The Girl from Baghdad (18 page)

My father grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. ‘You have to tell me – what did he do?'

Why did he continue to question me like this? What did he want me to tell him?

‘You have to tell me if you provoked him. Did you?'

‘No, no! Baba, stop, I beg you!' I replied tearfully, ‘It wasn't my fault. I didn't do anything. Please, believe me.'

He shook me harder, his voice louder. ‘The honour of the entire family is at risk. What will people think of you, of us? Don't you understand the seriousness of what's happened?' He removed his hands from my shoulders and slid them down the sides of my arms.

I continued to cry. He turned to me again, trying to compose himself, but his voice exposed his growing rage.

‘I'm going to ask you for the last time, Michelle. It's a serious question. Did you provoke him?'

I stared at him through my tears, shaking my head desperately. ‘No, no.'

He glared at me.

‘I didn't do anything wrong, Baba, I swear.' I saw the look on his face: he didn't believe me. I lowered my eyes, humiliated, demoralised and confused.

He stood up and left the room without saying another word.

It was evening and darkness had cast a shadow over the city. The bombs rang out in the distance. A ruckus broke out on the street; we could hear men fighting – there was loud yelling and the sound of glass smashing. I thought it was a brawl spilling out from one of the neighbourhood bars not far from our house. Then I heard a gunshot. We ran to the terrace to see what had happened, but everybody had already dispersed and the street was deserted. A few minutes later, there was a weak knock at the door. Mum went to open it.

My father was barely standing and covered in blood. He was unrecognisable: his eyes were swollen and his jaw hung ajar. He staggered through the door and fell backwards onto the floor. My mother tried to keep him
conscious as she desperately called out to the neighbours for help. The ambulance arrived quickly taking both of them away.

A few days later we went to visit Dad at the hospital. Mum, my sisters and I took a bus across the city. Money was getting scarce and we couldn't afford to take a taxi. I hated public transport. Once, a woman completely veiled in black stared at me unnervingly. Pointing at my dress that was hemmed just above the knee, she yelled, ‘You should be ashamed!' The trip that day was also tainted by public humiliations; the men's sultry looks, their lascivious stares. Some rubbed their hairy hands against Mum, whispering obscene phrases.

My father lay on the bed. His arms, covered in lacerations and bruises, rested atop the stark white sheets. His head was wrapped in bandages. Big, clumsy stitches and the outline of the metal plate they had inserted to rebuild his skull were visible through the gauze. Seeing him in this condition was horrific. And it was all my fault.

We found out later that on the evening that he confronted me, Dad left the house and went to Bàn's, looking for her uncle. He then insulted and threatened him. The next day Bàn's uncle and three companions stood in front of our gate and waited for Dad. When he arrived they beat him mercilessly and slashed him with a knife. The gunshot missed him, but maybe it was
just a warning shot. Somebody must have arrived in the meantime, a car or the police, because the aggressors dispersed in a hurry, leaving Dad for dead.

Now he was trapped in a hospital bed. I gathered my courage and walked towards him. I took his hand, but he pulled it away. He averted his gaze, preferring to stare at the wall. I tried to talk to him. ‘Baba, it's me. Talk to me. Tell me something, if you can. I'm sorry. I'm sorry … Baba, talk to me. Look at my face, I beg you!'

He stayed mute. My mother held a handkerchief to her mouth to smother her sobs. Klara and Linda clung to each other. Mum stared at the scene with distraught eyes.

Dad was in hospital for six weeks. We visited him almost every day but he was always the same: unresponsive, cold. He didn't want to see us, especially me. He never replied to my questions. He never said a word.

In the summer of 1987, Dad moved once and for all to Bibi's house, or at least that's what he told Klara. He had stopped speaking to me. The embarrassment and shame over what happened was too much for him. Every time he came by our house, I searched his face for a sign that he had forgiven me, but it wasn't there. He was so removed and aloof that sometimes I felt like a complete stranger.

Even at Bibi's house, I felt I was being kept at a distance. The day after Dad's accident, Kasside glowered at me when I went up to greet Bibi, who, too, regarded me disdainfully while I bowed to kiss her hands.

‘Klara,' I said to my sister, at the end of a particularly trying day with the women of my father's family,
‘why are the aunts acting like this? What do they have against me?'

‘Why do you ask that?' she responded. She seemed disconcerted by my question.

