by Mona Yahia
—I had a hunch that this time he really meant it. And silly me was dreaming already. I saw Abu Dudi out, I saw us celebrating the Bar Mitzvah of our son at last. Woe is me. I suppose the Minister himself is sitting in jail now!
I notice a pimple above her upper lip and wonder if Dudi’s mother is having her period too.
No matter how obscure the situation is, it requires patience. More patience. Any attempt to contact party members is premature. It might bring about more harm than good. Like the rest of the country, we have no option but to wait and see.
Selma and her father wait a week then resume their swimming schedule, regardless of whether it is the Nationalists or the Ba’aths who occupy the Presidential Palace. In spite of my nagging and begging, father does not allow me to go with them. Not yet, not under the present circumstances. Not before he is positive that the street and the river and the wind and the fish are absolutely safe for his daughter.
Paper patterns, pieces of red and white cloth, shears, pins, needles, and reels of thread are sprawled all over the living-room. Mother hands me the summer dress she has just stitched to try on. Since father is reading the newspaper in the living-room, I go and change in the guest-room. A needle scratches my chest then my side as the sleeveless dress slides down my body. I let out a cry of pain, loud enough for mother to hear. The uneven frayed hemline reaches the middle of my shins. Now it is my belly which is tingling. Cautiously I pull out the forgotten dangling needle, and sulk back to the living-room. It’s not the first time! I grumble, displaying the needle before casting it into its box. Mother beckons me to check over her handiwork. Reluctantly, I obey. With a bold sense of ownership, she straightens the shoulders, rights the collar, strokes the bodice, goes over the seams of the bosom. Pulling the skirt down, she asks me to turn.
—Fine! The back too! These Burda patterns always fit you! Now go upstairs and have a look in the mirror before I sew it with the machine.
I move my legs apart to test the width of the skirt.
—It’s too narrow! I’ll never be able to climb stairs in it. Definitely not two at a time. Anyway, I prefer shirts and skirts, like Selma. They’re more like sportswear, and there’s always the possibility of a new combination.
—Lina, you’re not the same build as Selma. You’re short and waistless. A skirt and a shirt cut you in the middle and make you look even shorter. In a dress, you look petite.
Petite? Does the French petite imply short and… delicate? Short and cute perhaps? Or just small, with no prospect of growing up? Nonsense, short is short, no matter in what language one is short. Short and stocky, although not plump. If not for my missing three inches, my protruding buttocks and my full breasts would have been in perfect proportion to my height. But at fourteen, my body still refuses to grow, as if it has left childhood but is heading nowhere.
And I who thought that after childhood came America.
—What about the length?
—I haven’t fixed it yet. Come here!
She sticks a few pins between her teeth, kneels down, folds up the fabric, and fastens the hemline above the knees. Then she walks back a few steps, tells me to turn round.
—You should really go to the mirror. You look so elegant, a young lady for once.
—And where am I supposed to display my elegance? We hardly ever go out! I need something cool and comfortable, for every day.
—It’s chiffon, touch it! You don’t get such fine fabric nowadays. English made. Cost two dinars, and that was years ago.
I scratch my shoulder blade.
—It’s itchy!
—Lina, the fabric’s so thin, you’ll have to wear a slip underneath. It surely won’t itch then.
—But then it’ll be too hot. I’m already burning inside it.
—Daughter, it’s not morning wear. It’s for the evening, for the garden, when the air’s cooler. Look what an unusual red it is. And these white flowers, aren’t they gorgeous?
—I hate flowery designs.
—Heavens, you’re prising my soul out of me! Here I am sweating and slaving to make you happy, and what do I get in return?
—Mama, did I ask for an elegant dress?
—This time it’s elegant, last time it was old-fashioned, you’re always finding fault with the clothes I make you … instead of learning to sew yourself! Girls your age make their own wardrobes by now.
—Girls my age are wearing mini-skirts this summer! You should raise the hemline, if you want me to wear this dress. Two inches at least. Otherwise, chiffon or no chiffon, it’ll hang untouched in the wardrobe. I swear!
—I’m fed up. You should settle this matter with your father!
