When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  Somebody is fumbling with the lock. Either mother or father is back. I wipe my window designs away. The street is dark. The sound of high heels heads to the bathroom. She puts on the lights. I am hungry at last. With only the three of us, supper will be incomplete, like a table with a missing leg.

  Yom Kippur

  Hungry?

  The question pounces on me as if it has been perching on my bed-post all night, waiting for me to wake up.

  I feel a slight pressure under the navel. A flash of heat around my belly. A draught of air. But nowhere hunger. My lips part, my tongue creeps out and sweeps them wet. Like every morning, and no matter what flavour might have been left by my dreams, a foul aftertaste of sleep lingers in my mouth. I open my eyes. Nine-thirty. Last time I looked at the watch, it was seven. The front door was closing, father was obviously on his way to the synagogue. I have shortened Yom Kippur by two and a half hours.

  I leave bed, slowly get dressed. Had I drunk another glass of water yesterday afternoon at the pre-fast meal, my mouth wouldn’t have been that dry now. Are we allowed to wash, our faces at least? Certainly not, mother would say. Father, on the other hand, does not hesitate to shave or even brush his teeth on Yom Kippur. But I don’t think I would go that far, for what if I swallowed, just by accident, some drops of water while rinsing my mouth?

  The doorbell rings.

  —It’s Dudi, mother cries. Can he come upstairs?

  —No, let him stay exactly where he is. I’ll be down in a minute.

  Quickly I sprinkle my face with water and run down to the sitting-room.

  Curry is meowing in the yard.

  —Your cat’s starving, Dudi says.

  —Curry’s always hungry. He had a huge meal yesterday evening though. Tell me, do you believe what they say, that the wishes of your first fast are likely to come true?

  —Much the same as the first falling star you see, or the first wish-bone you break. So, you’ve joined the hunger strike too, congratulations.

  I do not reply. I am not up to an exchange with Dudi today.

  —What’s the matter with everybody this year? Even our little one is determined to fast till noon.

  —Good for her.

  —Nonsense, fasting’s making people uptight and sullen, anything but forgiving. This morning, I felt like fried aubergine, and instead of asking Mama or one of the girls, I did it on my own, out of consideration mind you. You should have seen how they paid me back. They freaked out because I forgot to close the kitchen door, and the smell wafted into their bedrooms. One by one, they made an appearance in the dining-room to tell me how selfish and tactless and mean I was.

  —Fried aubergine… this morning? You aren’t fasting?

  —I happen to have a delicate constitution. I just can’t go without food for long.

  —Dudi, You’re thirteen, everyone starts at thirteen, everyone can make it! Unless of course you’re sick or something.

  The net door bangs. Curry pules. He pierces the net with the nails of his forepaws, retreats on his hindquarters, and draws the door open. As he retracts his nails from the net, the door slams, rebounds and slams again.

  —But he’s not thirteen! And his squealing is heart-breaking. Let me give him some milk myself if you can’t bear the sight of food, all right?

  And without waiting for my reply Dudi springs to his feet with the energy of a well-fed boy and fetches Curry’s bowl from the yard. Curry begins sounding his loudest. Dudi heads to our fridge.

  —What a gorgeous dinner is waiting for you here, chicken pilau, good God, I can’t resist the smell of allspice. The only thing I envy you fasters is the appetite you’re building up for the evening. Hey, that’s a toffee box I’ve never seen before. May I …? Thanks. Mmm, it’s a mixture of… Sorry, I’ll keep my mouth shut. Come on, I said I was sorry. So I have hungry eyes, so what? Heavens, everyone’s on edge today!

  Dudi carries the bowl outside, sucking and chomping. Curry circles between his legs, his head upturned, meowing.

  —There you are, Curry boy, I’ve brought you some milk so you won’t say that the wicked Jews are starving you. Hey, I almost tripped over you, will you step aside and let me put the bowl on the ground?

  While the toffee is shifting from one side of his mouth to the other, showing no signs of melting away, Dudi asks me to lend him some comics for the long boring day.

  —Selma’s picking me up around noon. We’re going to the synagogue. Want to come along?

  Dudi slurps his saliva.

