Modern Iraqi Short Stories · 2 Published by Sayyab Books EBC House, Ranelagh Gardens, Fulham SW6...

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Modern Iraqi Short Stories

Ali Al-Manna’ Alya’ Al-Rubai’i

Sayyab Books – London Printing, Publishing & Distribution

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Published by Sayyab Books EBC House, Ranelagh Gardens, Fulham SW6 3PA, London – UK www.sayyab.co.uk [email protected] + 44 790 441 604 + 44 9066 417 178 © Sayyab Books, 2009 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 written permission of the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record of this book is available from British Library ISBN 978-1-906228- 125 Cover designed by Saddam Al-Jumaily, Iraq Typeset by Al-Waha Typesetters, Cairo, Egypt.

http://www.sayyab.co.uk

mailto:[email protected]

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Acknowledgment We would like to thank the authors of the selected stories who have kindly granted us permission to include their stories in this volume. Our profound appreciation is extended to Loai Hamza Abbas, Ibrahim Ahmed, Ja’far Kamal and Abdul-Hadi Sa’doun for their valuable directions and encouragement. We would like to express our sincere gratitude to the editors of this series Fred Pragnell, Allen Clark and Raymond Chakhachiro for their insightful suggestions, directions, and comments, which have surely constituted an indispensable support for the completion of this work. Finally, special thanks are due to Salah Niazi and Adnan Hussein Ahmad for their effort and help in arranging the initial contact with some of the authors of the stories used in this volume.

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Content

- Preface …………………………………………………………...7

- Three Stories not for Publishing by Abdul-Sattar Nasir……….....11

- Search for a Live Heart by Muhsin al-Ramli ……………………27

- Dwelling by Haifa Zangana ……………………………………...51

- The Stand-in by Mahmoud Saeed………………………………. 65

- An Old Tale by Mahmoud Jandari…………………….………....83

- What a Shame! By Samira al-Mana…………………………….119

- Story-Like: the Crown by Waarid Badir As-Saalim ……………139

- Mess by Arif Alwaan …………………………………………...149

- Groaning by Abdul-Rahmaan al-Rubai’i……………………. .161

- Confusion by Fu’aad al-Takarli……………………....................179

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Preface

It is my pleasure to write the preface to the first volume of the series Translating Arabic Literature: a Bilingual Reader. The series, founded by our colleague, Ali Al-Manna’, aims to introduce Arabic literature in its various genres – short stories, poetry, novels, novellas, etc. to the world through English. It is hoped that the series will be of interest to three groups: The first are those who would like to read some contemporary Arabic literature albeit in translation. Modern Arabic Literature in Translation: A Companion by Salih Altoma (London: Saqi, 2005) and Shakir Mustafa’s Anthology of Iraqi Fiction (Syracuse University Press, 2008) have helped to bring to the English reader a picture of the Middle East seen through the eyes of native Arabs, rather than of a western journalist or writer. The main other sources for published Arabic translations have been Denys Johnson-Davies, Peter Clark, Banipal, the English language Arabic journal that publishes fiction, poetry, articles and interviews, Salama Jayyusi’s anthology and the recently published Bilingual Reader of Modern Arabic Short Stories by Ronak Husni and Daniel L. Newman (London: Saqi, 2008). This latter reader includes short stories from all areas of the Arab world. Translating Arabic Literature has a pattern similar to that of the Bilingual Reader. The stories in this collection however are all by well-known Iraqi short story writers and aim to offer the reader a range of stories from modern-day Iraq. The second group would be intermediate to advanced students of Arabic who are looking to improve their reading skills and widen their literary vocabulary. Catherine Cobham & Sabri Hafez’s A Reader in Modern Arabic Literature (Saqi 1988), presents eleven stories in Arabic covering some fifty years. The stories are ordered linguistically from the relatively straightforward to the more complicated and come with annotations and notes. Nonetheless, the reader is intended as a textbook for advanced

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undergraduates and graduates who wish to keep up their reading knowledge of Arabic and understanding of the culture. So this reader may be too challenging for the intermediate student who is looking to build on a basic grammar-based course. Students who have completed a foundation course will be expected to have a vocabulary of some two thousand words, the core of which will be what may be termed general and media language. The language in this collection is slanted to the literary side. As well as having the basic words to be found in a foundation course, it has some two thousand literary words from a total of some ten thousand, that is a 1:5 propor on. Ideally perhaps these words would be introduced more gradually and with greater repetition to allow for a more secure and even approach. Learners of modern European languages can avail themselves of simplified graded readers, based on original authentic texts, to deepen their both their linguistic skills and literary appreciation. As we all know from experience of learning another language, encountering too many new words can lead to indigestion and loss of heart. Such readers do not for the moment exist for students of Arabic. In an attempt to address this difficulty of vocabulary overload, the English translation is at hand to guide the student along. Some purists may disapprove of this approach, which certainly discourages the student from teasing out the translation with the help of his dictionary and his wits. Nonetheless generations of Classics students have used their dual-language Loeb editions to help them understand the original language and improve their Latin and Greek vocabulary, especially when meeting new authors with their own style and range of vocabulary specific to a context. It may be argued that Arabic literary vocabulary poses similar difficulties – much of it is not likely to be met on the main pages of a daily newspaper and, with meanings difficult to infer from existing known vocabulary or roots, other avenues need to be explored. Surely an efficient and effective way to ease the learner’s path through this literary vocabulary is to have a translation set next to the original Arabic. Given that vocabulary is best learnt in a context, it follows that with each successive reading the student should be able to recognize, predict in context and ultimately recall an increasing number of these new words.

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Although the amount of new vocabulary varies over the ten stories, the stories themselves are not presented in any particular order. Ideally, a recording of the stories to accompany the text would be a powerful auditory aid for the learner, especially if we take to heart the words of the narrator in An Old Tale who makes plain that the Bedouins compose their stories for recitation rather than reading, much in the way that Homer composed his Odyssey almost three thousand years ago. One must presume that the writers here were hearing the sounds and cadence of the phrasing of the stories they were composing. Indeed, given the lack of action and dénouement that form the basis of so many western short stories, the inherent qualities of sound, psychological analysis and carefully wrought apercus in these stories take a more central role. The third group would be native Arabic readers who are keen to improve their English. No two translators will produce exactly the same version and it is quite likely that readers will have their own views about the efforts presented here. This is good and to be welcomed. Any translation, but perhaps especially literary translation, is not an exact undertaking but rather often a matter of individual taste and style. So, let it be a challenge for the reader to try to improve upon the translations here. Of course, rare is the native English person who would be so presumptuous as to offer his literary translation into Arabic as a piece worthy of publication. How then we must admire the efforts of the native Arabic speakers who have used their many years of study and experience to produce such wonderful translations of the short stories in this book. Nonetheless, such translations do benefit from another’s eye, in this case the editor’s. The process for translating these stories was of four stages:

1- the initial translation made by the translator; 2- the editor’s proofreading; 3- the translator’s approval of the editor’s notes; 4- the final polishing.

However, the question remains: What kind of translation are we looking for? Perhaps the most appropriate answer here is: That depends on who is

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going to be reading the translation. Reference to our three groups above will illustrate this. The first group, readers who are looking to read in translation, would expect the version of the stories to flow easily, with no hint that the stories are indeed a translation; any ‘local’ words may be glossed at the foot of the page. The second group, students of Arabic, would be looking for a more literal version as an aid to their understanding of the Arabic. At the same time, the students may like to get practice in translating literary texts into English and see if they are able to improve upon the published version. It would seem that translating literary Arabic involves a combination of the difficulty of translating Latin or Greek, where the meaning from what are highly synthetic languages has to be teased out, and the stylistic nuance of translating literary passages of a Romance language into English. The third group, Arabic native speakers, would be looking for a translation that is close to the original, complete with annotations highlighting problems involved in translating and at times providing possible alternatives. The translations presented here attempt to reconcile these three sometimes conflicting interests, providing a translation that flows naturally but at the same time staying close to the original Arabic. Glosses and annotations have been kept to a minimum. Finally, it is to be hoped that this little book can serve as a kind of vade mecum for those embarking on a journey of literary discovery, whether from an Arabic or English standpoint. Fred Pragnell Editor of Translating Arabic Literature Series March 2009

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Abdulsattar Nasir

was born in Baghdad (1942); he is a prominent Iraqi novelist and short story writer; he has wri en more than 20 novels and collections of short stories.

His publications include: The Bird of the Truth, a collection of short stories (1974), Please, Don’t Steal the Flower, a collection of short stories (1978), Half of The Sorrow, novel (2000), My Life in my Stories (2001), Tataran, novel (2004), Mutanabi Street, criticism (2004).

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Three stories not for publishing

The First Story

“When my honour bothers me, I sit down on it” .

Louis XI

When the king came in, he saw that his wife was completely naked. The moment he approached her, he realised that she was not alone. His ‘faithful’ bodyguard was sleeping peacefully next to her. The guard ran out of the king’s bedroom, his belly bearing more than a wide, deep gash. He died by the door. ***

Later that night, the king said to his treasurer, "Go to my wife and kill her, and half of the treasury will be yours".

"At your command, my lord," the treasurer replied. The treasurer did what his dear king had ordered him. At dawn, he was found murdered in the king’s room, beside the body of the murdered queen. The king then announced his wife’s infidelity with the treasurer.

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***

-

-

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The king whispered to himself, "It would be shameful if my wife had betrayed me with a lowly guard".

Then, the king distributed half of his wealth to the poor, the needy, the hypocrites and the gossips. He also crowned another queen to sit on the throne of the kingdom. The people lived in great happiness.

The following month, the king imposed a new tax, after proclaiming to the townsfolk the kingdom’s need for money to wage war on ‘aggressors’ and ‘usurpers’.

Once he had restored the half of the treasury's revenues, he announced a mysterious and great ‘victory’ in which tens of soldiers had died. All the townsfolk were filled with happiness, each household repeating secretly, "Thanks be to God, none of us was killed".

In this way the people carried on, happy and contented. No one ever mentioned the treasurer, the guard or even the queen, who once had been the mistress of all.

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The Second Story

"My way of joking is to tell the truth. It is the funniest joke in

the world".

Bernard Shaw

A lawyer says to his friend, who has been sentenced to death:

"I’m sorry, it is true that you are going to die, but you were

undoubtedly overjoyed as you were listening to my defence".

The condemned man replies with a grin:

"That is a joke I read in a cartoon. Your defence was just a fine

lie, the delivery not without style. I had been very confident of

the outcome".

The lawyer answers:

"You can rest assured that I had left nothing to chance. I

pursued the case from the first day right up to the last second;

you saw me wearing my judicial robes. Anyway, what could I

do? They all had it in for you". In a voice like that of the wave

of an angry sea, the condemned man says:

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-

..

-

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"Who will believe, after all that endless torture, that I’m not the

murderer; I shall die with just you and me knowing the truth".

The lawyer says:

"There was a third person who knew the truth as we know it".

The condemned man shouts:

"Who? Who is it?"

The lawyer answers, laughing and patting his client on the

back:

"The murdered man - if only he could speak, he would tell the

truth".

Despite the smell of death, they began laughing in great

affection. As the lawyer was about to leave, he started to look

at his friend’s face with deep love, whispering to himself:

"What sort of a man is this who can face death with such

delightful laughter and steadfast heart!"

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-

-

-

-

-

***

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Facing the noose, the condemned man said:

"I’m innocent, I’m completely innocent".

The strangest part of the story was that the man really was

executed.

Third Story

"What are you waiting for?"

"Confess and let them hang you", Christopher

At night, the defendant shouted:

“Yes, I am the murderer”.

So the torturer stopped lashing him, smiled at him and said:

"You should have confessed a month ago".

The defendant said:

"Yes, I should have confessed; I should have understood... ".

In the courtroom, the judge asked:

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-

) (

-

-

-

***

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"Are you the man who killed Mr. Noaman Al-Wardah?"

The defendant replied:

"Never, Your Honour. It was not me. I have never killed even a fly in my life. How could I have killed a man like Mr. Noaman?

"But you did confess", said the judge.

- "That is true, Your Honour. How could I have not confessed when every single pore in my body began moaning and crying? Your Honour, I have been tortured for a month with electricity and canes". "But you did confess", said the judge.

The defendant stared at the judge’s face and said:

"I have told you the reasons for my confession. What should I

have done while they were burning my skin? I am a human

being. I could not bear such heat. What would you have done,

Your Honour, if you had been in my place?"

"But you did confess!" repeated the judge.

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-

-

-

-

-

-

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"Your Honour, how could I have not confessed while they

were…".

"But you did confess, young man, and I have the right to

exclude your confession only on condition that you’re prepared

to go back to ‘them’!" said the judge.

At this, the defendant shouted:

"No, I won’t go back there. What they wrote is true – I am the

murderer, hang me straight away. I am the only one responsible

for the murder of Noaman Al Wardah, so execute me now. I

am a murderer, an evil assassin; please just do not send me

back there!"