‘With you and Linda they are affectionate. With me, well, you see it too, they barely speak to me …'

‘It's all in your head. Come on, let's go and see what good things are in the kitchen,' my sister cut me off, trying to change the subject.

‘It's not just in my head. They're mad at me. Do you know something? Tell me, please.'

‘I don't know anything, Michelle. I don't know why they're acting like this. I just heard Kasside saying to Baba …' she stopped, hesitant.

‘What did she say to him?'

‘She was speaking about the Mum and Baba situation, and she was suggesting that we all move in to Bibi's while we wait for the other house to be built.'

‘What other house?'

‘I don't know. I didn't understand. It sounds like Baba bought some land some time ago, and now he's building a villa where we'll go to live. They spoke of a woman that we don't know, and then Kasside brought up Baba's accident. She said you were responsible for what happened. But I don't think so. You didn't have anything to do with it. It was an accident,' Klara said regretfully.

Despite my sister's attempt to protect me, I knew my father's entire family were treating me like some sort of criminal. It wasn't just my imagination playing tricks on me.

After that day, our visits to Bibi's house became less frequent. On those occasions, I felt it was becoming more and more obvious that my sisters and I had to choose whose side we were on: Mum's or Dad's. It was a heartbreaking ultimatum. I would never abandon my mother.

Mum was in the living room, seated on the couch, her forehead wrinkled with worry. Fiddling anxiously with her fingers she addressed me frankly. ‘Michelle, school is about to start. We have to buy books and everything you girls need, but we don't have much money.'

Her big green eyes which usually gleamed with life, were flat, lacklustre. Now that he didn't live with us anymore, Dad would leave three plastic bags full of food at the front door once a week. He had the legal obligation to take care of us but, according to him, all he had to do was provide us with adequate food. I didn't know where Mum would find the money to maintain the household when nobody from my father's family would help us.

Thinking of cash, I had an idea.

‘We can use the money they gave us for the El Id party. After all, we saved it for a time of need, right?' I
ran to my bedroom and told Linda and Klara to take out their savings. We gave the little wooden boxes stuffed with money to Mum. We dumped the cash on the table and counted it.

Mum took a deep breath. ‘We have to be able to buy books and everything you need for school with this.' Then whispered to herself, ‘But how will we manage for everything else?'

‘Mum, what's wrong?' I enquired.

‘With what's left, we can go on for another few weeks, but then I don't know …' She was forcing herself not to cry.

‘We'll use this,' I offered.

She lifted her head and stared at me questioningly, ‘How?'

‘We'll use this money. We'll stop going to school. Why should we buy books if we can't even pay the bills?'

‘Not in your dreams,' she said decisively. ‘Even if I have to stop eating, you girls will continue going to school! We're not giving up your education. I'll find a solution.' Her face suddenly brightened. ‘I've had an idea. I'll go and sell what remains of our jewels. You girls didn't bring everything with you when we met in Frankfurt, did you?'

‘No, just the most precious.'

I ransacked the closet and found a small chest of jewels in the corner. I brought them to her. We opened
it together and pulled out gold necklaces, a few rings, and some thin bracelets.

‘When I think of what we had …' her eyes watered again. Her eyes never seemed to be free of tears these days. She swallowed, then added, ‘I'll try to convince the goldsmith to buy them for a good price.'

We went to the jeweller together, the one who had sold us many valuable jewels that we had worn to parties. I remembered when we were there in such a jubilant state, preparing for Esmàa's wedding. But this time he welcomed us with a sneer. He must have known my mother was a single woman now, even if she did everything to hide it. In Baghdad, this sort of predicament deprived you of any protection, leaving you to fight off people's cruellest intentions.

We had hoped he would remember us and help us out. Unfortunately, he did remember us, and used this to his advantage. He held my mother's hand much longer than he needed to. He was lustful and arrogant. My mother wasn't in a position to bargain and each extra minute we spent in that store was more humiliating. In the end, she was able to convince him to pay her a modest sum for what remained of her jewellery.

Little by little, we became used to being treated with derision by the male shopkeepers who had once kowtowed to us. They took advantage of their position and our vulnerable situation, and overcharged
us or let their hands wander over us. Talk amongst the neighbourhood about what had happened spread quickly. One cannot imagine how much gossip can ruin a life until it happens. From the moment my father's family cut us off financially, people stopped treating us with respect. As four single females without the protection of the rest of their family we were in big trouble.

