The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  “Why are you talking like this?” My heart was pounding, but I stayed calm. I was hilly aware that he was aiming his words at me and knew exactly what he was saying. Ironic, when I’d come to him for comfort. Leaning against a wooden bedstead, he looked at me. I repeated my words slowly. “Why are you talking like this, Karim?”

  He clenched his fingers, then relaxed them, and walked over to the far side of the terrace. With his shoulders bowed, he stood staring at the dark wall. My heart was still thudding; I was a little afraid and felt dejected. The vast, brilliantly colored sky above us looked as if it was about to close up forever. It occurred to me that I was listening to the tone of his voice, rather than to what he was saying, and that this was crazy.

  Then I noticed he was coming back. He turned round silently and came and sat on the bed in front of me, his hands clasped in his lap as if he was praying, the sunset sky forming a halo around him.

  “Sorry, Munira,” he said in a deep, muffled voice. “I don’t know why you’re asking me what I’m talking about. You know very well. All the same, I must tell you, I’m not only a failure with no plans, but I’m also somebody without any hope. I mean I’m a failure not just because I don’t have the skills, but because—I don’t have any faith, I’m not interested in life.” He raised his hand to stop me talking. “No, no, please. Only you, Munira. You’re the one unusual thing in my life. You ...” He dropped his eyes and whispered, “What are you? And what do I want from you? And why should a stupid, useless person like me love you? And if...” His voice was lost in the darkness and I listened, trembling like a small leaf blowing in the wind. “Why do I love you so much, Munira? And why are you so far away from me?”

  He hid his face in his hands. He was addressing a ghost. I was frightened by the hollow, dream-like ring to his voice. I couldn’t lose my hope now in the meanderings of his fantasies. I held out my hand to him. I was trembling too much to speak. First I wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth of life in him, then perhaps I could get inside him, find my image there, but my fingers didn’t even reach him. My gesture startled him and he recoiled slightly, staring at my hand in fright, like somebody who had been woken from a deep sleep, then he frowned, and his expression changed. His jaw and lower lip hung slack and something died in his eyes: a light, a mirage, a sun. He sighed and stood up hastily, banging his foot against the end of the bed. I let my hand fall to my side. He walked agitatedly away from me into the shadows, dragging himself along beside the bare earth wall, then stopped and rested his arm on it, looking at the ground as if he’d lost something there: hope or the meaning of life. I was astounded. For a moment I had thought he wanted to take me by the hand, this man who had seemed as if he understood everything and knew the answers to all the riddles. I stood up. A small fragment of the happiness triggered off in me by his confession of love lingered on, and I was confused and hesitant. I was going to go back downstairs, but instead I approached him. My mind was blank, but I didn’t want everything to end like this.

  He began talking to me before I reached him, not turning round but standing in the same miserable pose, looking at the ground. “I’m sorry, Munira. Don’t take any notice of what I said. I didn’t mean any of it.”

  I froze where I was. I had to say something to make sure he knew what he was saying, to convey my inflamed emotions to him.

  “Why are you sorry? Karim, do you regret... ?”

  “Don’t delude yourself, Munira. Don’t delude yourself I’m finished. There’s no point in me being alive.”

  “Why? Why, Karim? My dear, why?”

  He was as still as a stone for a few moments, then he turned round slowly, still clinging to the wall. His face was wet with tears. “No, Munira. Don’t speak to me like that. Please. I’ve had it. I’m a coward. If I hadn’t completely given up hope, I’d never have dared talk about— my love.” He put his hand up quickly to wipe his eyes. “I can’t be part of your life, Munira. I can’t.”

  As I listened to him I suddenly felt sobs rising in my throat. “Why?” I shouted, interrupting him. “Why can’t you? Why can’t we ... ?”

  “I can’t,” he shouted back. “I can’t. I tell you, you ...” He wiped his eyes again and struck the wall with his hand. “You’re not mine. You know that perfectly well. They’re waiting for your answer. All of them. They want to take you away from me. They know you’re not for me. They want to take you away. Marry you off. They’ve taken her. They’ve taken her away from me.”