Father’s newspaper rustles.
—I told you we should have slaughtered and eaten them at birth.
—For God’s sake, will you be serious for a moment?
Father puts down his newspaper.
—What’s wrong? What are you two arguing about this time? The dress? It looks cute to me!
Mother rolls her eyes.
—Cute! What has cute to do with it? It’s dressy, don’t you see? Can’t you tell the difference!
—Baba, it’s too long. You should see what other girls are wearing. Up to here! Believe me.
I point to the middle of my thigh.
—I believe you. Girls are prepared to walk naked in the street if you tell them it’s in fashion.
—One or two inches shorter won’t make me naked! Honestly, you’re exaggerating. Even the Moslem girls are wearing mini skirts, Nawal, Rehab, Ilham, Iqbal, all our neighbours. Their hemlines are one hand above the knees, and nobody thinks it’s wrong or indecent. It’s just the new fashion.
—Hey, isn’t that Selma coming? mother says.
—What a Godsend. See how long her legs are and how short her skirt is!
Selma storms in, her hair wet, her eyes red, her lips white. Without greeting us, without introduction, she blurts out that she has witnessed army officers arresting Hai at the river bank this morning.
—He was fixing his fishing net. Baba and I stopped to chat with him for a while. He said he missed us kids, and what a pity it was that our parents were still reluctant to send us swimming. I told him about my determination to learn to drive and he whistled in wonder. Then Mrad Aboudi showed up, carrying a clumsy fishing-rod. That’s right, the same Mrad who’s three classes above us. He came with his bike but sleep was still in his eyes. We said goodbye and went to our boat. I asked Baba to let me do the rowing. He didn’t object. He sat opposite me and told me how to row. I rowed in a straight line from the start, away from the Rusafa shore. Baba said I’ve grown stronger than him. We were in the middle of the river when Hai was approached by three men in army uniform. Officers I suppose, because of their caps. Two of them seemed to be interrogating him. The third was looking inside the boat, turning over this and that, as if searching it. The next moment, he was striking it with an axe – or with some similar tool. Hai tried to stop him but he was held back firmly by the two others. Then that son of a dog, that officer, may God take his life, got off the boat and fell on Hai, punching and kicking him.
—Beat up Hai? It’s not true!
—What about the youngster? father asks.
—Mrad just stood and watched.
—Poor boy, to be trapped like that! He must have been shocked! mother says.
—It was obvious that they’d come for Hai. Mrad had the bad luck to be there at the wrong moment. They probably didn’t even know who he was or what he was. They were busy pummelling Hai, may their names and memories be wiped out. Mrad couldn’t have done anything for him anyway. He had a bicycle. I would definitely have cleared off.
Selma takes breath then slowly continues,
—But what do I know? We were some way off. I couldn’t make out every detail, that’s what Baba says. Perhaps they were armed. Perhaps they did ask Mrad’s identity in the first place.
—Your father’s absolutely right. You wouldn’t be able to j
udge unless you had seen the whole episode, father says.
—Mrad kept glancing in our direction, as if wishing to cry out for help. But he didn’t utter a sound. And neither did I. Although my heart was pounding, I just went on rowing – to make sure Baba stayed out of it. But my eyes kept returning to the shore, to see Hai’s wrecked boat sinking, and the officers hustling Hai and Mrad away.
But Mrad is only seventeen, a boy, three years older than us!
Two classrooms have always stood between us – worlds, in terms of elementary school. We spent our breaks in different playgrounds, we were invited to different birthday and Purim parties. Two years ago, by chance Mrad and I were both at a ping-pong table in the Centre. He grimaced at the bat in my hand. I was a girl, he grumbled, and on top of it much younger than himself! – it would be neither fun nor fair to beat me. But he did not mind us playing until his partner showed up. He was a calm cunning player. When his friend arrived, Mrad dismissed me, but said we should meet again in a couple of years and have a real match together.
—Imagine, if they had come twenty minutes earlier, they would have picked up Baba too, Selma says.
—True, mother agrees, Allah setar, God saved him!
—Come to think of it, I was close to getting arrested myself! Selma adds, with a touch of self-importance.
