by D J Mcintosh
I hadn’t heard about the arson. It sickened me to think anyone would deliberately burn books.
“When the Mongols attacked Baghdad they destroyed the House of Wisdom,” Syed continued. “All the precious scrolls and manuscripts were thrown into the Tigris. It’s said the number of books destroyed caused the river to run black from the ink. At times I like to imagine that all those words were pushed together by the river currents and have pooled in some still lagoon, waiting to be discovered and turned into books again. Just a silly fantasy, of course.” He’d taken pains to remain polite yet couldn’t keep the resentment out of his voice. “Tell me, why are libraries always targeted? We can’t seem to wait to destroy what makes us human in the first place.”
With a grunt of impatience Shaheen said, “Getting back to the Italian book—what happened to it? Was it burned too?”
“It was among the library possessions we moved for safekeeping to the Ministry of Tourism in early March, right before the war. The building was very secure; doors to the rooms where we stored the archives were welded shut. Despite the precautions, looters broke into that building too and damaged the door, causing a water pipe to break. George Bakir’s entire collection ended up submerged in the water along with many rare manuscripts. The only way to save water-damaged paper is to freeze it right away.” He gestured with his hands. “Out of the question for us, without electricity. There is a slim possibility the book was taken by looters before the collection was moved, so you have a slight chance of finding it on the black market. It’s not in the library.”
We’d gotten our hopes up and just as quickly they’d been firmly dashed. Shaheen put his unlit cigarillo to his lips. I could hear the old fellow slowly pronouncing the words of the story in Arabic to the girl in the background. I looked across at them. She seemed listless, barely heeding what he said. She looked ill and I wondered whether she’d been sedated.
Syed flicked a glance at them and focused his attention on us once more. “This must be a prized book. In August some other men approached me about it. Two Americans and an older Englishman.
What’s your interest?”
The brown paper envelope Shaheen carried crackled as he took it from his jacket pocket. He pulled out the photos of the two scientists and laid them on the table in front of Syed. “These men—right?”
“Yes, that’s them. Loretti and Hill. The Englishman was Charles Renwick. They came to me with a bizarre notion. Renwick subscribed to an odd theory. He thought one of the fairy tales in the book originated as a Mesopotamian legend. And that it held some clue to the source of an ancient plague. My reaction was, to say the least, one of strained disbelief.”
“Was that all he said?”
“No. As I listened to how he made those connections, I began to appreciate his rationale. Plagues did sweep through old Babylon. Often in times of turmoil or when the climate changed and drought or flood brought on poor harvests and malnutrition among the people. Medicine was well advanced by the time the late Babylonian kings reigned. Even in Hammurabi’s time tablets described long lists of illnesses and their treatments. An ashipu would be summoned to identify the demons causing a disease and administer rituals and incantations to drive the evil spirits away.”
Syed tapped his ash and thought for a minute. “We smile at this nowadays but the tablets also described symptoms and herbal treatments, even surgeries that approximate modern medical practice. Extremely sophisticated, really. And they had one fascinating idea. If a surgeon failed to cure a prominent patient, he risked having his hand severed. If he cured his patient, though, he was handsomely rewarded. This was actually written into Hammurabi’s code.”
“Would make you think twice before going into medicine,” I commented.
Syed glanced over again at his father-in-law and daughter. I noted the signs of deep worry in his eyes. Then he appeared to shrug off his feelings. “Charles Renwick took the whole thing one step further.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“He thought the Babylonians may have employed disease as an instrument of war.”
Shaheen put his cigarillo down on the saucer that served as an ashtray and leaned forward. “Did he think an old plague germ had been resurrected? Perhaps as part of a program carried out by the Hussein regime?”
Syed shrugged. “My field of expertise is books. I’m not a doctor or a scientist. I do know a form of germ warfare is reputed to have been used by the Hittites. Some claim they introduced rams infected with tularemia into enemy villages in Western Anatolia. That happened around 1350 b.c., so the Babylonians might have known about it. If so, there’s no record I’m aware of. I do know there have been prolonged outbreaks of tularemia in the Middle East. It causes virulent sores on the body and severe pneumonia.”
