The Long Way Back Page 8

  He went into Midhat’s office at the Ministry having been told by the janitor that he’d be back shortly. He sat in his usual chair by the window overlooking the river and avoided looking outside. His eyes hadn’t yet recovered from the bright light in the street assaulting them. He shut them, letting them rest in the soft light that filled the room. The damned long walk in the blazing sun from Bab al-Shaykh to Serail had worn him out. His body was more weary than usual; the poundings inside him continued their work, and the griping pains hadn’t altogether subsided. The phone rang two or three times before the janitor hurried in to pick it up. He noticed a packet of cigarettes and matches on the desk, but waited for the janitor to go out before he got heavily to his feet, lit a cigarette, and took a long, slow drag on it. The smoke tickled his lungs and relaxed him a little. He felt he could consider himself empty of everything, without worries or ties. A boat floating between heaven and earth, rocking gently, touching neither sky not land. This was true equilibrium, the best sort. The pleasure of remaining effortlessly in a zone of equally balanced forces. Let them do what they liked. Was there any point in beginning again, in beginning at all? He sucked greedily on his cigarette and coughed several times,

  The door was opened hurriedly and Midhat came in, smiling and cheerful, carrying a parcel of books. They shook hands. He wasn’t surprised to see him and, if anything, seemed to be pleased.

  When he had sat down and pressed the bell, he asked, “Have you been here long?”

  “No,” answered Husayn.

  The janitor came in: “Yes, sir?”

  “Something to drink, Abu Suha?” Then he carried on talking to the janitor: “Qadir, I saw the kebab seller at the entrance of the souk. Go and fetch some meatballs and bread for Abu Suha.” He gave the janitor some cash. “And bring us a couple of teas on your way back.”

  “Who are the meatballs for, Midhat?” exclaimed Husayn.

  “You, of course.”

  “What am I meant to do with them?”

  “Go on, Qadir,” said Midhat, ignoring him. “Hot meatballs and bread. Be quick.”

  As the janitor hurried out, Midhat turned back to Husayn: “If you looked at yourself in the mirror you’d know you hadn’t had breakfast, Did you walk here?”

  Husayn nodded and took a last drag on the cigarette.

  Midhat was sorting through papers on the desk, dividing them into two lots and scribbling notes on them from time to time. He looked smart in his pale gray suit and green tie, was more friendly and open than usual, and sprucer. Perhaps he imagined all this cleanliness and friendliness and openness in people because he had lost these characteristics himself.

  “What were you doing in the souk, Midhat?” he asked, stubbing out his cigarette.

  Midhat looked up. His eyes were small and dark and deep set. “I bought—you know—a few light novels for Munira. She likes to read sometimes.”

  “How are they? Are they happy with you?”

  “They’re fine, I think. Munira ought to transfer to Baghdad. They weren’t comfortable in Baquba. We might be able to arrange a transfer for her by the end of the summer.”

  Husayn felt there was something important he had forgotten to ask Midhat, but the way he talked about Munira and said her name distracted him.

  “Is she a primary school teacher?”

  “Who? Munira? No. Secondary school. There’s a big difference. Mind you don’t forget!”

  “Okay, I’ll remember next time!”

  The janitor startled him, bursting in carrying bread stuffed with meatballs, followed by the teaboy. He had no desire to eat and sat holding the bulging sandwich and looking at the black tea which had been put down carefully in front of him. The janitor went out, and Midhat returned to his papers. The smell was overpowering, and as Husayn breathed in warily the saliva accumulated in his mouth. He looked over at Midhat and saw he was stirring his tea absent-mindedly, completely absorbed in his work, so he took a bite of the hot bread and meatballs. He felt the fat and meat and cracked wheat and spices mingling pleasantly in his mouth. He wouldn’t need anything else to eat till the evening. This was a good solution to the food problem. He should make sure he remembered it at the relevant times.

  “Excellent meatballs, aren’t they?” he heard Midhat saying.

  He was drinking his tea, calmly looking over towards him. Shit. He swallowed his large mouthful with difficulty, then took a swig of tea himself.

  “Not bad. Not bad,” he replied. “It was a very good idea of yours that I should eat.”

  Midhat reached for the cigarettes and lit one and took another swallow of tea. “About the girls,” he said.

  Husayn listened carefully. That was the thing that had slipped his damned memory.

  “The family doesn’t have a particular idea. Madiha’s against you, of course, against everything to do with you.” He made a circular gesture. “What happened between you, I don’t know. That’s your business. I don’t suppose either of you is completely innocent. The important thing is ...”

  “What do you mean, against me?” Husayn interrupted sharply.

  The absurdity of people, their regrets, their hopes!

  “Look, Husayn. You know how I feel about you. Don’t make me take sides in a cause I think’s lost anyway. Let’s first of all try and procure . . .” he made the same circular gesture, “. . . the things you consider essential to your peace of mind.”

  Silence descended on them. This time Husayn wasn’t going to interrupt it with futile questions. He stopped moving his jaws and began staring attentively at Midhat. Midhat’s dark eyes were untroubled. There was an arrogant look in them, not easy to fathom.

