When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  —Sorry! he says, wiping his mouth. What’s the matter? What’s so funny?

  —Just wondering if you’ve swallowed your chewing gum with the Pepsi.

  —Not at all, he says and thrusts out his tongue to display the evidence.

  He keeps his fleshy tongue stuck out straight and tight, as if it were an exercise in stamina. Not knowing what to say or think, I sip mouthfuls of Pepsi, slowly, until I have emptied half the bottle, and not even out of thirst. Haqqi meanwhile has retracted his tongue and is ogling my breasts. I clear my throat. He does not take the hint. I fiddle with my pendant to ward off his eyes. They drop to my lap and like tenacious flies flit back and forth over my thighs and legs. I pull my pleated skirt further down and cover my knees. Haqqi looks away, humming “Blowing in the Wind” along with Bob Dylan.

  What on earth has happened to the boys lately? Although we have been in the same class since kindergarten, they now undress us with starved eyes and watering mouths, just like strangers in the street. Their language, too, has changed. Acquired codes and fruit and vegetable symbols and dirty jokes at our expense, at which they keep bursting into horsy laughter. Selma claims they have been doing this for the last three years, and I was the only one who was oblivious to their metamorphosis.

  —Lovely music, isn’t it? Haqqi says, toying with the empty bottle.

  I hum my agreement.

  —Laila has recorded it from the Voice of America.

  —I always listen to the Voice of America too.

  —“Listeners’ Requests for Western Music”, he imitates the tone of the presenter when announcing the programme.

  —Sounded authentic! Only ten minutes too early, I say displaying my watch.

  He tilts the empty bottle into his mouth again, sips the last drops, after which he spits the chewing gum inside, thinking, perhaps, what to say next. Although Haqqi has been in my class since elementary school, I hardly know him. Except of course for his bad reports and his cheeky remarks which always make him a great favourite in class.

  He points the empty bottle at the dancing couples,

  —Why so far from each other? Are they afraid of catching something? Our customs are so backward, Lina. El dini tkoum utik’id, the world stands up and sits down, is shaken if one dares show one’s true feelings in public. Our usul, etiquette, is based on nothing but pretence and hypocrisy.

  —I agree!

  —Have you heard of Woodstock? Half a million young people danced and ate and slept together in a public park, listening to live concerts for days non-stop. Yes, yes, this summer, only a few weeks ago. In America of course. I’d have died to be there.

  —Not me. I don’t like crowds. I’d much rather have walked on the moon with what’s-his-name, Armstrong?

  —Even the moon’s in America. Don’t laugh, of course the moon’s in the sky, but it could only be reached via America. It’s true! You need no cadi to confirm it.

  And without waiting for any confirmation, he starts singing,

  —I wanna be in America … I have to be in America … Please wait for me in America … There is no place like Americaaaa … Do you recognise it? West Side Story. I know the songs by heart. By the way, have you heard that Laila’s family recently obtained a visa for America? Good for her, the lucky girl.

  He utters the last words with a tinge of sadness, as if a cloud of gloom has suddenly descended over America.

  —She’s a dream this Laila, don’t you think?

  —I don’t dream of Laila.

  —I thought I’d have the chance to approach her this evening, but she avoids me all the time. What can I do? I’ve fallen for her. I can’t take my mind off her.

  —Why? What’s so special about her?

  Haqqi goggles at me, shocked at my heresy.

  —Her pretty face, her light skin, her beautiful eyes. Her figure too – not fat, not too thin – the ideal proportions. What more can I say? She’s as sweet as a movie star.

  Not very concrete, but not the vegetable metaphors in vogue either.

  —And like a movie star, she’s inaccessible?

  —She’s not easy to approach, that’s true. Some even call her a snob. She’s been treating me like trash tonight, but that’s not what turns me on.

  I hesitate for a moment, wondering whether I am not pushing too far, then push on.

  —What turns you on, Haqqi?

  —I’ve just told you. Ya Allah, how can I possibly explain it to a girl? It sounds less embarrassing in English: she has sex appeal!

