The Long Way Back

by Fuad al-Takarli

  His voice was dry and uncertain. Midhat didn’t answer. He asked for another bottle of beer and Husayn shouted to Uwanis, who came hurrying over. It relieved the tension to hear himself calling out, and that was good.

  “I respect your position, Husayn,” Midhat continued. “It’s not for me to say where you went wrong. Maybe I understand your weakness and some of your behavior. But lying to me, you know, that’s what I can’t take. Why do you pretend you’ve had these intellectual and spiritual adventures, when you know very well you’re making them all up? I want to know what you’ve suffered from this sordid life, how people treat you, what abuse you’ve had. The ignominies of life. I want to know if you understand, if you’re in control, if you know what’s happening to you.”

  Husayn’s mouth was dry, his jaw mysteriously slack. Abu Shakir and Abu Nazim interrupted their conversation to stare at the two of them. Husayn didn’t know what to answer, how to react. Midhat smoked indifferently, as if he was alone.

  “Why are you insulting me, Midhat?” he asked finally “I love you like a brother.”

  Midhat took a deep breath: “I couldn’t insult you, Husayn. You know that very well. On the contrary I want to respect you, I want to feel you’ve got some hope. But, as I said before, don’t try and deceive yourself or me. I haven’t got time for that kind of thing, Husayn. I’ve got problems too, which I wanted to discuss with you.”

  These words cheered Husayn up. They seemed sincere somehow. He stood up and kissed Midhat on the head.

  “You’re my brother, Midhat. And you know what I’m like better than I do.”

  “Everything all right, people?” called Abu Shakir. “Nothing wrong, I hope.”

  “That’s right,” Abu Nazim chimed in.

  “Nothing wrong,” said Husayn. “Why should there be? We’re brothers. We’re from the same family. Your good health, my friends.”

  Husayn was not ashamed, but he wished he was in bed in his lonely room or squatting in the steam-filled public baths, pouring hot water over his shoulders. Perhaps then he’d forget what had been said to him, stop thinking about his past and what ought to be done. Midhat had genuinely wanted to help him in his trouble, and he didn’t know how to tell him that there was no point.

  He and Midhat drank slowly, without talking. He sensed that Midhat wasn’t going to stay much longer and chose to keep quiet so as not to annoy him again.

  “Brother Husayn,” said Abu Shakir. “Who’s your good-looking friend?”

  Abu Nazim choked with laughter and Abu Shakir joined in. Husayn smiled and looked warily at Midhat. He saw he was busy with his thoughts, not entirely with them. He wanted to unwind a bit by sharing a joke with the other two, but a new arrival spoilt his plan. He was tall, tieless, and his shiny black hair fell carelessly on his forehead.

  “Good evening,” he said and remained standing in the middle of the room, when he saw there was no place for him to sit.

  “Evening,” shouted Husayn. “Hello, Adnan. Hello!”

  “Hello. We were just wondering where you were,” said Abu Shakir.

  Adnan stepped back and called loudly, “Abu Kamal. A chair please.”

  “Come and sit here if you want,” said Husayn, pulling an empty barrel out from behind his own.

  Adnan shook his head, then noticed Midhat and stepped away from the table again. “How are you, Mr. Midhat?”

  Husayn thought he detected a slight catch in his voice.

  “Fine, thank you, Adnan. And you?”

  “Very well.”

  Uwanis arrived carrying a wicker chair which Adnan took and placed in the doorway.

  “A cold beer. A Diana. Quick, Abu Kamal.”

  “Coming up.”

  They exchanged greetings again, and Husayn finally took out his precious packet of cigarettes and offered them round. Midhat refused and sat watching Adnan curiously.

  “Why were you in such a hurry yesterday, Adnan?” Husayn asked him. “You could at least have given me a lift.”

  Adnan crossed one leg over the other. “I had things to do, Abu Suha.”

  Husayn felt his irritation mounting. Idiot! He thought a few dinars in his pocket gave him the right to look down on whomever he pleased.

  “You came to our house yesterday, Adnan,” said Midhat suddenly. “What did you want?”

