Ibrahim didn’t repeat what he had done at the end of the previous war, when he allowed himself a month of nothing but eating, sleeping, and bathing. The pain in his leg was intense, but he didn’t show it in front of the others, taking extra care with his parents, who were suffering intensely on account of Wadih, whose absence became a tangible presence among them, dominating their lives. It was there in their actions, tone of voice, glances, and the long silences that passed between them. This absence somehow pervaded even the air they breathed, and each day the sorrow of Wadih’s young wife renewed its hold on them.
Ibrahim had to get used to a limp and to his new life in the company of a crutch. The pain cut him to the quick, but it was nothing compared to what he experienced when he noticed that Qisma was avoiding him. He sensed that she felt lukewarm toward him and was keeping her distance.
His friend Tariq was always visiting to renew their intimacy, sometimes accompanied by one of his small children. Tariq had not gone to the war, because he was a schoolteacher and a mosque imam. He also had connections in Mosul, and the order for his conscription was first delayed and then resolved with his being assigned guard duty over one of the government agencies in the city, a duty he quickly dispensed with when he saw the entire system collapse and everyone abandon their posts to return home. Tariq still dressed well, looked healthy and well-fed, and talked and joked as he always had.
Every time Ibrahim’s father saw Tariq he would say, “The spitting image of your father, may he rest in peace.”
Tariq would reply with a laugh, “Yes, but he was a better man than me in that he married three times, whereas I spend my evenings with just one wife. In any case, one woman is enough because she ties you around her finger like a bull around the irrigation pump. Ah, how marvelous the days of bachelorhood when I could wander freely among the women like a bee among the flowers!”
Ibrahim made it a joke of it: “Aren’t all the flowers you smelled enough for you? But not just smelled—didn’t you also pluck them and throw them away?!”
“Well, can someone addicted to sweetness get his fill from a single taste of honey? Then, by God, away with you! As one of these flowers, are you also counting against me a girl like Fahda the Bedouin?”
The two of them burst out laughing and slapped each other’s hand. “Believe me,” Tariq replied, “it was like hugging a ewe or a she-goat. The smell was enough to choke you, brother!”
Ibrahim’s father asked what they were laughing about, and they told him the story. He laughed with them, praising Fahda’s father Jad’an, who would spend one month each year outside the village before moving on. Suhayl’s feeble laughter was interrupted by a fit of coughing as a thread of smoke escaped from the gaping holes of his nose.
“Has there been another letter from Abdullah?” Ibrahim asked Tariq. “Any news about the captives in Iran?”
“Nothing new, Abu Qisma. People focus now on the fate of new prisoners, and they forget the old.”
When Tariq noticed the spasm of sorrow that flashed across Ibrahim’s face, he hurried on to other subjects, trying to entertain him with unusual anecdotes. “Listen to this,” he began. “A true story and no joke. A soldier returned home and found his old mother crying, deeply distressed. She had been watching TV and listening nonstop to the Iraqi radio stations, which described our victories day and night, the abominable defeats we inflicted upon the enemy. He said to her, ‘Why are you crying, mother? The war has ended, and here I am, home safe and sound.’ And the mother said, ‘I’m crying for the poor Americans, for if we’ve experienced all this destruction as the victors, what must they have suffered in defeat?’”
It was precisely during this gathering that Qisma’s affection for Ibrahim began to falter. She was sitting near the door beside her mother, who didn’t stop pouring tea. Qisma was watching her father, but she watched his friend Tariq even more. As she compared the two, new feelings she didn’t fully understand were stirring in her soul. She liked Tariq, with his elegance, his pungent cologne, and his loud bursts of laughter. She liked his abundant self-confidence as one story followed another, each joke funnier than the last, as he talked about his many acquaintances, about the city, and about things she didn’t completely comprehend, things related to religion, heaven, angels, politics, and books. He filled the air with a vivacious spirit that didn’t leave awkward silences to be filled with the same old phrases. Likewise, he treated his son, who was younger than she was, in a manner that resembled friendship. Tariq asked the child’s opinion about what he said, about the tea, or about his wishes, or he would seek his help to confirm some detail. And the language with which Tariq addressed him differed not at all from the language he used with adults.