  —What for? Everybody will lay into me with inquiries about Baba, and within five minutes they’ll have killed my day. Apart from that, it’s the animal world which fascinates me at the moment, not the spiritual.

  He pauses, as if expecting to be overwhelmed with questions. I remain silent, refusing to grant him the feeling of importance he is begging. Not today. Not while I am fasting and he is not. Dudi does not wait long before he goes on,

  —I’m preoccupied with two questions, day and night.

  —Two?

  —Suppose, just suppose dogs stopped barking and started speaking … they’d mainly discuss smells, right? Now, imagine all the words they’d come up with to describe smells without referring to whatever gives them off.

  —I don’t get you.

  —All right, let’s take it step by step. For example, we humans speak of white, red and green, without the need to say the colour of milk, the colour of blood, the colour of grass, do you follow? Good. Now if Lassie could handle smell the way we deal with colour, he wouldn’t have to go into concrete details like … the smell of the drumstick of a young turkey, cooked in curry and mace, or … the smell of the first morning pee of a sixty-year-old who has stones in his kidneys. Two, perhaps three, attributes from the vocabulary of a dog would cover the range of these smells and specify their combinations …

  He crunches on the toffee, then adds,

  —Only we wouldn’t understand them, I’m afraid, because we lack their equivalent in our language.

  Dudi’s ideas often remind me of suq al-haraj, the flea market in the old city, where most of the goods can be discarded as junk. And yet, in one case out of a thousand, you come across a real find.

  —Did you read this stuff or did you pick it up somewhere? I ask just to annoy him.

  —No, by the life of Baba! Why? What’d you mean? You think I’m incapable of such ideas?

  —Sure, sure, go on. And the second one?

  Dudi hesitates,

  —Well … it concerns Lassie too. I keep wondering what my dog thinks about while he’s masturbating. Ha, ha, ha … I’m off now. You’ll get back your magazines as soon as the feasts are over, I promise.

  He shambles through our yard, chuckling at his own nonsense, and chased by a yowling Curry. As he slams the gate behind him, I let out a cry. The red tail has escaped getting caught in the door by a whisker. No sooner have meows and laughter subsided than listlessness descends upon me. The foul taste in my mouth spreads under my skin, exudes its smell through my pores. My bones feel rusty. I would have willingly skipped the synagogue this year and crawled back to bed, if not for mother.

  The idea of spending the day alone in her company, listening to her lamentation, is unbearable.

  Curses on me if I find sleep in my bed when my son must lie on the floor! Ashes on me if I breathe fresh air when he’s denied a window. Do I have the heart to take a stroll while his moves are restricted, watch television while he is staring at four blank walls, chat with friends while he is all by himself?

  And so on and so forth.

  Any attempt to lift mother’s spirits is met with hostility, as if it is something precious she is being asked to renounce. He’s my son too but you’re overdoing it, father once said, unable to contain himself any longer. You can’t fathom a mother’s heart, she coldly retorted and refused to speak to him for two days. Since then, the anatomy of my mother’s heart intrigues me. At times, it thunders like a combative knight, at other times
it whimpers like a convict serving a life sentence.

  I suspect father to be, in his heart of hearts, jealous of the devotion and concern which mother bestows upon her son. But unlike me, father is sensible enough not to slip into comparisons and competitions which he is anyway bound to lose. His presence at home exacerbates Shuli’s absence. And no matter what I say and do or refrain from saying and doing, Shuli will, from the distance of his cell, always win.

  A taxi honks. I plant a kiss on mother’s cheek and run off.

  I’m not hungry, Selma says with a note of pride as she moves up to the middle of the back seat to make space for me. Next to her, Selma’s mother greets me cheerfully behind her sunglasses. Her dress is new, her white shoes are shining, her cheeks evenly powdered. I wonder whether mother would have been upset by the festivity of her attire.

  —Isn’t your Mama coming?

  —No, she’s not feeling well.

  Selma’s mother asks the driver to pull away.

