The Baghdad Clock

by Shahad Al Rawi

27

  ‘I missed you.’

  ‘I missed you more, Farouq.’

  Rain began to pelt down. We sought shelter under a large tree while students jostled each other, squeezing together under the narrow arcades of our college.

  ‘Come on,’ Farouq said, as though he had something to get off his chest. ‘Get your books and follow me. No arguments!’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Let’s walk on the Adhamiya corniche.’

  I left him there and went into the lecture hall, gathered my books, and came back to meet him. Outside the university gates, we got into his car and set off for the corniche. The gulls were circling around pieces of food that floated on the surface of the water. I remembered Nadia’s bag, stolen by seagulls once in a dream.

  Farouq came over, and we stood close to each other on the riverbank. The smell of his cologne distracted me. I wanted to step away and leave some space between us, but something inside prevented me from moving. I kept smelling him along with the scent of the river. In that moment, I longed to embrace him forever, to fall asleep on his chest, to kiss him on the neck twenty times. I wanted him to stroke my hair, to take me with a sudden kiss and moisten my life like a wave that did not know the meaning of drought. I wished to take his hand but then hesitated and turned away.

  Was Farouq also thinking about embracing me? Was he trembling from his depths out of desire for us to melt together in an everlasting moment of passion like the flow of an eternal river? His glance moved freely over the waves as I regarded his silence. How I love you, Farouq! How can I say that so you hear it from my soul? His hands came close to mine, and our fingertips brushed together. A refreshing breeze blew from the river, and my hair streamed out behind me. The sun went down across the surface of the water. Seagulls wheeled around it like a large disc of pita bread straight from a village baker’s oven.

  A small gull took a piece of bread from the riverbank and circled high with it. Pursued by the larger gulls, it swooped under the iron bridge and disappeared.

  ‘War will break out soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Everything says that it is coming, and that it will bring disaster.’

  ‘Are you afraid of the war?’

  ‘I’m afraid for you. For our love. For our memories. I don’t know where fate is taking us. War is not a battle between two sides with a winner and a loser. War turns life upside down and scatters everything from its place, like a wild shot far off the goal. This might be the last time we stand on this riverbank. The last time we are able to take a walk in the daylight.’

  ‘Farouq, don’t say such things! I’m afraid.’

  ‘All of us are afraid. Even the sun is afraid.’

  ‘What’s to be done? I’m so tired of the news.’

  ‘No one knows. The little fish in the river don’t have the power to decide which way the water flows. Even the big fish can’t affect its direction. We are like the little fish in this river. We don’t know where the waves will cast us up.’

  ‘Farouq, you’ve become so old and wise.’

  ‘In this country, a person grows ten years in a single day.’

  ‘I want to stay young. I don’t like the idea of being in the world of adults. I want us to be young forever. You and me and Nadia and the whole neighbourhood.’

  ‘Speaking of Nadia, what’s going on with her?’

  ‘Nadia has grown up because that’s what she wants. Even I no longer know who she is. I’ve started fearing that she will enter the world of adults and leave me. Do you want us to go and see her now?’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At university, in Al-Jadriya.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Before we even made it through the university gates, we found Nadia on her way out, about to board her bus. She was delighted to see us there, and even more delighted to learn we were there to visit her. She made her excuses to the bus driver and came walking with us. The three of us headed towards the bridge and decided to wander without any fixed destination.

  On the way, after a few minutes of silence, Nadia took a letter out of her bag with a photo folded inside it. Ahmad had sent it from Mosul with the sister of a female friend who studied with him in the same college. Nadia put the letter back in her bag and just gave me the photo. I understood from the way she looked at me that the photo conveyed unpleasant news.

  The picture showed a group of students in the architectural department. At the right-hand end of the row, Ahmad stood smiling, his shoulder pressed against the shoulder of a blonde girl, whose features at first glance were startlingly beautiful. I passed the photo to Farouq, who held it close to examine the details more closely. He gave it one last look before handing it to me without a single word. Nadia observed our significant silence. She heaved a painful sigh and said, ‘This is what I was afraid of.’

