The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  So the two bearded youths went away, and Midhat told the old couple what they had wanted and the Hajji returned to his disjointed ravings in Turkish. The old woman told Midhat that her husband believed they were all going to die this time. Midhat continued to play with his empty tea-glass.

  “Mr. Midhat,” went on the old woman, “is Abu Suha coming back to us tonight?”

  The Hajji paused and looked at him as if he, too, wanted to know the answer. But Midhat had forgotten all about Husayn, much to his own astonishment.

  “God willing,” he said. “Have you got a cigarette, Aunt?”

  “No, son. We’ve had no cigarettes since this morning.”

  The Hajji let out a brief stream of invective in Turkish, to which she replied, then went back to his noisy ramblings, his eyes not focusing on them.

  Midhat was not much concerned with their reaction and had not interrogated himself over his determination to leave them. He would have left them even if they had been his parents. He was facing the biggest test of his life, which he had chosen to undergo out of conviction. The joy and peace of mind of the day before had not come to him arbitrarily. He had discovered, once and for all, her secret and his own, and the significance of their relationship. In spite of his excitement, he wanted to talk quietly to the old couple and reassure them before his departure, discuss essentials with them, to make the waiting easier for them. The hands on his wristwatch were showing a few minutes before five when the first explosion rang out. The house shook in a terrifying manner, and his tea glass fell on to the floor and smashed immediately.

  “God, most merciful of the merciful,” shouted the old woman.

  Midhat leapt up and went out of the room. In the dim light the yard looked as if it was in ruins. There were people shouting not far away. He went towards the outer door. The old woman called to him. She was standing, her back stooped, resting one hand on the doorframe. “Midhat, son. Mr. Midhat.”

  Their eyes met. She was crying without tears, her wrinkled face that of someone suffering unbearable pain. He stood there in silence, his heart beating.

  “Are you going?” she said.

  He did not reply.

  “God go with you, son. God go with you. But don’t forget us.”

  “Don’t worry Aunt. I have to go back. Don’t worry”

  He opened the outside door as he was talking to her and had the impression she did not hear his last words. The lane was in uproar: there was the sound or gunfire, people screaming and calling out and people running terrified, drawn to a particular spot. I le ran with them. The house was about a hundred meters away. It had no roof and its walls had collapsed. It was surrounded by armed men and smoke rose from it. Someone told him, without him asking, that a bomb had dropped on it. Some women were wailing and increasing the level of emotion. He learned that the house had been empty and that Abd al-Karim Qasim had been executed shortly after noon. He felt the rain drenching his hair, face, and clothes, although it was much lighter now. Quickly he withdrew from the crowd. Thinking that in this situation he would have to wait until darkness fell, he decided to make a tour of the quarter. After half an hour of wandering the wet, dirty alleyways, he realized that they all led into one another in a never-ending sequence. When by chance he stumbled on an opening from which the main street was visible in the distance, he had to move away quickly to escape the bullets and the warning cries raining down on him from an invisible source.

  About six in the evening, when it was already dark, a second bomb exploded somewhere in the quarter. He sat down on a wooden seat outside an empty café to rest and try to organize his thoughts. The café was in some forgotten corner, and as he approached it he had noticed an old man handing over his weapon to another man, shaking his hand, and walking away. This strange encounter had puzzled him. The face of the occasional passers-by reflected an unashamed fear, and he felt slightly uneasy. Getting back home was not as straightforward as he had expected. He wiped the rain from his face and hair and for the first time was aware of the coarse stubble of his beard. What would she say when she saw it? He longed for a hot glass of tea. Would the two of them be able to talk? He would hold her, touch her, feel the softness of her hands and arms and hair, take pleasure in looking at her, run his fingertips over her face, over the almond-shaped eyes, the mouth and lips, feeling his woman, his beloved. He would apologize to her, whisper all his excuses and tell her what she meant to him, and how she had given his life a new shape and direction. He was desperate for a hot tea. He looked around and caught sight of a young lad standing in a corner inside the empty café. He tried to catch his eye but the boy took no notice. God, how he’d love a cigarette, followed by a glass of tea!

