The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  “He began to laugh. The sun’s rays were falling on the orange tree above his head, making him look as if he had a halo like an angel. He put his hand in his pocket and before he said anything, I saw the flutter of a red dress between the trees, and a woman appeared at my father’s shoulder.”

  They heard Nuriya calling again. Midhat looked up and saw her looking down at them from behind the wooden balustrade. She gestured that they should come up, but didn’t speak.

  “All right, we’re coming,” answered Razzaq Abu Midhat, continuing to finger his beads. “You pour the tea and we’ll be there.”

  He lowered his voice. “Fair-skinned she was, amazingly fair-skinned, and plump, with long black hair which was tied back and hung down to her waist. You’d think she was a beauty from the court of Harun al-Rashid. Outstandingly beautiful, glory be to the great Creator! She rested against my father’s shoulder and said, Ί want to see your son, Sayyid. Is he as handsome as you?’ Her voice—I remember it well—it had a musical note, a sweetness. My father, God rest him, put his arms round her and handed me his wristwatch. ‘Go home now, Razzaq,’ he said to me. ‘Take this watch as a sign to your mother. Tell her I’m fine. Really fine.’”

  He said nothing for a few moments. His fingers played with the prayer beads and on his lined face there was a touch of the wonder he must have felt all those years ago.

  “It was spring,” he whispered. “The woman’s name was Rihana. She was a singer. People said she was in love with my father and used to sing some songs about him. She was famous in those days, glory be to the Creator! Come on, let’s go and have out tea before it gets cold.”

  Midhat liked this story and the way his father told it. He was going to ask him how he felt about this woman, and what happened between her and his grandfather afterwards, when the big door facing them squeaked and slowly opened. Munira’s face appeared round it, framed by her black abaya. Despite signs of tiredness she looked radiant and had a good color in her cheeks. She smiled a greeting at them, and Midhat noticed her mother behind her. His father stopped and turned to welcome them. Nuriya, standing at the balustrade, called to them all to come up to the first floor, obviously glad to see her sister and Munira, who replied enthusiastically to her from the middle of the courtyard. He noticed Munira looking at him once or twice and felt slightly embarrassed that he was in his pajamas. He waited for them to go ahead of him up the stairs. She wasn’t wearing make-up, and her and his aunt’s clothes had traces of dust on them. Finally they moved towards the stairs and he followed them. Munira must have made an effort to finish up her work at the school in Baquba as quickly as possible. He walked slowly behind them and left them to go and sit in the alcove while he went to his room to change. When he came out, his sister Madiha was passing the door smiling, and he fell in behind her. They were drinking tea and his mother was telling them about Abd al-Karim’s illness. He sat down next to his father, facing Munira, and took a glass of tea.

  “How’s your sister Maliha?” his father asked Munira.

  “Fine, Uncle.”

  Her voice was soft. He looked up at her. She hadn’t pushed her abaya back off her shoulder, and the only sign of make-up he could see on her face was that thin line of kohl round her eyes.

  “I’ve lost count of how many children she has now,” went on his father. “Is it six or seven?”

  Her lips parted in a slight smile. “Three boys and three girls, Uncle.”

  “God bless her. That’s right, she was young when she got married.” He turned to Nuriya. “Nuriya, how old was Maliha when she married?”

  “Maliha? Very young. Fifteen maybe. But God save her, she was a big, strong girl.”

  Munira’s mother nodded her head in agreement: “She was just about fifteen.”

  He heard Munira asking Madiha in a low voice about her daughters and Husayn. His mother was pouring the tea into the glasses in front of her, whispering with Munira’s mother. The shimmering blue of the sky had faded and all that remained on the high wall were the violet reflections of the setting sun. He watched Munira take a glass of tea from his mother and thank her. Her abaya had slid gently off her shoulders, revealing her blue dress, her neck, and the swell of her breasts. She looked towards him. The light fell on the right side of her face making her eyes a luminous brownish gold. Her nose, cheeks, chin, and lips were firm and delicately curved. They didn’t say a word to each other. The voices around him became indistinct murmurs, then silence descended.

