Istabraq would read our letters when she delivered them. She read my poems, astonished, wishing that Sirat could write poetry like me. As for Aliya, she never mentioned my poems in her letters. I wasn’t able to get to be alone with her through all our years in Subh Village, even though I would watch for her day and night from my window. I would intentionally create “chance” encounters in order to exchange a greeting. I would hide myself on the overhanging bank in order to see her when she came to the shore of the river on their horse to let it drink, with her hair flying behind her like the wings of a happy bird. I would see the gleaming of her legs when she waded in the water, the clenching of each buttock when she bent over, scooping up water to drink or to wash her hair. And I was sadder than everyone else when Istabraq’s illness got worse and confined her to bed because the letters to and from Aliya were cut off.
I would sit near Istabraq’s head, taking her skinny, hot hand between mine, kissing her fingers and crying. I had learned this practice from Grandfather, whose heart would break whenever he saw one of us bedridden. He would sit near our head, caressing our hands and foreheads with extreme tenderness, reciting Qur’anic verses and prayers for healing, interceding with God “as though he saw Him.” For that reason, the days when we were sick were the days when we were closest to Grandfather. Whenever we were healthy, we regarded him as extremely aweinspiring and severe, even though we never saw him hit anyone. But he was more tender toward us than our mothers were when we were sick. So much so, that it sometimes made me long to be sick in order to win the tender caress of his fingers.
Istabraq was my favorite sibling and the closest to me in spirit. She played with me, she organized my room for me, we clipped each other’s fingernails, and when Mother was too busy for her, I would help her comb her hair. She would save pieces of dessert for me when I was away, and I would do the same for her. We would share secrets that we wouldn’t reveal to the rest of our siblings. I would deliver her love letters to Sirat, and she would take mine to Aliya. Everyone in our family knew of our partiality for each other and the warmth of our love. That was why Grandfather and my father chose me, and only me, to go with them when they decided to take Istabraq to the Kurdish sheikh for treatment. And that was why my heart fell with her as she dropped out of my arms when we first got out of the car in that sheikh’s courtyard and we heard the sound of the shot and Grandfather’s cry, “God is great!”
Terrified, I fell to my knees beside her head. After looking her over and not seeing any blood, I shook her shoulders and called to her, hoping that she would open her eyes. “Istabraq! My dear Istabraq!”
The Kurdish sheikh came running toward us from the direction of the shot, that is, from the house. He was carrying an old hunting rifle, its muzzle still smoking. He yelled at me, “Leave her, boy! Leave her alone!”
Grandfather repeated the same cry, “Leave her, Saleem!”
I lifted my hands off her without getting up or moving away, watching the two men as they embraced like kids whose team had won a tournament. Both gaunt and with white beards, they were of the same age and the same height. Grandfather was wearing his favorite suit for special occasions, the one we called a zabun, together with the traditional kuffiya headdress. The Kurd was wearing a suit with wide pants. He had wrapped around his waist a sash that matched the cloth of his turban. They couldn’t be more elegantly dressed, nor could they be hugging each other any harder.
They patted each other’s shoulders and repeated the same phrase: “Oh! My brother and my beloved in God, Mullah Mutlaq!”
“Oh! My brother and my beloved in God, Kaka Hammah.”
The Kurd corrected Grandfather, “Actually, I’m no longer Hammah. I’ve changed my name to Abd al-Shafi, the ‘Servant of the Healer,’ ever since God poured his blessings upon me.”
My father shook his hand, and Grandfather said, “This is my eldest son, Noah.” Then Grandfather stroked my head and said, “This is my grandson, Saleem, and his sister, Istabraq.”
The sheikh murmured the customary response, “Ah, for God’s good will upon you!”
Then the sheikh turned around and called to a girl standing in the door, “Bring me some water!”
She came running toward us in a multicolored dress, like a butterfly, with a gleaming shawl on the top of her head. The sheikh took the small bowl of water from her and asked, “The salt?”
