When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  He freezes, will not reply. When I offer him the two options, he picks the cheese sandwich without hesitation, hands me the egg in return. Then he smiles, half contented, half shamefaced, in no time saunters out of sight.

  —Who said beggars can’t be choosers! Dudi chuckles.

  —Cute lad, I say.

  —You mean boy? So the Bs are out of your vocabulary by now? Or did I hear you say bread or butter or bottles today?

  Dudi’s remark catches me off guard. Except for my family, who find the whole matter no more than some passing teenage phase, people round me seem not to notice the change in my speech. Even Selma pretends not to hear it.

  —Lina, why this self-censorship?

  —Call it my private protest.

  —I got that all right. But what if it rebounds on you, and ends up as a handicap?

  —Well, it’s draining, I can’t deny it. On the other hand, censorship makes you more sensitive to the power of words. Sometimes it’s even fun. You learn to say the same thing in more than one way. You realise that no word is irreplaceable, once you’re willing to play with meanings or intentions. Can you see my point?

  Dudi reaches for the last unwrapped sandwich.

  —What will happen when the last letter’s out?

  —I’ll speak English, or French.

  He sinks his teeth into the sandwich.

  —So what do you call your father nowadays, if Baba’s forbidden?

  —Just father.

  —And Curry will be … Spicy – I bet he wouldn’t mind it either. And what about me? Have you figured a new name for me when Ds are out?

  Sit Habiba suddenly turns up. Quietness has descended upon the hall. Since when? The distribution must have ended with the same promptness with which it started. Sit Habiba engulfs us with sweet words we thought would never cross her lips. Elation seizes us. Selma hugs Dudi, in recognition of his unexpected contribution. Whoever saves one soul saves the entire world, sit Habiba continues, quoting the Talmud. Feeling like heroines who have just fed forty worlds, we succumb to her request to clear up the table, while Dudi takes leave, gleaming with philanthropy, devouring his third, if not fourth sandwich.

  He stumbles over some tiny girl. She falls down in the collision. When he kneels to help her up, she pulls from him with undisguised distaste. Dudi throws up his hands, pretending to surrender. Indifferent, the small girl trudges towards us, scuffing her red patent shoes – more suitable for parties than for school. Like the others, she does not greet us. Fretfully, she scans the leftovers, waiting for me to do my job. Her head hardly reaches the table. Her thick unevenly-cut fringe hangs over her forehead like some lopsided crown.

  —Sorry, we’ve only got egg rolls left, I mumble, regretting the koftas I have so rashly eaten.

  She shrugs her shoulders. I pack two egg rolls plus the two last lollipops in the nylon pouch, pass it over to her, hoping the extra lollipop will make up for the restricted choice.

  She wastes no glance on the packet.

  —Pepsi or Fanta, what do you prefer?

  —Whatever …

  —If you come earlier tomorrow, you’ll have more choice of sandwiches, I say, handing her the Fanta.

  She nods impatiently, making me feel like some talkative vendor wasting her time. It is perhaps in reaction to this snappiness that I let go of the drink one moment too early, or it might have slipped from her own hand, I cannot say. In either case, the Fanta rolls on the table, splashing over the rest of the sandwiches, then smashes to the floor. I rush to her, wet glass crunching under my shoes.

  —You’re hurt?

  She wriggles her shoulders, presses her lunch to her chest, the way I used to hug Teddy when in distress. Her red shoes protrude like two islands in the foaming orange puddle. Selma leaps to her help, pulls her on to the dry floor. We check her feet, her legs, her hands, detect no red, only Fanta stains on her white tights. The little girl is on the verge of tears. It’s OK, nothing has happened, I reassure her, yet suspect that it is our protectiveness which is upsetting her. Selma must have felt the same for she stops fussing over her, gives her some other drink instead. Saying nothing, hands full, the little girl trudges out.

  —Just when I thought our chores were over! Selma explodes. What a mess! I’m not cleaning it, I swear, even if God Himself descends to earth and asks me to do it.

  —Relax Selma, nobody said we’re cleaning it up. Sit Habiba will get the janitor to take care of it.

