The Last of the Angels

by Fadhil al-Azzawi

  No sooner had the headman stopped talking than the village’s children began singing their beloved anthem, which they had learned at school:

  Our King, our king,

  Our lives for yours.

  Live safe and long,

  Your vision strong.

  The police chief was forced to order his men to lower their rifles. Then he said, addressing the villagers, who continued to stare at him, “You can go now. It would be better for us to negotiate with the village’s headman and elders than to listen to anthems.”

  He went with the headman and three other villagers to a hut that served as the village’s coffeehouse. The policemen surrounded them, and the rest of the villagers followed, squatting on the ground to listen to the discussion. The police chief, however, ordered his men to shoo them away because he did not want anyone to know what might transpire in this meeting. Participating in it were the police lieutenant and two deputy lieutenants who commanded this force of more than fifty policemen.

  The police chief knew that the only way to free the English prisoners was through a deal with the village men. He was certain that they would be able to assist him, but did not want to show all his cards at once. “I don’t want your village to be harmed. What the rebels did last night was outrageous.”

  The headman asked, “I don’t know why the young men do such stupid things. What’s to be gained from acts like these?”

  The police chief was forced to say, “Good, I’ll assign you the task of getting the prisoners back before sunset. You’re the village’s headman and the person responsible in the state’s eyes for everything that happens in your village.”

  The headman suddenly burst out laughing. “What are you saying, man? Is someone who opposes the government going to listen to what a poor headman like me says? Imagine that, Mr. Police Chief. Imagine that.” The lieutenant intervened, “Headman, we know everything. We’re not blind, contrary to what you think.”

  Then the police chief said, “What you say may be true, but you can assist us by contacting the rebels so an understanding can be reached with them to release the prisoners.”

  The headman gazed at him for a time before replying, “That might perhaps be possible. I’ll do everything I can. What do you want to say to the rebels?”

  Without beating around the bush, the police chief answered, “To send someone with whom we can negotiate so we can learn their terms.”

  The police chief could not abide the flies that kept stinging and droning in the hot air, so he stood up, saying, “I’ll wait inside my car. The heat here is killing me.” He left, heading for the Jeeps that were parked at the center of the village. His men surrounded him, brandishing their rifles once more, for no apparent reason.

  The police chief had expected to meet some revolutionary before evening but waited for three days before achieving that. News of the police attack on the village of Tawuq reached Hameed Nylon that same day, but he saw no reason to hasten to respond to the police chief’s request because he knew the police would be unable to do anything to harm the village. The police chief’s only option would be to wait.

  As a matter of fact, Hameed Nylon, who had never savored the taste of true love in his life, suddenly found himself a prisoner of the emotions unleashed in his body by Mrs. Helen McNeely, when she gave herself to him even before he asked. “What a fool I was, Hameed, to toss you out!” she said, adding, “I know you risked your life to get me. Tell me that you organized this revolution of yours for my sake.” Hameed Nylon burst out laughing because this was the last thing that anyone could say about his revolution. He pounded her on the back jokingly and said, “When I’m with you I feel the revolution conquering my body. Where do you get all this fire?”

  Helen McNeely stayed in the command post, which was Hameed Nylon’s room, refusing to be reunited with her husband and the three other prisoners, who were detained in a cave at the foot of the mountain. From the moment she arrived at the base camp, which was located in a forest between two mountains, she had told Hameed Nylon in front of the others, “I want to be with you. I think you won’t refuse the request of a lady like me.” It seemed to her that she was in a deadly dream and she did not want to wake up. Hameed Nylon, however, realized that this enjoyment of his would be short-lived and that he would eventually need to release his prisoners.

  The conditions that Hameed Nylon laid down were straightforward and allowed no room for confusion. He presented them in a list to the police chief, who in turn passed them on to the governor, who for his part dictated them over the telephone to the minister of the interior’s special aide-de-camp. These conditions caused the cabinet officers, when they learned about them, to choke with laughter. The prime minister commented on Hameed Nylon’s characterization of the government as one of occupiers and thieves by saying, “The man seems to know all about us.” Hameed Nylon had requested the government’s resignation, the formation of another government of patriots, and recognition of the People’s Republic of China. During the negotiations that lasted three days, however, he settled for the conditions proposed by the government. These were to grant him the rank of a real lieutenant colonel in the army and to appoint his rebel villagers as guards for the villages surrounding the city of Kirkuk. Indeed, the government had gone so far as to offer to recognize the village of Tawuq’s right to priority when visiting the mausoleum of Qara Qul.

