The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  She was looking at him through half-closed eyes, which gleamed a troubled gold between her black lashes, and a strand of her hair had fallen on to her damp forehead. He breathed faster. Munira. His wife. These words had a strange ring to them. This girl whom he had loved, had sex with, who had revealed herself to him and broken his world apart—she was enclosed, like him, in a frighteningly dense framework of relationships and symbols and signs. Depending on how you looked at them, these could be taken as meaningless words, or could be invested with the power to kill a person, just like squashing a mosquito. It was pointless to ask, when you knew there was nobody to answer, pointless to wonder, in this situation, about the baby girl who was buried alive, and the reasons why she was killed and cast to the wind. Useless to ask questions about extermination and its causes.

  He heard the old woman calling him from the floor below. The sun was lower in the sky. The distant explosions continued to reverberate. He sat on the bed wondering why he should feel something big was going to happen to him. Was he finally going to reach a point where he would be able to see clearly and make a decision? He got up wearily. There were no clear boundaries in this world. It was up to the individual to make a choice and put certain things in parentheses before he could act. That was how strong men began. They did not give in to presentiments and fantasies; they eliminated trivialities from their lives, then decided what they wanted and set out to get it.

  She had put a bowl of soup on the small table by the kitchen door. He heard her and her husband talking together in their room. He took out a spoon and stood by the table. Steam was rising from the mixture of broth and bread. A loud explosion shook the house. He jumped and spilt the contents of the spoon. The old woman hurried out, and her husband peered round the door of their room.

  “God is great, Mr. Midhat,” she said.

  He looked at the couple as if apologizing for the noise.

  “Good morning, afandim,” said the Hajji.

  Midhat nodded at him. The crackle of gunfire came from somewhere nearby, followed by a taint explosion. He happened to notice the time on his watch. It was around two-thirty. They were all looking at each other expectantly.

  “Afandim, do you have a radio by any chance?” said the Hajji politely.

  He shook his head. He was annoyed that he felt scared, his guts knotted. The Hajji disappeared back into his room, and his wife was about to follow him when there was a knock at the door. She looked nervously at Midhat.

  “I’ll go and see who it is,” he said.

  The Hajji stuck his head out again. Midhat opened the door and in flew Husayn like a whirlwind. “God help you, Midhat. How are you, Aunt Atiya? Please tell me you’ve made the lunch. I’m starving to death.” He saw the bowl of soup on the table. “Hello, my rosy-cheeked beauty. Whose soup is that? Full of tomatoes! It looks so inviting, damn it.”

  He reached out and scooped some up in his fingers, stuffed his mouth and carried on talking as he ate. “The news is dreadful, Midhat, dreadful. Huge demonstrations for nothing. Just a show of strength, probably. Now they’re saying out friend Karim Qasim has blockaded himself inside the Ministry of Defense.”

  Midhat stood listening to him, then picked up the spoon again and began to share the soup. Husayn breathed heavily as he chewed his food and licked his fingers at intervals. “But there are going to be a lot of casualties. For nothing. On all sides.” The red broth had stained his mouth and moustache and part of his cheek.

  “Why?” asked Midhat.

  Husayn stopped his spoon in mid-air before it reached his mouth. “What do you mean, why? It’s a volcano, my friend. A huge eruption. I’ve been round almost all of Baghdad. By chance I met Abu Jalal. He had his car, so we toured around everywhere. It was quite dangerous. It’s not just a coup, my dear Midhat. The whole place is erupting. Everybody’s joining in. There are going to be a lot of victims, and all for nothing. That’s my view.”

  He opened his mouth and swallowed the spoonful. His cheeks were purplish bronze, and under his faded eyes there were dark circles. ‘Aunt Atiya, a glass of water please,” he demanded.

  She stood up and went slowly into the kitchen.

  “And a little more soup, if there is any,” he added. “I’m really tired. It’s hot today” He looked at Midhat. “I’ve got something to tell you, Midhat. I forgot this morning. Let me rest for a bit. I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m going to have a quick siesta after my lunch.” He took the glass of water. “Don’t go out now, Midhat. It’s not worth it. Wait until things calm down.”

