“Abu Ab’ub, my friend,” interrupted Husayn. “Mr. Midhat’s a civil servant from an old Baghdad family and what’s more he’s a relative of mine.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean ...”
“It’s all right. I don’t have a family Abu... Abu Ab’ub. Husayn’s mistaken. Believe me.”
“What are you talking about, Midhat?” asked Husayn.
Midhat raised his left arm in the air. “No, no, no. Look, Abu Suha. Abu Ab’ub’s question is relevant, as you well know. You, for example. Who are your family? Who have you got in your life now?”
“A drink and a dish of beans,” answered Abu Shakir with a loud laugh. He raised his glass and gestured with both hands, urging Abu Ab’ub to do the same. Without appearing to be annoyed, Husayn joined in the laughter. Despite their responses, Midhat wanted to pursue the conversation. Never before had he been possessed by such a desire to open up and express his opinion.
“What you’re saying is partly true, Abu Shakir,” he said, not seeming to realize that he was raising his voice. “These things don’t let you down, in a way I mean, a glass doesn’t suddenly become a pitcher before your eyes, and arak doesn’t turn into date jam.”
Their laughter rose in the air, and amid the uproar he made out Abu Ab’ub’s words. “Or chick peas into goat turds. You’re right, my friend. What’s the reason?”
In their dingy hideaway, heavy with their breath, they exhaled cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes from their wrecked lungs, and their coughing filled the air. Midhat thumped the barrel in front of him several times, and the plates and glasses jumped.
“Your comparison is . . . apposite, brother Ba’bub. I mean Abu Ab’ub,” he continued, shouting above the noise,
“It wasn’t deliberate.”
The interruption annoyed Midhat. “Let me finish, Mr. Ab’ub. Abu Ab’ub. Let me finish.”
They were silent briefly He forgot what he was going to say for a moment. “I wanted to say one thing which made sense, my friends. For an hour now we’ve been indulging in pointless chatter. Let’s have at least one sensible conversation.”
He was breathless, panting slightly as he spoke. This was not how he wanted to finish. He felt the need to go on talking indefinitely.
“I’m joking,” said Abu Ab’ub. “I just wanted to cheer you up.”
“Come on, Abu Ab’ub,” said Abu Shakir. “We were all joking. Don’t worry about it.”
“Why are you joking now, Abu Ab’ub?” Husayn went on. “When Mr. Midhat’s wanting to tell us something?”
The bedouin looked as if he was trying to apologize. “I’m at the end of my tether,” he said after a short silence.
“What’s the matter with you this time, Abu Ab’ub?”
“Nothing serious. I’m not happy. They’re the problem. My family I miss them. I want to be near them, near the sheep, the songs, the sunrise, the fresh air, the warm bread, the milk, the smells.”
He began shaking his head from side to side, as if he was singing or nursing his pain.
“What smells, Abu Ab’ub? Dung and farting donkeys and camels? Surely we’re better off here with our handsome brothers, who smell of rosewater!”
Then Abu Shakir raised his glass, and Abu Ab’ub imitated him in silence. They drank together. Husayn was muttering something which Midhat could not make out. His desire to talk had subsided, and he felt tired and deflated. His eyelids drooped and his head began to spin. He lit a cigarette, thinking it would be a good idea to go and splash his face with cold water. He turned to Husayn, who was talking to Abu Shakir, and touched his arm. His head was going round.
“Look, Husayn. I think I feel a bit sick.”
Husayn brought his face up close to him. “What do you mean?”
“I said I feel funny A bit queasy”
“Why, my dear Midhat? The night’s only just beginning. The best is yet to come.” Then he called. ‘Abu Kamal. The bill, please.”
“It’s a bit early, Abu Suha.”
“Let them go home if they want.”
“Yes, Mr. Husayn?”
“The bill, Abu Kamal. Yes. Just for the two of us. Hurry, please.”
