Baghdad: The Final Gathering

by Ahmad Ardalan

  The old couple had me at that first sip. A few glasses later, I had learned a lot about my hostess. She and Martin had been married for thirty-nine years. He was Scottish, so fascinated by the musical genius of Mozart that he decided to study music in Salzburg, the city that gave birth to the classical prodigy.

  “I was walking back home one day,” Maria said, “carrying hot bread from the bakery, when Martin saw me pass by. He approached me immediately. I knew he was not from here, because no Austrian boy would ever be so bold. I just ignored him, despite my admiration for his courage. He tried twenty more times at that same spot for the next month, and I finally gave in. Two years later, we got married, and he never went back to Scotland.” She told me they had one child who left to pursue his acing dreams in Los Angeles a decade ago. “Last time we heard from him was two years ago,” she said, somewhat sadly, “and we’ve been alone ever since.”

  I could tell right away that Maria was pure and genuine, a good soul. In spite of her heartaches and trials, she seemed so content and happy, and I enjoyed listening to her. By the time we started the second bottle, I was the one doing the talking.

  I started from the beginning, right from the first dinner I had with Ibrahim, Fatima, and my late wife. I told her all that was inside me, and she listened carefully to every word. When I finally quieted, with nothing more to say, Maria slowly walked around from behind the bar and took a seat next to me.

  “I have two, maybe three questions.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “First of all, you seem to be a successful person in life, an adventurous soul, I’d say. Will this Fatima still allow you to enjoy what you already have? Will she inspire you to do more, drive you on?” she asked, holding my hand in hers.

  “I am sure she will. We make each other better. I complete her, and she completes me. We enjoy every minute when we are together. Even the small things in life are enough for a lifetime when we share them,” I replied. As I said the words, for just a brief second, I pictured Fatima running away from me in the rain in New York a few years back, during our one and only trip alone.

  Maria, snapped her finger, jolting me back to reality. “All right. Second,” she continued, “you said you will not be accepted socially if you are together. Although I am not from your Iraqi or part of Arabic society, I can imagine the difficulty. Are you ready to weather that storm? Will you two be able to ride that difficult tide till you safely reach the shore?”

  “I am more ready than you can imagine, Maria. For over ten hectic years, I have been building a strong raft to carry us through.”

  “Dear Omar, you have confirmed my initial doubt with your answer to my second question.”

  “I have?”

  “You said, ‘I,’ not ‘we.’”

  “Yes, but that was not a mistake. I’ve done more than she has, because I’m not scared of anything. The way I see it, this is my life, not my aunts’, uncles’, friends’, or cousins’. I am the face she will wake up to the next day for the rest of our lives, not someone else. This is a fact, and I am ready for it.”

  “If what you’re telling me is accurate, you love her like crazy. Does she love you the same, enough to ride that raft of yours?”

  I stayed quiet for a minute, but just as I was about to answer, Maria stopped me.

  “Crazy is instant, impulsive. It is not tomorrow, next week, or a year from now. You know what to do, my boy. Now goodnight.”

  I nodded, wearing no smile this time, gathered my coat and scarf, put them on, and made my way out.

  It was a full moon, way past midnight, and I could barely hear a sound. “How many full moons have I walked under all these years, thinking about the same thing?” I say to myself.

  I was not sober and was not even sure where I was, but I knew if I found the river, I could easily spot my place, because it was the only building with a red door. The trouble was that I had no idea what direction the river was.

  The narrow, old streets of the town began to seem more familiar as I walked on. If not for that excellent wine, I would have been in bed already, but thirty minutes had passed, and I realized I was going in circles. I was exhausted and sat down to rest on a wooden bench. I wasn’t sure if I dozed off or not, but the next thing I saw was the cemetery near the foot of the Festung.

