The President's Gardens
Page 19
“Listen! You know what? In Baghdad’s Mansour district, there’s an incredible secret palace that is very, very private, reserved for His Excellency the President’s very, very private things. He goes there some nights when he wants to relax and get a little break—you get me? You know, when he wants some entertainment . . . you get me? There are two buildings that open toward each other. Some of the bedrooms are covered with mirrors, even on the ceiling—don’t ask me why! Whenever I went into one, I felt strong, as though I were an entire army. The lamps there are various colors, and some of them are shaped like naked girls—the lamps! Yes, and I saw two big paintings with positions. Positions . . . you get me? Many walls near the beds were covered with imaginative drawings of women . . . in various . . . positions.
“In the corridors they have paintings in the style of the Renaissance in Italy. That might be what it’s called—I asked my sister one time the name of paintings like these, which I had also seen in a magazine. She was in college and loved painting, and that’s what she told me. In the paintings there are powerful men fighting lions and tigers, or killing crocodiles or dragons or enormous, many-headed serpents with swords. I saw a bronze statue of a man with bulging muscles and a thick mustache struggling against a fire-breathing dragon.
“There are a few big photographs, up on the third floor, of the Leader embracing bare-chested women who are stunningly beautiful, including one where he’s hugging some woman in a magnificent bed and laughing. The rooms are big, each one the size of my house. Ah, how I dream of owning a house designed just how I want it! In those rooms, I saw more than one big bed with golden statues of mermaids rising up as bedposts. Of course, there’s a TV in each room, and each one has a big bathroom with taps shaped like roses and golden daggers, matching the color of the bath sandals. The wastebaskets are shaped like hearts. In the closets are pajamas and videocassettes. The beds are what they call keeng seyz, which means they’re wider than a normal bed for two people. They’re attached to the walls, with mirrors on both sides and above them. When I went in once to check the drinks in the refrigerator, some of the cupboards and drawers were open. There were silk pajamas and nightshirts, underwear, shorts, T-shirts, bathrobes, and other clothes I didn’t recognize, all brand-new and wrapped in plastic.
“The curtains are made of pink chiffon. The pillows are shaped like hearts in red, blue, orange, and pink. In one of the rooms I saw a painting covering the entire wall with a girl playing the oud, like the one in A Thousand and One Nights. There’s a main bathroom with a jaakuuzee . . . Don’t even ask me what a jaakuuzee is!
“One entire wing of this palace is a dance hall, a disco like the ones they had in the seventies. The carpet’s brown and there are tinted mirrors and balls of colored lights hanging from the ceiling. There are shelves of tapes and records of every song in the world, including chobi dance music from Iraq, Madonna, Michael Jackson, and a band called the Bee-Jeez. These strange words you hear me saying are foreign words and names. I’m saying them just how I learned them, and I don’t know how we say them in Arabic since I didn’t finish school. Or maybe these words don’t even have an equivalent in Arabic. Who knows? Moving on . . .
“The bars in this place have all different types of drinks. In the future, I dream of assembling a bar like that! Bottles of Johnny Walker whiskey, Otard cognac, Rioja, gin—the list goes on and on. Some of the bottles themselves could be considered works of art, brother.
“One time, I saw glass bookcases filled with an astounding collection of pottery stamped with the princely seal of the Sabah family in Kuwait, no doubt from the days of the war there.
“In the other building are roses and various weapons, Kalashnikovs, Sig Sauer rifles, Russian, Spanish, and Belgian pistols—including the 5.7 mm—Beretta and Smith & Wesson revolvers, and cases of ammunition. I mean, there’s an entire arsenal from each of the main companies. In various rooms I saw a gold-plated automatic MP5 rifle with the President’s name engraved, a Colt 38 Diamondback, a Magnum 357, and other weapons I didn’t recognize, all of them with instruction manuals. In other rooms, the cases were stacked to the ceiling.
