The Last of the Angels

by Fadhil al-Azzawi

  The anarchy prevailing in the city had ended and there was even a diminution of the feverish visitation of Qara Qul Mansur’s mausoleum, which the government had returned to his wife, who mismanaged its affairs. After some months it turned into just another saint’s tomb like all the other forgotten ones in the wilderness of al-Musalla. In the city center, where the Second Army Division’s fortress was located, summer cafés that stayed open until midnight appeared as well as winter coffeehouses that filled with billiard players waiting for their turn at the green tables. Shops selling lottery tickets proliferated under the auspices of the Red Crescent Society. There were two drawings—the weekly and the monthly. A sheet with the winning numbers was fastened to boards placed on the sidewalk, where passersby could read it. Tailors and seamstresses imported styles from Paris, London, Beirut, and Istanbul, and trousers with tapered legs became popular. Assyrian girls who came out for an afternoon stroll along Texas Street wore short skirts that rose above the knee. A man from al-A‘zamiya in Baghdad opened a restaurant consisting of a single small room on al-Alamein Street. It resembled a dry-goods shop with its long, glass display case, which he used as a buffet. He began selling sandwiches, which were consumed by patrons, standing, with Pepsi-Cola or Coca-Cola. Kirkuk had never experienced anything like this before. Many kebab restaurants were forced to close their doors, after the young people hankering for modern life deserted them.

  Khidir Musa had vanished from sight even before Hameed Nylon had left for the mountain from which he had directed his abortive revolution. People no longer saw him except by chance, when he was walking along the street alone, looking grave and lost in thought, or when he was out in the countryside for an evening stroll with his two friends Dada Hijri and Dervish Bahlul, who looked like ghosts divorced from any place or time. They always walked single file and gazed at the flocks of sand grouse arriving from the west, or gathered bouquets of colorful wild roses and then sat on boulders and discussed the sunset. At night, they returned to the tower Khidir Musa had built atop the Sufi house to which he had once retreated, years before, and where he had heard the voices of his two captive brothers calling to him from Russia. This time too Khidir Musa had to contend with the outbursts of his wife Nazira and her mother the sorceress, who from time to time attacked the monastery over which the tower rose. They would start by cursing Dada Hijri and Dervish Bahlul, who—they would say—had enticed Khidir Musa to withdraw to this high tower, where they were unable to climb the stairs, because they were so obese. They stayed there below, cursing the three men in a loud voice, deliberately involving other people who usually counseled them to stop this ruckus. None of the three men would respond. They kept silent as though the matter did not concern them.

  People believed that the former shepherd had come down with another bout of Sufi fever and withdrawn from life. This was a frequent occurrence with ageing men in Kirkuk. They were, however, mistaken this time because the tower that Khidir Musa had built over the monastery was actually the secret headquarters for a conspiracy that the army was organizing. No one could have detected that this was the case. Dervish Bahlul had proposed its construction after Khidir Musa confided to him what had been suggested by the Commander of the Second Brigade, Lieutenant Colonel Adnan al-Dabbagh, for whom he had felt a special affection since meeting him at the Officers’ Club. When Khidir Musa had visited him subsequently at his office and then at his residence, all the inhibitions separating these two men had fallen away and the lieutenant colonel had begun to ask his advice on military matters. On the day Hameed Nylon was arrested, an enraged Khidir Musa sought out the lieutenant colonel to ask his intervention to stop the killing of peaceful civilians. The lieutenant colonel, however, took his hand, sat him down beside him, and said, “Not now. The time hasn’t come yet. We must wait a bit longer.” Then, after hesitating, he added, “We need you. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”

  Life returned suddenly to the face of Khidir Musa, who rose and embraced the lieutenant colonel. “I’ll gladly sacrifice my trivial life for my country. Tell me what must be done. I can accomplish a lot.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Adnan Dabbagh smiled: “I am confident of that, Khidir.”