  This was broken by his mother, launching into a new conversation about Abd al-Karim and his illness. Munira listened attentively, an anxious look on her face, and asked questions about the nature of the illness, its causes, what the doctor had said. Then she wanted to see him. His mother got up quickly and dragged them along behind her. Munira was tender with Abd al-Karim, kind, soft-spoken. He seemed to revive temporarily then kept putting a hand to his forehead and wiping the sweat off it. Convinced they were a burden to him, they got up and went out. They were on their way to Aunt Safiya’s room when Munira s mother remembered their suitcase. Munira looked perplexed for a moment, then her features relaxed and she hurried towards the stairs.

  “Where are you going, Munira?” Midhat asked.

  “I won’t be a minute,” she answered without pausing. “I left the case in the passage.”

  He followed her. She was two or three meters away from him. Slim. Tall in her heels. She turned round. “You don’t need to come with me, Midhat. The case isn’t heavy.”

  “Don’t worry I want to stretch my legs a bit.”

  They went cautiously down the stairs and out into the yard. In the pale light he could see part of her left cheek and forehead and eye and delicate nose. She pulled her abaya round her, and her shoulder and upper back became more clearly visible. He went ahead of her, switched on the light, and opened the wooden door into the passage. The case was propped in a dark corner. When he lifted it up and felt how heavy it was, he laughed. “Come on! Do you call this suitcase light? Were you really going to carry it yourself?”

  She was standing holding the door. She laughed briefly and didn’t reply, then switched off the light in the passage. Her silence pleased him and he trudged off, aware of her walking beside him, lagging behind a little, her heels gently tapping the paving stones in the yard. He turned to her when he reached the dark stairwell and discovered she had taken off her abaya and was carrying it. Thick tresses of hair fell loose on her thin shoulders. She stopped beside him. He couldn’t make out her features clearly.

  “Is it too heavy?” she asked.

  “No. But it’s better if you go up the stairs ahead of me.”

  “Isn’t there a light?”

  “No.”

  She went past him and climbed the stairs swiftly He followed with heavy steps, trying to fight an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. She waited at the top of the stairs, looking worried. “Leave it here, Midhat. Please.”

  He put it down by the wall, then they walked along side by side.

  “Is that all your things?”

  “No. But we thought we’d get settled first.”

  “So you’re going to move to Baghdad, are you?”

  She was looking at the ground as she walked. “I hope so. I’ve written to my brother Mustafa to see if he can organize something with the Ministry of Education. He knows people there.”

  When they reached the door of his room he stopped, and she kept walking. “Excuse me,” she said, and went off towards Aunt Safiya’s room, where the noise was coming from.

  Beyond the black, dilapidated walls the sky was unruffled and clear. He watched her walk away, her dark blonde hair falling in disarray on her shoulders and back. Her slim hips swayed as she moved. Her legs weren’t quite straight, and he fancied that a slight weariness, an invisible spiritual weariness, was affecting her walk.

  He went into his room and sat on the edge of the bed. He hadn’t seen het for months, since shortly before they went to Baquba. She had been more
cheerful then, more open. Perhaps that depressing town had affected her morale. He felt a numbness in his right arm and began rubbing it. The room was fairly hot, and dark apart from the remains of the daylight coming in from outside. I le heard the sound of rapid footsteps, then saw his mother going past the door towards the east side of the house where Aunt Safiya’s room was. He rubbed the pins and needles in his wrist again. He felt calm and satisfied. However, it occurred to him that Munira staying with them meant he’d have to adopt a certain attitude towards her and, before that, to get to know where they stood in relation to one another. His memories did not provide him with any image of her which he could use as a basis for his future conduct. It was as if she had come into existence shortly before sunset that same day!