Qisma found nothing like that in her father. He seldom spoke, was deeply sad, and submitted to her grandfather with blind obedience. He always treated her as though she were a small child, never put on cologne or wore elegant clothes, and exhibited a quietude that was excessive to the point of tedium. On top of all that, here he was with just one foot, his right leg stretched out in front of him like the stump of an old tree, a crutch at his side.
Qisma was unable to turn her gaze from Tariq except to cast rapid, critical glances at her father. In that instant, she wished that Tariq were her father and that she was the one sitting beside him and leaning against him, or even sitting in his lap as he stroked her hair from time to time. Then she would be stronger, more vigorous—indeed, more beautiful. Or so she imagined. Later on, she began wishing she would grow up quickly, to become an adult with an adult’s strength and freedom, an adult like Tariq and not like her father, from whom she began to keep her distance. It wasn’t exactly disgust she felt, but rather a type of coldness and separation. She kept out of his sight and avoided his company.
Of course, Ibrahim wasn’t capable of understanding it in this way, but he did sense her coldness around him, her silence and evasions. He tried to get closer to her by being softer, gentler, and more meek, displaying a kind of self-abasement in her presence, but Qisma’s distaste only increased when she sensed his weakness, confusion, and indecision. As usual, Ibrahim continued to rely on his patience and left the matter to run its course, even as the need to address new events began to turn his focus away from it.
Qisma had celebrated her tenth birthday, and the nipples on her chest were growing restless, like mushrooms at the beginning of April when they rise and push against the crust of the earth.
After two weeks had passed, an unfamiliar car entered the courtyard with a coffin tied to the roof. The driver, a young man with dark skin, powerfully built, got out to confirm the address. Then he set about shaking hands. He lowered his head and said he wished he were not meeting them under these circumstances. He said he was Wadih’s friend from Karbala, and that Wadih had been killed at Basra during the events following the retreat. He bowed his head in tears as the group in front of him burst out in loud weeping and Wadih’s wife fainted to the ground. Meanwhile, Suhayl led the young man by the arm to the reception room, struggling to maintain his composure. For the most part, he succeeded, even though he was trembling and water flashed in his eyes behind the two pillars of smoke rising from his nose holes. Old age presented itself as a plausible explanation for his trembling, rather than the weight of this loss.
Ibrahim joined them, leaning on his crutch and against the walls. Meanwhile, their neighbors and all the others who had hurried into the courtyard after hearing the commotion took charge of lowering the coffin and setting up the funeral tent and comforting the mourners. The third brother, together with his friends, gave directions.
In the reception room, the young man gave details about how Wadih had died at his side. He had not wanted to abandon Wadih’s body, no matter what the cost, so he brought it to his home in Karbala for a night, then to the village. He told them about their close friendship, about the good character he had observed in Wadih.
Listening to the young man’s story, Ibrahim felt sick on account
of not having done the same thing for his friend Ahmad al-Najafi. He had not brought anything, not even news, to Ahmad’s family. He felt shame and a sense of smallness before this young man, who exemplified nobility, manliness, and humanity. Ibrahim expressed his indebtedness, as did his father, though his father’s words contained greater maturity and wisdom.
It was a situation that would continue to trouble Ibrahim’s conscience for the rest of his life. When he thought about it, he kept trying to understand how it was that some people on this earth could save his life, and others from the same earth had killed his brother. Naturally, in order to resolve this contradiction, he relied on his stance regarding fate, destiny, and eternal decrees, and on the fact that no two people are the same even if they come from the same house. But he was never able to understand this distinction in a clear and definitive way, nor did repeated reflections on this matter allow him to crystallize his position.
