The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (5 page)

He said that we all were inheritors of this great treasure of civilization that enriches our present and future and makes modern Iraqi art so fertile. He asked whether we knew of the Liberty Monument in Liberation Square and the name of the artist who designed it, but we didn’t.

“Memorize the name of this man: Jawad Salim,” he said.

Mr. Ismael took out an apple. He put his bag and the apple on the table and asked us to draw them in fifteen minutes. Silence reigned except for the lead in our pencils scratching against the surface of the
paper and the squeaking of a nearby desk whose occupant kept erasing what he’d just drawn. I started to sketch. I was seated in the third row close to the table. Those who were in the back had to stand up every now and then to look.

Mr. Ismael walked around checking each drawing and making comments. When he got to my desk, he stood and looked for half a minute without saying anything. I’d finished drawing the table, bag, and apple and started to add the shades in the corners and some other tiny details, especially how the sun’s rays entered the classroom from the window next to the table and how the bag blocked some of the light, leaving the apple in the shade.

I expected him to criticize me, but he said: “Well done, Jawad. Marvelous! Marvelous!” I was very happy with his approval and praise.

He continued to walk around and announced that ten minutes had passed. Five minutes later, he asked us to stop and put our pencils down. Then he told us to get up and have a look at what the others had drawn without making noise. Of course there was some chatter and some students who pretended to be critics, pointing with their fingers and offering silly comments. I saw one drawing that I thought could compete with mine, but the others were quite ordinary or incomplete.

After ten minutes the teacher asked us to go back to our seats. He asked what we had noticed. Hadi raised his hand.

“Yes, Hadi.”

Hadi said, “No one can draw.”

Some laughed, but most protested loudly against this destructive criticism. The teacher clapped again to silence everyone and yelled: “Enough!” He reprimanded Hadi, saying: “Everything has its time, but I will not tolerate such disrespect. Each student has drawn the scene from his spot and the same scene appears slightly different from a different angle. Therefore, perspective is very important in drawing.”

He asked us to pay attention to the proportionality and size of objects. We shouldn’t, for example, draw the bag very tiny and the
apple very huge. He said he would show us the best drawing he’d seen. He came toward me and took my pad and returned to the middle of the classroom and stood there.

He raised the pad and said: “Look at your colleague Jawad’s drawing. There is attention to proportion and accuracy in capturing details. Well done, Jawad! Marvelous!”

I was filled with joy as everyone looked at me and he returned my pad. He said that he would tell us more the following week about light and shade and their relationship. Our homework assignment was to draw the TV at home.

After class I went to thank him for the pad. He asked whether I’d studied art before. I said I hadn’t, but that it was a hobby and I had many notebooks filled with sketches. He said: “You have a strong hand and are talented.” I was happy and thanked him.

Mr. Ismael’s class became my favorite that year. I waited all week for that one hour. In every class, he would choose one or two drawings and use them to demonstrate strengths and weaknesses. Despite his evenhandedness and the special attention he gave every student, I still felt that he praised me more often. This earned me the jealousy of some of the students. Hadi used to tease me and said once in front of all the students: “Mr. Ismael is a homo and he wants to fuck you!” I was very angry and told him that he was an idiot and was jealous, but he said: “Why, then, does he always talk to you after class?” He kept repeating: “Jawad is a faggot. Jawad is a faggot. Jawad is a faggot.” I was furious and we got into a fight, but other students separated us. I swore never to talk to him again and told my friends that they had to choose between being my friends or his. He used to say out loud right before arts class: “Your fucker is coming. Your fucker is coming.”

Mr. Ismael noticed that I was sulking that day and asked me what was wrong, but I said nothing to him. I told Ammoury, who said that Hadi was jealous and I should just ignore him.