“But the thing that would astonish you, Uncle Abu Qisma, is the garden between the buildings. It has squares of flowers more beautiful than these, grills made out of marble for cooking meat, and a bar with shelves crowded with bottles of Spanish, Italian, French, and South African wine, some of them from the 1980s or older, as well as Russian vodka, Scottish whiskey, French champagne, gin, and Cuban rum. There were boxes of Marlboro and Kent cigarettes and Cuban cigars.
“The outdoor chairs are shaped like oyster shells, crowns, and hearts, and there are chairs that are bags with grains sewn up inside and resembling hearts. Some of them have plastic flowers sewn on. On the ground floor is a kitchen that seems like a hospital because it’s so clean and filled with fancy machines and work areas. There’s a special cinema painted dark blue. It only has a few seats, which are very comfortable, with soft, pink cushions. As for the big swimming pool, its water circles around in a whirlpool, around and around.”
Ibrahim wondered to himself what it all meant: the heart shapes and the weapons, the difference between water flowing from a golden tap and from a normal one, and the meaning of all these objects and colors that nearly made him dizzy just to hear them. Meanwhile Sa’ad kept rattling off his descriptions with delight.
“On the west bank of the Tigris River, you’ve got a district hidden away from the eyes of ordinary people by very tall fences. Do you know it? It’s a spot with a rustic atmosphere since His Excellency the President grew up in the countryside, and naturally he misses it. He’s a genuine person who loves the simple things, just as we all know, right?
“I saw another palace there by the river consisting of seven large buildings. It has swimming pools, gardens, fountains, and various gyms for things like jumping, running, and lifting weights. There are floors of gleaming granite, giant television screens and small boats, the fronts of which are carved like mermaids or leaping dolphins, used for gliding along waterways that pass in and out of the palace. The sides of that palace are decorated with marble reliefs and polished stones. I know one of the Greek women who work there, and she told me lots about it. Maybe they’ll transfer you there someday.
“The garden out the back is a broad field stretching down to the river. There are statues of horses, falcons, half-naked women, and fierce lions covered with gold leaf. It’s the absolute pinnacle of splendor and luxury, epitomized by a swimming pool so beautiful you wouldn’t mind drowning in it! There’s a huge garage with every kind of car, old and new, strange and rare: a bulletproof Mercedes, Chevrolet sports cars, cars with roofs that fold back, some that are overlaid with gold or silver. And gardens, gardens, yet more enormous gardens.
“On some of the walls of the buildings, looking down from above, there are pictures of the Leader in various outfits, doing various things: cantering on a horse, firing a rifle, eating watermelon, brandishing a sword, cutting birthday cake, riding in a tank, or drinking tea. There are statues of him, either full-length or just the top half of the body, some showing him with arms raised. The marble facade of one of the buildings has a big relief sculpture of His Excellency’s face. Lower down, there are smaller sculptures of the heads of Nebuchadnezzar, Hammurabi, and Saladin al-Ayyubi.
“Inside, hanging by a granite staircase with golden railings, there’s a picture of His Excellency’s family in formal dress. I think it’s where the women and children stay since it has more closets than you can count, filled with thousands of articles of women’s clothing, belts, and shoes. There are enough shoes to wear five different pairs every day for a lifetime. There are children’s toys everywhere, including cars, tanks, trains, airplanes, boats, and little bicycles made of silver.
“That’s what the Greek woman told me. We were speaking in English, you get me? I mean, I know a bit of English from my days in London. Ah, how nice it was there! Sometimes I hope to go back, but I can’t leav
e my mother and sister here all alone. We can’t bear to be separated. My sister would like to come to London with me, but my mother utterly refuses. She says, ‘I’ll never leave Baghdad! I’ll never leave my home! Iraq is my country. I was born here, and here I’ll die!’”
For a moment, Ibrahim thought that this young man must be dreaming: living in a dream and dreaming of another life, in which he dreamed yet more dreams. Ibrahim imagined the tangled mass of dreams wrapped within dreams.