So it was that after about a year, he revealed to Tariq what was torturing him, asking his friend to accompany him on a trip to the south. Tariq agreed, and they took a car to Najaf. However, they found a different family in the house. Ibrahim was informed that Ahmad’s family had been torn apart when his mother died of grief over her last son. The two remaining women sold the house and divided the profits, and the current residents didn’t know where each of them had taken her children: “It’s said that they may have married again, or returned to their families, or moved to some other village or city. We don’t know for sure.”
They went to a café, where Ibrahim remained silent as Tariq went on at length about the nature of this world, citing precedents from both ancient history and the recent past, concerning similar situations and some that were even more wretched. Yet Ibrahim kept his head bowed, as though not giving his full attention or not listening at all. This continued, until in the end he began to cry. Tariq embraced him, and then told him to go and wash his face with cold water in the bathroom.
Ibrahim did so and then came back to sip his tea. He said, “I have another request for you, Tariq.”
Tariq said, “Ask what you wish, Abu Qisma. I’m at your service.”
“I want us to go to Zubair, to the house of the people who took me in and saved me. On the way we can buy them gifts. I want to thank them.”
They had lunch in an inexpensive restaurant next to the café, and then they went to the market and loaded the car with bags of rice, sugar, flour, a large tin of olive oil, and several yards of cloth for both men’s and women’s clothing. Then they set off in the direction of Basra.
When they arrived at the house in Zubair, a woman in her thirties opened the door. An infant was holding on to the edge of her dress. Ibrahim had never seen her before, and, confused, he began asking her about the young man Ahmad and his mother, describing them to her. She opened the door fully and invited them inside. There, in a small reception room that Ibrahim knew well, and which he saw hadn’t changed a bit, the woman offered them tea. She told them she was Ahmad’s sister, and that Ahmad had been forced to flee to Iran after the uprising had been suppressed. Afterward, the government expelled their mother to Iran as a suspected Iranian sympathizer. The daughter was allowed to remain in Iraq because her husband was a long-time employee in the provincial government, and because he was the descendant of a famous Baghdad family.
They gave her everything they had brought, and Ibrahim asked her to convey his greetings and his eternal gratitude to her brother and mother if she was ever in touch with them. Then they set off, returning to the village. They passed the time on the road by reminiscing, discussing Abdullah Kafka, and reflecting on life in their village, both past and present, recognizing that it hadn’t suffered the way the cities had. It seemed that the blessings of living in a village were more fully apparent during crises and wars.
Then Tariq surprised Ibrahim by broaching a subject he had long been preparing. “Let me ask you about something,” he began. “Something Uncle Suhayl, your father, asked me to bring up with you. Namely, that you marry the widow of your brother Wadih.”
Ibrahim refused immediately. “No! Impossible,” he said in dismay. “I can’t do that. She’s like a sister to me.”
“But she’s not actually your sister. And you are not the only one who has done this sort of thing in the best interests of the family, as you know.”
“No! No, I can’t! It has never even crossed my mind. I’ll always feel that she’s my sister. I always have and I always will. What’s more, she’s young. She can marry a man her own age and have a better future, a better life.”
“Your father thinks that your marrying her would be an honor to her, to her family, and to your brother. He thinks she is an admirable young woman who has become an important part of the family. It would be hard on you all if she had to leave. What’s more, she might bear you a brother for Qisma.”
Ibrahim insisted, adding further justifications: he had grown too old for something like this; Qisma was enough of a legacy for him; he didn’t want to hurt the feelings of Qisma’s mother by marrying another woman, seeing as she had been his companion for so many years, through the good times and the bad. He ended the discussion by saying that he would speak to his father and try to convince him that he was right to refuse the proposition.
But he never alluded to his sterility, a matter he hid from everyone.
