Baghdad: The Final Gathering

by Ahmad Ardalan

  As soon as my aunt left, my mother took the remote control from me and turned off the TV. “I will ask this once,” she said, looking at me sternly. “You and Fatima?”

  I did not answer, but my silence was all the evidence she needed. In fact, I was sure she knew the answer before she even asked the question.

  “Leave now. Get out of this house!”

  I left, as she ordered, and we did not talk for a month. When we did finally speak again, I confessed everything to my mother. Regardless of my excuses and justifications, the news devastated her, and the damage was done.

  A few months later, Fatima got divorced. She moved back into her mother’s place as a single woman, but as she had said—and as my mother echoed when she confronted me—there was no way anyone would ever accept our relationship, not even our own families. I tried to remain positive, though, and hoped beyond hope that time would heal those wounds and allow us to be together.

  After Fatima’s divorce, the only thing that really changed was that I could talk to her more often, since there was no Ibrahim to get in our way. Other than that, our relationship was still a secret, relatively hidden from the world.

  Fatima’s mother passed away months later, and she left the house, some money, and a little jewelry to her daughter. I took care of the funeral costs, and it was a nice memorial. Her passing was expected, as she was in her late 70s and had suffered with diabetes and blood pressure problems for a long time. Her third stroke proved to be very unlucky.

  Fatima managed her household and continued working at the kindergarten. For all his faults, Ibrahim never fell short in taking care of his daughters financially. Her parents’ house, now hers, was too big for the three of them, so Fatima divided it and rented part of it out as a two-bedroom apartment, and that earned her some income as well.

  The children were fine, and they took their parents’ divorce well. At their age, it was easier to adapt. They spent every other weekend with their father. Ibrahim remarried after a while, as our society is far kinder to divorced men. In the end, Fatima and I were the only ones who really did not benefit from the divorce.

  Seeing her became more difficult, as she had to take care of the children after the loss of her mother. Not only that, but as a divorcee, all eyes were on her, some of them quite judgmental and scornful. She changed and was not the Fatima I had known. I tried everything to change that, and one day, it worked, at least for a while.

  I arrived two days before her, hoping that would give me enough time to make our first trip together as close as it could be to a honeymoon. It had been over two years and a few months since Farah had passed and about nine months since Fatima’s divorce from Ibrahim, and I’d been waiting to take that trip for a long time. After months and months of convincing, Fatima finally gave in.

  The travel agency in Amman always handles my trips, but they only handle hotel reservations and could not book a home in New York. Mr. Shaheed managed to get me a three-bedroom, detached home in Staten Island. I had never heard of that place, but the photos were appealing. The area looked clean and quiet, and that was just what I wanted. The house seemed decent, with nice-sized rooms. The dining and living rooms were decorated in a lovely way, and there was a patio outside. That was enough to win me over, so I went ahead and gave him the okay. I also booked a car from JFK airport, a nice, navy-blue Dodge SUV.

  After two days of traveling, which began with a twelve-hour car ride from Baghdad to Amman and a ten-hour flight to New York, I finally piled into the rental car and headed to the home in Staten Island. I had already planned several places I hoped to visit during the four days we would spend in the amazing U.S. city. The Met would be one, and then we would have dinner at a wine bar and restaurant on the upper west side of Central Park, a place my father had visited nearly fifteen years prior and still talks about, to this day. I made a few calls and was assured that it was still open and that it was a lovely place for dining. I also planned to enjoy the sunset view from the top of The Rock the following day, one of the highest skyscrapers in the city that arguably offered the best view in town. The remaining two days I left open, so we could be spontaneous and choose our adventures, after enjoying a daily walk down the beautiful avenues of downtown Manhattan. Before all that, though, I had to arrange the home for the woman I love, and that turned out to be a harder job than I expected.

