The Last of the Angels

by Fadhil al-Azzawi

  The mullah’s features relaxed: “You know what, Hameed? You know how to coexist with this damn world.”

  Hameed replied in jest, “You can learn how if you want.” His round eyes, which resembled the ones children draw in their notebooks, gleamed affectionately.

  “No, I’ll never learn that. The devil lives beneath my tongue. The moment I open my mouth out spills the scent of the dunghill.”

  Hameed Nylon thought to himself, “The old man’s gone senile. It’s really sad. He’s still living in dreams. Why does a person keep hopeful to the end? What does this mullah want from the world? Perhaps he thought he would live forever. He’s a Muslim, at any rate: ‘Live your life as if you would live forever.’ Me, I live as if would die tomorrow. I shouldn’t tell him that. A man dies the moment he loses hope. This old guy still has the ability to hope.”

  The mullah stepped forward and placed his dry palm affectionately on Hameed Nylon’s shoulder. Then he suddenly noticed something: “Just a minute.” With his thumb he felt the other man’s sideburn. “Your barber should have cut your sideburn shorter than he did. Young men are growing their sideburns long today, just like the Jews. Oh, that doesn’t matter. Why don’t you come to prayers at the mosque, Hameed? All you lack is guidance toward God.”

  “Do you really believe that the mosque is God’s house? I believe that He applauds residence in hearts, rather than in your mosque, where men fart with every prostration.”

  The mullah replied beguilingly, “What a free thinker you are! But without that, you’re not worth a single fils.”

  Hameed stopped in front of a store that resembled a hole in the wall and purchased a tin of Black Cat cigarettes. He offered one to the mullah, who said disdainfully, “You smoke Tomcat cigarettes and comb blue pomade into your hair. Young men are always this way. Old fellows like me are content if God shelters them with his expansive mercy.”

  Hameed Nylon lit his cigarette. Evening was beginning to fall gradually over the city. Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri said, “If you don’t have anything else to do, we could sit in the coffeehouse. I would like to invite you to have a tumbler of tea at my expense.”

  “I thought you wanted to invite me to a banquet of roast lamb. What’s on your mind? I know you’re upset about Qara Qul’s whore. Come now; tell me. She’s a slanderous viper. You shouldn’t have gotten involved with her.”

  “Yes, the matter concerns this whore, but I made a mistake with Khidir Musa. I was rude to him. He refused to listen to me and I lost my head.”

  “This is a major error, mullah. You know we’re all indebted to him, and you in particular. But let’s skip that for now. What’s with the whore?”

  “I’ll lose everything. I’ve damaged my reputation. A whore like Qara Qul’s widow has shown that she is more judicious than I am. Even the Muslim scholars have fallen into her snares. They’ve issued a fatwa against me, wishing to steal the shrine of Qara Qul from me.”

  “It’s true; she is more judicious than you. You’ve changed a lot, mullah. The money’s changed you. You no longer know any god beside coins. Don’t get angry. I just need to tell you this. You know—no one will defend you as long as you consider the riches of the shrine as your personal wealth. The government won’t accept that and neither will the religious scholars or the citizens of Kirkuk. If you want the truth, Qara Qul’s widow has more right than you to these riches because at least she was his wife.”

  The mullah, who was summoning the waiter to order tea, blushed: “While I remain director general of the mausoleum, they will have to accept my rules. These riches are certainly not mine. They are the Muslims’ riches and a trust that I bear. I am not ready to renounce it. This government is not an Islamic one to which I can entrust the wealth. As for Qara Qul’s whore, she’s irrelevant to the matter. The mausoleum is not a shop that her husband owned and that her children can inherit.”

  Hameed asked calmly, as though he wished to confide something he did not want others to hear, “Fine; when do you want to return the trust to its people? Distribute the wealth yourself to the people, and then they won’t have any argument against you.”

  Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri laughed sarcastically to disguise the anger that was beginning to shake his entire body. “So you want me to be a Communist, Hameed? You want me to distribute God’s wealth to the people, just like that, in exchange for nothing, so that they can spend it drinking wine and sleeping with prostitutes?”

