Khidir Musa raised his head to contemplate the blue sky, which was dotted with white clouds that scurried by in the wind. Some birds rose slowly, flapping their wings and then gliding high overhead for a time before swooping back to the grass-covered plains that extended to the horizon. Khidir Musa reflected on his life’s trajectory: its decline and rise, poverty and riches, humiliation and glory. “That’s the way the world is, Khidir ibn Musa; that’s the world. Don’t be beguiled by its perfidious smile.” He bowed his head, held his forehead with his right palm, shut his eyes, and contemplated nothingness. In the gloom that encompassed him, in that nameless darkness, he succumbed to an intense bout of weeping. He wept for himself and perhaps for the world. “Weep, Khidir ibn Musa, weep for yourself.” He began to sob under the stormy influence of emotions and memories from throughout his past. Then as he remembered words his grandfather had spoken while holding him as a small boy in his arms he felt suffused with a new peace. His grandfather had said, “Weep, Khidir, for tears cleanse the soul.”
He was weeping silently, and his soul felt inebriated by the scent of spring, which was descending upon the mountain, when he sensed a hand pat him on the shoulder. A gruff voice said, “Stand up, son. You’ll be my guest in this cave of mine.” The livestock dealer, who had not been expecting anyone, was startled and glanced up at the person who had interrupted his weeping. “I didn’t know anyone lived here,” he said. The old man who had emerged from the cave had a thick beard. His clothing was black and his skullcap red, and he had clogs on his feet. He replied, “This is God’s cave, which is open to all His creatures.” The old man entered the cave followed by Khidir Musa, who had been taken by surprise by the man’s invitation and thus prevented from thinking of an excuse to decline it. The entryway was a gap between two boulders. Then a brief hall led to an extensive, marble chamber with a fountain spouting water at its center. The cave’s resident said in an almost compassionate voice, “I was performing my ablutions when I heard you crying. You’ve done the right thing, Khidir, for tears cleanse the soul.”
Khidir Musa was startled: “You know my name, too.”
The old man responded rather gravely, “Yes, Khidir, and I’ve heard that you are going to visit the king and are concerned about the whole affair. Don’t worry, Khidir. We’ll find a solution for your problem.”
Overwhelmed by anxiety, Khidir Musa said, “If I weren’t a Muslim, I would believe you’re God.”
The aged dervish looked down at the ground for such a long time that Khidir imagined he did not care to reveal his identity. Finally he looked up and, gazing at the aged livestock dealer with eyes that were suddenly all ablaze, said, “No, Khidir, I’m Death.”
Khidir Musa began to tremble. His whole body was shaking, but he gained control of himself and said, as if to himself, “So, this is Death. I did not expect him to be so gracious.”
The old man known as Death guffawed till he showed his dentures, which were clearly visible to Khidir Musa. He felt suspicious about Death’s need for dentures. The man grasped Khidir Musa’s uncertainty and asked him jestingly, “Did you think time would leave no mark on me? Even I age, Khidir.”
Khidir Musa shook his head again: “So this is death: a cave a man enters accidentally.”
Death said, “Death is something totally different, Khidir. Don’t be alarmed, for you are still at the cave’s entrance and will return to your family.” Then he rose and gently grasped the shoulder of Khidir Musa, who no longer understood anything. He said, “Come look at death if you wish.”
There was an opening covered with thin glass, in the wall of the cave. Through it poured light that created a shadow in the room. The old man cast a fleeting look through the pane and then drew back, saying, “Go ahead and look. You may learn something from what you see.”
Khidir Musa’s heartbeat felt irregular, but he stepped forward and peeked into the other kingdom, the kingdom into which he too would pass one day. He was astonished by what he saw. Countless groups of men, women, and children, all with sad, pale faces, were shoving past one another on an endless bridge, screaming soundlessly. He stepped back and asked the cave’s master, “Where do you suppose all these massive crowds are heading?”
Death smiled and said, “Not even I know the answer to that question.”
Khidir Musa peeked through the aperture again. Then he said, “My God, they’re miserable. They don’t seem the least bit happy.”
Khidir Musa leaned against the curving wall of the cave as he floated on an invisible wave that beat against the pit of his soul. In the pale light filtering into the cave he looked like an alien from another world. The old man, whose clogs clicked against the marble floor as he walked, granted him time to catch his breath after he had glimpsed something no living person had ever seen before. Death wondered whether the sight was more than a man’s nerves could bear. Khidir Musa knew that he too would one day walk along that bridge that had no end. Since he had not opened his eyes, Death addressed him in a voice that was determined but tender. Khidir Musa opened his jet-black eyes and looked attentively at the man’s face, which was devoid of any expression. Then his pale lips opened, and he asked, “If my hour has not come, what do you want from me?”
Death was silent for a moment before he replied, “Nothing at all.” Then he looked at Khidir Musa as though he wished to remind him of something he had forgotten: “I thought you needed me.”