However, despite his hysterical screams, he was sent back to

them ….

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-

-

-

..

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Muhsin al-Ramli

was born in Iraq (1967). He is a novelist, playwright, story writer, journalist and translator (Arabic-Spanish). He studied Spanish Philology at The University of Baghdad (1989) and received his doctorate in Philosophy, Letters and Spanish Philology from The Universidad Autónoma de Madrid (2003). He is co-founder and co-publisher of ALWAH, a literary magazine since 1997. Some of his texts have been translated into English and Spanish. His publication includes: Search for a Live Heart, collections of stories (1997, Madrid), Papers far from Tigris, collections of stories (1998, Amman) and Scattered Crumbs, novel (2003).

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Search for a live heart

In a narrow hospital corridor there is a succession of numbered doors on both sides. The man comes out of one of these doors rubbing his eyes, his movement weighed down by deep pain and grief; from time to time he leans for support against both sides of the corridor. Anxiously, he stands in front of the door from which he has just come out; he opens the door from time to time to look inside, then turns in great pain… he is alone in the long corridor. He wonders aloud, "Will you attend your birthday party next week? You must do so. How bitter is that absence that puts out the candles when the host of the party is not there! What party!? How can there be rejoicing for your birthday if you are not there!? You must attend. Surely, you will recover and will celebrate… we will celebrate together. Oh, but what gift will I give you? What gift can one person give to another, the dearest person in the world?! I have to search for a gift that equals my love for you although I doubt I can find it … No, no, words are of no use now. Time is running out, and running out quickly. It is oppressing me just as this suffocating corridor is. How, and by whom, can this gift be brought here in one day, or rather in a few hours?" He looks at his watch. "There are just a few hours left in your day. Nothing has happened, and I have done nothing. I wasn’t able to bring it. Oh, how mean you are, doctor, asking me to find it in just one day, while women have nine months to give birth to a small heart the size of a date after enduring so much pain. Oh, what kind of heart did you ask me to find! A heart that is alive and beating?! How rare is that! Believe me, my dear one, if I were able to conceive and endure the pain of ninety

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months’ labour, compressed into one hour, in order to bring forth a tiny heart for you, I wouldn’t hesitate".

He says, "Verily, my Lord, I beseech you to grant such a miracle. Don’t be concerned about me, no matter what the pain may be. Or, divide the days that I have left in this life to both of us equally…I wonder how I can find such a live heart from somebody who has been murdered or killed in an accident. I had searched for it, rushing around all day yesterday and I have just returned. I asked everywhere, I asked in the police stations whether anyone had died in an accident, over a silly quarrel over a dinar, from a false accusation, or killed for being with some unfaithful wife, or from telling the truth - oh, how many victims of truth there are! I searched in the hospitals, in the banks of bones, blood, eyes and human organs and in the grisly dissecting rooms. I also stood by bends in the road, awaiting some horrific car crash. I asked the traffic police, one by one. I scoured the papers, looking for those who had been sentenced to death. I knocked on courtroom doors. I asked merchants, all types of merchants, but I failed to find a single heart suitable for you. I sat on the pavements begging: "Who will sell me a heart no matter what the price? Who will be so kind as to give me a live heart, or guide me to find one wherever it may be?

Who …? Isn’t there even one live heart in the world?" The silence is broken only by the bleating of some insane people, who do not have their hearts to give, and semi insane people, who have nothing at all - not even their basic freedom.

The silence is broken only by news bulletins, the cries of the vendors of cheese, onions, smiles and everything. There is but

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silence when we ask for something, a silence that is broken only by the rustling of hypocrites.. Yes, I do remember, I did run into a drunkard at the door of a bar. "Take all of me, my flesh and my fat", he cries, impersonating the drunkard.

He laughs and says, "No, no, he didn’t say that, for he had neither flesh nor fat. He was just a bag of skin and bones, drenched in sweat". Impersonating him again he cries, "Take all of me, my heart, my poverty and my nails for just one bottle of wine". Then, I lifted him up like this, held him to my chest and ran and ran carrying him to you. And there in my arms he broke out into his drunken song:

“How happy is the man who has nothing!

And yet he gives the people

He gives them his heart to return

To the source with no misgiving”.

He was about to start again when his wife and some policemen surrounded us. He impersonates the drunkard’s wife: "Who will go and fetch us lettuce late at night and takes the garbage out?" "I will do that" I said. However, the policemen objected to this. He impersonates one of the policemen: ‘His is not his body to give away; he is the property of the town … of the state".

He looks again at his watch saying:

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“Time is always running out, and this suffocating corridor is squeezing me. Not only have your friends and students forgotten you, but also the woman who has always been claiming to love you more than herself and to be ready to give up her life for you".

"Eman, have you heard what happened to him?" He scornfully impersonates her soft voice, "I feel sorry for him". Then this grieving woman smiled and headed off to the hairdresser’s. Do you really know what sorrow is? It is as merciless as the Sultans’ hearts… Nay, it makes a man wither away and make his hair turn white like a plant, when its leaves slowly turn yellow. Sorrow is aridity, burning and bitterness in the throat; it takes the taste from everything as if one were chewing on an old piece of rag; to be precise, it is like a schoolboy, his mouth dry, doing his best to swallow his crib sheet. I feel that my heart has turned into a fruit whose lower half is rotten, black and decayed; I even feel the pain of a worm moving about inside it. Oh, his grieving friend, my heart is like a boil; it hurts me at every stage, when falling in love, taking a breath or remembering. Perhaps, or surely, you don’t know that I reproach myself when I think about eating - I have a feeling of deep shame and deep sadness when laughing - how can I eat while he is hungry? How can I laugh while he is approaching dea… (he was about to say death)? In the middle of the night I go upstairs, undo my shirt, bare my chest, and my eyes staring at the sky I lament: "O, my Lord (he wants to beseech God, but …) I’m at a loss, how can I beseech You when You are all-knowing and all-powerful?" I then return to my dreams – he haunts my dreams every night, a hundred times a night. One time I see him naked with his tender body which the scars from wounds have made like a sieve, or I see his palms and his feet pierced with nails.

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He smiles at me as he used to when worshippers were rushing around him to answer the muezzin’s call. Another time, gasping for breath I roam the markets and alleyways searching for him (as he passes the remaining doors along the corridor he knocks) begging each passer-by in turn: "Have you seen him? Have you seen him? And you? And you, stall-holders who sell even the air, have you seen him?

I beg you, who has seen him?" My clothes are torn by telephone poles through whose wires two lovers, two general managers or even two thieves may talk to each other. The straps of my sandals are torn by nails as I rush barefoot along the hot pavements, reflected in shop windows, my hair and soul in a mess. I kissed hands and slapped shoulders, repeating the same question: "Who has seen him? Please, guide me to his whereabouts". Sometimes I go far away … far, far away as we used to do, to the hills. In the spring, we used to laugh at a passing cloud or welcome the courtship of a pair of butterflies. Suddenly, I might lose him (he looks at his watch). Oh, it is that damn time again; it always passes by quickly, squeezing me as this suffocating corridor does. Oh, my God, what about my mother’s heart then. My mother who remains pinned to the window day and night, puffing on cigarettes, her tearful eyes checking the road to see if he’s getting out of a passing car ... he might get out at any moment. He must get out because he has to come back. Neighbours, too, want to bring us news of his return as quickly as they can to put an end to our sorrow as they realize that one moment more of sorrow might be too much for us. It could be this moment or the next one. When will he recover? When will he return? When? When?

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He stays silent for a while, as if he were listening to his childhood. He repeats with a smile: "How long will the camel remain on the hill?" Indeed, when will this camel come down? When will he (pointing at the door) come back so that the life we wish for may thereby be restored to us ... to my mother, to the neighbours, to me and to the palm tree that we planted together?

He lifts his arms to beseech God, "Oh, my Lord, who can make the sun rise and the rain fall, please bring him back to us. Oh, my Lord, who brought Joseph back to his father, please bring him back. You who can make the sky clear again, please bring him back. Please bring light to the heavens of our souls. Oh, my Lord, my Lord, why doesn’t life care for us while we give every single bit of attention to it? He was the sort of man who cared for every single, tiny thing as if he had been responsible for the whole universe". He opens the door to have a look inside the room, he stands in front of him describing him with the deepest affection, "His face goes pale and yellow like a hot loaf of bread. His emaciated palms rest upon his chest … upon his heart as if he were pointing to the source of pain, or trying to press it to his bosom. Or, as if he were saying to the entire world, ‘I have given you all the love in my heart; now you can take the heart itself; I am giving it to you". Yes, this is what his silent smiling lips are saying with deep satisfaction.

He breathes lightly and slowly as if he were saving the air for others to breathe, oh, the others who have always been his first and last care and concern; others for whom he does not spare himself – how frequently have I warned him! How frequently have I quarreled with him! Do you think there is really anyone who is worth such a sacrifice?

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Oh my dear, they are merciless ... a turbulent sea ... with crashing waves that cares not about whoever drowns in it, whoever fishes in it, whoever collects pearls from it or whoever tries to clean the polluted water. Why then do you insist on taking a risk that you almost drown? As long as people are like that sea, which cares not about who takes from it or gives to it, why don’t you try to be one of those who just takes. He remembers his words, "What about the sea of the conscience?" - Ah … the sea of the conscience, even when it is in turmoil, you can control it because it is inside you. It will never go outside your limits.

He remembers his words, "It has lashing storms that destroy everything".

- It concerns only you as you alone hear it. You show respect to it while others ignore its screaming, such that they can hardly remember anything about this term. They consider it outmoded.

Then, what can you do to clean up this flood of oppressive filth that harms their sea? Such filth only breeds more filth. How many times have you changed your glasses to keep pace with your failing eye-sight? Here you are losing your heart for them, your heart which might destroy you with it. Closing the door, he says "He used to concern himself about every tiny issue as if he were responsible for the whole universe. Now, nobody cares about him – everything is as it was: the streets, the people, the movement of planes, the dates of seminars, the celebrations and the songs. People are still gathering in the streets within concrete blocks without any sort

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…

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of accidents. Why on this particular day has neither a fraudulent building collapsed nor have two cars collided, although car crashes have recently become one of the most serious problems of modern times. Why hasn’t anyone been murdered today, when homicides are overwhelming police stations and hospitals? Why hasn’t anyone committed suicide or been hanged today? Why has this world suddenly become as it should be on this very day when I am in urgent need of a live heart to save the life of the person who is dearest to me?" He falls silent then whispers, "Alas, what a shame! I now find myself like some gravedigger who is looking to a rise in the death rate in order to improve his life, or simply to buy an electric washing machine. Here I am awaiting the death of someone in order that the person whom I most love may live, without my considering whether this other person has someone to love him".

He screams, "What should I do, then?? Time is running out and death is approaching. The more time passes, the closer death gets. Death is final, worms eat away and the cheeks waste away in a dark coffin under the soil".

He trembles, "Death is like a sword approaching us with the passing of every minute to cut off our life; it is that grim, unknown that has been pursuing us since the days of Adam. We have tried our utmost to forget death, to understand it or to destroy it. We have constructed and decorated the globe, but we haven’t forgotten death. We have penetrated outer space and have roamed around other planets as we roam around markets, but have never escaped death. We have pushed the boundaries of science to discovering the details of an ant’s toes, and yet we have not escaped death. We have created the

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most hideous of the frightening means of destruction, and all we have destroyed is ourselves". Fearfully he says, "No.. No.. I beg you, Lord of Death, keep away from us. I know, for sure, you won’t change your mind whatever we beg you, otherwise, we would have devoted our life devising pleas just to beg you to keep away from us, or you would have been kept at bay by mothers’ tears. You are the destroyer of all of us, without exception, whether or not we have a heart, whether or not we have a conscience, rich or poor, kings or prisoners. This is the only thing that makes us admire you: you apply justice to all, without fear or favour. Even the tyrants have failed to unlock your secret. It is only you that can neither be bribed, nor be seduced by beauty, fearing neither armies nor guards, nor stopped by forts, towers or pyramids. However, I loathe and fear you. I wouldn’t wish you upon anybody. How then can I be happy when you are approaching him? No, I don’t want him to die. No, it’s impossible; he must be saved. I can’t even imagine my life without his. My attachment to him is stronger than that to my life or love. He taught me all I learnt; he gives many times more than what I think of giving. He is…". He remembers, "Oh, it’s his birthday in a week’s time, he must be excited about it. Now, I must do something… something that I can do by myself without the need for a policeman, a drunkard or waiting for an accident. There is no time for that". He looks at his watch saying, "There is just one hour left. Time is running out. I must save him at any price, yes, at any price, even of my life". He suddenly realises, "Yes! He’s my life… my soul… my heart… Yes, he’s my heart".

