Baghdad Noir

by Samuel Shimon

  I opened my mouth to reply to my daughter, to prevent her from exaggerating, to restrain her. But she disappeared before I could clear my throat. She faded away like the light on my phone.

  Another voice called me from the little room just then: “Amin! Amin! Where’s the deed to the house? Where has it gone? Has it flown away?”

  The Sixth Day

  The color white doesn’t stand for death, contrary to what Majid says—or for a good heart. Those are myths, my friend. White stands for your childhood memories: a soft, colorless gelatin. Black isn’t for mourning or consolation. It doesn’t represent a slap or an abaya. It’s not night or the devil. Instead, it’s muddled and impudent. White is a dot of light in a painting. Black is the frame protecting it. White is unrestrained history—self-existent, swimming in God’s own realm. Black is a monument—a grim chunk of stone limited by measured edges and borders. Without those, it wouldn’t be possible to discover the path to glorifying God and the divine realm.

  Majid left me fluctuating between white and black, and disappeared with the other neighborhood boys—Ahmad and Fakhry. I was left alone in the Qadisiya house. White stands for me staying in Qadisiya and black stands for my leaving it. Soon, I would see white as a representation of my freedom far away, and black as my suffocation here.

  The night of my arrival passed, and so did the night of the man with the iron bar, the night of Abu Nuwas, and my daughter’s night. Now, it was the black-and-white night, and it pulled me to the little room. The deed. To the hajjiya. The hajjiya! What remained of her in my head, heart, or memory? By God, I wished I knew. I’d become entirely like the air, a void. My heart was not merely a weeping child’s, it did nothing but weep. Where was my heart? What memory did I have left? Where was my spirit in time, and my steps through space? What space? The little room: the pallet was spread on the floor there. The walls were bare except for part of a saying attributed to the Prophet or Imam Ali.

  “Ali,” the hajjiya whispered, while drawing her last breaths.

  As if to correct her, Reem repeated: “Lord! Lord!”

  Nabiha was reciting the Throne Verse over Grandmother’s head. On the telephone now, Reem’s voice reminded me of all that. I sat in the little room—saw, heard, and sensed—conscious only of those moments, of the hajjiya’s heavy breathing, and of desire’s frenzy raging inside me and infecting Reem.

  I whispered to Reem over the phone: “I want you.”

  “We’re grown up now,” she pointed out. “Will you always say that, dear?”

  “The heart never ages—longing is the only thing that grows more youthful as it matures,” I answered.

  She laughed, and the sound drowned out the hajjiya’s wheezing. “Your children don’t want to return,” she told me.

  “How about you?” I asked.

  As if she were one of our kids and not their mother, she replied: “Me? Me?”

  Evidently my son had grabbed the phone, because I heard his voice: “When are you going to grow up, Papa? We never knew the house in Qadisiya, your grandmother, or anything like that. We’ve heard about the sweat and blood you put into building that house, and they must receive their due now. But you also know that even millions of Iraqi dinars won’t buy a single room in the most insignificant neighborhood in Europe. You should also understand that we’re entitled to the proceeds from the sale of the house—my sister, brother, mother, and me . . . as well as you, of course.”

  “I don’t want anything. Sitting here in my grandmother’s little room means more to me than all those millions,” I admitted to him. “Ultimately, I’ll make my decision without reference to any external factors. Yes, without reference to you, your mother, and your brother. None of you have any ties to the Qadisiya house—that’s true—except for your mother and sister, who are older, of course. You and your brother, though, are the white and the black.”

  “What does that mean, Papa?”

  “Nothing. You wouldn’t understand because you grew up in vacuums: without colors, blocks of material, or frames,” I replied.

  “Don’t be angry, Papa. I think you should see a psychiatrist,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re entering the early stages of dementia.”

  What could I say to that? At that very moment, a friendly hand reached out to pat my shoulder as I turned off the phone—a sweet but feeble smile reassured me. A voice said to me: “Amin, shame on you! Didn’t we agree you’d meet me at the airport?”

  * * *

  Reem went upstairs after voicing her opinion about the house: “It’s still beautiful, though dusty and empty.”

