by Mona Yahia
—You fear something might go wrong tonight?
—Not at all, by my life! It’s not that!
—What is it then? Tell me, please!
Stacking flowered napkins next to the holdall, she stammers,
—Well … it was … painful, to part from them this morning.
—Part! Who from?
—From Zeki and Dunia of course, what’s the matter with you!
—How should I know they were here this morning! How should I know you’re saying goodbye to the whole world while stupid me keeps her mouth shut, following your instructions to the letter.
—Don’t be silly, Lina. Zeki and Dunia are our best friends. We wanted them to have whatever they may need of our belongings before they get auctioned off by the government. Besides, with them, it’s … different. We might never get to see each other again. Don’t you understand?
Sometimes I think I understand too much. Other times I suspect I understand less than our tomcat. I scan my mother from head to foot, intent on tracing those feelings I swear she is harbouring. If only half of what magazine romances recount is true, then love, no matter how furtive, should show on her.
She is wiping knives, forks, spoons, selecting five of each.
—So you wept, or something of the sort? I test her, waiting for her to swallow, for her eyebrows to tense, for the unco-ordinated fingers, the unsteady knees…
One untypical ironical smile slips out.
—Well, Dunia’s eyes did water a bit, but I bet that’s due to her … state. Anyway, refined as she is, you can be sure she didn’t overdo it.
—True, she’s ladylike, I say, peeling my second tangerine, waiting for the right moment to shift the focus to Zeki.
—She’s pregnant, for your information!
Mother neither ranted nor yelled the information, only her voice quivered. Indisputably. She shot those shafts of rage too, with which she intimidates every vendor she suspects of rigging the weights.
—Good for them! Let’s hope it’s the son they’re longing for, I say, stabbing her in the heart.
Mother turns to hide her face. She is washing up the plates heaped in the sink.
—What for, Mama! Why leave it tidy?
She resumes quietly until she has rinsed the last plate. Then she opens the fridge, takes out our tomcat’s promised meal from the freezer.
—What kills me is that we’ll never get to know the baby … she finally lets out, then, stumbling over her lie, scurries out of the kitchen.
I follow her upstairs, intent on finding out the truth. It is now or never. Tomorrow, it will no longer matter to me. Tomorrow, mother’s passion, or friendship, or love, or jealousy will recede into the past, like grandfather, who will recede further still into the past perfect. Mother has locked herself in the toilet. I listen hard, expecting sobs or snivels, yet the only sound I make out is that of water gushing from the tap. I peep through the key-hole. She is on the toilet seat – tiny, pallid, like some miniature porcelain figurine, reaching for the sanitary towel package from the shelf.
I stomp to my room, grab Teddy-Pasha, hurl him into the waste paper. To hell with straw, with stone, with our entire past. I eat up the last segments of the tangerine, spitting the pips over Pasha, without removing from the floor those which miss.
They ring twice, shortly past midnight. Father leads the three visitors into the guest-room. Shuli rushes in with the paraffin stove. Father remains standing, not even trying to hide his perplexity. Nothing is wrong, the elderly woman reassures him. She has just given the smuggler last minute instructions to start the journey from our place. For the sake of precaution – father surely understands – for the Kurd’s vehicle stood in front of their house twice this week.
Father understands.
—She could have notified us, mother grumbles, pouring tea in the kitchen. My fridge is empty. I’ve no cake, not even biscuits to offer.
She hands me the tea tray, reminds me who to serve first. First the old lady, then the old man, then Wedad, the younger woman. She follows me, with plates filled with pistachios, peanuts, pumpkin seeds, hazel nuts. They protest vehemently. She is embarrassing them. They had no intention of troubling her. She objects with equal vehemence. It is our pleasure, our honour too, to receive them in our house. She only hopes they will forgive us the sparseness of our hospitality.
When the exchange of proprieties is over, Wedad’s mother groans,
—Curse on it! This rheumatism won’t relent before it cuts me to pieces. There’s no single day I’m allowed to forget my pain. Yet, alhamdellah, God is merciful. He does not close us in from all directions. Look how it worked out with you, in spite of our short notice! By my life, it was easier to find a smuggler than a decent family in whose hands I could entrust my daughter.