  Although I’d tried not to, I was crying like him, desperately, sobbing at the sight of him clinging to the wall, talking his foolish, childish words. What could I have hoped to find in this fragile creature, who was even more pathetic than I was?

  I sobbed without tears, making unfamiliar sounds, trying to catch my breath and almost choking, then the words rushed out from my trembling lips. “I’m ill, Karim. I can’t get married. It wouldn’t work. I can’t. And my family . . .”

  I stopped. I could no longer control myself and buried my face in my hands, then stepped back blindly towards the empty bed. My tears were a culmination of all those painful months; I was crying for the life which was lost to me for no understandable reason; I was crying because in his pale, tearstained face I had seen the last door closing. I fell back on the bed and collected myself, searching through my pockets for a handkerchief. I didn’t want to talk any more or hear him talking. I felt that what I had left, which was precious little, had nothing to do with anybody but me. It was an unadorned choice, with no evasion or hypocrisy possible, between life and death.

  So when he came back and stood miserably beside me, asking me questions I didn’t know the answers to myself, I said nothing. I withdrew into my own world. I didn’t despise him, because he was actually right, but somehow I was distant from him now, and from all that had happened between us minutes before. He asked me about my illness, what it was, why I was ill, was I really ill, etc., and I didn’t answer, sitting hunched on the bed, absorbed in myself and what had happened to me.

  I rose heavily to my feet and was about to go, when he took hold of my arm. His clenched fingers were cold. I looked at him, hut didn’t ask what he wanted. He appeared almost unreal. In the sunset shadows I watched him talking without understanding the words.

  Before fear becomes a habit, it is possible to uproot it from the soul. I discovered that to do this you have to proceed on the assumption that the reasons for the fear don’t exist and imagine what you could do on this basis.

  I therefore excised several hours of my past and put them in parentheses, then began to think of the life ahead of me. The change was not so great: the circle of despair had now interlocked with the circle of defiance. In any case, during out time on this earth, we should not overlook the need to coexist with the rest of humanity. This is a matter of give and take, and not of assuming attitudes. It is a process of flux and overlap, where walls and frontiers don’t exist, only bridges for crossing and recrossing. And I had to think where I stood in all this.

  I wrote to my brother Mustafa in Kirkuk, asking for his advice about an offer I had received. I knew in advance what his answer would be and didn’t think it would be long coming.

  Chapter

  Ten

  He was listening to a conversation between a couple of customers sitting hunched over the table behind him in the Murabbaa café. The speakers’ accents and the strange nature of their discussion had attracted his attention. They had northern accents, and he had guessed as they passed his table that they were probably restaurant employees or drivers. One of them had red eyes and looked distraught. They remained silent for some time, stirring their tea violently, then one of them asked, “What do I do with this bit of paper?” The voice was hoarse and gravelly. Midhat assumed it belonged to the one with the red eyes, and after a brief pause the voice continued. “I think it’s forged. What do you think?”

  “What do I think? Can’t you see the judge’s signature at the bottom? Why do you think it’s forged
?”

  The first voice spoke again, the tone veering between tearful and pleading. “It’s not right. I tell you, it’s not right. The Lord’s justice has not been satisfied. Where will I go with the kids? It’s impossible. She runs off and leaves the kids, then sends me this bit of paper saying she and them have become Muslims, and so she’s forbidden to me. So I have to start running after the stupid tart to make her keep her mouth shut about what’s happened to me. Me, your friend Boutros, from a family with four priests in it. By the life of Christ, this document’s forged. She’s just trying to play with my head.”

  The cannon had only just sounded announcing the end of the day’s Ramadan fast, but Rashid Street was already crowded with cars and pedestrians, and the lights had been on in the shops across the road for some time. Midhat had drunk two teas since his arrival a couple of hours before. Although he had not enjoyed sitting in the café the previous day, he had returned today just the same. Shortly before sunset they had drawn back the curtains and removed the tattered awnings from the shop front, and a white sky had revealed itself to him between the high buildings.

