This could very well be the most difficult sentence I have written in my whole life, but please don’t try to get in touch with me.
Love and kisses,
Reem
I read the letter dozens of times until I had memorized every word. The first few times I wiped tears that fell. The tears kept falling afterward, but deep down inside. I felt they had amassed and settled in my chest and would remind me now and then that they were residing there forever. I tried to get her address, but to no avail. I heard that her father had come back for a few days and had given his lawyer full power of attorney and asked him to sell all their property. I heard later that they had settled in England. I asked Suha about her, but she said she hadn’t heard anything either.
Months and years passed and my wound healed, but it left a scar I would touch from time to time. I used to reread the letter, which I hid in a small box together with an envelope containing some of our old letters and the photographs from our school days.
TWENTY-NINE
A few days after Hammoudy disappeared, Sayyid al-Fartusi visited me again. He said his heart sank when Hammoudy didn’t pick up on his cell for five days and when he saw that the mghaysil was closed. He had stopped at Hammoudy’s house and heard the news from his family. I invited him to come in.
He was visibly sad and looked worried as he drank the glass of water I brought him. He said he was willing to pay the ransom, no matter how much the figure was, if it turned out that Hammoudy had been kidnapped. What he added afterward revealed his fears of Hammoudy’s inevitable fate: “God knows what happened to him. He doesn’t deserve this.” Then he recited “With God alone rests the knowledge when the last hour will come and He sends down rain and knows what is in the wombs. No one knows what he will reap tomorrow and no one knows in what land he will die. Verily, God alone is all-knowing and all-aware.” He repeated the last verse twice and looked at the floor as if reading something written on it. He shook his head, saying, “There is no power save in God.” Then he spoke of men.
“You know, whenever I think that humans have stooped to the lowest point, I discover that they can stoop even lower. The number of corpses thrown in garbage dumps and being fished out of the river has doubled in recent months. Even the dead are not safe anymore. They are booby-trapping corpses now.”
This “they” everyone used nowadays in referring to the “other side” caught my attention. I was about to ask him who “they” were for him. Then I remembered that he had said on his first visit that he buried everyone irrespective of their sect or religion and that the remains of some of the bodies he buried must have belonged to the murderers who blew themselves up. Instead of asking him about “they,” I wanted instead to know how and why he had started to do what he did.
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
He wasn’t a practicing or pious Muslim when he was young, but what he saw during the withdrawal from Kuwait in 1991 transformed him completely.
“I never prayed or fasted. I even used to drink and was busy enjoying life. After graduating from college I was drafted into the army. A few months before finishing my service, Saddam invaded Kuwait and my unit was transferred there. When the war started, the bombing was continuous and hellish. I don’t know how we survived. The only two who survived in my unit were myself and Musa, a soldier from Ammarah. We were together in the same trench. The others died and were buried in the sand.
“There was chaos from the start, because all communications and supply routes were cut off during the first few days of the war. We heard the decision to withdraw on the radio. Everyone was escaping on the highway toward Basra, because it was close to our units. Every moving object on that highway became a target for the fighter jets and bombers which were hovering and hunting humans as if they were insects. Musa said that to increase our chances of survival we should stay as far away as possible from the highway and the cars and vehicles, many of which were full of what the soldiers had looted. The Americans were firing at any vehicle. We ran like mad dogs for more than two hours without turning back.
“Musa’s decision to abandon the highway saved our lives. Otherwise, we would’ve been charred like all the others I saw burning in their seats and whose remains were scattered all around us. The smell of burning flesh and hair made me sick and tortured me in nightmares for months afterward. I could never forget the smell or the sight of stray dogs devouring soldiers’ bodies near Basra. I would stand there shocked and pick up a rock to throw at them, but Musa would violently pull me away, saying that it was useless because the dogs would return to their feast after we left. All we had with us were our water bottles, some dates in our pockets, and the pocket radio. We made sure not to use it too much to keep the batteries alive. Our goal was to get to Musa’s relatives in Basra and sleep there until things calmed down and then we would go home.
“Our feet were swollen from running and walking the whole day. Basra’s streets were empty when we got there. I saw graffiti on the walls saying ‘Down with Saddam.’ Some of his murals were defaced and smeared with paint. The news on the radio spoke of an uprising which started in Basra and spread all over the south after Bush called on Iraqis to ‘take matters into their own hands.’ You know the rest of the story. They changed the tune a few days later and no one in the world helped those who rose up. They started to call those who rose up hooligans, and then the Republican Guards units came and slaughtered thousands.
“We hid at Musa’s relatives’ for a week. The road to Baghdad was very dangerous. We heard about what they’d done to some of the Ba’thists, that they’d mutilated their bodies and hung some of them from electricity posts. I never liked the Ba’thists myself, and some members of my family had been executed by Saddam on mere grounds of suspicion, I swear to you. But it’s a sin to do such things to any human being, even if he is your enemy. God will choose the appropriate torture for every oppressor. I thought I could just put all those scenes behind me, but those stray dogs followed me to Baghdad. Weeks after I returned, the nightmares started. I would see six or seven dogs tearing apart corpses, and whenever I tried to pick up a rock to throw it at them, it turned to dust. In another nightmare I would see my entire family being charred. When I’d try to pour water on them from my bottle, I’d discover that it was empty. I’d try to throw sand on them, but I would smell that stench again and wake up.
