The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  A wave of bile rose up inside him. Perhaps he should rest for a while. Was Said able to forget his miseries along with his memories? Did losing his memory mean he didn’t feel pain or hunger? In other words, if he lost his memory, would it make him forget the night the two of them—he and Munira—came back together and in the darkness of the passageway near the door, through which light seeped and the family’s noise and music could be heard, he’d stopped her, held her soft shoulders through the abaya, brought his face close to hers, and brushed her velvety soft, warm, golden lips?

  He jumped up as if he’d been stabbed, trembling all over, and looked around him in embarrassment. Some of the other patrons were staring at him. Slowly he sat down again, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag. A faint wave of dizziness came over him, and he put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. Four days had passed since it had all happened. Four days. But what was important now was to see it through in an intelligent fashion. He hated nothing more than the clumsy, involuntary behavior which exposed his lack of self-knowledge. To not know yourself to that degree! Even though she was the cause of it for sure, despite all his efforts. But now, before he did anything, he wanted to understand, to understand at this moment what his limits were and put all other considerations aside. The limits imposed by time and space, now, in this place, without hatred, without love.

  In the midst of the family’s chatter about engagement, marriage, the future, his love for her had taken him by surprise. He’d suddenly noticed her eyes, and his heart had missed a beat. The girl he loved was living amongst them.

  Hurriedly he rose from his seat and left the café, Staying in one place didn’t help him remain in the present. The opposite was true, and he cursed. The air in the street was cold, heavy with the smell of burning petrol. As he stood outside the café wondering where to go, his legs felt weak. What sort of a wreck was he! He’d sat for an hour or two without moving, and when he stood up his legs were incapable of bearing his weight. The front of the Shaab cinema was dominated by a picture of Abd al-Karim Qasim, insanely huge, lie crossed to the other side of the street and went with the crowd down towards Bab al-Sharqi. It was a little after eight. If you thought about it, there was no time or space, or else they existed within fluid boundaries, He, for example, as he walked down Rashid Street a little after eight in the evening, was walking through time and space. Suffering from stomach cramps because he hadn’t eaten, he could nevertheless pass with ease from one dimension of human life to another. Here was another example. Near the shops which sold cakes and yogurt, or more precisely in front of Aram’s pastry and pastrami shop, right in front of the window, he was standing hungry, weak, and unshaven; for several days now he had stayed away from the house and its people, and those damned bright images and the songs and whispers and beautiful days.

  He was afraid for her when he held her to him, and she sighed gently and he felt the pressure of her breasts against his chest. Was this the reality? More importantly was this the world which slipped through your fingers when you wanted to organize it so carefully? He went into the shop and asked the old assistant for a glass of yogurt and a pastry. For all he knew these constant daydreams might be doing him a favor, stopping him from moving outside the immediate here and now, immersing him in space and time, keeping people away from him, severing his links with them. This daydreamer was not a human being, not begotten, although he might have begat. His hand carrying the pastry to his open mouth stopped in mid-air. Fie might have fathered a child. I le paid the old man and left the shop. The air was cold. Where was he going to go? The street was packed with cars. Was it possible that he had planted his seed inside her, then run away? Songs played on a shop radio. As he hurried along, he bumped into people strolling on the pavement. Would it have changed anything if he hadn’t run away?

  He stopped on the edge of the pavement opposite the Post Office as if he was about to cross. He didn’t see the people around him. He was tired and dejected. The yogurt had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Things were becoming complicated, more than they had been two or three days before. After all the nightmares he had been refreshed by a long sleep in the Rusafa Hotel, but things had begun to change inside him since then. Now he was afraid something awful was about to descend on him unawares, a specific disorder in himself or the world around him, which would destroy his mind or his life.

  The blurred shapes of the cars raced past in front of him, making the ground shake. One small jump and he would be under those soft, black wheels, and everything would be over. The shining images, the smiles, the stars, and the tears would vanish with him.