  Adnan’s facade crumbled. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, uncrossed his legs, and put them together in front of him. “Yes, I did,” he answered hurriedly. “I came to ask Mun . . my aunt . . . They want my aunt back at the school in Baquba.”

  “What for? And what’s it to do with you?”

  He swallowed. Husayn saw him swallow. He hadn’t seen him like this before. Son of a bitch. He was as fidgety as a ewe.

  “My mother,” he stuttered. “My mother went to the school. It was nothing to do with me.”

  Uwanis came in carrying a bottle of beer, misty with condensation. Adnan snatched it from him and hurriedly poured its contents into his glass. The white foam rose to the top and ran down the sides.

  “No, no,” scolded the assembled company, “Do it slowly. It’s a shame to waste all that lovely beer!”

  Adnan plunged his lips into the glass and took a long draught, wetting the sides of his mouth and his moustache. Then he raised the glass: “Your health, everybody. Sorry. Your health.”

  “And yours. Cheerio!”

  They all drank. Midhat observed Adnan in silence, paying no attention to what was going on around him. Their racket did not distract him from his careful scrutiny. Husayn hoped he wouldn’t repeat his questions to Adnan. It created an uncomfortable atmosphere, and he didn’t understand their implications on the personal level.

  “What are you reading these days, Midhat?” he asked, trying to divert his attention.

  Midhat turned to him, but said nothing.

  “And the girls,” Husayn asked him again, “how are they doing at school, Suha and Sana?”

  “Well, both of them. Sana gets higher grades than Suha. She seems cleverer.”

  “Ah! Suha’s very clever too, though.”

  “Husayn. What’s wrong with you?” shouted Abu Shakir. “They’re your daughters. Don’t you know how they’re doing?”

  As Husayn picked up his glass and brought it to his lips, he had the crazy notion of hurling it and its contents at that lined, sunburned monkey face. He poured the cold arak down his throat and felt its heat exploding inside him and spreading through his body He wouldn’t answer. He turned to his right and looked at the wall, wiping his nose and mouth. He wouldn’t answer. He’d pretend he didn’t feel the pricks of conscience.

  “Don’t blame someone who doesn’t know you, doesn’t know about your life,” whispered Midhat.

  Husayn turned to Abu Shakir. His head spun more violently with each passing moment. He was afraid the time was approaching when he’d no longer be able to control himself. His own voice rang in his ears when he talked, and he slurred his words slightly: “Abu Shakir. We’re all from the same village. Each of us . . .” he coughed violently and made an expansive gesture with his arm which was meant to be obscene, “knowth—knows—his brothers.”

  He was controlling his tongue with some effort in order to be comprehensible.

  “That boy in Kuwait who you made a marriage contract with.” He raised his voice. “Where’s he gone? What’s become of him?”

  Adnan laughed uncontrollably. Red in the face, his hair falling over his forehead, his glass in his hand, he shouted, “Alas! Your health, everybody!”

  “Brother Husayn,” said Abu Shakir, “Why are you asking me, as if you didn’t know? Everybody’s free to do what they want. You and me included.” It looked as if a light had gone out in his sagging, wrinkled face. “Excuse me, everybody,” he continued, “I’m a human being. I don’t have any secrets, and it’s no business of mine what other people do. Everyone’s searching for happiness: Am I right or wrong? Is it any of my business if brother Husayn drinks day and night and can
’t see straight my more? If he chases women and falls over every ten seconds, what’s that to do with me? He’s enjoying himself and that’s his business. So what does it matter to him if I make a marriage contract with a girl, or even a boy? I’m minding my own business. Looking for something to lass the time, to make me happy True or false, my brothers?”

  Adnan’s laughter rang out again. Husayn noticed Midhat listening intently to this long-winded chatter. Rather than feeling angry he thought the whole situation was ridiculous. Abu Shakir was always like this when he’d had too much arak, not able to give a serious answer.

  “What do you mean by something to make you happy?” asked Midhat.

  Abu Shakir picked up his glass and drank from it slowly. “It’s like I said just now, brother. Something to make me happy. What I need. What I want deep down inside. What’s on my mind. You see, sir?”

