I head for another exit. Hissa stretches out her little finger and whispers, “Uncle, look up!” I look at the low-hanging moon, nearly full, allowing us to make out things in the dark.
“Yikes!” Ayub says. I follow Hissa’s finger; where it’s pointing has nothing to do with the moon, then. The fires cast trembling light on the dozens of corpse-catchers perched atop dark lampposts.
At the roundabout I ask Ayub, “Where to now?” I follow his directions to the Fifth Ring Road, driving my car with zero memory of this area. He calls Hawraa. No answer. Another fiery mountain blocks the exit, belching a thick, dark plume of smoke. And another like it blocks the way leading to Tunisia Street. Another’s flames can be seen from afar, decreasing our odds of reaching Al Fahaheel Road, opposite the Hadi Hospital. Jabriya is surrounded by mountains of fire that are closing in from every direction.
“Where now?” I ask Ayub.
“The bridge!”
I remember the bridge with its barricades and masked men. I hesitate.
“Do we have any other choice?” a resigned Ayub asks me. I stay silent. He guesses the reason for my hesitation.
“Don’t tell me it’s because you don’t want to go back to Surra!” he bellows. I keep driving toward the bridge.
“I went there this afternoon.” I see him do a double take. I haven’t gone anywhere near Surra for twenty-three years.
“You went to Surra?”
“I went to Fahd’s house to look for him.”
His eyebrows bunch up as if I reminded him of something he forgot. He grabs his phone and makes a call. He looks at me before drawing the phone away from his ear. His face blanches.
“Abdulkareem Abdulqader again,” he says. He makes another call and lets out a heavy sigh. “The phone’s off!” He looks at his watch. “It’s 9:10. Where on earth are they?”
THE THIRD MOUSE: EMBERS THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE
THE NOVEL
Chapter 7
I secluded myself even further when I first moved to Rawda. In a bubble of my own making: worrying my parents. When it was time to go to the mosque, I felt alone, not knowing the others there. The imam’s voice was unfamiliar, his words no longer understandable. The carpets smelled different from those of our old mosque. None of the mosque’s many columns recognized me when I leaned into one. Dad was taken aback by my observations during our return to the house.
“Are you coming here to pray or to smell the carpets and sit against the columns?” He didn’t wait for my answer. He went on to say that the God we used to pray to in Maryam Al Ghanem Mosque was the same God in Rawda Mosque; He was the same God everywhere. “You’re blowing things out of proportion. It’s not that different.”
I became familiar with the area as Abu Hayyan Al Tawhidi became more than the name of the street I lived on. Soon after my move, I got to know him more. I was making up for the loss of my old street. I kindled a new relationship. My days were spent in the Al Faiha public library searching for Al Tawhidi among the books. I wolfed down the pages. I had never read anything like it in my life. I halted at his confidence in his relationship with his God, as well as his trust in His pardon and absolution even in his final hours. At that age, because of my mother and Mama Hissa, fear was the primary determinant of my relationship with God. I wrote a story that evening as soon as I got back to my room, struck by what I had read in the library about Al Tawhidi when he responded to his companions about their warnings and reminders of being fearful when meeting God at the time of death: “As if I’m coming before a soldier or a police officer! When in fact, I’m coming before a forgiving God.” I had almost finished my story when I was overcome by trembling. Mumbling calls for forgiveness, I ripped up the papers and burned them on the sidewalk outside our house. My eyes followed the smoke billowing from my pages into the sky.
I raised my head, looking up. I considered the roiling smoke of my story as atonement for the sin of writing it; perhaps God would forgive me and perhaps the sky would actually stay where it was. I knew now that it wouldn’t fall as our old neighbor had kept asserting years before. But I used to believe that something would happen. I felt my heartbeat slow down at Mama Hissa’s voice in my head: “May He forgive you, my boy.” I didn’t regret burning my papers, for even Al Tawhidi himself burned his books before he died. I would say this to justify my actions every time I wrote a story and let it go up in flames. When I was in Surra, there was someone I wrote for, who liberated me from it, who understood what I meant. I would see the effect on her face; she was my inspiration when writing, helping me choose the words she’d understand. The writing I did in Rawda became a sanctuary, albeit disturbing. I would pour all my questions into it, crossing the boundaries set by Mama Hissa and my mother. I reread them; I shuddered, then turned them into ashes.
