As he clenched his hands together under the cover, the room grew lighter and the wall facing him became visible in the daylight coming through the little window in the right hand corner The dark crack which split it from top to bottom looked deeper than ever now, surrounded by a network of smaller cracks and fissures and patches of damp. It reminded him of barren steppes devastated by an earthquake, like a crazy giant running amok with his scythe, slicing off children’s heads, destroying all traces of life. He thought of the line from the Quran: ‘And when the baby girl who has been buried alive shall be asked for what crime she was put to death...” They buried her before she had tasted her mother’s milk. That really was extermination. And who was going to stop it?
Husayn snored and turned over again, and he and the sofa emitted a medley of sounds. His face was a coppery brown with dark circles under the closed eyes, and he had covered himself with something that looked like an overcoat or a thick army blanket. He was curled up tightly and reminded Midhat of a silkworm in a cocoon; only his face and tousled hair were visible. Midhat wondered when he had come in. He hadn’t had the price of a drink and had been anxious because it was Thursday, the day he was obliged to go drinking with his friends. not that this made much difference, since he went drinking every evening, but somehow the night between Thursday and Friday had a special quality for him. Still, he hadn’t asked Midhat for money and had left shortly after the Ramadan sunset meal, although he had hung about and seemed preoccupied. Midhat had not wanted to give him money that he might need later, so he had reluctantly stopped himself looking up, pretending to be deep in thought. He would have liked to help Husayn somehow, especially as Husayn had opened up to him over these past few days, telling him strange details about his life: his laundry and eating arrangements, his relationships with others. This time he had not tried to deceive him with grandiose statements about literature and philosophy, or the self and others, declaring he knew precious little about anything. Midhat found him better natured than he had expected and had the impression Husayn’s present way of life was the only one which would suit him. He wasn’t rebelling against life in general, but rejecting society’s ties and obligations and paying a hefty price for it in terms of self-respect, going dirty and hungry Yet he was enviably content and satisfied, but also firmly convinced that he would be dead before long. Fear sometimes seized Husayn out of the blue, a blind terror which defied logic, and he would hurry to seek reassurance from the bottle, where he usually found it.
He snorted again as if he was dying. In his own particular way of looking at things, he was teetering on the brink of destruction, but would expend his utmost efforts to keep his balance for as long as possible.
His face, with its high cheekbones, looked as if the life had already gone out of it. It upset Midhat to look at Husayn when he was asleep. He was no longer a person, but an image of death, a dream, an illusion, an ethereal being. If he had seen himself looking like this, he would have been terrified, but Husayn dealt with the future, or the end of anything, by choosing to believe in the worst possible scenario, then he could relax. What kind of self-deception was that!
He shifted his gaze away from Husayn on to the cracked wall, illuminated by the early morning light. Somebody had drawn on it in pencil—a heart stuck through with an arrow and some letters—and there were marks left by rusty nails and a large stain of black ink, as if an inkwell had been hurled at it. He closed his eyes and felt shooting pains in his chest and stomach. He pressed on his stomach and massaged his chest, breathing deeply. These little actions might eventually help. He was drained and tired, his body limp. Almost the only thing disturbing him now was that he was sexually aroused. Damned lust, still there, inflamed by his thoughts. He squeezed his legs together but the fire kept burning. The way she moved as she opened her rosy legs, the divine feeling of being deep inside a beautiful woman, the woman you loved. The way she covered her trembling breast with her painted fingernails, but when his lips fastened on to it she held his head and caressed it gently.
Wide awake now, eves open, he stared at the murky void in front of him, suffused by a feeling of secret delight, which stirred restlessly deep inside him and rose up to his neck. A mysterious delight in life with no reason or justification other than itself. The delight which was the justification for life.
It was like an almost physical pleasure spreading timidly from an obscure spot in his insides, and its anaesthetic effect made him forget his troubles for a moment. He closed his eyes. How ridiculous everything seemed sometimes, impossible to take seriously. People even engaged in dialogues with death, made fun of it, skillfully neutralized it, and rejected it, not involuntarily but out of conviction, making up their minds to do so. In the distance he heard a bird cheeping. Surprised, he opened his eyes. It was almost sunrise. Husayn was sound asleep. Midhat turned on to his left side. There was no sign of Husayn’s shoes under the sofa. Perhaps he hadn’t got round to taking them off. What did it matter? He smiled. He was tired. His eyelids drooped.
When he opened them again, Husayn was sitting on the sofa looking at him. Their eyes met in the silence of the sun-filled room. Some time went by and neither of them spoke, although they continued to exchange glances. The atmosphere in the room was strange and vaguely disturbing, then he suddenly heard a muffled explosion in the distance. He sat up in bed.
“Did you hear?” said Husayn. “That’s the fourth one.”
“What is it?”
“Either the Hajji ate a lot of onions,” said Husayn scratching his head, “or, my dear Midhat, this is the revolution we’ve all been waiting for. I think today’s going to be critical for our friend Karim Qasim.” He stretched and yawned, opening his mouth as wide as it would go.
