Ibrahim’s thoughts soon returned to his life, and from his very depths he murmured in an audible whisper, “O Lord, my God, all praise and thanks be thine!” He was thinking of Qisma, this girl who had grown up so fast, already a woman, who dressed well and put on perfume every morning to attend the Teachers’ Institute so gladly. He watched her as she blossomed and grew happier every day. His material situation had improved, for in addition to a good salary, they provided him with what was called “the national gifts,” a certain amount of cash arriving in an envelope on every national holiday—of which Iraq had very many, indeed! He spent it all on his wife’s treatment and to provide for Qisma’s every need. Unfortunately, his wife’s health was getting worse, while Qisma was spending more on herself, her clothes, her friends, and her car, which he had bought for her so she could drop him off every morning at the Alawite Garage before going to her classes. (From there, he took a bus to the presidential palace along with the others.) Two evenings a week, Qisma would take her mother to the doctor, until the doctors had insisted two weeks earlier that she remain in the hospital for intensive care.
He felt the special card in his pocket and remembered what Sa’ad had once told him: “This card is very important. It has true power. With it, all doors will open to you, and no one will get in your way. With it, you can go anywhere you want in this country. It makes everything easy. You don’t need to wait in line, and the military checkpoints won’t search you. Indeed, soldiers and officers will even beg your pardon when they see this card, which comes straight from the Palace of the Republic. Don’t you see this symbol and this stamp, man? Don’t you see what’s written at the top? With it, you can do anything—and terrify anyone—you want. You get me?”
But Ibrahim had never thought of using it. He wished his wife’s health would improve so she might enjoy the way things were for them now. It would be a compensation for her anxiety over his long absence during the wars—and his compensation for that deprivation too. But unfortunately, she just got worse. Nevertheless, “Praise be to God!” he said. “Everything is fate and decree.”
He began thinking of the forthcoming holiday and of the gifts he would bring to his family in the village, his friends Abdullah Kafka and Tariq the Befuddled, and all his cousins. Qisma would certainly help him pick them out. He would visit the river there. He would sit with his family for as much time as he had. He would—
A sudden commotion interrupted Ibrahim’s reflections, jolting him out of his pleasant and contemplative solitude. He could see a group of soldiers blocking his view of the lake and the shore through the gap in the trees. They were throwing various kinds of fish, all different sizes, into the water. Then they left. Other people immediately took their place and planted a large umbrella in the ground, under which they placed a wooden chair with cushions, facing the water. A short distance behind it, facing the same direction, they put a second chair—a normal one, far less costly than the first.
Ibrahim’s heart was pounding, but he didn’t move. He had no idea what he ought to do in a situation like this. He also didn’t know how long he’d been there. It was late afternoon and the working day had certainly finished, but neither Sa’ad nor anyone else had arrived to pick him up.
Then . . . was it him? Yes, it was! The President! He approached slowly and sat on the wooden chair by the water. Two smartly dressed soldiers set up a small table with gilded edges beside him. They were followed by a civilian, a foreigner with blond hair, who approached and laid the table with a bottle, a glass, a plate, and some other things that Ibrahim couldn’t see clearly. Another man came with a thick Cuban cigar that he lit for the President, followed by another who brought a long fishing rod. The President took the rod and cast the line in the water. Then he sat quietly, smoking and drinking, all alone. Or at least, Ibrahim couldn’t see if there was anyone with him because of all the tree trunks. It was utterly silent.
The President was wearing a foreign hat and a loose-fitting shirt with a flower pattern. He smoked and drank calmly from his glass, his face toward the water and his back to Ibrahim, who felt so violently disturbed that he was sure it was all a dream. Ibrahim endeavored not to make the slightest movement. He started breathing as shallowly as he could, and he rested his arm over the stump of his left leg and grabbed his artificial foot to prevent any involuntary motion that would rustle or knock into something.