  He noticed a shadowy figure standing silently on the gallery just to the left of his door. It was his brother Abd al-Karim, and he was looking over in the direction of the noise, leaning against the balustrade, his shoulders bowed. Midhat’s heart filled with pity for him. He looked so tired, as if his strength had drained away. What would become of him?

  He heard one of his nieces calling Abd al-Karim: “Uncle, Uncle. We’re going up on to the terrace. Bibi said we’re going up on to the terrace today.” Then he saw Suha come running up to him. “Uncle. We’re going to sleep up on the terrace today. All of us. You’ll come too, Uncle, won’t you?”

  Abd al-Karim reached out a hand to stroke her hair. “That’s nice. Where are you going to sleep?”

  She looked up at him. “With Mum and Sana, under the mosquito net. It’s going to be lovely, Uncle.”

  He went on stroking her hair for a few moments without saying anything. Then she turned and ran off round the gallery to the other side of the house, and Abd al-Karim walked slowly back into his room.

  Calm prevailed in the house, broken only by the twittering or birds coming from the trees in the little garden. The last of the sunlight had faded from the room, and faint shadows remained. They wouldn’t be quiet for long; the noise or dinner being prepared would shortly fill the house. He had no desire to get up; he was aware, in this newcomer, of a mysterious, magical presence, beyond the boundaries of himself.

  He and his father were having lunch in silence, and his mother was sitting with them in the small, cool basement room. He wanted to tell her that he had seen a girl who looked like Munira when he was coming back from the office at midday. She had been crossing the street and at first he had thought it was Munira’s graceful walk and figure. Then after the meal, as he and his father lay down for an afternoon nap, it struck him that this wasn’t the first time: a few days before he’d thought Munira was talking to him on the phone, when it had actually been a wrong number.

  He tossed and turned on the bed under the ceiling fan and did not fall asleep until the noise had started up in the big adjoining basement room and it was almost four-thirty. He woke with a thick head and sat up in bed. He was alone and it was almost completely dark in the room. He rubbed his eyes irritably They were all upstairs. He heard his mother calling and his sister answering her, then the two little girls running from one part of the house to another. He got up slowly and went to the basin. The cold water revived him a little and he splashed his face again and rubbed it. It wasn’t all that hot although it was the end of July Perhaps this summer would pass with a minimum of really hot days.

  He went rapidly up the stairs and caught a glimpse of her going into Abd al-Karim’s room as he reached the big gallery She was carrying two glasses of tea. His pace slackened. The north walls were still tinged red by the sun’s rays, and his father was sitting cross-legged on a sofa in the alcove, peacefully drinking his tea. Midhat went into his room and shut the door behind him. He took off his pajamas and put on a shirt and trousers. He heard her talking to his brother in the room next door. “1 don’t know why, but it’s true you know, tea helps you cool down.”

  He made some reply and she laughed. It seemed to Midhat that her laughter had a special note in it, a concealed joy Abd al-Karim spoke again, then there was a brief silence broken by Munira saying, “What do you mean?”

  Midhat went out of his room and put his head round his brother’s door: “Good evening.”

  She was smiling radiantly, her eyes shining, as she sat on a low chair next to Abd al-Karim’s bed, leaning forward slightly with a glass of tea in her hands. She turned to look at him, and he was dazzled by this image of her, before she said a word: wide hazel eyes, dark blonde hair, and smiling mouth. “Good evening.”

  The narrow opening of her purple blouse was framed by her high, firm breasts. He asked his brother how he was. He also looked relaxed. Midhat wanted to leave, but that might have been taken to mean he acknowledged their right to be alone together, so he sat on the edge of the bed facing her. She had her knees pressed together, and she straightened up and sat back in her seat.

  “Thank you very much for the books,” she said to him. “I don’t know how .. .” She turned briefly to Abd al-Karim. “You see, I helped myself to them without asking you. Sorry.” She talked gently, without gestures, looking straight at Midhat now.

  “I bought them with you in mind,” said Midhat.

  “Thanks,” she said quickly.

  “So do they help to pass the time?”

