The Last of the Angels (15 page)

H
aving had more experience of life than most men, Khidir Musa understood the dangers of frequenting kings, for the honor a king bestows on those he embraces can vanish in a moment. Indeed, it may change into a disaster, often for no apparent reason. He knew from stories he had learned from his father that the ancient Arab kings would—from time to time—chop off their favorites' heads, either for the sake of change or as the result of an intrigue hatched by persons with influence over the monarch's mind or heart. His father had become acquainted with some Ottoman pashas who resorted to stratagems that were almost ludicrous. The Ottomans would place prominent men with whom they were annoyed on donkeys, backwards. Then a herald would lead them through the city's markets, loudly enumerating their vices and treacheries, while citizens, who were delighted by the misfortunes of others, attacked these victims, who were seated on an ass, by pelting their heads with filthy shoes or beating them with sticks. Even more atrocious than this punishment was death by impalement, when a stake was inserted in the anus of a person who was forced to sit on it in such a manner that the spearhead gradually penetrated his intestines. The Turks were known for this type of execution and reckoned the spectacle of victims suffering an agonizingly slow death a rare delight in otherwise dreary lives. For these reasons, although times had changed, Khidir Musa was the most anxious of the delegation's members, who were looking forward to meeting the king.

What made Khidir Musa nervous was not the possible loss of a benefaction, but rather possible humiliation; not the king's anger itself, but the chance of falling from grace. Khidir Musa's fears, however, were simply those of a troubled heart finding itself in the presence of Dervish Bahlul, who reminded a person of the evanescence of every glory. The following day, the delegation from the city of Kirkuk, on gathering by the gate of al-Zuhur Palace, met an officer who led them through a garden filled with trees, flowers, and fountains into a vast chamber without even one chair. Exiting by a side door, he left them there without saying a word.

At first the men remained silent, anticipating the king's appearance, but when their wait dragged on they began to whisper to each other. After half an hour of anxious waiting, some of them felt the need to walk around the room to restore circulation to their tired legs while others sat down cross-legged on the ground in the corners as their voices rose in a din that filled the whole space. Finally they summoned up the courage to smoke, and the cloud of smoke that rose from their Ghazi, Turki, and Luxe cigarettes blanketed the entire room. After two hours some members of the delegation asked Khidir Musa to do something: “We can't wait any longer.” Khidir Musa shot back, “What can I do? It's customary for kings to make their subjects wait.” One of them suggested, “Maybe the best thing would be for you to knock on the door and summon the king.” A nearby Kurd objected, “That's not appropriate. The king might be with his family.” After some minutes of this, the men—through the chamber's window—saw King Faisal II, who was dressed in white gym shorts and a blue athletic singlet, performing Swedish calisthenics in a section of the garden. Pushed to the breaking point, Dada Hijri said, “This is too much. I'm going out to invite him to come here.” Khidir Musa replied, “He doesn't know you. I'll come with you.” Dervish Bahlul joined them, even without being invited. So the three went out into the garden, heading toward the king.

Their appearance was a bit alarming and incongruous. Khidir Musa was wearing a dark blue suit, a gray hat, and dark glasses, Dada Hijri wore a loose-fitting blazer over trousers with torn hems, and Dervish Bahlul was clad in a gown of white linen with ancient scuffs on his feet. When the king's companions and guards saw the three men approaching the king, they pointed their revolvers and rifles at them. The commotion attracted the attention of the king, who stood his ground but soon recognized Khidir Musa and laughed. In a loud voice he said, “I can scarcely believe my eyes. This definitely is Khidir Musa.” He called to them, “Come here. What are you waiting for?”

The three men approached the king, who shook their hands. Khidir Musa introduced his two companions: “Dada Hijri, the greatest poet Kirkuk has ever produced and Dervish Bahlul, a fount of human wisdom.”

The young king said jocularly, “What more than this could a king ask for? A brave man like Khidir Musa, a poet like Dada Hijri, and a sage like Dervish Bahlul!” Inviting them to sit on the grass, the king observed, “My grandfather's court was a salon for poets. He appointed Muhammad Mahdi al-Jawahiri as poet laureate, but as you know al-Jawahiri had a capricious temperament. He turned against us after a time and began to write panegyrics for our enemies. Poets are always like that. What can we do? My uncle and the Pasha know by heart the poems in which he ridicules them.”

Dada Hijri commented, “But his ode praising you is considered one of the gems of Arabic poetry.”

The king asked, “Do you mean his poem ‘Swagger, Spring'? That truly is a beautiful poem, but a king needs something more than praise. He needs people he can trust.” Then he turned to Khidir Musa: “Are you planning another adventure or have you retired?”

Khidir Musa cleared his throat and laughed, “You know, Your Majesty, that life makes demands on a person. I no longer have the heart to embark on hazardous adventures.”

The king laughed, “So you're growing old then, Khidir.”

The king invited his three guests to eat breakfast with him, although it was already noon, but Khidir Musa reminded him of his appointment with the Kirkuk delegation, who were still waiting in the reception chamber. This statement astonished the king, who protested that no one had told him about it. Then he relented: “If they've come all the way from Kirkuk, I ought to greet them. But what do they want?”

Dervish Bahlul replied, “They have come to defend the honor of their dead.”

The king was astonished: “The honor of their dead? What do you mean, dervish? Are living men honorable enough to defend the honor of the dead?”

Khidir Musa gently intervened, “We'll tell you the whole story, Your Majesty.”

The king responded jokingly, “Not before breakfast. I thought I only ruled over the living, but if the dead want me to be their king too, I have no objection.”

Khidir Musa and Dada Hijri laughed at the royal jest, but Dervish Bahlul averted his face to avoid being obliged to laugh or smile to humor the king, who was still a callow youth.

