The President's Gardens

by Muhsin al-Ramli

  Ibrahim shook his head, no. Sa’ad was silent for a while. Then he said, “Yes, you’re tired. As a compensation for having kept you waiting today, I’ll give you a two-day holiday. On top of that, just come the day before the party and the day after in order to put the garden back in order and take care of the flowers.” Sa’ad began singing, “Hey, uncle, you sell the roses. Tell me how much they are, tell me, tell me . . .” and so on, until they arrived. Under the intoxicating influence of that song, he said, “And here you are, honored rose uncle, Abu Qisma. By your leave, my good sir!”

  That was the last time Ibrahim saw this good young man alive.

  When Ibrahim went inside the house, he found his daughter in the living room, lying on the couch in front of the television with her nightshirt riding up so it barely covered her legs. She was talking on the phone in a whisper, and as usual, her perfume filled the room. As soon as she saw him, she hung up and lazily adjusted her position. She asked him why he was so late, and he responded with a single word after sitting on the other end of the couch, placing his head between his hands: “Work.” She asked him if he had eaten dinner or wanted anything, and he replied, “Water.” Then he quickly followed that up by insisting, “No, not water. Anything else. Tea, I want tea.” Qisma got up and went into the kitchen.

  Ibrahim breathed deeply. He took off his artificial foot and the shoe on his other foot and lay back to relax. But he suddenly sat straight up when he noticed the musician Nabil on the television. He came closer to the screen and took a good look. It was him. The musician Nabil, wearing the same suit, the same tie that Ibrahim had seen pulled forward today in the fist of the President, and the same shirt on which the President wiped the sole of his shoe before peppering it with bullets. But as usual, Nabil looked younger on the screen, more glamorous under the lights. He was playing his oud and sitting at the front of a troupe of musicians lined up behind a singer celebrating a national festival. At least, that is what it said at the bottom of the screen. All the songs were extolling the President; however, those too were considered patriotic songs of the nation. That is, if they even deserved to be called songs. Up in the top corner of the screen, he read the word “LIVE.” Ibrahim came closer still until his eyes were almost touching the screen in order to confirm the word “LIVE.” Then he withdrew and remained on the edge of the couch, astonished by what he saw.

  He couldn’t help noticing that the cameras seemed particularly drawn to Professor Nabil, focusing on his face, serious, smiling, swaying as he played, gazing off in the distance. And there were other shots of his fingers as they strummed the strings. He appeared more frequently than the other musicians and the audience, only a little less than the famous singer—at least, that is how it seemed to Ibrahim, as though they wanted him to be sure that it actually was Nabil. It was as though Ibrahim had gone mad and was conjuring up the image of this musician whose murder he witnessed just a few hours before.

  When Qisma entered with his tea, he immediately asked her, “Does it say ‘LIVE’ at the top?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this man playing the oud—is it the famous musician Nabil?”

  “Yes.”

  After he was silent for a moment, he took the tea from her hands and asked, “Do you think the broadcast really is coming to us live or was it recorded earlier?”

  “What does it matter if it’s live or not! The important thing is that these guys know how to take life by the teeth!”

  When she saw he made no response, she thought he might not have understood her expression “to take life by the teeth,” so she sat on the edge of the couch and went on talking fervently. “There are people who really know how to make it in this world, how to rake in the money and glory, and how to enjoy life.”

  “Life! Do you think that they are really alive?”

  “Of course they’re alive! Indeed, more than alive, not like all the rest of us, the living dead.”

  Based on his intuition and how well he knew his daughter, he could tell she was drawing him in another direction, the way she usually did when provoking him and making him feel somehow at fault. He didn’t know quite why she was so hard like this, so cold, as though she’d felt an aversion toward him since she was young. He remembered those moments in which he sensed the transformation in her attitude, her disengagement, such as the first time she saw him with one foot and knew he was impaired. He sometimes used to justify it by telling himself that he had never been with her for very long, and he used to think that, as she got older, with the passage of time, she would forgive him when she understood that his absence had never been something he wanted. But although she was grown up now, still she mistreated him even when he remained silent before her and avoided confrontation, aware that he would always lose because he couldn’t speak as well as she did.

  “Everything is fate and decree, my daughter.”

  “No fate, no decree, and no watermelons! It comes down to will and intelligence. Every person can achieve what he wants and live the life he wants. You just have to know what you want and devote your mind and energy to getting it!”

  “There are some people like that, born big in the world, with power or money or a high position. Every person has his fate. As they say, ‘Everyone is guided to that which is created for him.’ Everything is preordained. Every person has his fate. Not everyone is equal.”

  “Indeed, not everyone is equal because some people don’t want that equality—they don’t seek it. But those who do want it will get what they aim for. And those who are inclined to submission and obedience, who are content with a marginalized life in the shadows—they’ll be exploited by others and will remain in the shadows, marginalized forever. That’s if those who are stronger, richer, and bolder don’t crush them.”

