The Girl from Baghdad (4 page)

We moved to a new house after Linda was born. It was in the same neighbourhood, Al Mansùr, but unlike our previous apartment, it was much larger. I had fun running around on the big terrace. From there you could see and hear everything that took place on the main street of Baghdad, Arba'taash Ramadàn.

In the mornings, our driver waited for Mum and me in front of the house. Mum accompanied me to school and said goodbye, giving me a kiss on the forehead. After school I played with the other kids on our street. As Al Mansùr was a calm neighbourhood, we were allowed to stay out until dusk and to go as far as the kiosk at the end of the street where they made delicious ice-cream.

Bàn and Otůr were my best friends. We were inseparable. Bàn was Muslim, like me. She was blonde with big blue eyes, which were always looking around. She had two brothers who followed her everywhere. When we tired of racing our bicycles, we went to play dolls or ‘school' in Otůr's big yard, which also had a swing. There was a big pomegranate tree near the jasmine bushes that released clouds of perfume in spring. At the end of summer the pomegranates swelled with ruby-red seeds. We ripped them from their branches, careful not to prick ourselves with the thorns, and husked the kernels. Then we stuffed them in our mouths, laughing and enjoying the tart flavour. The chant of the muezzin from the minarets nearby told us when it was time to go
back home. Only then did I think of the scolding Mum would give me when she saw my shirt horribly marked with red.

I loved my little friend Otůr, who lived next door. She was thin, with an elfin face and a crown of brown curls. When she smiled, she displayed a funny row of little teeth. All she had to do was look up at me with her big dark eyes and she could convince me to do anything. Her family was from the south and her parents came from different backgrounds: her father was Muslim; her mother, Christian. A large crucifix hung in their living room and, when I went to visit her home, I stopped to stare at that strange object on the wall.

My family had explained it was
haràm
, prohibited, bad; it was shameful to keep it in the house, like all things of that faith. My parents, although from different religious backgrounds themselves, once told me the tragic story of a Muslim girl who had gone crazy after falling in love with a Christian boy. She locked herself in her room and never came out. They said that nobody could touch her anymore because she would shake hysterically and scream. Stories like this greatly influenced us, but when it came to our friendships, religion was no barrier. It was normal to have Muslim, Catholic or Orthodox friends; the only thing that mattered was knowing how to pedal your bike faster than the others.

When he wasn't travelling for work, Dad spent a lot of time with us. Linda and Klara were still very young, but by this time I was already eight years old and he and I shared a special bond. He would come to me when he suffered from a bad back. I understood my help was needed when I saw him get up and sit down with difficulty, wincing with pain. Then he asked me to give him one of my special massages. I took off my slippers while he lay face down on the rug. I climbed on his back and with my hands against the wall, tried out a series of light dances, massaging his aching muscles with my toes. At the end, he sat down with a blissful expression on his face and told me that I was his magic nurse.

Friday morning was another of our special moments. I remember one in particular, when Dad came to wake me with a kiss and a little brown paper bag. What a surprise! He had left early in the morning to gather
nabùc
(small, sweet, apple-shaped fruits I went crazy for) from a tree only he knew about. I jumped on his back and covered him with kisses. Happy, I went downstairs with my sisters to have breakfast.
Chubuz
, hot Arab bread, was on the table. I helped Linda smear soft cheese and honey on it, then looked at Klara and gave her a wink before starting to patter the little spoon on the plate, keeping up the rhythm like a real drummer. Klara ran to the kitchen to get a pot from the bottom cabinet.
Linda clapped her hands excitedly and, in a few minutes, we had put together our own improvised rock band. We sang, ‘
Linde Linde ya Hayati …
' at the top of our lungs, making a terrible racket that woke the neighbours. We stopped only when we saw
Tom & Jerry
and
Popeye
appear on the television screen.

Linda and I always sat on the rug to watch the cartoons. My favourite was
Lady Oscar
, the story of a girl who, pretending to be a boy, became a swordsman for the King of France. Her strength was superhuman. She challenged the enemies of the King and made them respect her like a real soldier. The image of Lady Oscar with her sword raised, while her long blonde hair blew in the wind, was printed on my lunchbox, a little tin suitcase with a coloured plastic handle. I liked the way she looked and tried to copy her in my drawings. I dreamed of being like her: strong and full of courage; a real warrior princess.

My father waited patiently for the cartoons to be over before telling me to hurry up and get dressed. I was to accompany him to the market. I was so delighted to walk by his side. He was my tall and handsome king. Everyone had to serve us and treat us like royalty. We stopped in front of a stand where fruit was piled up in pyramids. My father negotiated the price. Then, winking at the vendor, he stole a date and made me taste it. He bent down to my ear, inviting me to choose a watermelon.
They were bright green and enormous. I instinctively chose the one with the most regular shape.

My father started laughing, ‘It doesn't have to be pretty; it has to be good. Choose the ripest.'

‘And how do you know which one, Baba?' I always called him that.