  He would wait a while until he felt calmer, but he would have to slip out of the besieged area before the moon came up. He gestured to the boy again, who came slowly towards him. A group of women hurried past, dragging their children with them. The boy had a handsome face and wore a large skullcap which came down over his eyes. Midhat asked him if there was anyone serving in the cafe. The boy shook his head and said nothing. He had delicate features and seemed hesitant and afraid. Midhat spoke to him again gently, but the roar of gunfire nearby drowned out his voice. The boy looked round in terror. Midhat repeated his request, aware of the imploring note in his voice. The child remained silent. He was about twelve years old and looked slightly effeminate. Midhat asked him where he could buy cigarettes, and before he could answer, someone called from inside, “Juwana, Juwana. Come here. Hurry”

  A youth stood near the door inside the café gesturing to the girl, as indeed she was, who ran off at once, with a strangely sympathetic glance at Midhat. The youth approached him. He was bearded and hostile-looking.

  “Yes, brother?”

  “Sorry. A tea, please.”

  “There’s no tea, brother,” he said in an unequivocal tone of voice, which took Midhat by surprise.

  “Fine. I have you got a cigarette, please?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  The young man eyed him sharply clearly trying to work out where he was from, what his affiliations were.

  “Oh, sorry. Can I rest here for a while?”

  “There’s nothing to stop you. But this isn’t a café, brother. It’s a Husayniya, a place where we meet to mourn out dead.” Then he hurried off as if he had completed an awkward task.

  A few moments later, a feeble electric light went on at the back of the room somewhere. This made him feel better. It was a friendly sign of some sort, and he was badly in need of one. He had become sensitive to every sign, especially those which did not announce themselves and left it to him to plumb their depths, searching for a meaning. It wouldn’t have been sensible for her to have discussed the matter with him before their marriage. It would have smacked of cowardice, made it seem like a cheap servile contract, a distastefully cagey arrangement. The fact that she had given her life to him without conditions, because genuine human relationships could not countenance conditions, meant she was sincere and courageous. She hadn’t wanted to put him to the test, as she had experienced his love at close quarters and perhaps felt that she could trust him to understand her.

  As he sat on his own on the wooden bench in the semi-darkness, he felt an overpowering surge of longing for Munira. He longed to see her, talk to her, feel her near him. His whole chest pounded and he clasped his hands tightly together. He needed to perform some violent act to get close to her, something out of the ordinary and significant, to express to her and to himself that he had a hold on life and survival. He had embraced his misery/death and defeated it, because he had become greater’ than it, once he understood its nature. She was his supreme choice for this blazing passion which absorbed and subsumed all forms of extinction.

  He felt a slight movement beside him. It was the girl Juwana, standing holding a cigarette and matches, her face lit up imperceptibly by a shy smile. He took them from her, thanking her warmly, noticing the few little gold curls showing unde
r her cap and the slight swelling of her chest. He smiled at her and asked her what her name was. When she answered her voice was soft and gentle. If she had talked at the start he would never have mistaken her for a boy.

  He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. His head spun exquisitely. He exhaled, his eyes closed. There was nothing to beat life’s simple pleasures. He noticed Juwana was still standing beside him, observing him curiously but not unkindly. He asked if it would not be possible to make him a glass of tea.

  “No, there isn’t any,” she answered smiling.

  She had big blue eyes which spoke when she was silent. How stupid he had been to think she was a boy! He asked her the way to the main street. An expression of concern appeared on her face, and she looked at the door and then back at him. She pointed hesitantly to the left: “That way”

  She was indicating the alley he had walked along already, leading to an open space and a way down to Kifah Street. It was the most dangerous route he knew, guarded on all sides.

  “Thanks, but that’s no use to me.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  He swept his arm from right to left, indicating the far horizon. “There. Out. I want to get out of here.”

  “Why? To find some tea to drink?” she said with another little smile.

  At that moment there was a terrifying burst of gunfire. The girl turned in alarm and he noticed her shoulders trembling slightly.

  “Don’t be frightened, my dear. Go inside now.”

  She looked at him in silence, a mixture of fear and discontent on her face, then pointed to the box of matches. “Give me the matches,” she said.

