Baghdad: The Final Gathering

by Ahmad Ardalan

  Sameer and I had breakfast the second day around nine, on the rooftop of the hotel. Sameer looked fresher, so it seemed our talk had improved his mood. We discussed our business plan, and he told me one of his contacts could meet us around noon that day, a potential supplier for what I needed for The Arcade room. He had some secondhand arcade machines in near-mint condition, stored in a warehouse he owned on the Asian side of Istanbul.

  Our rendezvous was in a café in Uskudar, We took the tram to one side of the Bosporus River, then a ten-minute boat ride. Mr. Sinan, our future supplier, a man in his late 50s, would meet us there and drive us to his place.

  Sameer was spot on, because the machines were as good as new, even though some were manufactured over forty years ago. Mr. Sinan bought them through a trader from the communist days, a person from Kiev. At first sight, I loved them and immediately envisioned a special section in my place for the classic games.

  When it was time to discuss pricing, Sameer seemed to transform into a business shark. He was all over Mr. Sinan, and I just watched in awe as the negotiations went back and forth. In the end, we were both satisfied. I got what I wanted for the right price, even 10 percent less than what I expected, and the goods would be delivered to Baghdad within a week.

  On the way back by boat, I relaxed and enjoyed the sunset on the Bosporus. It was easy to see why the area is called the golden horn, because the reflection of the sunlight off the waters is nothing short of pure gold in motion. With old Istanbul on the horizon, it was more beautiful than anything I could have imagined. It was a moment I had to share with Fatima, so I picked up my cell, rang her, told her I loved her, and hung up. It has been over six years. When will she be mine? I thought, feeling lonely as I closed the phone.

  The next day, the other meeting went as well as our first, if not better. All in all, the trip saved me $45,000, and I felt Sameer deserved a treat for all his help. I booked us a refreshing Turkish Hammam Bath treatment, and we went to Beyazit, one of the oldest areas in Istanbul, home to the Grand Market or Bazaar. We only had to walk for five minutes before we found the place.

  This Turkish Hammam is a 600-year-old, traditional luxury, a royal treatment recommended by an old friend from Baghdad. Rumor has it that many Sultans bathed there in the past. We were guided to separate rooms, where we changed into a peshtemal, a single cloth that covered our lower bodies. We were then led to the steam room, where we stayed for five minutes. Then we went to the Sicaclik, a hot, circular room. It is full of mint-scented steam, like the one before it, only to a lesser extent. The room was stunning, with its sculptured dome, eight blue and red stained-glass windows, with Ottoman designs. The floors are covered in beautiful tiles, hand-printed with old Arabic writings. The periphery of the room was built as a seating area, and several niches with golden cold and hot fountains are situated at different spots, with a copper bucket next to each, to be used for washing. At the center of the Sicaclik is a large marble stone, which the Turks call göbek taşı; this is where the scrubbing and washing is done. As the minutes passed, I felt my nostrils open.

  An old man sitting near us said he visited every week, just for the steam. “The body just absorbs it,” he said, “and releases all the toxins.”

  We stayed there for a few moments and waited for the next stage, the scrubbing and massaging. Soon, an older man entered, by the name of Murat, to do a traditional scrub and wash for me. It wasn’t a normal scrub or massage, as there was a particular method to it, something Murat had been doing for over forty-five years. While I lay there, with Murat scrubbing and talking in Turkish, I thought of all the people who had enjoyed this old method over the centuries: the Greeks, the Romans, and the Ottomans. A tradition of thousands of years was preserved and passed down and is still used today.

  At the end of the scrub, I felt ten kilos lighter. I was seated next to one of the fountains, and Murat started washing. The niches were beautifully carved, and the fountains gushed extremely hot and cold water. Murat asked what temperature I wanted the water as he filled the marble bowl. He poured the water all over me, washed me for a while, and then left me to enjoy it alone. I poured bucket after hot bucket, till my body was as hot as I could stand it. When I felt I’d had enough, I was directed to the cold room next door, to take a quick dip in a small pool filled with cold water. The minute I dived in, my whole body came back to life, as if all my vessels were reborn. I instantly felt a decade younger.

  After we finished and changed back into our clothes, we were guided to the relaxing spot just outside the domed heaven. There, we were served the best tea, a traditional drink made from apples. We enjoyed ourselves and talked for some time, then headed back to our hotel feeling much healthier, happier, and calmer. We enjoyed a glass of wine and said our goodbyes.

  The next day, I was in Baghdad, and he was back in Damascus. A week later, all my purchase arrived, and everything went as planned. My place was booming again, and the classic arcade games were a hit; teenagers could not get enough of them. The outdoor playground was loved by little ones and their parents, and financially, I was a whole lot better off than Iraq.

  A year later, as I predicted, my friend become a father, and I was honored that he named his son Omar, after me. Unfortunately, I will never see my friend again, because Sameer and his wife were killed several years later, during the Syrian conflict. His son survived and stays with his uncle. I promised to take care of him financially until he grows up. Sameer will live on in the life of his son, as is the circle of life.