  I had no idea how I got there, but I loved that very calming place, where Mozart’s sister is buried and the final scene of The Sound of Music was filmed. The graves and tombs are beautiful, decorated with amazing flowers. In spite of the macabre fact that it is where the dead sleep, it is a heavenly place. The door was closed but not locked. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was close to five a.m., just before the break of dawn, so I decided to go into the cemetery for a walk. I spent about an hour in there, sitting sometimes and walking once in a while. When I heard footfalls on the nearby streets, I left the place and finally headed home. For some reason, that old cemetery made me feel better.

  I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, and I didn’t wake up till around three p.m. When I opened my eyes, I knew exactly what I had to do. Emad, Salzburg, Maria, the wine, and the old graveyard had helped. I had to bid Austria goodbye, and the best way I knew to do that was to enjoy the natural view from the window of a train.

  My next stop was Milan, where my cousin Fares resided. I was sure my visit would be a great surprise, since we hadn’t seen each other in seven years. When I talked to him several months earlier, he seemed well and was busy with the hookah bar he had opened.

  The scenery along the way was amazing, like a continuous portrait. Hours later, we pulled into my stop, Milan Centrale. I had been at the station a dozen times or so, but I am always amazed by that station, with its architecture and wall paintings. I’d rate it as one of my top four, along with Antwerp, Porto, and Grand Central in New York. I had been in Milan several times. A few of those visits were to meet Roberto, and other trips were business related. It is a city of fashion, and people tend to think of the Duomo or the city of the two Milan giants in soccer. Personally, I know it as the place of miracles.

  ***

  Fate again played a role in that name. Back In 2009, I finally closed my arcade and playground in Baghdad, as I had received several threats before: bullets in envelopes, verbal threats by phone, and finally, three bullets fired at the house. I found an envelope on my car, containing a note that said, “Get out.” Baghdad and all of Iraq had become extremely dangerous. The sectarian violence reached alerting levels that time, and people were being killed just because of their names or the tribes they were believed to belong to. Sunnis and Shias killed, and kidnappings and torture was running rampant in what used to be a united country. It was unbelievable, and it broke my heart. Still, I did not leave because I fear dying. Rather, I believe in fate; when my day comes, nothing will change it, not even a thousand bullets. I left because I knew it was not a good place for Sarah to grow up, and I did not want her to live in constant fear or in harm’s way. Also, my parents, who lived with me at the time, are too old for it, and I had to live to take care of Fatima and her family.

  I sold the business, all the arcades, and my gaming license for just under $400,000. I lost part of my soul the minute I looked back at the place, as the car was driving away. It had been my treasure for over fifteen years, my dream. I wanted to open a chain, many more facilities, but in the end, I had only one that I had to sell. I kept my home intact, as I refused to sell it; I knew my uncle and his family would take good care of the place.

  It was a new Iraq, a place where people lost their loved ones, fled their homes, and closed their businesses. Too many were just memories, buried in one of the many cemeteries in this what was once a beautiful country.

  With the money I received from the sale of my business, I bought a flat worth a third of that price in Amman, Jordan, the new place I would call home. The money I had left was poured into a new business, Leya’s Gallery.

  Through my father’s connections and mine, as
well as my lovely mother’s artistic experience, the art gallery took off well. My good old Italian friend Roberto, as well as several artists who fled Iraq, added to the collection, as did regional artists who were eager to show off their talent. The business did well right off the bat, and all those I had to take care of managed to live a good life with the fruits of our labors. That was the tip of the story.

  One day, I was in the great city of Milan, in negotiations with a well-known young artist who was interested in expanding to our region, as most of his contemporary paintings had Arabic letters between them. The young man’s choice of colors were dreamy, very addictive. The moment Roberto sent me some of his work by email, I knew it would be a big hit. I met with him for an hour, and we quickly agreed that he would display his work at Leya’s four weeks later. That left me plenty of time to spread the word and do some marketing for that event. He offered to bring twenty-nine pieces of his work, netting me over $35,000.

  I was in a celebrating mood, so I had a few drinks at the hotel bar. One of my good college friends, Numan, who resided in Bergamo, just a half-hour from Milan, called and wanted to meet up. He soon joined me in the lobby for a few more drinks, and we decided to go to a casino to have a little fun.

