The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  The words came out softly, apathetically from his barely open mouth. It had never occurred to Midhat that Abd al-Karim could express himself like this. In the space of a moment, as he looked at him, he felt shocked by his brother: his illness, his despair, the bitterness of his words. He was gazing through the window at some distant spot.

  “What do you mean?” Midhat asked him worriedly. “Do you think the world ought to stop because someone’s died?”

  Abd al-Karim turned calmly towards him with an innocent expression in his eyes. “Why not?”

  “Don’t act clever with me, Karim. Nobody’s denying these things are hard, but that’s life. Who told you life should be comfortable and happy? But you have to understand when it’s time to save yourself. That’s the important thing. Save yourself”

  “Like animals, you mean?”

  “What? And why do you despise animals so much anyway? What do we gain from being superior to them?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered in his subdued voice. “I don’t want to defend mankind. I don’t have anything to say in their defense.” A pained look came over his face. “But I feel I’m not equipped for life. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but I don’t think I could take the death of someone like Fuad again. I just couldn’t bear it.”

  His hands were quiet still while he spoke, his eyes anxious, lighting up for a moment, then going dead.

  “Is there any point in being so gloomy?” Midhat asked him. “Why do you insist on living in the past?”

  Karim sighed deeply. “I don’t want to live in the past. I don’t want to remember it or explain it. I have no desire to understand something that’s incomprehensible. You don’t need to tell me that.” He turned suddenly to face Midhat. “But, you see, Midhat, I feel something pulling me back all the time, back to be with Fuad, even just for five minutes, to say one word to him. It’s true it doesn’t make sense, I realize, but I can’t get over this feeling. I must have done wrong to him, committed a crime against him, but what?”

  He wasn’t really asking himself the question. On the contrary, Midhat had the impression that his brother had a secret which he wanted to forget about. He watched him cover his eyes with his left hand and press it against his cheekbones. His black hair was carefully combed and shone under the electric light. Midhat couldn’t think of anything to say to him. He had the nagging feeling that there was some important aspect of the whole affair which didn’t ring true, but also he wanted to be sympathetic, tell him it was all just a passing cloud and that his youth and vitality would ensure that everything would be sorted out in time. He put a hand on his shoulder. “Why do you torment yourself like this, Karim?”

  Karim remained with his head bent, saying nothing. Midhat squeezed his shoulder. Karim rook his hand away from his face and looked straight in front of him, then his eyes lit up. Munira was leaning against the doorjamb watching them. The fact that she’d come back, and was standing there unabashedly astonished Midhat. She had the usual thin line of kohl round her eyes, her hair was up, and she was still wearing the purple blouse.

  “Sorry. I was going to tell you—my aunt went shopping an hour ago, and hasn’t come back yet. I don’t know—we’re a bit worried about her.”

  “Where did she go?” He took his hand off his brother’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know. Maybe to buy bread and vegetables.” She was looking with concern at Karim.

  “How many times have I told her not to make these stupid excursions?” muttered Midhat irritably.

  He left the room hurriedly, and as he passed her a sweet smell tilled his nostrils. Then when he was walking along the dimly lit big gallery, he saw her going into his brother’s room again. He stumbled as he went downstairs. The yard was in shadow, and the murmuring of sparrows in the branches of the olive trees filled it with ghosts. When he was at the end of the long passage, he heard the voices of his mother and Sana and could just see them as they closed the outside door. He called to them and switched on the light in the passage, reproaching them for going out in the first place, and then being so late back. They didn’t reply and carried calmly on walking with their bags and packages. He followed them inside, feeling increasingly depressed. Munira was still in his brother’s room. He went into his own room without a sound and sat on the bed, soothed by the darkness around him. Suddenly voices could be heard all round the house once more, and lights were switched on. It was time for the dinner ceremony again. The two next door were talking, although he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He felt tired all of a sudden and didn’t want to listen to them any more. It seemed to affect him personally. He put his head in his hands. He was anxious and had the vague feeling he was in an uncomfortable situation, as if he had been caught unawares in an invisible net. He began walking about in the darkness. They were still talking. He slipped out of his room and made for the television room. The kitchen light shone on the paving stones in the courtyard. The sky was pale, empty of stars. He kept on going, past his aunt’s room, and quickly climbed the unsurfaced stairs up to the roof terrace.

