Fuad al-Takarli
Translated by
Catherine Cobham
The American University in Cairo Press
English translation copyright © 2001 by
The American University in Cairo Press
113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt
420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018
www.aucpress.com
Copyright © 1980 by Fuad al-Takarli
First published in Arabic in 1980 as al-Raj‘ al-ba‘id
Protected under the Berne Convention
First paperback edition 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Dar el Kutub No. 3056/07
ISBN 978 161 797 191 4
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Designed by the AUC Press Design Center/Moody M. Youssef
Printed in Egypt
Translator’s
Note
The action of The Long Way Buck is focused mainly on an old house in the Bab al-Shaykh area of Baghdad where the author himself was born in 1927. Four generations of the same family live in this house which is built around a courtyard open to the sky. Overhanging the yard on the first floor is a gallery, and the rooms of the various members of the family open on to it, as does the large alcove where they gather to eat and drink tea. Bab al-Shaykh is an important part of old Baghdad situated around the famous mosque of Abd al-Qadir al-Kilani (al-Jilani), with its big dome, minarets, and chiming clock. The quarter is bounded by two gates, one opening into Kilani Street and the other into the opposite end of Bab al-Shaykh, near the Kurdish quarter, where some of the events in the novel take place.
These events, although they concern the individual dramas and preoccupations of the characters, are set in a very precise historical context in Iraq between 1962 and 1963. The modern state of Iraq was founded in 1920 in the aftermath of the 1914-18 war as a constitutional monarchy under indirect British control. A group of military officers seized power in 1958 and overthrew the monarchy, bringing an end to the old political order. This revolution was led by Abd al-Karim Qasim who governed Iraq for the next five years, until he was overthrown on 8 February, 1963, which fell in the month of Ramadan that year, by a Baathist-Nasserite-Arab nationalist junta. Qasim took refuge in the Ministry of Defense for twenty-four hours, but was executed the next day. The Baathists fell out with the Nasserites and other Arab nationalists nine months later but finally returned to power in 1968. The character Adnan in the novel belongs to the Baath party, as is clear from numerous indications in the text.
The Kurdish quarter was a poor area in the northwest of Baghdad, inhabited mainly by Kurds and Shia Muslims. In 1963 its inhabitants were known to be leftists and communists who supported Abd al-Karim Qasim, and following the overthrow of Qasim it was blockaded and shelled by the nationalists and Baathists, and all those inside were killed or arrested.
The novel has a somewhat unusual publishing history. The Iraqi censor asked the author to cut out the character of Adnan. The author naturally refused and sent the manuscript to Dar Ibn Rushd in Beirut, who agreed to publish it in 1980, incidentally at the beginning of the Iran-Iraq war. Subsequently the novel was distributed in Iraq without the censor appearing to notice.
In 1989 Dar al-Adab in Beirut offered to republish the novel on better quality paper with a clearer typeface if the author would simplify the Iraqi dialogue in it to make it accessible to a broader readership. He agreed to this and the novel was republished in 1993 when it aroused the interest of a new generation of readers and critics. Despite the simplification of the dialogue in the more recent version of the novel, the nuances and variations of usage and register remain as strong indications of the generational, educational, and regional background of the characters, giving it an imaginative dimension that is inevitably reduced in English translation. Although it is not the purpose of this note to analyze the novel’s technique or subject matter, a passing reference should be made to its polyphonic structure, of which much has been written elsewhere. In the author’s view this multiplicity of voices and perspectives was inevitable, given the nature of the content. He started writing the novel in 1966, when he was in Paris studying law, and continued writing it for the next eleven years while he was working full-time as a judge in Iraq. In his words, he conceived of its structure with the specific aim of “implicating the reader, trying to construct a world which moves within each reader,” although his postscript to the novel is a poignant or ironic counter to such aspirations. Nevertheless, the exquisitely skillful building-up of the overlapping but conflicting worlds of the characters within a brief and clearly determined period of recent history is a bold, intelligent, and profound portrayal of the ambiguous strengths and weaknesses of Iraqi and wider Arab culture and tradition, which has yet to be surpassed. Its language is sometimes vividly pungent, sometimes elegant, and sometimes delicate and lyrical. In addition, the dramatization of the relationships between generations, social groups, and men and women is achieved with a mixture of humor, bitter irony, and compassion which identifies it as a great work of art, regardless of its provenance.