When her statement is not confirmed, she goes on,
—Anyway, only after we’d reached home did I tell Baba what I had seen. He was extremely upset. We skipped breakfast and drove to Mrad’s family, then to Hai’s sister. I had to repeat the story all over again, twice.
—I wonder if they haven’t been taken to the Rashid Camp, like Shuli, mother says.
When Mrad’s father and Hai’s brother-in-law appeal to the army spokesman, he will deny any involvement in the episode. Furthermore, Hai and Mrad will be found neither in Baghdad’s central prison, nor at police, or security headquarters. Some people will say they are being kept at intelligence headquarters. Others will claim they are being held in special prison cells near the Presidential Palace, where they are being put to all kinds of torture.
We will be torn between news and rumours during the months to come, as if the two were playing tug-of-war with our nerves. More Jewish men will be arrested in Baghdad and in Basra. Young and old, wealthy, prominent, and poor – the choice of the victims will seem erratic. They will be picked up from their homes, or from work – those who still have it. Some will disappear from the street at any hour of the day or night, as the spirit takes the security men. None of them will be traceable in any of the known prisons. Why are their whereabouts kept secret? Why are their families denied contact with them and treated like dirt, as though they were but the refuse of the revolution? Our hacham attempts to meet influential Party members, but nobody is willing to receive him. A rumour circulates that the son of the hacham has himself been flung into jail.
*
Mother draws up at our gate. She and Zeki are back at last from the Rashid Camp. Like Dudi’s father, and like all the Jews arrested before the Ba’ath’s seizure of power, Shuli continues to be granted a monthly visit – as if the regulations of the overthrown regime are still applicable to him. Every month, mother implores father to stay at home, for fear of his safety. Three times out of four, father concedes, but on condition that she does not set foot alone in the army camp.
I turn off the tap and stop watering the garden.
Mother lingers in the car. Zeki lights a cigarette. He looks out of place in the passenger seat, especially with a woman at the wheel. Our net door slams. Father dashes out to meet them. Mother and Zeki exchange their last words. Why can’t they wait two minutes and share them with father? I catch a glimpse of her glance as it brushes Zeki’s forehead and slides down to his chin. Her features soften. Her eyes sparkle too urgently to stand for gratitude alone.
Father opens the door for her. Mother steps out of the car, smartly dressed, still particular about her appearance – even when she goes to prison. Father rests his hand on her shoulder, while Zeki, in his turn, slowly gets out. A stately man, I notice for the first time. His sleek black hair is untidy around the forehead and the temples. He arranges his tie, tucks his white shirt properly into his trousers, then feels his paunch, as if sizing it up.
They cross the courtyard, heading for the house. Father is walking in the middle, listening to mother’s account. His grave, deliberate tread has set the pace for the three of them. He looks grey and defeated. Curry has run to mother’s side and is meowing for his meal. Zeki is puffing at his cigarette, carrying himself in a leisurely manner, like a knight off duty. I observe his thinning hair, his black eyes, his full cheeks, his fleshy lips, his thick moustache, his broad shoulders, and wonder … if mother would go for him.
Would she go for a majnoun, a crazy one, as Zeki was dubbed in his youth?
It must have been an allusion to the famous modern play, Majnoun Laila, Crazy About Laila, by the Egyptian poet, Ahmed Shauqi – renowed as the Prince of Poets. The play takes up an ancient desert legend, the love of Qays and Laila, a love whose impossibility drove Qays to poetry, and madness.
