The Baghdad Clock Page 8

  ‘Shuruq.’

  ‘A lovely name!’ He looked in her eyes and added, ‘Miss Shuruq, keep walking on your way in the opposite direction, and I will follow you. I want to speak with you a little, if you don’t mind?’

  She changed directions, crossed the street, and waited for him there, thinking about the enchanting way he mispronounced the letter ‘r’ in her name.

  She walked with him that day until evening, forgetting she had to return home. She nearly melted in front of him. Her femininity exploded, and her body was burning under her clothes.

  Khalil was not a flirtatious type of man. At that stage of his life, he was looking to settle down with a suitable wife. And on that day, he had come across Shuruq. He never thought of exploiting her obvious moment of weakness before him. He spoke to her openly about marriage, the future and children.

  That day was actually her birthday. Never before in her life had she felt so happy.

  After two or three meetings, he decided to make an official proposal. He asked her to pick an appropriate time for him to visit her family. Shuruq’s parents, however, did not want her to think about marriage at all; she had to complete her final year of studies before she could consider it. Shuruq lived through a hard year of study. She wanted the days to go by faster than they did, but time and love are a complicated equation. When we are in love, time moves as fast as a train. But when waiting for love, the lazy minutes creep by, dragging themselves along as if on the way to bed for a long sleep.

  Shuruq finally graduated from university, and she and Khalil had agreed on the following Sunday as a date for their engagement. That was when the soothsayer appeared and ruined her happiness.

  She touched her belly again. The foetus she imagined moving inside her made her happy. But she quickly broke into sobs when she remembered that he would come into this world without knowing his father.

  She felt boxed in by the stuffy air in the room. She put her mother’s abaya over her head and went out to the street without asking her family’s permission as she always did when going the market or visiting her friends in the neighbouring streets.

  She walked towards the main street without having decided yet where she would stop. Then she turned and went back. The soothsayer appeared before her in a bus driver’s uniform. She hurried up to him and blocked his path in order to speak to him, but he did not recognise her. It seemed as though he found her behaviour odd. He took a step back and asked in surprise, ‘What’s the matter, miss?

  ‘I want you to tell me the truth!’

  ‘What truth are you talking about, my daughter?’

  ‘Don’t try to get away! I know you perfectly. Even your voice is the same.’

  Before saying a single word, he put his right hand on his forehead and fell silent for several moments as he contemplated her face. A red bus stopped beside him. He climbed aboard, and it carried him quickly away. He smiled at her through the window and was gone.

  Biryad came and licked her heel. She looked at the dog panting before her as though he were trying to say, ‘Come on!’

  Biryad walked in front of her. Shuruq followed until he stopped in front of her house. She went inside without closing the door behind her.

  16

  We saw Ahmad ahead of us, carrying his schoolbooks in one hand, without a book bag. He had a lit cigarette between his fingers, and wisps of smoke rose from his nose to form circles that surged above his head, spreading through the cold air. This was the first time we had seen him smoking.

  He walked towards us, and when he had come close, he took a quick drag from his cigarette and threw it on the ground, putting it out with his shoe.

  ‘Nadia, would it be possible for me to see you at the Baghdad Clock?’

  Nadia was afraid on account of her family. She did not want to create new problems for herself at home or at school. But she was dying to see Ahmad, and a long time had passed without a meeting. She asked my advice, and without thinking I told her, ‘Go!’

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’m afraid.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘But it’s going to rain in a little while.’

  ‘Nadia, don’t be silly. Rain has nothing to do with it.’

  Nadia smiled. Nadia, who always used to say she liked the rain, liked clouds, and liked listening to music during a rainfall when we were little. I think it was when we were in our third year at school that she went out one evening with her family for a drive, and it happened that they were caught in a shower during the trip. Later that day, when she got back, she told me, ‘The car’s windscreen wipers were the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my whole life. The radio was playing beautiful music, the most beautiful I’ve ever heard. Drops of water were collecting on the glass. The wipers moved quickly, gathering the drops together, and the water ran down the sides of the car like a little waterfall. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my entire life.’

  That was a beautiful thing. Indeed, the most beautiful thing Nadia had seen in her life. Whenever rain fell on our car windows, and the wipers came on, I would see it with Nadia’s eyes. There are many things in this world we love through the eyes of others. We love them through the eyes of the people we love. The rain, the windows, the music and the wipers are a perfect example of that kind of thing.

  That was the first date between Nadia and Ahmad that took place without me. Farouq was out of the country in Argentina with the youth national team, and my presence with her when she met Ahmad was no longer necessary. She would skip school and meet him. She did not need me to be her alibi with her mother. But the next day, she would use me as a witness before the deputy head to invent a new story explaining where she had been.

  ‘Ma’am, perhaps Nadia has got engaged and is too embarrassed to say.’ That was the latest excuse that I used those days. I had given many excuses previously, some of which the deputy head believed, and some of which she did not. But in any case, she would always smile.

  The news of Nadia’s engagement, which I had invented for the deputy head, spread to the teachers, and from there it passed by some quick means into the mouths of the students and was transformed into a song specifically about Nadia.