  There was not much for the three men to do in their tower, from which they flew a green Islamic flag, except to safeguard the secret documents containing the names of the officers participating in the conspiracy and the two plans: one operational plan and another for emergencies. There was also a short list of names of people who would need to be arrested the first day. Khidir Musa handed all these documents to Dervish Bahlul, who placed them on the shelf with the Preserved Book he consulted each day before leaving for his work, which was endless. The small printing press that Hameed Nylon had obtained from Baghdad during his visit to the king was placed in a corner of the tower. It had sat neglected at the entrance of the house until Dada Hijri saw it and asked for it so that he could print his many poetry collections, for which he could not find a publisher in Kirkuk. Thus the first manifestos that rocked the government and made it tremble were released from the tower and signed by the Free Officers. Dada Hijri himself carried these to a house in the citadel, where he left them. Lieutenant Colonel Adnan entrusted civilian leadership on the day of the revolution to Khidir Musa, who felt confident that the entire city would follow him when the zero hour arrived.

  The night before the revolution, which took almost everyone by surprise, Dervish Bahlul descended from the tower, carrying in his right hand the bag that contained all his belongings. On the stairs, he met Khidir Musa, who was returning from his evening excursion, and told him joyfully, “Praise God you’ve returned in the nick of time.”

  In the half-light that enveloped the stairwell, Khidir Musa asked, “Why are you carrying a bag? I wouldn’t think you would desert me on a day like this.”

  Dervish Bahlul placed his hand on Khidir Musa’s shoulder affectionately and said, “No, I must leave you on a day like this. There is much work awaiting me in Baghdad tomorrow.” Then, with a smile, he added, “You know I’ll return in the end.”

  Khidir Musa realized that a lot of blood would flow the next day. All night long he thought about what might happen on the morrow.

  That night, the soldiers descended on the city of Baghdad, where King Faisal II and the government officials lived. They slipped like thieves from their distant base and then occupied every corner of the city, even before anyone noticed that something had happened. At dawn, a detachment of soldiers stormed the king’s palace, where he was snoring in his sleep. They stood in the reception chamber, waiting for the king to emerge, overwhelmed by anxiety. A few minutes later a door opened, and Dervish Bahlul peered out. He cast a silent glance at the soldiers, who aimed their rifles at his face, their fingers on the trigger. Then, as he disappeared down a hallway with red carpets, he told the officer in charge, “I’ll go and wake the king.”

  Dervish Bahlul opened the door to the bedroom of the king, who was sleeping in his pajamas. Stepping forward, he placed a hand on the king’s head, whispering, “The time has come. Here I visit you a second time, Your Majesty.”

  The king opened his eyes and shook with surprise. “What are you doing in my room?”

  Dervish Bahlul answered regretfully, “Rise, Your Majesty. I’ve come to take you with me.”

  The king said thoughtfully, “Welcome, Dervish Bahlul. How did you reach me?”

  Dervish Bahlul replied politely, “I’m Death, Your Majesty. I’ve come to lead you to your slayers, who await you in the reception hall.”

  The king said sadly, “So, the hour has arrived, Dervish Bahlul. Isn’t that so?”

  Dervish Bahlul replied somewhat emotionally “Yes, Your Majesty. It is the inescapable hour.”

  The king pulled a dressing gown over his pajamas and then went out, leaning on Dervish Bahlul’s shoulder, hoping that this was all a dream from which he would eventually awaken.

  That morning, which people remembered for many years, the soldiers ope
ned fire on the king, who was twenty-one. He fell to his knees, mumbling. He gazed at Dervish Bahlul, who supported him on his shoulder to the stable, which was attached to the palace. In front of it, as always, stood the royal carriage, which was ornamented with gold. He placed the king, whose many wounds were bleeding, inside the carriage, where the seat’s fabric became stained with blood. The king opened his eyes for a last time and said in a feeble voice, “Farewell, brief, beautiful life.”

  Dervish Bahlul smiled as he looked at a watch he took from his pocket, saying, “You still have another minute, Your Majesty.”

  The king extended his blood-stained hand to take Dervish Bahlul’s, saying, “Be compassionate to me, Mr. Death,” and squeezed his hand.