She was lying there quietly, not intending to divulge her secret to him, while a fire blazed inside him, engulfing his heart and mind. She reached out and touched his forehead, revealing her rounded breasts, and let him look at them, stroke them, kiss them. She didn’t speak. He sucked her lips, taking the pink lower lip into his mouth and biting it, his eyes closed as he abandoned himself to her warmth and smell and softness. He felt her move her tongue and touch his lip with it. She had her eyes half open, and he could see the gold tinged with mysterious hints of green through her black lashes. He felt the first stirring of desire in her and a flicker of love. She seemed to like all this. Perhaps she was less afraid of it than him. He held her close.
“Leave me alone. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Don’t play games with me, Abu Ab’ub. Get your money out and pay out bill.”
“What’s wrong with you, Abu Shakir? Are you quarrelling with the air?”
“Come on, Midhat. Let’s go.”
Midhat stood up to leave with Husayn; he was more unsteady on his feet than he had ever known himself, and his vision was blurred.
“Do you think it’s my turn, Abu Ab’ub? Look at me. Do I seem as if I was born yesterday?”
The fresh air revived Midhat briefly and he took in lungfuls of it.
“Driver! Driver! Stop!” shouted Husayn.
Then the world went round and everything turned upside down in front of him. Closing his eyes, he leaned on Husayn’s arm.
“Come along, this way. See where the driver’s stopped. You’re going home, aren’t you, Midhat?”
“No, no.”
“For heaven’s sake. Where are you getting off then? Where, do you want to go? What’s the problem? Back a bit, driver. What’s that? Who’s drunk? Neither of us. Keep an eye on your horses. I’m afraid you’re the one who’s drunk! So where do you want to go, my dear Midhat?”
Midhat did not answer. Husayn put a hand under his arm and helped him up the steps of the carriage, where he collapsed on the seat.
“We come from God and to Him we will return,” pronounced Husayn. “Take us to the Kurdish quarter in Bab al-Shaykh, my friend. Behind Café Yas. Do you know the area well? It’s your patch? Glad to hear it. So why are we having this long discussion? Let’s go.”
She was wrapped in his arms, soft and yielding beneath him, breathing rapidly and exhaling that strange fragrance. He moved away from her slightly raising his chest off her nakedness, relishing the sight of her like that: his Munira, his wife, his lover. Her skin was delicate, her breasts and stomach rounded. Her pelvic bone momentarily attracted his attention and he saw her gently closing her thighs. She was underneath him, tight against him, not talking. Her rosy brown body was telling him something which he didn’t pick up. When she pulled him back towards her as if she didn’t want him to look too long at the secret parts of her body, he felt her opening her thighs again to take him inside her.
The air was cool and smelt faintly of burned food, the horses’ hooves pounded-the street monotonously, and songs drifted vaguely to his ear from some unidentified source. not feeling Husayn next to him, he opened his eyes and saw him sprawled out, like him, with his legs up on the seat opposite. The driver was humming a song to himself and to Kifah Street, which was empty, all its shops closed, apart from a couple of cafés. Midhat let his heavy eyelids droop shut again and abandoned himself to the swaying of the carriage and the gentle breeze. The moment he shut his eyes his head went round, and he was seized by a violent whirlwind which lifted him up and spun him round in spiraling eddies, vertically and horizontally an unbroken sequence of movements without sense or purpose. He didn’t resist them and felt his insides succumb to the gyrations and heave and churn.
“Where did you say you were going?” he heard the coachman say “Which street?”
Husayn coughed vio
lently and lit a cigarette. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Bab al-Shaykh’s your patch, remember? Where are we now? Isn’t this Fadwa Arab? So we’re near Bab al-Shaykh, aren’t we? Didn’t I say behind Café Yas? Straight ahead, brother, then when you get to the cemetery at Kilani Mosque, go right. Where the police station is, that’s the street. What do you mean, which police station? The one in Bab al-Shaykh. You’re going too far now. Don’t you understand Arabic?”
Listening to Husayn talking helped take his mind off his nausea, There was no escaping it, sooner or later it would come, but for the moment he could fight it.
