I bought some metal chains from Bab al-Agha and added them to the chair’s arms and front legs to make it look like a torture chair. I had planned on submitting the work to the annual exhibition, but Reem said I would be endangering myself for no reason. Professor al-Janabi agreed that it was too dangerous. I even thought about adding a tiny cage to it and putting a real bird inside. Reem said it was a good idea, but she preferred it with the chains alone and no cage or bird. “It doesn’t change the main idea and it’s still dangerous to show it.” Al-Janabi liked it a lot, so I gave it to him as a gift. He refused at first, but I told him it would be an honor if he accepted. The chair stayed in his office all those years. He made sure not to put anything on it despite the piles of papers and books he had in his office. He gladly lent it back to me for the exhibition, and it was accepted.
I stopped by his office to take the chair home, intending to clean it up a bit and add some red dye to resemble drops of blood. The professor seemed anxious. He said that there were rumors about revenge against anyone who had been a member of the Ba’th Party. I laughed, saying that it was obvious he wasn’t a real Ba’thist, that, like so many, he had been forced to join, in his case to gain approval for his scholarship to Italy. He said people were trying to settle scores. “Let’s hope for the best.”
We were told to bring our works two days before the opening. I took a taxi to the French Cultural Center at Abu Nuwas Street. The streets were crowded and chaotic, full of bumps and craters because of the bombing. I was afraid at first that the chair, which I had put in the trunk, would be damaged, but then I remembered that it was made of iron.
Only one of the two lanes was open to traffic. Cars were driving in both directions in the same lane. The eastern side of the street had huge American tanks parked on it. When we approached al-Firdaws Square, where the big hotels are, American soldiers had blocked the streets and were motioning to everyone to turn around and go back. The driver sighed and made a U-turn. We took al-Sadoun Street to al-Karrada and arrived at the building. I had passed by it many times years before when Reem was taking French classes there. It had a nice café in the back garden where we would sometimes sit. The last time I was here was the day she finished her French course. Her classmates had gathered in the courtyard to take pictures. Fifteen minutes later a GMC truck with tinted windows parked on the sidewalk right under the “No Parking” sign. The driver turned the flasher on and a man wearing khaki came out of the passenger side. He approached the group which had been exchanging good wishes and congratulations and asked who had used the camera—“Photography is not allowed here.” He snatched the camera from one of the female students, took the film out and warned everyone not to do it again. He went outside, got into the car and took off. Most of us were surprised, but we later realized that the presidential palace was just across the river. Now the Americans have occupied it and surrounded it with walls and checkpoints; our new rulers can live far away from us.
Finally arriving at the center, I asked the organizers to put my piece in a dark corner away from windows, but close to where I could still plug in the projector light I had added to it to make it look like an interrogation or torture chair. The opening ceremony was held in the afternoon, because having it at night would be too dangerous and would violate the curfew. Nevertheless, the ceremony was uplifting. It included a short speech by the French cultural attaché, then another by one of the academy’s professors, full of hope for a future filled with freedom. Many of us were hopeful in those days that there would at least be some sort of new beginning for people to start a better life despite all the destruction. The occupation would come to an end sooner or later. I was surprised that some of the participating artists went overboard in praising the Americans, as if they’d actually come here for our sake. I was happy to see Sergio de Mello, the United Nations representative in Iraq, at the exhibition. He and the three men accompanying him paused before each work. He paused much longer before mine, saying through his interpreter: “Very powerful.” Then he shook my hand and covered it with his left and thanked me twice.
The participants in the exhibition included those who had graduated a few years earlier, but who refused, for political and ethical reasons, to have their work co-opted by the politics of the time. The exhibition went on for a week, and the responses were positive. A film crew that was working on a documentary about dictatorship and occupation conducted interviews with many of us. One of them was an Iraqi based in New York who spoke with me about my piece. I asked him to send me the interview on a tape or CD and he promised to do so, but I never received anything. I never knew whether he just forgot, or whether the package had been stolen. Their film was shown a year later on the al-Arabiyya channel. I waited for even a few seconds of the interview or a glimpse of the exhibition, but there was nothing. What they did show were images of the destruction at the academy and of all the bombing and looting. There were also interviews with some poets at al-Mutanabbi Street. I was suspicious of all the Iraqis who had come back after many years abroad. Many of them either came with the tanks and the militias or returned to make money or get a hot story and then forget all about us.