Midhat felt faintly anxious listening to Husayn. It was a beautiful morning, more appropriate for a stroll with someone close to you than another new revolution. Still, if those in power thought like him, the revolutionaries had chosen their time well. His train of thought was interrupted by another explosion, followed by a volley of shots.
“No, it’s certainly not the Hajji,” said Husayn, putting his feet to the floor. He laughed and stood up, stretching again.
He was in his crumpled blue suit; the collar of his light colored shirt was undone with the black tie still tied. Midhat’s anxiety returned as he sat, his feet dangling over the side of the bed, listening to Husayn talking and yawning. “Can I use the bathroom before you, Midhat? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
Husayn scratched his right leg and hobbled off towards the door. Midhat found his shoes under the bed, with his socks stuffed into them, and put them on disgustedly, then stood up, He felt somewhat dejected, realizing that he had not reached any concrete conclusions in his thinking. He had retreated from the world, from all of his family, because he felt humiliated, ashamed of everything. He had not taken any action and, up until a few hours ago, considered that a heroic achievement. But now, as the explosions grew louder in the distance, it seemed he was no longer in control of his world, and time was running short, He felt afraid, too, because the significance of human beings and their actions was breaking free from his logic and expectations.
The door burst open and Husayn came in, drying his hair and smoothing it down. “Sorry I’m running late. Did you hear anything?”
“No. Like what?”
Then Midhat hurried out himself. In the landing the air was warm. He stood in front of the basin. His eyes were red and slightly swollen, his hair disheveled. He washed his face in cold water and soap, making his eyes sting, and thought he heard an explosion or two. Anxiety jagged at him from time to time like a pin in his side. He was drying his face when he saw Husayn coming out of their room,
“I’m off, Midhat. To see what’s going on. Do you want to come with me?”
“Me?” said Midhat hesitantly. “No, no. You go, Husayn. If there’s anything to report, you’ll come back, won’t you?”
“Of
course. I don’t have anywhere else to go.” And he stumbled off towards the stairs.
Midhat put the towel back and looked at his distorted reflection in the mirror, feeling his heavy black stubble. The explosions reverberated in the distance. He went back to the room, but stopped in the door way. What a stinking hole it was, the sunlight shining into it only making it appear more miserable. He retreated and went down to look for something to eat. There was no one in the gloomy kitchen. He lit the stove and put a pot of water to boil. He called out to the old woman, Atiya, and her husband, the Hajji, but nobody answered. He felt dizzy and his head throbbed. His thoughts had abandoned him and he could remember nothing of them. The water boiled and he made himself a glass of tea and took it upstairs with a piece of stale bread he had found. He sat on the bed, then stood up and opened the window. The warm spring air drifted in, together with the noise of more explosions and general racket. He dipped the bread in the blood-red tea and took a mouthful, which he found tasted surprisingly good. He looked at his watch. Just after half past ten. What had happened to him last night? He sat back on the bed. His and Husayn’s feet had left prints in the layer of dust on the floor. Down by his feet now he also noticed the impression left by his body when he had fallen. He took a sip of tea. That terrible dream. Killing her, then screaming, then weeping for her. All these anonymous forces struggling together inside him, and he was powerless to intervene.
His hands were trembling slightly. He took another mouthful of bread and felt some bile rise into his throat. The sound of shots being fired reached him at intervals, sometimes followed by very distant explosions. What had really happened last night? Had he personally been important in the dream, or had he simply served as an arena for certain primitive tendencies to fight it out? Who was he?
Midhat Abd al-Razzaq al-Hajj Ismail. Iraqi. Baghdadi, from an old established family in the Bab al-Shaykh quarter. Law graduate. Civil servant for the past five years. No money, no home, no particular future mapped out. He had a brother and a sister and had been married—for a week. That’s what they could write on his tombstone, and they might add certain other details. But none of it was really him, the person sitting in a bare room in the Kurdish quarter, drinking black tea in clothes he had not taken off for about a week, eating stale bread and not caring if there was a revolution going on or a despot was being toppled. What was the vital factor, the thing that made him what he was?
The purple liquid in the glass quivered gently, reflecting the sun shining in through the window. He noticed some dark oily stains on his trousers. He would enter the house as if he had never been away Nobody would receive him formally. He would go to the bathroom to wash, then sit down to a good meal, relax a little, and go up to their room. He would see her. She would see him. They would exchange glances. He would stab her once in the heart, then go down to tell them what he had done. She would see him. He would see her, with her bright eyes and her blonde hair falling on her shoulders. His woman. He would wrap his arms round her, hold her close.
The sunbeams danced in the glass of tea. His hand was shaking. Yesterday phantoms had torn him apart, spears made of wind. Today, awake and in broad daylight, he was shaken by memories of her. So was this guilty, sinful girl the umbilical cord attaching him to life? Was it his love for her that was doing these strange things to him, as he circled round it like a bull around its fate? He would have to be crazy to believe that. If it were true, then he would have gone back before now to fall at her feet and case his mind, or he would never have been able to run away from her in the first place. But had he really escaped from her?
