The Tobacco Keeper

by Ali Bader

  Kamal Medhat’s most tender moments were spent with Fawzeya. He found in her a simple, spontaneous heroism, a kind of self-defence mechanism in the face of a hard, incompatible marriage. Kamal Medhat found in his love for Fawzeya some compensation for his hatred of the masses. He venerated in her the primitive, illiterate human being who remained unspoilt by the regime. Although Fawzeya expressed herself simply and spoke in straightforward, spontaneous statements, she wasn’t without complexity. Despite being illiterate and simple, she fought valiantly for her freedom. She’d been married to a cattle farmer in Al-Fadhilia. He was a vain, careless man who’d forced her to marry him. But she’d resisted him ferociously, stood up to him and asked for a divorce. A few months before the divorce came through, he was killed in the war. In front of the judge, she gave up everything to his family because she’d never loved him.

  Kamal Medhat often sat in a chair by the window, listening to a record or playing short pieces on his violin. He sometimes placed his scores in front of him to compose his dream symphony. Fawzeya would walk barefoot on the cold tiles, her tight, black trousers revealing the outline of her buttocks and her tight shirt showing her protruding breasts. She used tassels to tie her hair in a pony tail, and chewed gum energetically while she walked. She would suddenly stop in front of him and look straight at him with her lascivious eyes. She would wink at him, turn quickly around and roll her behind.

  Her movements aroused him and made him feel the spirit and power of life. Love alone could explain the latent energy that he wished to express through music. It was a tidal wave of inexplicable passion. Kamal Medhat didn’t hate the deprived classes that felt the abject need for bread and faced the arrogance of urban bureaucracy. He loved folk stories in all their details and his music beautifully and poetically expressed the lives of broken, exiled people, drunken farmers, the hungry, illiterate women, lumpen workers and agricultural labourers. But what terrified him was the vulgarity of the regime that crushed those classes and turning them into a rough, ferocious beast, running amok and destroying everything.

  What happened during the years that led to Kamal Medhat’s murder? Information is, in fact, quite scarce. During the years following the Kuwait war, Kamal Medhat was forgotten. When he walked in the streets, he would meet a wave of people running towards a free meal offered by the government in some square or park. He would stop and look at a crowd of men and women in tatters, starving and barefoot, women’s headscarves billowing. They would rush through a side door opened for them by the guards, to eat a free meal of rice offered by the state to the poor. Everything else was hazy and vague. He wrote to Farida: ‘Life is cold and empty. Baghdad is a world enveloped by mystery. The streets are filthy, the shops are empty, and the faces are pale, sickly and desperate. Classical music halls have turned into popular haunts for vulgar songs.’

  The only surviving image of that elderly musician in the residents’ minds was his slow daily walk on the streets of Al-Mansour. They retained the image of a widower having an affair with his maid, a man with grey hair and a light grey beard who was dressed in the same old, shabby clothes that he’d been wearing for years. He often carried a Russian book as he walked on the same street almost every day from his house in Al-Mansour to the end of Al-Haretheya Street and back. He was sometimes accompanied by his maid Fawzeya and he frequently stood in line for his ration of eggs or a piece of chicken distributed to retired state officials, from time to time, by the government.

  This was all the information that we managed to get concerning his life between the two wars. We discovered that during the last war, of 2003, he heard the doorbell ring while he was watching the news on television. He got up, pulled the curtain and looked out of the window. Amjad Mustafa was at the door.

  It was a huge surprise for Kamal Medhat. Amjad Mustafa was a completely changed man. His eyes were lifeless and his paunch jutted forward. He was short of breath and the effects of addiction were clear on his face. He looked worn out. His body was flabby and his clothes were old and threadbare. He wore an old, navy blue jacket, a tatty shirt and a pair of jeans that were completely faded.

  Kamal took him into the lounge and asked Fawzeya to make them some coffee. Amjad Mustafa rushed towards the bar to pour himself a glass of red wine.

  ‘What’s happened to you, Amjad? You look so different,’ said Kamal Medhat.

  ‘We’re all different,’ he answered smiling.