  From the outside, the house looked the same as the photos I’d seen, but the inside was a different story. Apart from the furnished dining room and the half-furnished living room and the lonely bed in the master bedroom upstairs, there was nothing—no cutlery, no TV, no towels, and no soap or detergent. There were only empty cupboards, dusty floors, and an awful blanket and tattered bed sheet. From the first look, I knew the house would require deep cleaning. I called the landlord to complain and nearly canceled everything and considered booking a hotel in Manhattan, but Fatima had requested a standalone house. She wanted to feel like it was our place, like we were really married. So, after I cooled down, I reluctantly took the keys from the devious landlord and, without saying a word, closed the door behind him. I decided I would deal with him when I returned home, and Mr. Shaheed would help me sort it all out.

  I unpacked my bags, hung up my clothes, and sat down on the patio. I wrote out a list of the things I needed, then quickly drove to the nearest Walmart, a place recommended by my friend in Boston, where I could get everything and anything. Luckily, I had his phone number with me, and he answered as soon as I rang.

  It took me fifteen minutes to get there, and I lost my way twice, then found the place with the help of an old couple driving their Ford pickup.

  I had just come from Baghdad during the embargo, when things were not readily available. Now, I stood in front of a giant store, a massive supermarket. In the good old days in Iraq, we had a similar place called Orizdii, but it was half the size of the superstore before me.

  I enjoyed every minute of walking through the aisles of Walmart. It really did carry everything, and it was all organized and labeled well. Helpful staff lingered in every place, and the prices seemed decent. All in all, it only cost $350 for all I needed to make our temporary home feel like a real one.

  I hurried back, unpacked all the groceries, and arranged them in the fridge and cupboards. I put the new cutlery in place and replaced the old blanket, sheets, and pillows with dark gray linens and a refreshing black and white blanket, then rearranged the whole bedroom. By the time I finished, it felt cozy and comfortable, and I was sure Fatima would love it. I then cleaned the whole house, from top to bottom, and installed the new television. Then, after a tiring day, my body shut off, and sleep took over.

  The next day, I bought some houseplants and placed them around the living room. I filled a small vase with three tulips that were just starting to bloom. I planned to write a riddle for Fatima every day and place it under that vase. I hoped she would be delighted with the place, and I wished I had taken before pictures so she could see all the improvements I made. She would arrive around seven in the evening, and I could not wait.

  I arrived at the airport an hour before her flight. Each minute was like a decade, and when I heard that her flight had landed, my heart began beating like crazy. I looked around the huddled groups, trying to find the love of my life among the passengers exiting the gate. I also glanced at my reflection in the mirror a dozen times, to make sure I was presentable. I was dressed in dark blue jeans, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a navy-blue jacket.

  When I finally spotted Fatima, the first thing I saw was her beautiful smile, like something out of my dreams. I ran toward her and hugged her, unable to believe she was really there.

  We spent two hours talking on the patio in our temporary home. With drinks in hand, we enjoyed each other and the stars that filled the clear skies that night. Later, we made love for the first time. It was a magical night, and there were not enough words to describe it.

  We had been out together alone in public only once before,
at dinner at a French restaurant in Baghdad. That night, I booked our table for a very late hour, to avoid people as much as possible. Even then, we found ourselves looking over our shoulders a hundred times. This time around, the city that never sleeps was all ours.

  I awoke before Fatima, then quickly went down and wrote her the first riddle, which I carefully placed under the tulip vase: “Our parents back home used to say, ‘Cooling it makes it stronger,’ but with every breath of it on you, I live longer.”

  She woke up half an hour later, washed her face, brushed her long hair, then finally came down to greet me. When she saw the tulips, she smiled. The buds had opened quite a bit, and one in particular seemed to be showing off its red beauty. She found the note and smiled, then walked closer to me as she read it again and again. “Help me, Omar. Please?” she said.

  I smiled and walked away.

  She followed me, kissed me on the neck, and put her hands around me. “Please, please, please?” she begged in her cutest voice.

  I could not resist that, so I picked up a pen and underlined “cooling it,” then looked at the fridge.