  A textbook is lying on Selma’s lap. The Living Organism. Has she brought homework! No, she has borrowed the book from Ferial, our new biology teacher, and forgottten to return it. Selma expects to see her at the synagogue. Selma’s breath tells me that she has not brushed her teeth this morning. I wind down the window, allowing in a gust of hot air. Although it is mid-October, autumn still looks far off and rainfall as real as science fiction. The taxi soon pulls up at the door of the Alwiyah synagogue. We get out. Selma’s mother thanks the driver and bids him farewell.

  —We paid him yesterday, Selma points out.

  —Why?

  —’Cause Jews aren’t supposed to drive or to spend money on Yom Kippur, remember?

  I smile to see our car parked at the end of the street. Unconcerned with our laws, father does not even take the trouble to play tricks or haggle with them.

  He has picked a seat at the edge of the men’s section. He looks out of place with his straw hat and green eyes, and with no prayer book in his hand. Remote too, immersed in his own thoughts. I cross the courtyard, where the service is being held, to the men’s section. Father’s face lights up. I fling my arms around his neck. His hug almost smothers me, as if he were squeezing a daughter and a son at the same time. I refrain from detaching myself too soon, lest I hurt his feelings.

  —How are you taking it? he asks after he has let go of me.

  —So far so good, apart from a parched throat.

  —Don’t run around too much, daughter, it’s quite hot and you’re constantly losing fluid, even though you won’t feel it right away.

  I nod to spare myself further advice. Our headmaster, unshaved, wearing a skullcap, suddenly comes over and sits beside father. Even in the house of God and in my father’s presence, I am intimidated by this skinny man. Even when he is only inquiring after Shuli. Allah kerim, God is compassionate, father replies, insinuating that there is no news. In contrast to mother, father expresses his grief through silence, which is often misleading, as people take it for an eagerness to listen. The headmaster shakes his head in sorrow, and pours out the story of his brother-in-law’s arrest, two weeks ago.

  I sneak to the garden and join Selma, chatting with a girl two classes above us.

  —She’s not here.

  —Who?

  —Ferial, who else! They’re saying she usually attends the Shemtob Synagogue. It’s on the edge of Bettawin, half an hour’s walk away. I’ve got to see her. I had promised she’d get her book back before Yom Kippur. Will you come with me? Please? It’s boring here anyway, none of our friends are hanging around.

  We set off along side-streets empty of pedestrians as if the sun has imposed a curfew. Iron kiosk shutters have been rolled down for the midday break, tantalising us with bright billboards of Seven-Up, Sinalco, Canada Dry and other refreshments.

  —What wouldn’t I give for a cold glass of sherbet, Selma says.

  —Orange or mulberry?

  —Pomegranate, with crushed ice as plentiful as the kernels.

  We seek shade but all the streets provide is the shadow of electric poles. So we stretch out our arms to the sides and balance along the dark line, pretending to be acrobats walking on a wire. A tall and fleshy blonde woman stomps out from a side-street, and marches towards us. In spite of the yellow umbrella she is holding above her, her skin is flushed from the sun. In harsh broken English, she asks for the way to the Goethe Institute. Selma and I vie with each other in guiding her, only to falter in turn, as Selma is familiar with the route whereas the foreign words belong to me. The woman grumbles that it is time we issued a street map for our city or at least took the trouble to name our side-streets. Selma’s stomach suddenly rumbles. The two of us burst into hysterical laughter. Looking insulted, the woman grumbles some incomprehensible words and marches off in her original direction.

  In no less than an hour, we reach the Shemtob Synagogue. After a glimpse into the backyard where only small children are romping, we climb up to the women’s gallery. Dressed up ladies, young and old, are sitting in two, sometimes three interrupted rows and are following the service, or just chatting. No trace of Ferial. While Selma works her way through the seats I lean over the balustrade, air my head under the ceiling fan and observe the hall below, the large arched windows, the fans and chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling. The bimah, the reader’s platform, rises in the middle of the hall, surrounded by an iron balustrade bearing designs identical to that of the gallery. The men are sitting on wooden benches dispersed about the hall. How different is this synagogue from the Alwiyah one, which is a mere courtyard provided with portable chairs arranged in two sections around the reader’s portable lectern. A synagogue out of a suitcase. I recognise a few boys from school, yawning into their prayer books and staring around, waiting for the opportunity to steal away. My eyes search the Ark, and find an old wooden cupboard carved with Hebrew verses, standing against a wall to the far left of the platform. Inside it the Torah Scrolls, the holiest objects in the synagogue, are housed.