  “A beautiful boy, of course! A handsome youth!” shouted Husayn. They all laughed. “But for your information, Abu Shakir,” Husayn went on, “I’ve never fallen over in the street. Why do you make up these stories about me?”

  “Brother Husayn, I’ve seen you with my own eyes.” He pointed to his dark glasses.

  “Ah! With those eagle eyes?” shouted Husayn. “That settles it then.”

  In the brief silence that followed, he was invaded by the image of that strange girl who had appeared in the street in front of him out of nowhere. Brown-skinned with black hair and dark eyes, she had been no more than twenty years old. He had followed her into a shop. She had been dressed in white brocade and had a couple of women with her. When he saw her he’d been tired after a long day’s work and a boring get-together with colleagues, and felt hungry and uncertain what to do next. And he had found in her young face with its strange allure an indescribable peace. He would have liked to contemplate it forever, drown in the sea of those bewitching eyes for all eternity. He had got close to her several times, but she had moved away again. He’d been able to tell from her accent that she wasn’t Kuwaiti. Her full lips were accentuated with dark lipstick and her black hair fell heavily on her shoulders and hung down her back. He had wanted to touch her. Those delicate brown fingers, kohl-rimmed eyes, the movements of her head. This longing had seemed out of the ordinary to him, despite his craving for sex. His attraction to her had stemmed from something more profound than a desire for a few minutes of pleasure. She had seemed like an embodiment of his highest feelings towards women, an encounter with his sweetest dreams about love. Then when he was almost touching her, he had caught sight of his reflection in a big mirror: pale, unshaven, sallow and lost-looking, and had been shocked at the sudden appearance of this specter in front of him.

  Abu Nazim started talking again: “I said to them, where am I going to get food for you, you bastards? They said to me, if you want us to die of hunger, fine. If not, get hold of some food for us. What a mess! There were five ordinary policemen and me, the newly commissioned officer in charge. It’s an old story, mind you. Could have been twenty years ago. No, fifteen or sixteen maybe. I told them to come with me. We were in the desert, and it was a week since any food had reached us from Samarra. We were marching in the desert, fully armed. I sat and thought for a long time. How could I get hold of some food for them? They were capable of anything if they were starving. In the distance I saw a cloud of dust, a big cloud of sand coming towards us. I ordered them to halt and said, ‘You wait there, I’m going on ahead.’ I knew what the cloud of dust was: a flock of sheep. When it was in my sights, I fired and hit the first sheep. It fell at once. The herdsman—some bedouin—came towards me, signaling with his cloak and yelling, ‘Friend! Friend!’ Bastard. I told them to fire a few shots in the air. And sure enough, that made him wrap his cloak around him and run. What else could we have done. We took one or two sheep and left the rest. The point is ...”

  When Husayn had recovered from the shock of seeing himself in the mirror, she had gone. He had run after her in a state of agitation and tripped and fallen flat in the shop’s narrow doorway. He’d never seen her again.

  “Why are you so quiet, Husayn?” Midhat asked.

  He roused himself from his reverie. In the small, smoke-filled room people were hardly talking.

  “Would you like another quarter of arak?”

  “No thanks, Midhat. I’ve had my fair share today But you have a drink. Do you want a beer?”

  He called Uwanis without waiting for an answer. Adnan was drinking slowly with two empty beer bottles in front of him. He noticed Abu Shakir watching him and didn’t pay any attention. He knew Abu Shakir couldn’t hurt a fly, but all the same he had not relished his reference to his daughters,

  “I met a bear cracking nuts, I killed the bear and ate the nuts,” bellowed Abu Shakir suddenly, breaking the silence.

  Abu Nazim turned to him: “What’s that, Abu Shakir?”

  “A tongue-twister, Abu Nazim. Can you say it quickly?”

  He repeated, dragging out the words, “I met—a bear—cracking nuts. See? I killed the bear—and ate the nuts. Do you see how it goes, my brothers?”

  Adnan roared with laughter: “I’d like to see you killing a bear!”

  “It’s a tongue-twister, I told you. I didn’t kill a bear. I didn’t even see a bear. The point is, can you recite it fast? I met a bear . ..”