Khidir Musa did not venture a response because he could not understand how he could need death. Death, with his thick, black beard speckled with white and his lanky physique, seemed rather embarrassed when he asked politely to be included in the delegation heading for Baghdad to visit the king. Khidir Musa, who was surprised by this unusual request, which almost made him laugh, felt compelled to ask, even before the smile left his eyes, “But why? What distinction do you lack that you would seek to meet the king?”
Death, who seemed to understand Khidir Musa’s reticence, said, “I have learned to distrust distinctions that are destined to disappear, that are a ‘concern and a striving after the wind.’”
This man who called himself Death had excited Khidir Musa’s admiration with his calm, humility, wisdom, and eccentricities. All the same, Khidir Musa waged an inner struggle to resist giving in to him, for if this resident of the cave represented annihilation, he himself represented continued existence. There ought to be a counterweight, at least as long as he remained alive. Death said, “I have more right to join your delegation than anyone else. Don’t forget that the matter concerns the dead first and foremost, not the living. The dead too have a right to voice their opinion. Isn’t that so?”
A fleeting radiance glowed inside Khidir Musa’s mind, for the idea dazzled him and he felt Death was right. So he shook Death’s hand and said sincerely, “Sir, I’m honored for you to join my humble delegation.” He headed toward the cave’s entrance, preparing to leave, but twirled around suddenly as if he had remembered something and asked, “Do I need to hunt you down here when I want you?”
Death replied, “You will never discover this cave a second time. You will find me wherever you need me. Don’t tell anyone what you have seen because people lend greater credence to phantoms of the imagination and superstitions than to self-evident truths.”
Khidir Musa answered, as if setting down a basic axiom: “There are some secrets that a man keeps to himself forever; you know that for certain.”
When Khidir Musa walked outside the cave, he was dazzled by life, which he felt he was seeing for the first time: in the rocks on which green moss grew, in the blend of voices he heard from afar, and in the awe that filled his heart. He descended once more to the wide valley that led down toward the city, startling some wild doves, which soared off into the distance when he approached. He heard a roar in the air and automatically looked up to gaze at the birds fleeing from a helicopter that was flying toward the city. He would have liked, as he returned to the Chuqor community, to forget what he had seen, but
the sight of the dead people crowding against each other on the bridge that extended perhaps to infinity was still stuck in his mind. It haunted him. In that massive crowd he thought he had seen—despite the distance—faces of people he had met in his lifetime, but he was not certain: If living people resemble one another, then so do the dead. He felt he could still hear the faint, monotonous wail that rattled his skull and that originated in the kingdom of the dead. It might have been the screech of a siren or a distant, subdued music playing outside of time.
He turned to cast one last look at the cave where he had seen Death, perhaps to satisfy himself that what he had seen had not been a dream. The cave was on fire. Then he heard an explosion that shook the ground beneath his feet. He saw boulders rise into the air and then disappear into the white clouds. The quarrymen working at the far side of the valley raised their heads to study the explosion, which had taken them by surprise. Then they went back to work again, assuming that some other quarrymen were responsible for the blast—a common occurrence for them.
At that moment, when Khidir Musa saw the cave collapse and suddenly disappear, only a thin thread held him fast to life. In his heart there was something that seemed greater to him than life itself: life’s secret, which he had seen in the face of the cave’s master—that buffoon who called himself Death. What he felt was not fear of death, or even alarm at being in its presence, but an indescribable sense of power resulting from his rapprochement with Death, who would be a member of his delegation, which was going to visit the king. The cave’s master had inspired in him a high degree of wisdom. Thus although Khidir Musa returned to the Chuqor community without a definitive list of those who would accompany him to the royal palace, his indecision did not last long, for that afternoon, while he sat in the coffeehouse near Nakishli Manarsi, he observed a portrait on the wall of an awe-inspiring man who had thick hair and a thick beard and who made a person think of the saints. When he asked Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri, who was sitting beside him on the bench, about the man, the mullah replied with a smile, “He’s the greatest poet Kirkuk has ever produced. This is the great Dada Hijri.” Then Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri started reciting stanzas of his poetry, composed in Turkmen, as Khidir Musa felt his spirit soaring into a different sky inhabited only by angels. Khidir Musa remarked, “I think we ought to include him in our delegation.”
The mullah, after a short hesitation, replied, “That’s an excellent idea, but I’m not sure whether he’s still alive.”
Others seated near them said, “Yes, he’s alive and well. Every day he walks in gardens near here to compose poems about the birds and the trees.”
One of them volunteered, “Would you like us to bring him to the coffeehouse? He lives in the Citadel.”
Thus the great Dada Hijri became a member of the delegation, to which was later added the madman Dalli Ihsan, who was included in response to his aged mother’s entreaties and assurances to the delegation’s members that even angels had a right to kiss the king’s hand. She was naturally referring to her son Dalli Ihsan. Meanwhile, the Communists, of whom Khidir Musa had said that they excelled only in the art of stirring up needless strife, had agreed that Hameed Nylon should represent them—although they did not announce this—since he was to be the chauffeur who drove the delegation to Baghdad. Fathallah Isma‘il, Kirkuk’s director of public security, imposed himself on the delegation at the last moment, alleging that the government wished to assure the delegation’s security. Previously Khidir Musa had accepted the participation of other delegations, which were chosen respectively by the Turkmen, Kurds, Arabs, and Assyrian Christians, in addition to a delegation from the Chuqor community and the special delegation that he had selected himself. The understanding was that all these delegations, representing the entire city of Kirkuk, would meet half an hour prior to the appointment in front of al-Zuhur Palace.
