When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

—Son of a whore! So you think you’re so smart? the driver bellows, before he delivers Dudi two sonorous slaps to the face.

  Dudi staggers then falls on me. Some little object drops from his pocket. I struggle to prop him up, but the two have grabbed him by the shoulders – one from either side – dragged him to the rear of the van. The driver opens the two doors, exposing several young men seated on the benches inside. They thrust Dudi inside the van. He yelps in pain, stumbling over the feet of the boy with long hair.

  But he is hardly sixteen, I want to protest when Dudi, having regained his balance, spins round, terror in his face. When did his eyebrows grow so thick? He definitely looks older than sixteen – due perhaps to the stubble on his chin or to his long sideburns. The policeman shoves me to the pavement, slams the rear doors.

  —Let any son of a bitch try to escape and he’ll regret the day he was born! he threatens, waving his fist, even though he cannot be seen from inside.

  The police van takes off, disappears in the traffic. To Qasr el-Nehaya, no doubt! The Palace of No Return, where prisoners fall like flies, where men meet their end. “What happened?” inquires the young woman with the pram, who has obviously witnessed the scene. I do my best to stifle my tears. “Is that yours?” she says, picking up the flat square packet which Dudi has dropped. Player’s! I haven’t seen him smoke since the day he went to watch the hanged men in Tahrir Square. Shamefaced, I reach out for the cigarette packet, slip it into my handbag with extreme care, like the last vestige of Dudi.

  I should warn his family, tell them everything, now.

  The red double-decker is nearing from the other direction. I cross the street to the stop. The bus pulls up, lets the passengers off.

  —Hurry up, girl, we’re not in a funeral procession! shouts the conductor standing by the door.

  My feet hang back. The double-decker moves off, blasting clouds of dust in my face. I set out for the long walk back.

  I reach home by dusk. The note in the living-room says my parents will be back in the evening. Shuli has gone to the dentist’s. I scurry upstairs, fling my handbag on my desk. I still owe the news to Dudi’s family, but I have no idea what to tell them. Everything happened so fast, I cannot figure out myself what has led to what, or why. Did the Russians, in fact, call the police, or were the two encounters independent of each other? Had the police just chanced upon us, then seen what we were up to? But then, why were the other boys in the van picked up? – none of them was Jewish! Nothing makes sense. Like pieces taken from different puzzles, no part fits into the other. Maybe I had better skip the purpose of our walk from my story, otherwise I will have to explain myself to my own parents. What of the cigarettes? It might be sensible to spare Dudi’s mother this detail too, for, most probably, Dudi has been smoking in secret. One more secret. How vulnerable secrets become once their owner is not close by to watch over them! I reach for my handbag, draw out the packet. Player’s. Navy Cut. Finest Virginia. Nothing less than the finest for Dudi. Rafidain or some other local brand would be beneath his standard. I lift the lid, then drop into the chair. My stomach is shaking in mute laughter. I fiddle with the packet. I examine them for the second time. I feel them with my fingers. Nothing doing. Of the six cigarettes lined in the box, only one is real. The rest is candy – slim, red-tipped, white sugar rods!

  I treat myself to one of the fakes, wondering whether Dudi is secretly smoking, or secretly pretending to smoke. The blond-bearded sailor illustrated on the packet is not smoking. The tip of my candy is melting, spreading its flavour inside my mouth. I draw in the entire cylinder. My tongue turns it, shifts it from side to side until the rod breaks in two. Streams of sweet saliva bathe my palate, only to vanish rapidly like water in the sand. I crush the rest of the candy between my teeth. The ephemeral pleasure leaves me empty, with the urge for more. Insatiability, or is it only the neutral word for greed? Dudi, some sugar sailor! Whether smoking or only pretending to smoke, he is, in either case, trying to grow up the easy way. I poke two cigarettes into my mouth, crunch them to pieces. My shoulders relax. My legs stretch out on the desk. Nothing could move or disturb me now, neither Russians nor policemen. Now I understand why father is so mistrustful of sweet eaters. “Pleasure seekers indulging in sweet idleness,” he calls them, once comparing grown-ups licking ice-cream in the street to “infants sucking at their dummies”.