  Patriotic talk had vanished completely from his conversation. He no longer believed in the divine mission of the Arab nation, which he’d espoused during the past years of victory, glory and historical revisionism. Now it was all the manifest destiny of the American nation, the new drive towards the Tocquevillean dream of democracy and human rights. It was a dream that Kamal Medhat also believed in, despite his fears of uncontrollable populist movements. He wanted change to happen, no doubt. But at what price? Nobody knew. It was still untested, unknown and therefore unfathomable. They could neither push it forward nor stand in its way.

  ‘Who can drive out the US forces?’ Amjad asked Kamal Medhat.

  ‘Nobody,’ he replied.

  ‘Then let it be. Let’s achieve democracy, development and civic rights. Then the nation can decide its destiny.’

  Kamal drank his coffee and looked straight out of the window at the thick, wooded garden outside.

  ‘Do you trust America?’ he asked Kamal.

  Kamal Medhat had absolutely no faith in imperialism, for he rejected all forms of domination, power and violence. He totally abhorred the spirit of smug victory, whether embodied in Iraqi nationalism or American patriotism.

  To refute his argument, Amjad said, ‘Haven’t you read Saadi Youssef’s latest poem, An Invitation to Tony Blair? He was urging the British Prime Minister to occupy Iraq.’

  Kamal Medhat was astonished to hear that. Could it be true? Then he smiled a little. The dream of change dominated the thinking of all intellectuals. Amjad Mustafa was the victim of his own feelings of extreme oppression. He was an addict suffering the pain of failure and desperate for his lost dream of glory. Like a novice sailor overpowered by the wind, he didn’t know how to set his sail. Feeling totally oppressed, he made brief remarks, waved his arms, smoked, cursed and drank red wine in frantic haste.

  A few days later, Kamal Medhat was sitting in an armchair by the window in the lounge, watching the movements of the tree branches outside. It was difficult for him to formulate ideas or adopt a stand. Everything was as churned and confused as the movement of the tide. Looking up, he was appalled to see the images of aircraft carriers advancing, fighter planes of all types, Marines with their helmets and military gear marching in formation, and long-range missiles being installed in the desert. Colossal forces were advancing in the desert, led by tanks and armoured vehicles. Other forces were at their bases in the Gulf countries, from which they would march to invade Iraq. The dogs of war were barking and the masses were watching the armed forces taking positions and digging trenches in the streets. Food was becoming scarce and there were numerous checkpoints in public squares and parks. Military and security patrols roamed every alley and street.

  Kamal Medhat woke up from his sleep to the sound of huge explosions near the house. For a few moments, he was drenched in sweat. He was worried and afraid. He looked at the damp, rusty room swimming in darkness. With his tall, slightly stooping gait, he went towards Fawzeya, who was sitting close by. Then the sound of another violent explosion made Fawzeya jump and rush to the window. There was a burning car standing parallel to the pavement and a house was on fire. A flower shop had been completely demolished.

  He returned to his place near the window and looked at the moon. It was a warm night as the weather forecast had predicted. Everything had been fine until now. He exchanged a few words with Fawzeya. They prepared a meal together, sat down and ate. He cracked a joke and she smiled. She didn’t mention anything about his excessive drinking these days. He didn’t mention the war or his dread of what the
coming days might bring. He raised his glass and drank to her health. When he looked again through the window, the garden had become a block of light.

  Ten days had passed since the war had begun. Looking out of the window, Kamal Medhat watched the city being consumed by fire. He saw the fighter planes like black insects bombing everything: bridges, homes, buildings and factories. He watched Baghdad as it turned into a mass of smoke. A dust storm was blowing, uprooting everything in its path while the armed forces escaped with their equipment. Soldiers launched rockets from among the houses. Ambulances carried soldiers swimming in their blood. Soldiers deserted the front while others took shelter in houses and hospitals.

  He decided to go out. The moment he opened the door, a slap of cold air struck him. He buried his neck in the collar of his coat and shrank inside it. He dragged his feet with great difficulty and walked along the pavement. He looked through the window of a semi-burnt-out villa and saw a burnt wooden table and bookcase. Firemen were carrying the wounded and the dead on stretchers.