Fuad al-Takarli was born in Baghdad and graduated in law from Baghdad University in 1949. He worked in the Ministry of Justice and was made a judge in 1956 and rose to be head of the Court of Appeal in Baghdad. In 1983, he resigned from this post to devote himself to writing. He studied law in Paris from 1964 to 1966 and lived briefly in Paris again during the 1980s. Since 1990 he has lived in Tunis. In 2000, he was awarded the prestigious Owais Prize for the Arabic Novel.
He published his first short story in Beirut in 1951 and his first collection in Baghdad in 1960. Since then he has published a number of short stories and one-act plays and, as well as three novels, most recently al-Masarrat wa al-awjaa (1998). A new collection of short stories is forthcoming.
The Long Way Back (al-Raj’al-ba’id) was first published in Beirut in 1980 and a revised version was published there in 1993. A French translation of the novel was published in 1985 (Les voix de l’aube, J-C Lattes). Al-Takarli’s short stories have been translated into a number of languages, including French, Spanish, Croatian, and English, but this is his first novel to be translated into English.
I would like to thank Fuad al-Takarli for all his help and encouragement over the years since I first read al-Raj’ al-ba’id and wanted to translate it; Ronak Husni of the University of Durham, UK, for many useful discussions on linguistic and cultural matters relating to the translation; and the Honeyman Foundation for a grant enabling me to visit Tunis for detailed consultations with the author in the final stages of the translation.
Chapter
One
The two of them walked slowly, crossing Kilani Street through the long shadows, and began climbing the unpaved alley. Nuriya spoke to her granddaughter. “Don’t walk so fast, Sana dear.”
“All right, Bibi.”
It was shortly before sunset and the street was busy behind them, but a light breeze carried the noise away. They managed to see where they were walking, although the streetlights hadn’t come on yet and the faces of the passers-by were indistinct.
“This bread’s very hot,” said the little girl.
“May God always bless us with bread.”
“God willing, Bibi.”
“Good girl. That’s the way to talk. Never let God’s name be far from your lips.”
“No, Bibi.”
The bag of fruit and eggs and vegetables was heavy, and Nuriya found it harder to breathe with every step, as the road continued t
o rise steeply. She slowed down and changed the bag over to her other hand and noticed the little girl staggering under the weight of the bottle of milk and rounds of hot bread.
“Shall we rest for a bit, Bibi?” the little girl asked. “You’re tired.”
“No, dear. It’s no distance to the house.”
It was then that she saw him coming round the corner of the next alley, tall, broad-chested, walking unsteadily She was surprised she could recognize anybody in this forest of shadows, especially someone she had thought was far away.
“Stop, Sana, dear. I want to have a rest.”
“All right, Bibi. I said you were tired.”
He stumbled violently and almost collided with the wall, but recovered his balance at the last minute. She heard him cough and saw his whole body shake. It was for the best if the little girl didn’t see him. What freak wind had brought him back from Kuwait? He stopped to light a cigarette. The smoke rose in the air behind him as he walked on, his head up but his gait strangely uneven, as if he’d had a blow to the temple.
“Bibi, this bread’s really hot.”
“Yes, dear, I know Let’s go now.”
She watched him walking away and thought he could have been anybody Who could tell, this monstrosity might outlive them all! It was possible the little girl hadn’t noticed him, but he was as stubborn as a mule, moving forward a few steps, only to come to a halt again. She busied herself with her bag of shopping and, trying to catch her breath, began to speak to distract Sana. “Yes, dear. Never let God’s name be far from your lips. You can give me the bread if you like. I’ll carry it for you.”