When it was all over, he went out of the bedroom and walked up and down in the dark. It was past three in the morning, and the night hung heavily over the ghastly world. He was distraught. He wanted to go downstairs, but didn’t have the strength and stood in a remote corner of the gallery, leaning on the chilly wooden balustrade. He was trembling, his insides churning. He did not want to see another living soul. He became convinced of this out of the blue and remained convinced. not a soul. He was revolted, humiliated. He wanted to keep silent forever. At that moment, as he looked over at the faint light from their bedroom, he had an attack of nausea. His body was rocked by two violent spasms, his mouth filled with bitter liquid, and his eyes watered. He was crushed, his thoughts not connecting to the reality of his situation. He retched for a third time and leaned against the railing, panting. He could die quietly there, but he mustn’t see anyone. He turned round in a panic when he thought he heard a movement. The dark sky gleamed with stars, and the high black walls encircled him like the sides of a well. He mustn’t see anyone. He went quickly back to the bedroom and got dressed. She was dozing, her hair spread over the pillow and covering part of her face. He slipped on his clothes like a thief, afraid of making the slightest noise, but she woke up just as he was about to leave the room and sat up, resting back against the bedhead, her face radiant despite the fatigue which showed on it, and a look of hurt questioning in her sleep-blurred eyes. Just before the door came between them, he noticed the curve of her right breast and the fine creases in the skin around her armpit.
“Midhat. Don’t you want to go home? See, we’re in Kilani Street and there’s still time, if you want...”
“No, no,” interrupted Midhat in terror. “I said no.” Then he called, “Take me to the hotel. Who told you ... ?” He paused. “Where are we? Where are we, Husayn?”
“Take it easy, Midhat. Take it easy If that’s how things are, leave it to me. Don’t worry about it. I know where to take you. It doesn’t matter. Straight on, brother. The way we were going before. Keep straight ahead for a bit, then when you get to the street with the police station, turn right. Understand, my friend? Carry on.” He patted Midhat on the shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, Midhat. You can stay with me for the night. But if you’d told me a bit earlier, it would have been helpful. Just given me an indication. Never mind. I’m ready for anything.”
Midhat did not open his eyes. It felt pleasant surrendering to those spirals of dizziness and not immediately dangerous. If he got through the night without throwing up and having to deal with the repercussions, he would be able to say it had been a successful evening. However, the continuing upheaval in his guts and throat and head made this an unlikely hypothesis. So he had to look at things from another angle: how much damage would it do to him? Or, to put it another way, what would be left of him after the impending bout of vomiting? Obviously the answer ...
“Yes. On your right. What do you mean, where’s the police station? Go on a bit further. We’re just about there, and he’s asking me where the police station is. What’s wrong with you? Midhat, have you got some small change on you? I’ve only got a half dinar. I don’t want to give all that to out friend from Bab al-Shaykh.”
Midhat reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of coins. Husayn snatched them unceremoniously from him. The carriage lurched violently, and the driver swore at his horse.
“Stop. We’re here. What’s all that about? Take it easy Why are you swearing at the horses? They’ve done nothing wrong. Here’s a hundred and fifty fils. Come along, Midhat. What are you saying, my friend?”
“Nothing, sir. I’m just cursing this filthy, stinking world.”
“What’s that got to do with us? Go and swear at home, not in front of the mosque. not in front of God’s house. Am I right? We’re at the beginning of Ramadan, sir. That’s a fine way to talk!”
The lights were still burning brightly in Café Yas, and there were a few customers smoking narghiles. Midhat climbed slowly down from the carriage; his limbs drooped and his vision was blurred, but he steadied himself and stood up straight, waiting for Husayn to decide which way they should go. He breathed heavily, feeling as if there was a dead weight inside him. He passed the flat of his hand over his temples and it came away cold and clammy.
“What do you think, Midhat?” Husayn was saying, “Do you want to clear your head with a cup of coffee or a glass of tea? We’ve still got time.”
Midhat signaled his reluctance. He felt no embarrassment or annoyance being here with Husayn. It was a perfectly normal state of affairs. Husayn was talking, and Midhat turned as if he was expecting to see someone else beside him.
“Come on, then,” said Husayn. “I’d been thinking of going into that thug’s place for something to eat. I’m starving. Watch out, the ground’s been sprayed, and it’s full of potholes.”
