I quickly put my clothes on. It was Thursday morning and I had to get to work. On the round, green table in the middle of the sitting room, I had left a kettle of cold tea; I quickly poured some into an estikan, took a swig, then abandoned it, and started inspecting the pile of letters stacked neatly in front of me. I ignored the letter with my name printed rudely along the top—Patient Sudra Sen Sumer—followed by a summary of a recent set of results. I ignored the letters addressed to ‘The Centre of Care’. Instead I picked out the files addressed to ‘Architect Sudra Sen Sumer’, and those related to the square that I had been commissioned to design.
I descended in the elevator, surrounded by the puffy faces of the half-slept, and smiled to myself as I greeted my vehicle, parked in the first space at the front of the building. The space had been reserved for those with special needs, which I didn’t have at that time, but who can say no to the luxury of such a convenient, permanently reserved parking space in the middle of a crowded city? This could very well be the last space going. Lack of parking space is what drives so many workers to invest and live in the newer, residential cities around Baghdad—which is also where my parents live.
Arriving at my office, I greeted this person and that person. I promised so-and-so I would spend an evening with him, and someone else insisted I started visiting him daily. The morning passed with a mixture of other such pleasantries and work. At noon, my colleague Utu accompanied me to the square that I had to create a design for.
The square was on the Resafa side; a long stretch of land reaching along the bank of the Tigris close to Gilgamesh Street—or ‘Abu Nuwas Street’, as my granddad called it, the way he always accidentally referred to places by their old names—the bookshops on ‘Al-Mutanabbi Street’, the shops in ‘Karradah’, or the restaurants in ‘Mansour’. Utu and I stood and examined the dimensions of the space and considered what might be possible for it. The decision wasn’t easy, as the theme of the commission was a well-trodden territory—the mythic past—explored by countless architects and sculptors before us, with their statues of Mesopotamian kings, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the Code of Hammurabi, the Hanging Gardens, or the Winged Bulls.
I stood and imagined a different kind of design—a tribute to someone that wasn’t famous at all, perhaps a monument representing a Sumerian doctor, highlighting another side of this civilisation …
Utu cut off my train of thought by murmuring something to himself that I couldn’t make out.
‘Share your thoughts with me,’ I said.
‘It’s nothing…,’ he replied at first. ‘I just feel … that I’m betraying my people by being here changing this square.’ He seemed embarrassed by what he was saying. Perhaps he saw then the sudden change in my expression as I struggled to process his reply.
‘Well … I think that we are finished here,’ he added with a smile. I suggested that we walk a little to the front where a series of restaurants served fish fried in a particular way, passed down through generations. They grilled the fresh fish after cutting it from its back and sticking it on stakes in front of flaming wood.
I would treat myself to this ‘Mesguf fish’ whenever I felt oppressed by work or tired of the canned and frozen food that my mother would supply me with each time I visited. Utu apologised for not taking me up on my offer and went to his obligatory weekly dinner with his family.
I decided against eating there on my own, and contacted my niece, Ishtar, who was at her private secondary school in some street near the four-storey Bridge of Mesopotamia. I invited her to join me once her classes had ended.
* * *
Perhaps it’s not the most exciting thing for a teenage girl—to be asked to go eat fish with her uncle—and she complained instantly about the walk, and suggested other non-fish options instead. She soon warmed up, though, when she found out that I was mainly meeting to share my thoughts with her on the square. Ishtar’s eyes glimmered, as she sat down to eat with me: ‘I can’t wait to tell my friends that my uncle is creating the new design for Lovers’ Square,’ she exclaimed. The name ‘Lovers’ Square’ was not unfamiliar to me; I knew the old tale behind it.
It was said that the square was a place where a sculpture of two lovers had stood from time immemorial, and that one day the two lovers had simply vanished without trace, causing many people to mourn and curse the circumstances that would drive two lovers, even sculpted ones, out of Baghdad. The place had remained empty in honour of their love, ever since. Other cities around the world have exploited this idea, some of them replicated the statue exactly, others dedicated parks and squares of their own to the two lovers, offering them a haven to arrive at. It seemed that Ishtar and her friends had all heard of this story, and the rest of the world’s relationship to it, but, to me, the square represented just another project. Despite this, and without regarding the story as anything more than a sentimental myth, I felt passionate about this project. I knew that it might be the last piece of work my eyes would see.
* * *
I returned to my flat in the evening to spend the rest of my day alone. I followed the news for a bit, then spent some time returning calls. Most importantly, I ignored the letters on the table regarding Baghdad Syndrome until, finally, I retired to my room and gave myself up to sleep and the dream that haunted me.
* * *
Once again I find myself wandering the streets of a city that appears to be Baghdad, with the cries of that woman in my ears: ‘I can’t bear the separation … Come and find me!’ But this time it’s different; this time she doesn’t stop there.
‘The night of the separation was black. This hand, which wiped away my tears, is no longer my hand! Black, it’s black and my nights are black!’
I woke up terrified. I stumbled to my feet and began pacing around in a corner of my flat, reassuring myself that the black the woman in the dream spoke of hadn’t taken me yet: I still had my eyesight.