He muses, "Oh, I forgot that I have a heart – what has made me forget my love for him. My love overwhelmed my heart and blinded me from realizing that I have a heart. So, I got to the

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point of begging people for a heart, waiting for a wreck of crashed cars and the hearts of people sentenced to death. Oh! How could that have escaped me?! There is no heart more suitable for him than mine. He deserves it. Hasn’t he sacrificed everything for others? I am the closest to him, so why am I asking others to sacrifice themselves instead of me? Otherwise, what is, then, the difference between me and his friend whom I previously derided?" He looks at his watch saying, "Oh my Lord, time is running out, and running out so quickly. It is blocking me. The sword of death is approaching as each second passes by".

He points at himself saying, "Whoever claims that he has a live heart must prove it, as any moment of hesitation could make us lose so much….What has most spoiled our life is the disparity between our words and our actions. So, we must make our actions match our words. We are well aware of that, exactly as we know that sacrifice is inevitable in love. Yes, I loathe death, but I will not have loved if I hadn’t done something for him. Time… time continues to run out".

He takes his watch off, throws it to the ground and crushes it with his foot and says, "There is no heart that is more suitable for him than mine. And…and my mother will embrace both of us when he returns recovered to her".

He sweetly says, "How wonderful! When she embraces him she will press us both to her bosom. My heart will continue beating in his chest so he will continue to do what he has always wanted to do".

He searches his pockets, takes out a pen and a piece of paper and reads out what he is writing on the piece of paper: "I

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present my humble heart to my brother on his birthday, wishing him a speedy recovery and that he carries on giving". Then he fixes the piece of paper onto the left-hand side of his shirt over his heart and sings:

"How happy is the man who has nothing!

And yet he gives the people

He gives them his heart to return

To the source with no misgiving".

He shouts, "Oh, doctor…doctor… hurry! I have found what you have asked me to find".

When he hears the footsteps of the doctor coming from the end of the corridor, he kills himself to stop being prevented from doing so by the doctor.

51

Haifa Zangana

is an Iraqi-born novelist and artist, is the author of Women on a

Journey: Between Baghdad and London. Her latest book is City of

Widows: An Iraqi Woman’s Account of War and Resistance (Seven

Stories, 2007). She is a weekly columnist for al-Quds newspaper and

a commentator for the Guardian, Red Pepper, and al-Ahram

Weekly. She lives in London.

52

Dwelling

She stays in her usual place all day, from eight in the morning

until seven in the evening. Where does she go for the rest of the

time? She gets to her corner, walking slowly, dragging her

legs, her suitcase and her bags. She also pulls along her heavy

head, screwed with resignation onto her huge neck, set in its

turn on her broad shoulders.

Her head is almost bald, her remaining hair like white fluff.. As

she goes along she stops at the shop windows. In all the

windows she sees the reflection of herself merging with what is

displayed inside these windows, such as the cameras and lenses

in the windows of Jessops, blending with creatures from outer

space, science fiction and the space ship Star Trek at

Forbidden Planet, with computers and laser printers piled high

in the windows of Computer World.

She stops in front of everything that is fixed on her way. A

newspaper seller jokes with her about the previous night: Did

she strike lucky? She doesn’t reply, just staring at him for a

while with her wide green eyes and then off she goes. Her legs

are swollen like a piece of sponge cake that has been dipped in

milk.

54

She reaches her spot on the pavement where other people walk,

her place for her huge body, with its additions - the suitcase,

the plastic bag with many smaller bags inside. She sits down on

the suitcase leaning against the wall of a bank which is now

closed, whose services are now dispensed from a hole in the

wall to provide customers’ statements and cash. Her spot is a

metre away from the machine. On her face is the hint of a

constant smile, as she follows the movement of people around

her, the passing cars and the ever-changing queue for the cash

machine.

She stares at them.

The skin of her face is white, speckled with soot, the dirt of the

street, the grime of the pavement and the fumes from the car

exhausts. From time to time she runs her hands over the plastic

bag filled with the many smaller bags to make sure it is still

there. At ten thirty every morning she has her breakfast from

MacDonald’s, a small white box.

When she opens it, the laughter of the MacDonald’s

advertising jingle starts up: “Fried egg, a slice of bacon and a

56

slice of bread, available at all MacDonald’s branches in the

city centre, just 99 pence”.

She chews slowly, swallowing as though she were carrying out

some duty. She dips the slice of bread into the yoke of the egg

with her fingers, yellow and black from smoking and grime.

“Good morning,” says a tourist to her, taking her a picture.

She picks up MacDonald’s cup from the ground. She puts a

frayed glove on her left hand. She raises the cup slightly in the

air as if in response to his greeting:

“Cheers”.

Between slow sips, she releases a sharp squeal, louder than the

voices of passers-by and sounds of passing cars, piercing the

ears and minds of passers-by and travelling through their

bodies. She emits it in her own peculiar way and says only

what is necessary:

“Money for the needy”.

She repeats these words once an hour.

“Spare change”.

57

990

58

She’s been leaning against the wall of the bank for several

years, but for the past month she’s been turning her back to

passers-by.

Shouting like this with her back to the street terrifies the

passers-by. She sticks to the wall to such an extent that she

seems to be a part of it.

The only sign of her switching between stillness and movement

is her one phrase: “Spare change. Any spare change?” she

screeches from the back of her throat. Nobody replies. She asks

everyone, and no-one in particular. However, nobody looks

directly at her; they just glance at her from the corner of their

eyes, while without changing direction they continue on their

way.

She embraces the wall - a grey mass against a grey

background; for the sky is a grey cloak too. The tattered

suitcase is black. The bag with many small bags inside is grey.

At a corner between Tottenham Court Road and New Oxford

Street, she leans her right elbow against the wall whilst holding

the suitcase in her left hand, the plastic bag beside her. How

old is she?

60

She presses her body up against the wall, like a spectator on a

balcony, in front of whom is an iron grill protecting him as he

looks ahead. What a wonderful, wide view! White buildings

shimmer in the reflection of sunlight. The smell in the air

shows that the river is near. She faces the wall, her back turned

to the passers-by and narrowing her eyes to see clearly through

the wall.

What does she want?

The way in front of her is a wall of cement. The veins of her

hand protrude, congested, and the joints are swollen. She

raises her hand carefully so as not to lose her balance; she pulls

her clothes some centimeters from the wall to which her face

sticks; she peels the layers of paint from the wall – is life

growing underneath the layers of paint, or under the skin of

cement?

She is trapped between two walls. Her huge body is squeezed.

With her finger she traces on the cement of the wall; she is

writing letters.

62

She was once kissed by somebody. Not only did her body start

trembling, but her heart as well. She puts the suitcase down and

stretches her hands out on the wall. She conceals herself among

the solid granules of cement; she covers her eyes and keeps

herself out of sight of others - what her eye cannot see is not

there; what the passers-by cannot see is not there either.

She moves her finger slowly. Her eyes are closed, so she can

see what cannot be seen by others. She is living in a different

world, digging in the darkness. The sky is dark between her

hands. She is making a ball of darkness with her hands, feeling

its coldness as if it were drops of water.

She comes to and bends down to pick up the suitcase with one

hand and the bag of plastic bags with the other. With her

constant smile, off she goes, hiding behind her body and

staggering under the weight of what she has seen.

65

Mahmoud Saeed

is a prominent Iraqi novelist and short story writer; he has written more than 20 novels and short story collec ons.

His works have won a number of prizes: His novel Zanka bin Baraka (1970) won the Ministry of Informa on Award in 1993; his novel Nihayat An Nahar (novel) won the Story Associa on Prize in 1996; and one of his story collections won Al-Shaykha Fatima Award for Children's Literature.

His publica ons include: 1) The End of the Daylight (1996) Published by Alhiat House in Beirut, Lebanon, 2) The Birds of Love and War short story collec on (1997), published by Dar Sina in Egypt, Cairo, 3) The Beautiful Death Published by Almada House (1998) , Damascus, Syria, 4) Before the Love, After the Love (1999) Published in Damascus, Syria, 5) “Al dhalan” Two Lost Souls (2003) Published in Arabic by Dar Aladab, Beirut, Lebanon, 6) Kipped down “al Munsadeh” (2005) Short stories collec ons.

66

The Stand-in

I didn’t know the reason for the change that came over my wife; I felt that she was going through a phase that she would quickly get over. However, it was a decision she was not to go back on.

She laid out the red shirt, the yellow trousers and the wide pink tie on the bedside table. She was adamant that I put on this bizarre ensemble before we headed off for the party arranged by the director of the company, the husband of her new friend. I tried to make her understand that this clash of colour would not have suited me even if I had gone back to being a lad of seventeen, let alone somebody over fifty! But she insisted and her words of reproof, reproach and criticism for my being behind the times poured forth from her mouth.

“The world is now a small village where everybody drinks Coca Cola, eats the meat of Hamburg, wears the same clothes and has the same haircut … we are so behind the times, God help us!”, she said.

I was petrified that she might force me to have some ghastly marine’s haircut. So I withdrew from the futile argument into which she had driven me. I resorted to a ruse after open confrontation had got me nowhere.

68

I pretended to have a stomach ache, and so got dragged into the

farce. I went into the bathroom several times and stayed there

for some time. After flushing the toilet, I emerged my hand on

my stomach. All she did was to go to the fridge and take out

some pills.

“Take these, your pain will go in a couple of minutes”, she said

curtly.

I took the pills from her and remained in the bathroom longer

than before. I threw them down the pan and flushed again.

When I came out, I found she had finished doing her make-up

and was ready to leave. She was afraid that if the pain didn’t

stop, we would be late for the party.

“What are we going to do?” she asked me in a horrified voice.

“Don’t worry, just go downstairs, start the car and I’ll be with

you in a few minutes”, I said pretending to be in agony.

“What about the stomach ache?” she asked.

“It’s almost gone”, I replied.

Her eyes lit up and she went downstairs ahead of me. I put on

my usual clothes and followed her down. As the car was

parked in a spot cloaked in darkness, she didn’t notice my

clothes, but as soon as we turned onto the street which let light

69

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70

shine into the car, she realized I had taken off my ridiculous

clothes. She burst out in an unbroken tirade of blame and

reproof, ranting and railing about her accursed luck. She

reproached me again for my sloth and apathy, my desire to

remain stuck in the mud, not embracing the world of the high

society and my diffidence which made me uneasy about

meeting people who had succeeded in life, such as the

company director, the husband of her new trusted friend who

would undoubtedly open doors to the future for us. His is a

multi-national company with branches in more than fifty

countries in all five continents, each branch employing

hundreds of workers and staff. Such a contact would be an

excellent starting point and an entrée to a life of luxury. I tried

in vain to make her understand that such a person would be of

no use to us as he thought only of his own interests and those

of his company; without this stance, he would not have reached

such a position. His wife is also driven by the same self-

interested approach that governs her husband. They do not

offer to the likes of us anything except at a price or for

something in return, and usually the value of what they take is

higher than that of what they offer.

72

“We have neither what they want nor what they need. You

mustn’t humiliate yourself for a favour which has already been

refused; you know her simply because she is a friend of your

cousin, Rahifa, in America, and this will neither help nor

hinder. Despite our modest income, which allows us to

maintain a moderate standard of living, we are better off than

others”, I said. “Lazy and without ambition”, she said, as if

with this phrase I had added a new epithet to the list of her

anger words. I reproached only myself as I am sure that I

would lose in any battle with her. This might be because I gave

her more freedom than she deserved. Now it is too late to rein

her in. The door to the palace was open. My wife declined the

servant’s invitation to enter, but rather she asked him to inform

his mistress that we had arrived. I became irritated - why this

empty adherence to etiquette when the mistress of the palace is

her friend! In no time, I saw her friend and her

74

husband approach with a beaming smile. I stared at her friend –

she was squinting but was slender, vivacious and chic despite

the sombre colours of her clothes that were not at all suitable

for the festive atmosphere that the party of the director of a

multi-national company required. As soon as I set eyes upon

him, I realised the reason why my wife had blown our meagre

savings, which I was putting aside for a rainy day, on such

ridiculous attire. The director was sporting such loud colours: a

fiery, bright red shirt, loud, buttercup yellow trousers and a tie

wider than the palm of my hand, festooned with all the colours

of the springtime flowers in Hawaii.

What was even more absurd was his pair of violet socks.

Without this ridiculous mix he would have cut an imposing

presence: his jaw as broad as a professional boxer’s, his eyes

small, deep-set and as piercing as a rat’s, his features, strong

and confident, giving him the natural dignity of a commanding

personality.

76

The palace was full of guests, the fabulous dining table laden

with all types of food, both familiar and novel. There were

three kinds of fruit that I was seeing for the first time in my

life. The aroma of grilling wafted to the furthest corners of the

palace.

There was boundless exuberance except when this imposing

personality approached, when the gaiety turned into a

temporary deference.

The two women disappeared upstairs for some time, during

which the great man extended to me his esteemed attention and

affability.

“Try this shrimp. It’s grilled and seasoned, in the way the

Chinese do it. These waffles have a wonderful taste. The

Mexicans are the experts. These varieties of fish stop the

Japanese from getting cancer. Have you tasted this Filipino

appetizer?” he asked.