They walked along, supporting one another, between two rows of seats. A foul stench of tobacco and dust and water penetrated Midhat’s nostrils. He slipped a couple of times. They entered a dark alley dark as a cave. Husayn left him to walk alone.
“My dear Midhat,” he began in a loud voice. “You know how important you are to me, how much I like you, but I don’t want to interfere in your life. There’s just a small idea that’s been hammering in my brain for the past two hours. I don’t want to intrude on you, but just think of me as a brother. Don’t destroy yourself like I did. It’s true, I don’t have much advice to give. Anyway, who’d listen to my advice? People aren’t stupid.” He interrupted himself with a snort of laughter. “But I’ve just got one small thing to say. Look at me now. Just look at me, Midhat. What am I? I can’t solve problems. I put it off, run away, duck and dive.” He was waving his arms around like a pair of snakes. “But believe me, over time it’s surprising how putting things off becomes an actual solution. It’s a fact. You could construct a philosophy on it if you wanted to. I can give you all the data. That, my dear Midhat, is how your brother Husayn’s gone on fighting like a hawk, but a hawk hung up by its tail, not knowing whether it’s coming or going. Yet all the same I can dance with the wind. Look .. .”
He moved a few steps away and began to leap about and kick his legs out to either side, a crazy black shadow. He burst out laughing. They were in a small dimly lit square where several alleyways met. In the middle of it was a pool of stagnant water. Husayn came to a halt, panting.
“This way, my dear Midhat. You’re going to sleep in my bed tonight. You’re the guest of honor. Luckily it’s not at all cold.” He went off to the right, still bounding into the air at intervals. “There’s no problem without a solution, my dear Midhat. The fact is, you see, the solutions are lost and if we look we’ll find them. But that’s not really what I was getting at. To hell with your ancestors, Abu Ab’ub.” He snorted with laughter again. “What a man! He wants to go back to his family and eat shit!”
He stopped in front of a faded black door, part of which had sunk below ground level. “Come here, Midhat. Help me look for the key. I don’t know where the devil I put it.”
Midhat approached him hesitantly; his head was gently going round and he had no idea where to look for the key.
“Just a minute, Midhat.”
Midhat felt Husayn take his arm. His voice was clear and quiet, and his fingers gripped him firmly. Midhat wanted to sec his face, but it was too dark, so he went on waiting, unconcerned,
abandoning himself to the spinning in his head.
“Midhat, please,” whispered Husayn. “Take care of her. Don’t lose her.”
His voice was suddenly muffled, tearful, unsteady They remained without speaking for a time, mute as the dark walls around them. In the distance Midhat could hear a drumbeat surfacing momentarily above the noise of the street and the café. The fingers gripping his arm irritated him. He disengaged himself and leaned against the wall behind him.
“Have we come here to sleep,” he muttered incoherently, “or to listen to a lecture.”
Husayn remained stock still beside him, the shadows he cast mingling with the feeble street lights. His ebullience had suddenly deserted him, and he appeared unable to carry on his search for the key He let his arms drop by his sides, came down off the doorstep, and sat on the ground in the street, sighing, then buried his head in his hands. Midhat looked at him with annoyance. From the start he had lacked any confidence in him. His good nature was no use when there were serious matters to be dealt with. He heard him giving more long sighs, followed by another noise which he couldn’t identify to begin with, but he didn’t say anything, assuming that the situation would eventually be clarified. He was completely exhausted, weighed down in body and soul, incapable of exchanging opinions or recalling an image or a memory. All he wanted at that moment was somehow to cease to exist. As he stood helplessly in the darkness of the alley beside this drunk, who seemed unable to control his mood or emotions, he felt he couldn’t go on any longer.
Then he heard a stifled sobbing coming from nowhere. He looked around him. Darkness hid the turning into the next little alley, and a splinter of red light from behind him fell on the opposite wall. There was nobody in sight. The sobbing rose up louder this time, but more disjointed. Husayn’s shoulders were twitching and sagging alternately in time with his sudden strange fit of tears. Midhat continued to stare impotently at the dark heap of disheveled hair and clothes. These were not ordinary tears: long sighs followed by a short sob, then more lengthy exhalations.
The Long Way Back Page 26