  When he embraced her for the first time, she buried her face in his neck and he felt her warm breath as she whispered, “Don’t leave me, Midhat. Don’t leave me alone, please.” She didn’t lift her dear face to him until he took hold of her hair and was confronted by the tears trickling out from under her closed eyelids, so he kissed them one after another.

  Now, if he made that decisive jump, this image would be nothing but blood and bones and broken flesh. Munira would become a fragment of the remains, when she had once inhabited an anonymous corner of this disintegrated heap of flesh, perhaps been a melody arising from it somehow, which nobody would hear from now on. Even she would never be able to understand that somewhere in that bloody mess echoes of her laughter and glances from her shining eyes used to reverberate. The dark surface of the street reflected dim, distant flickerings of light. Gloomily he turned and walked slowly on, trying to avoid that fatal impulse towards self-pity. What would he gain by remaining in front of the stopped clock on the Post Office building, drowning the world in his bitter tears, which he shed for himself, at the thought of his own suicide? He noticed the Rusafa Hotel entrance on the other side of the street, but didn’t feel like going up to his cold, bare room. Such an empty room.

  He saw her making his bed shortly before they were married, bending over slightly, and the room, with her in it, appeared full of laughter and movement and light and sunshine,

  Suddenly he felt himself lung e forward into the street, in a stupid attempt to cross it, a stupid attempt to cut across his thoughts and the flow of his emotions. A car horn blared in his head and brakes screeched. He didn’t look round, but bounded on. He heard swearing and cursing behind him. His heart was beating uncomfortably and, noticing a dark alleyway, he dived into it to escape. He stumbled a few times as he hurried to put distance between him and the noise of the street, and then walked on slowly panting between the grubby walls, A smell of food and burnt oil assailed his nostrils. A door opened and an old woman emptied a bucket of dirty water out into the narrow alley A cool breeze touched his face as the alleyway ended and he came out into an empty street. Apartment buildings were under construction on either side of it, and at the far end faint lights were visible. He stopped at the foot of a dark old wall.

  He kissed her by the big wooden door in the musty dark passageway, then folded her in his arms so that her abaya fell on to her shoulders and her perfumed hair came cascading down.

  His heart beat faster all of a sudden, and he leaned against the wall behind him. He was attacked by a fit of weakness, and his legs and stomach trembled slightly. The stones protruding from the wall dug into his bones. He was overcome by a desire to sit down on the ground. His stomach was churning violently. I le pressed it and wiped the sweat off his face. His heart was pounding irregularly. What was happening to him? He was a vagrant, an outcast! Then he had terrible cramps in his insides and felt his body refusing to hold up. His legs gave way and his back scraped down the wall, stirring up the dust. His vision blurred and he tried to hold on to the wall, but his hands slid down it with the rest of his body and he thudded like a stone on to the muddy ground. The cramps squeezed and crushed his entrails again and rose in waves towards his chest. He gasped, then took a deep breath. His eyes were closed, his pulse fluttered rapidly, and cold sweat poured down his face. I [e heard a car roar past. He was dying alone, without any warning
. He breathed in and out again loudly The sound of his breathing annoyed him, and his mouth and throat were dry and constricted. He didn’t know what was happening to him but as he crumpled into a heap by a wall at a crossroads in the gloomy quarter of Sinak, he felt that he had finally hit rock bottom. He swallowed and wiped his sticky forehead. It hadn’t taken him long on his own to sink to the lowest depths. The stomach cramps abated. He opened his eyes. There was nobody nearby A breath of sweet, cool air revived him. He saw himself spread-eagled in a dark corner on the dirty pavement.

  She trembled in his arms, naked, fragile as crystal, with frightened eyes, moistening her lips constantly then putting her hands up to cover her full, warm breasts.

  He leaned his head back against the wall.

  He had embraced her and she didn’t tell him, she didn’t tell him. He was just an object of derision for her. Instead of having the grace to rouse him gently from his glorious dream, she had slapped him into wakefulness.

  He beat his head on the stones behind him.

  She had let him subside into bitterness, terror, and impotence. Her thighs were warm, soft, tender. She had wanted him to roll in the mire. Neither the memories, not his persistent desire for her came to his aid.