  The English expression has been circulating among the girls too, but only with reference to film stars and singers, not real boys, definitely not a person who is present in the room. I instantly lower my eyes – a sort of reflex action imposed by some vague notion of propriety. Without consulting me however, they land on Haqqi’s crotch, as if it were the physical manifestation of the term he has just used. Haqqi’s square hands jerk down automatically. He grips the upright bottle between his legs, shielding his groin, as though to protect it from the evil eye.

  “I Can’t Get No … Satisfaction …” Laila has turned the volume so loud that the walls are vibrating. Haqqi slams the bottle in the face of Laila’s grandfather, grabs my hand, and pulls me to the middle of the dance floor. He is swaying his shoulders back and forth, bending his knees and coming up again, whirling, waving his fists, shaking his head in a fit of Nos. His short spiky hair is quivering like grass. His swarthy complexion is shining with perspiration. I try to adapt my pace to his, but soon it wears me out. Entranced by the loud music, Haqqi is oblivious, as though dancing alone.

  The music quietens down again. “Slow”, a male voice requests. Another English word. “Slow”, Laila repeats, with a commanding note. The main light is turned off. Giggles are heard as Jane Birkin sighs “Je t’aime” in the dark. Haqqi leaps in Laila’s direction, but another boy beats him to it. He weaves his way back through the swaying couples, barely concealing his disappointment. Beads of sweat are dripping down his temples. His white shirt is rumpled and hanging loose. Without asking me to dance, he clasps his hands around my waist. How dare he take me for granted? Considering my other alternative – counting bean pods on the sofa – I swallow my pride and rest my hands on his shoulders. Not around his neck, the way Selma and Laila are doing. Never. Haqqi moves slowly with the music, but his eyes are pursuing Laila like a hawk.

  Waves of heat surge up from his chest as he undoes the second button of his shirt. He is wearing no vest underneath! Even his sweat smells of longing. He draws me nearer, smoothly, not in a rough way. I do not protest. His warm breath is stroking my neck. Our hips are grazing. I can hear the beating of his heart. He shuts his eyes. His thick eyebrows creep up and down to the music.

  Selma has laid her head on Khudur’s shoulder, is swallowed in his embrace, and heedless of my repeated attempts to catch her attention. Has she fallen in love again? Selma is so impetuous in her feelings, she could fall in and out of love within one evening. I spy on the other couples, measure the distance between them. Tina and Berhem are trying out dance-like moves, their rhythm following a complex technique rather than the intimate atmosphere “Je t’aime” has created. Jane Birkin and her partner are whispering words which I fail to catch, but the French sounds sweep me off my feet with their sensuality. My arms close around Haqqi’s neck. A mellow smile flickers across his face as if he were having happy dreams. He fastens his grip behind my back, and presses his cheek to mine. His coarsely shaved beard prickles in a surprisingly pleasant way. Holding her head upright, Laila is staring possessively at Haqqi’s neck, while her own hands are hanging loose over Ronnie’s shoulder blades. Her beauty and elegance are not easy to overlook, yet her sex appeal is still an enigma to me. Ruthie and Sa’id are dancing quite close, as though glued to each other, but their thoughts seem to be wandering worlds apart. Semir and Yasmin, who happen to be neighbours, are the only ones chatting in a most natural way, like friends. Dora and Izouri are necking and petting like an en
gaged couple. Are they in love? I have never seen them walking together at school. Doesn’t Dora care if people talk? Does she have sex appeal?

  My belly brushes against a swelling in the region of his groin. His belt buckle perhaps. The sensation recurs, the hardness is definitely not metallic. An erection! Selma claims a penis can attain enormous dimensions when aroused. She must have seen it in that Playboy magazine which, supposedly, has changed her perception of the world. At any rate, Haqqi’s dimensions appeared absolutely normal when he was sitting by the sofa. We must be dancing too near. I try to step back and prevent further contact, at least between our lower parts, but Haqqi’s sinewy arms are holding me firmly. Could I get pregnant from such proximity? If Selma hears this, she will burst into laughter, call me infantile, retarded, more ignorant than our grandmothers, a little girl who still believes a kiss could turn a frog into a prince. The prospect of Selma’s mockery amuses me but scarcely reduces my anxiety. I poke at Haqqi’s shoulders until he opens his eyes. Annoyed, he inquires, argues, implores, before he finally gives in. “Je t’aime” remains a torture all the same. I am sweating everywhere. When the song is finished, I pull away from him and leave without a word for the toilet.

