When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  And I was the first to send her devoirs de vacances straight into the waste-paper basket.

  Selma is fluttering through Little Men, looking for pictures. She keeps fidgeting and spilling water out of the bath, then resumes her raging.

  —Ashes on them! Some heroes! How dare they take it over? With what right, the premises belong to us. They’ve always been ours. Ours and a half!

  And she drops Little Men on to the wet floor.

  —Selma, that book belongs to the school library, why can’t you treat it more gently?

  I stoop to pick it up, and throw it on to the dry tiles in front of the door.

  —Hey, you’ve grown hair in your armpits! Let me see, one second, what’s the matter with you? I won’t tickle you, I promise. All I’ll do is check the colour, please? Hmm, that’s what I thought, straight and black, like a paintbrush. Mine are red and curly, see!

  —Like rusty steelwool.

  —Don’t be mean, they aren’t repulsive, only sweaty, especially when I play … May their fortunes fall. I’ll go nuts doing nothing all day. It’s like being under house arrest!

  —Stop it, Selma, you’re overdoing it! You were so calm during the war, and now you lose heart just because you have to give up basketball for one summer?

  —Easy for you to say it. You haven’t set foot in our Sports Centre ever since you began to frequent the English Club with, what’s his name, Florence?

  —Laurence! Why can’t you remember his name?

  Selma chuckles.

  —Because of his hair perhaps. I took him for a girl the first time I saw him – the only time I saw him in fact, as you’ve been keeping him to yourself.

  Her remark startles me. Was my possessiveness that obvious?

  —Let’s drop it, I don’t feel like arguing. And what’s the point now that both the English Club and the Jewish Sports Centre are equally inaccessible to us?

  I lay the stress on the Jewish Sports Centre, hoping to divert her mind from Laurence, and restore his memory to me, back into English, where he will always be. So my thoughts must reach him somehow, or my feelings, hidden in his language, as if in a safe.

  Selma picks up the soap, smells it, puts up her leg, and starts soaping her foot.

  —I don’t know how I’ll manage without our basketball team the whole summer. By the life of Baba, I’ll break up cars … I’ll chop down trees … I’ll …

  The bathroom door is pushed open. I must have forgotten to lock it after Selma’s arrival.

  —You’ll simply bang your head against the wall, Selma. Just like the rest of us.

  Dudi laughs brokenly while his soiled shoe tramples over Little Men.

  —Mind the book, Dudi, you’re damaging my book! Damn it, it’s not even mine. Why don’t you just get out of here, don’t you see we’re…

  —Nkal’e, get lost! Selma yells, and flings the bar of soap at him.

  Dudi ducks. The soap rebounds off the wall and plops into the toilet bowl.

  —Goal! Good shot, Selma!

  Dudi kicks the book into a dry corner, steps inside and slams the door behind him, sniggering, as if we were two of the five sisters he could always pester. His shoes are browning the water which Selma has sloshed about the bathroom. Wait till mother sees the mess. Let her utter one complaint, and I will give her a piece of my mind. How many times did I tell her to ask me before sending Dudi upstairs? It is thanks to her that he has been taking liberties at our place recently. Is he the sort of person to be told “you may drop by whenever you like, this is your house”?

  —You think your father owns the place? Selma snaps, and reaches out for the bottle of shampoo.

  Dudi raises his hands in the air, as if in surrender.

  —Listen to this piece of news: we’re no longer being watched! It’s been two days already. Mama has driven the Smoker away.

  Last month, on the sixth day of the war, three security men raided the Lawys’ house, and took away Dudi’s father from the breakfast table. The next day, the Smoker was patrolling our street. He paced up and down the pavement, as if he had all the time in the world. Which he did, we soon realised. The Lawys unchained their dog, a black Alsatian, who barked non-stop and chased him frenziedly from behind the front wall. But the man remained unruffled. It took the poor guard-dog three days to collapse after which it sprawled behind the gate, its snout slightly protruding from the gap underneath, its ears pricked up and turning in the direction of the footsteps.

  The security man wore a pencil moustache, had narrow black eyes and narrow lips. He was always shaved and tidily dressed. But his waist did not bulge with a pistol, and he was never seen taking notes. Nor did he ever read a newspaper, accost a passer-by, bite into a sandwich, or pee against the wall. Only chain-smoked, which is why he was nicknamed the Smoker.