Ibrahim couldn’t see the President’s face clearly except when he turned to one side or the other. He found him to be a normal man with a normal mustache. But he had an authority that was not normal, something obscure and indefinable. In the flesh, the President appeared more normal than he did in pictures, where he seemed to be encircled by a magic halo. But on the other hand, his actual presence was more terrifying than the adoring popular pictures would have you believe.
The President began reeling in the line vigorously. He had caught a big fish, evidently one that the soldiers had thrown in only a little while before. He reeled it in, closer and closer, until he pulled it out of the water and held it in front of his face. He looked at the fish, smiled into its eyes, and turned. A general from his bodyguard hurried forward, took the fish off the hook, and threw it back in the water. That pattern repeated itself several times over a period of time that Ibrahim could not quantify.
Then the President turned and made a motion with his head. A man was brought over, a civilian in his seventies or eighties, carrying an oud. They sat him on the second chair, and, trembling, the man started playing.
It was the famous musician Nabil. Everyone knew him from seeing him playing on television, accompanying singers of every generation going back to the days when Iraq still had a king. He was called “the professor,” and it was said that he taught other oud players. He looked older than he did on television. This was the first celebrity Ibrahim had seen in person. He thought that if he escaped, he would tell Qisma about it since she loved celebrities. This incident would become one of the memorable events of his life. Then he remembered that he was forbidden to speak about anyone or anything he saw or heard here.
The musician was dripping with sweat, dressed in a suit and tie. He was trembling, yet he played gentle melodies, mostly traditional folk songs. But he would immediately break off in the middle of a song whenever he saw the President’s finger trace a circle in the air with the clear meaning of “another.” It went on like that until the tenth fish or so. Then the President turned to face the musician. Someone hastened to turn his chair for him and disappeared in the blink of an eye. The President was face-to-face with Professor Nabil, who attempted to rise. The President motioned for him to stay seated, and he slumped back down. The President put his foot on one of the musician’s knees—the oud was resting on the other—and he motioned for the musician to continue playing. Then he began wiping the bottom of his sandal on Nabil’s shirt, calmly rubbing the musician’s belly.
A moment later, the President gave the oud a kick and it fell to the ground. He pulled the musician’s tie forward until Nabil was bent double and said in a soft, though terrifying, voice, “Heeey . . . How’s it going, Nabil?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on: “And how are your daughters doing? How about your lofty position, your great fame, and the big house that our revolutionary government has given you?”
The musician stammered, “Everything is perfect. Everything is going as well as can be, sir, thanks to your generous care for me. May our Lord preserve you, may our Lord preserve you!”
“No. No, it appears that you are not content. I hear you speak of freedom and democracy when you get drunk at your private parties.”
“No! No, sir, never! You are freedom. You are democracy. You—”
The President interrupted him, bringing forward a glass with his free hand while still pulling at the musician’s tie and digging his sandal even harder into the musician’s chest.
“Something to drink?” he asked evenly. Then he yelled, “Drink!”
As soon as the musician began to reach out
his trembling hand, the President threw the contents of the glass in his face. Then he threw the empty glass over his shoulder into the water. He took the bottle from the table and offered it to the musician. “This is the best and most expensive drink in the world. Drink it, all of it, and you’ll be richer than all of us.”
The musician took the bottle, while the blond servant brought another of a different color and shape. He set it on the table and disappeared.
The President turned and called, “Faisal!”
A man wearing pajamas came up and gave the President a pistol. It was the minister of defense. Ibrahim could hardly believe his eyes. This august military man, the mere mention of whose name caused a shiver in one’s veins; this man, who never appeared in the media except in full uniform decorated with stars, swords, insignia, and medals, with a severe expression on his face: Ibrahim would never have imagined that he slept like every other human, and even if he slept, surely it would be standing up, in full military regalia and a state of perpetual readiness. When the President mentioned him on television, he went through all his titles and his ranks before mentioning his name. Now he just called him “Faisal,” nothing more, and Faisal appeared in his pajamas, handed the President a gold pistol, and withdrew with a bow and deliberate steps.