Mr. Ismael organized several artistic activities at our school, and we were asked to work together in groups to design a wall newspaper, which included literary texts and artwork. We also organized an exhibition which featured the best drawings of the year. He selected
two of mine. One was inspired by al-Sayyab’s poem “Rain Song,” the other was of my father holding his worry beads. The drawings were hung on a wall close to the principal’s office, and the names and sections of students were written under them. The exhibition went on for a month and I was happy to see my name in big letters next to my drawings and to see students and teachers standing before them.

One day after class Mr. Ismael asked me: “What do you want to be when you grow up, Jawad?”

Without hesitation I said: “Jawad Salim.”

He laughed and patted my shoulder saying: “An artist. Why not? You can study at the academy, but you must keep to your drawing and never stop.”

I answered: “Of course, Sir.”

At the end of the year he asked me to go to his office after class and to bring my backpack along. The last part sounded odd. When I got there he asked me to sit down on the chair in front of his desk. He repeated what he’d told me throughout the year about my talent and unique eye. He said I was the best student in all of his classes, better even than those who were older. He added that talent was important, but it was not sufficient by itself and had to be augmented by constant practice and study.

He opened the drawer and took out two pads of the same sort he had given us at the beginning of the year. He took a plastic sack out of his leather bag and put it on his desk. He asked me to take out what was inside. I did and there was a midsize box of watercolors with two brushes and a set of pastels. I was delighted by the surprise and a bit shy. I didn’t know what to say except a soft “thank you.” He said that it was a gift to encourage me to develop my abilities. I thanked him again and told him that his was my favorite class and that I’d learned so much.

“You deserve much more, Jawad,” he said. “You will not be Jawad Salim, but you can be a fabulous Iraqi artist one day.” He looked at his watch and said that he had to go to another class. We shook hands warmly and I put his precious gift in my bag. I thanked him again and we said goodbye.

After our last class before the summer break I waited for the other students to leave, especially Hadi, and then gave Mr. Ismael a gift. It was a profile of his face I’d worked on for weeks until I got the best version possible. I wrote on the back:
To the best teacher ever. From your grateful student Jawad Kazim.
He was very happy as he looked at it. He said he would cherish it and frame it. He shook my hands warmly and patted me on the shoulder. He reminded me to keep drawing and said that he was looking forward to seeing what I would draw during the summer.

During the summer I filled the two pads with drawings after having practiced using watercolors on ordinary paper. I liked to draw with pastel too, but I focused on strengthening my hand with the brush. For the first time ever I found myself impatiently waiting for the break to end so I could show Mr. Ismael my new drawings.

On the first day of school I looked at the rosters of students and teachers and at the schedules posted on the wall next to the administration offices. His name did not appear anywhere and there was an X instead of his name next to “Arts.” My heart sank and I asked the assistant principal about him. He said that Mr. Ismael had been called up for military service and that they’d assign a new teacher.

When it was time for arts class on Thursday, the vice principal came into our classroom and said: “No arts. You can leave.” I inquired about the new teacher. He said: “There is no new teacher.” I asked why. He said: “No idea, son.”

The arts class became a free hour during which students had fun playing and running around, but for me it was impossible to fill that void with anything. I never studied art with any other teacher after that and never had any further formal training until I entered the Academy of Fine Arts five years later. One month after the start of that academic year in 1980, the war with Iran started. I always wondered about Mr. Ismael’s fate as I watched the footage of fierce battles on TV. I asked other teachers whether they’d heard anything about him, but no one knew anything.

She was all in black. I was late for my art history class that morning because I had decided to sleep an extra fifteen minutes past the alarm. The professor was strict about attendance and wouldn’t allow anyone who was more than ten minutes late to enter. Students called him “The Englishman” because of his obsession with time and because of the fluency and excessive—and somewhat pretentious—accuracy with which he pronounced various English terms. I was panting when I quietly opened the door to the lecture hall. I thought maybe he’d forgive me, but he shook his index finger and pointed to his watch and gestured to me to close the door. I did and walked to the kiosk outside the academy and bought a copy of
al-Jumhuriyya.
I read the headlines on my way to the cafeteria. Nothing new except military communiqués and constant victories over the enemy. I folded it and put it with my books. I went to the cafeteria, because I hadn’t had time to have breakfast at home. I bought a white cheese sandwich and a cup of tea.

