The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

by Antoon, Sinan

  Al-Janabi was supposed to come, but he called and said that he was delayed by traffic and checkpoints. I looked around for a face I might know. Verses of the Qur’an were reverberating through the loudspeakers. The famous Egyptian reciter al-Minshawi had just finished the Joseph chapter in his mesmerizing voice and started the Rahman chapter, which my father had loved. The waves in his voice would touch one’s soul gently at first and then pull it slowly until you found yourself suddenly at sea with nothing except the wind of the voice and the sails of the words. “He created man from clay, like the potter” caught my attention. So, we, too, are statues, but we never stop crushing one another in the name of the one who made us. We are statues whose permanent exhibition is dust.

  “Which of the favors of your Lord will ye deny? Everyone on earth will perish … When the sky is rent asunder and becomes red.”

  Perhaps it is high time for him to crush what he has fashioned. I thought about this man who blew himself up and killed Adil and so many others. Who was he?

  I try to find a rational explanation for such acts. I know that humans can reach a stage of anger and despair in which their lives have no value, and no other life or soul has value either. But men have been slaughtering others and killing themselves for ideas and symbols since time immemorial; what is new are the numbers of bodies becoming bombs. Al-Minshawi’s arresting recitation began to weave through my thoughts.

  “The guilty will be known by their marks and will be taken by their forelocks and feet.” Could that suicide bomber be there now, dragged by his hair and feet to a scorching fire?

  “They go circling around between it and fierce, boiling water.” “This is the Hell which the guilty deny.” Will he be surprised by his fate and object to it, having thought that he was on his way to the two heavens? “Wherein is every kind of fruit in pairs.” “Is there any reward for Good other than Good?”

  And poor Adil, is he sitting in the shade under a palm tree or “Reclining upon couches lined with silk brocade, the fruits of both gardens near to hand.” Will Adil see his killer dragged to hell and will he spit on him, or will he just look at him abhorrently? Will the two converse or argue in a neutral zone between heaven and hell? Or will they fight over getting into heaven?

  “Which is it of the favors of your Lord that ye deny?”

  Before getting a satisfying answer about Adil’s fate, I saw one of the artists I had met at the exhibition at the French Cultural Center a few years before. I waved and he recognized me. He offered his condolences to Adil’s family, then came and sat next to me. After reciting the Fatiha, we started chatting as we drank coffee. I was on my third cup. I asked whether Adil was a close friend of his. He said he was just an acquaintance, but he felt compelled to come. He looked weary and stressed out.

  When I asked why, he said that he was leaving for Syria in two days because he had received death threats.

  “Who is threatening you, and why?”

  “Man. It’s really absurd. I’m Shiite, but my son’s name is Omar. I named him after my best friend, who happened to be Sunni. They left a note in front of the door threatening me and telling me to leave the neighborhood. They thought I was Sunni.”

  I asked him, “Who are ‘they’?”

  “I don’t know really,” he said. “Armed men who control the neighborhood and are killing left and right. I asked and looked around. I wanted someone to get the word to them that Abu Omar is not Sunni, but it was no use. Then I got another letter saying, ‘This is the last warning. The next letter will not be written on paper and will pierce your head.’ A week after that two bullets broke our bedroom window. Thank God, we weren’t at home. They have forced a lot of Sunnis to leave. So we are living with my in-laws and we’ve decided to go to Syria until things calm down. Can you believe this? These four letters of a name. I just want to tell them, face to face, that I’m supposed to be one of their own. If they want me to change his name, I will, but just leave us alone.”

  When he finished his story, al-Minshawi was in the chapter of Abraham: “Lo, man is verily given up to injustice and ingratitude. And then Abraham said: Lord, make this city one of peace and preserve me and my sons from worshiping idols.”

  “I’m thinking of leaving too,” I said. “Things are intolerable.”

  He nodded. “It’s nice chatting with you, but I have a lot of errands to run and have to go.”

  We hugged outside the tent and I wished him luck in Syria.

  FORTY-NINE

  I saw you at the mghaysil, Father.

  It was my first time at work with you. Hammoudy was not with us and it was pitch dark. You had a candle in your hand.

  I asked you, “Why don’t we wait until it’s morning and then start work?”

  You smiled and said, “There is nothing but night here.”

  I was surprised and asked, “Why?”

  You said, “Have you forgotten that we are in the underworld, my son, and the sun doesn’t rise here?”

  I felt a lump in my throat and a tear found its way to my cheek.

  You wiped it and hugged me saying in an unusually loving tone: “Don’t worry, dear. Candles are enough for us to do our work and live a good life. You’ll get used to their light.”

  It was the first time you ever called me “dear.” You asked me to follow you and showed me the bench and said, “This is where we put together the body parts al-Fartusi brings every day.” I was surprised that al-Fartusi was here as well.

  You pointed to the cupboards, which I couldn’t see clearly, and said, “The needles, threads and glue are all there.” Then you pointed to wooden boxes which were stacked on the floor and said, “The feathers we use to cover the bodies are all in there.”

  I asked, “Why do we have to cover their bodies with feathers?”