The President half turned to face the lake without letting go of the musician’s tie. He began shooting at the ducks swimming there as he laughed hysterically, until the pistol ran out of bullets and he threw it aside. The minister of defense hurried up with a hand grenade. The President held down the lever on the side and looked at the minister, who hurriedly pulled out the safety pin. The President looked at the grenade in his hand, then he stared at the musician and smiled. He rubbed the grenade on the nose of the musician, who was trembling and swimming in sweat, hunched over like a broken finger. Then, without turning around, the President threw the grenade behind him into the lake. It exploded, sending high in the air a fountain of water that blended fragments of ducks and fish with the mud and algae. The President let go of the musician’s tie and turned to survey the surface of the lake, which was covered with flashes of white, the bellies of fish flipped over on their backs, twisting in the last throes of death amid a crimson surge of mud, grass, duck feathers, and blood.
For a few moments all was silent. The President took a gulp from his cup. The minister offered him another pistol, and from the other side, someone set a pigeon free into the air. It went flying past the President, and he fired at it. Another went by, which he shot at, and another and another. He would hit some and miss others. It went on until he emptied the pistol and threw it aside. The minister immediately offered him an AK-47, and the person on the far side began releasing the pigeons in a flock, and the President fired a shower of bullets at them. Most of them fell dead, careening out of the sky into the water, while a few lucky survivors flew away to safety.
The President stopped and gestured with his hand. Two men came forward and lifted the musician by his armpits since he was no longer able to stand on his own. They stood him up on the wooden embankment with his back to the lake. He fell to his knees, crying and pleading with words that didn’t form sentences.
The President said to him, “You talk about freedom and democracy, eh, Nabil? You, to whom we have given more than you could have even dreamed? You, who did nothing more than chase after whores in the clubs and sing for the entertainment of drunks until we raised you up. You fool! You good-for-nothing! You’ve spent your life buzzing on this clumsy board of yours. You’ve done nothing useful in your entire life except buzz around like a fly on manure. Get up.”
The musician tried to rise, but his strength failed him. The two soldiers helped him up and then stepped away.
The President said to him, “Sing ‘Ducky, Ducky.’”
The old musician began singing the well-known children’s song:
Ducky, ducky, swim in the sea
Tell the fish the net you see
Swim, swim away, and keep yourself free!
The President demanded another children’s song:
Yes, nightingale? Yes!
Have you seen a sparrow? Yes!
He pecks at the bowl? Yes!
The milk and the seeds? Yes!
Wrapped in his tears, his sweat, his snot, and his fear, the musician sang in a hoarse, choked voice while the President laughed loudly. Then he turned, and they released a pigeon for him behind the musician’s head. The President shot at it, and at another and another. He shot again and again as the bullets whizzed past the ears of the musician, who started and jumped. The President laughed at him and ordered him to sing “Ducky, Ducky” again. It went on like this until he turned and his men released another flock of pigeons. The President hosed them with such a spray of bullets that the air shattered with the noise. Then he lowered the rifle until it was aimed straight at the musician, and unleashed a hail of bullets at point-blank range, driving him back and down into the water.
The President approached the shore, looked down, and spat. He turned around as though to leave but paused when his foot hit the oud. He looked at it, and someone picked it up for him. He took it between his hands, kissed it, and examined it like a child receiving a long-awaited toy. It was as though he were touching a musical instrument for the first time. He raised it to his chest and began strumming the strings, trying to play, as if he were the only person there. He tried again but failed to produce even two notes that went together. Scowling, he threw the oud into the water and continued on his way.
CHAPTER 19
Both Sides of the Television Screen
Ibrahim didn’t know how long he remained frozen there afterward. Long enough for his legs to fall asleep. There was a commotion followed by a prolonged silence, which made him think they had left. The first move he attempted was to swallow. The effort hurt because his throat was so dry. He touched his shirt and found it sticking to him due to the sweat, and he feared he had wet his pants because it was damp down there too. He felt he had never experienced anything as terrifying as that, despite the wars and the blood, the dead men, the severed body parts, the executions, and the bombardments he had seen: everything connected to living hand in hand with death—or rather, with murder.