She extended her other fist over his open palm and let the salt stream out of her hand. The sheikh began scattering the salt on the water in the bowl, muttering words we didn’t understand, reciting by heart with his eyes closed. Then he spat in the water and continued his enigmatic recitation. Using his index finger as a spoon, he plunged it into the water and stirred like someone stirring the sugar in his glass of tea. He sank his whole hand in the water and began walking around Istabraq’s corpse-like body, shaking the moisture off his fingers onto it and reciting, moving around, splashing her with droplets and reciting, until only a little remained in the bottom of the bowl. Then he stopped at her head, opposite me. He bent over and poured it all over her face and cried out with a voice that made me jump, “The all-living God!”
I saw Istabraq open her eyes and look at him. He smiled at her and said, “Welcome, my sweet child!” He straightened up, saying, “Bring her inside.”
He went toward Grandfather and put his arm around his shoulders to lead him toward the entrance of the house. My father, the butterfly girl, and I worked together to lift Istabraq up. She took her first steps leaning on me. Then I felt her walk on her own until we made it through the front door, which was a beautiful weave of wood, twisted copper, and colored glass.
The main room was spacious and resembled a mosque, with carpets and comfortable rugs covering the floor. Pillows were piled up on all sides. There were two columns the color of tree trunks in the middle, as well as a coal stove sunk into the wall under a square chimney. Through the chimney came the sound of cooing pigeons that had settled down on top of it in the nest of storks that had migrated. There were many doors in the far walls.
Grandfather and the sheikh sat down next to each other without releasing their intertwined fingers. In the back of the room, there was a bed made with a high pillow and a white sheet, decorated on the edges with flower blossoms. We laid Istabraq out on it, and the girl covered her. I sat at her feet, and my father sat a few feet away.
The sheikh said something to the girl in Kurdish, which we didn’t understand, but Grandfather, whose knowledge of that language surprised me, protested, “No, there’s no need to prepare food, sheikh! Our road is long, and we want to return before sunset.”
The girl paused, seeking further instructions. The sheikh spoke to her in Kurdish again, and off she went, whereupon Grandfather said, “Fine. As you wish.”
The sheikh commented, “We have an excellent turkey whose meat is worthy of our distinguished guests.”
They let go of each other’s hands, and the sheikh patted Grandfather’s thigh as he took the conversation in a different direction. “You’ve lost so much weight! But for my ever-present memory of you and the days we spent fighting alongside our cousin Rashid Ali, I wouldn’t have recognized you.”
“Diabetes,” Grandfather explained, “and the passing years.”
The sheikh commented happily, “Ah, too bad! But it’s only fair: you’ve been sucking on sugar your whole life, and now it’s time for it to suck on you!”
We all laughed while the sheikh stretched out his hand to Istabraq’s forehead. She was looking at us silently, with clear, beautiful eyes. Despite the faint yellow color that tinged their whites, they were gleaming. Their magic surprised me, as though I had never seen them before.
The sheikh said, “She was possessed by a demon, God curse it! It was feeding on her blood, so I killed it.”
His words surprised my father and me, while Grandfather replied with the equanimity of one familiar with such things, “God’s curse is ever upon Satan and his followers.”
&nbs
p; The butterfly girl opened a door, out of which came a tumult of voices. She entered carrying a tray filled with glasses of steaming tea. A group of children escaped from the doorway behind her, running noisily, shooting off in the direction of the courtyard to play. She brought the tray around the circle to us, and we took our glasses from it. She smiled at me when she leaned over in front of me, and I smelled her perfume, made from plant stems. When her sleeves pulled back, two white arms like slices of cheese appeared, adorned with delicate gold bracelets and a cheap digital watch.
She bent over the two old men, and the sheikh said to Grandfather, “This is Gulala, my youngest daughter. The last of my litter.”
He laughed, and Grandfather commented, “God preserve her!”