  His coffee breaks and telephone calls at al-Muchtar’s, the grocer on the main road, Hindiyah Street, started the rumour that the latter was an informer. Since then, for fear of getting into his bad books, mother sends me to his store once a week with a list of minor items. A pound of sugar, a bottle of sherbet. Hoping to hit a patriotic note, I also buy one or two national dairy products which have recently been launched on the market. But al-Muchtar does not give himself away so easily. The broadness of his smile and the joviality of his voice are more conditioned by the prices of my purchases than by their country of origin.

  The Smoker’s appearance spreads immediate alarm among the five other Jewish families in the street, each of us anxious that we were also under police surveillance. Shuli would stand behind the window and study the Smoker’s comings and goings. Did his pace slow down, and did he suck deeply at his cigarette when he passed our gate? Did he peer at our windows or did his eyes only brush past them? Within a few days it was evident that the only Jews who made the Smoker’s head turn were the Lawys. At them he stared so steadily you would think he had no eyelids at all.

  As if caught up in the rangefinder of a sniper, they anticipated a shot – a word, a move, a blow. Six weeks passed and nothing of the sort happened. Yet his gaze remained as unremitting as on the first day, and even when he was off duty after ten in the evening, the Lawys felt no relief. His unblinking narrow eyes trailed them to their rooms and disturbed what was left of their peace of mind.

  When the fear for her sanity surpassed the dread of his stare, Dudi’s mother was ready at last to face the Smoker.

  He was walking down the pavement, moving away from her. She waited at their doorstep, a glass of water in her hand. Neither a fizzy drink nor coffee, only water, as plain as a white flag. A few steps past our house, he turned on his heels and set out in her direction again. A tremor went through her body, she would later tell her children. It was sheer folly, she would never brazen it out, she thought, but her legs went numb and refused to carry her inside. Step by step, he drew nearer, and the closer he came, the more distinctly she could make out what we had all failed to notice. That his cigarette was not lit. That his cigarette was not a cigarette, but a broken pencil at which he kept biting and sucking.

  Dudi, oh my Dudi, our Smoker is no smoker! she felt like crying out, as if this trivial detail made all the difference, as if she had already won her first battle. And if the Smoker isn’t a smoker, she began, hopelessly seeking the missing words on which she could base her elation. Because if he isn’t a smoker, she began again, and again completed the sentence with feelings which could have carried her to the verge of tears or, just as well, to a burst of laughter, had she only had the time to indulge in either.

  He stopped before their gate. She held out the glass to him. Her hand was so steady that the water remained still.

  —We’re all flesh and blood, she said softly. Drink, Brother! Nobody can go without water in such heat.

  He reached out for the glass, but at the word Brother, the Smoker shamefully dropped his eyes.

  —My husband’s in jail, as you well know, and my son’s still a boy, too young to head a family. That lays the r
esponsibility of five daughters entirely on my shoulders. What else can I say, I’m in your hands. We’re all in your hands.

  As she paused to catch her breath, the Smoker drank the water. Dudi’s mother took it as an expression of goodwill.

  —By your honour, by the life of that which is dear to you, promise me, Brother, that no harm or disgrace will fall upon my girls.

  What self-respecting Arab with a notion of dignity could turn his back on such an appeal? Poor fellow. The Smoker not only pledged his word on the safety of the girls, he swore to it by his personal honour, and by the life of his own children.

  After which he handed her back the empty glass and strode away. As Dudi’s mother went straight back into the house, she did not see the Smoker head for the main road. For her part, one dark cloud had dissipated. The man she had just encountered was neither a smoker nor a sniper nor a vulture. He would not lay a finger on her children. They could even start greeting each other, as people normally do. It did not occur to her that after their talk, the watch would be lifted and the security man would never again show up in our street.

  The Lawys are taking more than their share of the punishment afflicted on our community, mother maintains, and bids me, for the sake of their plight, to be more patient with Dudi. Open, tolerant, even warm – as if I was running a welfare service, as if I did not have worries of my own. As if I was the one who has informed against his father. If you ask me, I reply, Dudi looks anything but distressed. But mother is adamant. She is convinced that, unlike women, men tend by nature to conceal their most intimate feelings.

