When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  —You can’t imagine how it is when water abruptly diverges from its natural course and moves towards you and when the streets and alleys in your neighbourhood are neither straight nor winding but one shapeless swamp, with water up to your shoulders.

  She was a small child when the Tigris submerged a good part of Baghdad. She recalls her uncles carrying beds to the first floor and hoisting the new swing hammock from the courtyard to the roof. She recalls half the stairway vanishing under water, and her sisters joking about the fate of rats and stray dogs and cats. After the water receded, they went to the river bank to see King Faisal’s residence which had been demolished by the flood. The red roses in the royal garden were still floating with their heads just above the turbid water.

  The ruins of Nineveh, the Assyrian capital, lie on the left bank of the Tigris in northern Iraq. The Epic of Gilgamesh, found in the library of Nineveh, provides us with the account of the Flood. After the Flood, no true sages lived on earth to deliver the arts of the gods to mankind. After the Flood, not even Gilgamesh could gain immortality.

  In the early nineteen-fifties, shortly before I was born, an artificial depression, al-Tharthar, had been constructed north of Baghdad into which the surplus water of the Tigris was diverted. The project guaranteed the capital’s safety from the floods. A safety which mother questions in the springtime, when the Tigris is in spate and more swimmers drown. Will the river yield to civil engineering this year again, or will the ancient flood ravage our modern defences?

  Mother is sitting at her dressing-table, applying red and green and yellow rollers to her black hair.

  —My hair’s stiff and rough like straw, she grumbles. Yours too. Did you have to take after me in every way?

  I offer to fix the rollers at the back of her head. She instructs me to take a strand of hair in my hand, wet it, comb it, and curl it tightly around a pink plastic cylinder. I insert a pin, pink too, fasten the roller, and take my fingers away. The coil loosens and the roller falls out. I have no patience for a second try.

  I run my hand in her hair, stroke it against the grain and let the strong thick fibres caress the skin between my fingers. My gaze falls behind her ear. Most of the newly grown hair is white at the roots. I let out a cry of fright, as if mother has just been raped by old age.

  —Mama, since when do you dye it?

  She is forty-two and I am twelve. My hair takes after hers, and so do my looks, as everybody says. But she is afraid of water and I have learned to swim, and while she will always be a mother I am going to be a detective. In thirty years, my head will be streaked with white, whereas hers will most probably remain black.

  Abu Nuwas street runs along the eastern bank of the Tigris, in Rasafa. Coffee houses, or casinos, have been set up on the bank. They consist of fenced lawns furnished with wrought-iron tables and chairs, painted in green and blue and red – the same colours as the light bulbs strung over the fence. Sometimes, a myrtle hedge serves as the boundary between two adjacent casinos. In the summer, after dusk, Abu Nuwas turns into a promenade while the coffee houses on its riverside fill with customers.

  We have just had our dinner in Semiramis, a casino for families, together with Zeki and Dunia and their two daughters, Suad and Huda. The waiter is clearing the table. He is heaping the pressed lime segments and the eight skeletons of fish in one dish. Their heads are still sweating from the fire that had grilled them. Although open, their stony eyes are impossible to meet, no matter from what direction I try.

  Father orders eight finjans of Turkish coffee. Dunia agrees to read our fortunes in the coffee grounds. Zeki asks for a second glass of arak and some raffia fans.

  The mouths of Suad and Huda are painted red, the same red as the bubble gum they have started chewing. Like real women, they will stamp the brim of the white finjan with red imprints of their lips.

  Although they are only one and two years older than I am, the girls have recently grown into young ladies who pluck their eyebrows, paint their nails, remove the hair from their legs, swim only in pools and only on women’s days, abstain from bread and biscuits, have stopped riding a bicycle in the street, and avoid the eyes of young men, including my brother, with whom they have been friends since their childhood. Their abrupt metamorphosis made us lose interest in each other, even though I am twelve years old and am bordering on puberty myself. But my breasts are still too flat to fill the cups of a bra, and the hair under my arms is too sparse to be shaved. Mother reassures me that her menstruation, too, was late, unaware how thankful I am for the delay.