  The great expanse of the sky opened before him. He noticed a star or two right on the horizon. The air was clear, and there wasn’t a soul on the roof apart from him at this melancholy hour. He sat down on one of the beds, glad to be left to himself to ponder. He would never let problems build up around him without at least being aware of them. That he must guarantee to himself. Adopting a strategy for living had to involve taking account of the difficulties and obstacles which might stand in its way The vital thing was to understand the nature of these obstacles and their range of influence. He stood up and walked slowly around. The red had disappeared in the far west and left behind it dark ashy purple, and the walls hid their misery in the darkness.

  He stopped by a bed in the corner of the terrace. He could call the problem by its name: Munira. There was nothing preventing him. He smiled. This bed was where she slept. But as a problem she was harder to pin down. And what did she represent, apart from sexual and emotional attraction, beyond this world of solitude and loneliness and boredom?

  They were shouting at one another down below, and the smell of burnt fat wafted up to him. It was no secret that she attracted him, and he didn’t feel himself resisting. It wasn’t every day you found a pretty girl, and there was some mutual attraction between you and her! Someone called him from the yard. But what about the way she and Karim were always talking together? The stars had multiplied in a colorless sky, and the white bedcovers looked like tents in the desert. He kept his distance, and perhaps this was the position which suited him best. But she had begun to take shape in front of him, a clearly defined person whom he couldn’t do without. For the first time, she had become an individual.

  They kept calling him. He didn’t feel like answering. Suddenly he had the urge to stay there in the dark and silence away from the world’s demands: without people, plans or projects, free from the eternal, anonymous fear.

  Just before he reached the house, he heard the mosque clock chiming its soft mellow chimes. The alley was deserted, enveloped in shadow. He opened the door as the clock began to chime again and went slowly and cautiously along the narrow passage. He stumbled a little way along, then forgot the final dip in the ground and lost his footing again, bumping against the big wooden door leading into the yard. He stopped right up against it. The light from the yard filtered through its broad cracks. He peered through them but couldn’t see anything, so he gave the door a hefty push and went in. The light was on in the big gallery on the first floor, hanging directly over the chair where his brother Abd al-Karim was sitting. Midhat looked at his watch but couldn’t make out the position of the hands. He took a few steps forward, then stopped again. The wooden pillars supporting the roof from the gallery cast shadows on the high walls, and the branches of the olive tree had withdrawn into themselves. He was fascinated by these alternating segments of light and shadow surrounding him in the yard and spun round twice like a giant windmill. The giants
of Don Quixote. The giants of Bab al-Shaykh.

  He heard someone calling him. “Midhat. When did you get back?” His aunt was leaning on the wooden balustrade outside her room.

  “What’s this, Aunt?” he called back. “Why are you still up?” He spoke slowly and deliberately, slurring his words slightly.

  “How can you ask such a thing, Midhat? I haven’t slept a wink. The night seems endless.”

  “Why don’t you end, you wicked night?”

  “What?”

  “I hope you get to sleep soon, Aunt. Can I do anything for you?”

  “I pray you never have to do a tyrant’s bidding, son. But I’d like a bottle of water from the fridge. I’m on fire, and I haven’t eaten a thing.”

  “God is great! Why didn’t you have dinner, Aunt?”

  “God only knows. I couldn’t eat a thing. Bless you, go and have a look for me. Maybe there’s a bit of watermelon I could have with some pastries.”

  ‘At your service.”

  He took a swig from the bottle of ice and water, then carried it and a slice of melon back upstairs. As he crossed the yard he was entranced once again by the palette of light and shade, like the columns of a ruined Roman temple. He noticed his aunt watching him as he spun round in a circle again, and raised the bottle to her.

  He hailed his brother from the top of the stairs, then went off along the small gallery towards his aunt’s room. She was sitting on her bed with her hands in her lap. The big windows were all open, and the distant light illuminated the edges of the room.