  “If I go to the judge myself, what shall I say to him? I want to become a Muslim like that tart Mathilde?”

  “What are you saying, Boutros? He’ll put you in prison if you talk about your wife like that. What’s wrong with you?”

  It was during this conversation that Midhat saw the man enter rapidly, then stroll casually between the tables and benches, looking left and right. He was short, with red hair and a thin, sickly face. He had been friendly with him for a short time in his student days, several years before, and spent a few evenings with him, and Husayn too, as far as he remembered. He was coming in his direction. Midhat greeted him, and they shook hands warmly.

  “Good evening, brother. How are you? How are things? Fine, fine.”

  He answered his stream of questions and indicated to him to sit down, so the red-haired man sat in the seat facing him. I le remembered he was called Said something-or-other and used to work in the Customs Service. His small eyes were framed by bright red eyebrows and eyelashes. Midhat asked him what he was doing these days.

  “I was ill, brother,” answered Said. “I had to go into the hospital. I’m fine now, but I lost my memory What am I doing now? I’ve been pensioned off. I don’t have a job. I lost my memory.” He opened his eyes wide suddenly emphasizing his words.

  “Why did you lose your memory?”

  “I don’t know, brother . . . brother. .. forgive me, I can’t remember your name. You see? I woke up one morning and couldn’t remember a thing. Who I was. Where I’d come from. Where I was going. Who such-and-such a person was. What was going on. I didn’t know anything. So they put me in hospital. I’m better now. Sometimes I remember things, sometimes I don’t. Now I’ll try and think what your name is.”

  He put a hand up to his forehead and began rubbing it.

  “You must go to the judge,” Midhat heard Boutros’s friend saying, “and make him tell you what’s going to happen to you and your children. Do you understand?”

  “It’s written on this piece of paper. We have to do the same as Mathilde.”

  “You see what I mean,” said Said suddenly. “I can’t remember.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sure I know your name. It’s on the tip of my tongue. But you see, Midhat, how I forget things?” He opened his eyes wide. “Midhat! Midhat!” he shouted. “You’re Midhat.” I le smiled stupidly all over his thin face and repeated, “Midhat. Midhat.”

  One autumn evening when he had been sitting on the couch with his father near the basement stairs, he had watched her crossing the courtyard in her pale blue dress, her hair hanging down her back, and felt as if she was walking across his heart. I le was drawn to the soft curves of her body and her high round breasts as she swung gently along, and he noticed her looking surreptitiously at him with a little smile which told him secretly that she knew.

  He heard Boutros’s unsteady voice. “I’m going to go mad. If only I knew where she was. They said she’s working as a nanny. She called to ask how the children were. She said something then started to cry and put the receiver down. I’m going to go mad.”

  “I don’t always remember things as well as that, Midhat,” said Said.

  “Are you still with Customs?” Midhat asked him.

  Said began gesturing violently. “No, no. They pensioned me off. I don’t have a job. I wasn’t well... Midhat.”

  “So what are you doing with yourself now?”

  “Four clergymen and a priest in out family,” repeated Boutros. “We’re an old Christian family. I’m doomed. Where shall I go? Where shall I take my children? If only God would take her life, or mine.”

  Said swiveled his eyes round slightly to look behind him, then returned his attention to Midhat.

  “I don’t have anything to do,” he said. “I get up in the morning, have breakfast, then come to the café and sit here like this.” He folded his arms on his chest. “Quarter of an hour. Half an hour. Sitting thinking. Then I get up and go home. My wife Umm Hazim’s a good woman. I’m happy with her. I sleep by myself so I can relax. Everything’s fine. I can’t complain. I come to the café every day. Morning and afternoon. Quarter of an hour. Half an hour. Just sitting.”

  He still had his arms folded, resigned as a red sheep.

  “Don’t you read or write?” Midhat asked him. “You could write pieces for the paper, your ideas or something.”