  —I’m sick and tired of sit Habiba! I’ve seen enough of her today. And what was that clumsy mouse doing here again? Hasn’t she had her lunch already?

  —No. Not that I know.

  —But I’m sure I saw her before. She was among the very first, right after the three musketeers.

  No, I cannot remember.

  Still griping, Selma replaces the drinks in the crate, packs the few unused napkins into one of the empty cartons. I take it upon myself to clean the knives, then report the incident to sit Habiba. On my way to the lavatories, I spot our last customer near the stairs, swinging playfully round the parapet. Her lunch is on the lap of some secondary school student, who is sitting on the stairs, eating our egg rolls, sipping the drink. The two resemble each other, sisters no doubt. Selma was right. The girl did come twice, very early then very late, reckoning the long interval would cover up her double visit.

  The insight hits me hard. Our newly celebrated satisfaction shrinks into humble proportions. The forty fed worlds relapse to forty impoverished families, hiding their need in shame.

  She turns her head suddenly in my direction. I rush to the lavatories, for the last thing I want is to embarrass her. I have promised to return the knives to sit Habiba’s prior to the next lesson. Strange, how privileged the classroom seems to me now, with confined responsibilities. While rinsing the knives, I linger on my reflection in the mirror. The children’s conduct – shifting from obedience to defiance, from mockery to reverence – has troubled me. Have I grown closer to my parents, than to these kids? The idea of resembling my mother terrifies me. Not so soon. Not until I have had the chance to grow into myself. I stick out my tongue, pull my eyes, make other silly grimaces – desperate claims to childhood.

  Someone is opening the door. I stop making funny faces in the mirror. The stick of the lollipop is poking out of her red-stained lips. I suspect she has followed me. I make space for her. The little girl pretends not to see me. She knows that I know her secret. She stands on tiptoe, leans over the sink, reaches out her hands under the tap.

  I turn it on for her.

  —And soap? she demands, clapping her hands in the water, sprinkling it in every direction.

  —I’ve eaten it!

  She stops playing with the water, studies me inquisitively. I keep my face straight, dry the knives with my handkerchief.

  —Liar! she cries, slaps me chummily in the stomach, sprinting out of the washroom.

  She loiters in the doorway tittering, tempting me to chase her. I turn off the tap, sighing wearily, the way mother does whenever she is overworked. The schoolbell comes to my rescue. My playmate pulls the lollipop out of her mouth, waves me off, smiling proudly – like someone who has saved the entire world.

  Kaka J.

  Selma waves goodbye. I ring, push our gate open. Mother lets me in. The smell of roast meat is wafting from the kitchen. Quite unusual for this hour, for mother normally prepares our food in the morning. I remove my overcoat, throw it on the sofa. Then I sense some vague unfamiliarity lurking in the place. There is more wall, more emptiness in the living-room than usual. Our television is missing! The gramophone too. We must have run short of money once more. The space which the two units used to occupy seems larger than their original size. Mother has not greeted me yet. She is reading on my face the full report of my last two hours in town. Hoping to take her mind off me, I spill out the latest news.

  —Mama, the Shamashes made it this week! Sami Nathan too. You know who that is, our new physics teacher.


  —Good for them! she replies, sincere, yet unconcerned, lacking the inquisitiveness such news usually elicits.

  Her look still fixed on me, she goes on,

  —I’ve got news myself. Curry is due for his chicken!

  My heart leaps the way it is supposed to when one’s lifelong wish is on the point of fulfilment. One moment later, I remember. Our thwarted plans in the past. The empty promises. The subsequent frustration, sorrow, gloom. The strength it requires to surmount hopelessness, recover one’s inner resources. To save myself undue enthusiasm, I inquire nonchalantly,

  —How final is it?

  —Tonight!

  —Tonight! Why haven’t you told me earlier?

  —We were notified this very morning – shortly after you’d left for school!

  Mother looks far from happy. The furrows on her forehead read like the list of perils our undertaking entails.

  —We’ll be picked up shortly after midnight, she goes on. I’m preparing food for the journey. It’s below zero in the north, be sure to dress as warmly as possible. Are you hungry or did you stuff yourself with semit again?