A month after the exhibition, I saw men on TV looking for de Mello’s corpse in the rubble of the Qanat Hotel. I was heartbroken. A huge truck full of explosives had blown up the hotel which served as the UN’s headquarters in Baghdad. De Mello and many others were killed. A few days later, Muhammad Baqir al-Hakim was assassinated in Najaf. Explosions multiplied. They went after important personalities at first, then targeted average folk who had nothing to do with what was taking place but whose lives became a currency that was easy to circulate and liquidate. We’d thought the value of human life had reached rock-bottom under the dictatorship and that it would now rebound, but the opposite happened. Corpses piled up like goals scored by death on behalf of rabid teams in a never-ending game. That is the thought that came to mind when I heard “Another car bomb targeted … ”
Following each round, human remains were plucked from a mixture of blood and dirt. The ones who remained in one piece without losing an eye or their entire head were fortunate. The American referee had killed enough already and now was killing only sporadically, allowing the local players, who were even more ferocious, to carry on. But even those who picked up the pieces and cleaned up what death left on the city’s face were not safe from death.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Hammoudy went to the Shorja market one Thursday at the end of August. He was rapidly running out of camphor and ground lotus leaves for the mghaysil. He had told me that he now needed to restock once a month instead of every six months as he used to do before the war.
Hammoudy did not come back home that day, nor the following day. His cell phone was turned off and he didn’t respond to the text messages that his wife and his brother, who worked at an electronics store, had sent him. There had not been any bombs or explosions at the Shorja market that day—or even that month. For two days they looked for him in the hospitals nearby and went to police stations without coming up with anything. People told them to go to the morgue. His brother looked at all the photos they had of all the bodies piled up everywhere in that place, which couldn’t cope with the numbers, but found nothing. He looked in the mounds of corpses for the green ring Hammoudy used to wear on his left hand. He still goes there from time to time, asking, just in case something turns up. Hammoudy’s mother doubled her visits to al-Kazim’s shrine nearby. Al-Kazim was known for fulfilling wishes and never letting down those who sought his intercession. She even pledged to walk all the way to Najaf if Hammoudy came back safe, but he has yet to return.
Did someone kidnap him thinking that he was a wealthy merchant? Neither his appearance nor his age would lead anyone to think that. Kidnappers usually call the family to demand a ransom and never deliver the body until they get their money, or some of it. No one ever called. Hammoudy never came back, even though his mother walked to Najaf three times.
TWENT
Y-EIGHT
Reem, too, disappeared all of a sudden, just as Hammoudy did. It was seven years ago, but unlike Hammoudy’s, her kidnapper was not human or nameless. I called her at home one morning in August. The phone kept ringing. There were no cell phones back then. I called again in the evening and no one picked up. Our secret sign before was to have the phone ring once and then hang up and she would call me back. But after our engagement we could speak freely in front of her father and stepmother. She had convinced me to ask for her hand, and I overcame my hesitation. I didn’t have any savings and my income wasn’t even enough to rent an apartment. Having her live with us at home was out of the question. I had no desire to start a family, but she kept telling me that years were passing and she was getting tired of doing everything in secret and struggling just to be together. She persuaded her father to agree to the marriage. He had hesitated a bit at first, because of my father’s profession and my financial situation, but she told him that I intended to travel abroad and do graduate studies. Her stepmother, happy to get rid of Reem once and for all, helped convince her husband to let us live in one of the houses he owned in al-Sayyidiyya after we got married.
I, too, had to get my parents’ approval, especially since marrying a divorcee was frowned upon. My mother had met Reem once when I invited her and another colleague to lunch at our house. She liked her, but I didn’t tell her that we had something going on. When I told her we were thinking of marriage, she asked, “Why did you choose this divorced woman out of all the others?” I told her that my heart had chosen. She agreed, but grudgingly. I asked her to try to convince Father. All he had to do was accompany me to Reem’s house to formally ask her father. Father didn’t mind that she had been married before. Perhaps he was moved by the fact that her ex-husband was a martyr, like his son. He asked me about her family and her father’s line of work. He wasn’t convinced that I was in a position to marry a woman from a rich family. In the taxi to their house he asked me terse questions about where we planned to live, the dowry, and other questions to which I had no clear answers.
The distance between our house in Kazimiyya and theirs in al-Jadiriyya was the gulf between two classes and two worlds. I thought of the problems and tensions we would be confronting because of that chasm. Father had never set foot in al-Jadiriyya. What was he thinking about when he looked through the taxi’s window at those huge modern houses? Was he thinking that I was about to sever my last bond to him and that I had succeeded, at long last, in leaving his sphere?
We stood at the main gate. There were three cars parked in the long garage. To the right there was a big garden with a neatly trimmed lawn edged on all sides with flowers. A palm tree towered over the far right corner. Below it was the Arabic Jasmine from which Reem used to pluck flowers for me. I rang the bell and we both waited. Father looked up at the two-story house and the adjacent houses. I looked at my shoes to make sure they were spotless and fixed my necktie. It was the first time I’d worn a tie and jacket in years. Father didn’t even own a necktie. He wore a sky-blue shirt and a dark jacket, and had put a skullcap over his head. Reem’s father emerged from the wooden door and walked toward us. We shook hands. He led us back through the door to the guest room.
He was very proper, but there were invisible barriers he didn’t care to cross. We exchanged pleasantries and the ritual went on as usual. He asked us what we would like to drink: juice, tea, or Arabic coffee? We both asked for coffee. He went to the door, which was ajar, and relayed our request. They had a maid, but I knew that Reem was going to bring the coffee, since that was what ritual dictated.