  My knickers are wet. I have been betrayed from within! I sit on the bidet and wash myself thoroughly with lukewarm water until I feel at ease in my body again. Then I wipe away with toilet paper the colourless splodges from my knickers. They smell neither of urine, nor sweat, nor blood. It must be the odour of sex.

  —What if they are deceiving us? What if we have to spend another winter here? It’ll be ice-cold with the bare floor, complains mother, while the two porters carry out our rolled-up Persian carpets, like felled tree trunks.

  —We’d be selling them all the same, I’m afraid, father replies. I need cash badly. Our money is still frozen in the bank, and I’ve plenty of debts to pay.

  Mother did not complain when our car was sold off shortly after Shuli’s release, as the journeys to the army prison were no longer necessary. She did not protest when an acquaintance offered a meagre price for her pearl necklace. She closed her eyes to the missing family silver which father had traded on the black market, and turned a deaf ear whenever Selma and I played ping-pong on our costly dining table. But to pull the rugs from under her feet? Kashan, Kerman, Isfahan, Shiraz, Qum, Tabriz, Bidjar, Hamadan – each named after the city where it had been woven – were not only mother’s dowry, but also her pride, her status, the only art she ever felt for.

  She asked Shuli to photograph them for her. He claimed the camera was broken. When she suggested he repair it, he scoffed at her sentimentality, and aired his opinions about collecting souvenirs of our Iraqi nightmare.

  Even if they were Persian.

  Their symmetrical arrangements reminded me of those figures which children cut out of a concertinaed sheet of paper which multiply once the sheet is unfolded. Child’s play! These simple plant and floral designs on which we trampled every winter appeared so familiar that I did not question for one moment my ability to copy them.

  I began with the easy part, the border strips, the only straight lines in the rug, and filled the ensuing frames with cones and scrolls and lozenges and vine leaves and connected them with wiry wavy sprigs. So far so good. The first results were encouraging. Once inside the field, however, I was confronted with intricate pendants and medallions surrounded by a jungle of blossoms and flower buds and birds and trees and leaves of all sorts, which expanded in every direction and, if not for the borders I had previously defined, would have well continued ad infinitum. The mirror images dazzled me. The crab designs and latticework proved far too complex for my unskilled hand. Whether I started from the centre or from the sides, I was unable to squeeze the myriad of minute details on to the small sheet of paper. Whether from the centre or from the sides, the lines kept splitting as the patterns multiplied and I needed to use not one but at least ten pencils simultaneously to catch up with the branching and interlacing all over the carpet.

  They were far from perfect copies, but they did resemble Persian carpets, and I hoped to compensate with colour what my pencil had failed to achieve.

  My paintbox, unused since primary school, was in a deplorable state. The reds were cracked and had taken brownish hues. The greens were reduced to lumps. The blues were in shreds while the black and the white were almost used up. Only the lemon and mustard had retained clean, even surfaces. How come the yellows have remained intact? Had I been blind to the sun, the dust, the sandy banks of the Tigris, the bricks, the camels, the sheep, the dates, and the desert around me?

  Even if the paintbox had been new, the transparent tints of watercolour would have been no match for the intense dyes of oriental rugs. None the less, determined to attain the colour scheme of the carpets, I mixed and mixed, trying out every possible combination until muddy streams and puddles flooded my drawings and messed up the few motifs I had succeeded in catching. After eight lost battles, I rolled up my drawings and flung them into the waste-paper basket.

  Father pays the porters. The estate car pulls away, carrying our carpets to their new homes. Kashan, Kerman, Isfahan, Shiraz, Qum, Tabriz, Bidjar, Hamadan, mother repeats, as she wanders about the house – calling them back, or bidding them farewell.

