When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  Wedad says nothing. Mother starts packing the food, signalling the meal is over. Wedad pours herself one more glass of tea, retreats next to her luggage – keeping out of mother’s way. None the less, mother’s hard feelings seem to magnify with whatever movement Wedad makes. The tinkling of her spoon, stirring the sugar. The fashion magazine she takes out of her handbag. Her occasional sips. Seething, mother noisily piles up the used plates, seals the glass jars, gathers the sheets of newspaper. Wedad reads on, undisturbed. Unable to pierce the young woman’s tranquil façade, mother picks on me.

  —Lina, get up, go and wash the dishes. Don’t just sit there and wait to be served like a khatoun!

  Unprepared for this outburst, I turn to father, seeking his support. His gaze is weary, imploring rest. Shuli picks up the stack of plates, hands it to me, winking his own request for peace. It’s not fair, I would have hollered on some other occasion, yet, overwhelmed with sudden fatigue myself, I grab the plates, go off fuming to the frontyard.

  I hardly recognise it, hung from side to side with lines of washing. I plunge my way through wet towels, skirts, trousers, in search of the tap. Men’s underwear sways insouciantly in the wind, next to the women’s, their hems overlapping, the way their owners would never touch in public.

  The sink is set in the middle of the yard, made from the same yellow mountain stone with which the ground is paved. I put the plates inside, turn on the tap. Within less than thirty seconds, the stout old woman who served us tea shows up, her hands full of wooden pegs. She greets me with lavish friendliness.

  —Did you enjoy your breakfast? Aren’t you going out to have a look around? Yes, rest, rest, but not the whole day! What do you mean you don’t know? Where are you from? Allahu akbar, Baghdad’s hot and dusty, and full of thieves and beggars. No, I’ve never been there. Don’t you go to school, girl? Rissmas holidays?

  I turn off the water, politely tending to her questions, yet remain squatting, hoping she makes it short.

  —Tell me, she goes on, which one is your mother and which one is your sister? But why did kaka J. put you all in one room? It’s not comfortable. The house is large, we can find you a second room. How long are you staying with us? Don’t you need sheets, blankets, we’ve got plenty of them. Come with me …

  —Thank you, it’s not necessary. I … I don’t think we’re staying here overnight … I falter, immediately regretting my slip, questioning for the first time her familial relationship to kaka J.

  —You’re not staying here? So where are you heading for, my girl?

  I have spoken too much, I reckon. I must leave her this very moment. Say I have forgotten some unwashed tea glasses, or run to the toilet, feigning stomach pains. The woman repeats her question: “Tell me what you’re up to, my girl!” The white sheet is lifted, kaka J. is glaring indignation. The torrent of words he pelts her with in Kurdish sounds very much like rebuke. The old woman scurries out of sight. How handsome kaka J. looks now that he is wearing the traditional Kurdish sherwal, with sash round the waist. He reaches for his Rafidain packet, viewing me from his six-foot height, softly, or maybe only possessively – his jealously guarded secret. His pupils glow with vitality, not in the least red or sleepy. Suddenly, our physical proximity in the middle of the wet white sheets unsettles me. I turn on the tap, splashing water on his trousers, unsure whether I want him to stay or to go, unwilling to let him forget my face too soon. His soiled shoes, inches from me, stay firm in their place. I start rinsing the plates, splashing more water.

  —You should be resting! he finally lashes out, then vanishes through the white sheet, like some performer walking off stage.

  The gate jangles twice. I whisk the plates off to our room, keen to share my insight with father: kaka J. is keeping us secret from his own family.

  Wrapped in his overcoat, leafing through yesterday’s newspaper, father raises his forefinger to his lips, requesting quietness. The radio, too, is silent. The scent of orange peel has soothed the tempers. Scattered through the room, mother, Shuli, Wedad, lie nestled in their woollen quilts, their faces to the wall.

  Kaka J. turns up in the evening, together with Faris, his nephew, or so he introduces him. Hardly over twenty, his shining hair parted in the middle, Faris, in his woollen jacket, looks like some university student. It is time to go, kaka J. says. We pack the food, fold the quilts, put on our overcoats. Kaka J. hands us torches.