  Dudi a man? What a joke.

  —Don’t you miss your father? I ask him one day in order to test mother’s theory about the other gender’s hidden feelings.

  —Miss him? he replies, perplexed as if the term was altogether alien to him. Well… to be frank, we used to see very little of him even before his arrest. Baba was already at work when I woke up, and by the time he was back, I was on my way to bed again. Except for Saturday mornings of course, when we had our family breakfast.

  If there was a note of grief in Dudi’s voice, I failed to hear it.

  People say that a former employee of Peres Lawy had reported him, at the outbreak of the war, as “a dangerous element” to the police. Although no charges were brought against him, Dudi’s father had been detained since then in the Central Prison of Baghdad. He shared a large hall with about seventy other Jewish men, all arrested within the last six weeks. Dudi’s mother was allowed to visit him once a month, and to take him food, clean underwear, medicine, and cigarettes. He had been interrogated only once, and even then it had consisted of bureaucratic questions – as he later told his wife, undertaken for the sake of appearances rather than inquiry.

  *

  Before the sun has set, and long before the heat breaks, I join Dudi for a walk – a habit we have taken up this summer out of boredom. One afternoon, I hear Lassie barking in front of our gate. By the time I have come out of our house, a frightened Curry has leapt over the wall and swooped into the neighbours’ garden. Dudi is guffawing, proud of the superiority of his beast.

  —Don’t tell me you’re bringing him along? I ask, stealing a glance at the house across the street, wondering if the dog’s barks have called Laurence to the window.

  —A friend of Mama said dogs needed exercise. I hope you don’t mind. He’ll stay on the leash, of course.

  —It looks odd, walking with a dog. Everyone will stare, but never mind!

  No sooner have we set out than Dudi stops at al-Muchtar’s for a bag of pumpkin seeds. The grocer-informer fondles the dog’s head and whispers who knows what instructions into his ear. Then he adds some extra pistachios to our paper bag, and to be certain his gesture has not escaped our attention, he seasons it with a flowery description of his affinity with the Lawy family. Dudi thanks him for his generosity and we proceed, cracking the seeds, while Lassie roots among the junk on the pavement, sniffs and pees at every electric pole. When we get to Abu Thumas’ hamburger kiosk, Dudi offers me a treat. Best in the city, he assures me, but I politely refuse. He treats himself to a double burger. Lassie keeps barking and bounding about until Dudi pitches a ring of fried onion to the dog. With his mouth stuffed, Dudi begins a long joke, which turns out to be the same one he told yesterday. I do not bother to remind him of that, for I find it easier to ignore a joke I have already heard than a new one. A passing taxi honks and the driver blows me a kiss. I look away, feigning interest in the shop windows. They display the same swimming costumes as yesterday.

  On the spur of the moment, I walk into the Masbah Bookshop, leaving Dudi and dog behind. He devours the second half of his hamburger in one go, wipes his hands on the inside of his pockets and follows me into the store. In my favourite place, under the ceiling fan, I browse through the new Mad magazine. Next to me, Dudi flicks through the latest Semir, the Egyptian comic. Is he still interested in this childish stuff? The dog’s wet tongue lolls out and he wags his tail as if he has not seen me for two years. The bulky tail is thudding Burda and Elle on the shelf below. The shopkeeper is scowling at the three of us. I bury my face in Mad, disowning Dudi and the dog. Dudi shakes my shoulder. What’s the matter, I mutter. He plants the comics in front of my nose. On the cover, the two schoolboys, Semir and Tihtih, have changed into army uniforms and slung rifles over their shoulders, cheerfully taking pride in their war effort. Dudi taps his forefinger on his forehead, meaning they’re cuckoo. I replace Mad on the shelf and skip out of the bookshop before it occurs to him to make louder comments on the subject.

  The smell of fresh bread draws us into the Masbah Bakery. The baker is sliding a tray out of the oven with a wooden paddle, and emptying the flat, rhombus-shaped bread into a container. Dudi fishes one out, and instantly drops it into a brown paper bag.