  Ibrahim realized that he would never succeed in persuading her of any of his convictions. He actually believed what he said, and he didn’t suffer from jealousy or hatred or pursue ambitions that didn’t correspond to his lot in life. He had grown accustomed to contentment in and of itself. But it was no use trying yet again to make her see his point of view, so he just repeated the expression quietly: “Everything is fate and decree.”

  Qisma jumped to her feet, enraged. “Aiii! Once again with fate and decree?! Don’t you have anything else? Don’t you get bored repeating that? Haven’t you put that to the test throughout your whole life? You can see for yourself where it’s gotten you. You’ve spent your life as a soldier under the command of officers half your age, who became officers in just two years and with half the effort. You lost your foot, while they got the stars and the medals. Now here you are spending the rest of your life as a servant in the gardens, and no doubt there’s another even younger officer who humiliates you and drags you around like a sheep wherever he wants. So don’t tell me that! There’s no fate, no decree. And no asphalt!”

  She stormed off to her room and slammed the door behind her. Ibrahim remained where he was sitting, head bowed, alone. But Qisma opened the door again and stuck her head out to yell, “Even if you are satisfied with your life, I’m not satisfied with mine, and I’m going to work out how to change it!”

  Then she banged the door shut. Just as quickly she opened it again and stuck her head out once more to follow up: “And just for your information, I hate being called Qisma! Why did you name me after this fate of yours?” She slammed the door even harder.

  Ibrahim wished his wife were there at that moment. He wished he could fall on her shoulder and weep. Her gentle fingers would stroke his head, and her low voice, like the whisper of trees or a murmuring river, would calm him. He wanted to tell her everything he had seen that day. He wished his daughter were like her mother, or at least that she had half her mother’s good nature, half her calm. But fate had decreed that his Qisma should be the opposite of them both since his wife resembled him in nearly everything, not least his contentment with his lot in life. How he needed her at that moment! How he needed a majestic moment of solitude and co
mfort like the one he had experienced among the strange trees before what happened had happened, before he saw what he saw.

  How he longed for Umm Qisma! Ibrahim thought he would go to the hospital that moment, go to her, embrace her, care for her, complain about Qisma’s violence toward him, and ask Umm Qisma’s pardon for every way he had failed her during their married lives. He would make her understand. Or help her come to see that the course of his entire life had not been determined by his own choices, and that he had not been given any opportunity to change it. Every aspect of his life had been imposed by circumstances and decided by others. Even his marriage to her, for as she knew, his father had proposed it and hers had agreed to it. It might have been the only choice to have worked out well, the one most suited to him. He would tell her everything. Only she could understand what he wanted to say, even if he didn’t say a word.

  Ibrahim stood up on his one leg. Then he sat back down, remembering that he had a two-day holiday and that the hour was late. She might be sleeping, or they might not let him in.

  He sipped his tea as the national festival went on. Nabil was playing behind a young singer the same age as the musician’s daughters. Ibrahim stared at Nabil once last time on the screen, which was actually the last time they showed him. He turned off the television and hobbled toward the bathroom. On the way, he stopped at the door to Qisma’s room and bent his head to listen. He couldn’t hear anything. Then he gave two light knocks and said, “Take me to the hospital tomorrow before you go to the institute. I have the day off.”

  He took a step toward the bathroom but came back to stand once more in front of her door and call, “Sleep well!” He walked farther down the hall and finished the sentence quietly to himself, “my daughter.”

  CHAPTER 20

  A Bouquet of Flowers and an Orange

  As usual, Ibrahim woke up early. By the time Qisma was up, he had shaved, showered, put on cologne, and polished his shoes. He dressed in the suit he kept for special occasions. Then he set out breakfast in the living room while Qisma finished washing and getting dressed before coming to eat with him. They exchanged no words apart from a “good morning” and a “thank you,” and a “goodbye” when she dropped him off at the hospital. He told her there was no need for her to come and get him; he would return home by himself in a taxi.

  As soon as his wife saw him, her pale face lit up. Ibrahim’s heart flashed with joy like a long vacant house when the lights first come on. She had been lying back on the hospital bed, but sat up and reached out both arms to receive him, even though one was connected to an IV drip. She smiled with a sweetness that enchanted Ibrahim. It made her so happy to see him walking toward her in the suit he wore on their wedding day. Throughout the years of their marriage, their entire relationship had been an endless cycle of absences and reunions, and beyond the confines of their bedroom, they had never been alone like this, just the two of them, without relatives close by. It was as though they were meeting for the first time, and there was something of that sense of mutual annihilation that is felt with love at first sight. Ibrahim bent over and held her in a long embrace. They nuzzled each other’s neck. Ibrahim ran his hands along her back and up to both sides of her head, his eyes shining with tears that didn’t fall.

  He sat before her on the edge of the bed. In the morning light pouring through the window, she appeared the most beautiful woman in the world, even though she had become thinner than anyone he had ever seen. Despite that, he found her in a better mood than the previous times he had visited: more radiant, affectionate, and vigorous.