  He hit his head against the wall again, and his skull reverberated painfully. His pulse and breathing became regular once his guts had stopped heaving. He sat up and brushed the mud off his hands, bent his legs, rested his weight on the ground, and struggled to his feet. Taking out a handkerchief, he did his best to clean himself up. His head was throbbing. He looked around him. I His mouth still felt sour and dry. He headed off, making his way slowly back down the alley he had come from. He was weak, his body afflicted by a strange debility. He tripped on a stone, and his feet disappeared into a deep pothole filled with dirty water. In the distance he heard a raucous voice rising and falling, reciting verses from the Quran. I le could not distinguish phrases or individual words, but the harsh, unsteady quality of the voice saddened him. He walked shakily along at the side of the alley; he was tired and the back of his head hurt. He would wash in his hotel room and try to rest. Perhaps he would find something to eat.

  He entered Uwanis’s and asked for Husayn then, disregarding the surprise written all over Uwanis’s face, walked away and pulled aside the dirty curtain at the back of the shop. They were sitting against the wall on their worn cane chairs with their drinks and snacks on upturned empty barrels in front of them: Husayn, Abu Shakir, and a bedouin enveloped in his abaya, whom Midhat didn’t know. They turned towards him in the faint red light.

  “Al-salam alaykum,” he called.

  “Alaykum al-salam,” they answered with one voice.

  Then they peered at his face to see who it was. Husayn jumped to his feet and came over to embrace him, and Midhat smelled his stale body odor mixed with the muskiness of the arak and a whiff of food.

  “My dear Midhat,” he murmured. “Where have you been?”

  This affectionate gesture touched him, and he began looking for a place to sit. He patted Husayn’s shoulder without saying anything and pushed him gently away Abu Shakir stood up, appearing slightly mystified, and the bedouin shifted in his seat, then was still. Husayn pulled up a chair from a corner of the room, put it next to his, and invited Midhat to sit down. “Hello,” they chorused the moment he did so.

  “Abu Kamal, Abu Kamal,” called Husayn.

  He turned questioningly towards Midhat, blowing cigarette smoke in his face.

  “A quarter of Zahle arak,” replied Midhat tersely.

  Husayn looked hesitantly at him, then nodded at Uwanis. “A quarter of Zahle, quickly please, Abu Kamal.”

  “Good evening to you,” said the bedouin suddenly in a guttural voice, raising a hand in greeting.

  “The same to you, brother,” replied Midhat.

  “That’s a new bird,” whispered Husayn as he took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Midhat. “Our dear friend Abu Shakir snared him a couple of weeks ago.”

  Midhat refused the cigarette. The air in the back shop was heavy, dominated by a putrid smell which was hard to pin down.

  “What do you want to eat?” Husayn was asking him. “Beans or chick peas? That’s all there is today Or do you want a proper dinner?”

  “No, no. I ate before I came. A dish of beans.”

  “Okay Abu Kamal, two dishes of beans please.” Then he turned back to Midhat. “How are you?” he asked. “I went twice to your office looking for you. They said you were on holiday. And yesterday—no, it could have been the day before—Karumi came to see me at home. That was a mistake!”

  “Give me a bit of peace, Husayn. I’ve got a sore head.”

  “Okay, fine.” He blew out a puff of smoke, turned to look at Abu Shakir for a moment, then glanced surreptitiously back at Midhat again. The people sitting there and the objects surrounding them were a mixture of black and ochre shadows. Midhat was not interested in examining them more closely and wanted to shut himself off from them. The curtain was drawn back violently and Abu Kamal entered carrying a quarter of arak, a glass, and the beans. With Husayn’s help, he put everything down on the empty barrel in front of Midhat.

  “Abu Kamal,” said Abu Shakir, “you need a few tables in this bar.”

  Uwanis looked coldly at him. “What bar?”

  Abu Shakir made an expansive gesture with his arm. “There’s a seating problem here.”