  Midhat nodded. He was still eating, enjoying the food and the sense of well-being it gave him. Perhaps Husayn, this surprisingly perceptive drunk, was intending to talk to him about returning home, going back to her. But it wasn’t the moment now. He couldn’t go back to them like a frightened child. It would achieve nothing. Husayn was talking to the Hajji.

  “What? It’s nothing to do with you, believe me, Hajji. Nothing at all. You’re well out of it.”

  “I agree, Abu Suha,” said the old woman. “God bless you.”

  “Yes, afandim” acquiesced the Hajji. “But don’t forget the story of the fox that shed its hide, afandim.”

  Husayn choked on his mouthful and, coughing and spluttering, retreated into the kitchen to hawk and spit and blow his nose at the sink. “Oh! Oh God! Where do you get these stories from?” He gave a resounding laugh, interrupted by a violent fit of coughing, and came back in wiping his face on a towel. “Don’t worry. God willing, everything will turn out all right.” He threw the towel on to the table. “I’m going up to have a nap.” A loud explosion rang out in the distance, followed by another smaller one. Husayn looked up. “If they let me.” He strode towards the stairs.

  Midhat raised the last mouthful to his lips and swallowed it down, then took the empty bowl into the kitchen.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Midhat. I’ll wash the dishes,” said the old woman.

  “Thanks, Aunt Atiya.”

  Midhat went slowly upstairs and washed his hands and face several times, disconcerted by the greasy smell clinging to the unshaven stubble round his mouth. When he went into the bedroom he saw Husayn lying fully clothed on the sofa, without a cover. The sun was confined to a corner by the window.

  “Midhat,” he said. “I’ve got something important to tell you, but I can’t remember what it is at the minute. Let me have half an hour’s sleep and then I’ll be able to remember it in detail.”

  Midhar didn’t reply He sat on the bed for a moment then lay back with the pillow behind him. A delicious languor spread over him after his lunch. He no longer particularly noticed the sounds of shelling. Perhaps he could have a nap like Husayn. The night before he had only had a few hours of disturbed sleep, less refreshing than insomnia. His energy would come back to him if he could sleep.

  He took off his shoes, pulled the cover up to his chest and closed his eyes. He wondered what Husayn had been going to tell him. Had he really forgotten?

  “Husayn, have you been to see the family ?” he asked.

  There was no reply Midhat opened his eyes to look at him. He had his arms crossed on his chest, as if resigned to the unknown, and was breathing out loudly through his open mouth. His face looked wan and thin. Midhat turned away from him again and closed his eyes. Husayn must have met someone from the family, but it was stupid to imagine that it was of any significance to him. Even if he had seen Munira it wouldn’t have meant anything, because Husayn didn’t know about her. Even he, her husband, knew no more than anyone else what she was really like, and so ultimately he was fumbling in the dark, unsure what he was looking for. He felt himself grow tense and again had an inkling that he was about to make some amazing discovery. I His heart was beating violently, as it usually did after a meal, but this time it was for a different reason.

  For example, she had certainly been a virgin, like any other girl. Weren’t they all virgins once? But their lovers always wanted them to remain intact, their virginity to
be renewed after each encounter. Impossible, unfortunately! But if only she’d preserved it, the dear, reckless girl. If only she hadn’t ... He felt oppressed by his desire for her. She was warm and soft. He rested against her and she put her arms round him and held him tight. She wanted him and pressed him to her.

  He wiped his forehead; he was breathing fast again, but felt he could put these images out of his mind. Then, while he was in this dream world of his, an iron fist seized hold of him and hurled him brutally into space.

  He was clenching his hands together, his whole body tense and ready to spring as if he was about to defend himself against a wild animal. He opened his eyes and sat up in bed. The room, in the gloom of early dusk, appeared to have no walls, and the low roar came uninterrupted through the open window. Perhaps he was up against an unidentifiable beast whose power lay in its obscure origins and unknown intentions, but if you dared to look it unwaveringly in the eye, it would appear ridiculous and as flimsy as cardboard.