  —Their hair’s so beautiful, mother tells Dunia and fans her face. Long enough for them to sit on.

  —Long enough to let them do without toilet paper, Shuli whispers in my ear.

  After I have drunk my coffee, I place the saucer upside down on the cup, and turn the two over. The coffee grounds are streaming down. The traces they will leave on the sides of the finjan will serve Dunia as inspiration for her reading.

  Her nose is poked inside Shuli’s finjan. I pull my chair beside hers, hoping for an initiation into the secrets of fortune telling.

  —A new page is opening up for you, young man, Dunia begins with an airy tone. I can see them clearly, your grandiose plans. You’re resolved to take your place in the big world, and nothing less will satisfy your ambition.

  Shuli sits up,

  —Come on Um Suad, you don’t need the finjan to tell me this. You know I’ve just finished school. It’s pretty obvious that a new phase is about to start.

  —He’s too clever to be fed on vague statements, Zeki chuckles.

  Dunia ignores both Shuli’s and her husband’s remarks. She turns the finjan slowly between her red-nailed fingers and studies the amorphous blots from every possible angle. Zeki takes a sip of arak, stretches out his legs, and yawns loudly.

  —Be patient Abu Suad, father says with a measure of irony. Visions need time to reveal themselves.

  —It’s all right with me, Zeki replies. As long as the future doesn’t precede its prophecy.

  Dunia does not blink. Mother lights a cigarette. Huda’s balloon bursts and chewing gum sticks all over her made-up face.

  —Forgive me, Shuli suddenly resumes. All I really want to know is whether this page will be read from right to left or left to right?

  It is unlike my brother to apologise. Besides, he is too rational, like father, to take fortune-telling seriously. Has Dunia disarmed him with her composure, or is he so desperate as to resort to coffee reading?

  —There’s more than one possibility, Dunia speaks at last. Some are at hand, others are very far away. But you definitely prefer the faraway ones.

  Shuli clams up.

  —Where? Show me? I ask.

  Dunia points her finger at what look like snakes to me, creeping up and down the cup.

  —See all these lines? Look how narrow this one is, messy too, a dirt road I’d say. It’s made exclusively for individualists – egoists who believe their lives belong only to themselves. Here’s a highway, wide enough to hold a demonstration, for those who take no single step without the backing of the whole clan. The dark one over there is a blind alley, it’s reserved for the despairing. This line’s as straight as a ruler, to suit the needs of the practical, while the one next to it is winding, most attractive to adventurers. This is no more than a thread, almost transparent, one that only ascetics can discern. If their self-denial is sincere, their traces too will fade on the way. As to this long street which goes beyond the brim, it is taken mainly by the ambitious, those who go so far away that even if they looked back, they wouldn’t be able to spot their origins any more. Now do you see this figure? The big head’s your brother, right?

  It looks more like a concrete brick with a protruding nose, sitting on a wheel.

  —See how ready he is to move? The wheel’s small though, and not particularly convenient for a long ride. But note the direction to which his nose is turned, to the longest of all paths.

  —MIT! I
cry out.

  —Can’t you ever keep your mouth shut? Shuli barks at me.

  —Don’t worry, young man, the finjan doesn’t need your sister’s assistance. Your American university is very distinct. Here …

  And she indicates a dark lump, stuck to the outer brim of the finjan. But Shuli’s cup is always smeared! He has never learned to sip the hot thick coffee, nor to pause after each sip and wear that grave look which denotes nothing more than oral pleasure, but gulps it down like water, as if only to quench his thirst. Discreetly, he spits out the dregs caught on his tongue or palate on the brim of the finjan, providing Dunia with clues to his career.

  —It’s a positive answer! Take my word for it, wallah, you’ll be admitted.

  Her full voice is a temptation to believe. Her tone conveys authority, pride too, as if he were her own son. Shuli’s face gleams with warmth for a moment. Then he frowns, folds his arms, and looks away.

  —How do you know? Where? Show me.

  —Enough of your prying, Lina! She’s not on trial, she’s only reading the finjan, mother says.

