At that point Abbas Bahlawan walked over to the wall of the garden and shouted loudly at the police in the elementary school, demanding that they surrender or prepare to receive cannon fire. From the roof a defiant voice responded, “Who are you to threaten the government, you son of a bitch?” So Abbas Bahlawan replied, “I’m Abbas Bahlawan, you son of a whore. If you’re a man, come down here, so I can toss you into your government’s lair.” Then Abbas Bahlawan gave the order to fire. People stepped back at the very same time that the soldier who had served in Palestine stepped forward and aimed the cannon toward the school. Then he lit the fuse attached to the cannon and hastily retreated, directing people to lie on the ground between the tombs. When nothing happened for a time, many bored and curious people began to poke their heads up. At last, the expected, dreadful explosion occurred and shook the ground beneath the feet of the insurgents, who saw the cannon turn into a terrifying mass of flame that rose into the sky, shot past the garden’s lofty trees, and fell to the street before it could reach the school. Initially the policemen hiding behind the roof parapet of the school were frightened. Once they observed the cannon lying prostrate before them like a corpse in the street, however, they began to laugh sarcastically and loudly and to chant the first jingle that came to mind: “Your brick doesn’t upset us, O Abbas ibn Farnaas.”
The policemen kept chanting their jingle until Mahmud al-Arabi fired three shots toward the elementary school, hitting in the shoulder a policeman who was leaning on the parapet, smoking. The police returned fire with a hail of shots, and the donkey that had hauled the gunpowder to the insurgents was struck. It had slipped into the garden and had begun grazing there. No one noticed until the following morning, when they observed a line of coagulated blood running from a hole in the head of the donkey, which lay on its right side under a eucalyptus tree.
This failure, which tried the insurgents’ resolve, certainly upset them because they had wished to teach the policemen sheltering inside the school a stern lesson, but it was not a big deal. Some of the elders of the Chuqor community actually praised God that the Ramadan cannon had flown up into the air instead of launching a projectile at the school, since that could have caused a calamity with unpredictable consequences. One of the women said, “Don’t forget the police are Muslim, just like us.” The strongest objection to this aborted mission, however, came from the school’s teachers, who had joined the insurgents. These men disapproved of the idea of blowing up their school and at the same time questioned the supposed benefit of the whole operation: “What do you have against the policemen? Leave them where they are.” Abbas Bahlawan replied nervously, “Do you believe they occupied the school to search for wisdom? They have come to terrorize us and to protect the municipal workers who want to dig up the graves. We must chase them out.” Abbas Bahlawan’s arguments were irrefutable, and the teachers were forced to step aside and to retreat into silence.
Some members of the Giants gang considered embarking on a virtually suicidal mission: attacking the school with Molotov cocktails, which they would launch from inside the garden while they hid behind tree trunks. Faruq Shamil, however, scoffed at this idea and pointed out its danger, affirming that it could lead to unnecessary casualties: “What’s important is to win the battle with as few losses as possible.” He had read this sentence in a book by a Russian about World War II. Meanwhile Burhan Abdallah and some of the other boys had obtained some pyrotechnic rockets, which they began to set off, aiming them toward the school. These would rise with a hiss, illuminating the whole area before falling back to the roof or slamming into the side of the building. Their light disclosed the policemen who were watching the area, but the men forbade them from doing that, since it also revealed the insurgents, making them an easy target for enemy fire.
The night had grown pitch-black, and those who felt sleepy retired to their nearby homes, where one would continue to discuss with another, from neighboring roofs separated only by low walls, the events of the day they had experienced. They praised the heroism of Abbas Bahlawan but poked fun at the weird outfits worn by the Giants: “Young men are always like that: a courageous heart and a tiny intellect.”
As a matter of fact, not everyone shared this opinion. After Abdallah Ali seized the hand of his son Burhan Abdallah to take him home, he—for example—described the gang members to his neighbor, who ran a small kebab shop in the great souk this way: “Those young men are nothing but clowns. The battle’s only a game to them. Did you see how they bragged to the people?” Later, his wife Qadriya, lauding the importance of her brother Khidir, said, “Khidir shouldn’t have gone to Baghdad. If he had stayed here, this tragedy would have been averted.”
At precisely this moment, when the wall clock in Abdallah Ali’s home had just struck twelve times, which the boy Burhan Abdallah counted while stretched out in bed, the insurgents lying in ambush at the edge of the cemetery, the policemen on the roof of the elementary school, and people in nearby communities that overlooked the cemetery witnessed the cloudless sky flash with light two or three times. Then there was thunder so loud that the earth shook beneath their feet. All at once the moon and the stars disappeared and the street lights went out, leaving the city sunk in total darkness. The stray dogs roaming the city began to howl monotonously in unison. Cats mewed, and cocks crowed to announce a dawn that had not yet arrived. People thought this odd and puzzling. They continued to watch the sky, which had evolved into an alarming, gloomy void. Their anxiety did not last long, however, because a pillar of light suddenly shot up from somewhere in the cemetery and rose until it reached the limits of heaven, transforming night to day. Many people searched for the spot from which the light was emanating while others headed toward it with distraught and awe-struck hearts, but the light was so powerful they could not see. So they retreated or stayed where they stood. When people ascertained that the light was radiating from the grave of Qara Qul Mansur, they started glorifying God. Religious fervor seized hold of a small group of members of the Afterlife Society, who were joined by some dervishes, and they began to chant to the beat of tambourines:
The full moon has risen above us
From the folds of farewell.