“I told my cousin about all these nightmares and the insomnia that ruined my days. He advised me to go to the mosque and pray. He was right, because prayer saved my mind and soul from the madness erupting all around me. Those dogs and the nightmares didn’t disappear entirely, but they would return only once every six months or so. You asked about burying corpses, but the roots of all of this kept haunting me. I was assigned to work at the Ministry of Health. Through my job, I heard about the bodies abandoned at the morgue and other places because no one claimed them or bothered to bury them for whatever reason. That broke my heart. I told many friends and acquaintances about it. I knew there was a government cemetery, the Muhammad Sakran Cemetery, where the unknown were buried. I faced many obstacles at first when I started this project, but many do-gooders helped me out with donations and that’s how it all started.”
He asked whether I had changed my mind about working at the mghaysil, and I said that I hadn’t. “God will reward you, you know,” he assured me. I didn’t respond, but asked him whether the dogs and nightmares were now leaving him in peace.
He laughed. “They left me alone, because they were afraid of what they saw in my other nightmares.”
“What happens in these other nightmares?”
He laughed again: “I’ll tell you some other time.”
THIRTY
I’m walking in a public garden in Baghdad. I think I must have visited it a long time ago, since I recognize the path which goes through it and circles around the fountain. The fountain stands in the middle like a huge flower with petals of water. But I don’t recall
ever seeing so many white statues on the lawn: men, women, and children standing, sitting, or lying on the ground. The sky is ink blue and every now and then the moon hides behind flocks of clouds driven by the wind to an unknown fate. The wind appears to have moved one of the statues of a man, which stoops as if to look for something he’s lost. I think I hear a groan. I approach the statue and the groans grow louder. I discover that the statue is shrouded in white. When I get closer, I hear a male voice begging me to sprinkle water on it.
“Who are you and why are you stooping like that,” I ask.
“This is how I was when I died and I cannot move. Please, take me to the water, because I’m suffering.”
I hold the figure by its shoulders, which are very cold, and drag it toward the fountain. I place it at the fountain’s edge so that the water will spray the statue’s head. The voice sighs and asks me to push it into the fountain’s waters. I do. Before comprehending what has happened, I hear another groan and a voice saying “Me too, please.”
THIRTY-ONE
Nine months before Hammoudy’s disappearance, my mother started feeling severe pain in her stomach and was throwing up all the time. I took her to the doctor, who ordered numerous tests and prescribed some medicine. Her situation only got worse so I took her to a different doctor, who repeated the tests and then said she should have a colonoscopy. It turned out that she had a growth, but the biopsy determined that it wasn’t malignant. It had to be removed, and the surgery went well. She was almost fully recovered when she got a severe infection and had to go back to the hospital for a month. The doctors’ bills and the surgery and hospital expenses depleted everything I had saved from the money Hammoudy had given us every month. I had to borrow from my brother-in-law to pay the bills and cover other expenses. All my attempts to find a job failed. Job hunting in Baghdad had itself become a confounding quest through a labyrinth of checkpoints and walled neighborhoods.
The debts piled up. I was at wit’s end and felt cornered, especially after Hammoudy’s disappearance, which, aside from the deep emotional distress it caused, meant no steady income. Al-Fartusi came again to try to convince me to take up my father’s work. He said it was not right to keep the mghaysil closed and urged me to open it and go back to work. He reminded me that the living had a debt and a responsibility to the dead. I didn’t say no right away, and perhaps he felt that I was considering it, and that he had finally found a breach in my wall to dig through.
“You know that I’m not religious.”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is intention.” He invoked the Qur’an again. “Piety does not consist in turning your faces toward the east or west.
“There are corpses scattered all over the streets and stuffed in fridges. If you purify them and shroud them, God will love you and forgive all your sins whether you pray or not. Plus, trust me, your father will be so pleased and his soul will be at rest in paradise.”
“But I haven’t washed in years and I may have forgotten all the details.”
He smiled, as if sensing his victory, and said: “I don’t believe you, but I can give you a book that contains every detail you need to know about the rules and rituals of washing and shrouding.”
I don’t know why I agreed. It was primarily the need for money, of course. I convinced myself that this would only be a temporary solution until I found a job or some other source of income. I never thought that I would keep on washing for months and years. Was there a mysterious force taking me back to the mghaysil? Did you have something to do with it, Father? Are you happy now?
Al-Fartusi hugged me and patted my shoulders before saying goodbye. He said he would get in touch with Mahdi, Hammoudy’s nephew who’d been working with him, and tell him that the mghaysil would open again.