  “Are you all alone, Aunt?”

  She opened her arms resignedly and didn’t answer.

  “Where’s Bibi?”

  “She’s gone up on to the roof. She couldn’t stand the heat, my dear. Where are the water and melon?”

  He stepped inside the room and an invisible blast of heat hit him. He put his burden down on the floor in front of her and waited hesitantly. She filled a glass with water and drank it, then said quickly, “Sit down, Midhat. Why are you standing? What’s the time now?”

  “I don’t know, Aunt. Past midnight probably So have they all gone up to the terrace?”

  “All of them, my dear, all of them. Except your brother, who hasn’t taken his eyes off his book for the past four hours. It breaks my heart to see him, but I daren’t say anything.”

  She seized the sliver of melon in her fingertips, broke off a piece, put it in her mouth, and began chewing it with gusto. It pleased him to see her enjoying her food like this.

  “Why are you standing, Midhat dear?” she said again, ferreting around in an ancient paper bag. “There’s a slight breeze getting up now. That should revive us.”

  He wanted to exchange a few words of banter with her, then leave, but she started talking again.

  “Immediately after you went, we heard Munira had got her transfer to Baghdad. You probably hadn’t even reached the end of the street.”

  “What did you say, Aunt?”

  “Didn’t I tell you to sit down?” she answered, munching a pastry. “There’s a nice cool breeze now. Munira’s been transferred to Baghdad. To a school in Haidarkhana, they say.”

  “Who says? Who brought the news?”

  “Adnan. Maliha’s son. You’d just left when he knocked at the door, wanting to see Munira. Sana was the one who told me.”

  He suddenly felt slightly agitated. He drew up a chair and sat down. “Adnan? What’s he got to do with it?”

  She looked up at him, “Midhat, dear, why does it matter to you? In a few days everyone will be going about their business again.”

  Her eyes were sharp in spite of the wrinkles round them. It vexed him that he didn’t understand the strangely muddled set of circumstances she was referring to.

  She repeated slowly, “The message went to Baquba. To the school where she used to work. And he brought it immediately to Baghdad.”

  She seemed to take pleasure in pronouncing these words softly and gently.

  “Then what?” he said abruptly.

  She ignored him and concentrated on cutting up the pastry and stuffing it into her mouth. She seemed to have completely forgotten he existed.

  He raised his voice. “Yes, and then what?”

  “That’s all. Her mother said they’d have to look for somewhere to live and move out of here.” Her jaws moved continuously “Why shouldn’t she? Her daughter’s a teacher with a salary, and she’s not married. I didn’t have her luck. God have mercy on all those who made me suffer. God have mercy on them. They need it, They left me to sit and stare at the walls. Every time a nice boy approached them they said he wasn’t good enough. As if they were the only ones with no flaws and the right background. I pray God has his revenge on them. They don’t deserve any mercy”

  She plunged her fingers into the remains of the melon and seized hold of a large red morsel which she kept in her hand for a few moments. The faint light fell on her face, leaving the rest of her in darkness. In spite of her wrinkles there was a harmony in her features, lingering traces of beauty.

  She sighed. “There’s no point thinking about it. What’s done is done. But you be careful, son.”

  “What’s wrong with you today, Aunt? You don’t seem to be yourself.”

  “Was I ever myself? Our life’s just a mess.” She drank a mouthful of water. “Look, Midhat. You’re sensible. I don’t want you to tell them I told you this. It was Sana, poor little thing, she came to me trembling like a leaf, her face the color of turmeric. She said, Auntie, he pulled Munira by the arms, then he started shouting and threw a piece of paper at her.’”

  He felt his emotions flaring up again, and his heart beat faster. “Who? What do you mean? Who are you talking about, Aunt?”

  “I’m talking about Adnan, my dear. I told you he came after you’d gone out. He was bringing her a message. They said it was about her transfer, I don’t know. But why did they fight, Midhat? Why don’t they go and fight in their own homes? What’s it got to do with us? Poor little Sana was scared stiff She’d done nothing wrong.”