  “My father supports you in general,” he heard him saying. “That’s important. It might influence Madiha eventually.” Then his face brightened suddenly. God, how that face brightened! “Munira always stands up for you.”

  “Is that true? How strange.”

  He felt a kind of happiness sweep over him as he chewed his last mouthful of bread and watched Midhat announcing that there was someone who gave him unsolicited support.

  “You’re still staying with your aunt, are you?” asked Midhat.

  He nodded and drank the remains of the tea with relish, his stomach comfortably full.

  “Where’s that? The Kurdish quarter?”

  “Yes. The other side of Bab al-Shaykh, behind Café Yas. Why?”

  “I thought I could bring the girls to visit you one afternoon. What do you think?”

  “No, no. Why come into those dark little alleyways? We could meet in Bab al-Sharqi or even in a park near you. I mean—seeing them for a few minutes would do me. I used to see them going to school. I watched them from a distance. Once I talked to Sana. I mean—I don’t want to cause a problem. You know how things are better than I do, Midhat.”

  Midhat nodded, stubbing out his cigarette. “Fine, fine,” he said after a pause.

  “You know, Midhat,” said Husayn, “I don’t want them to see those places, and the house I’m living in, even though it’s only temporary I mean—maybe a walk in the park would be good for them.”

  “Fine. Fine.”

  Husayn was not satisfied with his short, disjointed sentences, but was scared that if he continued to talk so clumsily he would show himself up even more. He had never claimed to be an exemplary father. They all knew that. But something had risen to the surface during this conversation, something vaguely related to his cowardice, his mediocrity, his lack of serious interest in his daughters, and it diminished his status as a human being. He had wanted so much to leave all that behind, and instead it was mushrooming by the minute as he spoke, putting a brick wall between himself and Midhat. He noticed Midhat was talking on the phone. He felt he was in the way, and this pained him. Midhat and he had always been affectionate and honest to one another. They had been friends before Husayn married Midhat’s sister and had continued to be close despite the marriage breakdown, the separation, and his job in Kuwait. Husayn did not
hide much from him and if he did sometimes, it was purely from shame. He always felt he should be at his best with him, intellectually and as a human being.

  “What do you do with yourself these days?” Midhat asked him.

  The question somehow made him feel more at ease. “Honestly, Midhat, it’s difficult to know how to pass your time, or where. There’s nothing worth doing. No one has any ideas these days. There are no cafés worth going to, or cinemas. And I haven’t read anything for ages.” Midhat was looking at him with a mixture of sarcasm, curiosity, and incredulity on his face. This approach obviously wasn’t working! “There’s a cheap bar,” Husayn went on. “It’s really a bottle shop with a little space behind it where you can sit. Uwanis’s place. It’s not bad. I go there sometimes. It’s quite cheap. Come for a drink one day if you want to. Really, Midhat, do. You sometimes find good company there. That guy Adnan came yesterday.”

  “Which Adnan?”

  “Adnan, the son of your cousin Maliha. I’ve forgotten his father’s name, dammit. He’s a relative of my mother’s as well.”

  “I know who you mean. Is he your idea of good company? How’s he related to your mother?”

  “You know my mother’s originally from Houider in the Diyala region, north of here. His father’s from the same village. He was poor, really poor, I’m telling you. And illiterate, couldn’t read or write and still can’t. How he got rich and acquired a brain, I don’t know Good for your aunt! How did she find him for her daughter?”

  “My aunt? Munira’s mother, you mean? It’s past history” Then he began to look more interested. “Tell me, Husayn. This boy Adnan. What’s he like? What sort of person is he?”

  “An adolescent. A bit wild, impulsive. Doesn’t have a job. Has a car, though, and drives back and forth between Baghdad and Baquba. I really don’t know what he does with himself. Something irregular, for sure.”

  “He came to the house a few days ago. Or yesterday, it could have been. I don’t know what he wanted from Munira and her mother.”

  “Don’t let him in. He’s a spoiled, irresponsible kid.”

  Midhat stared at him. “You’re very prejudiced against him. Why?”

  Husayn didn’t reply immediately. He had no time for lucky fools like Adnan. To him they seemed as coarse, crude, and stupid as animals, and yet they lived well, and had no crises or serious problems in their lives. “Prejudiced against him? Why do you think that?” he replied. “I don’t know. Maybe I am. I just don’t like him.”

  The night before Adnan had not paid for the drinks and had refused to give him a lift. So he had suffered the added humiliation of being at the mercy of such a person.

  “I’d really like to come and see you one day, Husayn,” Midhat was saying.

  “Where?”

  “In that café. Uwanis’s place. Tell me where it is.”

  “In Bab al-Sharqi near the Dar al-Salam cinema,” said Husayn enthusiastically. “It’s not a nice area, but that can’t be helped. That son of a bitch Abu Kamal—Uwanis—sells cheap drink, and there’s nowhere else around there. Do come, Midhat. Come tonight. Have you got anything on?”

  “I’ll try What time will you be there?”

  “Whenever you want. Seven-thirty. Eight. What suits you?”