  Dervish Bahlul waited briefly until the alarm on his watch rang. Then he took a ledger from his pocket and crossed off the king’s name. Next he brought two stallions from the stable, hitched them to the carriage, in which he shot off through the open gate to the city, which was still slumbering, sunk in a stillness interrupted from time to time by rattles of gunfire.

  Dervish Bahlul passed three days without savoring sleep for a single moment because the city had been seized by madness on hearing the statements that a lieutenant colonel, of whom no one had ever heard before, delivered by radio broadcast like bolts from the sky. These were interspersed by military marches that rattled inside the heads of people suddenly facing death. The people’s dejection ended and they poured into the streets as if to a giant party that encompassed the whole world. They emerged from ash-gray alleys in al-Fadl, al-Shawaka, and al-A‘zamiya, from Christian strongholds, from New Baghdad, al-Taji, and Madinat al-Sara’if—beating large drums and clay hand-drums, while government employees, who had left their agencies and descended to the streets, danced. Villagers, who had brought black flags from their many commemorations of the martyrdom of al-Husayn, danced the dabke in the middle of the streets and public squares and sang for the revolution, about which they actually knew nothing at all.

  The city filled with monkeys, bears, lions, cheetahs, and tigers that their trainers brought from an Indian circus that was performing every evening at a venue outside the city. Nightclub dancers gave free recitals of Oriental dance for the exhausted soldiers. The excitement became so great that the dancers stripped off their costumes and engaged in sexual acts on the scorching grass amid the screams of the people who rushed to see these thrilling scenes. Some women spectators, however, turned their eyes away in embarrassment. Others observed, “Finally we’ve been liberated.” Zeal got the better of people, who became so agitated that they attacked anyone they considered an enemy. They stormed the magnificent palaces and killed the inhabitants with blows from sticks and feet, plundering everything they could carry. A human wave poured forth and flooded the Rihab and al-Zuhur palaces, which filled with corpses that they bound with ropes and began to drag—naked—through the streets. They hanged them on light poles at the Eastern Gate, crying out, “There’ll be no conspiracy as long as there are ropes.” Three days later only the bones were left. A butcher climbed up and severed Crown Prince Abdul’ilah’s penis, which was dangling between his thighs, and shoved it up his asshole as the crowd applauded and roared with laughter. Other men carrying axes climbed up and began to hack off the corpses’ hands and feet, throwing these down to the villagers, who fought for a piece of them.

  On the third day, Dervish Bahlul returned to the city of Kirkuk, where everything had changed. It almost seemed that the world was engaged in a perpetual feast or festival that carried on night and day. Khidir Musa had donned a military uniform, placing a red badge over his wrist, after being appointed commander of the popular defense forces of the republic. He moved between the many coffeehouses that the volunteers, who were armed with sticks, knives, and ropes, had made their headquarters, asking them to keep their eyes wide open because the English might attack again from the Habaniya or Shu‘ayba camps, where their forces were stationed—as had happened seventeen years before. The city of Kirkuk did not actually witness the kind of bloodbaths that Baghdad did, even though people went out into the streets once they heard the news that the republic had been proclaimed. They only attacked the American Cultural Center, which cultured people and greengrocers looted of most of its books. The intellectuals had known the value of these books for some time, and the grocers found them to be an inexhaustible source of paper, which they needed to make packets for the tea and spices they sold.

  The Communists emerged from their many cellars, lifting high their banners, which dazzled people with slogans that many did not comprehend. The sight of the red flags with the hammer and sickle left people with the lasting impression that the Communists had directed the revolution. Thus many people began to boast to each other that they had always been Communists. This claim upset many others, who believed that they had been responsible for the revolution. So the city split into the Communists, who generally sat in coffeehouses playing chess or reading the newspaper al-Nur—which Khalid Bakdash published in Damascus and which was sold as if it were a rare commodity at the al-Jabha coffeehouse in Kirkuk—and the Turanian Turkmen, whose watchword was Iraqi-Turkish unification, versus the Baathists and the Arab nationalists, who went into the street to demand an immediate Arab union.