  —In case you’re asked, your names from now on are: Hamdi, and Omar. You may keep your name, Wedad, it’s Arabic enough. You’ll be Zehra, and your daughter, Asmahan.

  She was one of the most renowned singers in the Levant until the mid-forties, when some misfortune on the highway terminated her life. The rumour was that she had involved herself in spying for the French in the Second World War, which led some local Nazi gang to liquidate her.

  —I bet the name appeals to you, Shuli teases me. Is it the star or the spy you’re infatuated with?

  Kaka J. lifts up two of Wedad’s trunks, returning us to practical matters. Faris follows suit. You’re not touching her things, mother whispers to Shuli, referring to Wedad’s heavy Persian rugs. I warm my hands over the stove for the last time, then lug the stack of woollen quilts. Trailing the two men through the faintly lit frontyard, I stagger to the Land Rover parked outside. While kaka J. is loading our luggage, one scarab-like, grey Volkswagen trundles past, then reduces speed. Kaka J. pushes me inside the yard, instantly putting out the lights. He speaks to Faris in Kurdish, his voice trembling.

  —Lina, where are you? I can’t see a thing in the dark! mother grumbles. Watch out, Shuli, you’ve just bumped into me. What’s going on for God’s sake?

  When they have gathered near the gate, I recount the incident.

  —A grey Beetle? Here, in the north? Plague on us!

  —But that doesn’t have to mean anything.

  —It could be just as likely in the north as in Baghdad…

  —Hurry up! kaka J. interrupts. Abu Shuli, your son and Wedad will go with Faris. I’m taking the rest of you in the Land Rover.

  —No way! We’re not splitting up, father firmly replies.

  —It’s safer… just do as I say, please, we’ve got no time to argue. Wedad?

  —I said we’re not splitting up! father repeats, his voice slightly rising.

  Wedad makes no response.

  —Look, I can’t explain everything right now. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.

  —I bet you do, kaka, our lives depend on it! Still, I’m the one in charge of this girl here, and I’m not sending her, nor my son, anywhere with a boy, and definitely not with one I’ve never seen before.

  —But it’s Faris, my nephew, my own flesh and blood! Hell, we’ve got no time to argue. Yallah, get into the Land Rover, all of you, quick! Wedad, you sit at my side. Faris, listen …

  Wedad takes the passenger seat. The four of us huddle in the rear. The two men rapidly transfer our luggage to kaka J.’s vehicle. Wedad views the hustle with uneasiness. She throws father questioning glances, yet he is more preoccupied with the resumption of our journey than with the luggage. Our smuggler hops in the Land Rover.

  —Women, put on your abayas, there’s a checkpoint at the outskirts. Wedad, I’ll say you’re my wife. Let’s hope they won’t ask for any identification!

  He only hopes? What if they wanted to see our papers? What is the use of our fake names if Omar, Zehra, Hamdi, or ’smahan have to prove their identities? Unlike his smooth ride out of the metropolis yesterday, kaka J. is now streaking through the winding unlit streets of Suleimaniyah. The grey Volkswagen has scared him out of his wits. Perhaps it is, in fact, the security police’s standard vehicle. Wedad suddenly yells. I pitch forwards, striking the front seat. Had kaka J. not promptly stopped, we would have rammed into some stray mongrels. Fiercely they pounce upon the Land Rover, while our smuggler scorches onwards, unimpeded by the hoarse howls pursuing us through the streets.

  Nearing the outskirts of Suleimaniyah, he
warns,

  —Don’t forget your fake names. If they ask, you’re my guests from Baghdad and we’re paying a visit to relatives down in Halabja.

  —What a sophisticated cover story. I thought he had made arrangements with the guards at these checkpoints, father grumbles in his favourite language.

  Wedad spins round, throws father one long pleading look.

  The sentry gestures us to halt. Kaka J. lowers the window. The soldier interrogates him in Kurdish. Kaka J. quickly switches on the light inside the Land Rover to let him glimpse our faces. Following further instructions, kaka J. hops out to unlock the trunk, which holds nothing more than our hand luggage.

  The soldier waves us through. Wedad sits upright, proud of her fictitious husband.

  —Seems the Beetle hasn’t been here after all, Shuli remarks.