  “Fine; if you want the riches of Qara Qul for yourself, why should we stand up for you?”

  Hameed Nylon rose, intending to leave the coffeehouse. There was no longer any benefit to be gained from sitting with the mullah, who was as stubborn as a donkey that suddenly stops running. Night had fallen over the small souk, where stray dogs began to snap at each other outside of closed butcher shops, fighting for bones that had been tossed out on the sidewalk. Other dogs that were ravenous with hunger had stepped aside and begun to eat leftover watermelon slices that shop owners had thrown in the street. In the coffeehouse that towered over the sidewalk, on a bench a person reached by climbing up two steps, the faint light cast shadows over the faces of the few customers, some of whom were playing dominoes. As he stood up, Hameed Nylon noticed the pallor of the mullah’s face. It was difficult to say whether it was it from rancor or fear. The mullah, who appeared to want to be friendly, called to him, “I don’t want to quarrel with you as well, Hameed. I’ve begun to lose the people closest to me. You mustn’t get angry at me. I’m older than you are.”

  Hameed replied jokingly, “You’ve shattered my nerves, mullah. I need to drink some glasses of arak to regain my composure. If I weren’t afraid of angering you, I’d invite you to taste the forbidden along with me.”

  The mullah felt delight flow through him, for he saw that Hameed Nylon was teasing him, after he had feared for a moment that he might have offended him, too. The mullah regained his composure and began to repeat affectionately, “God’s curse on you, Hameed Nylon. You want to drag me into depravity and iniquity as well. Our conversation’s not over. I want you to pass by me tomorrow so we can go and mend fences with Khidir Musa. I’ll think over what you’ve said. Perhaps you’re right. Do you believe, as my adversaries say, that I’m a senile old fool?”

  Hameed replied mischievously, “Everyone knows that. There’s no doubt that you’re senile. But why are you worried about this? We’ll take care of the matter tomorrow. Relax.”

  The mullah laughed as he chastised him fondly, “No one has your way with words, you son of a bitch. You’re Satan himself.”

  Hameed had scarcely left the coffeehouse when Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri once again felt lonely. He wanted someone to converse with, anyone with whom he could share his woes.

  “I’ve become annoying; that’s clear. They all seek to avoid me. Hameed Nylon has left me too and gone off to drink arak. Doubtless I am senile. I’ve begun to neglect everything. I should have shined my shoes. They’ve been dirty for days. That’s not the way I should be. The plump whore has shattered my nerves. I should have slept with her to buy her silence. Will Hameed Nylon be able to sort out a matter like this? Do you suppose he will agree? God’s curse on Satan. Fine, it seems a bribe is unavoidable. But why should I bribe the small fish? Truly, why the low-ranking men? If a bribe is necessary, then I’ll bribe the king himself. But, no; that might anger Khidir Musa, who is close to the king and who would consider that a personal insult. Perhaps it would be best if I became a Communist, as Hameed Nylon suggested. I’ll distribute Qara Qul’s money to the people. But why should I do that? These people will accept my gifts today and then curse me tomorrow. I know these people very well. They are ungrateful infidels. ‘Give, sir. Give!’ Poor Qara Qul escaped by the skin of his teeth from this prostitute, who looks like a rotting sack. But why did he ascend to heaven on Buraq? Why did God choose him—him in particular—for a miracle like this? The truth is that the man was a liar and a cheat and that his broad nose, henna-tinted
palm, and the earring on his right earlobe—as though he were Antara ibn Shaddad—were downright annoying. But God must know what He’s doing. He chose him especially. I can’t offer a prayerful complaint because the man’s death was a blessing that descended upon the city, except for the she-ghoul he left behind.”

  As Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri left the coffeehouse—having decided to return home after he heard his tummy growl and only then realized he was hungry, since he had forgotten to eat anything all day long—he thought, “I’d better forget the whole thing now. Hameed Nylon is right. I too must learn how to coexist with this damn world. I’m going to have to learn everything afresh.”