  Kashan, Kerman, Isfahan, Shiraz, Qum, Tabriz, Bidjar, Hamadan. Their names could be sung like a verse.

  I snatch a new leaf of paper and draw two rectangles, one above the other, and divide the two storeys into eight rooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen. Then I distribute the carpets about the house the way they were laid last winter. That is, write down their names and call each room after its carpet: the Kashan room, the Kerman room, the Isfahan room, the Shiraz room, the Qum room, the Tabriz room, the Bidjar room, the Hamadan room.

  Our house reads like a Persian palace.

  A few days later, I add YELLOW in large letters to the drawing, on the space outside the house.

  Dictionary of Hate

  A taxi stops in front of our gate. Father pays the driver and gets out. His downcast expression can be read from the sitting-room. Mother rushes up to the front door.

  —You’re early, what happened?

  —Nothing. The place was deserted, as if our previous visits have been a hallucination. A note on the door said: Office Closed Until Further Notice.

  —So our passports aren’t…?

  —You can forget about our passports.

  —But weren’t there other Jews? Did you hear anything?

  To save myself the rest of the conversation, I withdraw to my room. New school books are heaped on my desk: physics, chemistry, algebra, biology, and other volumes of boredom. A shaky tree of knowledge. The term has just begun, and already I am fed up with school, tired of learning and tired of pretending to learn.

  Contemporary Arabic Literature lies open at the table of contents. I go over the collection of short stories, essays, poems, and plays, trying to remember the assignment we were given last week: “The Call of the Soil”, “Salute to the Iraqi Republic”, “Homeland of Fog”, “The Martyr”, “Valley of Blood”, “The Arab Woman and National Life”. The titles sound almost identical to last year’s. No wonder, the Arabic reader is edited by the Ministry of Education and prescribed for both state and private schools. I yawn, tired of reading books not written for me. Tired of not belonging and tired, just as much, of belonging, I leaf through the pages of the book, ready to pick a quarrel with the first popular word I encounter. Watan‚ homeland, a key word in our contemporary literature, easily lends itself to my declaration of war.

  It is repeated eleven times in the first text, a short story about a mother who receives the news of her son’s death on the battlefield with alternating grief and pride. No, underlining will not do, I draw a circle around each watan – as if to prevent it from escaping. Then I move on and comb the next pages for further homelands. His, hers, yours, mine and ours. Homelands of gold, homelands of grass, of sand, of salt, of light. Homeland as fath
er, as lover, as womb, as victim, as martyr. Ancient homelands, fertile homelands, homelands betrayed, and homelands retrieved. I locate eighty-six of them, strewn between pages 1 and 192.

  Who needs eighty-six homelands – all in one book?

  I start erasing the homeland on page 1, gently, lest the paper tears. To my surprise, the ink does not resist and the letters pale under my fingers. The smell of the abrading rubber reminds me of our first alphabet lessons in the kindergarten when we kept correcting our drawings until they resembled the characters on the blackboard. What work it was to sketch the final nun‚ the letter n! Like a chamber pot, with a dot dangling atop, I whispered in Selma’s ear, but it did not temper our despair. The paper under watan is also being scraped away. The chamber pot is fading. My first homeland is on its way to oblivion. Who said the printed word was immortal? The neutrality of the blank space soothes me. I wonder if the clerk who deleted the Jewish names from the telephone directory experienced a similar gratification. My parents are climbing the stairs. Mother reminds me not to stay up too late. After washing in the bathroom, they put out their light. At dead of night, I plough on through the book, eliminating one watan after the other, delicately, like a soldier dismantling bombs in a minefield.

  Enemies end up getting fatally bound to each other, father once said.

  A saying which might well explain my urgency to check the Arabic reader the next day, as if to make certain that the banished word has not returned. The wounded surface reassures me. But why are terms like earth, soil, land, country, state, republic still around? What about the wealth of hyperbole, the stock of superlatives and turgid verbs guarding the blank spaces and nourishing the spirit of watan‚ even after its elimination?