Ibrahim was surprised that convincing his father didn’t prove as difficult as convincing Tariq, for his father seemed less eager to prolong the conversation. Suhayl was no longer as stubborn and controlling as he used to be, always insisting on his own way. He had grown very feeble, skinny, and pale. His voice had changed, becoming lower and weaker. He was a sick old man. Pain in his throat and esophagus harassed him. There was a growth in his neck, and swallowing—even just his saliva—had become difficult and painful. He was no longer able to eat solid food, so they prepared different kinds of soup for him with minced meat and vegetables in the broth. Whenever he spat out the saliva that gathered in his throat, it was mixed with blood. It was as though he had already taken his leave of this life, and he no longer felt the desire to organize it according to his will. So he set off with his walking stick to the house where the parents of Wadih’s widow lived. In a weak voice, he explained the situation to them, making a brief and deeply apologetic speech. After that, they took back their daughter and married her to one of her cousins.
The following years brought nothing but hardship thanks to the economic siege laid upon Iraq and the resulting scarcity of food, medicine, money, paper, and iron. And compassion. The international sanctions hurt the common people most, even as they consolidated the government’s power, since the government controlled the circulation of the few materials entering the country, distributing them as they saw fit. Its partisans became stronger at the expense of the vanquished majority.
Ibrahim was no longer able to work in the fields, either his own family’s or Abdullah’s, and the entire burden fell upon his other brother, his brother’s wife, and Umm Qisma. His brother gave Ibrahim hints about how weary he was, hoping that he might be relieved from working Abdullah’s field at least, but Ibrahim implored him to endure. In the same way, he urged his wife to be patient, and he tried to take part as much as he could, even if it just meant being present while they worked. After two years of consultations and bureaucracy, his turn arrived, and one of the specialist hospitals run by the government made him an artificial plastic foot. He wore it on the end of his leg like a boot, and it took more than a little time to get used to. But in the end, though he was still clearly lame, he was able to get around better and could even walk without a crutch.
On one of his many visits to the hospital, Ibrahim had insisted that his father go with him because of his declining health. Swallowing anything—even taking a breath—caused him pain, and the amount of blood in his saliva was increasing. The doctor informed them that Suhayl had cancer of the mouth, larynx, and esophagus, and that it had spread through his entire throat
and reached the trachea and windpipe. He told them that it was mostly down to how much he smoked, so he had to quit immediately. At the same time, his treatment would require doses of chemotherapy and, ultimately, a surgical operation to remove the larynx and esophagus. He would breathe directly through a hole at the base of his throat.
“Of course, it will be hard for you to speak. Actually, you won’t be able to speak at all after the operation,” the doctor said. “It’s imperative you come back for treatment soon.”
Ibrahim’s father made no reply to the doctor, who provided them with a list of the steps that had to be followed. But after they left the hospital, Suhayl told Ibrahim, “There’s no need for all that, my son. The little bit of life left to me isn’t worth all this care and treatment, not to mention the expense it entails. And I’m not going to stop smoking. When smoking has been my lifelong companion through sorrow and joy, how could I abandon it, just because I’m going to die?”
Ibrahim tried to convince him, but his father had made up his mind and was content. He was resigned to his fate, refusing to buy the medicine he needed. At a time when the sanctions made medical supplies scarce, he said, he preferred it to go to someone younger and in greater need of it. And thus, he gradually began moving, speaking, and eating less and less. Calmly folding in upon himself in a corner of the reception room, he waited for death until at last it arrived.
Ibrahim’s hardships didn’t cease with his father’s death, for his blind mother had become an old woman too, far advanced in years, and she required care and assistance, not least when she went to the toilet. Ibrahim’s wife would accompany her for that.
For her own part, Umm Qisma had also become more pale and thin. She was utterly exhausted from her work, and would collapse into bed at the end of the day and sleep like the dead. The paler she became, the more Ibrahim worried for her. He asked her to go to the doctor—she might have diabetes or jaundice. Not wanting to impose any more burdens upon him, she refused, insisting it was just fatigue. But her condition didn’t improve, and, alarmed by her extreme weakness and ghostlike pallor, Ibrahim took her to the hospital in the city.
The President's Gardens Page 8