  He continued to walk. Smoke was billowing out of a rose-coloured brick house that was encircled by a wall. On the wall there was a poster inviting people to donate blood and the words ‘Death to Americans’ were scrawled in black paint. The windows of a house level with the street; a woman speaking to a man holding a nylon bag.

  On the final day of the war, he sat in the living room, looking into the corner. The house was completely dark because the power had been cut off. He drew the curtains to bring some light into the room. Fawzeya entered. She seemed disturbed and the words came rushing from her lips. She told him how the army had disappeared entirely from the streets and how people were looting government offices. He was appalled. He knew that the mob would rise once again and realized that they would overtake the whole country. His heart thudded so violently that he felt out of breath.

  He went back to his scores and started to arrange them. He tried to write something but couldn’t. He suddenly realized that Fawzeya had gone out; she wouldn’t be able to resist the attractions outside. He ran after her, panting with exhaustion and in agitation. Trucks carrying looted property passed by him. It was strange to see people stealing their own belongings. Every institution was being looted. The looters even took away the bricks. Kamal moved among them and nearly bumped into someone carrying a chair, another holding a sack of flour, and a woman running with a refrigerator on her back. Among the crowd he found Fawzeya. She was carrying two bamboo chairs and running away. He gripped her hand and commanded her to get rid of the chairs and follow him. She did so, scowling in annoyance. At home, she protested vehemently, saying it was a free bonanza. Everybody took what they wanted, so why should he stop her? Where was the harm in it?

  It was difficult for him to convince her. So he said nothing and returned to his violin.

  During the subsequent days all the secrets were revealed. He glimpsed a white man and the flash of a black weapon shining before it fell. He saw another statue incline to the right and topple after being pulled from its base. He saw a woman soldier on top of an armoured car aim her rifle and shoot. Men continued running towards a sleepy-looking black American soldier who stood knee-deep in the brown mud and talked, with a cigarette in one hand and a rifle in the other. The sounds reached him through the window before they became inaudible. The soldier’s lips moved continuously while, above the hard collar of his coat, his head appeared slightly larger than a fist. All along the wall, civilians stood near the military gear thrown on the ground. He pointed to the alley and they all dispersed, as fires blazed ferociously in the city. Near the pavement a Marines officer stopped and leaned against the fence. He looked solid in his military uniform. His hair was dusty and a rifle was slung from his neck. Near him lay an Iraqi soldier with a black hole in his temple.

  The woman soldier screamed at the people standing on the pavement to go inside. The voice was amplified through a loudspeaker. The sound of bullets rang from afar and the bombs fell on the buildings. Khaki military vehicles roamed the streets of Baghdad with their monstrous noise. Something inside him crumbled and he shuddered.

  He sat in his usual place, as he did every day, watching the transformations of the trees and the flowers. The lotus tree stood with its rough, moss-covered bark, its curved trunk and its branches extending beyond the garden fence. The ends of the longer branches sagged low under their weight. He turned up the music on the record player. He heard the distant and enthusiastic voice of a newscaster. The man was not discouraged by the scenes of death everywhere or by the prevailing fear, confusion or screams. He wasn’t worried by the horrific explosions, the raging trench warfare, the kidnappings or the medieval-style slaughter. Human beings were being butchered while others had their limbs and guts scattered all over the place. And after the tens of thousands had been killed, silence descended, complete and disturbing. Nothing remained except the cold stare at the sight of violence on the screen, ambulances carrying corpses covered with congealed blood and the gathering up of limbs in tattered, dirty blankets to be dumped in pickup trucks.

  Clothing was neglected; conversation was snatched; talk was small and brief. Words came out badly and failed: the repetition of wretched, superficial thoughts. Statements of generalities that had no meaning, intended to convey nothing.

  The return of the sons

  The most important chapter of Kamal’s life in those days was the return of his three sons at the same time after the US invasion. Meir came back with the US forces, bearing ideas of democracy and change; Hussein returned from Tehran with the Islamic Shia movement, feeling happy to be back after a forced exile; Omar came from Egypt, bearing measureless anger and spite at the Sunni’s loss of power.