My heart racing, I made my way towards the pile of letters about Baghdad Syndrome, despite already knowing most of their contents.
Baghdad Syndrome—a phenomenon whose exact causes are still the subject of considerable genetic and medical research—is characterised by a small number of key symptoms, including an irregular heartbeat and a seemingly arbitrary subclinical depression, measurable through neurotransmitter activity and other indicators in the blood. Despite the evidence for the depression, patients remain largely ‘smiley’—that is to say, sociable, active, emotionally balanced, and free of typical depressive behaviour.
Ultimately, sufferers—who are often between the ages of thirty and forty—succumb to complete blindness, which is preceded by a period of waking hallucination, in turn preceded by unusual nightmares. The syndrome takes its name from the city that has so far produced the majority of diagnosed cases. Experts are currently trying to make a connection between the condition and the prolonged exposure of our ancestors to toxic substances a century ago. However, even now, the exact nature of the substance is unknown. All that is known is that there is a spontaneous DNA mutation found in all patients, although the position of this mutation on the gene map varies from person to person.
Each gene sequence starts mutating after birth and continues up until the blindness phase; consequently it is often difficult to detect early enough to advise against reproduction. Diagnosis is possible, however, before symptoms become manifest, and wide-spread screening in infancy is currently being proposed: so as to provide future sufferers with priority opportunities in education and work, as well as treatment and special provisions, to help them cope with the condition and the complete visual loss.
I knew all this, but they still attached the booklets to every letter, as they knew I hadn’t used the contact number they’d given me. I was aware that the gene was inside me, changing at an accelerated rate. I knew that soon my vision would start to go the way the lights once did over Baghdad all those years ago.
When the dreams began I consulted my doctor; she said that it was a sign that
the blindness phase was nearing, and recommended I see a specialist quickly. That was what I was resisting.
I stared at the address on the leaflet and was close to giving in, but managed to postpone it one more time, fearing it would prevent me from enjoying my family gathering that Friday.
* * *
Friday came and I went to visit my parents, with my brother and sister’s families all visiting as well. The time passed quickly with conversation, laughter, real tea and large helpings of my mum’s signature dish. When it was over, my brother surprised me by taking me to one side and presenting me with an early birthday present. He couldn’t wait another month, and wanted to see my face as I opened the box in front of him. I was delighted and surprised but instantly trembled on seeing what it was. Inside the box was a sculpted forearm. It looked almost heroic, all black and marble-like, and, while I didn’t think it was, the arm reminded me of the lady’s hand from my dream.
‘Don’t you see how awesome it is!’ my brother exclaimed. ‘You’re mad for these sculptures, aren’t you?… I pulled a lot of strings to get this, believe me…’
‘It looks like an artifact, how did you come across it?’ I asked, trying to collect myself.
‘The black market, my dear boy! Nothing is impossible,’ he beamed.
‘As much as I like it,’ I confessed, ‘I’m not comfortable with the fact that you bought it from a thief, or at least someone who bought it from a thief … Maybe we should just hand it in to the Museum.’
A wave of disappointment crashed over my brother’s face, who launched into his defence: ‘I bought it, I paid good money for it—that’s what’s important here. Even if it isn’t a genuine piece, the Museum isn’t going to say, “Oh you take it, we don’t need it.”’
I didn’t want to hurt my brother, or expose my true feelings towards this present of his, so I took it and tried to think more rationally about the whole thing.
Once back in my flat, I unwrapped and inspected it. Despite feeling strangely possessive over it, I still intended on taking it to the Museum. I struggled to recall why exactly it reminded me of the dream … The woman had talked about a hand and blackness, and here was a black hand which my brother had bought from the black market … This is an omen of the oncoming darkness of Baghdad Syndrome, I thought to myself, then chided myself: the syndrome is limited to psychological effects, not coincidences! I haven’t dreamt of this hand before now!
When my fear subsided, I put down the thing that was supposed to be a hallucination, and went to bed, awaiting more sentences to be added.
‘I can’t bear the separation … Come and find me …
The night of the separation was black. This hand, which wiped away my tears, is no longer my hand! Black, it’s black and my nights are black …
I’ve wept for so long and no one has wiped away my tears, unless you count the tears of Heaven that have washed my cheeks, and maybe one other who watches me as I weep …
The ring that he wanted for her hand is too small for my finger and I’m not his love, and he’s not my lover …
My body is the story of a woman who flouted the restrictions, who fled and now pleas to return—so that she can tell her king the story of the thousands of nights, of the tens of decades…’
I woke panicking. It took me an hour or more to get back to sleep, and when eventually I did, the dream returned once more. By the morning I had lost all composure. I felt as if every new event was a sign that I would now turn blind, and that I stood on the edge of insanity.
When I couldn’t find a way out of my train of thought, I decided to embrace it all, and search for the identity of the woman in my dreams.