Her father asked her, “Where did you put the pen and notebook, my sweet girl?” She gestured with her head to the shelf behind him, speaking some word in Kurdish. He turned and picked up an old notebook. Its paper was yellow, resembling the paper of some of the books there, of which I recognized only the Qur’an. He tore out a sheet and put it on the notebook, which was resting on his thigh. Then he set about writing and asked, “What did you say the name of your daughter was?”
I answered faster than Grandfather, “Istabraq.”
He wrote and asked again, “And what is the name of her mother?”
I hesitated because we didn’t usually say the names of our mothers: I would always just call her “Mother.” So her name didn’t come to me as quickly as my name, for example, or those of my siblings. It was the same thing for us with Grandfather’s name since we called him “Father” when we were small and “Grandfather” when we grew up, while the others addressed him with “O Mullah!”
Father answered him, “Maryam.”
I asked Father in a whisper, “Why her mother’s name, and not yours, her father’s name?”
Sheikh Abd al-Shafi heard me and answered me from where he was, “On Judgment Day, we will all be called by the names of our mothers because the mother is single and indisputable, while the fathers might be numerous and uncertain.” Then the sheikh became engrossed in writing, drawing from time to time upon old books that he pulled from the small shelf behind him.
I glanced at Istabraq and saw her watching Father and me, so I smiled at her. She extended an arm out from under the sheet and beckoned me with the fingers of her outstretched hand. I reached over to her, and she interlaced her fingers through mine. Her palm was warm and radiated tenderness. She closed her eyes for a while before opening them on Father, who had come close to her face to ask in a low voice, “How are you doing, my dear?”
She nodded. He bent over her forehead to plant a light kiss there, then moved away with tears in his eyes.
Grandfather was looking curiously at what his friend was writing, his lips moving as Grandfather followed along. When the sheikh had finished writing, he began to fold the paper in a unique way, doubling it and then redoubling it upon itself until he had made it into the shape of a small triangle, which he closed by pushing a corner between the opening of the folds. He returned the notebook to the shelf and brought out from there a spool of thread. He drew about half a yard of the thread and inserted it through a corner of the triangle. Then he tied the two ends to make a necklace.
He held it out to Istabraq, saying, “Wear this around your neck always, day and night. Do not take it off, except when you are bathing.”
While I was helping Istabraq hang the paper necklace around her neck, I heard Grandfather say, “We have a sick cow. Write her a spell too, O sheikh!”
Turning back to get the notebook from behind him, the sheikh said, “At your service! It would be an honor. What’s wrong with her?”
Grandfather began describing for him the symptoms of our red cow’s illness. After making the cow’s necklace, he gave it to Grandfather and said, “May our Lord restore her health!”
After we finished sipping our glasses of tea, the sheikh approached Istabraq. He used his fingers to pull open her eyelids. Staring into her eyes, he said, “There are two small steps left and everything will be finished. Afterward, you’ll be a bride as good as new.” He yelled toward the far door, “Gulala!”
The butterfly girl approached. He spoke to her in Kurdish. She bent over my sister, and we understood that he wanted Istabraq to be carried to the middle of the square sitting area. So my father and I got up and laid her out on the carpet in the middle. The sheikh went around her, and Gulala arranged Istabraq’s dress so that it would cover her nicely. Then she took hold of Istabraq’s feet while the sheikh began stretching out her arms along the floor, parallel to her head. He took the fingers of her hands and made them touch each other, calling out to us, “Come over here! See how they are not equal. That’s natural: a person is like a car and needs a tune-up from time to time.”
The sheikh was both graceful and spry in his movements. Sitting at her head, he stretched out his legs and rested his feet against her shoulders. Then he began pulling hard on Istabraq’s arms while comparing her index fingers. Meanwhile, his butterfly girl kept her firm grip on Istabraq’s feet. He pulled her more than once, and each time Istabraq closed her eyes but didn’t groan.
Then the sheikh called, “Come and look! See how they are equal now. I will adjust you all, for all of us carry minor illnesses. These don’t hurt us, but they do add up. Come, my boy!”