  Truly, you’re engaged, little lady; truly he loves you true.

  Baydaa sang in the classroom with her enchanting voice while the other girls kept the beat on their desks with their fingertips. Meanwhile, one of the girls kept watch on the hallway through the half-closed door, even as she drummed on it with her fingers.

  Wijdan climbed up on a desk and danced like someone intoxicated. Encouraged by her example, girls jumped onto their chairs in the moment of madness that the rumour created. The sound of drumming rose, hips shook and chaos reigned. An irate Ms Arwa banged on the door of the classroom, and in the briefest moment order was restored. She looked around at our faces, one by one, taking pride in our surprised silence as we sat down, motionless wooden statues. Ms Arwa’s lips started to smile, and then she burst into laughter and left. Baydaa resumed singing in a low voice. Wijdan stopped dancing when Nadia herself arrived. When Nadia danced, everyone had to make way for her.

  That evening, our youth national team was playing against the Canadian team in Argentina. The streets of our neighbourhood were empty as everyone sat in front of the television. In the twenty-third minute of the match, Farouq scored a goal, driving the ball into the Canadian team’s net. In front of the television cameras, he ripped off his shiny black jersey adorned with the Iraqi flag to show a map of Iraq drawn over his heart. The entire neighbourhood emptied into the street. The kids, followed by Biryad, gathered at the door of Umm Farouq’s house chanting, ‘This is how the besieged play! This is how the besieged play!’

  When their national team puts a goal in the opponent’s net, we are the only people in this entire world who weep.

  17

  One of the things about Biryad that never ceased to surprise Uncle Shawkat and the
whole neighbourhood was that the colour of his tail was white, unlike the colour of his body, which was black. It made him look quite odd. Our neighbourhood did not have much knowledge of dogs so we did not know whether this happened naturally with other dogs or whether it was specific to this strange dog that had become part of our lives.

  ‘Old age makes inroads on dogs from the tail, and on cats from the ears!’ That was something Abu Hussam declared with great certainty to a group of his friends as they sat together for their daily session in front of Abu Nabil’s shop. One of the boys overheard this conversation, and he spread its contents to his friends, with several additions of course. Instantly, this theory became established as a firm scientific truth that brooked no dissent. To add to our conviction of its accuracy, we began watching the ears of cats to notice any changes that happened to them as they got older. By pure coincidence, the ears of the cats in our neighbourhood did turn white.

  That week, with the usual sign that we all knew, Biryad urinated in front of two houses. One of the families emigrated in the middle of the week, and the second family made preparations to do so. The final decision had been made, and all that remained was to carry it out. This discouraging news left traces of sadness on everyone’s face. A family’s emigration from the neighbourhood was no less painful than the amputation of a limb from the body.

  Wijdan’s family emigrated that week. Widjan left, her sister Samah left, and so did her sister Tayiba and their brother Mahab. Their mother, Dr Safaa left, as did their father.

  The gate of their house was locked with an iron chain, and the keys were entrusted to Uncle Shawkat, along with a long letter that contained a message of farewell to the entire neighbourhood.

  In the midst of this sorrowful atmosphere, the soothsayer appeared in the street a second time. He had got rid of his beard entirely and wore a pair of dark glasses, the kind that blind people sometimes wear. He had altered his appearance in other ways too. One addition was a long cane he carried, not leaning upon it but rather waving it about in the air. He had an old book with a dog-eared cover under his arm. He walked with confident steps as he whistled ‘The Soul a Stranger’.

  News of his appearance spread quickly throughout the neighbourhood. Biryad went out to welcome him, followed by some of the women, each of whom invited him into her home. ‘God bless you! Come and visit us!’

  But this time, he preferred to go to Umm Mustafa’s house because he knew she would emigrate with her family in a few days. We all knew that too because Biryad had lifted his leg and urinated on their gate.

  Umm Mustafa brought a chair out into the garden for the soothsayer. He collapsed into it and stretched his legs out in front of him, waving his stick in the air. Women gathered around on all sides. The man cleared his throat. He looked at Umm Mustafa and thanked her for her hospitality. Then he said to her coldly, ‘I wish a happy trip for you and your family. Your stay in Jordan will be somewhat long, but don’t be afraid: after that, everything will be as it should. This is the last time I will see you. Arm yourself with patience, and be strong. Exile is a bitter medicine, but it must be drunk. Its taste will remain in your mouth until the end.’

  When Shuruq interrupted him with a sob, he gave her a malicious smile and said, ‘Happy future marriage! You’ve made your choice; it’s all over.’

  He did not look at her face again, as though to indicate that he had nothing left to say to her. Shuruq understood and left Umm Mustafa’s garden immediately, cursing in her heart the hour in which she first saw his face.

  The man told the women to calm down and sit in front of him on the grass. He put his right hand to his forehead as if to take his temperature and was silent for a couple minutes as he looked into the women’s faces. He opened his book and passed his eyes quickly over some of its pages. Then he closed the book and set it aside. He spoke with a voice that came straight from his chest, saying, ‘None of you has any future at all in this place.’