  I gathered from her slow steps that she was sleepy. I didn’t stare at her features, which were winsome and refreshing; the affectionate gaze of her wide eyes; or the halo of her figure, which she believed had changed.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t recognize me,” she confessed.

  She wanted to remind me of all the years we were separated, but I placed my finger on her mouth. She understood that words no longer served any purpose, and that what counted now was our remaining time together.

  Reem went upstairs to let me weep with all the happiness of a loving heart. She left me in the little room. My grandmother was stretched out there. Clean and calm. Her childlike face smiled radiantly at Nabiha, who whispered from the kitchen that she would bring some delicious soup momentarily. Then Nabiha emerged gracefully; her face, which was smiling—eyes, cheeks, and chin—reminded me of the Egyptian actress Shadia. Her dishdasha was flowing, and her hair, always carefully groomed, gleamed immaculately, scented with musk. In a whisper, she asked me whether Reem and I had made up. She didn’t want Grandmother to hear our conversation, for fear it would upset her. I told her, “We’re not quarreling—just playacting.”

  “Too much playacting leads to arguments and tears,” she advised me with a laugh.

  I nodded my head reassuringly, and left her with Grandmother while I slipped to the kitchen, and from there to the back hall to smoke a cigarette. “By God, relaxation!” I sighed.

  Reem was asleep in our room upstairs. Nabiha was with Grandmother in the little room. This was how things were in the last years, after my mother died and my brothers left to marry or join the military service. Then came the exodus at the end of the 1970s, and the even more terrifying flight at the end of the 1980s. That was followed by the mass migration of the 1990s. Yes, yes, yes. Thirty years elapsed before the circle was retraced and we returned to the essence—to my grandmother.

  How beautiful she was, sleeping! Like a fairy tale. Majid should have painted her picture when she woke. He said he’d come back tomorrow to learn what I’d decided: to stay on here, move somewhere else in Baghdad, or leave the country. All the same, he was convinced the three options were equivalent. When Reem awoke, we’d join Nabiha and our daughter in the cottage next to the Qadisiya house. Nabiha was waiting for me now. I’m coming . . . I’m coming . . .

  * * *

  I dozed off beside my grandmother. I woke up when her cold hand thrust the title of the house into my hand. I saw my hand over her mouth and her hand with the deed over my chest. Then Reem came closer and held my hand. She whispered that she wanted to wipe the saliva from my grandmother’s mouth; the gasps were coming faster and louder. She was suffering, suffocating on her own breath, which had not yet ceased. We should’ve been compassionate and helped her. We moved closer. Reem’s hand was over her mouth, and mine was on Reem’s. At that very moment, my grandmother released her final breath.

  Reem and I were in our cool, comfortable bed on the roof terrace. The weather was cold. Cold. I told Reem we might as well be in October, not flaming August. Baghdad’s dawn breezes stirred desires.

  “You’re being silly,” she said.

  We closed our eyes. The roof of the Qadisiya house was empty. The terrace was damp and clean. Our pallet was spread there—just like it had been when our family lived here. Bedspread, pillowcases, and blankets were freshly laundered and fragrant. I lay down like a child and
clasped Reem’s hand.

  “Grandmother is fine,” I whispered. “She’s sleeping now, and Nabiha’s in the cottage. No one needs us. Our sons are also asleep in their homes. What more could we ask for than this lovely night with the North Star and the rustling of trees, here in Qadisiya? Oh, what were you saying?”

  I waited for Reem’s reply, but she didn’t speak.

  “Oh, darling, are you sleeping?” I didn’t want to open my eyes to see if she had dozed off. I didn’t want her to fall asleep. I waited for her to lazily open her eyes, so the tears I love would flow. I awaited a teasing whisper: I love you if only to spite you.

  I dozed off to the rhythm of my anticipation—of what I wanted to hear and see. All I wanted was to hear and see. Who said a person who sees differs from one who hears? That’s nonsense! Not because it’s wrong, but because whoever said it didn’t know what we heard in the stillness.