  You smiled and said, “Do you still ask too many questions, son? This is what our ancestors did before and what our grandchildren will keep doing.”

  You moved toward one of the cupboards and opened it. You took out a candle and lit it with the flame in your candle and handed it to me. I held it in my hand. Its flame illuminated more of the place. I saw legs and arms stacked in the corner and asked you about them.

  “We will find a place for them in the bodies that come every day.”

  “What about Ammoury and Hammoudy and the others? Are they here too?”

  You didn’t answer. I saw an eye hanging on the wall by a thread and shedding tears. When I asked you about it you said, “It longs for another eye or perhaps it is crying for the sun.”

  I asked you: “Are we alive or dead, father?”

  You didn’t answer and blew out your candle and mine died too. I stayed alone in the dark listening to the tears falling from the eye on the wall until I woke up. The candle next to my head was choking and about to give out.

  FIFTY

  My mother put on her black abaya and said: “Jawad, I’m going to the shrine of al-Kazim. Today is the anniversary of his death, and Basim al-Karbala’i is coming to chant.”

  “Wait and we’ll go together.”

  “Really?”

  She was pleasantly surprised by my decision and her face lit up. She probably doesn’t remember, just as I don’t, the last time I visited the shrine. I used to go with her a lot when I was a child and would hold onto the window overlooking the tomb inside the shrine as the others did. Later I went often with my father, but I stopped in high school, when I became disenchanted with all the rituals and lost my faith.

  She sat on the couch and said, “OK, I’ll wait for you then.”

  I went up to my bedroom and changed. When I was coming down she asked me: “How come? Did you really remember al-Kazim, or is it just because al-Karbala’i is going to chant?”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  “Yes, of course. A visit to al-Kazim is always a good thing.”

  I should have told her that I was seriously thinking of leaving the mghaysil for good and going to Jordan and then anywhere far away,
but I never found the right words and time. I knew that I might not come back for a very long time, if ever. This might be the very last time I visited al-Kazim. I also wanted to listen to Basim al-Karbala’i’s voice, which Mother herself had introduced me to by listening to him at home.

  Kazimiyya’s streets were teeming with pilgrims from all over the country. Security precautions were more severe than in previous years in anticipation of attacks, which had become common whenever large crowds of civilians gathered. A few mortar rockets had fallen in past years and car bombs had exploded more than once.

  Hospitality stations offering water and food to pilgrims punctuated the streets, as did banners mourning the seventh imam and his death by poison in Haroun al-Rashid’s prison. “Peace be upon the one who was tortured in dark prisons” and “O God pray for Muhammad and his family and pray for Musa the son of Ja’far, the guardian of the pious and the imam of the blessed. He of the long prostration and profuse tears.” I saw a banner with the two famous lines by the poet al-Sharif al-Radi about the two shrines of Musa al-Kazim and Muhammad al-Jawad:

  Two shrines in Baghdad heal my dejection and sorrow,

  Toward them I shall guide my soul and seek peace tomorrow.

  The two golden domes and four minarets glittered under the chains of lights, which linked them like tiny bridges. The light emanating from the shrine lit the sky. We parted at the iron fence and my mother went to the women’s entrance. We agreed that I would meet her there an hour and a half later.

  There was a long line to get in through the Murad gate on the eastern side. The armed national police were standing at the gate. The green neon lights at the top of the gate illuminated the engravings and verses adorning the arch of the door. Three men conducted a thorough search, making sure I hadn’t hidden anything under my clothes or in my socks. I went inside and took off my shoes and handed them to an attendant.

  I looked at the white marble walls and the ornaments and arabesques on the ceiling. I crossed through the golden gate to the courtyard of the mosque. There were hundreds of men and boys, all wearing black. Many crowded around the gates leading to the mausoleum. It looked impossible to gain entrance, and the crowd barely moved. I walked around in the courtyard thinking, What would al-Kazim himself say to all these people were he alive today? Would he want them to come here and do what they were doing and say what they were saying? Perhaps if he returned today he would be a stranger, just as he was in his time, perhaps even more of a stranger.

  I looked at the two domes and minarets and then the black sky. My eyes descended again to the domes and then the entrance to the mausoleum. I started a silent conversation with al-Kazim. I told him: Forgive me for not visiting you for so many years, but I have chosen another path. A path paved with doubt that doesn’t lead to mosques. It is a rough and rugged path, not taken by crowds, with very few travel companions. I am still walking on it and I have ended up in prison just as you did, master. But I am imprisoned by my family and my people. I’m a prisoner of the death which has overtaken this land. It is time for me to escape. My mother is on the opposite side asking you to keep me by her side and by yours, but she might not realize that this daily death will poison me if I stay here.

  My silent conversation was interrupted by Basim al-Karbala’i’s voice. He stood before the microphone to greet the hundreds of pilgrims who stood waiting for him. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and started to chant. His captivating voice struck deep in the heart:

  Where does this stranger come from?

  Where are his kith and kin?

  Of poison he died in prison

  No crime nor harm had he committed

  Woe unto the poisoned one!

  He spent his life grieving

  O Shiites when a man’s wailing stops

  His loved ones surround him

  Some kiss and hug

  Others close his eyes.

