I left his office and headed to the library to use the dictionary to help me understand the English texts and captions accompanying the images. I sat leafing through the book fondly, reading all about Giacometti’s life. I was fascinated by his work and wanted to know its secrets, so I started looking at his family photos wanting to know everything about him as if he’d become a relative. I learned that he was born in 1901 in Switzerland and died in 1966 after living through two world wars. Perhaps that explained the sadness in his works. He had studied in Paris with Bourdelle, who had worked with Rodin, but his work was so distinct that it was difficult to categorize. His statues were conspicuously thin, as if they were threads or thin mummies exhumed out of tombs. The body was always naked and with minimal features. Some works were of a hand waving alone without a body. Humans, in Giacometti’s world, be they men or women, appeared sad and lonely, with no clear features, emerging from the unknown and striding toward it.
There was one page in the book that had quotations by Giacometti. One of them stayed with me. He said that what he’d wanted to sculpt was not man but the shadow he leaves behind.
TWELVE
The first week of my fourth year at the academy I saw Reem sitting on a bench near the theater department all in black and wearing sunglasses. I approached her and said hello. She greeted me amicably but apologized for not recognizing or remembering me. I reminded her of my name and my silly joke about trying to save her from drowning after that exercise and of our short conversation at the cafeteria. I asked her about the black she was wearing. She said that her ex-husband had died two months before. I offered my condolences. She thanked me and smiled, saying that he was an officer and had died on the front line. I mentioned that my brother was a martyr, too. I didn’t want to burden her so I didn’t ask why she’d been away for so long, but I asked whether she was back in school. She nodded with a smile. Death had brought her back to me.
THIRTEEN
One morning I surprised Reem with a question I’d been meaning to ask but had hesitated to pose: “Did you love him a lot?”
“Who?”
I found it strange that she didn’t realize I meant her ex-husband. “The deceased.”
She turned to me and looked at me with her magic eyes. We were sitting next to each other under the palm tree she loved. Then she looked straight ahead without saying a word. I feared that I’d hurt her feelings or reopened wounds that had yet to heal, so I said “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to … ”
She smiled and said, “No, it’s not a problem. It’s a sensitive subject. I will answer you when I can trust you more.”
“And when will that be?”
“Don’t rush.”
After that day I was careful not to bring up her marriage again. Two months later we were sitting at the cafeteria of the British Council near the academy. She asked me about my relationship with my father. I told her about my clashes with him, that he was disappointed in me because I had decided not to follow in his footsteps and insisted on studying art, which he thought was a waste of time.
She said that her father never paid any attention to what she did or wanted to do. “I wish he’d insisted I study one thing or even objected to my studying at the academy. I would’ve interpreted that as a sign that he cared or loved me. But he was always busy with his business and I rarely saw him. Only his wife, who was another of his profitable deals, could compete for the attention he usually devoted to his business. He married her after my mother passed away. After moving in with us, she turned my life into hell and fought me in every way possible. So marriage was my only escape.
“I didn’t love my husband, but I hoped that living with him would lead to another kind of love. I’d fallen in love with a young man who lived on our street when I was in high school, but I later realized that it wasn’t a serious or meaningful relationship. We were both young and spoke on the phone a great deal, whispering and whatnot. We met every now and then whenever it was possible. It withered away when he moved with his family to al-Sayyidiyya. It was quite far and he didn’t have a car. Our nocturnal chats became less frequent and the whole thing just died.
“During the summer vacation right before I entered the academy, one of my relatives asked for my hand. I’d seen him two or three times at weddings. He had studied engineering and then became a lieutenant in the Republican Guards. He got two medals for bravery during the war. He’d seen me once leaving high school and offered to drive me home. I thanked him politely but refused his offer. He later confessed that it wasn’t a coincidence at all and that he had approached me so as to test the waters. Although I never believed in traditional marriage, my only goal was to free myself from my stepmother, and I came to the conclusion that I had no choice but to compromise.
“Ayad was handsome. He was pleasant during the initial visits. Throughout our engagement he would come every three weeks during his leaves from the army. He was very gentle and understanding at first and promised that I could complete my studies and be independent. I liked his maturity, especially when I informed him that I didn’t want to have kids until after my studies. He agreed and said that he would want to be in Baghdad, not on the front, when his children were born so he could raise them himself. It seemed that the war would go on for another two or three years anyway.
“Since living alone was impossible financially and socially, I decided that marriage was the best choice among a set of bad options. My father didn’t care that much. He said that Ayad was successful and established financially and that would guarantee me a secure future. I felt he was talking about one of those profitable deals he was so good at. As for my stepmother, she didn’t even bother to hide how happy she was to be getting rid of me.
“The wedding took place at the Sheraton, and our honeymoon was one week at the Habbaniyya Lake Resort. He went back to the front line afterward and I went to our little nest, which he’d bought in Zayyuna, next to the Fashion House. His salary was excellent, but he’d also inherited money from his father, who’d died two years before in a car accident.