  Hussein arrived at his father’s house with the help of the address given to him by Kakeh Hameh. He went into the hall and stood in front of his father, who was taken by complete surprise. His son’s black hair was parted on the side and a lock of hair fell onto his forehead. He had a thick, black beard and wore black-rimmed glasses, a wide jacket, loose trousers and a white shirt without a tie, which he buttoned at the collar: the typical look of one from the metropolis of contemporary Shia culture.

  Quiet and reserved, he sat on the chair, his voice faint and his smile tepid. He was an alternative image of the seventies’ communist, who’d vanished completely from Iraqi culture. He spoke quietly about his life, marriage and arrival in Iraq. He wasn’t just narrating his personal story, he was trying to create an identity out of his own tragedy, an identity that found its true significance in tragedy.

  Kamal Medhat encountered the same attitude in Omar. Coming from Egypt, Omar wanted to embody the old, nationalist intellectual, with his thick moustache that drooped to hide his mouth, his back-combed black hair, his plump cheeks and his harsh gaze. He represented the Arab image of tyrannical, patriotic masculinity. Now, however, it was mixed with the image of the Sunni man who wished to write the history of his identity by recalling the tragedy of the Sunni’s ousting from power.

  Hussein sat quietly talking history to his father. He believed that Shiite philosophy was a philosophy of history: historical determinism. This was because prophetic revelation had come to an end with the Seal of the Prophets. But history had yet to be sealed. He told his father that the Prophet’s role was to communicate God’s revealed Word and to establish the ummah, community of Muslim believers. But the task came to an end with the end of prophecy.

  The devout language, the beard and the black glasses concealed the son from the father. The son talked of a religion that ruled and a religion for the ruled. He was convinced that Western civilization was like sunstroke for Muslims. Western culture meant forgetting existence altogether, while the return to Islam was a return to consciousness and existence. Islam was the amalgam of past and present, which would help establish a just society in future. The awaited, promised Imam was the saviour and the reformer. He was both the aim and the result. We had to achieve the revolution, he argued, in order to over
turn the society of Cain.

  As Hussein spoke, he evoked in his father’s mind Amjad Mustafa’s old patriotic convictions, now reclothed in religious garb. The country was always faced with a dialectic that led it to the precipice, for the contradictions of reality were very different from the acrobatics of ideology. The son expressed the ideas of Mohammad al-Sadr and Ali Shariati, while the father sat gaping, too stunned to say anything. He felt the same about his son Omar, who wished to construct a new identity from the contradictions of his brother’s. Meir also came to talk to his father of the democratic project that would connect the country with the West. The future would see Iraq turn into a Middle Eastern paradise, like Japan in Asia or Germany in Europe. It was a dream image, designed and fabricated at the best Western think-tanks.

  But the father, the tobacco keeper, Kamal Medhat, alone was the true representative of the outsider, the marginalized and the exile, opposing all forms of power and rejecting all ideologies. He was the true image of the tobacco keeper.

  Kamal Medhat remembered Pessoa’s poem. His three sons were also the three characters of the poem. Meir was born of the character of Yousef Sami Saleh, the keeper of flocks in Tobacco Shop; Hussein was the offspring of Haidar Salman, the protected man; Omar came from Kamal Medhat, the tobacco keeper. They were his three names and his three cases of impersonation. Each of their faces corresponded to one of his assumed identities. He realized that each one of them was a faithful reflection of his own ego. Through their characters he discovered the essential answer to the problem of identity. Each one of them was a facet of his personality, a single entity that was split and multiple at the same time. They were a three-dimensional Cubist painting of a single face.

  Meir was Alberto Caeiro, the first character of Pessoa’s Tobacco Shop; Hussein was Ricardo Reis; Omar was Álvaro de Campos. Meir’s role was the keeper of flocks, who made himself master of Ricardo Reis (Hussein), the weak and sickly creature. As for Álvaro de Campos, he was Omar, who left for the east (Egypt in this case) and returned laden with great hope, but torn between his sense of greatness and his utter emptiness. Hence his absurdity and lack of balance.