  It was not past nine in the evening when the mullah found himself once again in the street, which was almost empty of people. He might have gone back home but was on an emotional rollercoaster, like a child who did not know what to do. “I could return to my house, where nothing but sleep awaits me.”

  Night, however, had fallen over the city. Nothing remained but dogs chasing from one street to another and cats meowing as they leapt from one ruin to the next. “No. I won’t go home. What would I do there? I wouldn’t even be able to sleep. Hameed Nylon’s gone to quaff arak. So where will you go, mullah?” He mocked himself, saying out loud, “Your ship is about to sink, Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri, all because of a whore whose old man ascended to heaven.” The mullah considered heading for the home of Qara Qul’s widow to seek to placate her. “I must buy her silence. I won’t be mean to her. She might agree to withdraw her claim if I offer her more of the money. She could wreck everything. She could harm even herself. Who knows? The government could use this whole affair as a pretext to assume control of the shrine. Then we would all have slain the goose that lays the golden egg.”

  The mullah found himself heading toward the widow’s house, in spite of himself, as if driven there by an alien force that was dictating his actions. In the darkness, which feeble streetlights hung from widely spaced poles dissipated a little, the mullah’s legs, which were afflicted by rheumatism, struck the ground haphazardly, pulling behind them a cloak, the tails of which dragged on the ground. One could almost feel the silence that reigned over the neighborhood. After some minutes, the mullah stopped in front of Qara Qul’s widow’s house. His heart was pounding violently as he approached the door to knock on it. He stretched out his hand, but something made him hesitate, for strange voices reached his ears through cracks in the wooden door. The mullah thought, “They must be her lovers.” He leaned over so that one eye could see into the house through a crack in the door but then drew back in alarm. Summoning all his strength, he cast inside another thoughtful look that caused him to lose even the force to repeat “In the name of God” or to ask God’s protection against the devil. What he saw was so upsetting and weird that he rubbed his eyes time and again and then looked back through the crack. Qara Qul Mansur was seated beside Dervish Bahlul in the home’s courtyard on two aluminum chairs, drinking tea with three dead men, who were sitting on a carpet spread on the ground. Their white skeletons gleamed in the light of a lamp, which was suspended on the wall over their heads. He struggled to hear what they were saying, but in vain, because a radio resting near them was broadcasting a song by Sadiqa al-Mullaya. A shudder convulsed the mullah’s whole body, while his head filled with questions: “If Qara Qul is in heaven, what would make him return to his widow? What is Dervish Bahlul doing here with these dead people?”

  The mullah slipped back, retreating awkwardly. Then he began to run in the dark as though a wild beast were chasing him, as though the three dead men had noticed him and begun to pursue him. He fell to the ground more than once but kept on running, even though he was coughing and gasping and dogs were barking at him.

  Eight

  During the night when Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri saw—at the home of the widow of Qara Qul—the terrifying sight that caused him to take to his sickbed and left him unable to speak, Hameed Nylon kept moving from one place to another. To begin with he passed by the coffeehouse frequented by auto mechanics at the garage located on Railroad Station Street. The patrons there took him along with them after dark to a tavern, bringing with them bottles of arak purchased from liquor stores run by Christians. Hameed Nylon had not even thought about having something to drink. What was important to him was being with people. “There’s always a desire to show ourselves to others’ eyes. It makes us feel self-confident. This is what they call conviviality.”

  Hameed Nylon sat with two young men who were discussing lottery tickets. One of them had won ten dinars, receiving only nine because the vendor had kept a dinar as his tip or perhaps as a tax. One of them placed a glass before Hameed Nylon, saying, “Drink, Hameed. The nine dinars are still in my pocket.”

  Hameed Nylon raised the glass and took a large swig from it and then said, “Here’s to the first prize, which I hope you win next time.”

  Yashar, who was wearing dark glasses even though it was night, because he believed they would attract Turkmen girls, shrieked, “Oh my God! A thousand five hundred dinars in one fell swoop!”