But the way this incident struck him was entirely different. Perhaps because it had been unexpected, outside the framework of battles and fighting. Perhaps because he had never imagined that the President would be a normal man like this. And that he killed with his own hands. Or perhaps because he couldn’t discern his own attitude toward all of it, and what he had to do, or how he ought to feel. He felt superfluous; he was an unwanted parasite, an unseen ghost. What if someone had noticed his presence? What would they have done to him? What ought he to have done? Perhaps they had done it on purpose, with some plan in mind, knowing that he was there. No, impossible! For a moment, he wished that one of the bullets the President had fired in various directions had come his way and killed him silently in his hiding place: a solution to the crisis in which he found himself, a release from the ordeal and the terror that had befallen him.
In the midst of the silence, he heard a gurgling and something splashing in the water, coming from the direction where the body of the musician had fallen. Most likely Nabil was still alive, Ibrahim thought, the remnants of his soul struggling against death. He trembled because he didn’t know what he ought to do. What could he do now?
Then he heard the rustling of footsteps in the forest behind him. Footsteps coming ever closer. He froze in place and found himself turning involuntarily. He saw nothing among the tree trunks, but the footsteps were getting closer. Then he heard Sa’ad’s voice calling him. “Uncle Ibrahim!” The voice wasn’t loud, but just the normal tone of Sa’ad’s call when he came looking for him: “Uncle Ibrahim! You hear me? Abu Qisma!”
He was certain it was Sa’ad, and he put out a sound that resembled, “Yes.” Then he was able to speak more clearly: “Yes. Yes, I’m over here, comrade.” He got up, suppor
ting himself with the tree trunk and whatever determination remained within him.
Sa’ad apologized for being late, and said that things were just like that sometimes. “You get me? The President goes around without any fixed appointments, and he does whatever he wants whenever he wants without any advance warning or notice. Of course, you can’t approach him without permission. Naturally, everything is subject to his orders, his desires, his mood—you get me? Did anyone see you?”
Even in normal circumstances, Ibrahim was a man of few words, but it went far beyond that now and he was scarcely able to speak. He shook his head. Sa’ad sighed with relief. “Praise God!” Then he asked, “And did you see him?” Ibrahim only had to hint at shaking his head again for Sa’ad to go on speaking. “If you had seen him, I would have asked who brought his drinks. Was he blond? The Russian? Do you know that I was the one who used to do that, and more than once in this exact place? I would bring the drinks, and he would fish and shoot ducks and pigeons.”
By way of an apology, Sa’ad decided to drive Ibrahim home in his own car. He took him to the door of his house without inquiring about the address, but Ibrahim didn’t ask how he knew it. No doubt Sa’ad knew everything. Was he not one of them, the government? That is how Ibrahim explained the matter to himself, and he didn’t insist on Sa’ad coming in. Sa’ad left, singing to himself, as darkness fell.
On the way there, Sa’ad hadn’t stopped at any red lights or observed any traffic signs. It seemed that the police knew him, and for that reason, no one interfered. Some even gave him a military salute from a distance. Sa’ad informed Ibrahim that a magnificent dinner party would be given three days later in the gardens of one of these palaces to commemorate the President achieving some position decades earlier.
“Listen—there’s going to be an amazing party. Fewer than two hundred people have been invited, primarily the most beautiful women from Iraq and abroad. You’ll see a long table covered with food and drink, the quantity and variety of which cannot even be imagined. It will be more than they need, of course, and afterward the workers can eat or take home whatever they want. Do you want me to put your name on the team of servants? You’d be able to bring along just one person—a woman, on the condition that she is beautiful and dressed as finely as she can be!” He laughed and went on. “They also give us substantial cash gifts. I’ll be there on the team serving drinks, and you’ll get to see my skills. Do you want to?”
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