The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  “God bless you, Uncle,” said Midhat. “Where’s Aunt Atiya? We’ve come to see Husayn. How is he?”

  “What, brother?” came the old man’s hoarse voice. “Where are you from?”

  “Isn’t this Hajji Rahman’s house?” asked Midhat sharply.

  “What? Yes, it is. That’s right, brother.”

  “Isn’t Husayn here? Abu Suha? We heard he was ill.”

  Madiha could not make out the man’s face, and he spoke in an unfamiliar accent. He was silent for a few seconds, then repeated his question in the same mechanical tone as before: “Where are you from, brother?”

  “The old man’s senile. He doesn’t recognize me,” whispered Midhat. Then suddenly he turned and shouted at him. “Go and get your wife, quickly. Hurry up. Tell her you’ve got visitors. Go on.”

  The old man retreated in confusion into the darkness of the house while they waited in the gray stillness of the alley and cool breezes blew over them from nowhere, bringing with them a vague, incessant murmur of sound.

  They heard light, hesitant footsteps, then a small woman swathed in black came into view, indistinguishable at first sight from the old man apart from some anonymous feature of her appearance which proclaimed her gender.

  “Yes, sir. Who are you looking for?” she said, the minute she arrived in the doorway.

  “Good evening. I’m Midhat, brother of Madiha, Husayn’s wife. How are you all?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re welcome. Please come in.”

  “How are you all?” asked Midhat again.

  She retreated inside slowly, drawing her abaya round her. “Welcome, sir. How are we? As you see. Falling apart. Please come in. Excuse us, there’s no light in the passage.”

  “We’ve come to see Husayn. These are his daughters. This is Madiha, his wife. How is he?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s here. Husayn. He’s better. He slept for ten days. He couldn’t move his arms and legs. Like us. Come in, please.”

  Midhat went ahead down the dark passage and Madiha, having said hello to the old lady, followed him, holding the little girls’ hands. The courtyard was quite empty and was lit only by the last traces of the sunset. The old man stood to one side, giving them hostile looks.

  “They’re Husayn’s relatives,” his wife told him. “They’ve come to see him. Excuse us, sir. He didn’t recognize you.”

  The old man muttered in Turkish through his long white beard. “Birum, birum, afandim. Welcome, sir.”

  The woman indicated a staircase. “Please go up. The room’s in front of you at the top of the stairs. I can’t manage the climb. Give him my best wishes.”

  Her features were sad, her small face covered in wrinkles.

  “Thank you. I know the way,” said Midhat, bounding off up the steep staircase.

  “Be careful,” whispered Madiha to her daughters. “I’m scared, Mum,” said Sana.

  “Shut up! We’ve got here safely, haven’t we? Go up slowly.”

  The three of them made a faint rustling and clattering in their clothes and shoes as they crowded together on to the dark stairs.

  “Watch out. You keep treading on my toes,” whispered Sana irritably to her sister. “Do you think you’re the only one climbing these stairs?”

  “Silly idiot,” answered Suha.

  “Did you hear what she said, Mum?” shouted Sana.

  Ahead of them was a landing where it was less dark than the stair case, thanks to a high window through which a distant patch of blue sky was visible. Midhat was standing in front of a closed door to the right, looking at them with some displeasure. He remained there without moving, until they had lined up next to him, then he pushed the door open and went in. Madiha hesitated, but when she saw her daughters following their uncle she too stepped up to the doorway.

  She couldn’t make out anything as she stood on the threshold. It was almost pitch black in the bare room, and the small window facing her only let in a faint glimmer of light. Then to her right she noticed the outline of a bed, whose colors were distinguishable from the darkness. Midhat reached an arm behind her and the room was suffused in the pale glow of the electric light.