  “Why were they fighting? What about? What’s his relationship with her?”

  “He’s her nephew, dear.”

  He leapt out of his chair. “I know, I know. But what does he want from her?”

  “How would I know, son? I’ve already told you he heard the news and came flying to Baghdad in his father’s car. It’s all right for some. A car and no work to do. All right for some. What’s it to you, anyway? You haven’t told me where you come into it.”

  “What’s wrong with you today, Auntie? Who said it was anything to do with me?”

  She looked at him in openmouthed disbelief. “What do you mean? What are you so bothered about then?”

  “That’s not fair, it’s all the same to me. Why should I care?”

  Her face lit up. “God have mercy on your ancestors and all deceased followers of the Prophet everywhere. You’ve reassured me tonight, my dear. God bless you!”

  He wanted to go, but hesitated. He was tense and felt as if he was being suffocated. “What about Munira? Didn’t she say anything?”

  She waved her arm in an expansive gesture. “Nothing at all. Silent as the tomb.”

  “And my father? Did he know about it?”

  “What’s it to do with him? Who’d tell him?”

  “You mean someone like that idiot can walk in here, act outrageously to people, and then leave without anybody teaching him a lesson?

  “Don’t talk like that, Midhat. Haven’t we just asked for God’s mercy on all the pious, dead and alive? Nobody knows about this except Sana, and she came and told me in secret, poor little thing. May God protect out secret. God preserve you. Praise be to God. But now I must tell you . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Aunt. Your secret’s safe with me. But doesn’t your conscience trouble you?”

  “Of course it does. What do you think? Who wouldn’t be troubled by such behavior? But didn’t we just say it’s got nothing to do with us,
son?”

  He was uneasy, but felt he had reached a dead end with his aunt. “Okay, Aunt. You’re right. God will judge him.”

  “Yes, but how?”

  “God will judge him,” said Midhat, on his way out of the room.

  As the cool breeze touched his face, he heard her saying, “May God give His people some sense.”

  Karim wasn’t sitting on the gallery any longer, but Midhat heard pages turning in his room. He took off his clothes, which were damp with sweat, and put on a thin pair of pajamas. His head and stomach felt slightly heavy. He had eaten too many nuts and chick peas that evening. He looked in on Karim and asked him how his studying was going, and Karim muttered something inaudible. Midhat went off to wash his race, hands, and feet. The cold water invigorated him. As he climbed the stairs to the roof, he heard the Bab al-Shaykh clock chiming gently and deliberately. He didn’t count the chimes, just heard them, and when he left the darkness of the stairs and his eyes were lost in a sky crowded with pale stars, the clock began to chime melodiously again. He breathed deeply. The cool air worked a strange magic, inflating his chest with life. His eyes took time to adjust to the darkness on the terrace, and the white beds looked like night birds perching there. He walked quietly over to his bed and sat down on it. There were random snores from all around the roof, but this did not mar the silence of the night. He looked over to where her bed was, but couldn’t make it out.

  His feelings were contused. The story his aunt had told him had made him angry, and he was annoyed by this damned stupid idea of their moving to another house. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, and his head spun. Too bad. With the cool air and rest it would pass. There was something strange in what Sana had reported to his aunt, something not right. What was Adnan’s reason for coming to have an argument with Munira here? What was there between them? Perhaps there hadn’t really been a fight, but he had just happened to insult her in passing. But why? His tension returned. He opened his eyes, and they were filled with the dancing stars. And in their house too, without caring who heard or saw. What if he had jumped out at Adnan from nowhere and punched him, savagely, with deadly calm? He would have been proud to do it, and she would have collapsed into his arms. He sighed contentedly at this image. But things had been very different, if Sana was telling the truth. What was strange about her story was that it had no logical explanation. It should be cut out of the tape, then burnt, and anyone who inquired should be told that the censor had cut it because it went against the truth. But the punch would be left in and replayed many times. His eyelids drooped and the stars were extinguished. The punch would be replayed many times, by popular demand. Many times . . .