her thighs, and tearing her hair. None of us made a sound. I thought of my grandmother as I heard the sound of the outer door opening and closing again.

Everyone in our street was stopping by the shop of Hubi the butcher, all stunned by the rumours: “The police have taken Hubi away.” “They say he was circulating anti-government leaflets.”

“No, they say he cursed the Regent and Nuri al-Said.”

“God help us and our children. They say he was behind the last demonstration, after Nasser nationalized the Suez Canal.”

We had watched the demonstration: my grandmother stood in front of the Friday Mosque with the women of the neighbourhood, praying for the young men as they passed before her holding their banners high. “God protect you, my dears, and bring you safely home to your families.”

She was bewildered, exclaiming as if she stood in the line of fire. Umm Suturi belted her wool cloak round her waist, stretched, and tightened her black band round her head, trilling. She regulated the water spigots, set up five thick wooden posts and set pots and pails of clean water between them. She filled canvas sacks with loaves of ovenfresh bread. They drank as they passed before her, shouting slogans and munching the fresh bread.

Rasmiyah had prepared a number of emergency supplies: surgical spirit, dressings, cotton, and iodine. Abu Mahmoud had new types of cheese, which he set out on big plates and left in the care of Umm Mahmoud. He was wearing his new trousers embroidered with silver stripes, a new leather belt, and had a new headcloth fastened round his head. He looked like the 
mitwalli 
of the mosque, Haj Aziz, who stood near him. Between them were Abu Hashim, Abu Masoud, Abu Iman, Abu Ghanim, and Muhammad the builder. Blind Umm Aziz brought big holiday plates dotted with sweets, calling out, “Today everything is free for our boys.”

They all came out: the coppersmiths, carpenters, ironworkers, and builders. Aunt Najiya's young voice parted the crowds of women and children before her: “Dears, clear the way a little for me. I'm ill and out of breath.”

Bahija, La'iqa, and Aunt Naima raised their voices in prayer: “God bless the Prophet Muhammad. Protect them, O Lord, and let them be our protection.”

Aunt Farida went up to the high roof and stood there. Her voice was inaudible and her face was indistinct, but she clapped and chanted. The front of the demonstration appeared at the intersection of the first houses passing down Great Imam Street, and she jumped and skipped, rushing amid the throng. Her clothing was white and her head was covered with a bright veil. She refused to wear her cloak on this day. She stood in front of Abu Mahmoud, who was holding the hands of the boys and girls of the neighbourhood, making us one circle.

Adil had not chosen a partner or a spot to stand in; he moved in our midst like a sleepwalker. Suturi and Nizar called out and laughed. Hashim was bursting with enthusiasm and played with his voice, wanting to release it. Mahmoud was far, far away, dripping with sweat. His voice erupted like a fit of dry, irritated coughing. “He's become a communist,” the people said.

I did not understand what that word meant, though I had heard it as if my father had his pistol out and was chasing me. Mahmoud had changed; his face was harsh and his appearance was different, his luxuriant moustache was thinning, and a strange stillness had slowed his rapid gait. He had changed and become introverted; he was tense, no longer among us. When he stood near me, he used big words and the titles of thick books.

He came quietly and left secretly, and passed through the neighbourhood as we slept. The family's former sense of security was gone, and their easy kindness had become wariness. He was careful the way he looked at you, and when he locked eyes with you his eyes were like a threat. When you were with Firdous it was she he spoke to, and when you were alone you beat yourself in his name. Everyone in the neighbourhood bit their tongues and feared for him: grown-ups, family men, important people, all knew that “getting into politics means trouble,” but they knew very little more and kept quiet.

Mahmoud began to disappear from school and home, from the neighbourhood and his neighbours, his close friends, and you.

The day he gave me a leaflet I was afraid, trembling and stammering. The first leaflet was like a first forbidden kiss. I could not move; my stomach was upside down and I nearly fainted. I knew that there was something like a bomb inside it, and if I touched it it would blow my hand and head off. I read it but only found Nasser's name mentioned once carelessly.

Muddled, I stopped reading and handed it back to him in silence. He vanished before me and left me only the temptation to read. I hardly understood anything; there was hardly anything I didn't understand.

We were all Nasserites. When my grandmother heard his voice she said, “I don't care if his nose is too big. But his voice – it's as though I've heard it before. It's like Abu Jamil's voice.”

My father came into my room when he returned from Karbala, turned on the radio and tuned it to Voice of the Arabs, set down four glasses before him, clinking one against the other. He listened and said:

“Oh my God, deliver us by his hand from this black death.”

Rasmiya kept Nasser's picture in her small work bag, and looked at him whenever she opened it; she kissed it and put it back in with the cotton and surgical spirit.

Umm Mahmoud, Abu Mahmoud; and blind Umm Aziz told us, “I wish I had my sight just so I could see him.”

Farida was like quicksilver: when his name came up she paid attention and got excited. When anyone cursed him she kept quiet.

We pushed into the crowd, taken by his name and his picture, and when the electric current was cut off we spoke to him in the dark, Adil and I, in the name of the Prophet's household. Faces and bodies on roofs and behind windows cried out and threw sweets and nuts to us. Our voices rose as we saw him, young and warm. Then he went high up into the sky.

All Baghdad joined the insurrection that day. Cities, villages, and coffee-houses shut down, shops closed up, the universities wrote their banners and the students flew them, green, white, and red. The high schools let out most of their classes; each class covered the rear of the one before it, the faces of the police and their cudgels and sticks wanted even more of these bodies and heads. My father took the day off and came to Baghdad, telling his superior that his mother was ill. He took off his uniform and slipped into the crowd. I didn't notice him there, but Wafiqa saw him and smiled.

How often I had raced and skipped, run and strolled down Great Imam Street. I could see him now as he taught me how to fly. Nasser came and infiltrated our vocal cords and set all the secrets free. We entered into the rapture and began to chant: “Curse the English, curse reaction, down with colonialism and the Regent. Say Palestine is Arab. Down with Zionism.” Stop stuttering. Fight. They fought with bare chests, necks small and large, and collars worn out from washing, and swore allegiance to him.

His voice was like piety, and my grandmother's shouted along with the rest: Down with the treaties. Down with tyranny. You memorized everything quickly. No one expressed his anger at the King of Iraq. Faisal II was absent from our cries, and stayed far from our voices. All the aunts and women of the neighbourhood loved him:

“He's a dear. He's still young. All the troubles have come from his uncle Abdulilah and the English.”

The picture of the King of Iraq deceived young and old alike. He was handsome and sad, gloomy, yet fortunate as well.

Girls dreamed of him, and women worried about him. There was no blow aimed at him, and no wedding for him. Nasser took everything written on the banners and came to us. When he held court in Cairo, prisoners came out into prison yards and wrote his name with coal or their fingernails on the peeling walls.

When he gave a speech about the Suez Canal, the Arab radio stations divided homes into Nasserites and reactionaries, and the camp of those who did not know anything about it. Shops were closed, and homes were turned upside down in the search for a radio tuned to Voice of the Arabs or a leaflet slipped under old mats.