  There was the shadow of a smile on her brother’s lips as he approached the narrow black metal bedstead. At first Madiha couldn’t see anyone under the blanket and dirty raincoat covering the bed, but the way the covers stuck up in the middle gave the impression that a person lay underneath. Although she felt no emotion, she was extremely curious to see him alive, to see his face and try to discern what lay behind it. Dead, he would have meant nothing to her, but alive he might give her some indication of the shape of the future.

  “Husayn. Husayn.” Midhat drew back the covers cautiously The thick hair appeared of a man, his eyes closed then opened quickly as he became aware of their presence, looking at them apprehensively. Husayn had a matted beard, full of white hairs. I His swollen eyes were surrounded by dark circles. He continued to stare at Midhat without lifting his head, as if he was seeing a ghost. His hair was disheveled and his face the color of copper.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  Then he was overtaken by a fit of coughing which forced him to sit up in bed holding his head and mouth and gasping strangely for breath after each cough, like a dog howling in pain. Midhat picked up a glass of water from a little table by the bed and offered it to Husayn, but he pushed it away. As the attack abated he buried his face in his hands, breathing rapidly, his shoulders shaking and twitching convulsively.

  His hair was going gray; it was dirty and full of dandruff, the scalp visible in places. Midhat gestured to Madiha to sit on a long couch against the wall by the bed. She hesitated. She had never felt so affected by anything before. Seeing what was left of the young husband who had shared her bed for years, she felt he was saying goodbye to her and that, in a way, he had stayed alive so that she could see for herself how low he had sunk. For a moment she doubted that these dried-up, angular features were really his. But then she recognized a vague line which incorporated his eyebrows and eyes, before descending in a characteristic way towards his nose, which twisted slightly to the left. But the eyes—they had lost their color and sparkle, and the mouth had contracted and withdrawn into itself. He was in outdoor clothes, the small knot on the black tie loosened at his lined brown neck to allow him to breathe.

  Suddenly he spoke. “Sorry Midhat. I can’t see properly. I’ve been ill. Really, really ill, Midhat. Sorry”

  He didn’t look at her. His dark blue jacket was covered in a layer of dust and dirt, his crumpled shirt collar twisted back over its lapels.

  “I’m the one who should be sorry Husayn. I didn’t know you were in this state. I’ve been busy How are you now?”

  “Now? Fine, fine.”

  Madiha noticed a trail of snot running out of his nose. As he spoke, he put his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a crumpled handkerchief and wiped his nose, eyes, and mouth. He stared over at the three of them for a moment, then wiped his bristly face again, as if he hadn’t seen anything that stirred his interest.

  “You know, we heard you were ill by chance,” said Midhat. “So Madiha and I and the girls have come to see you. It seems you don’t recognize them, Husayn?”

  Husayn turned mechanically to look at them again. “Recognize them? Yes, of course I do. You know ...”

  There was no enthusiasm or emotion in his dull eyes, nothing to suggest he was even attempting to take an interest in them. Madiha spoke for the first time. “The caretaker at school said you were ill. She’d heard you were going to die.”

  At the sound of her voice, he suddenly became agitated and pulled up the cover. “Me?” he interrupted. “Not at all. I’m fine now. Everything’s fine.”

  These signs of life reassured her.

  “Yes,” she said, “you seem to be. We came to check. I was afraid you might need to see a doctor, go to hospital.”

  He interrupted her again. “Hospital? No, there’s n
o need. What for? It’s not worth it. It wouldn’t do any good.” He put his head in his hands. “Nothing would do any good.”

  Madiha looked at Midhat and found that he was looking at her. She cast her eyes around the room. It was strangely empty bare, bleak. On the floor, which was thick with dust, she could sec traces of dried vomit and cigarette butts everywhere. There were marks on the wall where the rain had come in at the uncurtained window, and they looked as if someone had drawn a graph.

  Husayn suddenly spoke in a trembling voice. “Please, Midhat, you must excuse me. I know I don’t look too good. not entirely decent probably.” He was talking through his hands. “But this illness—it was grim. I knew very well I mustn’t get sick. In my situation, it doesn’t help. But. . .”