His particular attention towards me made me feel somewhat

proud, so during this time, I made many excuses for my wife

for vaunting her friendship with his wife. However, when she

came down, I noticed a certain anxiety on her face that did not

78

disappear till we left the party. I guessed that something serious

had happened upstairs. She remained so lost in her thoughts

that my attempts to encourage her to speak failed.

She was at the same time perplexed and shocked.

The director’s wife had vented her wrath on her faithful

housemaid who had gone on holiday.

“What’s so wrong about asking to go on holiday?’’ my wife

asked.

“She was responsible for selecting the director’s clothes and

matching their colours. As she’s not here, could you please do

the choosing? You’re chic and have excellent taste, just as your

cousin, Rahifa, described. So could you please choose a suit, a

shirt, a tie and a pair of socks for each day of the week?” she

asked.

My wife was startled: “Me?”

“Yes, you, why not? I don’t have anyone but you. The

housemaid used to do this. Everything was fine till she went on

her damned holiday. Imagine, we take her with us even on our

holidays”, she said.

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80

- “Why don’t you do the choosing? Or him for that matter? It’s

not an issue that requires a third person to sort out”.

Tears welled up in the eyes of the director’s wife. Holding back

her tears she blurted out:

- “We cannot”.

- “Why not?”

- “We’re both colour-blind”.

Roaring with laughter, I asked my wife:

“Then why do you look so jumpy?”

She gave a long sigh and said with a certain enthusiasm: “Can

you imagine? She offered to take me with her and her husband

on a three-month business trip during which they will visit ten

countries, including the US. She wants to employ me as a

stand-in housemaid”.

“What did you tell her?” I asked my wife.

“I didn’t say anything”.

“Why not?” I shouted in exasperation.

“Not until I ask your opinion”, she replied.

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83

Mahmoud Jandari

was born in 1944 in Mosel, in the north of Iraq and died in 1995. He is considered one of the best storywriters in Iraq. A great number of critics have written about his writings. Of his best-known collections are A’wam al-Dhama’ (Years of Thirst) (1969) and Al-Hisar (the Siege), on which the well-known critic, Ali Jawad al-Tahir wrote: ‘It is a distinctive collection’. His recent publications include

- Halat (State of Affairs), short stories, - Al-Hafat (The Edges), novel, - Masatib al-Aaliha (God’s benches).

84

An Old Tale

Eventually, I came to think that the Bedouins were narrators of

news, story makers and storytellers with a style of their own.

When they have composed a story about plague, starvation or

tribal warfare, they circulate it with a spontaneous skill and

exciting enthusiasm from one tribe to another. They never let a

story go stale before fixing it in minds, conscience and souls.

As soon as the story is set in a particular form, it finds a way to

be stored in the subconscious of the tribe. It is ready to pass of

its own accord from one generation to another - from this

generation, which has set the story and adds some firewood to

the fire for the next which, from time to time, will think about

making some additions and even going down different paths. It

is through this skill which the Bedouins possess, that symbols,

signs and blood are always interwoven through adversities,

dark periods and difficult times.

Although Bedouins do craft their stories with consummate

skill, such stories grow like grass and wild mushrooms and

sometimes are to be rooted out from the crust of the earth.

86

When a Bedouin starts narrating his story, no introduction is

needed. The story he is about to tell contains no unnecessary

words. However, for me to narrate to you what happened when

I was with them, I do need to give an introduction with some

redundant words to encourage the listener to pay attention.

Is it their nature?

Maybe, but one realises out that most words are unnecessary

when the listener is a bored Bedouin, who is frugal in all

aspects of life. At all events, some years ago I found myself

sitting among a large number of Bedouins at a gathering to

mourn the life of a man with whose son I had formed a close

bond of friendship. It had begun in the desert, when we had

met by the well of a well-known desert valley.

He was drawing water to irrigate his camels and sheep, and I

was collecting some samples of the water to examine the

number and types of worms in them. As I was instructed to

collect more specimens, we began meeting many times by the

edge of the same well. I was fascinated by the squeaking of the

cylinder-shaped, wooden winch that groaned under the weight

of the rope, which pulled up a rough leather bucket filled with

water.

88

The sound of water rising from the bottom of the dark well to

pour out into the tin plate water wheel sends me into a spin.

The gathering was held in an open air. There was a large

number of men sitting shoulder to shoulder in such a way that

they formed a wide circle crossed by long coloured, rectangular

rugs occupied by another group of men who were sitting either

face to face or back to back.

I approached the gathering, greeting them in a loud voice and

sat down at the edge of the coloured rug. The din made by the

men in the gathering stopped, with the exception of some noise

made by those sitting at the far corners. I began staring at the

men’s faces in a vacuous way that gave nothing away. They

turned back and carried on with their racket. As soon as I had

got over my unease occasioned by the gravity of the gathering,

I started reciting the opening verses of the Holy Qura’n with a

raw emotion that rose with the words such that I almost burst

into tears before I had completed the verses.

Some of them greeted me automatically in a terse and

perfunctory way. While I was examining some of the faces

near me, my curiosity was aroused by a face of an old man who

90

was sitting leaning against a number of small, carefully

arranged woolen cushions. He gave me a long look, its

sharpness blunted by the years. Even so, it was still powerful

and penetrating. I took him to be over seventy. He asked about

my age, and I replied what I knew. Then he looked again at the

white hair, which covered my whole head and asked me: "Do

you have a story behind that?"

"Yes, but it was a long time ago and it was of no importance",

I said.

The old man was astonished at my reply and I began to mull

over what I had just said.

Is it their nature? Every word has some significance - they

don’t approve of redundancy.

"How strange! Is there really any story without significance?"

he said.

"I mean it didn’t really happen to me," I replied.

"Then why do you attribute it to yourself?" he said.

I replied, "It’s about one of my grandfathers, who witnessed the

Al Basoos war, both the start and the end. He was born on the

night of the murder of Kuleeb, one Arab leader, and died on the

night of the murder of Al Zeer Salim, another Arab leader. He

92

lived for forty years. Is there anything more cruel than living

one’s whole life as a witness of war?

Whenever I recall it and think about it, I feel that I’m

overwhelmed by a sudden fear running through my bones and

spreading like fire through my blood. Every time I recall this

memory, I have had that same fear until the white hair has

come to cover everywhere, as you can see".

He shook his head for a long time, then lowered it in silence

gazing at the ground. I thought for a few moments that he had

fallen asleep.

"What about you?" I said.

He replied, "Ah, yes. My story has been handed down by the

Bedouins for a long time, and concerns me personally. It

happened a long time ago when Bedouins were close to the air,

clouds, day, night and calm. It was at a time when they made

up their own rules by which they arranged their systems of

living, in housing, marriage, cattle-rearing and killing. It was at

a time when they had no occupation except to live with wolves,

storms, sands, scorching heat and thirst. It was at a time when

governments would avoid any

94

contact or interaction with them and exempt them from

obligatory military service and taxes. It was at a time when

groups and armies began to be formed. They formed their

tribes to which they affiliated by their own free will by the

bonds of blood and kinship. They chose names for the tribes to

match their characteristics and set up constitutions, which the

members of the tribe continued to preserve in their hearts and

minds. It was at a time when Bedouins were not only very

suspicious, but there were no boundaries to their uncertainty

and apprehensiveness. They were so withdrawn that no-one

knew how they protected themselves. It was at a time when our

tribe was spreading out in tents of cattle hide across the

western desert along those desolate plains which extend from

the cliffs and the ends of the salt springs and black valleys,

which branch out from Tharthar up to the eastern shores of the

Euphrates.

My own tribe, like the other tribes, lived in accordance

with its own rules. However, it was distinguished by being the

only tribe that would grant to every member who reached

twenty five a wife, a horse, a sword and a tent of cattle hide, as

well as ten white female camels and one male camel. A tent

would be set up in the desert and, that very evening, the bride

would be

96

led there for the marriage ceremony. That night, a white-blazed

horse would be tied up to one of the tent pegs. The following

morning, the ten female camels, branded with distinctive casts,

would be driven to the tent. The bride would have her hands

hennaed and her armpits dripping with musk, carnation and

cardamom. The horse’s blaze would also be hennaed".

As the old man spoke his voice rose to widen the circle of

silence around him. Silence spread to the far corners of the

gathering. He continued: "When I reached twenty five, a tent of

cattle hide was set up for me. A hennaed bride from whose

whole body there rose a heady perfume was led there for the

marriage ceremony. Ten white female camels as well as a male

camel with a sword in its brocaded sheath around its neck were

tied up to it.

For the following three mornings, I released the camels to

graze and kept a close eye on them till the evening. Then I

made the male camel kneel down by the entrance to the tent

while the ten white female camels encircled him. Carrying the

sword I rode on horseback and went off into the desert for an

hour. Then I returned and went into the tent to smell the henna,

cardamom, carnation and musk rising from my wife’s body.

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On the fourth of those wonderful, dewy mornings, the female

camels were not in their place around the male camel, who in

turn was not at the entrance of the tent. Something had

happened to him, and he had cut the rope and left his spot

followed by the females - this was what I concluded after

examining the camels’ footprints at the entrance to my tent.

Although what had happened was not a critical matter, I felt

concerns, unease and disquiet, which caused me worry, even a

certain level of fear.

I believed that they hadn’t gone far from the tent, so I set off

after them with no horse or sword, carrying only a bamboo

stick and wearing a thin woolen cloak. I followed the route I

guessed they had taken. I walked a long distance, but without

finding any trace of them. I headed eastwards, and walked on,

gradually turning south. I was following my own Bedouin

intuition, which was spot on. I caught sight of them in the

distance on the other side of the green hill. My fears began to

disappear and my mind was put at rest at once. As I went down

the other side of the green hill I came upon them straight in

front of me. I called to them immediately as I always used to.

For a few moments they turned their heads towards me, then

went back to their grazing, oblivious of me.

100

I looked at the male camel; my curiosity was raised: he wasn’t

chewing the grass. I looked at him closely - a sense of fear and

unease rose inside me. His eyes were bloodshot and watering,

and he was foaming at the mouth. I waved my cloak at him

hoping that he would move ahead of me in the direction of the

tent, but as soon as he saw the cloak raised to his face he came

forward to me with faltering steps that made me feel again that

he was not all right.

Something must have happened to him. But what was it?

I didn’t know. I listened to his growling and recognised that

particular sound, as well as the froth pouring out and the red

eyes. I was no longer in any doubt that he was boiling with

rage, and he was now in a such dangerous state that he could

not distinguish one thing from another and might suddenly go

for me if I didn’t protect myself. So I stepped back to get out of

his way and rushed off. He came after me and my fear

mounted. I ran in front of him, his rage grew as he ran after me.

His front legs scarcely touched the ground, and the froth

dripping from his mouth increased.

I threw off whatever misgivings I had and ran as quickly as I

could. He ran after me and as he got nearer to me, I raised my

speed. He could have run after me all day. His growling

102

increased and the sight of him became even more terrifying. I

felt that my steps began to falter, and I was convinced that this

was it.

He stretched out his neck and caught the edge of my cloak in

his mouth. I stuffed the whole cloak into his mouth and carried

on running. Chewing the cloak fiercely, he lifted his head

without stopping or slackening his fearsome pace towards me.

An edge of the cloak dangled down from his mouth touching

the ground. In the blink of an eye, he trod on it with his front

hooves and the cloak was torn in two. He caught up with me,

for a second he was on me and grazed me with the tip of his

upper lip. I imagined he was catching up with me at every step

as he was covering me with the spray of that flying froth. Oh

my God, this was it! However, I didn’t give up. Life itself

started to kick back giving me the power to raise my speed – a

speed greater than a human being could ever attain. I was no

longer aware of anything at all, a mere hair’s breadth from

death. All I could do was run as fast as I could.

Suddenly, in front of me in the ground there opened up a deep

furrow formed by the rain flooding down the hill that I was

only just then noticing. It suddenly opened up in front of me. I

threw myself down into it and evaded the camel’s mouth. But

104

at the last moment he was able to bite into my right shoulder

just as I was throwing myself into the hollow, taking with his

mouth a piece of my perfumed garment. He took everything

that covered my right shoulder and back. Then he stood right

above the hollow, chewing the piece of cloth, growling and

foaming and snarling, making me tremble to my bones.

I pressed myself into the earth, and began pushing hard with

my back in the hope that somewhere would open for me, all the

time looking at the open mouth above me, as my hands

protected my face and bare shoulder from the dripping froth. As I pushed my body against the ground, I found it responded

and was opening up for me a place within.

Oh, I had survived but, before I could catch my breath, he knelt

down at the top of the hollow and craned his neck toward me. I

pushed myself hard against the ground and I felt that it was still

responding and opening up a space for me – is this its nature?!

The distance between us shrank, but still he hadn’t reached me.