  Hameed Nylon cast him a conspiratorial look, and remarked, “You would definitely marry. You would be able to ask for the prettiest girl in Kirkuk. Who would be able to refuse a young man who had that many dinars in his pocket?”

  “Yashar has a girl who’s waiting for him,” said Jamal, the other young man seated opposite Yashar.

  Hameed asked, “Really?”

  Yashar said tipsily, “She’s from your community, Hameed.”

  “Who is she?”

  Yashar sighed, exhaling deeply, “Layla, a student in the girls’ middle school.”

  Hameed asked, “Layla, the daughter of al-Hajj Ahmad al-Sabunji?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly who she is.”

  Jamal interjected, “He waits for her every day when she leaves school.”

  Hameed Nylon asked, “Have you spoken with her?”

  “I tried, but she rebuffed me, saying that she doesn’t make a habit of speaking to young men in the street. I know she loves me, Hameed. Her eyes reveal that. Every time I walk behind her, she turns and looks at me stealthily.”

  Hameed Nylon said, “She’s truly a beautiful girl, and well bred.”

  Yashar invited Hameed to accompany him when he returned home, in order to cast a glance at his sweetheart Layla’s home before going to sleep, but Hameed politely declined, saying apologetically that he would be spending the night elsewhere. He was thinking about seeing Ahlam, the prostitute he visited once or twice a week. Hameed Nylon consumed another glass of arak before he slipped out to the street. Patrons from the movie theaters, which had concluded their last show, were dispersing through the dark streets, returning to their homes while a dark silence prevailed over the city. Hameed Nylon focused his attention on this silence, which darkness always inspires, since this matter puzzled him. People were walking along quietly, and only their footsteps on the sidewalk or the street’s asphalt were audible. Night watchmen shouldering rifles stood beneath light poles. Most of them were Arabs from al-Hawija.

  “It’s hard for a man to do anything in this city. All the doors and gates are closed. This city is certainly not Baghdad. There a man can spend the night in the thousand and one bars that stretch all along Abu Nuwas Street. Here there are only Arab night watchmen. Everyone feels out of sorts. But they love their vexation because that’s all they know. This is why they get such childish ideas, exactly like Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri. Khidir Musa didn’t do him any favor by nominating him to be director general because the man doesn’t deserve to be anything more than the imam of a mosque. Director general of a tomb? Imagine that. No, no. What’s that all about? Qara Qul’s tomb is a gold mine that has fallen on Kirkuk from the heavens. It’s our second leading source of income, second only to oil. For this reason the mullah has fallen prey to childish fantasies and madness. All these riches that flow between his fingers! Why doesn’t the government act to seize th
is wealth, which the mullah considers his own riches—his meaningless protests about a sacred trust notwithstanding? I need to discuss this matter with Khidir Musa. We’ve got to do something before Qara Qul’s widow gains control of these riches. Khidir Musa will refuse to intervene in the affair. After his visit to the king, he won’t meddle in small issues. He won’t wish to dirty his hands in a lawsuit that might harm his reputation. With riches like those the mullah is hiding I could outfit an army for a guerrilla war, an army to liberate Iraq the way Mao Tse-tung’s army liberated China.”

  Thoughts and dreams collided with each other in Hameed Nylon’s head on his way home so that he was oblivious to the passage of time. Even at home, when he was in bed, the beautiful dream did not quit him. He could not get to sleep but tossed and turned in bed, waiting for morning to arrive so that he could take his first step on the road to revolution.

  In fact, the first thing he did in the morning was to hunt out Faruq Shamil, who worked in the municipal print shop. After stepping aside with him among the rolls of paper and the containers of ink, Hameed proposed that Faruq and the other members of the union quit their jobs and leave for the countryside with him to start a guerrilla war against the government. The idea shocked Faruq Shamil, who appeared flabbergasted, sank into silence, and began to gaze in bewilderment at the face of Hameed Nylon, who asked, “What’s the matter, Faruq? You don’t seem to have been expecting anything like this.”