It must have happened about twenty years ago when Dunia was in secondary school and Zeki was possessed by her beauty. He used to follow her to school and back home every day, they say. But he always kept to the opposite side of the street, to let the cattle and the pushcarts and the occasional cars pass between them and bear witness to her virtue. Nevertheless, he walked close enough to set tongues wagging, and when the gossip reached Dunia’s family, her brothers set on Zeki with their knives. They would have chopped him into pieces that day if he had not been rescued by a pack of stray dogs which happened to be nearby. Stirred up by the commotion, the dogs rushed to the scene and burst into the brawl, barking with excitement, and biting indiscriminately. After the event, Zeki stopped tailing Dunia and resorted to the composition of ghazal, love verses. He taught them to the street vendors, whose merchandise he used as a metaphor for his lovesickness. Early each morning, the woman who sold geymar, cream skimmed from buffalo’s milk, would compare her fresh snowy wares to the soft untouched skin of the beloved. Tekki a sham, black mulberry, tasted like the forbidden lips of the desired one. Semit rings, pretzels, were the engagement rings the wooer dreamed of sliding on to her fingers, while onions hid sad secrets as tearful as her heart. “Remedy for all the wooers, remedy for all the weepers,” sang the chickpea vendor on cold winter nights, offering hot lablabi. Dunia would wait by the window for the vendors to walk past and deliver Zeki’s love messages. And they sang them all day, in every lane and alley, and multiplied their profits by the hundreds. In no time, not only Dunia but the whole Waziryiah quarter was humming and carolling Zeki’s songs of food, love, and virtue.
Aljenoun fenoun, madness is art, as the saying goes.
Some claim the songs eventually found their way into the heart of Dunia’s father. Others attribute the happy end to the devices of his sister, a well-known fortune-teller. She was reading her brother’s finjan one day, the story goes, when she cried out in astonishment and started slapping her face and beating her chest as she showed him the outline of a head traced out in his coffee dregs. Even Dunia’s father recognised the profile of that majnoun, that crazy young man, with his football of a skull and potato chin. The rest of the finjan was virtually empty, except for an unevenly thick ring, resting at the base. Wasn’t it clear as daylight? All was written and predestined. What sense did it make to wage war against almighty qadar, fate?
Dunia’s father did not wage war against the decree. They say Zeki has remained his favourite son-in-law to this day. So why should the old man ever doubt whether that prophetic finjan had truly been his own or whether his late sister had played tricks on him?
I join them in the sitting-room. Zeki has slumped into father’s armchair and stretched out his legs. He is lighting a new cigarette, lost in thought. Is he thinking up a poem for mother? She is recounting the meeting with Shuli from beginning t
o end, dwelling on every detail concerning Shuli’s physical condition and morale until father’s anxiety is appeased. Then, as if suddenly reminded of Zeki’s presence, father turns to him and says,
—We owe you so much, Zeki! I’ll never be able to pay you back …
—Eib aleik Abu Shuli, shame on you! Aren’t we brothers and isn’t Shuli like a son to me?
Zeki expels smoke from his mouth and nose, and says quietly,
—What dark days we’re going through.
—Any news? father asks nonchalantly. I haven’t been through today’s papers yet.
—You can forget our papers. They’d rather discuss the students’ revolt in Paris or the Russian tanks in Prague, as if there were only rabid dogs and car crashes to report in Baghdad.
Father, who has long ago given up on a free press in this country, does not reply. Furthermore, he does not seem in the mood for a political discussion.
—They’re destroying whatever they lay hands on, may Allah destroy their homes! Did they have to renew the war with the Kurds after a two-year cease-fire? And this hideous wave of arrests?
Zeki raises his voice although nobody is arguing with him. Not only Jews, but prominent Moslems and Christians are being arrested too, he says. Industrialists to begin with, together with their factory managers. Similarly a number of army officers and former ministers have been thrown into prison. It is rumoured that some of these men have already perished, tortured to death.
—People would rather feed themselves on rumours than grope in the darkness of uncertainty, father comments.
Zeki flushes. I recognise the same sumac red which floods his face whenever a young man makes eyes at his daughters.
—They’re not only rumours, Abu Shuli. The general manager of the Zahra factory is an old friend of mine. He’s been picked up too. Now that’s a man who feared Allah and who cared only for his work and family. He wasn’t in the least involved in politics. They let him out some days ago, and I went over to see him. I was shattered by his state. Poor fellow. You can’t imagine what they’ve done to him in three weeks. He’s no longer the person he used to be. In fact, he’s no longer a person at all. For two hours, he couldn’t utter one meaningful sentence. Just babbled to himself, and fidgeted in his armchair as though seeking the least painful position in which to sit. When the telephone rang, he jumped in panic, and howled like a dog.