I pressed the ground with my back and shoulder; I felt

something moving under my bare back and shoulders. It was so

soft and warm that it made my whole body shudder. I couldn’t

see what it was. I just felt it sliding slowly and smoothly under

my body. I turned my face slightly to the right to avoid the

106

steadily increasing froth from the camel. From the corner of

my eye, I could see a huge black snake dragging itself from

under me with difficulty and climbing up the side of the

hollow.

Its body began to stretch out, raising its head from under me

with difficulty and went up the side of the hollow towards the

opening. Its body began to stretch out, raising its head little by

little while the lower part of it was still under my body. The

camel craned its neck once again towards me. I pressed myself

against the ground. I lay flat to the ground - it was solid this

time and my body became like compacted earth. The body of

the snake stretched out before my horrified open eyes. Then,

with a frightening terrifying speed, it jumped so high that it

was caught by the camel’s mouth. Its head was squeezed in the

camel’s mouth and covered with froth. It started wriggling

back and forth and managed to get free from the camel. A

second time the snake stretched upward; it arched its neck and

struck the camel on the mouth. The camel let out a bellowing

roar that resounded across the desert. A bitter struggle broke

out between the camel and the snake. White froth mixed with

black blood, the mixture falling from the camel’s mouth into

the hole. The camel raised his heavy body upwards to a great

height and, then, slumped to the ground – for the last time.

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He fell heavily upon the opening of the hollow. I thought the

earth had been split open. The body fell lifeless and covered

the opening of the hollow. I was sure that death was now

unavoidable. I didn’t notice the snake, which had calmly gone

back to its place underneath me and was now sound asleep

again”.

The old man fell silent. He adjusted his sitting position, re-

arranged for himself the pillows one on top of the other, leaned

back on them and gazed gravely into the distance. Is this their

nature?

I thought that the story had ended. I took a deep breath and was

about to say something when he stopped me with a wave of his

hand. He continued, "The carcass covered the opening of the

hollow and blocked out the light from me. Night descended

across the desert. The space inside the hollow became even

more horrific. I was no longer able to see anything at all, nor

was I able to make any movement for fear that the snake might

notice my presence.

Half of my back was on the ground, the other half on the snake.

My eyes stared upwards and saw only darkness, which covered

the ground and was now in the hole. All the night of the desert

was gathered within this hollow and beneath my body a mass

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of poison was slithering around and I didn’t know when it

would direct its attention to me. The night lengthened and I lost

the ability to distinguish beginning from end. I lost the power

to utter a word and I lost my mind.

I had no idea how many days and nights had passed while I

was there. I slept for a long time and got tired of sleeping. I

thought I would never sleep again and that sleep would never

come to me again. I woke up and remained awake for such a

long time that my eyes became ulcerated. I listened but heard

nothing but the sound of night, which was falling and lifting

while I was in the hole. I told myself that the white female

camels had returned to the tent. My wife must have been

alarmed and left her pool of henna, cardamom and carnation to

tell the tribe.

This is indeed what had happened. The tribesmen raced along

brandishing swords and bamboo sticks, some on foot, others on

horseback, fanning out in all directions. But as my night

lengthened the body of the camel began to decompose, giving

off a nauseating smell. Night bore down on me, and the

smooth-bodied snake lying underneath me remained fast

asleep.

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I realized that worms had started spreading deep inside the

body and I began to hear the sound of their crawling and

scratching of their feet as they crawled over the carcass, or

when they fell onto my face. Very slowly I opened my

ulcerated eyes. There began to appear some tiny threadlike

gaps, made by the worms in various places across the huge

carcass. Tiny rays of light began to percolate through. It was

certain that more nights would pass before I was to see daylight

again.

Indeed, one morning, I did see the full light of the sun. It felt

quite hot. Just as it had got a little hotter a group of men came

to stand beside the camel’s carcass. I could see only their feet

and hear a little of what they were saying. I tried to cry out, but

could not. I had finally lost the ability to speak.

One of them peered inside the hole and stepped back in horror.

I was sure he had seen me, but he said nothing. Hope crept into

my heart - the man had seen me and he would do what was

necessary. He had even seen my tearful eyes, still bright with

life at the bottom of the hole – a hole in which all the darkness

of the world had gathered. I was sure that he would have

another look - he had to take another look. I waited. They

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started talking among themselves; two of them looked at the

same time inside the dark hole. Our eyes met.

I was no longer in any doubt that they had both seen me. I

would get out, then. They would get me out of this grave. I

tried to cry out, but I couldn’t. I tried to move, but remembered

that half my body had become one with the earth with a huge

snake was stretched out there. I pleaded with my exhausted

eyes. I cried, tears poured out I knew not from where. I

implored them again and again with my eyes to save me. When

they were sure that there was a human being lying under the

remains of the carcass in the hole, one of them cried out:

"Old man, who are you?"

When I neither moved nor replied, they realized that I wasn’t

able either to speak or to move, they covered their noses with

their kaffiehs and dragged the carcass away from the opening

of the hole.

Along with the light and heat that fell into the hole, their hands

stretched out toward me and, calmly, they lifted me out by my

forearms and my legs. The snake then felt that it was now

alone in the hole and started slithering about. The men saw it

and thought to kill it, but I gestured to them that they would

have to kill me first. On our way back to the tents, the men

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began to recognize me amid looks of blank astonishment and

amazement at my hair that had turned white in just six days".

When the old man finished speaking, he stopped staring at my

white hair. A deep silence fell over the gathering.

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Samira al-Mana

was born in Basra, Iraq (1935). She is a novelist and short story writer. She completed her studies in London as a Liberian. She has been living in London for 40 years. She worked at the Iraqi Cultural Centre. From 1985 to 2002, she had been assistant editor of ‘al-Ightirab al-Adabi’, a quarterly magazine celebrating Arabic Literature (in Arabic). Her most important publications include:

- The Forerunners and the Newcomers, novel, - The Song, short stories, - Umbilical Cords, novel, - The Oppressors, novella.

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What a shame! (www.com) Oh, God! Her features relaxed. She has bought a computer or hasub as it is called in Arabic. She learned how to communicate with this precise machine; everything is carried out systematically. She will obtain countless, innumerable, classified and selected pieces of information, using more than six thousand million letters, it is said. All information which any human mind fails to store is found in this tiny box. She has freed herself from dealing with whom she knows to be deceitful, jealous, moody, selfish, fanatic, a forger, shameless or treacherous. Language dictionaries of humankind are full of these attributes. How lovely! www.com. Despite this, things are not bad, as some people may imagine, in days such as these. The British are in the Christmas season. The British, familiar as you are with their qualities, do not like to talk. This is clear. They are practical, serious people, except during the short period leading up to Christmas when they make a hole into the wall of their heavy calm silence. They enjoy themselves, to make up for the fun and tomfoolery that they have missed out on, lucky children. They have a lot of decorations, lights, and music in their homes, streets and public places. For this reason, the English woman standing in front of her in the queue to buy from the store was no surprise, keen as she was to talk with her. Fatin was not surprised either because she was intending to speak to the other person. Even more, she really wanted to smile, to break the ice. She does not think that her smile is a plastic forced one at the corners of the mouth, as some women are used to making to ward off evil. No, it is an encouraging understanding one. Come on then, come on, speak. Don't be afraid of me, English lady, talk with me. I'd

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like to talk with you as well. At that moment Fatin was longing for someone to talk to, in the Arab way of chattering, even if what was to be said was trite nonsense, soon to be forgotten. Talk with me, English woman, don't be afraid of me. I won't come to your house. I know. We'll chat here casually. It's all right! In public. I know my limits. Say whatever you like to say. The English woman opened her mouth with the best topic, complaining of the overcrowding. Fatin found the door wide open to go in. Yes, the English woman is tired. The signs of fatigue are clear on her because of the effort she has made, not military effort, but that of buying presents and preparing for Christmas. She is waiting in the queue to reach the sales assistant, not to buy presents but to exchange them, after changing her mind. Fatin asked jokingly: "What about the cards?" "Oh, don't ask about them". The English woman merely raised her head to heaven, complaining and helpless. Yes, cards, millions of them. The postman brings them every year in this month to deliver before Christmas to people he knows or knows just by name. The significant expression is enough to achieve the desired end in the forthcoming occasion: "A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year". That's it. We have done the necessary. We have done our duty. This is what the British say to themselves happy in enthusiasm. The tradition of sending congratulations by cards suits their temperament. Sales of cards there, as was mentioned in the latest statistics, exceed the sales of all the other European countries together. Deaf, dumb, nothing but cards, they come and they go. Fatin has received so many cards like this since

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she first came to Britain some twenty-five years ago. She has barely been able to feel their warmth. They are just like fruit that grow by chemical fertilizers with no vitamins, no taste, no smell. She wanted to whisper this bitter fact to the English woman, but the latter got in first: "The cards were all posted two weeks ago. I spent two nights with my husband writing the addresses". Fatin broke in to say something else to settle a long-standing festering score: "But I don't understand, why do we contact one another just at the annual Christmas season and by card only?" "For birthdays as well, don't forget". The English woman corrected smugly. Yes, of course. The conversation was suddenly broken because it was now her turn in the queue. The idea was snatched from her hands. Fatin’s enthusiasm backfired. There was no longer any dialogue. There was nothing but the heads of the sales assistants and the movement of their hands on the cash registers. She looked around in desperation before hearing a sneeze behind her. Oh, God! It is the London cold. She wanted to give her opinion to someone, just anyone. But the woman got in first and apologized for sneezing. The atmosphere became friendlier. Her dark complexion encouraged Fatin to draw nearer. She dared to ask her where she came from. She was just like her, a foreigner. From the sky there rained down laughter, down into a gloomy atmosphere. Who said, and it is hearsay, that the Arabs have not, as it appears, experienced any real sense of alienation? Otherwise, I would praise their ability to withstand loneliness and misery. Only they and their ilk deserve to have lots of children, so that people who like to gossip, chat and talk can come into this miserable world - more chatting and talking. The rate of

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suicide among them will indeed be low but high in countries that are not acquainted with this blessing. Chatting, discussing, even light banter, disagreement and making up afterwards help to rescue them from the chronic disease of depression, which is widespread in some modern countries, as some psychologists opine. The significant thing is that there is no need for advice today. Everything is forgiven on these days. These are the days of exchanging presents, kisses, cards, smiles, letting any Tom, Dick and Harry say to someone else in a loud voice: "Merry Christmas". Not only that but the boys and the girls are going to come to spend the Christmas holiday with us. This is what the expectant British fathers and mothers say again and again. It is really the only annual visit and that’s it. However, Nora has no children. She is about ninety. Fatin quickens her pace to get to where she lives, having got off the bus for the home for the elderly, as it is called here, quite openly, without ado or circumlocution, and in Basra in Iraq, the home for the weak, despairing of their condition. The home lies at the end of the street. Fatin heads towards it carrying a bag of dried apricots. Nora told her during her last visit that she liked them. She is also grasping in her hand the annual Christmas card on which there is the usual picture of shepherds, moon and stars. When she ends her visit, she will return to the computer and www.com. Fatin was accustomed to visiting Nora since the latter had moved here some years before. She was returning some of the favours she had done for her one day. She helped her during the early days of her stay in Britain. She told her what she should do in order to survive her critical ordeal. Nora offered what she could after she found out that Fatin was her neighbour, divorced, with a baby of a year and a half. She

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brought her the forms and addresses of the relevant official agencies in Britain to help her manage her affairs. She put up the curtains of her flat herself after she bought them for her when she noticed her cash shortage. In her turn, Nora will never forget Fatin's help in the same way that the people stricken by natural disasters will never forget those who have helped them including the British, a result of the noble deep feeling which comes only in the case of the awareness of the utmost necessity. One of them fell asleep early during supper. Who else would it be but Elizabeth? She will only allow Daniel, the manager responsible for running the home for the elderly, to use this name. She doesn’t let him call her by her name written in the official papers, which is Mrs. Owen. She is one hundred and two years old. "But this wouldn’t change anything," Daniel says with a smile. Every now and then he would come into the room carrying the plates of their food in his hands from the kitchen to those six old women sitting to have supper. He found Elizabeth's eyes closed and her mouth open, impassive in a deep sleep. He winked at the guest Fatin saying: "Shall we leave her alone?" She replied: "Yes, leave her alone". Fatin agreed as she sat chewing an apricot with her old neighbour Nora. The latter was attentive and awake, insisting on listening to the chimes of Big Ben at the stroke of twelve, as she was used to doing on most Christmas nights.