I knew from her footsteps that she was about to enter. She was wearing medium-heeled black shoes, which accentuated her slenderness as she walked, a black skirt just below the knees and a blue shirt with long loose sleeves. She had on her favorite silver bracelets, and her fingernails were painted creamy white. She offered the coffee to Father and invited him to take a piece of chocolate as well. He thanked her. Then she turned to me. We exchanged a smile as I took the coffee and chocolate. I couldn’t resist stealing a glimpse at her cleavage. In deference to the occasion, she was not as generous that day as she usually was, so I couldn’t see much. She seemed a bit timid, as if she knew what my eyes were searching for.
A heavy silence fell. My attempts to initiate a conversation that could engage both my father and hers failed. Both were laconic and kept what they said to the minimum. My father wasn’t chatty to start with. Her father seemed to believe that he had been forced to seal an unprofitable deal. On the way back, Father warned me against depending too much on Reem and her father. Don’t become a “burden” on them, he said. I was hurt by that word, but said nothing. The years had taught me that it was futile to argue with him.
The engagement ring gave us a freedom we had not enjoyed before. I started to visit her at home, and we could go out together for hours far more often than before. But this sweetest of times lasted only three months. Reem suddenly disappeared.
I kept calling, but there was no answer. In the evening I went to their house and rang the bell, but no one came to the door. I noticed there were only two cars, Reem’s and her stepmother’s. Her father’s car was not there. The curtains were shut and the gate was locked. I was baffled. I went home and called her friend Suha. She said that they’d left that morning for Jordan and that she had no idea when they would be back.
I thought of all possibilities, but couldn’t find a convincing explanation. If her father had forced her to leave, she would have called and asked for help. I knew he was thinking of leaving the country and had increased his business in Jordan and Turkey, but still. I went to his office in Karrada to inquire. One of his assistants said that he didn’t know, but perhaps his wife was ill and had gone to Jordan for treatment. I thought that Reem must have gone along with her and would return soon. I convinced myself that she would call, send a letter, or just return and surprise me, but she never did.
A month and a half later, one of the drivers at her father’s company hand-delivered a letter from her. I recognized her handwriting on the envelope. I opened it right away and read it while standing. It was written in blue ink on elegant paper:
Darling,
You will always be darling to me no matter what happens. Please forgive my absence and sudden departure and my not telling you anything. Maybe you will forgive me after reading this letter. I hope you understand me, just as you always have, with an open heart after you listen so lovingly and patiently. The last thing I want to do in the world is to hurt you, or be away from you. When I am far away from you I am far from myself. Please believe me when I say that you are more precious than anything in this world and my love is what compelled me to do what I did.
Two months ago while showering, I felt a tiny lump in my left breast. I went to the doctor, but didn’t say anything to you at the time, because I didn’t want you to worry. The doctor decided that they would remove it and do a biopsy. It turned out that it was malignant. My father insisted that we go to Jordan to get a second opinion and it all happened rather quickly. The second and third opinions were identical. The X-rays showed that the cancerous cells had spread quickly and a mastectomy was the only option. I am undergoing chemotherapy now and my days are full of nausea, headaches, and vomiting. My long hair, which you stroked, is all gone. They say it will grow again after treatment, but I find that hard to believe right now. My chest scar has yet to heal, because I suffered an infection after the surgery. I woke up after surgery to find a big wound as if someone had stabbed me and stolen away the breast you so loved and called one of the domes of your pagan temple. The breast you used to cup with your palms. The breast whose nipple you used to suckle on at times and bite like an insatiable puppy at others. The breast whose rights you said you wanted to defend and which you wanted to liberate from the fabric and wires that strangle it. They took that breast away from me and it is no longer part of my body. I couldn’t muster the courage to stand before the mirror—except onc
e. I broke down afterward and cried for hours. I’m struck with the storms of irrational thoughts and feelings which inhabit anyone whose body is afflicted with sickness. Why? Why me? I’m still too young for it. I’m not forty yet. The doctor back in Baghdad said that cancer rates have quadrupled in recent years and it might be the depleted uranium used in the ordnance in 1991. I hate my body now and wish I could run away from it to a new body. I don’t think I could live in peace with it. Forgive me for going on and on so selfishly about my fears and thoughts.
What I wanted to say is that I gave this a great deal of thought and only came to this decision because I love you and love your love for me. I never wanted that love to change. I know that you will read these lines and say that you will still love my body, even without my left breast. Don’t lie! Even I no longer love my body and don’t think I could ever love it again. I know you will always love me, but my fight with cancer might not end. This might seem harsh toward both of us, but I must sever myself from your life. I don’t want you to live with a woman who has a ticking bomb in her body. Please forgive me for leaving without saying goodbye. I didn’t want to say goodbye, but I will keep saying goodbye every day.
I will carry you in my memory. My body will carry your scents and pores in its memory.
Please forgive me. I will make things easier for us by not giving you my address and by giving you the opportunity to begin anew with another woman. I am already jealous of her without knowing who she might be.
The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) Page 11