  Adnan interrupted him, planting himself in front of him, tall, his shirt open to reveal his chest. “I . . .” He stopped for a moment. He looked as if he enjoyed saying that word. He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I, sir, can lead you to the bear’s den. Would you like to know where it is?”

  Abu Shakir and Abu Nazim were watching him with a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity while Midhat looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

  “Do you know where the bear is, sir?” demanded Adnan. He made a vague expansive gesture with his arm. “Over there. In Bab al-Muazzam.”

  “Don’t let’s talk about politics,” said Abu Nazim. “We don’t want anything to do with that kind of bear.”

  “Is he talking about the president?” asked Abu Shakir anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” replied Abu Nazim. “Didn’t you understand? Has your brain stopped working?”

  Adnan continued to stand there stiffly, waving his arms, his face covered in sweat and an odd smile on his face. “That bear, sir. That’s the one we have to kill.”

  “When the lion gets old, the jackals mock him,” murmured Abu Shakir.

  “What?” roared Adnan. “We’re not jackals, sir. Don’t you know who you’re talking to?”

  “Sorry, sorry. I was talking about myself Nothing to do with you.”

  “What’s wrong with you? We’re defending honorable citizens like you. And you ought to stand up for your rights. Yours and mine. They’re the same. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with me. But you can’t expect miracles from an old donkey That’s all.”

  “Don’t talk like that, my friend. You don’t represent the people. We . . .”

  “We? Who are you, anyway?” interrupted Abu Nazim all of a sudden.

  Adnan brought his arm slowly down to his side. “Who are we?” His eyes narrowed, and he looked as if he was about to launch into a speech. Then he made a disparaging face and turned away. “You’ll be hearing about us soon.”

  With a sharp, sidelong glance at Midhat, he vanished behind the curtain into the front shop.

  They sat in silence after he had gone. They heard him settling up with Uwanis and going out into the street. He’d never spoken to them like this before: sarcastically, but stupidly too, acting as if he knew a secret which no one else knew. Midhat lit a cigarette and took a long swig of beer.

  “Do you know this lad, Husayn?” asked Abu Nazim.

  Husayn nodded. The heat was getting on his nerves and affecting in more than Adnan had.

  Abu Nazim turned to Abu Shakir. “See, they know him. He’s nothing to do with us.”

  “Yes, right. D’you know what the t
ime is, Abu Nazim?”

  “Ten thirty-five. Let’s go.”

  “Yes, right.”

  In unison they emptied their glasses, stood up, muttered their farewells and left, all of this done quickly and quietly.

  Husayn wiped the sweat from his face and neck. Midhat was smoking in silence, apparently unaffected by the amount he had drunk. Husayn himself was not pleased at the way things had turned out and e words that had been spoken. He had initially felt stimulated, but en the usual euphoria hadn’t followed. He’d drunk his accustomed amount but it hadn’t made his head spin or taken his cares away. His damned bad luck! He picked up his glass and found it was empty and quickly put it down again. He wanted to say something sincere and meaningful to Midhat, something central to his life and his past. There is a heavy silence between them.

  “I’m sorry, Midhat,” he said. “I thought we’d be able to sit quietly for While and have a talk.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Another time.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “This guy Adnan,” Midhat exhaled simultaneously “what type of person is he? Does he have contacts—or it something else?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Why?”

  “He says odd things.”

  “It’s all rubbish. Kids’ talk. Things he’s heard.”

  “Maybe. But they must have had some basis this time.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Midhat extinguished his cigarette. “I don’t know exactly. There’s definitely something in the air. It seems out friend Karim Qasim won’t survive until this time next year.”

  “What do you mean? Is there really some connection between the things Adnan says and the future of the president? That would be too much.”

  Midhat waved his hand vaguely and didn’t answer. He took a drink. It crossed Husayn’s mind to order another arak. There was an oppressive silence again.

  “Look, Midhat,” he said. “I want to tell you something. I don’t know how I got into this situation. Don’t say I’m drunk. I’m not. But nothing’s clear in my mind. I’m like a stone thrown from a mountaintop. Perhaps I always will be. How did it happen? I mean, does there have to be a hidden reason for all this?”