The Iraqi Christ (15 page)

Doctor, I’m sure you haven’t heard the story of the poisoned fish. Do you think I’m some madman talking to you about poisons for no reason? In the beginning of the siege years, in 1991, the story of the father and the fish spread across the country. He had bought a large fish, with some vegetables and some pickles. He grilled the fish himself and prepared the salads. Then he ate with his six daughters with tearful eyes and a troubled heart. Of course his daughters didn’t know that he had poisoned the fish. The man couldn’t see any other way to prevent his daughters from turning to prostitution. He sold plastic bags in the market and what he earned wasn’t enough to live on. He died in the certainty that his wife, who was buried in the Najaf cemetery, would understand. Many people didn’t want to call that a crime. But I was thinking about daydreams – the dreams of the man’s daughters as they ate their father’s delicious fish. I don’t know if other people have daydreams when they eat in silence. I know there’s no fixed time for such reveries. That’s what makes them different from ordinary dreams, which are part of a system, though not a democratic one. It’s one of the distinctions of the Daydream Republic. The story of the man was a warning that alarmed people in the early years of the siege. The fish tail on which flies gathered in the rubbish bin wasn’t poisoned. A fat cat took it and fed it to her kittens on the roof of the man’s house. How I wish there could really be such a cat. Any tragedy that isn’t permeated with details invented in an exaggerated and lachrymose way doesn’t deserve to appear in the great tragic theatre. Now do you understand what I mean, doctor? The fish tail is another comma. There’s a bony comma in my head that prevents me from sleeping. You’re right. It’s your turn to talk now, doctor. At the time, people didn’t talk about the kind of poison in the fish. Instead they talked at length about hunger and the honour of their daughters.

Doctor, you want to say that the world can be as white as your shirt. Okay, doctor. And that man is a comma between the words ‘birth’ and ‘death’. But on the honour of your humanitarian profession, doctor, promise to tell me what this empty blank sentence means, and whether the comma is actually necessary.

Doctor, another comma please. Let me go to the bathroom. When I come back, doctor, I’ll tell you about another comma called loneliness. But now let me empty my bowels. I feel as if I’ve drunk a barrel of mud.
 

Doctor, did you know there are types of mice that start gnawing their tails whenever they get hungry? And the most important mouse I know, which has helped me predict my destiny, is Kafka’s mouse. Have you read it in Finnish, doctor? How can I translate it for you? It’s one of Kafka’s short poisons and its title is ‘A Short Story’:

‘The mouse said, ‘Alas, the world gets smaller every day. It used to be so big that I was frightened. I would run and run and I was pleased when I finally saw the walls appear on the horizon in every direction, but these long walls run fast to meet each other, and here I am at the end of the room and in front of me I can see a trap that I must run into.’

‘You only have to change direction,’ said the cat, and tore the mouse up.

Thank you, doctor.

Now, doctor, please get me out of this dung ball. Please.
 

1

At noon Jaafar the referee was waiting at the end of the lane, his army binoculars round his neck and a football in his lap. The boys arrived one after another and surrounded him, joking with him and talking excitedly about the striker in the Sector 32 team. Jaafar reassured them. ‘We have Allawi al-Saba. He’s the Messi of Sector 29,’ he said.

The boys took turns pushing Jaafar’s wheelchair. One of them said, ‘The Sector 32 team might bring a referee of their own.’

Jaafar wasn’t bothered. He told them he knew how to handle that. They reached the field, Jaafar threw the ball and the boys ran after it.
 

Jaafar was forty-five years old but he was still young at heart. With his passion for sport, his dynamism and his determination, he amazed his friends and his few enemies. He had been the most famous snooker player in Sector 29 and when he was an army deserter the military police couldn’t catch him. He was like a fox, but his addiction to snooker halls was his downfall. One evening the military police surrounded him at the Khorasan snooker hall in Karada, where he used to take on the most famous players in the area. They sent him off to the Kuwait War and when he came back both his legs had been amputated. Jaafar was a good lad, one of the boys – that’s how the people of the sector saw him. But some of them found fault with his passion for football and the way he hung out with the local youth at his age. Jaafar didn’t take much notice of such talk, because the young had to learn the basics of the game. He would organise matches for them and act as referee. He would remind his critics of the famous national squad player who came from Sector 29 and who he claimed to have trained, adding each time: ‘A miracle that will save the whole country will be my doing, too!’

On the edge of the football field there was a large rubbish skip that gave off white smoke with a putrid stench that drifted over the pitch. Women, some in abayas and some without, came out of the houses around the field with bags of rubbish. Jaafar watched them through his binoculars while the boys ran after the ball, shouting. With his binoculars Jaafar also watched the boys playing. The Sector 32 team arrived accompanied by a young man with a beard and he and Jaafar agreed that Jaafar would referee the first half and the other man the second half. The match began. Jaafar pushed his wheelchair up and down the pitch at high speed in a frenzied passion. He shouted at the boys, either to encourage them or reprimand them, and when they were too far off he would follow them with his binoculars. ‘Goooooooooaaaaaal,’ shouted Jaafar. The Sector 32 referee objected that Jaafar was supporting his own team and wasn’t impartial. Jaafar ignored his objections. He worried about his players as if they were his own children, and when they fell down he would check their knees and legs for any damage. Sometimes his mind would wander and for a few moments he would see them as ghosts in battle and recall the boom of artillery on the front. But then he would go back to the match and blow his whistle to award a penalty kick, as cheerful and enthusiastic as ever. He dripped with sweat as he pushed the wheelchair around with all his strength to keep up with the boys running after the ball like antelopes.
 