  This upset the Kurdish nationalists and prompted them to advocate the creation of a state of Greater Kurdistan. The Armenians from the Tashnag Party held up a placard demanding punishment for the killer Turks and the incorporation of Armenia into Turkey. The Assyrian Christians, to whom the English had promised their own state in northern Iraq, began to sing gleefully in the streets, “Telkeef won its independence; Muhammad’s religion is nonsense.” This state of affairs scared the Afterlife Society’s members, who placed all the blame on the Communists, attacked their coffeehouses, and set fire to their placards, on which they had written, “No more dowry after this month; throw the qadi in the river.” The Afterlife Society distributed to young Turkmen golden medals to place on their chests. These displayed black cats with their fangs bared to eat the white doves of peace on the medals that the Communists usually affixed to their chests or hung from their necks.

  In the first months following the revolution, when emotions escaped reason’s grasp, the Communists ruled most of Kirkuk’s working-class neighborhoods, which they declared to be autonomous democratic people’s republics, and many security agents and policemen joined their ranks. These men would frequently parade through the city streets in orderly processions, chanting loudly, “Ask the police: What do you want? A free nation and a happy people.” Zeal motivated security agents from time to time to arrest bystanders who did not applaud, charging them with conspiring against the republic. They would beat these people until they finally confessed to conspiracies they had been hatching in secret against the foremost lieutenant colonel, who was opposed by another lieutenant colonel who himself wanted to be the foremost lieutenant colonel. Then he was arrested and beaten until he tearfully agreed to accept an appointment as ambassador to Bonn. That made singers mock him, gloating in a popular song that was broadcast three times a day, “He’s going to be ambassador to Bonn. He’s weeping for the offense.”

  The man, however, would not leave the Bonn-Cologne Airport where his plane landed. He would reboard the same plane that had transported him and be arrested again because his wife, who had a saucy tongue and who was feared by the women of his community, had stormed into the Ministry of Defense, where she had begun to curse the foremost lieutenant colonel and his mother, who used to borrow money from her and then not repay it.

  The foremost lieutenant colonel delivered the other lieutenant colonel to a loud-voiced military judge who spoke exclusively in verse. He confronted the defendant standing in the cage: “What do you say, you dusty cur? / Have you come to weep or to purr?”

  The public prosecutor, however, intervened to save the session from an ode that might have lasted for hours or even days because each verse would normally be followed by a
poem by one of the popular poets, who came in droves to the court, and would be accompanied by the public’s applause, the women’s trilling, and the reverberating chants of the peasants. The prosecutor announced that the foremost traitor, who was standing before the seat of justice, was too insignificant to defend his many crimes against the people’s rights and that his tears were merely those of a crocodile living in brackish waters. He proposed executing him in Tahrir Square so he could serve as a lesson to future traitors.

  The people were enchanted by these festivities, which became their sole entertainment. Each community established its own special people’s court, which was convened at any hour of the night or day. This madness spread to the Chuqor community too, and so Hadi Ahmad, the young man who had been blinded in his left eye during the Battle of Gawirbaghi some years before, was named head of the people’s court that had yet to find anyone to try, although many conspiracies had been discovered in other locations. People were astonished to see Hadi Ahmad, who never let the machine gun leave his shoulder, lead his aged father and two neighbors to the open space in al-Musalla and force them to dig their graves with mattocks prior to their execution on charges of mocking the revolution. The three men were rescued only when the women of the Chuqor neighborhood caught Hadi Ahmad off-guard and attacked him, biting his hands and shoulders until he dropped the machine gun and fled, cursing and threatening to get them back.

  The revolution had really enchanted people. They changed and did things no one would have expected. Many began to sleep by day and stay up nights. The young men grew long beards, and senior citizens tinted their hair with henna. Virgin mothers gave birth to many babies who spoke and astonished people with their wise sayings at the moment of their arrival in this world. Children of some ethnic groups grew extra teeth. This phenomenon excited the interest of physicians, who drafted comprehensive studies about the event, which was not unprecedented.