Syed’s father-in-law stopped reading and fixed us with a hard stare so pointed, it seemed to have tangible power. Glancing at the old man, Syed stubbed out his cigarette and got up, walked over, and spoke to him in a rush of Arabic. The man cast his eyes down but held his body rigidly.
“Please excuse my father-in-law,” Syed said when he returned. “He is not always well in his thoughts.”
His daughter stirred on the bed and kicked off her covers. The father-in-law spoke to her while gently trying to push her back down. Syed leapt up again and rushed over to the kitchen to snatch a bottle of pills from the counter. He poured a glass of water from the jug and perched on the edge of the bed, putting his arm around the girl to support her and holding out the pills for her to swallow.
From the knee down, her leg was a mass of festering raw flesh. Where skin was still visible it had a frightening blue tinge. The girl whimpered and resisted the pills, weakly pushing her father away. As Syed insisted, she became more upset and knocked the water glass out of his hand. He turned to us. “Please. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now. My daughter is very ill.”
We thanked him and left the apartment, joining Ali outside.
“The girl belongs in a hospital. She could die if she stays here,” I said.
“Do you have any idea what hospital conditions are like? They barely have a skeleton staff left. Doctors are targets even in their own homes. No drugs. Infection rates are soaring. Believe it or not, she’s better off at home,” Shaheen said.
The apartment door cracked open and Syed’s father-in-law poked his head out. He pointed to Shaheen and said something in Arabic.
“What does he want?” I asked.
“He says Syed has something else to tell me. He forgot to mention it.”
I waited while Shaheen walked back down the hallway, Ali behind him. Shaheen drew closer. The old man pulled a knife from the folds of his tunic. The blade flashed as he thrust it with all his force at Shaheen’s neck.
Ali moved fast, his body a blur. He hit the old man’s arm so hard the knife clattered to the floor. The old man screamed a volley of words as Ali crushed him against the wall.
Shaheen and I hurried out of the building. The knife had grazed his neck above his collar bone. “That was damn close,” I said. “Are you okay?”
He pulled out a tissue and held it to the wound. “You let your guard down for a minute in this hellhole and you’re fucked. You’d think I’d have figured that out by now.”
“Are you going to send someone to arrest them?”
“And what happens to the kid? That would pretty much be the end of her, wouldn’t it?”
A few minutes later Ali joined us. He spoke to Shaheen briefly in Arabic before getting a first-aid kit out of the trunk and bandaging him up. As we drove off, Shaheen related what Ali had told him. “Syed apologized for his father-in-law and pleaded with Ali not to arrest him. Apparently Syed’s wife died in a bomb blast when she was driving to visit family on the other side of town. That’s how his daughter was injured too. It affected the old man’s mind. He blames Americans.”
Forty-Three
A thin thirteen-story tower rooted in a massive bed of junk concrete slabs and
twisted metal beams was the most prominent landmark in the area we drove through. A blast wall separated the wreckage from the street. The tower was actually the concrete shell of a stairwell.
Shaheen flicked his finger toward the structure. “All that’s left of the Mamoun communications center. Burned to a crisp.”
We crossed the river to al-Maidan Square, crowning glory of al-Rashid, Baghdad’s most famous commercial street. The al-Haydar Mosque soared like a beautiful blossom in a ruined garden, its minaret and two domes of intricate arabesqued tile accented with green and gold, the colors of paradise. It contrasted oddly with the disorder surrounding it. Shaheen squeezed our vehicle into an impossibly small space and we set out on foot. To find the book on the black market we’d need to start with antique shops in the district. The wind had died down and the streets were crowded with people. In some respects it felt like an ordinary day even though a number of the shops were barred and others burnt-out holes. Heaps of refuse created artificial lakes of filthy gutter water. Neither Shaheen nor Ali spoke. Both of them were on the alert and ready to act if things turned bad.