  “I’m a shopkeeper, and I sell drink. I can’t get a license to open a bar. If I had a bar, I’d have had to close it during Ramadan. It’s forbidden. This is Ramadan. I’m doing you all a service here.”

  Abu Shakir went on looking up at Uwanis through his large dark glasses, without speaking.

  “What are you making a fuss about, Abu Shakir?” said Husayn, when Uwanis had gone. “He’s obviously doing us a favor.”

  Abu Shakir raised his glass to the bedouin, who raised his in reply and the two men drank.

  “And they wonder why everything’s going wrong!” said Abu Shakir.

  Midhat was mixing his drink, no longer attempting to join in with them. He’d eaten a few kebabs in a piece of warm bread from a vendor near the hotel, then washed and Iain on the bed for a while. He poured the arak into the glass, added ice and water, and watched the liquid turn milky.

  “God is great,” said the bedouin.

  “Our friend has a good story to tell,” whispered Husayn. “I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Mr. Midhat,” called Abu Shakir, “to your very good health.”

  “God is great.”

  They all raised their glasses. Midhat’s throat and insides burned for a few moments, then the heat began flowing into the rest of his body He still needed a bit longer to relax, come out of himself. In the company of somebody he had chosen to be with, because he was confident he would listen to him, he could feel the stirrings of some kind of equanimity.

  As they were talking and laughing beside him, the numbness spread slowly into the nooks and crannies of his body, and he felt that he was calmer than he had been for a long time; an invisible envelope separated him from his vociferous companions. Husayn turned to him and brought his face close to his. “If you knew how I’ve missed you, Midhat. But I’ve got a bone to pick with you. You’ll say that idiot is messing things up as usual. But I swear to you, Midhat, you mean a lot to me and I don’t want you to forget me. I know I’m useless. Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m like, but to hell with everything. I wouldn’t give four piastres for this scabby, precarious world, balanced on a bull’s horn, so they tell us. Four is too much. On the other hand, you must realize, nobody can buy me for a few pence. I want my just deserts, brother. But you, Midhat—no. Keep my example in your head as a warning. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, if you don’t mind. Let me get it over with, then I can relax, have some self-respect, tell myself that I’m still joined to the world by a thread.”

  He raised his glass and drank, then picked up a bean and slipped it in
to his mouth. The shadows round his head smoothed out the dark lines on his face, so that he looked less exhausted, and his features were almost sharp and handsome. He twisted his head round to watch Abu Shakir and his friend whispering together, then reached for the plate again, so absorbed in what they were saying that he forgot to finish the conversation which he had begun so abruptly with Midhat.

  “Now they’re bearable,” he whispered to Midhat, “but once that bedouin Abu Ab’ub gets drunk, out evening’s ruined.”

  Abu Shakir was talking angrily to the bedouin, who was listening humbly, but with interest.

  “How’s it going, Abu Shakir?” called Husayn. ‘Are you getting anywhere?”

  Abu Shakir’s dark face turned briefly in his direction. His glasses covered half of his face, and his long, drooping moustache obscured his mouth.

  “My brothers, Abu Suha, Mr. Midhat,” he said, “we’re discussing an insoluble problem, I and my respected colleague Abu Ab’ub, and we know very well it’s insoluble.”

  “God is great.”

  Abu Shakir turned halfback to the bedouin. “We know, thank God, but I don’t remember who said it, we want to grasp the problem in its virgin state or, to be precise, if you’ll pardon me, we don’t want to let the bitch go.”

  “Well said, Abu Shakir. Let’s drink to that!” shouted Husayn.

  The three of them emptied their glasses. Husayn smacked his lips, then whispered to Midhat as he put his glass down, “Don’t believe a word he says. But Abu Ab’ub’s story is worth hearing. I’ll tell you about it. Bitch indeed! They’re a bunch of scoundrels.”

  A feeling of well-being came over Midhat as he listened to all this chatter. The arak had begun to do its work some minutes before and objects, faces, and gestures had taken on unaccustomed hues. He was glad of this mist in front of his eyes and felt almost happy.