  I had just lost around 450 euros when I got a call that nearly knocked me down for the count. It was my dad, and I felt the trembling in his voice.

  “Your brother has been kidnapped,” he said. “A four-wheel-drive black Jeep stopped him and his friend, just after they picked up Mr. Malaah’s painting. They say we have forty-eight hours to give them $150,000, or they will cut his…” He trailed off, unable to finish the threat, due to his sobs.

  “I’ll be back on the first flight tomorrow, Dad,” I said. “I promise I’ll get him out of this. Tell Mother I will,” I said. I ended the call knowing I needed a real miracle in order to keep that promise. Not sure what else to do, I frantically made a few calls, trying to gather as much information as possible about what happened.

  Numan was sitting close by, just as worried as I was after he overheard part of the conversation. “Come on,” he said, and we sat down on the floor, just opposite to one of the roulette tables.

  “I am to blame,” I told him sadly. “My brother hasn’t been involved with any Iraqi business for a long time. I dragged him back. He was a respectful pilot, doing his work. Baghdad Airport is the only piece of land he’s set foot in Iraq in the past six years.”

  We have had lots of success with Mr. Malaah in the past few months, and he was going to exhibit another collection with us. There were three paintings in his attic at his home, and we were supposed to exhibit them within a week. My brother was supposed to fly to Baghdad at night and land at 7:45. Instead of spending the night at the airport, he was going to stay at his friends place, and around nine p.m., they planned to go to the home of the painter’s nephew, pick up the paintings, and fly out the next day. Instead, just a few minutes after he picked up the paintings, right after he and his friend left the neighborhood, they were ambushed and taken by a militia.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I only have $25,000 in my account, and even if I sold my flat or loaned it to the bank, it will take more than two days. Not only that, but tomorrow is Saturday, and the banks are closed in Jordan.”

  “I have $10,000 I’d be happy to give you,” Numan offered.

  I thanked him for the kind gesture, but I knew I needed the whole ransom sum, and I needed it fast. I simply didn’t have time to collect partial payments.

  I stood quickly, for it was time to act. Life is so hysterical, I thought. Just an hour earlier, I was pissed off about losing 450 euros at one of the roulette tables, but that suddenly seemed like peanuts to me. There was no humor in the irony, though, because I knew my brother was in real, genuine trouble.

  As we made our way out of the casino, I had to stop in the washroom. My face felt like it was on fire, and I washed it again and again with cold water. “What now?” I said as I looked in the mirror, but the man in the mirror had no answer.

  I reached into my jacket pocket for a handkerchief and dried my face. Out of curiosity, I checked my other pocket for my passport, but it was not there. I was sure I had it when I entered the casino, as it was the ID I had used it when the kind gentleman with the ponytail checked me in. I checked all my pockets again and again but found nothing.

  I ran back to tell Numan the bad news, and we hurried to the front desk and inquired about it, only to be told that no one had turned it in. I retraced all my steps, but there was no sign of it. We desperately searched again and again, and on our third sweep, we finally lucked out and spotted the passport stuck under one of the roulette table chairs. I picked it up and signed in relief.

  Three men were standing at the table, and I looked at them nodded. Just as I was about to make my way out, I turned and looked at the table screen. That table had a minimum bet of twenty euros, and the sky was the limit. At that moment, my favorite number, twenty-one, was a bonus, with double the take; it had always been my lucky number, since my daughter was born on the twenty-first. The ball had been on over 210 runs, so it would be very lucky if the ball hit it head on.

  I looked at Numan, then glanced down at my wayward passport. I thought about the 1,800 euros remaining in my wallet. It has to be fate, I thought. Otherwise, why and how did my passport find its way here? Why is my lucky number twenty-one the bonus? I felt something and knew it was the right time.

  Just as the dealer dropped the ball and turned the roulette handle, I took the 1,800 euros out of my wallet and placed it all on twenty-one. The three men in suits looked stunned, as did Numan, but I felt that number calling to me, and I answered the call. One minute later, I had over $165,000 in chips in front of me, and Numan and three men were jumping up and down. The casino transferred the money to my bank, and the very next day, I was in Baghdad, with the cash in hand.

