Iraq + 100

by Hassan Blasim

  ‘Hey … yoo-hoo … yes, you … come in, come in.’

  A door had opened. A door that Ur could have sworn was previously closed.

  ‘Come in … don’t be afraid … that’s it. Come in.’

  Ur and Ona walked through the door. The room was a small bar. It could not seat more than half a dozen people. It glowed with a soft blue light, giving the effect of a moonlit night in a rural part of Sector 42. Blue light also came through the opaque surface of the bar. Behind the counter stood a tall, dark, semi-naked, heavily made-up …

  ‘Hermaphrodite!’ Ur said this out loud then instantly regretted it.

  ‘That’s right sweetheart. “Kuszib” is the name and bartending is the game. What’s up sugar? Is that sweet little thing your Mrs? “Mrs” … what a strange little native word.’

  ‘I’ve read about you,’ Ur said in the same, hypnotised voice he had uttered the word ‘hermaphrodite.’

  ‘Oh I do hope it was suitably scandalous.’

  ‘I don’t mean you, specifically. I mean about your kind.’

  ‘My “kind”? Do you mean bartenders? You must be a discerning business traveller who reads all those hoity-toity journals.’

  ‘You are from Sector 9. The only place where conditions allowed highly evolved hermaphrodites to dominate.’

  ‘Allowed!’ The hermaphrodite rolled the word over its tongue. ‘No one “allows” anything in this universe, sugar. Shit happens because shit can happen.’

  ‘Or because the Setter wills it,’ Ona interjected.

  ‘Oh, you’re so cute,’ Kuszib said patting her on the head then turning to Ur: ‘Can I keep her?’

  Ur was still hypnotised.

  ‘Something the matter, sugar?’ Kuszib inquired.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just I’ve never met your kind before.’

  ‘Your kind, your kind, your kind!’ snapped the hermaphrodite. ‘You are not too kind, gentle sir, for harping on “my kind”.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Oh surely,’ and with that the hermaphrodite began to rub one of its tentacles until it hardened then it inserted it into an orifice located beneath its left nipple.

  ‘Ohhhhh.… That’s fucking gooooood!’

  Ona giggled. ‘Ur, is he…?’

  ‘Yes darling,’ Ur replied meekly.

  ‘Did he just … orga?’

  ‘Not yet, my lady.’ The hermaphrodite interrupted. ‘Ohhhhhh. Yeaaaaaaa.’ Then, talking to its thrusting tentacle: ‘That’s it space cowboy. Ride it. Oh yes, yes, yes. There. That’s it. That’s the spot. Oh right there … there … no … a little to the left.’

  The tentacle, one of three protruding out of the hermaphrodite’s navel, swayed to the left and began to pound the sub-nipple orifice with great vigour.

  ‘Ride it. Ride it. Ride it! Ride it you big love barnacle.’

  Shouting and screaming, the hermaphrodite knocked several bottles neatly arranged on the glass shelves behind it with its two arms and two free tentacles, while its body shuddered like a spaceship crashing through an event horizon.

  Ona placed her hand over her mouth to stop laughing but the laughter seeped through nonetheless. Ur was feeling very uncomfortable. ‘We should leave,’ he suggested.

  The hermaphrodite grabbed hold of Ur’s right wrist and began to squeeze.

  ‘No. No. No. I’m nearly there. Wait. Wait. Let me just look at you both. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.… There it is. YES! It’s all over. Thank you. Thank you so much. That’s the best one I’ve had all day.’ Without letting go of Ur’s wrist, the hermaphrodite shook Ona’s hand and simultaneously wiped its brow with a napkin using one of its tentacles.

  ‘I’m “Kuszib” by the way,’ the hermaphrodite said, forgetting it had told them. ‘The best bartender this side of the Milky Way.’

  ‘What an unusual name you have,’ said Ona.

  ‘Glad you noticed, hon. I gave it to myself. Like a treat. I didn’t like my old name so I thought why not have a name-makeover? And let it be exotic. When in doubt, go exotic, that’s what I always say. To be honest I’ve never said that but it sounds like the sort of thing I would say.’

  ‘Does it mean anything, “Kus-what”?’ asked Ur.

  ‘“Kuszib”. It’s Arabaic.’

  ‘It’s the language of the natives of Centre Point,’ Ona explained.

  ‘I know!’ Ur snapped, irritated both by Ona presuming he didn’t and by the memory of the book that had unsettled him in the sorting chamber flashing in his mind.