O emissary to us,
Who brought the imperative command.
Women ululated and their echoing trills announced the advent of a religious festival. The insurgents shot volleys into the air, thanking God for this incontrovertible miracle. The excitement affected even the policemen, who began to beg for God’s forgiveness, as fear of His anger seized hold of them. This miracle, however, was only part of a greater one, news of which spread to the entire world. Scholars of spirituality debated it in their circles, scattered throughout Iran, India, Turkey, and Azerbaijan. Brilliant light continued to flood forth for an hour or so before people saw a luminous, white horse leap from inside the grave and ascend into the air. On its back was Qara Qul Mansur, still cloaked in his shroud. The horse and its rider continued to ascend within the column of light until they came to resemble a cloud suspended over the city. The deceased Qara Qul Mansur clutched a goad, which he brandished as if waving to the thousands of astonished folks who stood staring at him. The stallion whinnied and then shot off, galloping into the heavens, which opened before him. He was illuminated by the beacon of light, which was focused on him. A comprehensive silence held sway over the city except for whispers people exchanged: “Look! There’s Buraq, the Prophet’s mount when he ascended to the seven heavens.” One way or another people were confident that this was Buraq, sent by God to the martyr Qara Qul Mansur, because Buraq, who was pastured in Paradise, was the only horse that could fly.
Qara Qul Mansur, riding on Buraq, made a complete circuit over the city before pausing once again over the cemetery, where he raised a hand, which emerged from his shroud, as if to issue a command to a secret army hiding behind a hill. In point of fact, no sooner had his hand sunk down again than people saw waves of totally unfamiliar birds—golden birds halfway betwe
en storks and hawks—carrying in their beaks fiery rocks, which they dropped on the policemen who saved their skins by fleeing, leaving behind them even their rifles. When the rocks hit the earth they scorched it and in some places created deep craters. Even without anyone telling them, people knew that God had sent Ababil birds to pelt the police with sijjil rocks. Finally Qara Qul Mansur raised his hand up high, ordering the birds to stop their attack, and so they retreated, wave after wave, and disappeared into the darkness. Then Qara Qul Mansur touched his steed with the goad, pointing its neck toward the sky. He shot off like a bolt of lightning and disappeared into the highest heavens.
At that very moment, the light ceased flooding out of the tomb. Then the moon and stars appeared again, the street lights came back on, and the old wall clock in the home of Abdallah Ali struck twelve times, which the boy Burhan Abdallah counted. He was perplexed because this was the second time the clock had marked midnight, making it seem as though what had just happened had been outside of time. Unable to find a satisfactory explanation for this event, the boy Burhan Abdallah laid his head on the pillow and fell asleep.
When the motorcade of the notables of Kirkuk reached the city’s outskirts, where the army had positioned tanks at the intersections of major arteries, soldiers stopped the vehicles arriving from Baghdad and demanded that the notables show their papers to establish their identities. Since none of the men had any documents with him, because they had not needed them or been asked for them before, Hameed Nylon opened the door of his automobile and said to the soldier who had been addressing him, “What’s all this about? I don’t want to quarrel with you. Go and summon your commanding officer before there’s a disaster. Tell him that Khidir Musa orders him to come.” The soldier was nonplussed by the commanding tone that Hameed Nylon had adopted with him. So he bowed his head and headed to one of the many tents that had been erected beside the road. Nearby were two tanks and a military transport vehicle. In a few moments, three officers emerged from the tent the soldier had entered. They headed for Hameed Nylon and Khidir Musa, who had also alighted from the car. They lined up and offered a salute, which Khidir Musa returned somewhat haughtily, remarking, “I am Khidir Musa. I am returning directly from meeting with His Majesty Faisal II. What has happened to make you ask people for their identity papers?” One of the officers apologized for his troops’ conduct in a manly tone, explaining that there had been a rebellion in the city and that martial law had been declared. He said that they had been awaiting his arrival so they could take him to the headquarters of the second brigade, where the brigade’s commander, the governor, and the police chief were expecting him.