  What a mess our region has become since the fall of Baghdad. Lives have been lost in the name of democracy, religion, and freedom, and so many children have been orphaned. So many wives are now widows. So many parents have watched their children die before their eyes, helpless to do anything to stop it. For some, death is a respite from more heinous consequences, like being permanently handicapped, losing vision, or being amputated in one of the hundreds of explosions. Millions have been displaced, forced to flee their homes and live in areas they are not familiar with.

  Liberation, invasion, or whatever we choose to call it always comes at a high cost, staggering numbers of lives lost and destroyed, many now refugees in their own country. Shakir, my young neighbor who refused to put down his rifle the day Baghdad fell was right: No invader is a liberator. I wonder where he is now, but I guess I’ll never know. His mother and sisters moved to Sweden two years after the war, but poor Shakir went missing a long time before that. I hate to think the worst, but I can only presume he is among the lives lost in the fight.

  Chapter 10: 2013

  It had been about three months since we’d spoken, ninety long days from the last goodbye, that sad telephone call, the longest span of time I’d gone without hearing her voice. The previous record was twenty-one days, and that was painful enough. Now, the torture was unimaginable.

  The several months before our breakup wasn’t that rosy. Truth be told, it was very far from that, full of consistent fighting, accusations, and blame. I did most of the blaming, because the years of not achieving our dream, our goal of having a life together, had accumulated and caused a deep ache in my heart. We both wanted to be together, but the circumstances made that close to impossible, though it would have been a bit easier for me, since our culture seems to favor men. My business was doing well, I had fewer social responsibilities, my daughter was on her way to college, and I had taken care of her future financially. On the other hand, Fatima’s daughters still needed her attention, and Fatima was still cautious, thanks to society.

  “How can I abandon my daughters while they still need me?” she asked, playing the scenario out in her head. “People will say, ‘Have you heard that Fatima is marrying her ex-husband’s cousin? I bet he was the reason she divorced the poor guy in the first place. She must have been his mistress for a long time.’”

  “Your ex already remarried and has a son now,” I countered. “To hell with what the world thinks, Fatima. It’s been ages, and we have t
o move on.”

  Sadly, my words did about as much good as blowing threw a fishing net, and we both realized we needed some space.

  I honestly needed to get back on track, the track of life. I packed my bag and looked at the map. If there was one thing in life that clears my tired, stressful head, it’s traveling. An hour of searching on the internet helped me to select the Bavaria region. I called Emad, and we decided to meet in Munich for a few days, and then I would make my own way to Salzburg, where I would hopefully start my journey back to reality.

  I hadn’t seen Emad for four years, since the day we buried his father, who died in a car explosion in a Baghdad flea market, when a suicide maniac chose to blow himself up early in the day. Emad stayed for a week, just long enough to take care of the grim burial duties, and he did not want to remain there for another second. Baghdad was as foreign to him as ever. We still talked once a month, but it was good to know we were going to see each other face to face again.

  Within an hour of our telephone call, Emad was onboard, and within eight, I was on a plane to Munich. I slept for the whole flight; I needed some rest, as my encounters with Emad were always hectic, albeit not in a bad way. We both talked a lot, laughed a lot, and walked a lot, and we slept very little when we were together. I needed the company of a good friend before I isolated myself in Salzburg. I needed a good dose of his chaos, his wheezy, cheeky laughter, and his gift of listening.

  Emad never married, and even though he has his share of love stories, he is also very smart. Whenever he senses trouble coming, he heads the other way. He never puts himself in any situation when his brain will be overworked, because he knows his mind will be required for something else. After all, he is now a well-known, successful surgeon in the Boston area. He always has to be in control, and he will allow nothing in the world to interfere with his hard-earned practice. “Omar, I have people’s lives in my hand. What’s love got to do with anything?” he always says.

  I agree with him partially. Work is important, and his is crucial for life, but I know love exists. For me, it has always been a way of life, and it definitely existed between Fatima and me. It was obvious that Emad was going to advise me to leave her, as I was head over heels for her and getting nowhere, but I still needed to hear it from him.

  As soon as we sat down in one of the beer gardens in that great Bavarian city, Emad ordered two pints from the dozens of local beers on display. “This is the best,” he said. “It’s smooth on the throat, and we will gulp down one pint after the other in no time.” After we toasted one another, he looked me in the eye and asked, “Is the family all good?”

  I offered a slow nod in reply.

  “Business?”

  I gave a faster nod this time.

  “Aws?”

  “He isn’t doing so well, Emad. We need to do something.”

  “True, but you are not here because of that.” He paused and looked at me curiously, then blurted, “Of course! Fatima?”

  This time, I nodded so fast that my chin hit my chest.

  “I am not talking about a year or two, not even five. You’ve been caught up in this mess for nearly a fifteen years, Omar. Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve been so successful at work. It’s time to end it,” he said.

  “Emad, it is not easy. She is…my destiny. I cannot just—”

  Emad held up his hand to stop me. “It is easy, Omar. The only solution is to leave her. That will be best for both of you. This relationship has stolen too much energy, and you have to let her go. If it is meant to be, life will bring her back, but you must end it for now.”