  Husayn’s arms lay limply by his sides, his face was leaden, and he seemed absent from the world. Suddenly Midhat felt alone and extremely tired. He rested back against the pillow again and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and afraid, He had to expose the face of the beast and confront it. This was the last call to him to look again at his life and the reasons for what had happened to him. It was an invitation to topple the foundations. But how could he do that when the facts were as solid as night and day? How could he fundamentally change his view of the fact that his wife Munira had not been a virgin when she married him? She had had a relationship with someone before him. Perhaps she had loved this person. The tears threatened to come but he held them back easily When she agreed to marry him she had known she wasn’t a virgin and knew this would hurt him, maybe destroy him. That was no longer important, but what could be constructed out of this reality?

  She was not a virgin; therefore she had lost her honor and must be punished by him or any other member of the family who volunteered. Everyone knew this equation. Honor resided in the woman’s hymen, and she was entrusted with preserving it until the appointed time. Why? This was a question which nobody investigated, but it lay at the heart of the matter. Was it out of concern for the purity of the stock, the family, the tribe, the nation, and the whole of humanity? How ridiculous that was! Why did the word purity come to his mind?

  She was as soft and clear and radiant as light, the most far removed of all creatures from ugliness and filth. All the same she had been deflowered and soiled and she knew that; she had known it when she married him, and said nothing to him. There he was coming back to his old obsession: she had said nothing to him. But if she had told him, would it really have altered the essential problem? From a perspective deeply ingrained in him she was deemed to have lost her meaning as a woman and a wife and mother in the society, and she had done so illegitimately. That was the truth of the matter. She had lost this damned sensitive piece of human flesh in an illicit, forbidden fashion.

  The point was, she could lose it, but in a legitimate manner. This was another essential problem. The loss of it was not important in itself, because it would happen sooner or later anyway, since in this perverted world a woman was not allowed to be a virgin more than once. But the means by which she lost her virginity was a subject mired in human evasiveness, sentimentality, hypocrisy, weakness, spite, irresponsibility and fear, over which you could cry a river of tears and they would be insufficient.

  His eyelids began to grow heavy A distant explosion reverberated oddly. He was tired for no reason, wishing wholeheartedly that he could find a time, however short, for rest and oblivion. The tangled complications of life, trying to explain the inexplicable, engendered feelings of anxiety and depression.

  I His thoughts were not pleasant. He realized he was thinking for her, ordering the facts in her favor, defending this girl he loved in spite of everything—her bright laughing face, her smiling eves, her gestures, her movements, her expressions, her body, her delicacy, and that halo of light surrounding her!

  Was it because he loved her that he was denying the facts, distorting them, trying to cover them up? Where would it all lead him? He would never reach a decision or understand the truth. No, that wasn’t right. She had not only given herself to him, he knew that. She had entrusted him with her shame, mixing it with his love, their two lives, his memories and dreams, and slept in his arms, resigned to his judgment, whatever it might be. What an unbelievable picture! Her rosy face, slightly damp with sweat, beautiful, radiant, bearing the mark of her surrender to him.

  She had given herself to him willingly, with a woman’s love, not fawning or trying to deceive him. He recalled the moment when he had seen her warm brown stomach under him, rising and falling in time with her rapid breathing, the soft flesh coming up to meet him, and how it had occurred to him then that she desperately wanted him to possess her.

  He turned over agitatedly in bed, feeling his blood tingle, and adjusted the position of his neck and head on the pillow. There were not so many explosions, but the noise remained like a storm on the horizon.

  Did she have the right to make him pass judgment on her, on both of them?