  “Definitely.” She looked back at his brother. “You know, Karim reads some of them. It’s not only me.” She smiled her broad smile. “I’ve got plenty of time. But you ought to be studying, Karim. The exams will soon be here.”

  “That’s not true, Munira,” replied Abd al-Karim. “I only read novels when I’m having a break. Don’t interfere. It’s my way of relaxing.”

  “It’s tiring to read all the time, Karim,” said Midhat. “And you’re not strong enough.”

  “They’re light, entertaining stories. It’s not tiring at all. On the contrary.” He turned to Munira. “But Munira wants all the books to herself”. She doesn’t want to share them.”

  They laughed.

  “Did you go to the university Karim?” asked Midhat.

  “Yesterday.”

  “So you got the timetable?”

  “No. They said it’d be out next week.” He put his glass on the floor beside him. “The place is in a mess these days. I don’t know why. There are all sorts of rumors.”

  “Such as?”

  “They say there isn’t going to be a second round of exams this year, or that the students are going on strike during the exams or at the beginning of the academic year. I don’t know what the problem is.”

  “Why would they go on strike?”

  “I don’t know. They say the strikes are going to be different this time.”

  “Who says?”

  “Lots of people. Apart from the president’s supporters, of course.”

  “Let me tell you, in our current situation, nothing will shift Abd al-Karim Qasim except force. That man’s got so much blood on his hands, it’s all he understands. It’s true he’s let things get away from him, but force is the only thing which will work. Strikes, my foot!”

  “But look, Midhat,” said Munira. “If these strikes spread and there’s an agreement... I mean, if an anti-Qasim front comes into existence, everything might be possible. You know, the government is very weak outside Baghdad. I mean, in Baquba they curse Qasim openly”

  “That reminds me, Munira,” said Midhat. “Has anything happened about your transfer to Baghdad?”

  The shadows had lengthened in the small, stuffy room, but her face still had a light in it somehow.

  “No, not really,” she said, looking a little dejected. “My brother Mustafa can’t come to Baghdad at the moment. He’s thinking of taking some leave at the end of this month. In a couple of weeks, ten days’ time.”

  “What if you don’t get your transfer?”

  Her face darkened and she was silent, then she began gathering up the tea glasses. “I don’t know at all. Let’s hope for the best.”

  Her white skirt fitted closely round
her full hips. He followed her with his eyes for a moment as she went out carrying the tea tray, and felt as if the room was empty of light when she’d gone. He stood up, switched on the lamp, watched the ceiling fan revolving, and asked his brother, “How do you feel when you study, Karim? Does it make you light-headed to read a lot?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “That’s anemia. You’re not eating the right food. Rice and broth every day That’s not enough for someone who’s ill. I must talk to Mother and ask her to vary the food a bit.”

  “Vary it? That’s all she knows how to cook. But maybe I should take some kind of tonic, at least during the exams.”

  “Yes, you should. Your body’s healthy and strong. But certain events have affected you psychologically You should make a note of this and not let it happen again.”

  “What events? Nothing ever happens in our life.”

  “You mean nothing major. Don’t jump to conclusions. That’s not what I meant. Sometimes trivial events can have a violent psychological effect, shake people up, I mean.”

  Abd al-Karim’s face seemed to turn even paler, and the blank look intensified as he wiped the sweat off his forehead and neck.

  “Nothing like that happens in our lives. Nothing. Our lives are like dust, without taste or color.”

  He was irritated by his brother’s words. “Look, Abd al-Karim,” he said, relaxing his guard. “Your health went downhill after Fuad’s death. You must understand that. Understand the reason.”

  Abd al-Karim didn’t appear to be listening to him. He went on wiping his sweat away with slow, deliberate movements. “Is there really something to understand?” he said at last. “Is there any logic to these things? And,” he paused, “what’s the use of realizing that the death or the person you were closest to has no connection to your life? What’s the point? Just to convince yourself that life is a series of mechanical gestures? That there’s no difference between the death of a human being and an animal?”