  Said raised his arms and moved them rapidly in a gesture of negation. “No, no. I don’t remember anything. What would I write about? Do you think I’m stupid?” He calmed down. “So what are you doing these days, Midhat? Are you still working at the Ministry?”

  Midhat nodded vaguely. Said grimaced as if he hadn’t had enough information. Midhat felt Sorry for his companion’s confusion and said patiently, “Yes. I’m still with the Ministry, but I’m on holiday at the moment.”

  She had left behind her a little movement of her eyelashes, one sunny Friday morning when he had been deliberately waiting near her room and half blocked her path as he asked her a question. She was wearing her abaya for some reason, and her flushed face was radiant against the black. She avoided his question and walked on, but as she passed him, stony faced, she lowered her eyelids for a second, and the long black lashes seared into his entrails.

  “What’s wrong with that?” responded Said. “It’s not against the law to take a holiday and relax a bit.”

  The waiter arrived, carrying a tray crammed with glasses of tea, put one down in front of Said, and looked inquiringly at Midhat, who signaled in the affirmative. The waiter conveyed his approval with a particular gesture of his arm, carefully putting one of the little glasses down in front of Midhat. From behind Midhat came a mixture of noises and conversation, then the sound of someone hawking and spitting and blowing his nose. I le didn’t look round, but heard Boutros’s friend talking kindly: “No, Abu Mikhail, no. It’s wrong for men to cry Everything will work out in the end. You mustn’t cry”

  Said was looking at the two men, frowning in amazement, obviously finding their behavior hard to comprehend. He raised his glass to his lips and took a mouthful of tea which burnt his throat. He screwed up his face and his eyelashes quivered, then he looked at Midhat, who shrugged his shoulders slightly. Said sat back in his seat and turned away from the two men. For him they represented all the tensions and complexities of the world with which he had lost contact.

  Midhat heard them stand up. They walked past beside him, arm in arm, one covering his face with a handkerchief, and moved away unsteadily through the warm smoke-filled café. Midhat sipped his tea. The tortured Boutros had no choice but to lose his memory and forget his wife’s treachery and whatever had been her religion or his religion. Said was sitting in silence with his arms folded. He finished his tea and pushed the glass away from him, then Midhat saw his face light up suddenly as he looked to the right and left before subsiding back into his seat again.
/>   “Are you waiting for someone, Said?” he asked.

  Said opened his eyes, then shut them, as if he didn’t want to reply. “No, no. I’m not waiting.”

  She had hurt him one evening. He had been about to go out when he had heard an unfamiliar noise coming from his sister’s room. Without any definite idea in his head, he had gone to see what was happening and found Munira and her mother talking heat edly together, Munira crying passionately her red dress open at the neck to reveal her marble-white chest. She had turned to face him, her wet eyes a more brilliant golden color than ever and her lips scarlet, and sobbed in front of him, letting him feel the full force of her emotion, then apologized to him, apologized.

  Said was collecting himself and preparing to leave.

  “Where are you off to, Said?”

  “I’m going.”

  “What have you got to do? It’s still early.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I want my supper.”

  “So you’re not fasting.”

  He raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “Me? No, no. I’m not fasting. My nerves wouldn’t stand it.” I le smiled weakly and stood up, raising his hand. “Right, my friend. Goodbye. You see, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  He was slightly built, short. I le walked off between the tables and benches, his head lowered, his mind and spirit empty Nobody existed inside him, and it didn’t matter to him whether he met someone he knew or merged with the crowd. He was happy, like his name, rejecting his memories. He stopped to pay his bill, then suddenly turned back towards Midhat and raised his arm high in farewell, his face brightening. Had he remembered his name again? Then he disappeared out of the door.

  Midhat took out a cigarette and put it slowly between his lips. Griping pains in his gut reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for eight hours or more. His mouth was bitter as if he was ill. It would get worse if he lit his cigarette. He took it out from between his lips. His fingers wandered over his chin and neck, scraping on the stubble of his unshaven beard. What should he eat today? Syrian kebab in the Mina Restaurant? Something at the Golden Nest?