  ‘But it’s an innocent photo, Nadia.’

  ‘If you read the letter and started making the connections between it and the picture, you’d see it’s not innocent.’

  ‘But Ahmad loves you.’

  ‘He used to love me.’

  Nadia was not alone in allowing her tears to flow freely at that moment. My own tears sought to break free for the sake of my friend as she stumbled in love. Nadia was like me. She had never before experienced emotional frustration. She did not know what it meant to change the person you loved and to cast your heart in a different direction. How was it possible for someone who loved to abandon his memories? How could he build new kingdoms of words, songs and sighs in distant cities? How could his dreams incorporate new faces? It is true that love may be born in a single moment, but it becomes established afterwards like a large city built from the soul’s desire.

  After wandering for an hour, Nadia felt tired. Sadness was etched on her face. We headed towards Farouq’s car, and I sat with Nadia in the back. The radio was playing a song by Haitham Yousif.

  Never once has my love fallen short

  Never once have I done you any wrong

  Your candle now lit inside me for always

  My life is all lost in hard, bitter days

  When we reached our street, Nadia and I got out, and the car turned and headed off in the opposite direction. From a distance, Biryad came running towards us, happy that we had come home. We stood there for several minutes petting him as he jumped up with excitement.

  Before going to sleep that night, Nadia wrote Ahmad a long letter. She tore it up. She wrote a second letter and tore that one up too. She kept writing and ripping until sleep overcame her.

  In her dream, she was sitting on a bench under the eucalyptus tree that they used to sit beneath in Al-Zawra, engrossed in one of her school books. She was startled by a gentle hand on her shoulder and an affectionate kiss on her cheek. Ahmad had come from behind the tree and kissed her.

  There are kisses that are not what we wanted, and that we are not ready for. Kisses that do not make us melt from love, yet make us love ourselves and everything around us.

  28

  Uncle Shawkat took his winter coat from the cupboard and put it on over his clothes. He went into the back garden and set the nightingale free from its cage. He did the same for the partridges after putting their food in the dry irrigation canal.

  Without taking a good look at himself in the mirror as he had always done throughout the many years of his life, Uncle Shawkat went out to the street, Biryad at his heels. Biryad had grown up and had taken on responsibilities. He ran on ahead of his owner to ensure the way was safe. Uncle Shawkat stopped by some of the abandoned houses, and then he headed for Abu Nabil’s shop. He joined the circle of elderly neighbourhood men who always sat there in the evening. Meanwhile, the dog settled down a few steps away, watching the eyes of his owner.

  Abu Hussam was greatly pained by Uncle Shawkat’s insistence that he retell an old story, one he had told many times before, of something that had happened during his work as a supervisor for the railway. Abu Hussam spoke very little
those days. His hours were filled with sorrow over the murder of his daughter and the flight of her brother. But he loved Uncle Shawkat and told him the story once again in a tired voice. Uncle Shawkat could not hear him clearly – he had become partially deaf – and Abu Hussam had to repeat himself over and over, raising his voice so that Uncle Shawkat might hear. It was no good.

  The rest of the men felt badly that their neighbour had sunk to this state. He had been known for how he cared for his health and for the elegance of his attire, and now he went about in a down-at-heel way that did not suit him. Uncle Shawkat sensed their sympathetic glances in his direction. They contained something like pity, which he could not abide.

  ‘I am Shawkat Ibrahim Oglu,’ he said to himself, but in a voice that everyone could hear. ‘I’ve lived an honourable life, and I will die an honourable death.’ Without another word, he got up and left them, his dog walking a few steps ahead.

  No one was annoyed. On the contrary, they began recalling their neighbour’s attitude, his upstanding morals, and the way he had always lived by looking out for everyone in the neighbourhood. They were sad at how his life had deteriorated. Of all the men in the neighbourhood, Uncle Shawkat had been the most generous and good-hearted, just as his outer appearance had been a model of good taste.