The dinner at the home for the weak, sorry, the home for the elderly, was superb by all the standards of the homes for the elderly in Britain. Tonight is not a usual Christmas night, but the night of the end of the second millennium and the advent of the dawn of the third millennium. It is the millennium loaded with so many associated memories. After supper, a lean hand stretched out to get up. Daniel rushed to

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help. His voice was begging its owner: "It's early. Night hasn't yet started. It's only half past seven". The owner of the outstretched hand replied, struggling to stand up: "Not for me. Time is over for me". Daniel insisted on the need for her to share the evening with them. "Don't say that. The world is beautiful, especially in these days. It wants peace and reconciliation". She answered him as she dragged her feet away: "No, not for me. I wish it all the best. But our time is almost over". The other women who were sitting fidgeted and then slipped away, one after the other, after dinner, off to their rooms with Daniel's help, repeating virtually the same excuse. In London, outdoor celebrations are reaching their climax. Daniel’s young assistant, the devil, as he would call her, had left the place early to enjoy herself. She had gone out after putting on the latest fashion and festive decorations. She hurried to join the others to dance, drink, and watch the fireworks by the Thames River. It is eight o'clock exactly. Nora expressed her wish to stay to hear the last chimes of the year from Big Ben. However, before long, unable to stay awake, she admitted that she was tired. All of a sudden, she began to feel sleepy. Elizabeth opened her eyes wondering: "What time is it now?" She was not surprised to have fallen asleep in the chair, as she was wont to do this. This was not the first time. "Take me to my room". Daniel bent over her to help her. As he lifted her bent at the torso, she said to him: "I'd have stayed with you, all night, awake, for sure, if I were still in the bloom of youth". They have all gone to their rooms. There is no one in the room with Daniel but Fatin. Expressing his disappointment, he said to her: "I hadn’t imagined that they'd go to their beds to fall fast asleep. I prepared the balloons and decorations, as you can see, but not one of them stayed with me. There's no fairness here". Fatin smiled and answered him with a laugh: "Fairness! You

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must be dreaming!" She remained sitting with him out of courtesy, seeing that he was lonely and dejected. Both of them watched the bright television screen in front of them as they spoke. The presenter is moving from one capital to another, as he follows with excitement and delight the peoples' celebrations of the tremor of the arrival of the third millennium. Daniel said indulgently: "Yes, this is wonderful. For the first time the whole world feels that it's a one happy village". "This is only natural". Fatin answered quietly before the old misgivings befell her. She wanted to relate them to remind herself of them: "Once I read an article in which there was a photograph. I think it was taken in Portugal or in another nearby country. The article talks about an old place of worship built from human bones instead of bricks and stones. It was an odd building. Imagine! It was just built from skulls, and bones of forearms, feet, pelvis and rib cage. The article mentioned that in the passage leading to this building there was a notice hung for visitors saying: These are our bones; we are waiting for yours. A terrifying thing! I was startled after reading it. I went to sleep utterly terrified". "How remarkable!" commented the breathless Daniel. Has Fatin commited some kind of sin? During the celebrations of the happy night, she remembers this. She does not know. It is now too late to back off. She stuck to her position promising Daniel to look for the magazine where the article was published to send it to him at the first opportunity, especially when he asked her: "Are you sure of that?" "Of course, I remember the article very well, especially the photo". "This building might be one of the buildings of the Middle

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Ages during the period of the rise of religious struggles?" "Maybe. It's possible. Anyhow, I'll send you the magazine soon, so you can see the article yourself". Several days passed after the end of the Christmas season and things returned to normal. She had now to fulfil her promise to Daniel. She decided to start a search campaign in her house to find the magazine in which that article was published. Maybe it is on the shelves, on the tables, among papers and magazines. She did not find it. It is possibly here, no there… It is all the same, no use, utter silence and complete ignorance. The magazine does not exist. Non-existence. What is happening in her house? In her imagination? It’s a strange thing. Not only that but she has lied for some reason. What is she going to do? The whole thing is just an invention. What for? What has happened to her? She remembers the article well and in detail. Was it a confused dream one day? Is it possible to find the truth on her computer? Why does not she look for it in www.com... www.com? No trace. Nothing helps her from all the limitless information in the computer. What will be her excuse for Daniel? Will it be enough to tell him that the information is stored in just her brain, because of the many atrocities and catastrophes she has seen during her lifetime? They are embedded in the small, fine, slim surfaces of her nerves that no electronic electric computer could ever hold. These atrocities were taken by cameras. They are sometimes mentioned in magazines, books and other media. How can her memory forget the skulls piled up like a pyramid in the regime of Pol Pot in Vietnam? The frozen teeth of the dead Iraqi soldier still sitting in his vehicle during Gulf War? How can she escape from the face of the woman stricken with the killing of her six children in a massacre carried out by gunmen in Algeria, falling unconscious from the horror of the tragedy? How is she going to look at the real helmets of Iranian soldiers killed in the Iraq-Iran war from which a memorial monument

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for victory was built in the capital Baghdad? This is only in the last thirty years. The list may be even longer if you count what happened before and after that, even what is happening every day in the civilised world if this is the correct expression. Is Daniel going to understand when she explains for him? Is she going to be annoying, disturbing and troublesome when she reminds him of incidents which are better forgotten and totally neglected to welcome the third millennium with flags waving, hands clapping and feet dancing. What is she going to say? She lied and added things of her own without feeling. She remained thinking of her loss of self-control. She was afraid. Who can guarantee that she too is not being self-centered, a fanatic, a show-off and a swindler? Everything is possible in this world. Nothing can be guaranteed. What’s stopping it? What a shame!

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Waarid Badir As-Saalim

is well known for writing short stories and novels. He has won a number of local and interna onal prizes. In 2007, he won the Dubai Prize for Culture for his short stories entitled “The American Bar”. He is currently working as a journalist in the UAE. His publications include:

- The Fingers of Willow, short stories, Baghdad (1987),

- Our House, short stories, Baghdad (1990),

- Burs ng out in Tears, Baghdad (1994) and Cairo (1998),

- Al-Ma’dan, stories, Baghdad, (1995),

- Broken heart, love le ers, Baghdad (2000),

- Paradise of the Blind, texts, Baghdad (2000),

- Pig-like, novel, Cairo: Dar al-Hadhara al-Arabia (2004),

- Sanc on Seasons, poem, Damascus (2000).

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Story-like The Crown

I'm happy with having this only daughter. There is nobody who can get in the way of this great happiness that has eventually come upon me. She is my close companion and solace in this turbulent world and my inspiration in my bitter loneliness…. Oh! I love this little child so much! She has shortened for me the mined roads of life and has tried to ensure that my early middle age should be a pleasant one for me. We usually need only a simple reason to see life in all its colour, purely mirrored and clean like the early morning dew. How this little child has filled me with childhood, happiness, richness and permanence! Today I'm sad, and pain is almost destroying my sides and racking my limbs; my little girl has got severe diarrhea which has sapped her strength and is almost pulling out her bowels, a diarrhea that has sucked out her tender spirit and beloved childhood, weakened her little body and turned her into a cat that lets out just a feeble miaow as she empties her waste, just as if there were a genie inhabiting her belly. However, I'm quite patient in spite of myself. She is my little only child in this tumultuous world. I have to manage to stay quiet instead of complaining and to talk tenderly instead of shedding tears. I'll play with her any game she wants to make her forget the reservoir of pain in her stomach which has been filled with great amounts of drugs. I'll play all games for her sake. I'll turn into a monkey and jump up and down to make her laugh a little, or a beautiful cat and I miaow in her arms, or a mild-tempered dog and I guard her deep sleep, or a viper and I creep between her thin legs, or a small bicycle to carry her on my back and take her wherever she likes. She likes my turning into such forms all the time; a monkey, or a dog or a cat. In the face of her pains that crushed her belly, I turned into everything

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for a few short moments that seemed long inside me. Nevertheless, she remained watching me with broken eyes that overflowed with sadness. I could see a deep desire crumbling as well in her moist eyes. And so, I did more and more of the things that she liked and sang the songs that she liked to sing along with me before her illness. I was trying to wrest a glimmer of hope to cling on to but everything proved futile, even though I turned into a number of small animals, played for her the games she wanted and sang as much as possible. Suddenly, my little only girl whispered: "Daddy. Be a king!" Joy struck me and hope filled my weak eyes. Lo! My joy in the vast world has finally spoken to ask me to be "A king", and because I was only good at being a dog, a monkey or a cat, I remained stunned for a short while. However, I put the matter to rights what my little princess wanted me to do: be a kingggggg! This was a new game that we hadn’t played before. Because I love her to death and hope that she can forget the pains in her belly, I thus became a king: I made a crown of cardboard, decorated it with coloured ribbons and put it on my head. I got hold of a scepter made of beech wood or so I imagined. I also brought the only kitchen chair and put a lovely colourful wintery wool wrap over it. I imagined my rented house to be larger than it really was, decorated with first-class Iranian carpets. Its walls were adorned with rare paintings, while sets of sofas filled the reception hall. Pieces of furniture were scattered here and there but they were soon arranged in a new way with a permeable pleasant smell. There's nothing else but the king that my daughter wants me to be. I became the anticipated king when I put my clothes on inside out! I became a tyrant king. In a short time, the signs of royalty started to appear on my dignified position. My voice grew thicker and became harsh. I noticed that misfortune had left my face and flesh sagged under my throat.

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It didn't take very long before the large house was crowded with lackeys, servants and maids. They rushed to bow before me until their foreheads touched the ground. They offered their eternal loyalty and boundless gratitude. They swore to fall martyrs for the sake of the kingdom. Soldiers, the gendarmerie and the local policemen did the same thing. They burst into the place one after the other from different doors, their eyes were afraid to meet mine which usually grew angry for no reason. Rows of mysterious officials assembled, both civil and military. They read the new charter of the kingdom and swore by the honour of their mothers and unmarried sisters to protect the kingdom and defend it even if they lost their necks. In fact, the scene was exciting and rousing as I listened to the reading of the new royal charter which would protect the vast kingdom. I was deeply impressed by the sight of the generals whose chests were filled with shining differentiated medals. I was also impressed by their wonderful discipline as they swore the oath to defend the happy kingdom, which raised my confidence in them. My imagination was thus roused to expand the kingdom's borders while I had this large number of great generals under my command. Amid all the splendour and happiness, my large house was crowded with ministers whom I didn't like very much. I didn't reply to their greetings so that they could see my angry eyes from the first moments and shoulder their responsibilities in a way that would make the peoples of the kingdom happy and offer them the services that should not be forgotten in my new epoch. Probably I was right when I slapped the face of the minister of public services because he engaged in excessive flattery and so embarrassed me in front of my ninth wife. I issued my royal orders after reading the morning mail, which was full of problems left unsolved by the previous king. I had to be very firm. That's why I ratified the execution of the

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commander of one of the military barracks because he was suspected of having links with a neighbouring kingdom - just a suspicion, that was not supported by documents and evidence. I issued a life sentence to a senior official in the kingdom for brazenly taking bribes in public. I also dismissed three junior officers because they were the supporters of the previous king, put them under house arrest, confiscated all their financial and material effects, and made them divorce their young wives, who were then brought to the royal palace as attendants to the palace servants. I issued these and other orders in order to spread justice and equality among people. Such was my morning, full of just orders. Then I ordered the rest of my servants to go away and leave me to attend to the affairs of the morrow. Everybody hurried and left as if they had evaporated. I was surrounded by a resounding unexpected vacuum, a vacuum which drew my attention to my darling only daughter who was crying and her small hands were squeezing her belly. Damn diarrhea! I was overwhelmed by a feeling of anger as I was yelling at the rest of the servants, attendants and overseers. Because I was still the king with an adorned crown I was afraid for my pampered little only daughter. Her pain was increasing, her belly was about to explode and her body was writhing like a stung bird. I rushed to her, leaving the great royal throne and was able to respond to the last cry of pain as I took off the crown and put it straight underneath just as she was emptying her bowels.

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Arif Alwaan

was born in Omara, south of Iraq in July 1941. He studied and later worked in Baghdad. Currently he lives in the UK. His recent publications include:

- The Orange Room (1999), novel, - Terminus (1997) novel, - The Pasha of Baghdad (1992) novel, - The Destruc on of Babylon (1975) play, - The Game of The Deluded (1977), play, - The Tartars are Coming (1986), play, - The Prophet (collection of Plays), - Lake of Canga (collection of plays), - Tartuffe (1996), play. - Noah's Ark - Beirut (2002), play.

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Mess

She said: "How can you live in the middle of this mess?" Then she left and I set to putting the pieces of furniture into proper order and changing their positions. Next morning I woke up early. I stood in the middle of the room reconsidering the look of the things I had moved around themselves and around one another. I found out that much remained to be done for the situation to settle satisfactorily. It seemed to me as if a confused series of dreams filled with chairs, tables, dining tables and items of clothing had awoken me and pushed me hard out of bed to the middle of the room to continue arranging it. Put a small bedside table between two sofas. This gives you a beautiful order. If you put a table in front of that chair, you will get rid of the untidiness that blocks your way to the door. However, this arrangement, though useful, deprives the bookcase of its rightful position that shows its inlaid wood and leaves just a small spot for the TV facing the window where the announcer speaks to the pedestrians, with his back to whoever is sitting in the room. The remarks she made as she was about to leave, were really useful, giving, through an imaginary, fleeting vision, a tidy warm appearance. Nevertheless, the picture that we draw for rooms in our minds quickly unravels when we actually start setting out some pieces of furniture in a limited space. Therefore, I was forced to abandon her ideas, having tried in vain to follow them for half a day. We should not stumble over things around us or let things get in our way. This is a wise saying when it is uttered on the doorstep. However, as soon as you enter inside, you will find thousands of obstacles in front of you. Libraries are one of my means for solving problems.