Khidir Musa, who was flabbergasted by this turn of events, replied, “Rebellion? I don’t believe it. Fine; I’ll proceed there at once.” One of the officers informed him politely, however, that orders had been issued to transport him inside a tank, for fear something untoward might happen. Khidir Musa smiled and said, “Fine; if you think that’s necessary.” Then he asked Hameed Nylon to follow him and drive the delegation to the second brigade’s headquarters. He climbed into the tank. Since it was cramped and stifling inside, he preferred to stand. The tank headed toward the city by way of Railroad Station Road, trailed by the convoy of vehicles returning from Baghdad.
Khidir Musa was received inside the second brigade’s building, which resembled a walled fortress in the heart of the city, by a lieutenant colonel, an Arab who told him his name was Salim and who led him to an office on the right-hand side. It was near the military prison, which had windows overlooking two streets separated by a square. Summer cafés operated along the two streets and ran for a long way down them. The lieutenant colonel picked up the telephone receiver, dialed four numbers, and then spoke with someone at the other end, exchanging a few terse phrases. Afterwards he rose and said, “The group is waiting for you at the club.” He referred to the officers’ club, which was located on the other side of the street. The two men set off by foot, and soldiers halted street traffic so they could cross.
Khidir Musa and the lieutenant colonel passed through the tree-shaded entrance to the club and proceeded to an elegant room where five men sat. They rose to shake hands with Khidir Musa, who looked tired. Governor Ahmad Sulayman noticed this and said, “We’re sorry we didn’t allow you time to rest. But we need your help.” Then after a brief pause he added, “I don’t know if you’ve previously met His Excellency Sa‘id Khoshnaw the interior minister, and Mr. John Tissow the director general of the oil company.”
Khidir Musa replied suavely, “The honor has been culminated now.”
The two other men were the commander of the second brigade Adnan al-Dabbagh and the police chief Naji al-Rawi, whom Khidir Musa had previously met, if only in passing. The interior minister, who was a Kurd from Sulaymaniya, asked him in an Arabic that was not impeccable, “How was your meeting with His Majesty?”
Khidir Musa replied sociably in Kurdish, “It was an unforgettable encounter!” Then he added in Arabic, “If all Iraqis thought the way our king does, there would not have been any problem.”
Mr. Tissow, for whom the police chief was acting as interpreter, said, “But we have many problems, as you see, Mr. Musa.” He attached a flattering smile to his comment.
The minister of the interior interjected, “It’s regrettable that public security should collapse in a city like Kirkuk the way it has. The danger should have been averted before it could occur. It is regrettable that entire neighborhoods in the city remain in rebellion despite the declaration of martial law. But we don’t want a bloodbath that will carry away innocent victims.”
The chief of police said, “The problem is more the superstitious beliefs filling the city than the people. The whole city is speaking today about the dead man who rose from his grave and ascended to heaven on horseback and about the Ababil birds that supposedly attacked police headquarters.”
Khidir Musa asked with concern, “When did this happen?” The police chief replied, “Overnight, or so they say. I, for one, was asleep.”
The waiter entered with tumblers of tea and glasses of pomegranate juice. Addressing Khidir Musa, the minister of the interior said, “His Excellency Nuri Pasha has been informed of the discussion you have conducted. It will not be hard to find a solution to the problem of the road the firm needs. Mr. Tissow is in total agreement with us. The road can be routed around the cemetery. This is not a problem that will be much of a challenge for the engineers. Far more serious than that is the rebellion in the Chuqor community and other neighborhoods, where shots were fired at the police throughout the night. The instigators must be punished before we lose control of things. We can’t allow this insurrection to continue.”
Khidir Musa responded, “It will be hard to set straight what has happened during the two days we spent in Baghdad. I warned of the danger before it occurred. That’s why I went to see the king. But I do not believe that taking revenge on people will solve the problem.” Then he asked, “Were there any fatalities?”
The police chief replied, “An African black who worked as a barber was accidentally slain when rebels were pursuing one of our men.”
Khidir Musa frowned and observed, “I knew him; may God be merciful to him.”
Mr. Tissow, who had remained silent for most of the time, volunteered, “I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Musa. Appeasement works best with the masses. Otherwise, a bad situation will only grow worse. We actually have no wish to intrude into your internal affairs. We will, however, make every effort to improve our relations with the residents of the city. With this in mind, I announce in your presence, Mr. Musa, the cancellation of the road through the cemetery. Our engineers will devise an alternative route that will avoid any cemeteries. We will make compensatory payments to anyone whose house we are forced to demolish because it lies on the route. Moreover, the firm will undertake construction of a wall around the cemetery and restoration of the tombs of all of the Muslim saints buried there. We will also provide a monthly
salary for two men to guard the cemetery.”
Khidir Musa thanked him for this fine gesture, which he said would restore people’s confidence in the oil company, which was considered a vital part of the city’s life. He suggested to Mr. Tissow that he should present an appropriate sum of money as compensation to the family of the man who had been killed. Mr. Tissow approved of this idea and said he had simply not thought of it.
The Last of the Angels Page 15