  —It’s piping hot, he says waggling his hand. I love the ends!

  —Mmm, so do I. They look like elbows, don’t you think?

  Reluctantly, Dudi offers me one end of the bread. The crumbs are steaming.

  —Pity we like the same things, we won’t make such a good match, he says, biting off the other end, and passing the rest of the bread to Lassie.

  The street feels almost cool after the bakery. I raise no objections when Dudi orders two cones at the ice-cream stand a few yards further up Sa’adoun Street. It is the last time I am accepting a treat from him today, I tell myself. The vendor pulls down the handle and turns the cone under the tap to compose a spiral of soft white ice. The young man sprawled out in the chair beside the machine winks at me. I do not react. As we walk away, he slurs something like “nice legs”. He is making a pass, I tell myself, uncertain whether I should feel flattered or insulted. I examine my skirt. It is just above the knees, by no means too short or provocative.

  Suddenly it strikes me that I haven’t seen Dudi in shorts once this summer. Is hair already spreading over his legs? I doubt it. His cheeks are as smooth as a baby’s and like me, he has hardly grown this year. What is more, a layer of fat has grown around his body, slowing down his movement and giving him the heavy walk of a drunkard.

  Now that he has finished his ice-cream, he is dying for a drink. We extend our stroll as far as Baghdad Stores, the largest supermarket in the city. A soothing air-conditioned draught blows into my face as I push the revolving door. Bright cans and neon light are reflected on the clean glossy floor. Dudi lingers by the sweets section, handles each box and reads out the names of Swiss and Belgian chocolate. Mile Capdevielle must have something against me, he concludes, otherwise I don’t see why I always get bad marks in French. There’s no match for this glittering English blue, I murmur, stroking the Cadbury bars with my forefinger. I’ve got a checked handkerchief exactly this colour, Dudi replies. We proceed between shelves of Scotch whisky and French wine, Californian fruit salad, Ceylon tea, English biscuits and marmalades, German sausage, Italian ravioli. The jolly foreign faces on the packages prompt us to play “Airport”. We fancy ourse
lves sauntering amid hundreds of handsome, healthy, and happy travellers on their way to the plane. Dudi has a ticket to London, where he will buy a Sherlock Holmes cape and, together with Lassie, hunt anarchists in Hyde Park. I am flying to Paris to write letters in cafés about all the lovers kissing on public benches. Dudi insists on offering me a parting gift. While I am thinking up a proper reply by the soft drinks section, he makes a fuss about Iraq’s recent boycott of Coca-Cola, following the licensing of Coca-Cola in Israel.

  —Why doesn’t your Mama do something about it, I say mockingly. Smuggle Coca-Cola into the country, or speak with the Prime Minister perhaps?

  —She did.

  —What?

  Dudi chuckles.

  —Wallah, I swear she did. A delegation of Jewish women were admitted to the Prime Minister two days ago.

  —To the Prime Minister! Why didn’t you tell me this before? What did he say?

  —He was frank, for once. He said there’s no question of releasing any of the detainees in the near future. Then he claimed that our situation would have been much worse if not for him, that the measures taken against us are for our own good, so to speak, as they appease the mob and …

  —Liar. Heavens, what a hypocrite! Who asked him to poison the masses with hatred in the first place?

  Dudi puts his arm around my shoulders in an almost fatherly way.

  —Perhaps you’d like to tell him that yourself?

  I push his arm away, ill at ease, uncertain whether Dudi is allowed to hug me, let alone whether I like being hugged by him. Boys, men, and physical contact have become a delicate combination lately, and I am at a total loss as to how to distinguish between the affectionate touch meant to give, and the greedy one which only grasps at flesh and steals satisfaction.

  Father is on holiday this summer, or that at least is his way of putting it. In other words, he was sacked last month from the firm where he had been employed for the last twenty-two years. The chairman summoned the five Jewish chartered accountants to his office. He had always valued their service and he deeply regretted their departure, but he had no option, he swore. He was only succumbing to the directives of the Ministry of the Interior. When they brought up the question of severance pay or some other compensation, the chairman swallowed twice but did not reply. Apparently, he could not bring himself to swear that the Ministry of the Interior had also forbidden him to pay compensation to his Jewish employees.