  Before any murmuring could break out, one of them – I am not sure which – asked the name of her eldest son. When the man answered, he also mentioned the name of the head of the household, along with the name of his father and grandfather. She opened her mouth in wonder at his remarkable ability to know these personal details even though she had had met him only once before, during the previous occasion in Umm Nawar’s house. Another woman asked the same question, and a similar answer came. The women sank into silence as they watched the dignified features of his face. He too fell quiet every time he touched his forehead.

  He told Umm Nadia, even before she asked, ‘You will emigrate with your family to Syria. Your only son, in turn, will leave you a year after you settle there to emigrate to Australia.’ She shook her head incredulously and asked him about Nadia’s future. The man gave a soothing smile to reassure her even as he avoided the details.

  He told Umm Farouq, ‘Your son will soon quit football and get married in a distant country. Your husband will come back to you after he has grown old and useless.’

  He informed Umm Baydaa about her emigration and the fate of her daughter. Then he turned to my mother and told her, ‘Your daughter will carry the neighbourhood with her wherever she goes, guarding it against oblivion.’

  The man felt his forehead and was quiet for two minutes. He focused again on my mother, who was thinking that moment about leaving Umm Mustafa’s house. As though he knew her intention, he made a commanding gesture with his cane to bid her stay a little longer. In a dramatic voice, he proclaimed, ‘Verily, the future to her shall be revealed!’

  He picked up his book and stood, neglecting his cane and using the back of his chair for support. He walked around the garden, and without focusing his gaze on any particular thing, he came to a halt behind the women, who all turned towards him, waiting for news of the unknown. He resumed looking at their faces, one after the other. ‘Oh!’ The sound emanated suddenly from his chest. He touched his forehead.

  ‘None of you has any future at all in this place,’ he repeated. He went on to add, ‘A man lives in this world with two fates. The first is his individual fate, and the second is his fate with his compatriots, for a man cannot live alone. But it is first necessary that he live, that he survive, that he exist. Then he will meet those with whom he will live.

  ‘When a ship is about to sink, the passenger on board thinks first about his individual fate, ignoring what happens to the others. Before anything else, he wants to save his own life, and he jumps into the lifeboat at the first opportunity. After reaching shore, he begins looking for the people with whom he will spend his life, but unfortunately, he fails, because he remains bound by the strength of memory to others, to those with whom he has developed a spiritual history. Therefore, he will remain an exile till the end. Do you really know what it means for a person to remain an exile till the end? That he abandons the mother tongue that has established its spiritual history within him. And that he spends the rest of his life contrary to the laws of this spirit. For that reason, exile is always an exile of the soul, an eternal distance between body and soul that rends a man’s being and throws him into the storm.’

  The soothsayer stopped where he was and began chanting the words of ‘The Soul a Stranger’. The trees, the birds and the air all echoed it back to him, and the place was filled with the sound. The melody stole inside everyone present and played upon their spirits. After the song ended, he looked at them with a half-smile on his face.

  ‘I know this neighbourhood is precious to your hearts. The memories in it are precious to your souls. The land whose air fills your lungs is the most valuable in this world. But what will you do when the ship is about to sink? You will spend what remains of your life aboard lifeboats rocked by violent waves in the middle of the oceans. There is no shore nearby to seek refuge, no friendly harbour whose lighthouse shines through your night.

  ‘Even the distant countries that your feet tread upon will treat you as spiritual commodities, piled up in the storehouse of forgetfulness
. The night of your tears will grow long. You will bury your dead in elegant cemeteries where they will lie under vainglorious flowers.

  ‘The dead... Maybe they are the only happy ones among you. Every evening, your souls will leave the foreign land to come here and float through the sky of this neighbourhood. They will knock on the doors of the houses where they lived the most beautiful years of their lives. But sadly, strangers will open these doors to them. The houses in turn will deny them and forget the spirits that made their mark on the walls. But the dead have the freedom to live in the times and places they want. They will gather once again at the shop of Abu Nabil every night to gossip until their ghosts are content.

  ‘I’m not here to sow despair in your souls. Don’t believe, any one of you, that I am just a harbinger of calamity or the ill-omened firebird. I’m telling you everything I know. I’m telling it for your sake and for the sake of your children. Without any recompense. I don’t want even a word of thanks. These sanctions are long and will not soon end. When their end does come, war will begin, and then everything will disappear into oblivion.

  ‘Neighbour will deny neighbour, friend will deny friend, brother will deny brother. People’s bodies will be thrown to the dogs at night. The pavements will be choked with the dead. Terror will enter your houses through the windows. You, the middle class, who form the pillars of society, you have no weapons to defend yourselves. You are the no man’s land of every war, the easy target for all the weapons crossing above your heads.

  ‘Your neighbourhood will live dry days in air that burns the face. Death will wander past like storm winds through an abandoned village. Sunset will give birth to terror that sleeps in your beds. Strangers will suddenly appear out of the abandoned houses, talking about you in strange languages. They will open fire in cold blood, without batting an eye. Bullets will spray in every direction. Innocent bodies will be pierced without crying out. One of you will pass a neighbour’s corpse lying in the street, and you’ll touch your own body and thank the heavens that it is still breathing. Start breathing distant air before the air here runs out!’