  He was dozing, the ideas floating in and out of his mind, his head going round as he felt himself disappearing into the chasm of sleep which rose up to meet him, then slowly engulfed him.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  I to was barely six when the visit ended, but after we left the dreary hospital building we wasted a quarter of an hour waiting for a taxi that didn’t come. A gentle breeze blew in the empty street, and the last of the sunlight gave the place a tinge of mystery and unreality. The two little girls and Madiha, swathed in her abaya, stood next to me in silence. It must have been the dust storm and the rain which had made the weather so pleasant. We weren’t used to having spring in the middle of April; in fact, we weren’t used to having spring at all. The winter cold gnawed at your bones, then all of a sudden they were disintegrating in the dreadful summer heat. So at sunset we had given up on the taxi and stood near the river looking right and left for a horse-drawn carriage to take us back home. The visit had lasted no more than an hour.

  When we opened the door of his room he had welcomed us with delight. He was lying on the bed in a long white robe and bounced up like a spring to embrace his two daughters. He looked as if he would have embraced Madiha as well, but he got shy and flushed slightly, then gave a little grimace, wiped his nose, and clasped his two daughters to him again. We sat around him and put the bags containing out gifts for him down on the floor by the bed. Sana and Suha sat on the bed next to him. His face was pale, and he had more lines on his neck and round his mouth. When he talked, he hesitated constantly, seemed unsure of himself, and waved his hands about haphazardly. The moment we sat down, he told us that he hadn’t slept for two days, that his old manager had come to visit him, and that he was desperate for a cigarette and didn’t know why they wouldn’t allow him to smoke.

  “The dove sounded beautiful this morning,” he said, as if he was talking to himself “I wonder where she is now.”

  Madiha looked at me with a bewildered, anxious expression. “Husayn,” she said. “The main thing is, how do you feel in yourself?”

  He raised his arms slightly then his shoulders. “Me?” he said, without turning round. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Silence descended on us for a few moments. The two little girls were perched on the edge of the bed like two birds, looking from me to their mother with shining eyes. I had been uncomfortable about the visit from the start, but in these dark days I was used to withdrawing into my shell and distancing myself from the world around me. I was not particularly cowardly or desperate, but I had convinced myself that I was going to die in my own way. During the last few weeks I had come to think that this ought to be put in writing. In this crazy, shattered world, death had suddenly lost the special quality which philosophers and poets had always pontificated about. You als
o had to pay for it now and, in addition to being offered wholesale, it had become bestial.

  Husayn came away from the window and stood facing us. “There’s nothing wrong with me, Madiha,” he said. “I mean here, inside me.” He struck himself on the chest a few times, producing a hollow sound. “Inwardly, I mean to say. Spiritually there’s nothing wrong with me. On the contrary, believe me, Karim knows, I’m fine mentally, spiritually.”

  His shoulders were thin, one higher than the other, and the soft material of his robe hung down over his rib cage and concave stomach. “I told my old boss how I’d chosen to admit myself to the clinic. I said to him nobody could have made me if I hadn’t wanted to. I became— I mean—suddenly I had faith. Life’s changing. No bastard can tell me ...” He glanced hurriedly at his daughters. “You can go back and pick up the pieces, can’t you?”

  I looked at him, wanting to believe him. He had described to me, the first time I visited him a week after he had entered the clinic, how this fear of death had taken him unawares. He had been walking near Bab al-Shaykh Square one morning and had been gripped by a feeling of terror, an overwhelming conviction that he was going to die soon. It wasn’t just a fanciful notion but a dread, as if someone was actually standing there aiming a gun at him. Disturbed, he found he couldn’t walk properly, and he went into a nearby café and threw himself down on a seat. He had not drunk anything the night before and so was panting like a wet, hungry dog which had been given a sound kicking. In that wretched condition, near to collapse, terrified and disoriented, he had the idea of escaping from the closed circle of his life, changing it. “I told the boss I had faith,” he was saying. “Great hopes for the world. The revolution would come and a new horizon, maybe new horizons, would open up. There would be reform, and this encouraged me. But these bastards are making things hard for me. Why do they forbid smoking?”

  He hurried over to the window, but turned round just short of it and came back and sat on the bed next to his daughters.