  ‘If you must know,’ Kuszib said, nonchalantly. ‘“Kus” means.… well no point beating about the bush, it means “cunt”. And “zib” means “cock”. Put them together and you get: me! Lovely really. What are your names?’

  ‘Ur’ said Ur ‘and this is my wife…’

  ‘Ona,’ said Ona.

  ‘Ur and Ona. I am in your debt. I don’t know what it is about you but you just got my tentacles all tingly. Let me pour you a drink. It’s on me. Kuszib always rewards those who reward her.’

  ‘Her?’ Ur said with an unintended tone of incredulity.

  ‘Only on the weekend. It’s easier to get laid that way,’ Kuszib said with a grin.

  ‘Now don’t tell me you two have been sampling that swillpiss they’re serving upstairs?’ Kuszib reached for a bottle of wine from under the counter and placed it before the couple.

  ‘Some of it was good,’ Ur protested.

  ‘Whatever,’ Kuszib rolled her eyes. ‘You’re really married to this putz?’ she asked Ona.

  Ona just looked bewildered.

  ‘A male who knows nothing of good wine shall never, in all his years, pleasure a female.… even I, a larker in the land between, know that.’

  ‘What?’ said Ur.

  ‘Glad you didn’t ask me to “come again”,’ Kuszib said and winked at Ona who resumed giggling afresh.

  ‘Your wife knows what I’m talking about. I can see it in her eyes though she’s trying to hide it.’

  Ona fell silent. She looked at Ur who didn’t meet her gaze.

  Kuszib’s tongue snapped out of its mouth with tremendous speed. It wedged deep into the cork of the wine bottle and, with a sharp, elegant pull, uncorked it. The room filled with a bewildering aroma.

  ‘Ommm.… Inhale. Inhale, my lovelies. Inhale!’ with eyes closed, Kuszib’s nostrils began flaring and vibrating in a struggle to capture every last molecule of its vapour.

  ‘Now drink!’ Kuszib ordered, pouring them two large measures.

  Ur and Ona did as instructed. Their taste buds danced to the music of the wine, their cheeks filled with blood, their heads with joy, and their limbs floated on an ocean of invisible feathers. This was the best wine they had ever tasted.

  ‘What is it made of?’ asked Ur.

  ‘It’s a secret’ whispered Kuszib. ‘But hang around long enough and you might find out’.

  ‘I better stop, it’s making me..’ Ur was feeling unsteady. ‘Ona we shouldn’t … we have … a long … long … way to get home.’

  Kuszib placed the back of its hand against its forehead and with a theatrical tilt of the head said, ‘I do not wish to greet the world with sober eyes.’ Then looking directly at Ur: ‘For sobriety is the virtue of the rankest pedant.’

  ‘Who … who said that?’ Ur asked earnestly.

  ‘I did, motherfucker. Now drink up. That goes for you too, sweet giggle-fits.’

  With a nervous giggle, Ona finished her drink. Ur also downed the rest of his wine. Kuszib filled both of their cups. Ur opened his mouth to speak. ‘Hush!’ the great hermaphrodite commanded.

  The couple stood frozen, not daring to break the silence.

  ‘I sense trouble’—Kuszib said, with her eyes flicking between Ur and Ona—‘in this union.’

  ‘We really must leave,’ Ur said in a tone so unassertive, it sounded like a plea. But then he glanced at Ona, and she was mesmerised. It is as if Kuszib spoke to the core of her being.

  Kuszib’s hands reached out to t
he couple and turned them so they faced each other. Using her tentacles, she poured more wine into the cups and placed them against their lips.

  ‘Drink.’

  The couple did as instructed.

  ‘Now close your eyes.’

  With eyes closed, they downed the wine Kuszib was offering them. ‘Time for a rare slice from the very same source as this wild nectar,’ Kuszib said as she slipped two sausage wafers into their mouths.

  The meat tasted like … like … like … how very odd, thought Ur … how very peculiar, thought Ona … it tasted like … falling in love all over again.

  * * *

  This is what they experienced:

  Fog. Thick fog. Neither had ever seen fog before. It did not exist in Sector 3. They thought they were looking at a white screen but one that was slowly beginning to fragment and reveal … what?

  Sand. Hot, white, smooth sand.

  And they were running on air, just millimetres above this ocean of sand. Their bare feet occasionally brushing against the surface grains of this great desert.