Father mumbles his thanks for the good words, meant for him. Wedad’s mother goes on talking, summing up her maladies, her offspring, her world views, her life. No, neither she nor her husband wish to emigrate. Too frail for such undertakings, too weary for new starts, they would rather spend their last years in their native land. Since no regime lasts long in Iraq, this government too will fall, sooner or later. Soon enough for them to see it, she hopes. Yet Wedad, the very last of their six, must go! She must find her own nesib, lot, elsewhere. No matter how it tears their hearts, they would not hold on to her, God is their witness.
—May God help you, nothing’s more precious than one’s own children, mother puts in. Blood never turns into water.
Father is tapping his thigh restlessly, like someone marking the seconds. He is uncomfortable with this talk verging on intimacy with people he hardly knows. Moreover, the smuggler is late. Thirty minutes only, yet punctuality is for him the measure of reliability. Mother sends me for one more round of tea. On my return, the talk has shifted from parental martyrdom to Kurdish fate.
—They’re brave, proud people, Wedad’s mother says. I pray for them whenever I pray for the Jews, because, just like us, they’re oppressed everywhere. Only they fight back, unlike us who turn tail like mice.
Mother manages to hide her yawn. Wedad’s father lights his pipe. Wedad’s mother raises her forefinger,
—And they’re not doing this for money alone. They too have sympathy for us Jews. Not only because of our common oppressor, but because we’ve set them an example: the State of Israel.
Wedad pulls out her watch for the third time. More than ten years older than Shuli, her shoulder-length frizzled hair hides the sides of her face. Her opaque grey eyes give no hint of her thoughts or feelings. Two incisive folds have settled on the sides of her mouth, yet her thin lips remain sealed, unwilling to talk or smile. Not even to her father, who is quietly puffing his pipe, without taking his gaze off her. If it were up to him, he would extend this hour until infinity.
Our preparations turn into reality the moment he rings, twenty minutes later. Shuli hurries to the gate, mother to the kitchen. Wedad’s mother squeezes her husband’s hand. Shuli returns with the middle-aged man, one hand’s-span taller than him. His stout figure, stately gait, turbaned head, thick well-trimmed moustache match my fantasy of the fearless Pesh Mergah, the Kurdish guerilla fighters. Father stands up to greet him. Wedad’s mother introduces kaka J. – kaka the Kurdish for mister. The newcomer shakes hands with the men. Once he has received his tea, father leads him, together with Wedad’s mother, to the living-room.
Wedad’s father sits up, suddenly talkative,
—He wanted to charge us 300 dinars a head, but my wife brought him down to 215, and she’s determined to hand him not more than half the amount tonight. She’ll have it her way, you’ll see! He’ll receive the rest only when he’s back from the north with a coded message from Wedad saying you’ve all crossed safely.
The mixture of his white hair with the ebony moustache gives him the expression of some soft, old man. He smiles. Wedad holds on to her reticence. I pretend, out of politeness, not to notice the scene, wondering whether it fits into the lat
est gossip. That Wedad’s parents had strongly opposed her wish to emigrate. That she had refused to speak to them the entire summer. That only her eventual hunger-strike had forced her father to give her permission to leave.
The negotiations end sooner than expected. Wedad’s mother winks to her husband, rubbing her left thigh while resuming her seat. Wedad leaps to pull the stove nearer to her mother’s legs. Father looks relaxed. Kaka J. must have won his trust. Wasting no time, our man replaces the empty stikan on the table, then picks up our two suitcases. Wedad’s parents recognise the signal. Reluctantly, the three stand up, hug each other so tight that they seem to merge into one flesh. Wedad’s tough façade shatters. She is sobbing, rebuking herself, kissing whatever parental hand she may seize, pleading for forgiveness. Mother gestures us to leave the room, out of regard for the family’s last moment of intimacy.
From the window of my room, I watch Wedad’s parents step out of our house, their heads lowered like two orphans. Kaka J. is loading our woollen quilts into the trunk of his vehicle. He stops to exchange some words with them, then pats the father on the shoulder.