  He returned them to her apologetically, then searched through his pockets and found a tattered half dinar, which he presented to her. “This is for you, dear.”

  She shook her head, but then put her hand out and took the note.

  “Listen, Juwana, my dear. Please, isn’t there a back alley somewhere which would take me to the main street? not that one. Another one. I want to go home to my family.”

  She was silent and looked as if she was thinking hard about something. She folded the half dinar, pursing her lips together, then looked up, glanced briefly at the door, and whispered, “Through the ruins.” Warily she pointed to the right. “That way The first turning on the right. Go down to the end and there’s an alleyway on the left where there are ruins. From there you can ...”

  She broke off and stepped back a little. He turned round, but there-was nobody else there. Her eyes were sad. He smiled at her and thanked her, then took a long drag on his cigarette. She walked slowly away towards the entrance and he heard the door bang behind her. He didn’t believe she had any reason to trick him. The sound of gunfire still resonated in the air. He would finish his cigarette and go. If you took a decision out of conviction, that meant all doubts and questions should evaporate; but if they continued to gnaw at you, you should regard them as things of secondary importance, or feelings affecting somebody who was not exactly you, although he had some connection with you. At that point it was up to you to become or not to become, to be or not to be, as they say. To put it another way you could choose to be swallowed up or to survive.

  He took a final drag on his cigarette, felt the hot smoke in his mouth, and threw the end away. After he had sat in silence for a few moments he stood up, buttoned his jacket and headed off to the right. The air was refreshing after the rain and smelled of damp earth, and the lane was straight, its surface uneven, the single street lamp giving it a tinge of mystery. He moved cautiously, listening out for explosions, aware of footsteps approaching at speed, then fading before he had seen anybody He made out the entrance of the alley he was looking for on his right after about twenty meters. It, too, was lit by the reddish glow of a street lamp and was no more than two meters wide. He turned into it and moved forward, keeping close to the wall. There was nobody else there. Walking in the cool, damp air restored him. He passed beneath the light, and his long, undulating shadow fell on the dark ground then vanished suddenly. He only saw two doors facing on to the alley and they were both shut. A few drops of rain fell on his head as he walked, and once he slipped and held on to the wall before moving on again. He peered into the darkness, trying to make out where the next alleyway was, breathing deeply and feeling some stirrings of anxiety. What would he do if he didn’t find the ruins?

  It was almost pitch dark when the alley came out at a little intersection. To the right it meandered on, but to the left it seemed to be a dead end. Obviously a path like this, no more than a meter and a half wide, could not lead to an exit. He took a few steps along it, then stopped. The faint light from the distant street lamp only illuminated the beginning of the path. He saw a big black door with nails protruding from it on his right, and on the left rose a wall with a rounded top. In front of him was darkness. He felt his way forward cautiously. The ground was soft and slippery. He held on to the wall. The darkness was almost impenetrable, but when he looked up the open horizon was visible, and he thought he could make out the remains of a ruined building by the light of the twinkling stars. He walked firmly on again, trying to sec where he was putting his feet. He was neither particularly confident, not particularly afraid. Many of his misgivings had subsided, but he still felt doubtful and tried to make himself believe that this was natural. A few steps further on, in the faint starlight, he could vaguely distinguish the jumbled outlines of the ruined walls. He stopped, overwhelmed, realizing for the first time that in his heart of hearts he had not believed the little girl Juwana and had given up even before he started. Tentatively he approached the ruined house. It had a low wall round it, connecting to a pillar about two meters high on either side of the broken-down door. He mounted the high front step and stopped in the doorway. The firmament opened out before him in all its pomp and luster. The moon had not yet risen, but it would not be long before it did. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness round about, he began to examine the area close to him and it became clear that the ruin was a small house which, for some reason or other, had never been completed. He had to make his way across to the other side of the house, which looked down on to the main avenue. He jumped at a sharp burst of gunfire, which seemed more alarming than usual. It struck him that it would be possible to keep to the wall and reach the opposite side without running the risk of falling into a hole in the ground or bumping into something. Holding on to the wall adjoining one of the pillars, he set off. He felt his jacket rubbing against the stone and moved out from the wall slightly As he peered in front of him, his eyes sometimes refused to focus, became blind, then once again managed to distinguish some shapes and dark colors. He tripped against a solid black mass of an indefinable nature and abandoned the wall to circumnavigate it. His foot slipped and he lost his balance and almost fell, but put a hand on the ground to steady himself and stood upright again, his fingers covered in mud. He looked around him. The explosions were more violent now and came one after another without respite. Some reverberated dully in the distance, others sounded very close, as if they came from the street opposite. He could see the wall nearby and stepped up to it, wary of falling, and clung to it. His arms hurt and the sharp stone scratched the palms of his hands. He walked on, brushing the mud off him and breathing hard, annoyed that this simple effort had such an effect on him physically.