“The furniture is of the most splendid kind ever made by the hands of man. The decor too. The doors, windows, balconies, stairways, ceilings, and walls are decorated with the most magnificent ornamentation. The bathtubs and sinks have taps in different shapes, the door handles are made of gold and silver, and the indoor swimming pools each have a unique design. There are inner tubes for lying on the surface of the water and Kreesteeyan Deeyoor towels. Don’t ask me what Kreesteeyan Deeyoor means.”
Of course, Ibrahim didn’t ask him. Regarding everything Sa’ad said, he just asked himself, why gold? What difference does it make for door handles to be gold?
“There’s a wing for medical clinics, including a dentist’s office, a clinic for eye examinations, and another for plastic surgery. Next to them is a luxurious hair salon, its shelves filled with fashion magazines. On the top floor there are TVs, recording equipment, a cinema, and a stage. The roof has gardens. In the middle of one of them is a big bedroom in the shape of a dome. Its roof is transparent glass so you can see the rain and the stars at night when you are lying in bed.
“There are pens for lions, cheetahs, hyenas, monkeys, peacocks, gazelles, sheep, and goats. One time, His Excellency’s wife ordered us to throw a live goat to the hungry cheetahs, and they devoured it in the blink of an eye. Sometimes they make these wild animals hungry and throw in traitors or members of the opposition, recording it all on video in the presence of His Excellency or his sons, who watch on comfortable chairs near the fence beside tables covered with drinks. I would be the one pouring the drinks. I was working there less than two months ago.
“The palace is gigantic, with so many rooms. I counted one hundred and forty offices, sixty-five bathrooms, twenty meeting rooms, twenty-two kitchens, and too many other rooms to count. There are five big halls for dancing, one of them as big as a sports field. To make one quick tour around those palaces would take hours—no, days, maybe—passing through the corridors, the lobbies, the grand halls, the mirrors, the gardens, the water canals, and the tunnels.
“But the wing reserved for the Master is found on the other side. There are many books in his bedroom, all in Arabic. Books about history, tribal genealogy, Bedouin poetry, and memoirs by people like Stalin, Mussolini, Castro. Most of the books are about him, though. I think he likes French suits, Russian hats, and Italian jackets by Chanel and Lucca. His ties come in such a variety of colors and designs that it makes your head spin. His clothes are kept in private closets on the top floor in one of the buildings in the palace compound, which extends for miles along the banks of the river. There are dozens of military and civilian uniforms, Iraqi and foreign, white and black, light blue and dark blue, every color. Row upon row of elegant shirts with gold and silver buttons filling big closets I couldn’t say how many yards long.
“One time, I started putting drinks on the coffee table in the middle of one of the rooms when I saw a family photograph album. There were wedding pictures, pictures of His Excellency cutting a cake with a gilded sword, pictures of his children—just the boys.
“I also saw a hat like the one he was wearing when he fired his rifle in front of the crowds in Celebrations Square. That’s the scene we always see on TV—do you remember it? Some of the rooms have albums with thousands of photographs of the Leader in various costumes and poses. He appears as an Arab knight, a noble Bedouin, a Kurdish aga, a diplomat, a construction worker, a peasant, an army general wearing a uniform covered in medals, a tribal sheikh, a Russian oligarch, a mountain climber, a swimmer, a hunter, and a pilot. There are pictures with presidents, kings, emirs, and celebrities, and many others with army brigades on the front lines or at military parades, meetings with generals and officers, giving speeches, comforting widows, receiving tribal sheikhs, kissing babies, praying, or greeting bearded men. There are albums with old pictures from when he was a child and as a young man some three decades ago, leading gradually to the newer pictures. I too have some pictures taken with him that I’ve had enlarged and are now hanging in the sitting room of our house.