My relationship with Abu Hayyan became one of ebb and flow. I understood him, but then I didn’t, shouldering my religious upbringing and Arab cultural beliefs that prevented me from wandering too far and deep within my thoughts.
It’s odd that the only person who understands me died nearly one thousand years ago. I slow down and read his words about the stranger: the one who has no name to be mentioned, the one with no drawing to distinguish him, who has no writings to be published, who has no excuse to be excused, who has no sin to be pardoned, and who has no fault to conceal. The strangest of strangers is he who becomes a stranger in his own country. He who is most distant is the most alienated at home.
When Dhari saw my car, opposite Al Faiha public library, near Khal Hassan’s house, he joined me. I caught a whiff of his oud cologne before he whispered in my ear, “Assalamu alaikum.” He shared with me, still in hushed tones, my mother’s concern. “She’s worried about you.” Poring over the titles of the books on the table in front of me, he asked me what I was reading. I grabbed a book that was open to the page of the concise biography of my new street’s namesake. “No need to read anything,” he lovingly warned me. He patted my shoulder, saying that he understood me. “You’re lost.” I was afraid he’d rattle off one of his cookie-cutter religious sermons. But instead he looked at me and smiled, avoiding the look of disapproval on my face. “Haven’t you missed Surra?” The scent of fresh buckthorn came to me.
“I can’t go.”
“More like, you don’t want to go,” he corrected me. I nodded my head meekly. He shut the books on the table in front of me and said, “I’m just like you . . . since the day my dad disappeared, I’ve hated the place.” He gazed at my face as if he were reading what was within. “But you, you love it so much, you can’t bear to visit it as a guest.” He straightened up. His smile widened. “What if I bring Surra to you here in Rawda?”
9:16 p.m.
Present Day
On my right is Jabriya gas station. “The car needs—”
“Later!” Ayub cuts me off.
I gesture to the fuel gauge. “It’s empty!”
Hissa warns me about the masked men at the gas station on our right. Ayub yells, urging me to speed up toward the turn of the final street leading to the bridge. A police car behind us cuts through the darkness with its lights flashing red and blue. I slow down, running parallel to the sidewalk on the right. The police car speeds past and blocks our way at the upcoming turn. A young policeman gets out, his eyes peeking out from behind a mask. Hissa crouches down in the back seat. One of the policeman’s hands is on his holstered gun, while his other carries a flashlight. He approaches us, examining my wrecked car as his walkie-talkie crackles on his belt. I step out of the car, pulling my lame leg. I hand him my ID. He passes his flashlight between my face and the face on my ID. He bends down in front of the window, looking at Ayub, demanding his ID. Ayub hands it to him. He requests that the officer let us cross the bridge for the sake of . . . The officer cuts him off and explains that if he’s lenient with us for being out past curfew, the army’s bullets won’t be as lenient, and even if we were to escape those . . . He doesn’t finish, gesturing toward the bridge
. “They’ll butcher you!”
I turn to where he’s pointing. Two masked men, atop the bridge, holding a body, toss it in the Bayn River. Others shoot their guns in the air. I nod at the officer, understanding. I beg him to find a way for us to pass. I explain to him the meaning of the message we got from our family in Surra. “If we don’t cross . . . they’ll die!”
“If you do cross . . . then you will all die.” Perhaps my face expresses what I can’t verbalize. I choke on pleading words. He steps back, bringing his walkie-talkie to his mouth. He asks for a way through. The answer comes back to him garbled. A ring of fire surrounds Jabriya. The voice advises him to return to the police station. The officer raises his palms and shakes his head. He orders us to go back to where we came from; otherwise, we’ll be ambushed and killed. “The country is burning,” he says in a strangled voice. Neither the ambulance men nor the civil defense forces nor the volunteers are able to recover the thousands of bodies. Only the corpse-catcher is playing this role. I think back to the corpse in the building stairwell. Ayub gets out of the car, begging the police officer to do something.