  —What about our things? Wedad inquires.

  —With Faris. We’re meeting him in Penjwin. It proved to be the right decision to send them separately, kaka J. replies, hoping for gratitude.

  —Is that Fans behind? Shuli says, indicating the pair of gleaming headlights.

  Kaka J. glances in the mirror.

  —No! My car has yellow headlights. Those are white.

  —Would Volkswagens have white ones?

  My question is ignored the way tactless jokes pass unacknowledged. Kaka J. speeds up, heading for the mountains. The two white lights follow us steadily, neither gaining on us nor receding. Shuli keeps turning round to report the precise location of our pursuers.

  —They’ve left the foothill … they’re moving towards the ridge … they’ve just disappeared round the shoulder … have they tumbled off the mountain … inshallah? No, here they are again, the bastards … climbing up the slope … but, how come four lights, out of nowhere? Goodness, two cars are chasing us now … No, it was just an illusion … sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you … there’s only one car behind …

  —Shut up Shuli, for God’s sake! Not every car behind us is necessarily chasing us, raps out mother.

  —And not every grey Beetle is driven by the security police! Wedad says.

  Kaka J. races on, regardless of the steep mountain slopes, jolting more than once over some rock or pothole, which pitches us forwards, triggering fear that instead of landing on the road, we would fall straight into the precipice.

  —We’ve put ourselves in the hands of an amateur, father groans hiding his face in his hands. It’s all improvisation. No wonder he’s panic-stricken, he didn’t plan anything.

  Grey Volkswagen scarabs keep scuttling through the folds of my memory, linking oppressive recollections with their malevolent patrols. The two security men who picked up Shuli in 1967. The men who kept watch on Hai’s saba’a last year. The rowdies who roughed up the handful of Jewish traders in the souk last month. The officials who plundered the houses of Jews several weeks following their flight. Whenever some grey scarab pulled up in front of the grocer-informer in our neighbourhood, the latter would hasten out of his store, on his tray tea stikans matching the number of the men inside. This vehicle has nine lives, Zeki used to say in praise of his white Volkswagen scarab. The security police must have shared his view, otherwise they would not have purchased who knows how many thousands of this model, scattered them in the metropolis, in the hearts of important towns, on the highways from the mountains in the north to the marshes in the south.

  —The headlights have gone. They’ve lost us!

  For some reason, kaka J. sharply reduces speed. The Land Rover screeches, starts spinning, its headlights illuminating sections of the landscape in rotation, like police lights. In spite of the pains he is taking with the steering wheel, kaka J. has lost grip of his vehicle. Mother seizes my wrist. Her hand is icy. She is unusually quiet, neither screaming like in the Ferris wheel, nor resorting to God. They say in your last moments, fleeting scenes of your life unfold in front of you. If nothing of the sort is happening to me, maybe it is not over with us yet. Just when kaka J. seems to have managed the Land Rover, it judders, skids forwards, jolts over some rock, then stops. I feel suspended, yet not in the least light.

  I wonder if we have reached heaven.

  —Don’t move, kaka J. pleads. The front wheels are in the air! Keep still, especially you in the back.

  We mumble our understanding, quietly, lest our voices upset the fragile stability that is keeping us with the living.

  —Is everyone all right? kaka J. remembers to inquire.

  We reassure him with further hums.

  —Good. I’m getting out first. Just keep still, no matter what happens, otherwise we’ll all fall over the precipice. Do you hear me? I’m opening the door.

  The hinge squeaks. The vehicle rocks faintly. Kaka J.’s left leg steals out, in slow motion, or so I imagine, since my vision is restricted to his swathed head projecting over the front seat. The turban glides towards the opening, with surprising smoothness for his robust figure.

  The next moment he has slipped outside. How remote he suddenly looks, like in outer space. Instead of rejoicing over his rebirth however, the man slaps his head, lumbers round the Land Rover, inspecting the tyres, fretting over the position of the vehicle – fortunately in Kurdish. For no matter with what horror he may regard our situation, the fact is that his feet trod straight from the front seat on to the ground – meaning that two thirds of the vehicle is on firm land.

  Our two thirds probability of survival.