“Anyway, His Excellency’s palaces, like His Excellency’s family, number in the hundreds and are found in every corner of the country. In the region of his birthplace alone there are more than one hundred and fifty palaces. His Excellency says they are the people’s palaces, for he loves the people and the people love him. At the same time, they make us look good by making it clear to foreign guests who visit our country the vast splendor in which the Iraqi people live . . . Yes, it has to be like that, for God delights to see the effect of the blessings He has showered on His servant. Right, uncle? What do you think?”
“Yes.”
“It’s true, right?”
“Yes, yes, comrade. Your words are golden.”
“You get me.”
CHAPTER 18
The President Slays the Musician
Ibrahim realized that Sa’ad had begun to trust him. No, it went beyond trust. He might have felt an affection that rose to the level of love. It could have been that he found in Ibrahim something of what he imagined about his father, or just that Ibrahim always listened to him and showed understanding. When speaking, Sa’ad had two phrases that he repeated nearly every sentence: “Listen!” and “You get me?” Even though Ibrahim would not respond with “Yes, I hear you,” or “Yes, I’ve got you,” his features and his eyes said precisely that, something that put Sa’ad at greater ease than if Ibrahim actually used those words. Indeed, if he had said “I hear you” or “I get you” each time, perhaps he would have embarrassed or annoyed Sa’ad by pointing out how often he repeated those phrases.
One of the results of this trust was that Sa’ad began taking Ibrahim to work in different places, sometimes for hours and sometimes for days, to fill in for other people who were on holiday or had been transferred. During one of these assignments, Ibrahim saw the President for the first time. It happened on the far side of the small man-made lake, in the forest that faced the house with mud walls where Ibrahim worked. Sa’ad ushered Ibrahim in among the trunks of the enormous, terrifying trees and said, “Listen. Clean the ground and put everything in order. You get me?” Then he left.
As usual, there was no real work to do. A few leaves and twigs had fallen here and there; some bird droppings; dried grass crossing over the lines prescribed by the circles, triangles, and eight-pointed stars built around the tree trunks. He saw trees unlike any he had seen before. They didn’t resemble one another, and some of them had fruits of unusual shape, size, and color. With their ancient and enormous trunks, reaching up into the sky, some of the trees looked a thousand years old. When had they been planted?! The sky was entirely blocked out, with just a few splinters of blue breaking through high above when the wind moved the leaves.
Ibrahim thought they must have made a mistake in putting him to work here, especially if they had done it because he was once a farmer. Even though he had been born in the countryside and grown up in the fields like any other plant, not a single farmer in this country planted flowers or spent their life caring for strange trees like these. Trees just took up land, drank water, and prevented you from seeing the sky. Most of them didn’t bear fruit, and even if they did, the people didn’t know what to do with it.
In this sweet shade and silence, broken only by birds hidden in the treetops above, in this leisurely seclusion, Ibrahim felt a rare ease, a tranquility unlike any he had experienced. Or at least, not since childhood. He somehow got to thinking about his life, and for a moment he realized how far he had lost touch with
who he was and how much time had passed since he had taken himself away to reflect in silence like this. He wished there was some way to tenderly embrace one’s own soul as though it were another human being. That longing in his spirit was so powerful that it brought tears to his eyes.
There was no sky and no horizon to look out upon, the kind of view that helps one gaze deeper within. Without coming out from among the trees to the open shore, Ibrahim approached the lake. He sat on the ground some yards from the water, so that he could see it but wouldn’t be visible to anyone else. He leaned back against one of those wide tree trunks and stretched his legs out, crossing one foot over the other. He felt a cool pleasure steal into his skin from the damp grass below. Tree trunks closed in on all sides, though there was a narrow silver gap between the trees ahead of him, allowing him to see the shore, the surface of the water, the other side, and a bit of the sky. He sighed and took a deep breath as though to swallow up the gentle breeze gliding off the lake. He wished he could just stay there and keep things exactly as they were until he had quenched his need for rest, for the air, for stillness. If only he were cut off from everything and forgotten by the world! Let everyone forget him so he might commune in freedom with his authentic self! Or at least be free to forget himself.