  When he took his hands down from his face, Madiha noticed water collecting in the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t look from his expression as if he was crying. He turned his distracted gaze on Midhat.

  “I caught cold one night and didn’t do anything about it. It was terrible. I had a temperature of over forty degrees and a dreadful headache. Dreadful. And I couldn’t stop shaking. My teeth were chattering all night long. And there was no one to help. And in the daytime it was even worse.”

  He took out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes and nose, and put it back in his pocket, then ran his fingers through his hair. Madiha noticed that his nails were too long and his hands were shaking. He was silent for a moment and breathed deeply, trying to sit up properly. He was becoming aware of the people round him and recovering his senses. He turned slightly towards the three of them. His wet lashes blinked rapidly, and his features seemed to relax.

  “How are you, Mad . .. Madiha?”

  She didn’t answer. She was amazed at how ugly he looked. It was such a tragedy that the only real relationship she and her daughters had in the world was with this broken-down specimen of humanity.

  He looked at his daughters. “How are you getting on at school, Suha? And how are you, Sana?”

  They answered in sweet, gentle voices. He turned to Midhat.

  “What’s happening, Midhat? What news of the president?”

  “Nothing much. What do you expect in ten days?”

  “Ten days! Yes, you’re right. But every time I hear a bang, I say to myself, that’s it.”

  “There’s nothing going on. What are you talking about?”

  “Yeah, it will take time. But every hour of this president’s life is numbered now. Every minute maybe. Believe me.”

  Madiha’s gaze was suddenly drawn to an empty, clear glass bottle lying under the bed, Probably the last bottle he drank before he was ill, or even during his illness. And yet he was chatting with Midhat as if he was at an ordinary family gathering. As if he’d never done anything shameful to them, didn’t owe them anything, wasn’t responsible for them in anyway at all. He was behaving for all the world like a respectable person who had fulfilled his obligations to the best of his ability and was now enjoying himself gossiping harmlessly about politics. The idea infuriated her.

  “Look, Husayn,” she shouted. “Instead of talking about politics, why don’t you tell me what you’re going to do with yourself? What are your plans? I never imagined I’d see you alive. Never.”

  He turned his head and upper body away from her involuntarily as if she had hit him, then his lips tightened and he looked down at the bedclothes.

  “We don’t want anything from you,” she went on. “Get that into your head. We don’t want a penny from you. We don’t need your money . . .” She had been about to say “your filthy money,” but as she was speaking to him she had begun to have feelings of regret. “You see, God doesn’t abandon His servant. God bless my father and my brothers, they opened their door to me and my daughters. We don’t need anybody, but . . .” she hesitated, “but human beings—I mean they’re not like animals, so I’m wondering—it’s nothing I’ve done, so why did you do this to us, to yourself? These are your daughters, after all. You can say I don’t count, pretend I don’t exist, but your daughters?”

  Damn, she hadn’t meant to talk like this. What was it in him that made her want to appease him or try and get closer to him, even just with words?

  These waves of pity and regret and the images of the painful past, but also of her brief periods of happiness with him, had combined with the ugliness and awkwardness of him as he lay ill in bed to make her articulate things she would never have thought of before coming to see him. He was as silent as a black stone. Leaning forward, his hair disheveled, he scratched the back of his hand with a slow, deliberate movement. She looked at Midhat and saw signs of discomfiture on his face. With his eyes he signaled warningly towards the two little girls. She felt compassionate, resigned, ready to accept anything. She was incapable of insisting on the truth of her statements or defending them. She didn’t have much proof, despite all the bad treatment he had subjected her to. She decided that it would be best to bring the painful scene to a close.

  “I don’t really know how to apologize—to you, I mean,” he was saying. “But maybe you know—Midhat certainly does ...” He wasn’t looking at anyone. “I mean, I wasn’t—you know—the drink and other things. Circumstances. I didn’t know where I was. Things were spinning out of control. I was conscious of what I was doing for possibly one or two hours a day, or not at all. But recently when I was ill, I realized the state I had got myself into. And now I don’t know how to apologize. Now I want to do something, to change, so that you all know that I’m really sorry.”