  Dudi’s sweet tooth, coupled with his irresponsible, if not childish, conduct can only support father’s premise. I devour the three remaining cigarettes. If the frequent consumption of sugar was in fact connected to self-indulgence, what personality traits would be linked to the consumption of, say, bitter food? The image of father’s grimace when sipping black coffee comes to my mind. Self-discipline! In father’s existence, where confectionery is scarcely permitted, discipline has the last word. It is the source of his will power, the secret of his self-possession, the main constituent of his industry, walling him in melancholy.

  I pick up the last cigarette, the real one, the Virginia. Shreds of tobacco stick out from its two ends, like hairs protruding from the nostrils of hirsute men. I smell it, press its soft belly, then slant it between my finger tips. Elegant! I loosen my grip. The cigarette rolls down between my fingers. I play with different positions, try out the variety of styles they suggest. Cool. Confident. Pensive. Mature. Dynamic. The cigarette slips from my hand. I retrieve it, tuck it between my lips. Tobacco shreds stick to the tip of my tongue, bite it the way hot curry does. If sweet eaters were self-indulgent, bitter eaters self-disciplined, what would hot, spicy eaters tend to be? Restless, quick tempered, like Selma, or provocative, sharp-tongued like Shuli? I strip off the Virginia paper, crumble the rolled tobacco in my palm, then toss the entire pile into my mouth. The sharp tang mounts instantly to my nose, stinging my nostrils like black pepper. Once I start chewing the tobacco, its sharpness magnifies, while some threadlike sour taste creeps from the edge. The peppery flavour is travelling from mouth to nose so freely that I no longer distinguish gustatory from olfactory sensations. The wetter Virginia gets, the more it burns. The sour thread has swollen, grown unbearable. Sour eaters must have self-destructive tendencies, I conclude, dashing off to the bathroom to spit the glob of tobacco into the sink.

  No matter how thoroughly I rinse my mouth, the sourness clings to my palate, under my tongue, in this or that canal. In my parents’ bedroom, I rummage through mother’s dressing table, looking for the bottle of rose water. Mother says it relieves nausea. Drenched in rose water, I lie on her bed, my eyes closing, the toes of each foot removing the sandal from the other.

  Wrapped up in her black cloak, the old woman, the only passenger in the bus, reluctantly gets off. “Last stop,” the driver had blustered, giving her no say in the matter. No living soul is in sight, even the bus shelter is missing. In front of her stands the famous palace. When did they fortify the tall mud walls with barbed wire? The red bus drives off, leaving her by herself in the middle of the desert. Mud is the colour of my skin, she tells herself, what is there for me to dread? She goes over to the iron gate, gives the bell one light press. Her forefinger is caught in the socket. She is not electrocuted, to her own surprise, but when she tries to tug her finger out, it remains stuck, ringing the bell without end.

  I start up. Did I hear the doorbell or was it only my dream? Father once said we were capable of sensing danger in our sleep. I try to retrace the last scenes, but they swiftly dissipate, like mice scampering back into their holes. Was it the Palace of No Return I dreamed of? Some name! They do not even bother to disguise its purpose. The bell rings once more, this time for certain. I get up. On my way down the stairs, it occurs to me to check who it is before opening the door. There is that spot in the corner of the sitting-room, from which we can look through the window without being seen. Damn it! The curtains have been drawn so meticulously that no slit is left to peep through. Nor could they flutter without betraying my presence.

  I lope upstairs to my room. Even though our g
ate is not visible from my window, the street is in full view, which might enable me to identify our visitor by his car. Or just make certain that no grey Volkswagen Beetle is parked outside. But mother has drawn the curtains in my room too. In this case then … too bad for our visitor, but there is nobody home! I flop on to my bed, curl up my legs, reach out for the Mad magazine on my night table. Mad entertains me for twenty seconds, until the next ear-splitting ring. Now I understand what father means when he describes headache like some drill splitting his head in two. The ring which follows forces me out of bed, drags me downstairs to the front door, where I stand in dismay, too scared to open it, too disturbed to ignore the whole matter.