  Ur looked at Ona and saw a beautiful, naked, young human female. Ona in turn looked at her husband and saw a handsome, naked, young human male. Although they had turned into humans … in this vision … in this dream … they were still Ona and Ur. ‘But who do these bodies belong to? What are their names?’ they both wondered.

  The next thing they knew they were running toward some unknown destination in the distance. They headed east—toward the land of the yellow-flavoured humans, their century-old towers deserted and crumbling, then they crossed an ocean, their feet lightly gliding over the foam of the waves, to the land of the chubby, predominantly white-flavoured humans, now kept captive on huge prairie farms, where they were mercilessly exercised to lose that excess fat. Then they crossed another ocean, dipping south to reach the landmass where the few remaining black-flavoured humans dwelt, almost extinct because their flesh tasted so good, and because sustainable farming laws had been implemented too late. Instead of running back to Centre Point, Ur and Ona took a detour. They headed north to the continent where the best wine, made according to the old ways was manufactured. Now they were running across dewy grass and wild flowers, their feet firmly treading on the ground. Ur stretched his hand out to Ona and she did the same. Their fingers touched then parted then touched again as they continued running. Their breathing was growing heavy but tiredness did not set in their limbs. They were that rare creature, that creature on the verge of extinction: a wild human. Being a wild human in Sector 42 meant that you were constantly on the run.

  They reached a farmhouse. It was abandoned. Beyond it several horses stood munching on grass in a field stretching out to the horizon behind. The eerie silence of the place made the couple feel exposed. They pushed at the door of the farmhouse and found it unlocked. Once inside, they tried to catch their breath, Ona let out one of her characteristic giggles. Ur grabbed her and they kissed. Shortly after, Ona stretched out against the dust-covered wooden floor of the farmhouse. Ur opened her legs. He was taken back by the beauty of her sex, its complexity of intriguing folds and moist flesh. And when he approached for a closer inspection, its smell bewitched him. It had a similar aroma to the wine Kuszib had served them.

  Ur realised that his sex organ, his human tentacle, was now erect with excitement. He had somehow expected this reaction but was surprised to find his lips and tongue were also prickling with anticipation. He kissed Ona’s feet, her calves, her thighs, turned her over and kissed the soft flesh of her buttocks, then turned her again to kiss her lower outer lips. She began to moan and the sound of her moans excited him further. His kisses turned more frantic and involved his tongue, lips, even teeth—used sparingly, not to hurt, but simply to suggest the possibility of danger.

  ‘So this is how humans mate,’ Ur whispered erotically in Ona’s ears. He was surprised at the sophistication of their pre-love. For him, Ona’s body became like the terrain of some strange sector, full of variety and intriguing little details: the texture of the navel, the softness of the belly, the round smoothness of the breasts capped with solid, dark concentrations of flesh, particularly pleasing to his tongue. Ona reached for his tentacle and brought it closer to her sex. She looked up at Ur and remembered a photograph in the infobite manual that had shown two humans mating in this very same position. But it was one thing to read about the invaded, it was quiet another to become them, Ona suddenly realised. When Ur entered, her cheeks filled with blood.

  Kuszib fed them with more slices of sausage.

  They became lost in sexual love. Both could sense that the end was nearing, that their brains were making their way towards an explosive event, something approaching a sensual supernova.

  A few seconds short of orga, Ona sensed they were being watched. But before she had a chance to look over Ur’s shoulder, her heart was penetrated by a harpoon.

  Hunters from Sector 3 had been watching them through a window and waiting for them to approach but not achieve orga. Just before reaching that zenith, the harpoon had pierced Ur’s back, skewered his chest, passed through Ona’s heart and lodged firmly in the wooden boards beneath them.

  The hunters burst quickly into the farmhouse brandishing knives. Two of them lifted up the bodies by the hair on their heads, whilst others proceeded to slit their throats and collect the precious wine in special caskets they’d brought with them. This was the wine of wild humans caught in the act of love, making it the ultimate aphrodisiac. After the blood was drained, the only task left was to chop up the bodies, collect the meat and process it for sausage making.

  * * *

  Ur was the first to open his eyes. He could see a multitude of slimy tentacles had emerged from his own nipples and were sliding over, writhing with and penetrating Ona’s outstretched tentacles that ended in thorny receptacle cups. Ona opened her eyes and for the first time in months Ur could see true desire in them. They continued to make love for several hours as Kuszib fed them with wine and meat gathered from the corpses of wild lovers.