  “What do you want to do? What do you have in mind?”

  Her question drew his wavering eyes towards her.

  “What do I have in mind? Why do you ask? Is there a chance I’ll get better? Will I ever be on my feet again?”

  “Of course,” answered Midhat briskly “Why are you so pessimistic, Husayn? There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s just flu, soon over and done with. A common cold.”

  “Thanks, Midhat. You see, I need you to tell me there’s nothing wrong with me. I was in another world. Now I don’t know if I’m better or not, whether I’m going to live or die. But if you all tell me I’m fine, then I’ll be fine. I’m a useless person, Midhat, but I can’t leave this world behind!”

  He looked distractedly into a corner of the room. “What’s all the fuss about? Fear, the day of reckoning, sacred texts—everyone ends up as a heap of bones!” He was talking in a whisper, almost ignoring them. “A heap of bones with no name, no judgment passed on them, not answerable to any holy book. But death’s no easy matter, my friend. What dreadful, dark nights I spent with the angel of death above my head and my soul cowering under the bed, while I raved and begged for mercy But I’m not the same person. I’m not Husayn. I’ve changed my name. There’s no point, night after night, not knowing where you are, so now . . .” He looked up at her, glanced across at Midhat, then looked back at her. “Now I’m as you see me. What do you want? I’m at your disposal, but. . .” He opened his arms helplessly on the cover in front of him. His gesture seemed to suggest that they were the reason for his illness and suffering and his brush with death, because they wanted to come into his empty life, looking for crumbs of hope.

  “Husayn,” Midhat was saying, “where do you get these gloomy ideas from, for God’s sake? You’re still young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

  Wasn’t he right, in his misery and desolation, to refuse to respond to their calls? He had crossed over to the other side.

  “Of course you wouldn’t be the first to go to the clinic and be cured,” went on Midhat.

  He had crossed to the other side, lost his boat, and couldn’t find his way back. It was pointless now, pointless and distressing, for them to confront him with all these demands and conditions which he didn’t understand.

  “That guy Fadil,” said Midhat. “Your friend Fadil. Don’t you remember him? He wrote long articles for the papers about his experiences in the clinic. I promise you, it’s very easy to arra
nge.”

  But he was telling them with his eyes, his copper-colored skin, and his crooked mouth that he wasn’t going back to them, and that what was left of him was not evidence that he was alive. He had already left them and, at the end of the day, was no more than a memory.

  “What do you think, Madiha? Honestly?” continued Midhat.

  A wave of dizziness came over her, and she closed her eyes. He was alive, merely to prove the opposite to them.

  “What’s wrong, Madiha?”

  “Nothing, Midhat. I just feel a bit dizzy It’s probably fatigue.”

  She felt a movement beside her. It was Sana. She touched her soft little hand. She saw an expression of disappointment on her brother’s face as he came towards them.

  “Things will work out,” she said, “but it’s late, isn’t it?”

  Husayn muttered some inaudible words.

  “Okay, fine,” Midhat said to her. “We’ll come back another time.”

  She stood up.

  “We’ll come and see you again then,” Midhat went on, turning to Husayn. “Okay, Husayn, I hope you feel better. Are you sure you don’t need anything now? We’ll be back, of course.”

  “Definitely, Midhat. You must come. All of you.”

  Madiha said nothing as she made for the door and went out into the darkness, but she heard her husband murmuring, “Before you go, Midhat, have you got a dinar on you by any chance? You see, I . ..”

  Her daughters’ whispering muffled his words. She couldn’t see the top of the stairs properly and realized that she had tears in her eyes. When she raised a hand to wipe them away, she noticed she was still holding the bag of fruit and gave it quickly to Sana.