  The government’s concessions caused the villagers to swagger proudly and fire into the air. Hameed Nylon considered this a first step on the journey of a thousand miles toward the state of his dreams. People from every nook and cranny marched toward the village of Tawuq, which celebrated this victory while waiting for the arrival of the captives and the army commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Anwar Mustafa. Hameed Nylon entered the village like an emperor of some other era, seated on a litter borne by the prisoners, who had insisted on that themselves in order to expiate the sins they had committed against the rights of the Iraqis, their false boasting, and their racist arrogance. Helen McNeely, for her part, danced before the litter, inspiring delirium in the men’s hearts and arousing the curiosity of the women and children. Joy overwhelmed everyone, and the police chief himself got out of his vehicle and embraced Hameed Nylon with such fraternal affection that it brought tears to his eyes. Then these two men participated in a dabke line dance performed by men of the village of Tawuq in honor of the English captives, who were deeply touched as they departed in the special vehicles the English consulate in Kirkuk had sent to the village to transport them back to their homes. Helen McNeely clung to Hameed Nylon’s neck, planting a hot kiss on his lips and whispering, “I’ll return to you again.” Hameed Nylon felt sad as he watched the motorcade slowly move off into the distance over the horizon, which fell away at the end of the plain that spread out like a colored carpet. All the same, he was joyful because this was the first victory he had scored since the revolution began.

  Three weeks later, on a midsummer day, Hameed Nylon entered the city of Kirkuk in command of a force comprised of more than twenty of his village fighters, who were armed with rifles carried on their shoulders and daggers thrust into their belts. They were received as legendary heroes, and masses of humanity swarmed out of the narrow alleys and ancient neighborhoods, and even from goat-hair tents that nomadic Bedouins had erected at the edges of the city, to see the man whom the Kurds reckoned a Kurd, the Arabs an Arab, and the Turkmen a Turkmen, relying in this on indisputable historical data. The governor, the police chief, and the director of public security went out to welcome Hameed Nylon, who had allowed his beard to grow long and who was wearing a khaki field uniform and a red beret tilted to the left. Together they toured the city’s streets, which were filled with people, amid flags and banners held by veiled young men. Then they took him to the Government Officials’ Club, where a long banquet table had been set up in his honor in the open air. Hameed Nylon more than once went out to the street to greet the human throngs that had gathered in front of the club
and that had begun to shout his name. When the crowd kept insisting on standing in front of the club for no apparent reason, he climbed atop the club’s wall and made a brief speech in which he demonstrated his capacity for modesty and his flexibility in leading the revolution, which was still in its initial phase. Thus he announced that he was but an obedient servant of His Majesty King Faisal II, may God preserve him, and that he wanted nothing more than to elevate the name of Iraq among the civilized nations. The governor and the other important city figures standing near him at the gate of the club applauded these sagacious words that Hameed Nylon delivered to quiet the ardor of the people, who lingered on there for some time before bowing out and departing.

  Hameed Nylon returned to the table, where he sat near the governor. The armed villagers who had accompanied him sat in a circle on the grass beneath some trees, surrounding plates filled with all the most delicious and appetizing dishes. The villagers, who consumed everything placed before them and then stretched out to rest in the grass, all suddenly felt acute indigestion and rushed, one after the other, toward the washrooms located on the far side of the garden. They were grasping their quaking bellies and paid no attention to the policemen who were lying in ambush for them behind the trees and who captured them silently, handcuffing them and shoving them inside trucks hidden behind curtains of oilcloth.

  Hameed Nylon had himself received a letter from the prime minister inviting him to enter into negotiations with the government instead of resorting to combat. Even though Hameed Nylon placed absolutely no trust in the government or its promises, he did not believe that the offer constituted a deliberate conspiracy. A blanket pardon had been issued for the rebels, but other secret documents had reached the city’s responsible officials, requesting them to arrest Hameed Nylon and his men, without making any fuss about it. The director of public safety himself had devised the plan, and the governor and police chief had approved it. They nearly choked because they laughed so hard when they heard about it. It would be necessary to relieve the rebels of their weapons before they were seized, for fear they would try to resist. The director of public safety could think of no simpler way to achieve this objective than to mix into the food served to the armed villagers a large quantity of a powerful laxative that would make them writhe in pain.

  Hameed Nylon did not notice that his men had disappeared until three plainclothes detectives approached from behind and put their revolvers to his head and back. Then one of them said rather politely, “The party’s over. Come with us.”

  The governor pretended to be amazed: “Young men, what are you doing? That’s not right. He’s our guest.”

  One of the three replied calmly, “Orders from above, Your Excellency.”

  The police chief rubbed his hands together, saying, “Since you have orders from above, there’s nothing any of us can do.”

  They withdrew Hameed Nylon’s revolver from his belt and dragged him by his shirt collar to a gray Ford parked in front of a flowerbed. It shot off the moment Hameed Nylon was inside. The surprise had deprived him of the power to speak, but his mind was still alert. Crammed inside the car between two men who had their revolvers trained on him, he thought, “The dove should not have trusted the fox’s promises.” He was sad but not afraid because he knew that everything would end in some fashion and that it was his duty to be what he had always wanted to be.

  That same evening, the government issued a statement saying that Hameed Nylon, who called himself Lieutenant Colonel Anwar Mustafa, had violated the rules of Arab hospitality by ordering the rebels with him to open fire on the government dignitaries entertaining him, so that three guards had been seriously wounded and taken to the hospital. The government claimed that divine intervention had shielded the dignitaries none of whom had been harmed, pointing out that the vigilant security men protecting the citizens’ lives had been able to strip the rebels of their weapons and to capture these men, who would receive the punishment reserved for all who are ungrateful.