In advance of the appointed day, the vehicles left for the capital, the seat of government of the king of Iraq. In front was Hameed Nylon’s vehicle, which flew the flag of Iraq. Khidir Musa, who was awarded pride of place, sat in front with Hameed Nylon. Trying to emphasize his importance, Fathallah Isma‘il, the director of public security, squeezed himself in between Khidir Musa and Hameed Nylon. He took out his revolver once or twice to brandish it, but Khidir Musa forbade him from doing that, saying, “Put away your revolver. No one will try to interfere with a delegation like ours.” Among those in the back seat was Death, who had introduced himself—to mask his identity—as Dervish Bahlul, a name that Hameed Nylon joked about sarcastically throughout the trip, without, however, upsetting Death, who smiled slyly from time to time and said, “Nothing’s better in life than laughter.” As usual, Dalli Ihsan remained silent as he contemplated a terrifying emptiness that stretched as far as his eye could see. Between them sat the poet Dada Hijri, who looked like a saint who had descended from a mountaintop.
Behind this automobile came the other vehicles, which carried prominent citizens of the Chuqor community and the city of Kirkuk. These men took a special pride in having been selected to represent their factions in a visit to the king, whom they loved fervently. They were indebted for this chance to Khidir Musa, whose great authority no one could any longer question. They considered his prestige a distinction for their city, for which they wished a deservedly illustrious position. People had actually emerged early that morning to line Railroad Station Street, which was the anticipated route of the delegation as it headed toward Baghdad. Schools had been given the day off, and teachers came with their pupils, carrying Iraqi flags and lining up on both sides of the street. The military band also turned out, and the musicians in their dress uniforms played drums and cymbals. An enormous, dark-complexioned sergeant marched at the head of the troupe. He carried a staff with two metal heads and twirled it with awe-inspiring skill to the beat of the music. Overwhelmed by the jovial mood, Hameed Nylon—to the crowd’s applause and laughter—began to drive his car in reverse. He did not cease driving this way, even though his vehicle was at the head of the procession, until they left the city and reached an area where the undulating plains that encircled the city spread out.
The procession had scarcely left Kirkuk when the poet Dada Hijri sank into a soul-chilling despair. He was seized by such anxiety that not even Dervish Bahlul could banish it from the poet’s breast. The smile did not return to his bronzed face until a sonnet was born—near the Hamreen Mountains, which are a rocky chain that stretch from Iraq to Iran. He refused to share a single couplet from it, however, despite their persistent pleas, alleging that he wanted to revise it in different circumstances when he would be better able to judge it, since the circumstances might even get the better of the poetry itself and leave it an awkward mishmash. He was seconded here by Dalli Ihsan, who seemed more affected than the others by Dada Hijri’s words, which Kirkuk’s director of public security declared incomprehensible. Khidir Musa pointed out that a person cannot understand everything and that some matters are perceived directly by the senses, independent of any logical reflection.
At noon the motorcade reached Khan Bani Sa‘d, where the vehicles stopped in front of a ramshackle, whitewashed mud-brick structure where food and tea were served. In front and inside, the establishment had old platforms, on top of which had been placed straw mats, and long wooden tables, which were covered with oilcloth sheets that could easily be wiped clean. In this filthy setting, which was unprotected from the dust and swarming with flies, Khidir Musa delivered a brief oration to the Turkmen, Kurdish, Arab, and Assyrian members of the Kirkuk delegation. He said that the delegation’s members had a right to enjoy their visit to Baghdad however they wished. Perhaps some had relatives or friends they also wished to visit. For this reason he granted each of them an appropriate freedom of movement. All he asked of them was to appear at least half an hour prior to the appointment in front of al-Zuhur Palace, so that they could enter as a group to see the king. Then he invited them to enjoy—at his expense—stew, which was
the only dish this restaurant offered to travelers to or from Baghdad. Everyone relished this repast, but when the tea, which was an indispensable sequel to the stew, arrived in sawn-off bottles cut down to half their original size, Khidir Musa, who was enraged by this, scolded the restaurant’s proprietor, demanding that he serve their tea in proper tumblers. The man apologized, protesting that tea tumblers cost a lot and that he saw little difference between a tumbler and a bottle bottom. The tea a person drank was the important thing, not its container. Even so, Khidir Musa paid this man, who was clearly greed incarnate. Khidir Musa had himself once resorted to cups made from bottle bottoms, during the war era when the price of tumblers had increased in such an obscene way that the poor could not afford them. He remembered how he had filled a bottle half full with kerosene and then placed an iron rod, which had been heated red-hot on a fire, inside the bottle. The moment the rod touched the kerosene, the bottle would split apart at the level of the kerosene. All that was in the past now, though, even if the restaurant’s owner claimed otherwise.
The Last of the Angels Page 12