“Our problems started during his second leave, when I realized that the polite Ayad was a mountain hiding a volcano. It was very easy for it to pour lava on everything and everyone around. It was never easy to predict what would set the volcano off. The first eruption was because my cooking failed to rise to his standards. I wasn’t a great cook, but I tried earnestly and enlisted the help of my maternal aunt. I hand-copied my grandmother’s famous recipes to secure his satisfaction. He said that even the army food was better than my cooking. I apologized and promised to improve with practice. I had warned him when we were engaged that I was not a good cook, but he’d said that he was used to army food and we’d cook together. His sweet talk during our engagement was like the courting of political parties before they assume power.
“He used to always apologize and shower me with kisses, especially on my hands, after hitting me. He used to buy me gifts and promise that he would never lift his hand against me again and that it was the last time. But every time was the last time. In one of his fits of rage, he broke my arm. The pain was so excruciating he took me to the Tawari’ Hospital at night and told them that I’d tripped and fallen down the stairs. I kept silent, but my tears were obvious. I sensed that the resident doctor suspected my husband’s story, but all he did was look at him suspiciously. I thought about screaming that he had hit me. But who was going to believe that a valiant officer who had been awarded three medals by the president would harm his own wife?
“After that, I decided to move back to my father’s house. Ayad apologized and pleaded, but I’d heard it all before.
“I tried to feel some sadness when Ayad died, but I couldn’t. I was so relieved that I felt guilty for that. My tears at the funeral were genuine, but I was crying for myself and all the years of my life that had died. I visit Ayad’s mother sometimes. She’s a kind person. She knew how cruel he was and understood my suffering. But she still keeps a framed photo of him o
n her TV: Ayad accepting a medal from Saddam Hussein.”
FOURTEEN
She was cautious with me at the outset of our friendship. More than once she made me feel that I had to slow down. I learned to be patient, to crawl into her heart instead of storming it impulsively.
With time, friendship turned into something more intense. We didn’t talk about what we felt precisely, but our silent gazes meeting for a few seconds were eloquent. When we walked or sat together, I felt the air between us grow moist. Often I drew her and gave her my sketches. She would thank me shyly and say, “Is there no one else for you to draw? No other subject?” I would answer, “No, no one but you.”
I once told her that I would love to sculpt her.
“And the price?”
“For free. A gift. But, you have to … you know. For it to be exact.” Then I gestured with my hands that she would have to get naked.
She laughed out loud: “No way. That’s an old trick. A tree could grow on your head and I would still not allow you.”
“Alas, had you said ‘When a tree grows on your head, then I will allow you,’ I would have at least tried to plant one there.”
She laughed, “Anyway, if your style is abstract as you claim, why do you need a model?”
“Inspiration, my dear colleague.”
“Oh, how collegial of you!”
Suddenly, three months later, she invited me to have lunch at her house. I asked her who would be there.
“Why? Are you afraid?”
I laughed. “No, but am I not allowed to ask?”
“My father is at work and his wife is on a trip to Mosul. Do you want to invite anyone else?”
“No, the two of us will do.”
It wasn’t the first time we’d been alone in her car. We had occasionally gone to plays together, and she would drive me home afterward. But this was the first time I was going to her house or anywhere knowing that we would be by ourselves.
The house was in al-Jadiriyya, huge and elegant. She let me in through the kitchen door and I followed her along a corridor to the guest room. She asked me to make myself at home while she heated the food. I asked whether she needed any help. “No, you are my guest,” she said. She offered me a drink, but I declined. She smiled and left me contemplating the extravagant furniture and precious Persian carpets.
She returned ten minutes later carrying a tablecloth and plates with silverware. She spread the white tablecloth and then set plates down in front of two of the eight chairs. One was at the head of the table and the other right next to it so that we would occupy a corner. I wasn’t used to all these elaborate preparations for a meal. I followed her into the kitchen. She laughed: “Where are you going?”
“It’s not right. I have to help you.”
She scooped the yellow rice she’d warmed into a big dish and asked me to carry it. It was mixed with almonds, raisins, and pieces of chicken. The smell of saffron filled the air. I took the dish and put it on the table. When I went back to the kitchen she pointed to a big salad bowl she’d taken out of the fridge. “That one, too, please.” She followed me carrying a tray that had two bottles of Pepsi, two glasses, and some bread. We sat down to eat.
I loved to watch her do anything, no matter how mundane or casual. I loved to watch her eat. The food was good, and I asked who should be praised. She said the maid, an experienced cook, came three times a week. I asked about her battles with her stepmother. She said that peace now prevailed, because her father had remodeled the house after she had moved back in. He had built an additional room on the second floor. A living room next to her bedroom served as an office and a TV room. She had her own bathroom, so she came downstairs only to eat, and she rarely had to deal with her stepmother. She said, as she smiled shyly, that she would show me what she called her private wing after lunch. I interpreted this as an encouraging sign.