  The wall turned and he found himself looking down on the main street. The ruin was about fifty or sixty meters from it, and roughly two meters above it, according to his calculations. The street looked frighteningly empty and was in darkness apart from a few anonymous lights reflected on its black surface. The waste ground separating the ruin from the street was surrounded by houses. Looking from behind the wall, he could see the doors of buildings and other smaller streets leading out of the main thoroughfare, but there was no sign of life. He was still breathing hard and his heart was pounding. A cool, refreshing breeze blew. He looked up at the sky. Last summer, on the roof just before dawn, he had stoo
d by her bed as she sat dreaming, completely unaware of his presence, as if she was in another world. The dawn was tinged silver by the moonlight. He had been able to say her name out loud then so that she could hear it. How far away it all seemed, as distant as the stars or eternity. How their world had changed since then. They had committed no crime, but had surrendered to the events which had enveloped them in their perverse, destructive logic. They had become victims of others. Those treacherous others.

  He was sad as he stood there behind the stone barrier, fiddling with his fingers, cleaning the mud off them, tantalized by ideas and memories which were meaningless now. There was a high-pitched roar and a car approached from the right and shot along the street in front of him like a demented arrow, the water flying around it and its wheels squealing like a wounded animal. Then it disappeared. The sight of it alarmed him and he wondered what to expect if he tried to cross; however, salvation and survival could only really be measured against the attendant dangers and obstacles. All the same, it was the end rather than the means which counted, and the art of survival would always breed a particular kind of hero.

  A powerful light flashed on and off on the other side, then vanished. This reminded him that his time was limited and he had to act. The wall came up to the base of his chest. He felt the top of it and found it was wet and slippery, and decided to go all the way along to the point where the house wall formed an acute angle with the street. This was where the street was at its narrowest. He hoisted himself up and examined the ground on the other side of the wall. In the poor light that transformed everything into a mirage he thought he saw piles of little stones below him. Gathering his energy, he hitched up one of his legs, then with small economical movements edged across and let himself down gradually on the other side. When his feet touched what he thought was the ground, he hesitated, then let go of the wall, but was unable to keep his balance and slipped over on to his back. His fall took him by surprise. He righted himself uneasily and sat on the ground facing the street. He felt a pain in his back and side. He looked to right and left. Nothing was moving, no lights, no people. He felt for the spots on his body where it hurt, and rubbed them. There was a stink of urine, excrement, and rotten food. He stood up, his back painfully bent, and turned right, walking alongside the ruin. He tripped several times and stopped to regain his breath and spirits. The roar of gunfire grew fiercer every now and then. These unimportant sounds were now in conflict with him and worked against his idea. Perhaps he would be safe if he hid in the ruin until things were over. But the significance would be different by then, the significance of him and what he was doing. He clung to the wall which faced on to the broad street, as if he wanted to disappear among the narrow cracks between the stones. He would not be saving himself if he waited helplessly until someone came to rescue him. That would not be surviving at all. The street was long, without bends, its surface smooth and shining. The dirt pavement which lay between him and the street was three meters wide or slightly more; he calculated that the tarred road must be about ten meters wide, and the dirt pavement on the other side was presumably three meters wide as well. Beyond that lay the routes out to safety. So he had sixteen meters to cover, say twenty. How much time would he need to do it at a run?