Wedad’s mother starts the engine. I join the others in the living-room.
Shuli has gone out to make sure that the night watch is not passing, that no neighbour is parting from late guests. We put out the lights, except for the one in the living-room, to suggest our presence. For the same purpose, father turns the radio on, trying out the optimal volume – loud enough to simulate movement, yet low enough to remain indistinct.
—Fortunately, tomorrow is Saturday, so the school bus won’t be honking who knows how long for Lina, mother says.
If tomorrow is Saturday …
—The rubbish! They’ll ring for the rubbish tomorrow morning. Shall I take it out, father?
—By no means! The empty bin will roll around for days in front of our gate and draw much more attention than its absence on one morning would.
Shuli returns, gasping,
—The street’s fast asleep, let’s go!
We put on our overcoats, walk quietly out of the house with our holdalls. Our tomcat is sprawling on the gate-post, watching night-life in the street. Five houses from here, Lawy junior is sleeping in peaceful ignorance. We load the rest of our luggage into the trunk. It surprises me to find no other suitcases next to ours. What of Wedad’s luggage, I wonder, yet keep the query to myself, lest it triggers further tears. On the number plate stands Suleimaniyah, the Kurdish province where kaka J. lives. We hop in to the vehicle, men in the front, women in the rear. Except for the glittering eyes of our satisfied pet, nobody seems to notice us pull out, pierce the night with our yellow headlights.
—Mama will go back to your house in a few minutes, to pour water on your threshhold, Wedad says.
No joke, no ironical remark. Not even Shuli minds the old ritual. Let Wedad’s mother wash the traces of our wheels, let her foil the evil eye. Whoever needs so much luck may well end up flirting with superstition. While Wedad peers out of the window, hoping for one last glimpse of her mother’s yellow Opel, the wish to have somebody to part from sweeps over me. Nobody in particular, just some schoolmate or Jewish neighbour who would happen to see us, wave hello. Only later, when the news of our escape reached him, would he recall the encounter, realise that while he was waving hello, we were waving goodbye. Yet no single pedestrian is on the road. No vehicles either, except for one or two taxis. The metropolis has run out of night tales to tell. It has nothing to say to me either. I feel hollow myself, with neither glee nor sorrow in the face of this point of no return. Too superstitious to think “goodbye” too soon, I just whisper “goodnight”, unable to imagine the long night into which my home town is sinking.
Gradually, the neighbourhoods lose their familiarity. Even mother fails to recognise the old quarters north of Waziriyah. Shortly past the outskirts, we get to the first military post. Kaka J. stops, shows his licence. While the sentry is going through the papers, three military lorries loom up opposite us. Kaka J.’s papers still in his hand, the sentry struts over to them, then, wasting no words, motions them on.
—They’re transporting their dead. They don’t dare do it in daylight, kaka J. sneers.
The sentry now storms towards the hut, pelting insults, until one unshod soldier leaps out. He is instantly slapped on the face with kaka J.’s licence. Flinching from the headlights, the young man pretends to examine the papers. Sleepily, he returns them to kaka J., lifts the roadblock, waves us through.
Kaka J. takes off, whistling – some Kurdish tune perhaps.
—There’s no landscape outside Kurdistan, he soon grumbles. There’s nothing here but empty desert.
Except for the occasional wailing of the jackals, which reminds me of the time when father took us for night rides in the wasteland to run in his new Ford. I used to lie on the rear seat, listening to the jackals half in fear, half in wonder. Now we meet on other terms – wailing jackals, hushed fugitives, perished soldiers, wandering in the same night. Tentatively, I lay my head on mother’s shoulder. No rebuff. I hope she has forgiven me my meanness in the kitchen. She, too, seems less nervous, more secure with every mile we travel further from home.