  Our visitor is pacing the roofed yard behind the sitting-room. The footsteps sound flat but heavy, men’s shoes no doubt. He must have pushed our gate open, walked through our courtyard to the front door. Some intrusion! Even friends wait politely by the gate until we come out to let them in. What makes this man take such liberties? Why is he so obstinate? The footsteps draw near, then pause. He must be standing one or two feet in front of me, on the other side of the door. Unable to bear this blind proximity, I tiptoe to the neighbouring guest-room, place myself behind the similarly drawn curtains. His steps follow mine, directly to the windows of the guest-room. Cold sweat runs down my back. He cannot possibly see me through the curtains, do I still smell of rose water, or can he hear my breathing? I hold my breath, listen hard, but detect no voice, no sigh, no cough, no exchange of words. Only the nervous gait, the heavy footfalls heading back to the front door.

  Security men usually come in pairs. But who says his partner has not stayed in the car to keep watch on the street?

  If Dudi has talked, I should be in deep trouble. I would not be the first Jewish girl to be sent to prison, but definitely the youngest. Norma, two years older than me, was held for one week last winter in security headquarters. When she was released, people said she had been beaten on her feet. Most of the episode remained obscure, however, due to the silence her family preferred to maintain. Mouzli’s case was different. Picked up from the university, she was detained for several months in the women’s prison – together with her mother – on the pretext that the two had moved house without reporting to the police.

  Three short successive rings. Each is enforcing the intruder’s will over mine. If he persists, I might well end up opening the door. Panicked by the thought, I slink upstairs, bury in the linen bin the black robes we bought this morning – just to be on the safe side. Then I rapidly put on my sandals, rush downstairs to the kitchen, open the door which gives on to the backyard. One foot outside, I linger in the doorway, hesitating. The luxury of hesitation! I chalk up the moments of silence for me, hoping the security man is giving up on us.

  The next unfaltering ring drowns out my illusions. I click the backdoor quietly behind me. Curry’s bowl is empty, but he is nowhere to be seen. I scale the wall of our backyard, with surprisingly little difficulty. The broken bricks serve me first for handgrips then for footholds. In no time, I jump into the neighbours’ garden, from where I sneak out, undetected, to the street – the one directly behind ours.

  What now?

  My mind is empty. My thoughts must have stayed in the house. Still, I feel safe in this less familiar, less treacherous street. Safe for the moment. Safe from the doorbell. I slump down on the pavement, hide my face in my hands. If only the world ceased to exist, or even better, had never existed. If only God had immersed Himself in deep meditation instead of involving Himself in Creation. The honking of vehicles scorching through the main street of Hindiyah reasserts the voice of Creation. Other sounds invade my ears. The local news from several television sets in the neighbourhood. The fleeting radio music of cars. Young men pass by, offer their help to lift my spirits, then snigger like silly geese. Some woman, trudging behind them, comments on how girls from good families behave shamelessly in the streets nowadays. If there were litter bins for noise, I bet Baghdad would end up with the largest convoy of noise rubbish trucks in the world.

  I do not know how long I have been in this position, when the familiar meowing reaches me. I raise my head. Curry! I cry out. My cat meows back from the front wall of the opposite house, surprised, in his turn, to find me in the wrong street. Curry, I repeat, urging him to my side. He springs down from the wall, unhurriedly crosses the street, tail upright, looking neither to the right nor to the left, with enough confidence for the two of us. Promptly he jumps into my lap, pokes his head into my belly, licks my hand, cooing with delight, bearing no grudge whatsoever for the pranks I played on him earlier today.

  Since when have the street-lamps been glowing?

  I dump Curry down, stand up, determined to go back home no matter what is lying in store for me. Curry scurries to my side, making the detour for my sake, I suppose, by taking the pedestrian route instead of climbing walls, crossing private gardens. If only he stopped bounding between my legs, causing me to trip each time. In the main street, the grocer-informer is halving water melons with his knife, not in the least interested in my moves. I continue to our street, relieved to find no Beetle in front of our house. The courtyard is empty, but the gate has been left open, confirming the reality of the visit.

  Curry leaps up to his regular place on our gate-post. In the middle of the courtyard, it occurs to me that I have left my key inside. I ring the bell, several times, to no effect. Our house is suffused in darkness. There is nobody home!