We didn’t know if Loretti and Hill had actually come here. Nor would a store owner necessarily remember them or tell us if they had. It seemed a hopeless quest. After canvassing several shops where proprietors shrugged or shook their heads when shown the scientists’ photographs, Shaheen suggested we take a break.
The mustard-colored tile walls in al-Zahawi café were inset with depressions holding narghile pipes. In one of the recesses a TV blared. Arabic speech pumped out from its sound system but the screen was snowy. Ali brought three steaming cups of coffee to the table. I fanned away blue smoke.
“Famous place,” Shaheen said. “Used to be a hub for poets, educated people. To argue, discuss politics … important issues. A gathering place.”
I glanced at the men smoking their bubble pipes amid the low buzz of conversation. “Looks like we’re sunk. We’ve canvassed almost all the stores.”
“Let’s finish the rest. If they don’t pan out, we’ll go to the Rashid Hotel where Loretti and Hill stayed. See if any of the staff know something. They always—” Shaheen stopped in mid-sentence and jumped up, walking over to the server. They had an animated conversation; then Shaheen handed the man the photos. The server said something to him and gave the photos back.
Shaheen returned to our table. “I should have realized earlier, at one time or another everyone ends up at this café. The waiter recognized Loretti. The store we want is not that far. Let’s vamoose.”
As it turned out, the shop on a back street near the square sold both antiques and books. Hanging carpets covered the storefront except for a narrow gap. We pushed aside a rug to enter while Ali stationed himself outside. A bell tinkled as the two of us walked in.
Around the circumference of the small front room, objects sat on shelves—tall brass tea carafes engraved with traditional designs, serving trays, old clocks, lamps, and oil paintings. Among these were a few clay pots and tablet fragments. I wondered whether they’d been looted but figured they wouldn’t have been so prominently displayed if that were the case.
The owner, dressed in slacks with the tails of his long-sleeved shirt hanging out, rushed up, singling me out immediately. “As-salamu alaykum.” He extended his right hand. I shook it and smiled a hello.
“Wa’alaykum salaam,” Shaheen replied and made introductions. He explained that I spoke only English.
“I can speak it a little. We used to get many tourists here.” The man shook his head. “Not for a long time now. My name is Khalid. We have valuable goods here. Old.” He swept his hand around the room. “So many fled when the bombs started. You can see here. Shelves are full and my store empty of shoppers. Only thieves visit now.”
“Dark days, Khalid,” I said. “The damage to the city is heartbreaking.”
The man shrugged. “Yes. We don’t know if we will stand here tomorrow or join the cinders.”
“Your goods—they’re beautiful.” I glanced around the room again and saw an antique Sindar kilij, the characteristic broad-bladed Ottoman sword, sharp enough to slice a human head like a ripe melon. Strings of prayer beads made from polished amber shone in the light; some amateurish paintings were propped against the walls. I picked up an exquisite silver box with a lid enameled in bright colors. Persian. I saw a mirror on the underside of the lid and imagined a sultry woman lifting out her cosmetics, reminding me of Dina. Shaheen promised to make sure she got to a safe place after she left the hospital. I wondered how she was and whether I’d hear from her again.
Khalid hovered one step behind me as I examined the goods. “Many wealthy families sell in order to leave our country. Rare things you cannot find easily,” he said.
“Do you sell books too?” Shaheen gave him a smile.
The man’s eyes lit up. “Certainly, certainly. Up the stairs.” He motioned for us to follow him. We brushed through a drape at the back of the store into another chamber filled with cardboard boxes, Arabic script printed on the sides. A flight of grooved wooden stairs led to the second floor. Khalid’s slippers slapped noisily as he led us up.