  —But how come the finjan knows … after all it’s only coffee-grounds.

  Dunia’s fish-like eyes open wide.

  —Fate drops you messages everywhere, my girl! On the palm of your hand, in cards, in the stars, in coffee-grounds, and in your dreams. Fate is not a foreigner. On the contrary, it’s a lifelong companion – though not necessarily a friendly one. Now let’s return to the finjan. See this letter flying above your brother’s head? That’s the new page I mentioned at the very beginning.

  It looks more like a flying saucer than a sheet of paper.

  —Examine the space around it. Is it cloudy? Are there any signs of an impending storm? No, the sky’s clear, the letter can only be good news.

  Shuli bursts out,

  —It won’t make any difference! Whether I’m admitted or not, I won’t be allowed to leave the country.

  Dunia glances at Zeki, then goes on,

  —Yes, my boy, but … things might change … Just a few weeks ago we agreed a cease-fire with the Kurds. Who would have dreamt of that last year? For the Jews, too, better days will turn up, I’m sure of that. You know how it is, regimes and ideologies rapidly burn themselves out, like an American cigar.

  —I’m sorry, it’s not the American cigar we’re dealing with here but the Arab moustache, Shuli retorts.

  —Now you’ve carried it too far! It’s neither the place nor the time to discuss this anyway, father says to hush his son.

  Cars swish and honk along Abu Nuwas street. Men whistle at girls strolling by themselves. Dogs bark in reply. A donkey hee-haws from nowhere. Domino tiles clack at the table beside us. The family to our right is cracking pumpkin seeds, while the eight of us grow silent, lest more words be said which could not be taken back.

  Dunia’s brown eyes sink into the dark coffee stains again, in search of our better days. But the finjan too keeps quiet. Zeki gulps his second glass of arak, and wipes his mustache with the back of his hand. Shuli is staring at the river. I know where his thoughts are wandering.

  In the south of Iraq, near Basra, the Tigris and the Euphrates join into the Shat al-Arab waterway, whose southern part serves as the border between Iran and Iraq.

  Three years ago, in 1963, shortly after Abd al-Karim had been overthrown, the new regime had decreed laws against its Jewish citizens. They had frozen their property, and denied them the right to hold passports and to travel abroad. Since then, those Jews who wished to leave for good packed their suitcases and went for a cruise on Shat al-Arab. Within less than an hour, they landed at Abadan, on the coast of Iran, where they were admitted without difficulties. From there, they were free to proceed to any destination they chose.

  Since last year, Shuli has been flirting with the idea of crossing Shat al-Arab once he has finished school. But he is still underage, and father would not hear of letting him flee by himself. Shuli stands up to him, threatens to break away without his consent, succeeds in irking him but takes no action.

  —Do you see any heart in the finjan? I ask Dunia. Is he by chance in love?

  Suad and Huda burst into laughter. Shuli nudges me with his ankle. Dunia surveys the finjan once again.

  —Yes, he is. He’s in love with his freedom, with his future, and with himself. What else would you expect from a young man?

  And she waves the raffia fan to cool her neck.

  At night, Abu Nuwas’s motley bulbs spill their light in a zigzag on the water, the way a streamer uncoils when tossed in the air. The reflection gives rise to a second, drowned Baghdad, a thousand times brighter than the dusty city above, as if one thousand nights had been compressed into one, and sunk underwater. A tale of two cities, Laurence would have said. One that I long to leave and one which he never tires of seeking, the way other dreamers seek Atlantis.

  The wind rises. The two moored boats rock into one another. The dash of the waves and the gurgle of the undertow become louder. The boatmen are ready for the cruise back to Rasafa. Fathers and sons extinguish the faggot fire, roll the rugs, collect the pillows. Mothers call daughters to help clear away the remains of their picnic. I must pee, I whisper in her ear and slip away before she says that my selfishness is increasing with my age. I climb up the steep bank and walk along the desolate path until I come across a mound, large enough to hide me.