Coming home from school, I had kept up the habit of glancing at the crack in the wall that Bàsil had used as a letterbox. I was so certain I wouldn't find anything that one day I was truly shocked when I noticed a little folded piece of paper. The paper was similar to the kind Bàsil used. After a few short letters in the mail telling me about how he was having difficulties adapting to the American college he was attending, the only news I had heard was that he had continued his studies to become a lawyer. A lot of time had passed. Was it possible that the presence of this secret letter meant that he had returned to Baghdad?

I hid the note in my pocket and read it alone in my bedroom.

I remembered the phrase he had written in his farewell letter, ‘There's no distance that can separate us.' His words were like a drop of fresh water in the middle of the desert. I grabbed a pen and paper, but then hesitated. I didn't want his pity, his sympathy. I wrote a brief letter, one that didn't disclose the joy in my heart knowing he was back.

Bàsil replied to my message, letting me know he was there for me, waiting with discretion and patience. We started exchanging daily letters again. Sometimes, slipping the paper in the crack of the wall, it seemed as if we had gone back in time and everything that had already taken place was yet to happen. I wasn't surprised when I read:

I was very anxious to see him. I didn't want to continue speaking to a ghost. Plus, after all that time, I could hardly remember what he looked like. Only his mesmerising catlike green eyes remained clear in my memory.

The next day I waited until the streets were deserted and ran swiftly to his gate. Looking over my shoulder, I tapped on the door three times. Bàsil opened it and I hastily snuck inside.

Time seemed to stop as we stared at each other, unable to speak. Almost two years had passed since we had seen each other face to face. We knew so much about each other already, even though we found it difficult to recognise the other's face. He still had the same bright eyes, magnetic and mysterious. But he had changed a lot. He had lost his boyish looks and was becoming a man. His smile finally abated my embarrassment. I couldn't believe we were actually alone together.

‘You haven't changed a bit,' he said with a deeper voice than I remembered. ‘No, excuse me, you're even more beautiful.'

Flattered by the compliment, I responded, ‘And you've gotten taller.'

‘Come on, let's go to my bedroom. We'll be more comfortable. We can even listen to a little music. I brought some tapes back from the United States.'

It was as if we had always been together. He made me feel completely at ease. Bàsil told me about America, college life, his studies, and how different this world was from that in Baghdad. He was enthusiastic and lively, conversation pouring out of him.

While he spoke, I thought of all the drama taking place around me. Bàsil must have realised I wasn't listening and he became pensive, asking me what had been happening in my life. I was silent.

‘Sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive. I've probably bored you blabbering on about myself.'

‘You know, Bàsil, so much happened while you were away. It's been a difficult time.' I just wanted to stay quiet.

He touched my cheek gently. I looked him in the eye. ‘You don't have to worry. Everything will be all right. I'm here and I'll never leave you alone. You'll keep writing to me, won't you?'

‘Yes.'

He was so close I could feel the heat of his skin. He put an arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer. He gave me a long hug, which was exactly what I needed. An infinite sweetness enveloped me as I placed my head against his chest, smelling the sweet, fresh perfume of
his clothes. Pulling away, we returned to face each other. I felt an enormous fondness for him, unlike anything I had ever felt for another boy.

The sound of the front door downstairs startled us. We heard his mother's voice ring out, calling his name.

‘Damn! If my mother finds you here we'll both be in huge trouble. I'm sorry,' he said mournfully, holding my hands tightly. ‘She wasn't supposed to come back so early. Hurry, you have to go out the back without being seen. There's a low part of the fence on the other side of the garden, it's not too difficult to get over.'

I climbed out his window and fell into the yard. While Bàsil kept his mother busy, I bolted towards the fence. Praying nobody had noticed me, I crept towards the hedges at the back of his garden and hopped over the wall. I ran as fast as I could all the way home.

Only when I got there did I realise I had badly scraped my elbows and ankle. I lay on my bed for more than an hour staring at the ceiling and thinking of Bàsil and the intimacy we had just shared. I thought about something he had written in one of his letters. He said, ‘our souls were united'. It was a rare and special thing to experience.

Every morning, Dani and her dad came to pick up my sisters and me for school. I gave Mum a kiss goodbye.
She was becoming weaker and paler, but I could see she was trying to hold herself together for the sake of her girls. We couldn't pay our old maid Um Butrus anymore, but she hadn't abandoned us like my father's family. She came to visit us when she could, always bringing us something to eat.