He rose heavily to put his tea glass and the remains of the bread on the window sill. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the morning sun felt pleasantly warm on his face. He heard a dull roar in the distance, the drone of an aircraft and muffled shots. Out there they were fighting passionately, using all the material and spiritual weapons at their disposal, and here he was within these four bare, dirty walls, having a discussion with himself about what had happened to him.
He wasn’t living in the same world as them. She had flung him out of its orbit. Because he loved her and she had turned out to be flawed, she had made him break the rules, be an exception. He was no longer trapped in the dark caves of his forefathers’ moods and desires, no longer floating with the herd on the filthy tide of dross left by those who had secretly carved out his unconscious. He had been freed from this black mud and cast up on a shore of light, and he could choose how he lived and died. But what could one person do? Be an example? Surely the route which began by rejecting extinction should end in some kind of happiness, since this was acknowledged as the legitimate goal.
He walked slowly back to the bed and sat down. His body felt tired and the burst of sexual energy, which had taken him unawares in the night, had subsided. He withdrew into himself, aware of his heart beating unevenly. Anxiety was still gnawing at him, not focused on any particular object, like a mirage, inaccessible but always there. But the horizon no longer stretched ahead of him to infinity. Momentous events which he had not foreseen blocked him in on all sides. Was he afraid that something awful was going to happen to him, or was his anxiety directed at the fate of his family? Did he ultimately want to be with them, whatever the circumstances?
Through the open window he heard the roar still faraway, but continuous now and frightening: a crazy mythical creature which spoke an incomprehensible yet terrifying language. There was another hollow explosion, then light footsteps outside, a hail of shots, and the dull roar always in the background. Somebody was pushing the door open. It was the old woman, Atiya. “Good morning, Mr. Midhat.”
He was shocked how pinched and pale she looked against the black headscarf.
“Good morning, Aunt.”
“Sorry Mr. Midhat, I don’t want to bother you.” Her face was thin and lined, its features indistinct. “But the Hajji, God bless him, isn’t in a good mood this morning, and your aunt doesn’t have any bread for the soup and you’re precious to us. I’m afraid you’ll be wanting your lunch and there won’t be any bread, and things are in a mess out there today. I don’t know if I can hear something, or if I’m going senile.”
“Do you want me to buy some bread, Aunt?”
“Yes, Mr. Midhat.”
“Where’s the baker’s?”
“In the square. Behind the café.”
In the square behind the café people stood around in groups talking enthusiastically and examining the sky, then hurrying away or into the café or to join another group. The radio was blaring, broadcasting a mixture of political statements, music, and patriotic songs which rattled the café windows. Shortly after he left the house he noticed three people passing him at a run, and in front of the lofty, ornamented gate leading into Bab ab-Shaykh was an excited group, gesticulating towards the horizon. Instinctively he looked in the direction where they were pointing, but could see nothing. Nevertheless, he grew increasingly anxious. In this open area the explosions sounded deafeningly loud; the beautiful weather and clear blue sky evoked an innocent joy, which seemed to have no place here. He asked where the baker’s was and a boy of about eight directed him to it. All round him he picked up conversations about pro-government demonstrations, failed plots, the destruction of the Ministry of Defense. Standing in the middle of the square with the radio communiqués, frenzied conversations, and explosions all assaulting his senses, he realized what a calm world he had been living in. The clock chimed. It was around noon. He went into the baker’s; there were only two loaves left and the long stare the shop assistant gave him made him uneasy. He walked away slowly; his body was limp and weak and he took small steps. When he entered the alley the deep shade rested his eyes. Several groups of people passed him at a run and disappeared into the labyrinth of alleyways, including four or five armed youths panting, their eyes almost spouting blood. None of it made any sense to him.
He found the old woman waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting on a wooden chair
. He asked where Husayn was, but she didn’t answer so he assumed he wasn’t back yet. He watched her light the stove and begin preparing the soup, then tried again. “What’s going on in your neighborhood, Aunt Atiya? There’s a lot of activity. What are all these people doing here?”
“You can find anything you want here,” she said, putting the soup on, “and lose it all, too. God alone knows how to untangle the skein.”
She gave him a quick look, in which he sensed some spirit of accusation. It occurred to him that perhaps she found him a troublesome guest in these circumstances or wanted more money from him. He asked how her husband was and was told he was still asleep. Suddenly it annoyed him to be here with this old woman, who had no desire to converse with him. He excused himself and went upstairs. He did not enjoy his contact with these people. He lay down on the bed, his arms under his head, looking up at the ceiling, seeing only an expanse of patchy white. He wasn’t hungry or tired now. He was haunted by a feeling, a presentiment, a general impression that an idea was gestating in him, and that something important might be about to happen to him. It was not comparable to the sexual feelings he had experienced the previous night. His insides churned with expectation, as if he was having labor pains.
The Long Way Back Page 32