THIRTY-TWO
I see Reem standing in an orchard full of blossoming pomegranate trees. The wind moves the branches and the red blossoms appear to be waving from afar. Reem waves as well and her hands say: Come close! I walk toward her and call out her name, but I can hear neither my own voice nor the sound of my footsteps. All I hear is the wind rustling. Reem smiles without saying anything. I am much closer and I see two pomegranates on her chest instead of her breasts. She notices that I am looking at them and smiles as she cups them with her hands from below. Her fingernails and lips are painted pomegranate red. I rush toward her, and when I reach her and hug her, the left pomegranate falls to the ground. When I bend down to pick it up, I see red stains bathing my arm. I turn back and see Reem crying as she tries to stop the fountain of blood gushing from the wound.
THIRTY-THREE
“If your father were alive, he would be very happy.”
My mother chattered excitedly as she prepared the sufurtas which she insisted I take to work with me, even though I had told her the night before that I would buy my lunch from one of the shops and that she shouldn’t bother.
“Why would you want to eat outside food, son? Is there anything better than your mother’s homemade food? I packed some chicken stew with potatoes and rice for you.”
She was very pleased that I was going back to Father’s work. I didn’t tell her that the only reason was to be able to pay all the debts from her illness. She kissed me on the forehead and enlisted “God, Muhammad, and Ali” to accompany me and protect me.
Mahdi was slouching against the wooden door of the mghaysil with his knee bent and his right heel on the door itself. His hands were clasped over his chest. He was fifteen, with very short brown hair, hazel eyes, and thick eyebrows. His nose was big, and fuzz had already started to appear above his lips and on the sides of his face. He was thin, but with broad shoulders and a strong frame, which enabled him to lift bodies. He was wearing black sneakers, jeans, and a black jacket over a red-and-blue striped jersey with “Barcelona” written on the front.
We had agreed to meet at eight in the morning in front of the mghaysil. He straightened up when he saw me and moved away from the door. He greeted me with a smile and was a bit shy. I extended my hand and he shook it, calling me “Ustadh Jawad.” I told him that ustadh wasn’t necessary. I took the key out of my pocket and put it inside the lock to open the door. I thought to myself that he should be in school and not working with me—or with anyone else. He said that he had left school two years ago to support his family. He used to sell sandwiches and soft drinks, then worked with his uncle until his disappearance. His voice trembled as he mentioned the disappearance.
“Let’s hope he will come back,” I said, even though I had lost all hope. I wondered where Hammoudy’s body was now and what had been done to it. That unanswerable and haunting question pierced my heart again as I opened the door.
I hadn’t been to the mghaysil in a long time, and the smell overwhelmed me again. It’s strange how some places can retain the same smell for decades. That morning the scent of stale air mingled with the distinct mixture of humidity, camphor, and lotus. I told Mahdi to go in ahead of me, but he hesitated out of respect, so I pushed him gently by the shoulder. He went in and stood on the right, waiting. I closed the door behind us.
The morning light looked as if it had retreated outside. I saw the marble washing bench from afar. It was wet with darkness. The timid sun could smuggle only a few rays through the high window. I walked to the end of the corridor. I turned the ceiling fan on and then went to the side door, which led to the small garden where the pomegranate tree stood. I opened it to let some fresh air in. I asked Mahdi to open the window in the side room so the place could breathe in more fresh air. I looked outside and saw the pomegranates dangling down. The cool September air began to fill the place, and I changed my mind about taking off my jacket. I told Mahdi that he was welcome to pluck the pomegranates later and take them home.
“You don’t like them?” he asked.
“I do,” I said, “but not from this tree.”
I went to the cupboards and opened the doors. Everything was in its place just the way father used to have it. There were many
bags of ground lotus leaves, but only a few camphor bags. I guessed that was why Hammoudy had gone to Shorja, but there was enough to last for the next few days. The white towels and shrouds were in their place, but the shrouds were packed in nylon bags and had supplications printed on them. There was plenty of cotton and bars of the olive colored soap, whose scent filled my nostrils. The pots and buckets were all neatly stacked.
I opened the faucet and the water gurgled, then came out in a rush. I stood at the washing bench and ran my fingers along its edges. It was as cold as the bodies that lie on it. I looked at my fingertips and saw the dust. I asked Mahdi to sweep the place. He went to the storage room to get the broom. I went to the side room. Everything was the same. The chairs, table, and the painting of Imam Ali right there next to the window. He had a yellow halo around his head with its green headdress. His eyebrows rose a bit and his brown eyes were darkened with kohl. The hair of his moustache and beard was wavy, and he was wearing a white shirt.
To the right of Imam Ali was a black-and-white photograph of Father, which Hammoudy must have put up. I asked my mother later where he had gotten the photograph and she said that he had asked for one to enlarge, but she had forgotten to tell me. In the photograph, Father had half a smile on his face and wore a white shirt with an open collar. I said to him: “Here I am, back at the place you wanted me to inherit. I am taking your place, just as you took your father’s. But I am warning you, father, I will not be here for long.”
I heard the broom scraping the floor and a few minutes later dust particles found their way to my nose. I sat on the chair and looked at Imam Ali’s picture again. I heard the voice of Muzaffar al-Nawwab clamoring in one of his poems where he addresses Ali: “If you were to return now, your followers would fight against you and call you a Communist.”
The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) Page 12