  For his own part, Uncle Shawkat guessed that the conversation would turn to him when he left the gathering. Deep down, he knew how much his neighbours loved him and valued the good relationships that had persisted for so many years.

  ‘There’s no hope for this life. All the beautiful days have passed, never to return. Ever since the first family left and emigrated far away, the neighbourhood has not been the same. At this point, there’s nothing for me to do except count out the unimportant days and live them by force of habit. If it weren’t for my responsibility for the abandoned houses, I would leave this place and go and spend my final years in my village near Kirkuk.’

  He went inside the house and brought out a thick rug that he unrolled behind the broken-down car. He decided to sleep there that night. He was tired of sleeping in his dark room, where he felt suffocated by the walls and ceiling. He stretched out on his back, put the radio on his chest, and looked up at the stars above.

  Biryad lay down nearby with a deep sadness in his eyes. The weather was mild that evening, but after midnight, a chill breeze accompanied by some light drops of rain blew over them. Uncle Shawkat carried the rug inside, stuffed it under the stairs without folding it first, and stretched out on the sofa.

  Before closing his eyes, Uncle Shawkat remembered Biryad, whom he had left outside. He got up to call him, wanting Biryad to come in and sleep in the living room with him. Taking this compassionate step towards his companion relaxed the lines on his face.

  The following morning, he saw the neighbours gathered at the door of Umm Rita’s house. He fell to his knees and let out a hoarse cry when he discovered that the house had been robbed of everything in it. The thieves had left nothing behind except a small statue of the Holy Virgin thrown disrespectfully in the front doorway with a chain of black prayer beads wrapped around its neck.

  Neighbours gathered around him, taking him in their arms in an attempt to quell his tears. But he clung to the gate and continued his lament with a broken heart. He turned to the dog and began cursing him savagely for not having fulfilled his duty. Biryad too began whimpering, and then he ran off.

  That evening, Uncle Shawkat carried his mattress, his blanket, some tools and the radio to the entrance of Umm Rita’s house, having decided to sleep there to guard it in case the thieves returned.

  After that incident, Uncle Shawkat no longer had much confidence in the dog. He took upon himself the role of volunteer night watchman to keep watch over the houses that had been abandoned by their families. He observed from afar with suspicion the movement of strangers, blowing a whistle that Farouq gave him. He tried with all his might to protect the past from passing away.

  Day after day, Uncle Shawkat’s health deteriorated and his eyesight weakened. He dragged his feet along with difficulty. He never took off his heavy winter coat even in the hot afternoon hours. He forgot his habit of bathing daily, and he began going inside his house only to use the toilet or to make food or tea, which he drank from a thermos in order to keep it warm throughout the day. His own house took on a half-abandoned appearance.

  Neighbours new to the area considered him crazy. But those of us who were native to the place had a different image of Uncle Shawkat rooted deeply within us: clean-shaven and wearing an elegant suit, shoes and tie, as he used his teeth to make round watches on children’s wrists before giving them sweets. We believed that this condition of his was a kind of emergency like every other emergency in our lives, a momentary crisis that would certainly pass when his vigour returned.

  One month before the war began, Uncle Shawkat was detained by the government on account of suspicions regarding his behaviour and the dramatic change that had come over him. The government paid close attention whenever anyone’s behaviour changed, suspecting even the sick when their condition changed as the illness ran its course. They took Uncle Shawkat away without justification and without any consideration for the state of his health.

  During this period, Biryad lived as though homeless. He refused invitations from the neighbours to spend the night in their houses. He no longer ate the food we put out for him; he wouldn’t even approach us.

  The dog deeply regretted what he considered to be his mistake, even though that was not really the case. It was Uncle Shawkat who had invited Biryad to sleep with him in the living room that night, and the thieves had exploited that when they robbed Umm Rita’s house.