  Fatima smiled and ran to the refrigerator. She threw the door open and quickly looked through it. In the back was a small bag, containing two perfumes, her lifelong favorite and one of my choosing. She hugged me and thanked me, and we enjoyed a breakfast we prepared together: eggs with mushrooms and cheese, cheese, and more cheese.

  An hour later, we left to explore the city. We dropped the rental SUV off in a parking spot near Central Park. That would be our starting point.

  It was a sunny day, and we walked for hours. We laughed at every corner, hugged at every avenue, kissed all the time, and stared in each other’s eyes. Not a single soul in the world could stop us. For the first time in three years, we felt free and safe. Hours passed like minutes, the wine tasted better, and even the pizza crust was crispier. Life truly felt alive, and every breath of air was a memory all its own. Whenever I saw a flower shop, I ran inside and bought the most brilliant, beautiful rose for her; Fatima always repaid me with a kiss, far better than any reward I could have asked for.

  Our glorious day ended with dinner under the stars, listening to Mr. New York himself, the late Frank Sinatra, playing in the background. When he broke into “Strangers in the Night,” our eyes sang along. Until New York, we really were strangers, even to ourselves. Until our trip to the Big Apple, we had never felt the sweet taste of being able to openly show our feelings for each other.

  The next day started with a new riddle: “A room at the end is more than a place. The old wardrobe hides what puts a good smile on that face.”

  Just like before, she ran like a child up the stairs, barefoot and searching each of the two rooms excitedly. She found nothing in the one in the left, but after she stepped into the other one, she soon returned with a huge grin on her face, carrying two sets of makeup, two bracelets for her daughters, and a lovely bronze brooch in the shape of a leaf.

  After the kisses, we both dressed quickly. We skipped breakfast at home that morning and instead ate sandwiches from a nearby deli, then made our way to The Met. I had always told her about history and civilizations, and she listened like a student, eager to learn. During the three hours we spent at one of the greatest museums in the world, she never left my arm. Whenever she tired of reading the information about the art pieces, she said, “Read it to me, my hero, now and forever,” and I gladly did.

  While walking through the halls of the museum, we happened upon a three-story section that portrayed a wealthy American family mansion, complete with nineteenth-century furnishings in all the rooms, full of beauty and elegance. The last floor contained a long corridor, with mirrors on both sides, and soft classical music played in the background.

  I read the information as we entered the grand ballroom, where elite guests from all over the city would be invited for a special occasion and would dance till the early morning. I looked around and saw that we were the only ones there, so I pulled Fatima toward me, put my hand around her waist, and placed one of her hands on my shoulder. “Close your eyes and follow my lead,” I said. “Don’t open them.

  She did as I asked, and we danced to the music for a few minutes, both with our eyes closed. We floated through the room, like love birds in the sky. We were transferred to another world, a world only those lucky to be blessed with love of a different kind can possibly understand.

  When the music stopped, I slowly removed my hand, brushed her hair back, and kissed her. “Open your eyes,” I whispered.

  Around us were dozens of tourists, all quiet, just enjoying our dance, sharing our moment in time. A few of them, probably Japanese, were taking pictures. They just stared at us for a moment before applause broke out.

  We smiled at them, and I looked at Fatima and saw her blushing and looking down at the carpet. “I told you we would dance in front of the world,” I whispered in her ear.

  She kissed my hand.

  I hoped that moment in time would never end, but as time goes, it unfortunately did.

  That night, we watched The Lion King on Broadway, and we enjoyed it immensely. We were both amazed by New York, a city unmatched in diversity, uniqueness, and class. I will always think of that place as our city, our little special corner of the world, where we made our first happy memories together.

  The final day of our trip came, and with it came the last riddle I penned: “You are a queen without wearing a crown, but why not feel more majestic when you go lie down?”