  The foamy yellow puddle is instantly swallowed by the sand. Voices emerge from nearby. I hitch up my pants, and listen hard. It is definitely a woman’s. My fright shifts into curiosity. Though I fail to locate the source of the voice, I can guess its distance. Quietly I creep out from behind the mound, lie on my stomach and peer at a spot, a few feet below me.

  Close to the waterline, two figures are sitting on the skeleton of an overturned boat, their faces to the water. My eyes wander from her light dress, beige perhaps, to his white shirt, to the cigarette between his fingers, her white shoes. She is talking. In spite of our proximity, I have to concentrate to catch her words, pick up those which are neither drowned by the dash of the waves nor carried away by the howling wind.

  —Ayouni, apple of my eye, I didn’t mean it, I’ll repeat it a million times until you’ll forgive me. I’m not that kind of woman, believe …

  He draws deeply on the cigarette, holds the smoke, exhales no answer.

  —Why should I want to upset you, my treasure … and at our engagement party! They were all family … all I did was to entertain them. There was nothing more to it, I swear. May God cut off my tongue if I’m lying, if I’ve ever …

  The wind steals away the tail of her sentence. He remains silent.

  —Ya rouhi, my soul, I swear never to speak to Tariq any more, not even a single word.

  The river laps against the shore. Did I fail to hear his answer, or has jealousy rendered him mute? As in Egyptian films, she is cringing, denying accusations but nevertheless begging for forgiveness. As to him, he is supposed to go wild, beat her up, threaten to stab her, which is the least he could do to restore his honour. Yet all he does is smoke and stare at the Rasafa lights, like a cowboy in a cigarette commercial.

  —I’ll speak to nobody without your permission any more.

  If he cancels the engagement, she will be considered a fallen woman. The rule applies to reality as well as to films.

  —Better hit me than turn your back on me my love, please …

  Damn it. She is asking for it.

  —Say something, call me names if you want, only don’t be silent! Ya habibi, don’t spare me your voice, it’s the breath running through my body …

  What exaggeration! Now I too doubt her sincerity. Her self-abasement would have made me hit her long ago.

  He takes a final puff from his cigarette and throws away the stub. She grabs his hand and kisses it. He does not respond. She kisses it repeatedly. I cannot bear the humiliating scene any longer. This is a private conversation anyway and eavesdropping is not a proper thing to do. I am about to crawl bac
k when she jumps down from the boat and falls on her knees.

  I stay where I am.

  —I won’t get up until you’ve forgiven me.

  The sound of quick repeated kissing follows. His hand must be all lipstick by now.

  —Is there anything I can do to prove my innocence, to demonstrate that I care for nothing, for nobody else but you, my only love.

  He turns slowly towards her. In the dark, I can discern only the back of his head and a glimpse of her features, but his posture seems no longer taut. She is about to win him over, I can tell it.

  Her voice rises, a bit too high, a little too soon perhaps. It sounds unwavering, slightly over-confident, considering the humility she exhibited only a moment ago.

  —I don’t understand you my love, making min habba qibba, a dome out of a grain. How could it ever cross your mind that …

  He cuts off her sentence with a spit. A gob shines on her eyelid. She takes a deep breath and starts all over again,

  —My life …

  Two spits answer her.

  She lowers her face. The gob dribbles down to her nose. He spits a third time, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, I stop counting. Her hair, her forehead, and her nose are covered with his spittle. She does not wipe it away. Further sputters follow, dry shots from a mouth which has run out of water.

  The wind carries my name from a distance. I jump up and sprint back to our boats, shaking off the sand from my dress.

  God sent the flood to destroy humanity.

  —Nonsense! says Hai. Don’t believe all the nonsense they teach you. The flood is nothing but a love story, the desperate attempt of the Tigris to step out of its course and join the bed of the Euphrates. Don’t your dads do it every now and then? Don’t look at me like little professors, just dig. Dig in your garden this afternoon. Dig enough and you’ll find water, sweet water, wells everywhere. Subterranean channels link the two rivers, the flood is under us children! No earth can keep the two great rivers apart, do you hear me? No dams will appease their restlessness or pacify their longing to unite since the creation of the world.