I phoned in sick at work and typed out the sentences in full, so I didn’t forget them. I prepared a few things, including the Kleecha cookies that my mum, who hoarded them, kept me in constant supply of. I set up three hologram screens on the wall in front of me and began my search.
* * *
I didn’t know what I would ask the search engine; the first thing was to work my brain. I had to accept that the woman would not leave me alone unless I found her, and that the arm my brother had given me was in some way a message from her.
I scanned the black forearm searching for a clue, but found nothing. The base of it, severed just above the elbow, suggested the arm was in a bent position, and must have been cut from the left side of the original statue.
Despite all this, I didn’t know where to search and soon became exhausted by the whole process. I stretched out on my bed and tried to relax enough to sleep. If she invaded my peace once more, she would at least bring me another sentence.
‘Don’t leave me weeping forever.’
She was guiding me towards her with this sentence. I went back to the holograms that I had set up in my office. I entered the sentence into the search engine which instantly produced thousands of results, all adding to my confusion. I changed the search to ‘images’ and there were even more results than before. One of the pictures, however, stopped me.
Unlike the countless other images melodramatically conveying themes of love and separation, this picture was of a sculpture of a woman standing serenely, with her arm raised, in front of a man, sitting listening to her. They both wore old fashioned clothes. I clicked through to the page and learned that the photograph came from a University outside of Iraq. Attached to it was a poem.
* * *
I felt disappointed as the page didn’t lead back to Iraq. After looking carefully at the picture, though, I was certain it was from this city and that the forearm of the sculpture in the photograph resembled the one that had been gifted to me. I also realized that the setting of the statue was very similar in dimensions to Lovers’ Square.
I read the poem; the language was difficult to unpack but the pain flowing from it was undoubtedly real.
The last line of the poem read: ‘And you, Scheherazade, will remain weeping forever.’ Evidently the woman who had been stalking me each night was Scheherazade, herself. I started some basic research into the author of the poem.
She was an Iraqi writer: born over a hundred years ago into a well-established Baghdad family. Her father had been taken from her, by government security forces, while she was still a child, never to return. Her mother died in an air raid during the war that ousted that regime. She lived a real-life story of star-crossed lovers until her husband was killed for belonging to a different religious sect to her. After that, living as she did in an area populated by her husband’s sect, she had no choice but to flee in the middle of the night, with her child. She left all her clothes and possessions behind, all her worldly goods, and abandoned her country to seek peace in another. However, Iraq never abandoned her and she continued writing short stories, which she always signed with the sentence: ‘And you, Scheherazade, will remain weeping forever’—the last thing she remembered from her home city.
* * *
Just as I arrived at this information there was a knock at the door. My niece, Ishtar, stood at the entrance: ‘Uncle, tell me you’re okay so I can ring your sister and reassure her!’ she blurted. I laughed before inviting her inside. She explained that my sister’s friend, who worked at my office, had told her that I hadn’t turned up for work that day, and that she had tried ringing me to no avail; so she sent her daughter to see if I was okay.
Even when I’d managed to forget about the syndrome, everyone else conspired to remind me.
I picked up my phone to find more than ten missed calls from my sister and twenty from my mum. The phone started ringing in my hand; it was Utu asking about me.
‘I’m fine, I’m working on the square design from home today,’ I told him before he’d had a chance to speak. ‘Actually, since you’re there, tell me: what do you know about the monument that used to stand on the site?’
‘There was a monument of Scheherazade and Shahryar … Shahryar was some ancient king who killed each one of his wives the day he married them, so they couldn’t be unfaithfu
l to him. He married and killed a thousand; but then he married the daughter of his minister, Scheherazade, and couldn’t kill her because she played with his mind, telling him a story each night which she wouldn’t complete until the next day. It was a book, or a film or something…’ Utu paused. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘This may sound suspect, but … Scheherazade is following me,’ I explained.
‘You need some rest my friend…’ Utu replied. Then, under his breath: ‘The emigrants dream of returning but they never return.’ The phone cut out.
* * *
When Ishtar heard what I’d said to Utu she got scared. ‘Uncle … don’t you think you should have a talk with mum?’ she asked.
‘Is it urgent?’
‘I heard you talk to your friend about a stalker … Scheher … Schehera … I didn’t catch the name.’
‘Her name is Scheherazade … you know the name of Lovers’ Square but you don’t know the name of the lovers in it,’ I laughed. ‘Look, I’m fine. There’s just a small matter that confuses me.’ Then an idea struck me. ‘Actually you can help. You’re better with technology than me. How do you feel about staying a few hours and helping me? I’ll ring your mum and tell her that I can drop you back tonight.’ Then I added: ‘We can order take out from any restaurant you want.’
‘Oh Uncle,’ she replied, ‘if it’s to do with Lovers’ Square, you don’t even need to ask!’
* * *
I told Ishtar about all that had happened to me, about the dream and the mystery of the statue’s hand coming into my possession, about discovering this early twenty-first-century author. All this drew Ishtar in and we both started building upwards from this.
Ishtar and I tried getting the names of the author’s descendants but the city’s online genealogy archive only went back three or four generations, and none of them seemed connected to her.
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