  One of the things I had bought before she came was a black and white blanket with a royal crown on it. It was so soft that any baby would have fallen asleep on it the moment it touched their skin. Fatima just loved it, and we often sat on the sofa, cuddling beneath it before we went upstairs to bed.

  As soon as she read “crown,” she understood and went straight to the sofa. She picked the blanket and found, under one of the pillows, a small leather box. She opened it slowly and peered down at a white gold pendant, two layers connected by four large rubies surrounded by six diamonds, three on each side. Those diamonds were surrounded by eight sapphires. I had drawn the design myself and asked a jeweler to make a mold of white gold for it. The piece stunned her for a moment, rendering her silent, but then she finally walked over to me and said, “You have done so much for me, Omar. How can I ever repay you? This is too much.”

  “I only want your love, and just seeing you happy is the best repayment I can think of. It is even more than enough,” I replied and kissed her forehead.

  “How much do you love me, Omar?

  “There is no language on earth since the day of its creation can portray my love for you Fatima.” I replied.

  Those four nights encompassed an endless wave of memories for both of us. If I had to die that moment, I would have died as the happiest man who ever lived.

  The trip was bittersweet though. On one hand, our hearts soared in happiness, as we imagined our lives together. At the same time, we had to swallow the bitter taste of reality; deep down, we knew it was all just temporary. Fatima still could not take the next step, as she was certain no one would understand. For my part, I didn’t know how my aunt or cousin would take it. Life seemed so cruel, especially to us. Why did destiny choose to place her with Ibrahim, out of all the men in the world? I wondered, for if she had divorced someone other than my cousin, it would have been far easier for us to be together. What could have been a dream-come-true only felt like a nightmare.

  Our relationship became better after that, but we were still sailing unknown, uncertain waters, and land was nowhere to be seen.

  ***

  I open my eyes when I feel a pinch on my back, and there she is, with the kids, playing in my garden.

  “Daydreaming at your own party?” Essam asks.

  “I, uh…” I stutter, a bit stunned and confused.

  “You had closed your eyes for nearly three minutes,” Aws says.

  “Exactly three minutes and eighteen
seconds,” Emad finishes coyly.

  “And how do you know?” I ask.

  “Because we’ve been watching you,” Aws says with a shrug.

  “Three minutes, huh? Believe me, guys, I was gone a lot longer than that. In fact, I was away for years.”

  Chapter 7: The Garden

  Everyone had a great time at the gathering. The food was good, and the company was amazing. I know I was lucky my other aunt, Ibrahim’s mother, was traveling. Otherwise, there would have been a lot of tension in the air between her and Fatima.

  After lunch, we all sit on the terrace to have tea and coffee and the leftover dessert while enjoying the sunset. When night begins to fall, people begin to leave, first my cousins and aunts, then my uncle, and Mr. Shadi.

  Fatima and her daughters leave when my brother and his family and my parents do, and I walk them all out. I kiss Sarah goodbye, since she is going to stay with my parents for the night. Fatima and I share a long stare before she finally leaves with her kids. The guys opt to stay there, and we will enjoy a long night of fun together.

  Aws escorts his wife and kid back home, and returns with some snacks and a good bottle of arak, known in Iraq as the drink of kings. The colorless alcohol turns white when water or ice is added to it. In Turkey, it’s known as raki, the Greeks call it ouzo, and in Japan, it is known as sake. In Iraq, it is made from dates, Europeans make it from white grapes, and in Japan, it is a rice product. Regardless of the name and the source, it is always distilled alcohol, with a 40 to 63 percent concentrate.

  As always, Essam is responsible for the food when we light up the grill to barbecue in the garden. Essam loves it. He knows the butcher who lives fifteen minutes from my place, so he purchases lamb chops, beef skewers, some burgers, and chicken thighs. He soaks each one in his secret marinade, and in the end, the taste speaks for itself. Only someone who loves food can be a good cook, and Essam’s passion has always been food. Emad brought his guitar and sets up the acoustics for what is sure to be a very special night.