  The lies the government published about Hameed Nylon did not deceive anyone in the city. People had discovered the truth even before the government issued its statement, which it broadcast time and again. Along the length of the Khasa Su River, which split the city in two, battles broke out between young men from the old quarter and Bedouin policemen, who had occupied the streets. The young athletes from Chuqor launched abortive attacks on the location of the barracks where Hameed Nylon and his followers were being held, leaving behind them three wounded men, who also disappeared into the locked building. Overnight, the village of Tawuq, together with other nearby villages, marched against the city from the east. The army was compelled to bar the advance of the attackers, who found tanks blockading the roads that led into the city. Once dawn came, airplanes made raids against the rebels and forced them to pull back. They also bombed the village of Tawuq and the woods where the revolutionaries were hiding, terrorizing the villagers, who fled to the ravines of the nearby mountains.

  After three days of running battles, the government forces broke the back of the resistance, which continued to fight on without any objective. There were just a few isolated snipers who shot at policemen and security officers from the cover of the tall minarets scattered throughout the city. This forced the government forces to bombard them with cannons, which frequently missed their targets. Then neighboring houses were struck, reducing them to rubble and ashes. Some people rushed to the shrine of Qara Qul to seek his protection, while others wandered through the open countryside, fleeing from the soldiers and policemen, who broke into random houses and arrested everyone they encountered—after beating him with the butts of their rifles. Anyone who resisted them was slammed against the nearest wall and shot. Fear caused women to stand in front of their homes, holding up pictures of the king and cheering the government forces.

  Everything was lost, but Burhan Abdallah had not lost hope because falsehood could not triumph over the truth, no matter how many weapons it possessed. He had spent three days and nights with the insurgents, whose cohesion was shattered. He did not want to return defeated and vanquished like the others, who would continue with their lives as if nothing had happened. He had suddenly grown up and felt that the resistance must continue. He closed his eyes to search for his three angels, the old men who were proceeding from eternity to eternity, but they had disappeared. He found only the expansive desert, deep footprints in the sand, and the cries of jackals—nothing else. He told himself, “They’ve vanished too. What sage advice could these old men provide me in a city flowing with blood?”

  Evening had fallen over the city and he began to move from one alley to another, avoiding the black watchmen who were bristling with weapons—killers looking for victims. “Hope lies in freeing Hameed Nylon. That’s the only thing that could free the city from fear.” Everyone had been defeated, but Ta’us Malak and his little angels that knew everything could never be routed. Burhan Abdallah did not know whether his friends the angels would be able to intercede in a matter like this. All he wanted from them was to rescue Hameed Nylon, nothing more than that. In some sense they had been part of the revolution. Without them, he would not have discovered Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri’s treasure, with which Hameed Nylon had financed his blood-stained revolution. He repeated to himself, “They’re as responsible as I am. We’re all complicit.”

  He gradually drew nearer to the house that was filled with secrets, passing through the Piryadi community to the alley that led to the Chuqor community. Then he turned left into the alley where, opposite the ruin, the house was located. He wiped his eyes with his hand, staring again into the gloom. “This can’t all be true.” He walked closer and stood looking for a long time. There was no trace to indicate that any house had been there. There was nothing but a void submerged in the gloom of the night, which was illuminated by pale starlight. Burhan Abdallah leaned against the wall and started weeping. “All this fantasy! All this truth!”

  Eleven

  More tha
n two years passed after the disappearance of Hameed Nylon, who was banished to the Naqrat al-Salman Prison, which is a large fortress erected in the middle of the western desert, where it stands like a dreadful sign, planted in the sand and surrounded by camel’s thorn and Indian figs. At night all a person hears is the yipping of jackals circling the walls, attracted there by the scent of human beings. Everything had ended. The insurgents whom the revolution had attracted fled farther into the mountains or took refuge with their tribes, which were beyond government control. The city’s young men who had been captured during the battles had been released after a month or two of instructive beatings while confined in leg vises and after being made to cheer three times a day for the king’s long life. Joy returned once more to the city, which obeyed the governor’s call as men, women, and children came into the street to applaud the victory processions that bore aloft the Iraqi flag and pictures of the king in celebration of the city officials’ deliverance from the conspiracy hatched by the insurgents and their defeat. The procession was led by flag bearers, who were followed by the desert police on camels, the mounted police on horseback, and the mountain police, who pulled mules behind them. Next came a procession of secret agents, who had covered their faces with masks. The people applauded at length for the statesmen, led by the governor, who was seated in the gold wheelchair that Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri had used to visit the coffeehouse. Right behind the statesmen’s procession came the dervishes, each of whom carried in his right hand a broken bottle, which he was happily munching and crunching. Then came the delegations of athletes who performed entertaining Swedish calisthenics, metalsmiths who banged on their copper vessels, and gravediggers who carried on their shoulders a red bier labeled with white letters in decorative Thuluth script: “The Revolution.”