  The trade-off was set for nine thirty the next day, at a location we did not know till six a.m. that day. Around ten a.m. that morning, the foul kidnappers were $150,000 richer, and we had my brother safely back. Millions upon millions of euros couldn’t have made up for that, but revenge is always sweet, and I would make sure it was served cold, with the help of some luck and money.

  The criminal gang was caught just two months later. If you have money and know where to ask, you will get answers. The painter’s cousin was part of the gang, yet another of the miserable consequences the fabricated war had heaped upon Iraq, injustice in every aspect of life. Before the war, he was just like any other teenager, but in the absence of law and under the influence of bad people, there is always evil under the sun. We had plenty of sun in Iraq, so it is easy to imagine the rest.

  In the end, thanks to Milan and my lucky twenty-one, our family was safely reunited, and the guilty ones were caught.

  ***

  This time around, it was just a casual trip, with no casino and hopefully no emergencies to contend with. I just wanted to surprise my cousin, smoke one of his hookahs, have lunch, and then catch my flight. My phone call to Fatima, with my final decision, would be made from my library room at home, with a Turkish coffee in my hand.

  I was glad Fares was back on his feet. His love for Deena will always be with him, but he had to move on, and he was now living with an Italian lady about his age. They seemed happy together. His hookah lounge was wonderfully decorated, with a mixture of both Arabic and modern décor, and it was quite successful. Everything seemed good, and that was more than good enough for me.

  “Ah, Fares, I will never forget the clap,” I said as I gave my goodbyes.

  With both Emad and Fares doing well and my mind finally set on my next move, I was truly content.

  I arrived late that night, but my daughter was still awake, walking around the house in her pink pajamas, with a phone in one hand and lecture notes in the other. We had talked about her studies, and she was already into her final semester. Sarah planned to continue her education in the U
K, most interested in social science. Despite being just a toddler when her mother passed away, she had heard a lot about Farah’s work, and she still recalls her mother telling her how important it is to give to those in need. She wants to follow her footsteps, and I admirably respect that desire.

  We often talked for hours, and sometimes I just stared at her as I listened. I couldn’t believe how quickly time had passed, for my cute little baby was now a fireball, a girl full of energy, someone who loves taking risks like sky diving and snorkeling. I traveled a lot for work and was often absent from our home, but she knew that in the end, it was all for her. My parents always took good care of her while I was gone, and I am a very lucky father, because my daughter turned out so great.

  It was past midnight, and I was still in the library, drinking the coffee Sarah made before she fell asleep. I received a call from Hana. Although they were divorced for the second time, she and Aws still talk, and of course they’d had another fight. “He was barely sober when I talked to him last week,” she said. “He just shouted and screamed, completely out of control.”

  If anyone from our unbreakable group of four messed up his life, it was Aws. We dared not try to count the mistakes he’s made over the years, because it would only tire out our tongue muscles. I did not exactly win the Nobel Prize for a perfect life, but my mess was nothing like his. I knew how to take care of those around me and protect my image and reputation, but that lesson seemed to be lost on him.

  The last time I’d seen Aws was about two months before. We both lived in Amman, but I was busy building our business and mentally busy with my ongoing love problem. He was busy gambling and sharing his thoughts with his dearest friend, the booze.

  “This has to stop,” I told Hana, for what she told me sickened me to the core. “I will see what I can do.”

  The next day, I arrived at the new flat he moved into after his second divorce six months ago. It was eight p.m., and I didn’t bother knocking; I just used the key he’d given me and invited myself in. It wasn’t really a bold move on my part, as Aws had freely given me the key the first day he moved in and said, “Omar, more than twenty-five years ago, we shared a tree all year. Consider this our new tree.” In that moment, by the way he was talking, I knew he was on a downward spiral; it was like an S.O.S. in the making, from him to his oldest friend.