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Therefore, I went to the municipal building where I immersed myself in a great collection of design magazines. Then I moved on to books on architecture until I found myself absorbed in history. Finally, I took to digging deep into encyclopedias. The matter of arranging the room should be completed as soon as possible. This is the crux of the matter. The librarian knew my way of attacking books. He looked understandingly at my way of reading and asked as he stood at a distance: "How’s work these days?" I replied: "I'm not doing anything." Then I explained: "I’ve been busy for a week arranging the furniture in the room". I knew after he had left that he missed the mess I was used to making on the table whenever I came to search for an old name or date of an event. I thought to myself, had they been books, they could have been arranged easily, but pieces of furniture are a totally different matter. Take this chair, for instance. Whenever you put it, it will destroy the little order you achieved in the place. However, the reception needs it desperately, and it is from here that the difficulty arises, as the principle is that the beauty of the arrangement should go in harmony with the function of things. When the librarian said that he left the matter of arrangement to the imagination of his wife, he seemed to have suggested a more destructive solution. She wondered: "How can you think and write in the middle of this mess?" Then she left without giving me time to explain that this mess did not at all disturb me in the slightest, I mean, the fact that the front of the table was in front of the back of the sofa. The matter as it seems to me, now, is related to determining the faces, heads and shoulders of these pieces before thinking about arranging them. In the beginning, I imagined that the mess lay in the clothes and magazines thrown here and there. I collected them up into one giant heap and headed, with both arms full, to the

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cupboard. And there, I found the place for the low table that suited it exactly. However, opening the doors of the cupboard had become virtually impossible. Only then did I understand what she meant as she was leaving by the existence of things. How had I been able to live with these things in the past? I believe I had not thought about them before. Now I am paying the price for that negligence. The thing that startled me suddenly was the fact that I was not the only one with two legs in the room. All the pieces without exception, what am I saying my Lord, stand on two legs and the smallest piece of all has four legs. Today, I disclosed to one of my colleagues on the phone the fact that I had not written one single line for two weeks and asked him to find me an acceptable excuse if the owner of the magazine where I work found out. When I told him about the arrangement of the room that had destroyed my nerves, he laughed and offered some suggestions about the place that suited sofas inside rooms. "Sofas with imposing backs, in particular," he added. Here is another person forming wonderful pictures on the phone about rooms he has not seen and pieces of furniture he does not know how they look. Put the cupboard here and the chairs there. Then arrange the dining tables and tables nicely and the mess is gone and you can relax! No, the problem is not that easy especially in this room where there is only a two-seater sofa, two chairs and one table. I had not counted those pieces before. Besides these, there were some peripheral pieces whose usefulness I had not thought about at all. Of course, I had forgotten the cupboard. The problem is that the moment you start thinking about arranging a room, pieces of furniture appear from under the ground and every one yells at you saying I am here! Do you want to forget me? First of all, determine the place of the piece that you

155

.

!

""

.

!

!.

.

!

156

need before the others. Then start arranging the remaining pieces after that. She uttered these words and calmly left without thinking of the consequences that were likely to ensue afterwards. That fact of the matter is that the moment you decide that one piece is important, even the most insignificant chair and the ugliest table will say that their existence near that piece is indispensible. With this dry wood cushioned with cloth or bare standing around you, you will always find yourself mired in discord. A renowned Arab architect said one day to me: "Our foundations are based on chaos. Otherwise, the organized meticulous form that we build on them would collapse". He was watching my eyes waiting for them to sparkle with astonishment because of this explanation. "We leave them in chaos on purpose," he added. "One order cannot sustain another order without leading to the collapse of one of them". Nevertheless, no one criticized my room for being messy before I met the architects. That is why I did not show concern or ask for an explanation for what he meant. I left him staring at my face wondering in the same way as I am now bewildered staring at the pieces of furniture. Very well, what is behind this question of order that has fallen on my head without prior notice? It has made me sit for two weeks now inside a room that is extremely neat, thinking carefully about keeping the place of this piece without troubling the position of the other. I am also keen that no discarded paper or a fallen shirt button should disturb the order I have made. One must confess, whether she is going to visit the room again or not, that the place has become beautiful, suffused with tranquility, giving a feeling of comfort; the comfort that the atmosphere of old places of worship gives to the mind.

157

.

. :

" -

".

. .

!

158

The pressing matter now is to convince the owner of the magazine where I work that I have lost the previous speed I had for finding subjects and that it is not, as he says, a lack of sense of responsibility that is behind my irregularity in writing.

159

.

161

Abdul-Rahmaan Al-Rubai'i

was born in Thiqar, south of Iraq in 1939; he studied pain ng in

Baghdad. He worked as a director of Iraqi Cultural Centre in Beirut

and Tunisia. He was a member of editorial board of ‘Cultural Life’

published by Tunisian Cultural Ministry. His publications include

- The Sword and the Ship, collection of short stories

(1966)

- The Shadow in the Head, collection of short stories

(1968)

- The Tattoo, novel (1972)

- Eyes in the Dream, collec on of short stories (1974),

- The Memory of the City, collection of short stories

(1975).

162

Groaning

(1) I woke up from my dream, switched on the table lamp, poured

a glass of water from the bottle and sipped it quickly to get rid

of the dryness and roughness from my throat.

It was a dream then? Oh! How it weighed me down! But I am

still alive. I felt my limbs and slipped my hand down my

pyjama top and pressed down on my heart, which was

pounding as if returning from a furious chase - mythical beasts

running after me, their jaws open, rocks and pits. Then I fell

into one of them and was unable to get out. The strength of my

forearm did not help me, and when I did have some luck, I was

surrounded by hooded men exchanging strange words and

urging one another on to attack me. They were all holding axes

pointing down towards me to hit me with whenever I was close

to getting out. I warded off their sharp weapons with my hands.

I fought them; I fought them until they left me. Suddenly, they

stopped. They exchanged some words and then withdrew. At

this point I woke up.

Another glass of water, a fever in the head and a shiver ripped

through the body. This was my first dream. When I went back

to sleep, I had another dream. It seemed as if the dream had

been waiting for me. It came to me as soon as I

163

1

164

closed my eyelids. I imagined myself to be in a large cold and

desolate room. I was not wearing any clothes. On the bare floor

of the room, there was a nest of small snakes tightly

intertwined around one another because of the cold. They were

unable to leave where they were or to disentangle themselves.

Then a fire was lit in a hearth which was situated in the middle

of the room and the flames rose up. When warmth spread

through the place, the snakes started to move and slithered

across the floor all in different directions. Some of them went

under my bed. I was not afraid. I was lying calmly and kept

saying to myself: They are house snakes. I've heard that they

don't bite people. When I leave my bed, I'll put a glass of water

and salt in the middle of the room. Then they won't come near

me.

All of a sudden, I saw a large spider. I was aghast and

frightened. My calm turned into panic. It was moving inside its

web. My hand reached out to pick up a hammer that someone

or other had brought me. I rushed from my bed and went on

hitting it until I changed it to a mess exuding blood and puss.

Two dreams intervened into your dream. Someone killed me

and you went away. He pointed his gun towards me and filled

me full of holes. You were crying for help but your cry

166

resounded through a valley where there was no human being.

(2)

On a winter’s day, we were together. You were wrapped up in

a black 'abaaya1 that I brought you to wear as a mark of

respect for the holy shrine. I was walking beside you. My body

was shaking with cold despite the heavy clothes I was wearing.

We were close to each other. You whispered questions to me

and I whispered answers to you. We were moving around the

shrine together with tens of other bodies, women wearing black

'abaayas, men with 'iqaals2 holding their yashmaaghs3, voices

intoning allaahu akbar4 whenever exhausted men came

carrying a dead body stuffed in a wooden coffin, followed by a

group of female mourners. I was whispering to you to make a

wish, to ask the shrine to fulfill a wish that was swimming in

your heart. We were forcing our way through with difficulty.

Sometimes, I would put my hand on your shoulder to rescue

you from your confusion and encourage you to go on. You

were also captivated by the

1 'abaaya is a long cloak worn by women. It has no sleeves and it hangs

loosely from the head. 2 'iqaal is a headband made of camel hair to hold the yashmaagh in place. 3 Yashmaagh is a square cloth diagonally folded and worn under the 'iqaal

as a headdress. 4 God is great.

167

(2)

168

magnificence of the place, incredulous that these large

windows should all be cast in gold and wondering about what

power had led the goldsmiths to work with such skill.

With each turn, I put my hand into my pocket to take out a coin

to throw into the shrine to add to the pile of coins and

banknotes cast by visitors in the course of the day.

The wailing of the women increased. Some of them were

grabbing the shrine's window and clinging to it, paying no heed

to the visitors who ran into them or who yelled at them to move

to make room for others.

I was whispering to you but you did not answer me. On your

face there was a look of submissiveness that I had not known

or seen before. You were taken aback, melting away. We

moved around the shrine time and again putting our hands on

its windows. Then we would move back. Then I tapped you to

withdraw and you complied. We moved back and stood

alongside some men who were praying. You raised your head

and were entranced by the decoration of the roof. Your eyes

moved about the place, from the walls to the doors, golden and

silver decorations, the stained glass, the mosaics and the lines

of writing. Another funeral came by, followed by women, the

intonations of their voices fading away because of their crying

had turned into a deadly wailing - voices exhausted, broken

170

and strangulated. At this point you asked me: Why do they

bring the dead to this place?

"To take them around the shrine. This is part of the

death ritual here".

"What's next?"

"They carry the dead to the cemeteries around the city".

You said:

"The wailing of the women is killing me though I don't

understand a single word of what they're saying".

You swallowed hard and continued:

"They're hurting me, they are tearing me apart. Oh!

Lord!"

Then you rearranged your 'abaaya which you did not know

how to wear, while your eyes remained transfixed in a world of

confusion, fear and questioning.

You said:

"Let's go out, please. The wailing of the women is haunting and

frightening me".

172

You were distracted for the whole journey. I left you to

yourself. Despite what I saw I carried on driving the car. The

car was taking us out of the city on a paved road that

nonetheless ran through empty open country. A mirage

shimmered on the surface of the road as far as the eye could

see as if it was a lake calling us to swim in it.

After driving some ten kilometres out of the city, we were met

by a vast number of cawing crows; crows everywhere, in the

sky, on the road. They got out of the way only when the car

approached and its wheels were about to crush them. Only then

did they fly off, but their cawing increased as they circled

around the car as it raced along.

I remarked on this scene as you were silent:

"What if were walking without a car?"

You answered without looking at me as if you were talking to

someone else:

"They would have probably pecked us to death with

their beaks, just as if we were in the scene of that

Hitchcock film I saw when I was a child but still

remember what happened in it".

Thousands of crows, cawing, flying around, dropping down,

piling into the animal carcasses, near puddles, on the

174

sides of the road. There seems no trace of life, no date palm, no

house, no car, not even a shrine nearby.

We were alone on the road which was cut by this iron object.

Had the road not been clearly paved as it stretched out in the

sand and crows, we would have got lost and swallowed up by

this arid land.

You asked once more:

"What's happening?"

I answered you immediately:

"To whom?"

"To me?"

"To me as well".

Here you looked at me and said:

"A nightmare that I haven't known before, the wailing

of women in my ribs, then the crows. Just look at

them".

I could not find an answer and my only thought was to drive

off, let the car go as fast as it could to leave this

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- - -

176

murderous atmosphere of black and cawing. My hand ran to

yours and rested upon it. Warmth had left your hand. It was

resting in your arms, cold and shivering. I started to press it and

it responded as if taking refuge in my hand. Then I took it and

kissed it.

Your eyes were still questioning but I was unable to talk and

utter some words from my dry lips.

179

Fu'aad Al-Takarli

was born in Baghdad (1927) and died in Amman (2008). He studied law and worked at Ministry of Justice. His first collection entitled The Other Face published in 1960. His publication includes:

- The Long Way Back, novel (1980), - The Seal of Sand, novel (1995), - Joys and Pains, novel (1998), - Tales from Invisible World, collection of short

stories (2004).

180

Confusion

Please excuse me, doctor, but I remember very well

telling you more than once that my husband that evening did

not take any medicine that he had not taken before or anything

else unknown to us. He remembered just after supper, yes,

right after supper, that he had forgotten to take his morning

tablet for hypertension, the usual Tenormin, which you no

doubt know. Before that, Lord above, he had complained of a

mild headache. This happened directly after our son, Abdul-

Razzaaq, had left with our dear grandson, Sarmad. I told him

straight away, don’t forget that after thirty years of living

together I know his state of health better than he does himself, I

told him immediately, that running about with our dear

grandson, Sarmad, in the garden in the afternoon sun had

caused that kind of headache. He laughed at me, you can just

imagine that. He talks, laughs and tells jokes at the wrong time.