“No, Bibi. I’ll manage.”
“Good girl. Come on, let’s go.”
And off they went again.
“Last night I had a dream, Granny, but I’ve forgotten it now. I told Suha about it in the morning and she said I shouldn’t have dreams. Why shouldn’t I, Bibi? Because I’m younger than her? Why does that mean I shouldn’t have dreams? Anyway, whenever I go to sleep I ask God to let me have a nice dream. Better than Suha’s.”
Then she pushed open the door of the house with her foot and hurried in. Nuriya cast a last glance at the figure weaving its way along close to the wall, then followed her granddaughter inside. She hoped Sana would carry on chattering as they walked along the dark, narrow passage, but the little girl was silent, paying close attention to where she was putting her feet.
“Look out for the creepy-crawlies, dear.”
“Yes, Bibi. I’m scared of the dark.”
“No you’re not. Why would a sensible girl like you be afraid of the dark?”
The big inner door squeaked loudly as they pushed it open, and the noise of the house surged up to meet them.
Nuriya heaved a sigh of relief as her feet struck the familiar bricks of the courtyard and she watched the little girl hurry towards the kitchen. She heard her daughter Madiha calling her from the first floor.
“Who’s there? Mother? Sana?”
“Yes, Mum. It’s us,” answered the little girl.
Nuriya sank down on to a low chair in a corner of the kitchen and put her shopping bag on the floor. She was tired from the long walk and felt vaguely uneasy. What had he come here for, and why now? She watched Sana opening a large pot and stacking the discs of bread inside it, then going towards the fridge with the bottle of milk. Perhaps they’d thrown him out of the company when they’d discovered what he was really like, but was he going to go through the same farce with the family all over again? Madiha called her once more from the upstairs gallery. “Mum, Mum. Where are you? Are you in the kitchen?”
“Yes. Why don’t you come down?”
“I’m coming.”
All the noise was from the room where the old women sat—Nuriya’s mother and sister-in-law. They were constantly squabbling about nothing. Madiha’s tall, full figure appeared dimly at the foot of the stairs.
“Switch on the light, Madiha,” Nuriya called out to her.
Her daughter paused for a moment, then the kitchen doorway was flooded with light.
Nuriya got up to put the eggs in the fridge and noticed her granddaughter was no longer there.
“Where’s Sana?” she asked.
“Upstairs,” answered Madiha, then went on hurriedly, “Come on, Mum, please. Let’s make dinner quickly. They’ve been pestering me for two hours now.”
“Who? Your aunt?”
“My aunt and my grandmother. For the past hour Aunt Safiya’s been saying, Ί can smell kebab, dear,’ and my grandmother’s got fantasies about mutton broth.”
Nuriya lit the small gas cooker.
“They’re only getting fried eggs and spinach,” she said. “Is your father home?”
Madiha sat down on the vacant chair. Her mother thought she seemed tired. “Is your father back?” she asked again.
“Mum, is it true you saw Husayn when you were out?” asked Madiha, pushing some strands of black hair off her forehead with a gesture which confirmed her weariness to her mother.
So the child had noticed after all. “Did Sana tell you?” she asked. “I thought I’d stopped her seeing him. He seemed drunk. He’s nothing to do with us any more.”
“I know.” Madiha let out a long sigh.
Her mother was silent, sensing that although Madiha was her daughter she couldn’t speak her mind about Husayn.
“I knew he wasn’t going to stay in Kuwait long,” Madiha went on Madiha. “Since Abd al-Karim Qasim said Kuwait belongs to us, things have got worse for Iraqis over there. And that just suits Husayn. It’s hot in Kuwait, and there’s nothing to drink. What would he stay for?”
Nuriya was busy taking food out of the fridge to make the dinner. She turned to her daughter. “He’s nothing to do with us. It’s two years since that man left you and the children. He hasn’t sent you any money, he’s never dropped you a line. You’ve had no news at all. You don’t know where you stand. Do you think such behavior’s acceptable to the Lord?”