  A nurse came with the breakfast cart. Ibrahim insisted on feeding his wife with his own hand. Every time she indicated she’d had enough, he insisted she sip another spoonful of soup, and joked with her until she complied. It went on like that until he had helped her eat an entire breakfast.

  She told him she was better, but that she longed for home, for their village. She longed for her normal daily life with him and with Qisma. She thanked him for his patience and for taking care of her, and she asked his pardon for all her shortcomings. He repeated the very same words of gratitude and apology. After the doctor came and she took her medicine, Ibrahim asked the doctor whether it was possible for her to walk around a little. The doctor said it all depended on her own wishes and ability.

  Ibrahim helped her stand, and she leaned her arm across his shoulders. His arm was around her waist, while in his other hand he carried the IV bag. They started slowly down the white hallway, taking as much pleasure from their walk as they would strolling along the banks of a river, with the close-set windows standing in for the flowing water. They went outside to the garden and chose for themselves a secluded stone bench in the shade of a fig tree. As soon as they sat down, she said she wanted to touch the grass. Ibrahim wanted to pluck out a handful for her, but she stopped him, saying that she wanted to feel it where it was. He helped her down to the ground, and they sat there together. She began running her fingers through the grass, touching it with a deep tenderness, as though playing with the hair of a sleeping baby.

  Ibrahim was delighted and felt optimistic to find her this way. He didn’t talk about anything that could distract from these moments he was sharing with his wife. He forgot—or ignored—everything he was going to tell her. They recalled memories from the village—funny childhood stories, their neighbors and friends—and more than once they laughed. He reassured her that he was doing well, and that he lacked for nothing apart from her health and her presence at home. Without her, he said, life had no flavor and no meaning. He needed her in everything, and her presence was necessary for him to feel his own existence. He hinted at what he had learned about his relationship with Qisma—he was no good at reaching an understanding with her and didn’t know how to get close to her.

  Ibrahim’s wife comforted him with the same words she always used, saying that Qisma was a good-hearted girl, even if she was somewhat irritable, difficult, and stubborn. She asked him to be as patient with her as possible, and to take care of her, in case her own absence was prolonged. Her tone shifted as she said, “My last wish is that you be patient and forbearing with Qisma, no matter what, and with yourself too.”

  When Ibrahim tried to stop her from using this valedictory tone, she cut him off to say, “I forgive you everything, Ibrahim. You are a very good man, and I am content with you.”

  Tears choked them both, and they fell silent together. Then he repeated the same words to her. “I forgive you everything, Umm Qisma. You are a very good woman, and I am content with you.”

  They embraced, and for the first time in their entire lives, she whispered in his ear, “I love you.” He squeezed her tight, forgetting the frailty of her body, and replied in her ear, through his tears, “I love you.”

  They remained like this a long time. After a while, they changed the direction of the conversation entirely and began talking about daily things and what they would bring as gifts during their next trip to the village.

  The day passed quickly, as the days of lovers do; and slowly, as the days of lovers also do. They ended the visit sitting in the same way, with him on the edge of the bed in front of her, and her lying back. Meanwhile, the window gradually grew darker, and city lights shone through it, decorating the night sky. Sitting there under those lights, Ibrahim thought she looked like a royal doll.

  He had spent the entire day with her and didn’t leave until she fell asleep with her hand in his. He kissed her forehead and walked home, enjoying nighttime in Baghdad for the very first time. He passed through old streets and the working-class markets where the fragrance of tea and smoke from water pipes emanated from the cafés, mixing with the pungent aromas coming from restaurants and the carts of street vendors. He crossed the bridge, stopping in the middle to look down at the waters of the Tigris. It reflected the lights from the banks and from the sky, and Ibrahim inhaled a clean breeze that refreshed his spirit.

  He looked back at the hospital building and tried to
guess which of the many windows was his wife’s. He thought he had picked it out and focused his gaze upon it as though staring into her eyes. He pictured her lying behind it comfortably, her pallor enhancing her beauty, her contentment making her resemble the angels of his imagination. He recalled how the last word of their conversation was also the name of their daughter, Qisma. It was the last thing she had said to him, which he repeated. They had smiled together, and then she had nodded off.

  “That’s life,” she had said. “Everything is decree and fate.”

  “That’s life. Everything is decree and fate.” Their smiles almost dissolved into laughter, as though they were coconspirators.

  Ibrahim now smiled at her from the bridge and sent her a heartfelt kiss through the night air. Then he continued his journey with a feeling of contentment. Indeed, he felt true love and was certain that no one in this universe could understand him or feel the same thing apart from her.

  He filled himself up with an excellent meal of kebabs and left a good tip for the waiter. When he bought a glass of tea from a boy in the street, he paid double, and the boy thanked him and invoked God’s blessing of health and prosperity for Ibrahim and his family. Ibrahim began giving generously to every homeless person and street vendor he passed because the idea of them praying for him and his family appealed to him greatly. He thought that the prayers of one of them just might be answered. That night just might be a blessed night.