On the upper level large brass trunks had been set against three walls. Above them, shelves were piled high with books and looseleaf manuscripts. An electric typewriter sat on a desk in an alcove beside stacks of paper. Many of the books had yellowed pages and worn, hand-tooled leather covers. The dust made me sneeze when I flipped through them.
Shaheen, judging that we’d established a nice rapport with the shopkeeper, pulled out the photos. “These men visited your shop in August. Do you remember them?”
When he spotted a spark of recognition in the man’s eyes, Shaheen pressed a little harder. “You do remember them—don’t you?”
Khalid hesitated before replying, “Yes, they came. One moment.” He went over to the desk and rummaged in a drawer, taking out a small card that he handed to Shaheen. “His name.”
Shaheen held it up for me to see. One of Loretti’s American business cards.
“Did he buy anything? What was he looking for?”
The owner held up two fingers. “Two books. One I had; the other not.” He extracted a huge ring holding keys of all sizes and shapes and squatted to open one of the brass trunks. He cleared a space on the desk and placed a book on it for us to see. It had an elaborate cover of intricate Arabic designs that reminded me a little of the golden covers containing Basile’s book.
“Not this one but one like it he bought,” Khalid said. “He wanted to know about the jinn.” He looked up at me. “Many types of jinn exist, some beneficent and others evil—like ghouls.”
A fleeting memory came back to me. Something Samuel once mentioned. About nomads who’d journeyed the desert for decades, unaccountably vanishing and their bodies turning up, ravaged by some unknown predator. Evil jinn were blamed, demons born of fire who crossed between the earth and the spirit world.
“The jinn play pipes at dawn to draw unwary travelers into the desert. After the traveler becomes lost the jinn attacks it to take possession of his soul. Many stories have been written about this. Some can be found in this book here,” Khalid said.
Shaheen pointed to the title in Arabic script: Kitāb alf laylat wa-laylah. The Thousand and One Nights.
By Henry Justice Ford from The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night
“You know this?” Khalid said, looking at Shaheen. “Our most famous tales from far back in history.”
“What other book did they want?” Shaheen asked.
“Italian one. Same kind. Tales for children.”
“Why would they think you’d have an Italian book?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “The Englishman was very sorry when he found out I did not have it.”
I knew how Renwick must have felt. Shaheen gave me a commiserating look.
Khalid caught the expression on my face and said brightly, “But now I do.”
“You mean the Italian book?
You have it here?” I held my breath in anticipation.
He walked over to another trunk. I heard the ancient lock clicking as he turned the key and pried open the lid. He bent down and withdrew a package wrapped in an Arabic newspaper and handed it to me.
I peeled off the layers of newspaper with trembling fingers and almost shouted with joy when I saw Basile’s book. I opened it to the title page. It was the one we wanted. The last volume—the fifth day. I gave Shaheen a quick nod.
“Where did this come from?” I asked Khalid.
The shop owner spread his hands out. “From a Syrian I deal with from time to time. Where did he get it? You know how these things are. We do not always ask.” He gave me a pointed look. “Do you wish to buy it?”
“How much?” I said. The expression on my face told him how excited I’d been to see the book but I thought it prudent to bargain a little.
He asked for one thousand American dollars, an astronomical sum to him. It was ludicrously cheap and a fraction of the book’s real worth. I was on the verge of accepting when Shaheen intervened. A discussion ensued in Arabic with much gesturing and waving of hands. At one point Khalid shook his head indignantly and I shot a glance at Shaheen, afraid he’d pushed the proprietor too far.
The conversation stopped abruptly when Shaheen reached for his billfold. He peeled off four hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Khalid, who smiled broadly.
The deal concluded, I thanked the shop owner for his time. As I turned to go, Shaheen spoke up. “Did those men want anything else?”
“Yes. They brought with them a very old object.” Khalid made a circle with his hands. “A round stone with a hole in the center. They wondered if I knew what purpose it had. I did not know its use but recognized it from descriptions in old stories. I told them it carried a dreadful curse.”