  “Yes. Eight, eight-thirty’s fine.”

  “Okay”

  Husayn stood up and took the packet of cigarettes off the desk and lit one, then went back to his seat. “I saw someone who used to work at the bank with me today. Numan Sallum. I didn’t recognize him at all. He says he’s a company director now. He offered me a job. I told him I was waiting for my money to come from Kuwait before I decided what to do next.”

  “What company?”

  “I’ve forgotten. He told me but I’ve forgotten. I’m always forgetting things. I don’t know why. I said to him, ‘They have to send me my money’ Would they think of trying to do me out of it?”

  He was silent. The question remained unanswered. Midhat went back to his work without showing any interest in what Husayn was saying. This topic of conversation had become unsavory. It wouldn’t do him any good to pursue it. Pity! The cigarette was pleasant after the meatballs and tea. He wouldn’t try again. With the change from the fifty which he still had in his pocket he could take the bus back. Then have a long nap until the late afternoon or early evening. Too bad that he hadn’t managed to borrow any money. It didn’t matter. The light in the room was mild and gentle, like the temperature. He had no desire to leave. Everything here soothed him. Slowly he exhaled cigarette smoke.

  The janitor came in with some papers, put them discreetly on the desk, and went out again. He heard a clock strike in the distance. It could have been twelve midday, the hottest time. Shortly he’d have to get up and plunge into the ocean of light and heat and sweat and stinking bodies. There was no way of avoiding it or fighting against it. It’s out heritage, so let’s get on with it. With empty pockets and an empty head. He stubbed out his cigarette when he felt the smoke burning his tongue. Then he stood up.

  “Right, Midhat. See you later, I hope.” His tone was sad and gloomy.

  Midhat looked up in surprise. “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “What are you going to do there?”

  “Nothing much. Have a rest. Read a bit,” said Husayn, somewhat taken aback.

  “Have a seat for now. It’s hot outside. Wait till I finish work and we can go together.”

  He didn’t accept the invitation. This exchange made him even gloomier, and he was determined to go and sleep.

  “No, Midhat, I’d rather go back now. I think I’ll have a bit of a sleep after my lunch.”

  “As you wish. We’ve got a date tonight anyhow.”

  Husayn raised a hand in farewell and went out, shutting the door gently behind him. His spirits did not revive when he was confronted by the burning sun and the deserted square, then the street filled with cars and people. He felt in his pocket and came across a few coins, enough to take the bus back. He was neither hungry not tired, but he felt his body failing to respond as he walked. This might be due to some kind of spiritual fatigue, he thought, for which he would soon have to find an explanation.

  He saw Abu Shakir putting his glass of arak down carefully on the floor beside him, then wiping his mouth and looking at him. Abu Shakir was sitting hunched in the shadows near the doorway, his dark glasses and tall black sidara cap making him look as if he was in mourning.

  “Brother Husayn ...” He was slurring his words, his mouth slack.

  You look like a bat, you evil bastard.

  “I can see ...”

  He can hardly speak.

  “If you don’t mind me saying . ..” His beard took up most of his thin face, and he was dressed in somber colors.

  He must have been drinking for hours, the lazy bum.

  “I can see you now, brother Husayn.”

  You can’t see a thing.

  “Why aren’t you drinking? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Go ahead, Abu Shakir. Why should I mind?”

  If that was my only problem!

  “No, I mean ... Is my watch wrong?” He shuffled around uneasily and looked at his watch. “See. It says a quarter past eight.”

  As if he’d discovered oil in the middle of Baghdad! His spectacles gleamed, and Husayn thought he saw his mouth twist to one side in the dim light.

  The arak has made him lose control.

  “Don’t worry, Abu Shakir,” he answered. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  Abu Shakir looked amazed. “That can’t be your first beer!”

  Worse things have happened.

  “It’s fine, Abu Shakir. We’ll make up for it later.”

  And who’s going to pay for it, you moron?

  Abu Shakir laughed and sat back on the wooden bench, drawing in his limbs like a large beetle. “I like the sound of that, brother Husayn! In the morning they’ll be weeping.”

  What ki
nd of meaningless crap was this?

  The curtain dividing them off from the shop was pulled aside and Abu Nazim appeared. “Al-salam alaykum! I’ve walked all the way from Bab al-Muazzam!”

  “God is great!” shouted Abu Shakir.

  Bloody bastard. You really made me jump.

  “Alaykum al-salam. Why, Abu Nazim? Weren’t there any buses?” he asked.

  Abu Nazim sat down on the wooden bench next to Abu Shakir, took out a dirty kaffiyeh and began to mop his face with it.

  “The cars aren’t moving in Rashid Street. The buses are crawling along, stuffed with people. What’s going on, my friends?”

  He was dripping with sweat, cross-eyed and plump, his hair thick and wiry.

  “Why? What’s happening?” shouted Abu Shakir. “Tell me.”

  “Nothing, Abu Shakir. I just said to myself rather than paying to suffocate, I’d walk and save the money. Is that all right with you?”

  “Well done, Abu Nazim. Well done,” said Abu Shakir, still talking at the top of his voice.