  Uncle Shawkat was released seven days later. His condition was even more miserable than before. It was not that his appearance was worse, but rather the sight of the president’s picture, firing a gun into the air, hanging around his neck. Biryad was delighted at Uncle Shawkat’s return and resumed following him like his shadow.

  War anthems rose in earnest. Everyone believed the war would come any minute. Uncle Shawkat carried a wooden extension ladder to a tall building at the end of the street. He leaned it against the wall and climbed up with difficulty. Using long nails, he attached a large piece of cardboard to the front of the building that read, ‘Neighbourhood for sale or rent.’

  War broke out a few days later. Bombs began falling at dawn, and we were instantly reminded of the atmosphere in the city in 1991. This time, however, we were used to it, so we were less afraid. Our lives did not merit much fear. We felt a strong desire to make it to the end, no matter what that end might be. The bombs fell here and there, and day and night the planes circled overhead, but we did not go to the shelter, nor did we crouch under the stairs.

  People sat outside their houses, listening to the radio for the latest news. I would say that life felt normal. But everyone was waiting to see what would happen next. The weather was beautiful in those days, despite the black smoke that rose in every direction. It was an opportunity to gather together in the neighbourhood since the schools, universities and offices had closed. Everyone had plenty of time to go out to the street and mingle with others. Nadia, Baydaa and I would meet in the garden at my house. Then we would go to the front door to watch life, which had become so calm. How had life become calm with all these bombs and explosions? Sometimes, in tense moments, peace comes from within, and an unfamiliar assurance pervades our souls, rising up from despair, from the desire to live, or from something else that I cannot put my finger on.

  Baghdad fell...

  Flames erupted everywhere; smoke rose on all sides. Fire consumed the thick piece of cardboard that Uncle Shawkat had hung at the top of the street, and it crumbled into black ash in the air.

  I fled with my family to my grandmother’s house in the country, far from Baghdad. There, I lived several months of relative peace far from the chaos that had befallen everything. I adapted to the life of nature with the birds and the murmu
ring water in the canals. My features relaxed, just as my clothes changed, along with my way of sleeping, eating and drinking. Everything in my life changed.

  When the sun went down, I missed Nadia, Baydaa, Farouq, our house and our neighbourhood. I would sit alone on the riverbank, close to the waterwheels, watching the small waves push the fishermen’s boats towards the bridge.

  Years before, I had been a small child when I came here to escape the old war, and now, here I was again, having fled this new one. The same planes and the same bombs drove me away after twelve years of sanctions.

  What had Bush the Father wanted from my life? And what was it that Bush the Son sought from it?

  How would I tell these stories to my children in the future? How would their grandchildren believe that two presidents of a great nation had pursued my life with rockets?

  But on the other hand, I ought to thank them. But for them, I would not have visited my grandmother’s quieter city, this magical paradise that slumbered beside the Euphrates, this place filled with the graves and spirits of my ancestors.

  My grandmother was no longer as healthy or as mobile as she had once been. The days had taken their toll, and she had started leaning against the walls as she walked. She no longer slept in her old room, where the stars shone through the windows.

  At night, I stayed up with her and begged her to tell me stories. I wanted to be young again and in her lap. I wanted her to tell me once more that she was my mother: ‘I gave birth to you from this tummy before I bore your mother.’

  My grandmother smiled at me as she struggled against the pains in her body. As I looked into her tired face, I was thinking that she would one day leave this life, and our relationship would be ended, once and for all, in this place that protected me from wars.

  This merciful spot of earth was not a ship at anchor, waiting for the sign to embark. This was truly a piece of ground attached to its memory, close to its original nature. Even the palm trees here were the descendants of trees that had rooted in this place for thousands of years. The birds here did not build new nests for their young, but restored old nests to settle in. The fish here resisted the flow of the river, using tricks in order to stay in place and play with the waterwheels.