“Nothing doing,” he says. He inspects Ayub’s ID and says that his name will guarantee him safe passage through the first barrier. But he’ll end up floating on the Bayn River if he gets to the second barricade. Ayub lets out a long sigh before turning around. He controls his voice, fearful of attracting the attention of the men on the bridge. He gnashes his teeth. With a mix of pleading and anger he asks the officer to do something, anything. The officer raises his head and combs the tops of the visible buildings. He reminds Ayub of what the sniper might do if we stay here for too long. Ayub throws his phone and wallet on the car seat. He turns his back to us, running toward the bridge.
I want to follow him. The officer grabs my arm. “Ayub!”
He turns to me, having already reached the opposite sidewalk leading to the bridge. He brings his finger to his lips. “Shhh!” He then steals away between the dry bushes. He ducks down into the shrubbery and disappears.
The officer pushes me toward my car. “Your pal’s nuts!”
Hissa presses her palms up against the glass window and yells, “Where’s Ayub, Uncle?” The masked officer notices her in the back seat. He flashes his light on her. His eyebrows jump. “Hissa?”
She nods her head from behind the glass, confirming her identity. “I told you not to leave the building at night!” he reprimands her in a low voice. Her shoulders touch her reddening ears. His voice grows soft, asking her, “Did you find your dad?” Sadness washes over her face. He looks at her, his brow furrowed. He leans closer to the window, staring at the young girl’s palm pressed up against the glass. He opens the door. Grabbing her hand, he looks at me bug-eyed, asking who we are. I look in the direction of Ayub’s disappearance and don’t answer. He shakes Hissa’s palm and shows me what’s on it. He repeats his question impatiently. I’m overcome by muteness. He shoves his finger at me.
“You are . . . ?” He hands me the IDs, Ayub’s and mine. He orders me to tailgate him so the snipers know we are with him. The caw of the corpse-catcher rises, terrifying like the warning sirens wailing in the distance. I stretch my hand toward the bridge, begging him to wait for my friend to come back. His eyes widen. “Your friend?”
He cautiously pushes me with his arm toward the opposite sidewalk. We stand among the bushes where Ayub vanished. I mask my face with my palms. He gestures with his arm toward the bottom of the bridge. I know that Ayub is the most driven of all of us. I know that he’s the most committed to what we do. But the idea of swimming across the Bayn River? Even if he somehow overlooked the rancid smell, what if he swallowed some of the water? I follow him with my eyes, tracking him as he reaches the middle of the river, swimming slowly. Dozens of expectant corpse-catchers land on the opposite bank. The light of the full moon and the burning barrels on the bridge reveal their contours. They stand like old hunchbacked women, swaying in their shabby black abayas. Singing a caw from their depths, infusing the atmosphere with even more horror. They leap over one another, approaching closer to where the water meets the dry land. As if they were awaiting a ship returning from afar. But the ship . . . but Ayub . . .
Where’s Ayub?
THE THIRD MOUSE: EMBERS THE INHERITANCE OF FIRE
THE NOVEL
Chapter 8
There, in the diwaniya of the Rawda house, Fahd, Dhari, Sadiq, and I were gathered. Sadiq introduced us to his cousin Ayub—a nice guy I used to see in passing on the special occasions when he’d visit his grandmother Zaynab. He quickly became part of the gang. Our ages ranged from twenty to twenty-two. My cousin really did what he said he would. He convened a spirit of togetherness that I didn’t imagine I would ever experience in any other place than Surra. It wasn’t completely like Surra, though. But he did what he could. It took me years to realize that his supporting me, in those days, was out of worry; it was also meant to motivate me to give up the books I was reading. He wasn’t able to convince me to give up smoking, which consumed my health, but he was able to distance me from the books that corrupted my mind. That’s what he said years later anyway. Abu Hayyan Al Tawhidi had completely disappeared, except for his name on the signboard at the head of our street. Just as my cousin had completely disappeared after Fahd introduced the oud to the diwaniya. He hid it from his father, who swore to God, “If that oud enters my house, I’ll break it over your head!” This had been the same man who had used his hairbrush as a microphone while singing along to Abdel Halim. But as Mama Hissa would say, “Only dead people stay the same.”