  —No, just peanuts …

  —There’s some pressed orange juice in the fridge. You should take a bath, who knows when we’ll have hot water again. Wouldn’t you like to give Curry the chicken yourself? Your father’s packing upstairs, go and see if he needs a hand. I’d try and get some sleep if I were you – we have a long night ahead.

  I race up the stairs fleeing mother’s inconsistent instructions, hardly feeling the ground under my feet. It is four p.m. Eight hours to go till midnight! How will I kill time without going mad? In his room, father is squatting, stowing winter wear into two suitcases. Towels, socks, slippers, soap, shaving equipment, various jars of pills surround him higgledy-piggledy on the ground. Plus enough toilet rolls to fill up two extra suitcases.

  —Lina, at last! Go and pack your things, daughter. What you need for the coming days. And remember, only essentials, there’s hardly any space left.

  Fortunately, he looks neither pale nor feverish this time. No pockets under his eyes either. Quite the opposite. Without losing his natural serenity, father seems more vigorous than ever. I rush to my room, in no time select the warm wear necessary for the journey. While locking my wardrobe, it occurs to me that within one or two weeks, the police will unlock it for inspection. Later, they will put our entire possessions on public sale, the way they sold off the movable goods of other runaway Jews. I reopen the wardrobe, stand in the shoes of the police officer going over my personal effects – estimating their market value. My former sandals. My former garments. Knick-knacks. Stamps. Mad magazines. Games. No longer mine, they look unrelated to each other too, prepared to go their separate ways. Teddy-Pasha perches on the upper shelf, his eyes hanging loose.

  I reach out for him, rest his head on my neck. His insides of straw have softened with the years. His scuffed sailcloth skin smells of faraway tears mingled with snot or saliva. His rich ochre hue has lost lustre. Old straw protrudes from the torn seam in his shoulder, from the lower part of his rear – making him look like someone permanently shitting. I kiss his muzzle farewell, stroke his remaining leg, reminiscent of that other leg, lost near the Monument of the Unknown Soldier, then replace him on the upper shelf.

  His scraggy neck gives way, his head inclines, in resignation. He will undoubtedly end up in the rubbish. Pasha’s glass gaze turns human, so similar to father’s in the morning, when he faces up to his quotidian uselessness. I snatch Pasha from the shelf, shut the wardrobe for the last time.

  —What of our photographs? I inquire, entering my parents’ room, reluctant to let go of our past so easily.

  —Already taken care of, father groans, pressing down the mound in the suitcase with his elbows, while trying to fasten the retaining strap. All our documents and family pictures will be sent to us, later.

  —How? Who has them?

  —They’re in good hands. That’s all you need to know for the time being, he replies, removing two woollen jumpers from the suitcase.

  I think of pleading that my sixteen years should entitle me to more knowledge of – if not say – in family resolutions, when Shuli turns up with his own pile. He greets me with his malevolent smile, yanking Pasha’s ear.

  —Welcome back, old boy! So you’re joining us? I don’t blame you. Who’d like to be here when the police break in. Lina, are you sure he can make it with one leg?

  —Very funny!

  Father looks up, scowls so gravely that his two eyebrows meet,

  —What have you got there! Didn’t I say essentials? We can only take these two suitcases. Two and no more, for the four of us! And I still have to squeeze all this stuff inside.

  —Lina, if a house is squeezed into a suitcase, the suitcase won’t necessarily turn into a doll’s house!

  —Shut up, Shuli, nobody’s talking to you! Father, Pasha’s so pliable, we can tuck him into some gap, just like socks. Please, I’m ready to give up my slippers for his sake.

  Father lifts his forehead, signalling rejection.

  —We can hide jewels inside his trunk!

  —Don’t be a nuisance, Lina! We’ve got no jewels to hide, and when I say “no” it’s “no”!

  I throw my things on the floor, flounce out, Pasha’s hand in mine. Shuli follows me. I take refuge in my room, fling myself on my eiderdown, unhappy with my foolish scene yet unable to restrain myself.

  —Really, Lina, your brain’s in your ass!

  —Get out of my room! Nobody invited you in here …

  —So you think you’re the only person with feelings in this house?