  And how did they display the Muallaquat, I wonder, suddenly reminded of our Arabic lesson from last week. It is a collection of seven distinguished Arabic odes – each considered to be its author’s best piece, and representing the finest of pre-Islamic poetry. A legend maintains that in the Jahiliyah, the Age of Ignorance, as the pre-Islamic era is called in Arabic, the Seven Odes used to be hung on the pagan shrine of Mecca.

  The idea of worshipping poetry instead of law fascinates me.

  But I still cannot imagine how the desert Arabs actually hung their verses. Definitely not in the trivial way we dangle nylon stockings on a washing-line, as Selma suggested. Where is Selma? I fail to discern her red head amid dozens of white, brown, and black perms. The made-up faces reveal no signs of hunger, thirst, or any physical deprivation whatsoever. Can they all, nevertheless, be fasting? Two elderly women by the aisle are beckoning to me.

  —Come here, child, aren’t you the daughter of what’s his name? We’ve heard that your khal, got engaged lately, over there. Congratulations, my girl, may your day turn up soon.

  I shake my head. You’ve made a mistake, I am about to explain, I’ve got no khal, no maternal uncle, neither here, nor over there, nor anywhere. But the woman breaks in,

  —What do you know, young lady, time goes by much faster than you can tell and it waits for no emir nor wezir. I’m related to the bride you see, a good catch, take my word for it, renowned family, and wealthy too. Between us, Hanina, they should have married her off long ago. She was nearly thirty. But if you ask me, her father was the one to blame! He had a soft spot for this daughter, and you know what happens once you give in to their whims. The poor matchmaker exhausted her list, but there was no suitor to the khatoun’s liking. This one had a high-pitched voice, that one had no sense of humour, the third had an old bat for a mother, and the fourth was a chainsmoker. Hell she gave them, until she had no suitor left to find fault with. Anyway, all’s well that ends well, thank God.

  Assuming tha
t my interrogation is over, I take a step backwards, intending to tiptoe away and once at a safe distance, politely bid farewell. But the other woman, Hanina, grabs my arm, as if she had a claim on me.

  —Aren’t you the sister of Shuli, the one who drew the Star? Poor boy, may God look after him, may he be among you on Succot, inshallah.

  And she throws up her two hands.

  —But, to be frank, girl, wasn’t your brother looking for trouble? I mean, why did he have to cover the walls of the classroom with Stars of David? Who’s saying this? Do you remember where we heard it, Joza? Never mind, go on my child, you tell me what really happened.

  I relate the incident, as I have done dozens of times before, briefly and flatly, to prevent further prying while I scan the gallery for Selma, or anyone who could serve as my pretext to break away.

  —Now isn’t that a different story altogether, Joza? Goodness, the rubbish people make up. Hopefully he hasn’t been beaten up or something? Thank God. Forgive me child, but I always weep when I’m depressed, I can’t help it. Such a young man in the prime of his life, may God pay them back for all the sufferings they’re inflicting on us. Plague on them. All the ten plagues of Egypt in one day, amen.

  Not today, Joza whispers. Such thoughts are strictly forbidden on Yom Kippur. Yom Kippur is a day of forgiveness.

  Hanina draws a handkerchief from her handbag and wipes away her tears. After she has studied the two dark dots on the white mousseline, she flaunts them as evidence of her agony. Joza reaches for her own handbag, pulls out a mirror and applies another layer of orange lipstick over her dry lips, their sole nourishment for the day.

  —A brilliant boy, they say, Joza resumes. I heard your brother was to have been admitted to the best university in America, and that his mind was set on crossing Shat al-Arab last year. Only your father objected and… what? You’ve got an appointment! And only now you remembered? What a pity, it was nice chatting with you, but go if you have to, child, we won’t keep you back. Are you fasting by the way? Good for you then, may you be sealed with happiness.