  The Seventh Day

  I was awakened by heavy pounding on the doors, which reverberated throughout the house. “I’m coming!” I feared I’d trip on the steps and fall from the roof. But I found myself in my grandmother’s room. Perhaps I came down during the night to check on her. Feeling drowsy, I dozed off again. The pounding grew louder and more powerful, but even though my body was light it didn’t seem able to move any faster. I tried to make my way to the main door, which was in the living room. Then I realized that the pounding was growing more frantic and louder at the back door. But that’s the secret one. No one knew about that door, except . . . except for . . . ?

  Anyone who knew about it would know how to shove the fake bolt aside and open the door. So what was all the banging about? Why were people pounding? Then, I decided the pounding was coming from elsewhere—perhaps from the neighbor’s house or the metal garden gate. Where was my loyal dog Tushka? My German shepherd had become my guard and companion; he drank with me and jumped up at Reem menacingly; he even jumped at our young kids if they pretended to attack me. He was the only one who acknowledged me as his master, lord, and commander. Why hadn’t he started to bark the way he always did when he sensed an approaching stranger? The banging intensified. Reem didn’t come down from the roof terrace to fix us breakfast and tea, or coffee for herself. Perhaps she had gone to Bahiya’s cottage, where they were exchanging complaints about their husbands—laughing at us and our sorry conditions. Perhaps she was . . . but the house had been spruced up. She had tidied it yesterday and hung the paintings we loved and photos of our children. The aromas from our celebratory dinner had dissipated. Where was she? Why didn’t she open the door? She was faster than me when dealing with the house, our children, and guests. Oh, praise God. The knocking finally ceased. Perhaps the stranger was at the wrong house. Perhaps neighborhood boys were teasing us. Perhaps Tushka was angry with me. I didn’t know. I felt tired.

  My God! The morning of the final day had arrived with a mysterious drumming followed by a profound silence.

  I went out to the garden; I was back at zero, nil. The pomegranate tree was the only living witness. The weeds that reared their heads and covered both gardens had overpowered the squares of American grass. A grape trellis shaded the smaller garden, which wrapped around the house’s living room. The larger garden, which extended to the rear and bordered the entry walk leading to the stairs to the roof and the main front door, was carpeted in dust that reeked of rot and sad little lemon trees. The last mint stalks had dried out and stiffened, and the yellowing leaves were all that remained of the tomato and radish plants.

  The hen coop had become a depot for castoffs from the old house, and for all the tools and games my siblings and children used—before escape and displacement had carried them away. It didn’t matter. All this could be sorted out and fixed up. Reem and I would figure this out when she awoke and came down to prepare breakfast. She would finish cleaning the house and suggest a plan to save the garden. At each stage of our struggles she had done that. I knew she’d become a religious woman; she was the one who’d told me I wouldn’t recognize her now. She wouldn’t fix mezes for me anymore, because she’d convinced herself that alcohol, which was often served with mezes, was haram, forbidden. She had asked me to return to the Great God, as she had done. I’d told her that I was a firmer believer than anyone else—including all my siblings and children—with her at the head of the line. I’d told her that God was my friend, and that I sat with Him every night. We would converse and exchange thoughts and opinions. I didn’t want to hear her reply. “I take refuge with God and ask your Lord’s forgiveness,” I would avow. Our differences on this point would remain a red line that neither of us should cross. As for my children—I was capable of convincing them to return to God or remain neutral.

  I walked around the empty garden. I waited for Reem to come down from the roof terrace or to leave my grandmother’s room. I paused by the alcove which held the bath’s cistern. In that space, Tushka had passed—three days after a car struck him. He spent those three days in the veterinarian’s clinic and in my arms; I was his constant companion. Then he withdrew to die. We spent a week searching for him in the neighborhood’s streets and gardens. We observed no trace, scent, bark, or panting to lead us to him. Finally, we found him in this alcove: rigid, silent, and proud.

  “Farewell to you, my sincere friend Tushka.” I recited the Fatiha in his memory and returned inside. I wanted to reassure myself about my grandmother and see what Reem was doing. She was sleeping later than usual.