  —Spare me your lecture, wise guy.

  —Baba’s been eating his soul the whole day because he’s leaving his father’s grave behind. He blurted it out at lunch, he who never wastes a word on feelings. And instead of being considerate, there you are making a fuss over a stuffed animal, a handful of stinking straw …

  —So what? Is there more to grandfather’s grave than stone? I retort, my words sounding far more sarcastic than I intended.

  No reply. No tit for tat. Shuli fails to retaliate. For the first time in our sibling rivalry, it is I who have had the last word. Serves him right, it is time he stopped patronising me. His speechlessness lasts too long. He is extending it into intentional silence. Silence is the standard strategy of extorting remorse in our family. I keep quiet, intent on prevailing over him in silence no less than in words.

  —What’s the holy difference between straw and stone… some nerve you have, he finally murmurs, stalks out of the room.

  Heavens, why is everyone so fretful today? Why is nobody rejoicing? We waited years for this event to happen, yet now that no obstacle is in our way, each is setting up his own. Mother is loaded with uncertainties, Shuli is looking for trouble, while father, who has hardly mentioned his father for the last sixteen years, is suddenly hanging on to his grave. I should sleep, save my strength for the trip. When I wake up, I will smuggle Teddy-Pasha into one of the suitcases. Nobody will even notice, for straw is lighter than stone. I slip under the eiderdown without removing my shoes. Let the sheets get soiled, it is the last time I will lie here. The thought flashes through my mind, yet the meaning escapes my understanding. My imagination, too, fails. Whatever will happen from midnight onwards will resemble nothing I have experienced so far. I pull the eiderdown over my head, the way I used to put the towel over Sultan to impose night-time on him, to trick him into quietness. Night it is under the eiderdown, yet far from quiet. Some insect or fly is pacing my leg. I shake the eiderdown, tap the mattress. No fly. No insect. Nobody. I shut my eyes. There is noise in my ear, some trapped wasp? I fumble for the wasp with my little finger. Wrong. The sound is from within. My heart perhaps. I lie on my spine, try to relax. Is father summoning Shuli to his room? I push the eiderdown off my head, prick up my ears. “Take this, son, I don’t want to have it all on me. You never know,” father is saying. It is money he is pas
sing on to Shuli, I suppose. My foot is sweating. These irksome shoes. How silly of me to make such mischief when the family is on the point of risking everything. Father remembered his father today. Is that why he is treating his son like some grown-up man, thrusting responsibility onto him? Shuli, in his turn, sided with father today, instead of proving him wrong. I keep rolling over from side to side, finding no peace. Eventually, I kick the eiderdown off, get up to look for mother – the only person in the family with whom I have not yet quarrelled.

  She is packing food in the kitchen.

  —Mama, what of our pictures?

  —What pictures?

  —Our family pictures.

  —Oh! Don’t worry, they’re at Zeki’s. He’ll send them over as soon as we are settled.

  Zeki naturally, how obvious. I hug mother, grateful for her trust. Her neck smells of Pond’s, her hair, of the variety of odours lingering in the kitchen. Hunger suddenly grips me. I let go of mother, remove the lid of the saucepan, pinch two morsels of mutton tongue.

  —Mmmm, it melts in the mouth. Long live your hands, Mama! I say, uncovering the next pan.

  —Why don’t you sit down and have a proper meal like a human being instead of just nibbling?

  She is filling two holdalls with tea, sugar, marmalade, fruit, tins of food. The provisions should last till the journey’s end – Teheran. In my imagination Teheran is some modern metropolis with exquisite Persian rugs spread on the pavements. What follows Teheran? Mother shrugs her shoulders. It is fun to go on one-way journeys, live with the unexpected, I remark. Mother fails to share my enthusiasm. In fact, she is growing impatient with my fluttering round her, thrusting my nose into every pot. I praise her rice pilau yet she remains indifferent to my flattery. I offer her half my peeled tangerine. She rejects it. I mention my long ride with Selma. Mother is not particularly impressed. I keep quiet, waiting for her to initiate the next topic. Her silence soon unnerves me.

  —What’s wrong, Mama?

  —Nothing … why?