Madiha sighed heavily “Yes, Mum, I know. That’s what I’m saying.”
The two women heard a quavering voice from above: “Nuriya. Nuriya, my dear. Are you going to make the food? Your Aunt Safiya’s faint with hunger. She says she wants some hot bread, two shish kebabs, vegetables, and pickles.”
“She’s at it again. Give me strength,” said Madiha. “That’s Granny. Auntie’s sent her to see what’s happening. What is it, Bibi?” she called.
This time the voice was gentle and imploring. “My dear little Madiha, your Auntie wants kebab and I’ll be happy with mutton broth for my dinner. You can put it all on a tray, and I’ll send Sana to fetch it. Hurry up, Madiha, and may God send your little girls’ father home to you!”
Nuriya went out of the kitchen and called up to her mother. “Why do you keep going on, Mother? There’s only eggs and spinach, and we’re all going to sit down and eat when Abu Midhat comes home.” Then she turned back to Madiha. “Where is your father, for God’s sake? And Midhat and Karumi? Where are they all?”
“Father’s still out, and Midhat’s on the terrace.”
From above the same voice grumbled, “This is so unfair! Oh well, I suppose those who’ve eaten their fill don’t know what it’s like to be hungry, Did you hear what they’re saying? There’s nothing to eat! There’s no dinner! All those lovely smells that keep wafting up to us, and they say there’s nothing to eat! No kebabs, no mutton broth!”
“Be patient,” said a sharp voice from inside the upstairs room.
“Mum, they’re going to make such a scene if we don’t shut them up,” said Madiha. “Why don’t you go away? I’ll get the food ready.”
“Where would I go to? Your father will be back soon and then we’ll make the dinner. Where’s Karumi gone?”
Her daughter let her hands drop between her knees and stared at the floor dejectedly “I really don’t know, but he seems very busy these days. He goes out every afternoon and doesn’t come back till after midnight. I’ve no
idea what he can be doing.”
Nuriya’s heart gave a faint lurch. Was there something going on in the house that she didn’t know about, even though it concerned her younger son? “What do you mean, Madiha? What’s wrong with him? I haven’t noticed anything. Perhaps he just likes to go and study with Fuad. Has he said anything to you?”
“No. Why should he? If they’re studying for the exams already, then that’s fine.”
They heard the sound of heavy footsteps as someone came along the passage.
“There’s your father. Give me the frying pan, Madiha dear. I’ll fry the eggs.”
As she got to her feet, her daughter whispered to her, “Mum, don’t say anything to Dad about Husayn. Perhaps it’ll all blow over.”
She said nothing for a moment, then answered, “God willing. God willing.”
The main door squeaked, and her husband was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Good evening, everybody.”
“You’re late, Abu Midhat. It must have been some funeral!”
He took off his black sidara cap and sat down on the chair. “It was the last day of the wake. They wanted to keep me there for dinner but I declined. I didn’t like the way those boys were behaving. There was a steady stream of people paying their respects but they couldn’t take their eyes off the door, hoping someone from the government would come to offer their condolences. Weren’t we good enough for them, for God’s sake? Since when have they had connections in the government?”
“It’s not their fault,” she replied, taking the eggs and the pan from her daughter.
He mopped his brow and turned to talk to Madiha. “Where are the children? How is it I can’t hear a sound out of them?”
“I left them upstairs doing their homework. They’ve got a test tomorrow.”
He got to his feet. “I’ll go up and see them. Where’s Midhat?” Without waiting for an answer, he trudged off towards the stairs,
The lighted rings on the cooker gave off an uncomfortable heat, and the cooking pots and the smoking fat in the big frying pan grumbled and whispered to one another. Nuriya was aware of her daughter standing in a corner of the kitchen in the shadows, near where the white plates were kept neatly stacked. She turned to look at her. Slowly, with a distracted air, Madiha was wiping some glass object. She didn’t want to say anything, but she couldn’t help it. “What’s wrong, dear?”
The Long Way Back Page 1