Followed by Khidir Musa, Dervish Bahlul, and Dada Hijri, the king strode toward the room into which were squeezed the elite of Kirkuk. As wishes for his long life resounded, the king was received with thunderous applause. He then delivered a brief statement, mentioning that he nourished a special affection for Kirkuk's citizens, who had always proclaimed their loyalty to the Hashemite throne, that he would do everything in his power to develop the city and to resolve its problems, and that he would discuss the whole affair with his friend Khidir Musa over breakfast. He also thanked them for enduring the discomforts of the trip in order to declare their allegiance and fealty to him. The king departed, holding Khidir Musa's hand, and they were followed by Dervish Bahlul and the poet Dada Hijri. Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri called to Khidir Musa, “We'll wait for you at the hotel, Khidir.” Hameed Nylon shushed him, saying, “Hush, man. He certainly won't get lost.”

The king escorted the three to a dining room, where they enjoyed coffee and pastries. The king drank a glass of milk, took three slices of bread with butter and jam, and sipped two cups of coffee while Khidir Musa—deliberately avoiding any reference to the role of the English oil company in the case—related to him the story of al-Musalla Cemetery, which the municipality of Kirkuk was planning to plow under. At the same time he alluded to the possibility that this might lead provocateurs to incite strife and unrest. The king listened attentively to what Khidir Musa had to say. He bowed his head for a time before replying, “Although I don't like to interfere much in affairs of state, I will pass your request on to the prime minister. No matter what the circumstances, the dead should be treated respectfully in this nation.” The king rose to bid farewell to his three guests in a jocular fashion. He told Khidir Musa, “Next time I expect you to visit Baghdad by zeppelin.” He smiled when he shook hands with Dada Hijri: “If you ever write a panegyric poem about me, send it to me.” Before shaking hands with Dervish Bahlul, he paused in silence for a moment. Then he said, almost with embarrassment, “I feel I will meet you again some day.” Dervish Bahlul squeezed his hand as he said, “I know, Your Majesty.” Then he stepped back, leaving the king to ponder the meaning of this sentence, which sounded odd to him, for how would this dervish know that they would meet a second time? He explained it away as one of those riddles that dervishes deliberately use to pry open the sealed doors of the Unknown.

The three men returned to the hotel like ghosts emerging from a legendary party, exchanging no more than a few terse words. They seemed to wish to review in their minds the scenes they had witnessed. Khidir Musa reflected that this young, pampered king in reality possessed no power in the state that he ruled and was merely a decorative garden gnome. The thought that the king himself did not have the power to stop the desecration of the tombs of Khidir Musa's father and grandfathers saddened him. He grasped, perhaps in a murky way, that much blood would be shed and that he was responsible. Dada Hijri was composing a poem about a poet who quaffs coffee with the king. The verses were evolving in his head:

The king appeared so innocent that Dervish Bahlul was grief-stricken, for he knew that this innocence would survive only a few years more before it was punctured by a bullet one morning, even before the king fully grasped what was happening. Dervish Bahlul knew from experience that some deaths are easy and others hard. A man can accept his death if his heart is braced to meet it. Death may also surprise a person and cause him grief. There would always be unfinished business: writing a letter, reading the final chapter of a novel, apologizing for an offense, proclaiming some love or affection, or taking a trip somewhere. Then there was always a gap between extinguished hopes and hopes delayed. No one perceived this discrepancy more clearly than Dervish Bahlul on his return from meeting with the king.

Hameed Nylon stood in front of the hotel waiting for the three men. From there, he led them to the Haidarkhana Mosque, which the members of the delegation had chosen as their meeting place. They were waiting impatiently for the news Khidir Musa would bring them about his breakfast with the king. His continued silence was so alarming that many people felt forced to ask him what was the matter. Then Khidir Musa gestured for Dada Hijri to rise, saying, “We'd best hear the poet tell the story from the beginning.” The poet stood up in front of the mihrab. All eyes were fixed on him. Other men who had happened into the mosque by chance joined the group seated there, without knowing what the occasion was. Then Dada Hijri, his eyes closed, began to sing a Turkmen quatrain, rocking back and forth, as if he had risen from a long slumber:

This poem the poet intoned shocked those present because it contained an overt reference to the king, although only the members of the Kirkuk delegation, who were waiting for good news from the interview with the king, caught it. The members of the delegation felt even more uneasy. They wanted to know what the king had told the three men and had no time for cryptic poetry. Their eyes turned on Khidir Musa, encouraging him to speak. His head was bowed, however, as though he was brooding about the poet's words. Dada Hijri, too, was lost inside himself, mulling over his unfinished poem about breakfasting with the king. For this reason he shook his shoulders in a theatrical fashion and mumbled some incoherent words. When he quit the mihrab, his eyes looked sad, but no one noticed besides Dervish Bahlul, who rose and headed toward the mihrab, where he delivered a short statement that left many squirming, as if simultaneously repulsed and attracted by the conflicting magnetic poles of what they knew and what they did not. Dervish Bahlul's voice sounded like thunder on a rainy day. Khidir Musa looked up at him and smiled as if to encourage him to continue speaking. “Night and day follow each other in turn, but some people who know the night deny there is a day. Drink from the gushing spring and climb to the peak of the mountain. Then descend to meet me—I who have been awaiting you since you were born. Farewell! Until we meet again!” Dervish Bahlul looked away and departed, quitting the mosque without anyone understanding a word he had said. Moreover, the people there disapproved of his obscure language and his unexplained departure. It was true that Khidir Musa had recruited the dervish, insisting that he should be a member of the delegation, even though no one had ever heard of him before, but since chance had furnished him the opportunity to sit with the king, it was wrong for him to leave the gathering in this theatrical manner after mouthing a few obscure sentences that meant nothing.