The Grey Volkswagen
I wake up to the voice of the muezzin summoning the faithful to sunrise prayer. Not only is the melody identical to the one in the metropolis, the voice too sounds familiar! Profound, musical, meditative with tinges of passion. Kaka J. parks the motorcar in some side-street. Good morning Suleimaniyah, I yawn, stretching myself out, savouring the security the Kurdish province is giving out. From the subsequent silence round me I gather that security is not the prevailing feeling in the vehicle. Wedad’s lids have swollen overnight. Mother’s wry smile tells me I was the only one who had the heart to nap through the journey.
I jump out, keen to stroll through the neighbourhood with the sun rising. Icy wind whips my face. Fastening my overcoat, I walk up the narrow street. Is father hailing me? I pretend not to hear. The second time, I turn round. He is gesturing me to return. I obey. He pushes our woollen quilts into my hands, motions me to kaka J.’s house. Once in the frontyard, he passes on our smuggler’s instructions: we should keep strictly to our quarters, the neighbours ought not to know of our presence. The neighbours? I thought they were Kurdish, unconditionally on our side! I must have rejoiced too soon. Sightseeing is off the programme. Reading my frustration father softens his tone,
—It’s only for one or two more days, and then we’ll never have to hide again.
Kaka J. leads us to the spacious, unfurnished room near the staircase. Warm, however, thanks to the oil stove in the middle. One large indigo kilim is laid out over the tiled floor, while mattresses, mats, pillows in various shades lie scattered throughout the room. We unload our luggage. Wedad inspects the six rolls of Persian rugs lined up next to the four trunks under the window. She strokes the rugs to verify whether they have got wet, removes the mud stuck on the fringes, proceeds to test the locks of the trunks. My parents watch the scene with irritation.
—Kaka J. picked them up last time he was at our place, Wedad points out, revealing the least interesting part of the story.
Some old woman serves us hot tea, lays loops of orange peels on the stove, then leaves the room, giving our luggage one long inquisitive look.
—The crossing’s due for tonight. Rest as much as you can, a long night’s in front of you, our smuggler imparts on his way out.
Mother spreads out sheets of newspaper on the kilim, on which she lays the milk products, the olives, the fried vegetables, the salad, honey, marmalade. Wedad surprises us with keymar, milk fat.
—The table is set! mother says with untypical joviality.
Unaccustomed to sitting on the floor, father tries out several positions – folding his legs, or tucking them up under him, squeezing pillows wherever possible. Finally, he huddles himself up, leans on the wall, supporting his plate with his knees.
—I’m just not made for the circus
, he says jokingly.
Yet our meal is far from festive. Mother’s jaws move so painfully slowly, you would think she has just had her wisdom tooth pulled out. Shuli is worn out, like someone who has walked the whole night. Wedad’s tears well up, then mysteriously vanish. Father flicks on the transistor radio, tunes it to the news from London. I have the impression he is not listening. Just relieved to have someone talk to whom he is not obliged to reply.
I seem the only one in high spirits in this gathering.
When it is time to give out the name of the station, father lowers the volume. Not unaware of the gesture, he wonders if he will outgrow this habit, learn to listen uncaringly to the radio in the future.
Nobody is in the mood to reflect on the future of father’s habits.
When the newscaster launches into the football results, Wedad voices her own thoughts.
—Now that we’ve left Baghdad, we’ve got nothing to fear any more. Kaka J. has very good connections with the border police. The money we paid will be distributed among the guards at the checkpoints. You’ll see. The man was highly recommended by … reliable sources.
—And who are your reliable sources, if I may ask? mother inquires.
—No, you may not! Wedad gruffly retorts. Such sources should remain secret. It’s safer for everybody.
—Oh, I beg your pardon! snarls mother with stinging irony.
The face she makes tells me she has taken offence. What right has this girl, years younger than herself, to reproach her with indiscretion? What manners! No wonder she has found no husband so far, in spite of her sumptuous rugs. Instead of safety they should try honesty perhaps. Instead of puffing herself up with self-importance, Wedad might well tell us why she is travelling in luxury, smuggling her trousseau out, while we have to go virtually naked. Haven’t we paid the same price? Or had her precious mother thought we owned nothing more than the two suitcases?
—And to whom can we pass on the secret sources – now that we’re here? mother snaps.