Sidestepping Fahd’s grumbling about his father, I asked him, “How’s Fawzia?”
“My aunt’s fine” is all he said. He didn’t go on to say, which would have frankly pleased me, She’s asking about you. While Sadiq turned his back to us, facing the PlayStation game on the TV, I reclined on my back, puffing my cigarette smoke toward the main ventilation shaft in the ceiling. The quietness of the diwaniya annoyed me. My father never should have replaced the old air conditioner. I missed its roar, its vibrations, and the dusty smell when you turned it on.
On the marble floor Fahd sat, hugging his oud, treating its pegs and tuning its strings. It surprised me that in just a few months he had been able to learn to play so successfully. He was able to become Abdulkareem for whoever wanted it, whereas I struggled to become Abdel Quddous for the one I so wanted to do that for. He started to read poetry; he who, except for schoolbooks, never cracked open a book. In one corner of the lounge, he left the oud and a poetry collection. He would search for eloquent words, befitting the colors, tastes, smells, and seasons in Abdulkareem’s voice, in case he ever met the man in person. He was absorbed in his favorite corner, searching through stanzas of poetry. “Ohhh!” he yelled in agitation, scattering the books in front of him. We turned to him to ask what had happened.
“These are more like newspaper bulletins than poetry,” he lamented. He started to list the themes of the poetry: Syria’s Golan Heights, the Sabra and Shatila massacre, the killing of the children in Balat Al Shuhada School in Iraq, the Lebanese Civil War, the Iran-Iraq War, the hijacking of the Jabriya plane, the café bombings, the American air strikes on Libya, and the plight of Palestinian children! In a newscaster voice he boomed, “That was the news bulletin, and now on to you folks for the details!” We were in stitches at his blotchy red face.
“And what about love? There’s no love?” Ayub asked.
“There is love . . . but who’s in the mood to read about love in the middle of a war?”
“All of these collections were published before the nineties,” Ayub observed.
Fahd picked up his oud and started singing a song, for which he chose a color. I never once asked him about Hawraa, content to follow their developments through his playing and singing in the diwaniya, like the night suweer who never wearied of singing, intent on getting an answer from its partner. The automated answering machine in his room responded, “Adorn yourself with pat
ience, and I’ll adorn myself . . . my heart for the sake of your eye has endured much . . . and be patient: perhaps one day it will be solved.” I never wished for anything in those days as much as I did for those two to have their hearts’ desires granted. Maybe one day it would be solved. But one day in 2000, at an hour that Saleh at first considered blessed, the time when his son let him know he wanted to get married, he responded with a “Damn you!” He cursed the hour that his son decided to get married, his desire knotted to his neighbor’s daughter’s name.
When his wife told him about their daughter’s wishes, Abbas said he’d rather marry his daughter to a dog than to Saleh’s boy. I—and I alone—was tormented by what reached me from Saleh’s and Abbas’s words. I could no longer respect such men. Fahd and Hawraa’s shared catchphrase—“If only they weren’t freed by the Iraqis!”—wounded me deeply. What pained me even more was my response to that phrase: “If only.” What if they’d never returned, and their children kept on singing, “Where did my daddy go? To Basra he’s gone!” Although I’d witnessed the neighborly clashes of Abbas and Saleh, it was difficult for me to listen to their words. Words that in the years to come would become more commonplace: words broadcast by radios, televisions, Internet sites, and written with spray paint on the sides of houses, burdening Fuada’s Kids and their followers with what was beyond their capacity to conceal, after failing to treat it outright. So much hatred was revealed to us in those days. I wished they were just two school kids, Saleh and Abbas, standing in front of my mother in their school uniforms, and that she could silence them forever by smacking them across their lips. My wish seemed a laughable one because it grew to encompass many who appeared in the following years, with no one capable of silencing them. One of them would die striving to silence the other and confiscate the key to heaven, even though “The key is with the blacksmith, and the blacksmith wants money, and the money’s with the bride, and the bride wants kids, and the kids want milk, and the milk is with the cow, and the cow wants grass, and the grass wants rain, and rain comes from . . . God!”
Mama Hissa's Mice Page 26