  I’d come all that way just to hear him proclaim that to me in less than ten minutes, to tell me what I knew all along. The thing I love most about Emad is that he is a straight talker, always willing to give his honest take on things, even if it hurts.

  We talked about Baghdad, and he was a little less hostile as we discussed Iraq. I was glad to hear that he had finally started to move on from the tragic death of his father, though I couldn’t blame him for taking his time with that.

  “Corruption, Emad. Corruption,” I said. “The whole government reeks of it. I don’t see any new hospitals or schools, and unemployment has skyrocketed. Security hasn’t improved, and we still struggle to maintain constant electricity. They’ve been taking us for a ride for the past ten years.”

  It felt good to end our talk with that, to get some sadness of our chests and share our hopes for a better future. Over the next two days, it was like old times. Emad made me laugh, and we enjoyed each other’s company, just as we did twenty years ago.

  ***

  Three days later, at seven p.m. on October 8, I stepped down from a two-hour train ride and made my way to the flat I rented, right next to the canal in Salzburg, a cozy place that overlooked the old town, with the Festung Castle at the top. Salzburg is beautiful, and it looks even better during fall, with the cloudy skies on the horizon, like a scene right out of a fairytale or gothic novel.

  It was a bit chilly when I got there, far colder than it was in Munich. I was in for a long day, and I had to prepare for it. I wore my dark jeans and a white shirt. To combat the chill, I donned my black coat, matching black shoes, and a thick, silver scarf. I stood on the balcony for a few moments, just to make sure I didn’t need to pile on any more layers.

  I made my down and walked the narrow cobblestone streets. I left my cell phone in the flat. To hell with technology, I thought, wanting to relive the old days, free from all the chains of digital connection. I wanted to be a soul at large, to get lost in the world, away from everything. The streets were mostly empty, which did not come as a surprise. I had been to Salzburg ten years earlier, and I knew it would be quiet that time of year, and it was exactly what I wanted.

  I walked street after narrow street for over two hours, and I passed dozens of churches and what seemed like hundreds of quaint little shops. I was lost in my thoughts, my wonderings about the unknown. Emad’s words lurked deep within me. Mentally, I was halfway on the right path but still partially lost. Physically, I didn’t know where I really was, but my feet were a bit tired, and I was getting too cold.

  I realized I should have brought gloves, and I was in bad need of a drink. The street was dark, with only a few low lights on in some of the closed shops. “Let fate, chance, or time decide,” I muttered to myself with a smile. “I will ignore the first bar I see, even if I have to walk for ages. The second bar I see will deliver my drink.”

  I continued walking and passed a bar five minutes later. From the outside, the place seemed lively, filled with heat, noise, and laughter, but I stuck to my decision and continued on. The second bar was a few hundred feet away, a cozy, small, quiet little pub on the street corner. I tried to read the marquis, but the German word was too long and difficult for me to pronounce or understand. Nevertheless, sticking to my plan, I took off my scarf and stepped inside.

  The place was almost vacant, occupied only by the bartender, an old woman with short, white hair, and an older-looking man sitting alone at the far end of the bar, likely a regular. I assumed both were in their late 60s. The place was truly relaxing, lined with shelves of books on the right. There had to be hundreds of volumes, neatly organized and piled on top of each other. On the left, the bar held more spirits than I’d ever seen in one place before, and there was an area full of wine, reds on one side and white on the other. The only source of light in the place were a few candles scattered about, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls and book spines and glimmering reflections off the wine bottles.

  Hanging on what was left of the walls were four paintings, in autumnal themes. I decided I would have to ask about those later, because they were really quite intriguing. There were only five tables, with matching chairs made of thick, heavy wood. Lucky Number 2, I thought, as the quiet place seemed like paradise to my busy head.

  I carefully placed my coat on the hanger and looked at the old lady. “Guten abend,” I greet
ed.

  She greeted me with a warm smile. She could tell by my accent that I was not from the region, and spared me the blushes by asking in English, “Wine or beer?”

  “I’ll take whatever red wine you would have if you thought your world was about to collapse.”

  The old man at the far end laughed. “Give him our wine, Maria,” he said, then got up to leave. “Enjoy your night. It sounds like it may be a long one,” he threw over his shoulder before he departed.

  “My husband,” the old woman said, shaking her head and lifting her hands in the air. She smiled again and winked one of her big, beautiful blue eyes at me.

  I nodded and smiled back.

  The lady grabbed a chair and stood on it to pull a bottle of red wine from the highest shelf. “We have only seven bottles of this left. It’s local, 2004. Our friend made several barrels especially for us. He passed away a few years ago, and so did his business, so it’s a bit special. If you don’t mind, I’ll have a glass with you. I’m sure you’ll love it,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “As you take the first sip, hold it for a few seconds, to let your mouth take in all the taste. Then you can swallow,” she advised.

  I followed her instructions, like a good little boy obeying his mama. She was right; it was perfect. As soon as it touched my tongue, I felt a floral note that slowly settled down and ended with a bit of bitterness as I allowed the precious red liquid to flow down my throat. As she promised, I absolutely loved it.