‘Put your ear here.' He made me place my head against a particularly enormous watermelon, then gave it a little knock with his hand. ‘What sound does it make? Does it sound like a drum?'

‘Yes! Yes!' I responded enthusiastically.

‘When it sounds like this, it means that it's red and juicy inside. You'll see when we cut it open.'

When we came back from the market, more chubuz was baking in the clay oven. Mum knew how to do it well: she kneaded it, then applied it to the ceiling of the red-hot dome. I sat in front of the oven and stared at it impatiently. The bread fell down when it was cooked. I could hardly wait until it was ready so I could enjoy it with the watermelon, as Dad had taught me.

Every week I asked him to measure how much I had grown. I took him by the hand and led him towards the wall already full of little marks. I stood upright against the wall and he drew a new line above my head with a pencil. Every time Dad measured my height I was thrilled. I was in a hurry to grow up and be big like him.

In the evening, before dinner, there was another family ritual: my father would take all three of us children into the large bathroom. There was a shower in the corner with small taps to wash our feet. He soaped us up and was forced to move acrobatically as his three laughing girls tried to escape his hands. My mother watched and smiled, leaning against the door where she waited for us with a towel. She often let me sit in front of her mirror as she brushed my hair, singing the Beatles song ‘Michelle' to me in a soft voice. ‘Is that my song, Mami? Did you invent it for me?' I asked her every time. I liked to hear the story.

‘No, dear, it's an English song. I used to listen to it when I was a girl. When you were born, you were so tiny, and the first time I took you in my arms, you started to scream like crazy. So, to make you stop crying, I sang, “Michelle, ma belle …” to you.'

‘And did I?'

‘You immediately calmed down. At that point, I thought if I called you Michelle, you would always be a wonderful little girl … instead you became a real little pest!' She tickled me and covered me in kisses.

Mum often listened to the Beatles or ABBA tapes at home. She played them so often she had almost worn the tapes out. We knew all the songs by heart, and they became the soundtrack to our games.

We were spirited little girls. One of our favourite games was to create a swing out of a sheet, which we
nailed to the two sides of a door. It obviously didn't hold for more than a few minutes and we soon finished with our legs in the air. Another of our inventions was an imaginary horse, made by placing a pillow inside the window of the wall that connected the living room to Klara's room. We squabbled loudly every time, fighting over who was going to get to ride the steed first. When we played with Lego, Klara always fought with Linda because she hid the pieces. At that point, tired of hearing us scream, Mum sent us to play on the terrace. One morning, with our elbows placed on the balustrade and a pencil for a cigarette in each of our mouths, we counted the cars as they passed, competing to see who had seen the most beautiful car.

Like all kids, I had many aspirations growing up. I already knew that I loved dancing and singing, but what fascinated me the most was the world of television. I spent some afternoons in front of the mirror, imitating the glamorous female presenters I admired on TV. Holding a hairbrush, I pretended to speak through a microphone to a huge audience that was watching me from behind the camera-mirror. I made imaginary announcements.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!' Applause! ‘And now this evening for a new episode of
Play with Us
!' Applause!

I styled my hair with colourful little clips and applied Mum's red lipstick, which made me feel like a
sophisticated grown-up. I repeated the scene a couple of times in front of the ‘cameras' until I was sure that I had the right introduction. When I grew up I wanted to be a presenter for real.

Dad knew a thousand stories. One afternoon he found me in front of the big living room window, watching a strange pink cloud making its way towards the city from afar. The sunlight made it appear redder. My father stood next to me and we stayed in silence for a while. He then drew me closer for one of his magical stories:

‘And where did he go?' I asked, worried about the wind's fate.

‘He went back to his house, but first he promised the men that he would be back to show their children a little of the desert.'

‘Does he come back every year?'

‘Yes. Look, that's him coming right now.' He pointed at the pink fog that was nearing, shrouding houses and office buildings with fine red dust.

‘I'm scared. Will the wind hurt us, Baba?'

‘No, Michelle, the wind isn't mean. He'll go away in two days. In the meantime, we have to keep the windows shut tight because, if we don't, the wind will colour our living room pink too.'

‘And we can't leave?'

‘No. Otherwise it will colour us too. But after it finishes its job, we'll collect the leftover sand together. This way you'll have a handful of the desert, too.'

My father had to go on business trips a few times each month to check on offices in far-off countries. I accompanied him to the airport: a place that I knew very well because Dad brought me with him often. He let me play in his big office while he did his duties. He also brought me to Shar' El Saadùn, the largest commercial street in Baghdad, where his company had another office. His secretaries spoiled me with sweets and toys.
They would give me little model aeroplanes, or let me draw using the hundreds of coloured pencils I found on the desks. Every time he flew away for another business trip, I stayed to watch him from the airport while he boarded the plane. He waved to me from the porthole, an instant before taking off. I would go back home in silence, already dreaming of his next welcome-home party when he would burst into the house with armfuls of gifts: toys, chocolate, cartoons or movies in English.