  When they awoke the next day, not able to recollect when and how sleep had befallen them, the couple found themselves back in the vast white hall. All the stalls had been removed, and their two entwined bodies had been left undisturbed in a now empty desert. Ona and Ur emerged from the glass building, hand in hand, feeling relieved to have survived their strangest night in Sector 42.

  On quiet days, Ona would think about the two lovers whose bodies they had inhabited that night and whose names they never knew. She felt sorry for them but concluded, in the end, that what mattered was her happiness and if that had to be revived by the blood and flesh of human lovers then so be it. Love is the hardest thing to sustain. Even humans, in their day, must have known that.

  THE HERE AND NOW PRISON

  JALAL HASAN

  TRANSLATED BY MAX WEISS

  Mr Farhan raised his eyes and gave everyone in the room a stern look.

  ‘So, kids…’

  He was allowed to call his students ‘kids’. To them, he must have looked as old as Noah.

  ‘What do we call this?’

  With his thumb, he clicked a button he was holding, and the youthful faces became transfixed as the classroom rebooted, then powered up as a primeval forest with trickling streams and singing birds. A lion came into view, growing larger and larger, until it took up an entire wall.

  ‘A lion,’ they replied, largely in unison, realising he was still waiting for an answer.

  ‘And what do we call this…?’

  He clicked again and a different lion appeared, this time leaping gracefully through a blazing ring of fire in a circus tent crammed with spectators.

  ‘Another lion…’ they groaned, knowing where this was going.

  The teacher rubbed his palm with his thumb as if trying to burrow a hole through it. ‘Don’t you see? This is one of our conundrums. The lion is a “lion”, the street is a “street”,’ he made quote marks in the air, with his fingers that cl
early his students didn’t understand, ‘and so too with the world. We call it the world whether it is our own world or that which we no longer know, the way it was before the year 2021. As if nothing changed.’

  He was silent for a moment, scanning the looks of confusion on his students’ faces, then restated, ‘It’s one of the curses of language, our own language which doesn’t recognise the difference between a lion that grew up in the jungle and enjoyed all of its particularities, and a “lion” that grew up in a prisoner in the circus, that spent its life as a clown.’

  At that point, he bowed his head as if he sensed someone spying on him through an invisible keyhole. ‘I fear we have become like that lion, caged by invisible wires, in a world we no longer recognise.’

  In that moment, the wall screens blinked off and the lights came back on. The teacher paused, and cast around at the young faces, suddenly aware that he had reached the end of the lesson. It was only a few moments before the wall screens illuminated once more, announcing the commencement of the holiday. He forced a smile up at his students as they filed out.

  ‘Happy Salvation Day to you and your loved ones.’

  This was the moment Samir had been waiting for. He leapt up, unlocking the wheels in his shoes that propelled him outside before he had even thrown his red backpack over his shoulder. Helen watched him suspiciously before deciding to pack up her things and slip out after him.

  Where in the world was that son of a bitch going?

  More than anyone else, Helen knew how much he detested these ‘soul-cleansing holidays’, as he used to call them. She skated along on the wheels of her shoes, descending three flights along the inclined bridges, finally turning right to find herself outside. She spotted him zipping between the hordes streaming along on their skates like a river that knew its way to the delta.

  ‘Samir … Samir!’ She shouted after him with all her might but without getting him to turn around, as he continued his descent.

  ‘Samir … Samir!’ She called out again but still he didn’t respond, which only heightened her awkwardness, there in the street shouting his name. Here she was, for the thousandth time, reneging on her resolution to steer clear of this effortless charmer, her favourite classmate who filled her head with splendid, scorching thoughts: his translucent brownness, his hair tied up in a topknot that cascaded down again behind him. But in return, he also kept her at arm’s length, being forever lost in his history books or trying to learn some ancient language, especially since he’d lost his mother the year before. From that day on, his behaviour had grown unpredictable. Once he appeared at a lecture dressed up like Gilgamesh, or ‘Grandpa’ as he called him, another time he turned up to a party in the guise of Husayn, another time Nebuchadnezzar, Moses and other strange characters nobody had heard of. His greatest obsession had become digging into the forgotten past of the city. Whenever she wanted to meet him it would be at one of those awful Pop Shop kiosks that had first sprouted up when she was a kid, selling ‘experience narratives’, in tiny capsules. He would always take a few minutes to return to the street bench he was sitting on, for his breathing to settle after the adventure he’d clearly been on.