He repeated several jokes that my son and I were tired of

hearing. However, our grandson encouraged him to continue.

When he was a lowly clerk in the personnel department in the

Ministry of Justice in the bygone days, he set out to break the

power of the records’ supervisor by transferring the

182

junior clerk who writes up the official records for him. The

supervisor begged, mediated and finally admitted defeat. That

was his great victory. I told my son that we had been hearing

this story for thirty years now and that his father Hajj Abdul-

Salaam would be able to retell it for another thirty years. He

answered me mocking: "Who is that history teacher who

counts only the years and is not concerned by the interpretation

of events and their consequences?" We continued supper. If

you ask me: "Who is that history teacher?" It is me, doctor.

You did not know that, did you? I am a specialist history

teacher. I have taught for more than twenty-five years, to no

avail. However, why should I beat about the bush and not get

to the point? Do I want something else that I do not know?

Straight after supper, he did not find the Aspirin tablet that he

wanted for his headache. I got up, brought it to him with all

care and gave him once more the reasons for his pain but he

did not answer me. No, no he had not taken the Tenormin

tablet yet. I told you that from the beginning. His headache

eased a little after taking that Aspirin tablet. He relaxed on his

wide chair in front of the TV. Yes, he enjoys watching many of

the foreign programmes that are shown to us. However, he

does not sit near the small screen. Why do you think he does

that? He is happy to put on his thick glasses and

184

relax on the distant chair. Then nothing happened, nothing at

all. So here am I talking with you at length about the progress

of events in terms of time. Imagine doctor, a sixty-seven year

old man having a light supper with his wife, son and grandson!

Then he sat comfortably in his favourite seat in front of the

television. Nothing more, nothing less.

No, he did not tell me anything else of note except that he had

forgotten to take the Tenormin tablet and that he should take it

now. I agreed with him. Better late than never. I brought him

the brightly coloured tablet and he swallowed it. Then we sat

and talked a little. About what? Some trivial family affairs; our

daughter-in-law, the wife of our son Abdul-Razzaaq, and how

she was getting along with him and us, expenditures and the

rise in prices. That is all. Never did he complain of fatigue or

anything else unusual. He wanted only to sleep and I

encouraged him to do so. Do you find in that anything

suspicious? I thought that was the best thing I could do. It was

past ten in the evening and sitting in front of the television was

not right for an elderly man with hypertension. He got up on

his own and left. I did not go with him to the bedroom. I did

not do that. I do not know why.

I left him to wash as usual and go to bed. There was nothing to

worry about, doctor. That is why I was not worried

186

about him. It is true that he remained silent as he got up,

washed himself and went to his bedroom. However, this cannot

be taken as unusual; and even if it were, I did not notice it at

that time.

I remained seated in my chair watching television. Then I got

up and lowered the volume of the TV in order not to disturb his

sleep because I noticed that the he kept the bedroom door open.

You can now see how we live, doctor. The living room, where

the TV set is, is next to the bedroom. Someone who is a light

sleeper will be annoyed and disturbed by the volume of the TV.

Nevertheless, I am certain that Hajj Abdul-Salaam did not

suffer from insomnia or a nervous debility. He needs only to

turn over in his bed two or three times for him to start snoring.

Then too I am used to falling into a deep sleep; a habit that has

no explanation, but which we have been following happily for

years under one roof. So doctor, because of the open door, I

could hear his snoring over the low sound of the TV. I relaxed

in my chair, trying to spend some time watching what was on

television.

Then, did I sleep in my seat or take a short nap, or was I lost in

thought or overwhelmed by the pictures… or what? I do not

know exactly. I was roused suddenly like somebody

188

awakened, or somebody bitten by a snake or pricked with a

heated pin. Something very weird happened in that surrounding

silence. It was not utter silence but a balanced one, yes, that’s

the right expression, a balanced continuous silence. There was

snoring from the bedroom against the mumbling of the TV

with me in the middle. The snoring stopped and the silence was

suddenly disturbed. I was overcome by a deep unknown fear. I

got up quickly and rushed to him, to my dear husband. He was

lying there, as you saw him, doctor, surrounded by a very

strange silence. His pale, motionless and distant countenance

gave the impression that he was a being with no connection

with this world. I called him, touched him and tried to awaken

him but in vain. I was breathless with anxiety. Then you came,

all of you! We gathered around him, some of us more

concerned than others, according to our nature. You, our son

and I, but there was a deep fear and distress. Luckily, I said, in

conversation, he seemed to be sleeping. However, it was the

kind of sleep that you had not seen before. His heart was

beating slowly, slowly and life in his body had not stopped but

it was not active. These were just words and words that might

have one meaning for you, but for me they could have only one

awful meaning... my husband was approaching death.

190

We brought, as you know, specialists in many medical and

scientific fields and they carried out the necessary tests and

analyses. Then unfortunately they agreed that they were

perplexed like you and us. You finally advised us to take

special care of his body and cling to what was left of it. That is

to wash it, turn it over every now and then, and feed it with

injections and plastic tubes. This we did. Nevertheless, that

strange presence was gradually drifting away. I felt this while I

was carrying out the tasks that you had recommended. It did

not occur to me that this was of no use both for him and for us.

I was resolutely fighting against that damned idea that was

engulfing me and wanting to lodge in my mind… everything

you are doing is of no avail and the best thing for him and for

all of you is to let him die. I can swear that this idea never

crossed my mind. It might have crossed yours, doctor. When I

called you at that late hour of the night, you thought I had some

bad news to tell you.

I was alone in the house with him, sitting in the living room,

contemplating after I finished washing him and turning him

over. The bedroom door was open once more. I was tired. My

son had left me to return home to his family. He had stayed

with me for ten days and he got tired of everything just as I did.

I was looking at the different parts of the living room. The

192

pieces of furniture seemed to me dull and sad; the TV set silent

with a black screen. During those lonely moments, as I was on

the other side of life, a low sigh from the bedroom brought me

back to life, to a state of consciousness. I had to understand the

meaning of that routine snoring that rose gradually and then

increased and became stronger. I jumped up and rushed to him.

Now, doctor, when we face a situation or a case that is outside

the scope of our work that we cannot do anything about, we

should listen without asking questions and giving pieces of

advice. Let me tell you that for the first time at this age of mine

I am narrating to you, as if I were your mother, with grief and

compassion the events of a history I have not specialized in and

have not studied so that we can reach a common understanding

between the knowledge that you have and the bitter experience

that I have been through.

My husband resumed his usual sleep of the previous ten days

with his customary snoring that filled the bedroom. I was

standing over his head, looking perplexed at his bearded face,

barely suppressing a cry of great joy. I called you and told you

what was happening to me. Then I went back to his side, gazed

at him and listened to the sounds of his body, which I was used

to hearing. Just listening, doctor, to his snoring and seeing the

faint redness on his hollow cheeks, I could not stop myself

194

believing that he had come back to life. So, I whispered

his name several times and pressed his shoulder gently. The

snoring stopped. He let out a strangulated sound and then

opened his eyes. The surrounding light was dim and he did not

see me at first. He remained staring directly at the ceiling. Oh

God! What directness! I called him and he turned his eyes at

me. What an odd directness! His bright eyes were cold and

angry. He did not answer me and did not seem to understand or

recognize me.

I was in deep distress when you arrived. The house was filled

with joy. You were happy, you kissed him, examined him and

diagnosed his severe weakness and need for food. However,

none of you noticed his looks at us and it did not occur to you

to ask about the secret behind that silence that enveloped him.

It seemed natural and clear to you but to me, it was something

dangerous and ominous. Hajj Abdul-Salaam, my life

companion, that gentle, kind and friendly person does not

know such deep silence that resembles the silence of midnight

and cannot, however hard he tries, doctor, however hard he

tries, cannot have such cruel looks and hide somewhere in his

head a hatred that you feel in spite of yourself.

I could not believe it. Not enough time had elapsed. We were

in the third day of his state of consciousness, his waking

196

up or his coming back to life - call it whatever you like. I could

not believe it, neither could you. However, this was not the

kind of thing that can be hidden for a long time, even if he

wanted to, but he didn’t. Ever since he had recovered some of

his strength and was able to sit in his bed and refuse with clear

signals to have his white beard shaved, I guessed that I had to

prepare myself for a new surprise.

You did not care about his uncertain and lengthy silence. I did

not know, doctor, why you did not care, neither you nor my

son, even though I told you more than once, I remember very

well, that his features were different and that there must be a

secret in that. He did not speak at all. He gave me the strange

feeling that he did not see me as his life companion. So you did

not care and nobody cared that I might be alone… facing that

puzzling situation.

You used to visit us daily, doctor. He let you examine him

every time you came as if the matter did not concern him. You

did not notice that you did not hear a word from him or even a

sound. You said that everything comes at its proper time and

that we should leave his body to recover its health first.

So, that evening after seven days you left me alone with him

and you were for no obvious reason so happy and contented.

We were alone. It was a little past ten. I thought as I

198

saw him sleeping quietly that this was the most suitable time to wash

the supper dishes and tidy my kitchen so that I could take a short

break before going to bed.

I imagined, doctor, that it did not take me more than one hour to

finish my work. I went back to him after that.

As soon as I entered the living room, I heard some suspicious sounds

in the bedroom. I rushed in their direction without hesitation. The

bedroom was dim but I could clearly see that his bed was empty. My

heart missed a beat immediately and my strength drained away. I do

not know why I was frightened by the idea that he might be able to

move or to get up. At that moment of bewilderment the ghost said to

me: "You slave woman of God". There was a strange shadow by the

window, extremely tall with his dark turban, his jubbah(1), his belt

and his embroidered ‘abaaya(2). I froze in my place, startled and

trembling. No, no, doctor, I was not frightened as you may think. I

was just astonished and confused and very worried about my

husband and what had happened to him. However, I soon regained

my composure and recognized his angry facial expression, his head

wrapped in a blue towel, a nightshirt and the belt that was none other

than the plastic tube that we used to use to feed him with. I called

him by his name: "Hajj Abdul-

A long outer garment, open in front, with wide sleeves. 1

Cloak-like, woolen wrap (occasionally striped). 2

200

Salaam. What are you doing to us and to yourself?" He beat on

the floor several times with that wooden pole which you saw

and said to me: "Do not dare talk to me this way, you slave

woman of God. I know very well that you are the servants of

the Prince of Cordova, Abdul-Rahmaan Al-Daakhil, but you

will not be able to extend the time of my imprisonment".

His voice, Lord! was strong and pure. He talked in a strange

tone that I had not heard before. I was very upset, so I called

him by his name once more but he became angrier and more

spiteful. "I am, woman, I am Al-Hussein Bin Yahya Al-

Ansaari. I did indeed agree with Charlemagne, the King of the

Franks, to surrender Zaragoza to him and I was to meet with

him on the banks of the river Ebro some days hence but I have

decided not to hand him over the city, woman. I will not hand

over Zaragoza to the Franks. I will not betray my fellow

citizens and my Prince. Let me then, let me carry out…".

He did not finish his words but, doctor, he gave a great cry and

fell to the ground, he fell to the ground like a mountain and his

things got strewn all over the place. When I kneeled beside him

he was still muttering words that I did not understand but he

did not seem to hear my calls and my pleas.

202

You came once more, doctor, and saw what was left of him. I

had dragged him with difficulty to bed, listening to his

mutterings getting weaker and weaker as if they were the signs

of the final farewell. Then they vanished. His second coming

back to life was completed. No, I do not mean anything

specific because I did not understand much. Here he is before

you. You can see him as I do...frozen, with a low pulse and

cold. It is something suspicious. Yes, there was someone called

Al-Hussein Bin Yahyaa Al-Ansaari; he lived more than one

thousand, two hundred years ago in the Arab province of

Andalusia. He played a dual role at that time. He agreed with

Charlemagne, the King of France, to hand over to him the city

of Zaragoza but he was seized by a pang of conscience at the

last moment. So, he closed the gates of the city and struggled

desperately with its people to prevent the invading armies from

entering it. With that he thwarted Charlemagne’s plan to attack

the young Arab province in Andalusia.

However, what is all that to do with us, doctor? How can

anyone, you, Hajj Abdul-Salaam or me rise up, reverse the

hand of time and correct the mistakes.

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No, definitely not. I didn’t tell him any of that and I do not

know how he did what he did. Is that all you are thinking

about, doctor? What are we going to do with what is left of our

dear husband, Hajj Abdul-Salaam?

207

2009 - -

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Modern Iraqi Short Stories · 2 Published by Sayyab Books EBC House, Ranelagh Gardens, Fulham SW6...

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