  Once I was back inside and had closed the secret door, the banging grew loud again. Someone was pounding on the front door; and on the back door; and on the windows too. There was pounding on the roof. Pounding from Nabiha’s cottage. Pounding from Grandmother’s room. I felt paralyzed. I was incapable of responding to any knocking. I didn’t even know which door to answer. Which pounding should I ignore and forget? Then another stimulus surprised me: my local phone with the Baghdad SIM card started ringing. My international cell phone, which I used yesterday to converse with Reem and our children, started ringing too. I answered the Baghdad one.

  The Yarmouk Hospital man asked: “Have you decided?”

  Will we hang on to the house or surrender it?

  The lawyer asked me: “My dear, have you made up your mind? Will you sell the property or register the deed in your own name?”

  Abu Yasser cut in: “I would sacrifice my life for you, my friend. You’ve raised your children and settled abroad. But I have no alternative. I must stay here. The only shelter for me and my son and daughters is your Qadisiya house. You know that Daesh devastated my son, and the American shelling crippled my daughter, and my third child is undergoing chemotherapy for cancer caused by napalm. What can I say, my dear? Accept this price; the lawyer said you had agreed. I will consider this a favor I will never forget, and a boon I will carry with me to the end of days. You won’t lack for dinars. Praise God! May your life and children rest secure in countries that respect human rights. This time is our fate, where we live like dogs off scraps from the regime’s thieves, and have to deal with the religious militias and cartels. Thank you, Master. I kiss your hand and head, even your feet. You should always consider the Qadisiya house to be yours. Your house, by God! Whenever you want to visit or stay here. It will remain your house. It will bear your name and that of the kind hajjiya. Man, had it not been for her spirit, which continues to hover overhead, none of us would still be here today, and we would have no children or grandchildren. By the grace of God, thanks in advance.”

  The Eighth Day

  This day had not arrived. The banging and pounding continued. My children expected to receive the proceeds from the sale of the Qadisiya house. The man with the iron bar was waiting for another chance to rent the house and live here so his cheating wife would conceive. Abu Atfa was waiting to buy the house and gather his family, which had been devastated by the exodus, expulsion, and the wars waged by sectarian factions, goons, and the regime.

  The attorney was still awaiting my decision.
I was searching for the deed, which Reem and I hid in the house—in a secret location. But I hadn’t yet found it. I couldn’t find it anywhere. By God, where was it? I shouted to Reem to come help me search for it. I feared if I waited any longer, I’d be too late. The deed and the opportunity would slip from my hands.

  Then I remembered that the hiding place was in the hajjiya’s room—Grandmother’s. I remembered that it was hidden behind the little door. I remembered the day we discovered the aperture and entered it, finding ourselves in a cellar. Yes, there was a tunnel that led to the garden. All the houses of the era were outfitted with tunnels to protect their residents. Sabians, Kurds, Shias, Sunnis, and the Christians all escaped through these tunnels, as did the Communists, key Arabs, and treasonous intelligence agents.

  We hid the deed in a small crevice in the tunnel. But where was it? I couldn’t find it. Again, I shouted for Reem to come help me. But I only heard the echo of my own voice. I was afraid of waiting and wasting time. I tried again and again. I feared I had forever lost the spot and thus the title. Stretching out my hand, I felt only the chill that flowed in from the tunnel. Had I slipped? I extended my hand ahead of me. The cold became more bitter and the darkness more intense. I dragged myself farther. I raced to the kitchen, to the garden, to the chicken coop with its useless old tools. I returned with the hammer. I slammed it down on the frame of the aperture. I widened it. I pushed my head and arm through and pounded and dug some more until the hole was widened further. Now it was big enough for me. I found myself inside the tunnel, where I was surrounded by darkness and the cold. My heart was empty—a void. I proceeded cautiously. After a few steps, I bumped into a wooden panel that blocked the end of the tunnel. I lifted the panel out of the way and saw a hole. I pushed the dirt away with my head and hands. Then my fingers struck a root. I looked up to see the pomegranate tree shading me.