After we finished eating I thanked her and we took the dishes back to the kitchen. She said I could wash my hands in the bathroom upstairs. We went up the stairs, which were made of marble tiles and led to a wooden door. She opened it and I closed it behind us. The first door on the left was the bathroom. She opened the door and showed me in, saying she was going to fetch a towel. Her bathroom was bigger than my bedroom. The walls and floor were tiled in light blue. The floor was covered with tiny dark blue rugs. There was a tub behind a see-through curtain. The oval basin was sky-blue.
I turned the faucet knobs, trying to find the right combination of cold and hot water. I took the yellow bar of soap and lathered my hands and mouth. I gargled and rinsed my mouth and hands and then shut the faucet.
She came in and handed me a white towel.
I took the towel with my left hand and put my right hand on her left. She didn’t pull away. I told her: “I want to wash your hands.”
She laughed: “What? Why?”
I pulled her gently to the basin and turned the faucet on again. I put the new towel over the old one, which was on the bar to the right of the basin. I held both of her hands and put them under the water. She didn’t say a word. I took the soap and lathered her right hand carefully, first the knuckles, then the palm, and then I placed each one of her fingers between my thumb and index finger and rubbed them. I did the same with her left hand and then rinsed them both with water before shutting the faucet. She was looking at me the whole time, smiling. I took the towel and dried both of her hands. After I put the towel back on the bar, I held her hands and looked into her eyes. She smiled and said “Thank you” in a hushed voice.
I pulled her toward me and moved my face closer to hers, but she pulled away. I was disappointed, but then she said, “Let me wash my mouth first.” She laughed and added, “You forgot to wash it! Go and wait for me. I’ll be there right away.”
I stood outside the bathroom watching her wash her mouth. She saw me looking at her in the mirror and smiled. She dried her mouth with the towel. She opened the cupboard and took out some lipstick and put a touch of her favorite pink on her lips. She came out of the bathroom, shut the door behind her, and leaned on the wall next to it, just a few steps from me. I approached and stood close to her. Looking at her lips, I leaned over. She closed her eyes and I lightly grazed her lips with mine. Then again. I kissed the right edge of her lips. My mouth slipped toward her right cheek. I moved to her neck. I put my arms around her waist. She sighed and leaned her head back. I felt her hands on my shoulders. I kissed her neck and inhaled that jasmine perfume which had so dizzied me for months.
I encircled her neck with my kisses, then my mouth climbed, kiss by kiss, to her chin. I trapped her upper lip between my lips. She parted her lips and our tongues met. Her thighs had moved closer to my body, and she must have felt my erection. I put my right hand on her breast and tried to unbutton her shirt, but she held my hand and lowered it. She pushed me away gently without saying anything and then walked toward a door at the end of the corridor. I followed her.
Her bedroom was huge. The walls were white and the floor was covered with Persian carpets. There was a medium-size bed with white sheets. The wall above it had a huge black-and-white photo of a table in a café with a closed book and an empty cup of coffee on it—it looked European. The left side of the room had a huge mirror behind a table and a chair. Next to them was a chest made of Indian oak.
She stood by the bed and then turned toward me. She was wearing a white shirt and a gray skirt which barely covered her knees. I approached her and kissed her with more confidence this time. She put her arms around me. I started to unbutton her white shirt and saw her white bra hiding her full breasts. I moved the shirt away to kiss her left shoulder and then kissed her upper arm. She started kissing my neck and I felt fire in my bones.
I went back to her shoulder and moved her bra strap aside to kiss her shoulder again. Then I moved down to the slopes of her left breast. I could smell her perfume again. I removed her shirt and tossed it on the bed. I took her in my arms, kissed her neck again and fumbled with her bra.
She laughed and undid it herself and tossed it on the floor. She started to unbutton my shirt as I kissed her pear-shaped breasts and erect nipples. She took off my shirt and let it fall to the floor. She took off her shoes and kicked them aside. I did the same and bent down to quickly remove my socks. I found my mouth right in front of her navel so I kissed it, and found that she was ticklish. We peeled each other piece by piece until all she wore were her black panties. These she grasped with both hands and lowered to her feet. Her pubic hair was shaved. I I took off my white underpants. I was very hard. Naked now except for the gold chain around her neck with her name engraved on it, she lay on the bed sideways.
I knelt and started kissing her knees and then made my way up her left thigh with my lips all the way to her hip, her tummy, and her navel again to tickle her. She giggled and put her fingers through my hair. I climbed on top of her and took her left nipple between my lips. My tongue circled around it a few times before moving to the right. She was sighing and moving under me like a wave. My tongue climbed to her neck and mouth. She kissed me, open-mouthed. I bit her lower lip and my tongue wandered inside her mouth. I went down again to her breasts and nipples and then her navel and kissed her right below it. She had parted her thighs a bit. I surrounded them with my arms and gently kissed her soft inner thighs. Her sighs intensified. I kissed in between. She tasted like the sea. I kept plowing with my tongue and she kept rising in waves until her body overflowed.
The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) Page 5