  Then he asked the crowd to chant along: “Where does this stranger come from? / Where are his kith and kin?” He urged us every now and then, saying, “Wail for your Imam and don’t hold back.”

  Images and emotions crowded my inner domes: my heart and mind. All the statues I never sculpted and the drawings which remained sketches in my mind. Reem and her breast which was amputated, just as our love was. Ghayda’ and her body which flew away like a dove. My father, Ammoury, and Hammoudy. The faces of the corpses I washed and shrouded on their way to the grave. Tears poured down and covered my face. I stayed in that open space, where I could cry without shame and without any explanation. My pain and wounds had a lung to breathe through. Forgive me Musa, son of Ja’far, for crying in your presence and on your day. I am a stranger among your visitors. I am a stranger like you and I am crying for myself.

  FIFTY-ONE

  “Alas,” al-Fartusi said with genuine sadness when I informed him that I was going to Jordan.

  “Why? Why are you going and leaving us?”

  “I can’t do it anymore. I’m suffocating. I’m not cut out for this job. I wasn’t planning on doing it for two years. I can’t sleep at night. Nightmares are driving me insane.”

  He patted me on the shoulder and said: “You think I’m any better? I’ve gotten diabetes and high blood pressure from everything I’ve seen all these years. And now these crooks want to fabricate charges against me.”

  “What charges?”

  “They want to implicate me in selling human organs. Can you believe that? There are gangs selling human organs. They have entire networks and there were stories about it in newspapers, but that’s all linked to the hospitals. We have nothing to do with that, because organs have to be harvested from the body within a few hours.”

  “Why are they accusing you, then?”

  “Someone somewhere wants to make some money, and they just want a bribe to stop harassing me.”

  “I’m sorry. You of all people don’t deserve this. I hope it works out.”

  “Whatever God wills will happen. This is my destiny and if you are destined to leave, then you will leave. I wish you the very best. But why don’t you pray? I bet you these nightmares will go away.”

  “God has yet to guide me to the right path. Plus, my nightmares are really something else.”

  He shook his head and laughed. I gave him the keys to the mghaysil and we agreed that he would send me the rent in Amman. As we hugged and kissed goodbye, I asked him to take care of Mahdi.

  “I’ll treat him like a son,” he said.

  FIFTY-TWO

  The earth was a carpet of sleeping sand stretching from horizon to horizon, nothing disrupting it except the highway on which cars escaped from hell to the unknown. We were part of a convoy of four GMC station wagons. We started out early in the morning so as to avoid the desert darkness that might make us easy prey for the thieves and to make sure we reached the Jordanian border before sunset.

  Abu Hadi, our driver, was in his late thirties. He had short black hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. He was overdressed and wore his sunglasses even before the sun was strong. Like all other drivers he had a gun that he hid under the seat before we left. I sat next to him. The other passengers were a man in his fifties and his wife and three daughters. The eldest was seventeen, the youngest about eight or nine. They were all veiled. The girls spent most of the trip asleep. The father exchanged short conversations with his wife about the food they had brought along. The father had hesitated at first when he saw that I, a strange man, was coming along, but Abu Hadi lied, saying that I was his cousin, and that calmed him.

  Abu Hadi was silent most of the trip. I was left with my thoughts and worries as I reviewed my options in Amman and the potential consequences of this trip. Every now and again Abu Hadi uttered a few short sentences telling us how many hours of travel remained.

  I knew that obtaining permanent residency in Amman was almost impossible. According to the latest restriction, only those who could deposit a hundred thousand dollars in a Jordanian bank were awarded residency. I di
dn’t have even one tenth of that. As for getting a visa or asylum elsewhere, that too was quite difficult. Professor al-Janabi had promised in his last e-mail to help me get settled in the first few weeks. I had his address and phone number.

  It was too dangerous to carry a lot of cash, so I arranged with my sister to transfer what I had saved in the last two years to a bank in Jordan once I got settled there. Getting into Jordan wasn’t always guaranteed.

  I felt a bit hungry and reached into the small bag I’d put between my feet and opened the plastic bag inside it. My mother had insisted on making me the walnut-and-date-filled klaycha I liked, filling a whole bag with them. I had brought along a few other things and the book on Mesopotamian creation myths. I had packed one big suitcase. It was tough to decide what to take and what to leave behind. I took plenty of winter clothes, because I had heard that Amman’s winter was severe. I also took two photo albums, which contained many of my photographs from my academy years, as well as of my own works and sketches. And I packed some of my notebooks.

  The night before, when I came down the stairs carrying the suitcase to put it next to the door, my mother asked whether I needed help. She leaned on the wall and put her right hand on her cheek and said: “I still can’t believe that you’re leaving.” She started to cry.

  I hugged her. “You can come visit me in Amman or wherever I end up. I will visit.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’ll never come back.”

  She had tried to dissuade me from leaving for the last few days, but I had made up my mind and told her that I couldn’t go on as I had been, that I was suffocating and dying. I left the suitcase by the door to pick it up the next morning before leaving. I gave my mother enough money for a year, and we went to my sister’s new house in Karrada. I wasn’t going to let my mother stay alone at her age and in these circumstances.