  He lights one of his filter-tipped Rafidains, then squats on rocks – waiting for what? For fate to tumble his Land Rover over the precipice? For the hand of God to flip it on to the road? Or for the security men to show up, play heads or tails with our lives? His gaze is fixed on the headlights – wastefully illuminating the valley. He is still talking to himself, gesturing like someone who is unable to figure out what has happened, or how.

  —Kaka, where are you? My door won’t open. Come and help me out! Wedad shouts.

  Forced to return to our reality, he pulls himself together, gets up, goes over to Wedad’s side. The hinge squeaks once more. Wind gushes in from one opening, surges out from the other. The seat under me gently springs. Wedad merges into the night.

  —Alhamdellah, thank God, father whispers.

  Now that the weight of two passengers is off the front seats, the peril of falling over is significantly reduced. Instead of relaxing, mother has only tightened her hold.

  —Your turn, son, father says.

  Shuli swallows hard, while his left leg sneaks slowly out. Pressed to the rear, his trunk remains still, his right limbs motionless, unrelated to the left. Kaka J. pulls on his Rafidain. His left foot on the ground, Shuli skilfully pulls out his right half, smiling, for he has lived to tell the story.

  The familiar sound of father’s stiff joints tells me he is stepping out. When I turn to wish him luck, his hips have left the seat. He sets himself upright, loops his muffler round his neck, peering inside the Land Rover, uneasy that his own rescue had to precede ours.

  —Asmahan, you now! kaka J. says,

  It takes me some moments to remember my new name, the only name with which he will, or will not, remember me. Though mother must have heard kaka’s instructions too, her grip has not loosened.

  —Mama, you go first if you want to.

  She voices no reply. No intention. No wish.

  —Mama, none of us will make it if you hold on to me. You have to let go of my hand!

  Like talking to the wall. The wind is lashing her yet she seems not to mind. Worse, she seems unaware of what is happening, like someone who has switched off her sensations. The pressure of her grip is on the verge of pain. Is she requesting help in some impossible way, or is she resolved to take me with her to the grave? Panic seizes me, once I realise I no longer trust her sense of judgement. With utmost force, I pull her index finger from my wrist. Though rigid, it hardly resists. Keeping it out of the way with the heel of my hand, I work on the rest of her fingers until I have retrieved my wrist –
sore, flushing red.

  Her hand lies palm up on my lap, the four fingers stiff, like fork tines. Wasn’t she the one who taught me their names, years past, gently folding, gently uncurling them? I take her hand, rub warmth into her palm, kiss it, then replace it on her lap, like some unwanted packet returned to sender. Mother shows no interest in my leavetaking. I open my legs wide, make one long stretch to the opposite side. Shuli keeps pestering me with instructions. No sooner has my left foot poked out, than he grabs my hand, yanks me outside. I trip on my robe, fall on the icy ground.

  —I’m terribly sorry, Lina. I got anxious, he says, helping me up.

  —Go to Mama, for God’s sake. She wouldn’t move! She’s petrified!

  —What!

  They rush over to her, while I rise slowly to my feet. The sight of the slanting vehicle on the verge of suicide makes me feel queasy. Father has squatted on his knees to speak to her, reassuring, reasoning, urging, imploring. She stares forwards, straight into the rear-view mirror, yet surely not to study her reflection. When father has used up his repertoire of persuasion, he stops talking, reaches out to her.

  Mother wastes no glance on him.

  —No use, he sighs, standing up. It happened once before, during the pogrom of ’41. She was in a stupor for two days, hiding in the cellar while rioters swarmed in and out, looting their house. She can’t handle physical danger. I’m afraid she won’t budge, not of her own will.

  —Let her stay inside. The five of us will push the Land Rover back to the road, kaka J. suggests. Her weight in the back won’t make much of a difference.

  He positions us near the four openings, signalling me to team up with him next to the steering wheel. When he shouts yallah, I shove hard with my shoulder. The motor, still on, gives me the illusion it has joined forces with us. Harder, he urges. In front of us, Wedad is moaning under the strain. The steel is on the point of penetrating my flesh. Kaka J.’s stomach is pressing on my waist, while my head is swimming in the smell of his fresh sweat. The vehicle gives no hint of retreat.