There were no seats inside but it was warm so I went outside and found an empty bench near the theater department. A group of theater students wearing black were sitting around a palm tree. I sat down and began to devour my sandwich while reading the sports page as usual. My favorite soccer team, al-Zawra’, had lost two of its stars because they were called to the national team, which was preparing for the Asia Tournament. Al-Zawra’s performance had started to decline, and it had lost the previous day’s away match against Najaf, even though Najaf’s team was in last place.

I turned to the culture pages. There was a feeble poem about the
war and under it an interview with an arts critic. I saw a long article about the
Arabian Nights
and the Arabic literary tradition and how both had influenced Latin American writers. I heard someone clap. It was one of the theater professors who was a famous experimental director. He had a cloud of white hair and was wearing jeans, a white shirt, and sunglasses. He asked the students around the palm tree to pay attention.

I went back to the article. It was discussing Borges’s fascination with the East and a story he’d written about Averroes, but I couldn’t concentrate. I heard the professor again explaining the exercise they were about to begin. He asked three of the students to sit on the ground and imagine themselves on a sinking boat and to act out their predicament without words. He asked the others to watch. One of the students asked what kind of boat it should be and the professor answered: “Whatever you like, as long as it sinks.” Most of them laughed.

I was intrigued, so I got up and sat on a closer bench to watch, but kept a reasonable distance so as not to be annoying. The professor called out three names and asked them to be the first to perform. Reem was one of them. She squatted on the ground and held her knees with her arms and looked to the professor awaiting his signal. She was wearing baggy black pants and a black cotton shirt with an open neck and long sleeves she’d folded back a few times so that her arms were showing. Her jet-black hair was tied back. The professor signaled for the sinking to begin.

Later I saw her standing in line at the cafeteria. She’d changed and was wearing a gray skirt with a white shirt. I approached her and said, “I wanted to save you from drowning, but I can’t swim.”

She turned toward me with a scowl and asked very seriously: “Excuse me. Come again?”

“The exercise. This morning? Drowning … I was sitting there and saw you drowning.”

She laughed and said: “Oh, yes. Thank you for your gallantry, but it’s useless if you can’t swim.”

“Intentions don’t matter?”

“Yes, of course. Intentions are crucial.”

Then she introduced herself: “Reem, theater.”

I said: “Delighted. Jawad. Arts.”

Her eyes were pitch-black and gleamed with confidence as she spoke somewhat slowly. Her eyelashes were thick, her eyebrows carefully plucked. She was wearing light makeup. She bought crackers and a cup of tea with milk and offered to buy me something in appreciation of my noble intentions. I thanked her but I had to leave for a class. I noticed the gold ring on her left hand as she paid and felt a pang in my heart. Damn! She’s married. All this beauty for another man who waits for her at the end of the day.

“Some other time then,” she said.

We said goodbye and I headed to the door. We exchanged smiles. I could train myself, I determined, to be just friends with a woman.

I saw her again a week later on the sidewalk outside the academy. She was getting into a beautiful blue car with tinted windows. The driver was a man, probably her husband, wearing sunglasses. I caught only his black moustache. Then she disappeared and I didn’t see her again that year. One day I saw a friend I’d seen her with and asked about Reem’s disappearance. She said that Reem had dropped out for personal reasons, but she refused to say more. I wondered whether Reem was ill. I asked other students in the theater department and heard a rumor that her husband had forced her to drop out.

I remembered how my father shook his head when he was certain that I wanted to make the Academy of Fine Arts my first choice. My average score in the countrywide baccalaureate exam was 87.7 percent. That would probably guarantee acceptance in the engineering departments at al-Mustansiriyya University and other universities in the provinces, or in fields such as literature or the sciences if I made these my top choices.