He called me over after we had returned Istabraq to the bed, and I stretched myself out in her place on the carpet in the middle. I reached out my arms, and he called to the others, “Look!”
Meanwhile, I was conscious of the butterfly girl’s touch on my feet. What was the flavor of her white palms? Her tea had been delicious. The sheikh tugged forcefully on my right arm. He repeated that three times and said, “Finished!”
I sat upright and found myself face-to-face with the girl, who hadn’t taken her hands off my feet. “Thank you,” I whispered to her. She smiled.
I got up, and Grandfather lay down immediately in my place. The sheikh’s attitude made us like kids playing happily. When it was Father’s turn, all of us, including Istabraq, laughed to see his huge body and his belly, which lifted his robe in the middle like a tent. I sat right up next to the girl, holding one foot while she held the other. I could smell even more clearly the plant extract perfume that emanated from her.
Grandfather asked his friend, “And how will you pull someone like him?”
The sheikh answered with confidence, “I’ve pulled some who are fatter than him.” When he compared his index fingers, he said, “See how his body is the most balanced of you all. His fingers are nearly equal. He must work a lot. Work is health!”
When we returned to our places, the sheikh directed some words to his daughter. She brought him a small pouch, then headed to the door leading outside and called for the children, who came running. In the meantime, she gathered the empty glasses of tea and went out. The little ones stood before the sheikh in a line. When each child got to the front of the line, he would turn his back to the sheikh, who looked behind his ears. Then the sheikh would bring the child’s neck close to Istabraq’s eyes, saying, “Look. I’ve made an incision in the ears of each of them. It’s a simple thing. It doesn’t hurt, apart from a prick that you’ll barely feel. If the wound of any of them were fully healed, I’d cut the ear again in front of you.”
Each child went off at a run after showing himself to the surgeon. It seemed that they were used to doing this.
Gulala returned, carrying a copper washbasin and a pitcher of water. She set them down it the middle. Next, she went over to Istabraq and made her sit down. She pulled off Istabraq’s shawl and gathered her hair up. She took out Istabraq’s silver earrings: crescent moons with a star in the middle, from which other small moons hung down, each of which had a different colored bead in the middle. She examined them, then put them into Istabraq’s palm, which was lying in her lap.
The sheikh advised, “Don’t lose them while the wound is healing.”
He approached her from behind while taking a shaving razor out of his pouch. My heart trembled, and I hoped that Istabraq wouldn’t see the razor. She didn’t, just as the sheikh intended.
He reached out with the fingers of one hand to fold her ear down. Then he extended the razor blade and made an incision behind the ear, light and quick. He quickly did the same thing with the other ear. At the moment of each cut, Istabraq closed her eyes and only a small squeak came out of her mouth. The sheikh brought his pouch up to her head. Taking a little of the yellow powder inside between his fingertips, he used it to stop up the cuts he had made. Then he took out a matchstick, which he moistened with his tongue and stuck into the pouch. He began applying the powder to Istabraq’s eyelids and left them closed when he was done. Then he brought the open packet close to her nose and commanded, “Inhale! Inhale deeply!”
Afterward, he tied up the pouch and put it aside. Gulala turned around to bring the washbasin close to Istabraq’s chest. The sheikh said, “There! It’s all over. Wash your face and blow your nose. Blow your nose.”
Then he returned to his former seat next to Grandfather, explaining the procedure he had performed. “This is for the treatment of Yellowing Disease. I opened her arteries and put in dabagh, a powder from the dried rinds of pomegranates mixed with the powder of seeds from the Glowing Tree. This is a plant found only on the peaks of the Hasarost Mountains. The fruit it bears are small bells that are heavy with little seeds. Each bell has its own color which gives off light at night. There are seven seeds in each bell, and I pay one lamb per bell to those who go up the mountain. It’s a rare tree. Getting there and finding it is an arduous adventure. Yes, its colored bells give off light, like the Christmas trees that Christians have.”
Dates on My Fingers: An Iraqi Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) Page 6