  Despondently I proceed to Dudi’s place.

  Her face lights up the moment she opens the front door. I curse myself for the news I have to break. Dudi’s mother scuttles to the gate.

  —Lina, at last! Nobody’s answering your doorbell. Dudi’s so worried, the poor boy’s eating his heart out! He said you were completely shattered when they arrested him. We were just about to drive to Abu-Nuwas to look for you. Goodness, are you all right, you look bewildered … a bit tousled, what happened to you?

  —Oh, nothing, I’m fine, just fine. But … how did you know? Isn’t Dudi …? Where is Dudi, for God’s sake!

  She draws me gently inside. Dudi, biting into some grilled drumstick, peers out of the kitchen. He waddles towards me in his undershirt, smiling broadly, in spite of the weal over his right eye, in spite of the razor cuts in front of his ears.

  —Dudi, you should change your undershirt! It’s torn and filthy, his mother reproves with embarrassment.

  Something else has changed in his face. His sideburns have been shaved, up to one inch over his ears, exposing one finger’s length of dry white skin.

  —Dudi, what did they do to you?

  —They kept collecting boys and young men from the street until the van was full. Then they dropped us at the police station and went off for a new hunt.

  Within seconds, young policemen shaved off their sideburns then kicked them out of the station.

  —They warned us not to resemble the Zionists. They said next time we grew sideburns they’d cut our ears off!

  Zionists! Why Zionists?

  Dudi bursts into hysterical laughter. His mother does the same, concealing her mouth with her hand.

  —Seriously, Dudi, who did they mean this time? Marlon Brando? Tony Curtis? Jack Lemmon? Yul Brunner?

  I try to recall more Jewish stars whose films have been banned since the Six Day War.

  —Oh, no, they were referring to the ultra-Orthodox Jews! Dudi’s mother finally replies. Those odd Jews from Eastern Europe who dress in black caftans and wear beards and funny side curls. They showed them on TV this week in “Know Your Enemy”. Don’t you watch the series?

  —Baba, I saw Russians today! They were strolling by the river. They didn’t resemble the English though, they looked sort of …

  Holding his cup one inch from his mouth, father is neither sipping nor listening.

  —What’s the matter, Baba? Does your head hurt?

  —Why are you keeping it back from her? She’ll hear it anyway, if not today, then tomorro
w, Shuli criticises, yet offers no information himself.

  —What’s the matter? Why’s nobody telling me?

  —Ustad Heskel has given you his life, mother says, in indignation.

  —What!

  Mother clears the coffee table, signalling that she has done her share, that she is not ready to tend to further inquiries. Father replaces his cup on the saucer.

  —Yesterday night, ustad Heskel’s name was mentioned on the radio station of Ahwaz, in one of these … reckless lists.

  Though the station broadcasts from Iran, people believe it is being run by Iraqis who oppose the Ba’ath regime. Recently, it has been harping on some impending purge of the military, which, it claimed, the Iraqi government was planning. In this connection, long lists would be sent out every night, mainly names of officers, who were warned that they would soon be detained on charges of treason. Whether by coincidence or not, some of the men were in fact picked up the next day. Since then, whoever was mentioned in these ominous lists would rush, panic-stricken, to the passport office, to travel bureaux, to foreign embassies, to influential friends – would do the impossible to leave on the next plane.

  For ustad Heskel, leaving on the next plane was literally impossible.

  —His housekeeper found him this morning, father goes on. He was hanging from the ceiling fan in his bedroom. In the note he left, he bequeathed his holy books to his synagogue, and begged God for His understanding and forgiveness. Poor Heskel, he’s the last to deserve such an end. He was a real gentleman.

  —He was much more than a gentleman! mother protests. He was a zaddiq, a just man.

  —But what has ustad Heskel to do with the military?

  —What has ustad Heskel to do with politics at all? We’ve never been a target for ourselves. That first show trial and the primitive spectacle in Liberation Square were meant to win over the masses for the Ba’ath and gain wide public support. Once they had that, they started to settle their accounts with the political class. Now it’s the turn of the military. Still, the presence of one or two Jewish conspirators in any nest of spies always increases the credibility of the show.