Jaafar blew the whistle. ‘Foul!’

‘I swear it wasn’t a foul, Jaafar,’ objected one of the boys.

‘I tell you it’s a foul. Don’t argue, you idiot
.
’

‘But Jaafar, you were far away.’

‘What are these then? Do you think I’m blind?’ said Jaafar, holding up his binoculars.

The match ended in a 2-2 draw and the boys pushed Jaafar’s wheelchair to the coffee shop. He said goodbye to them and advised them to prepare for next week’s match with the Sector 52 team.

Jaafar played dominoes in the Shaab coffee shop and gave the others his analysis of the quality of the various Spanish clubs. His laugh echoed through the cafe and shook the big picture of the imam Ali hanging on the wall. The coffee shop owner said the Americans were going to search the sector that night looking for weapons.

‘What does that bunch of cowboys want? It’s because of them I lost my legs in the Kuwait War. What do they want next? Fuck them. One day America’s going to go to shit,’ Jaafar said indignantly, then changed the subject back to football. He and the Real Madrid supporters started arguing and joking. Jaafar was an avid supporter of Barcelona and sometimes Liverpool.

I was waiting for him at the coffee shop door. He came out laughing loudly and gave me a friendly punch in the guts. I pushed his wheelchair and we crossed the street. He asked after his sister, who is my wife, and I said, ‘She’s well.’

‘Are you going to do the disappearing knife trick today?’ he asked, coughing. He was a chronic smoker.

‘No, but I may talk a little about the interpretation of dreams.’

I knocked on the door and Souad opened it. ‘Ah, both of you,’ she said as she kissed Jaafar on the head. She helped me get his wheelchair through the narrow doorway. I pinched her bottom and she slapped my hand discreetly, but Jaafar didn’t notice.

In the room there was a bare wooden bench and Salih the butcher was sitting on it. Allawi was sitting cross-legged on the ground with a set of green prayer beads in his hand – the same way he sat when he was making a knife disappear.
 

Jaafar shook Salih’s hand and said, ‘Hey, Allawi, come and sit on the bench.’

Allawi answered proudly, ‘I’ve never sat on a chair or a bench.’

‘You mean in all your life?’

‘Of course.’

‘But you’re only fifteen, damn it. Anyone who heard you would say you were as old as the dinosaurs.’

Jaafar laughed his booming laugh as he adjusted the photograph of his father on the wall.

Souad disappeared into the kitchen and I sat next to the butcher. Jaafar turned his wheelchair to face us. Souad came back with a tray of tea, sat on the carpet close to Allawi and poured the tea, smiling amiably at everyone and winking at me several times. I blew her a kiss. Jaafar turned to me and said, ‘Hey, love birds, we’ve got work to do. When the meeting’s over you can throw each other as many kisses as you want.’

In his weird woman’s voice, the butcher said, ‘Now, Jaafar. Anyone who heard you would say this was a meeting of some underground party that was going to change the world. We’ve made so many knives disappear, and Souad always brings them back again... And it’s been going on like this for ten years.’

Allawi laughed and said, ‘I’ve been making knives disappear all my life. But I want to go on making them disappear again and again and I don’t know why.’ Jaafar changed the subject and asked Allawi whether Umm Ibtisam would be coming today. He replied that he was certain this time, because she had sworn to him three times by Ali’s son Abbas that she would come. ‘She must be on her way now. You know the shitty Americans have closed half the roads.’

2

We were like one family. Our knife-handling skills weren’t the only thing we had in common. We also shared our problems in life, our joys and our ignorance. We were buffeted by all forms of misfortune and several times we grew disappointed with the knives. There were other concerns in life. We almost split up on several occasions but we were drawn back together by the strangeness and pleasure of our gift, by the feeling among all of us - except, perhaps, Salih the butcher - that knives could be a solace and give our lives the thrill of uncertainty.

Ten years have passed since we became a team in the knife trick. Allawi joined us three years ago. I continued my studies and went to the Faculty of Education. Souad went into the sixth year of secondary school, specializing in sciences, and dreamed of going to the Faculty of Medicine. Salih the butcher has extended his shop, divorced the mother of his children and married a young woman who had a bad reputation in the neighbourhood. Jaafar found Allawi a job in the factory that makes women’s shoes. He didn’t want Allawi to stay in the market playing with knives. Jaafar himself was the same as always – busy with football, refereeing, dominoes, the coffee shop, always anxious to ensure that our group didn’t fall apart and constantly seeking out new talent in football and also in the knife trick. He believed that our knife skills were a secret vocation that would change the world. As to how and why and when, these were all unanswered questions but he had nothing to do with them. ‘I’ve never even read a newspaper in my life. How could I understand the secret of the knives?’ he said.
 

The butcher, Allawi, Jaafar and I had the ability to make knives disappear. Souad was the only person who could make them reappear but she couldn’t make them disappear. Souad’s difference compounded the mystery of our talents, which did not progress one step despite the passage of all those years.
 

Two years ago I was assigned to read books in order to find out what the knives meant, and I soon came to the idea that the knives were just a metaphor for all the terror, the killing and the brutality in the country. It’s a realistic phenomenon that is unfamiliar, an extraordinary game that has no value, because it is hemmed in by definite laws.
 

I married Souad a year and a half ago. It was Jaafar who arranged this early marriage with my father. Souad’s cousin had approached Jaafar with a proposal to marry her. Jaafar didn’t want Souad to move away from us and go to live in the village. He wasn’t unaware of the tentative affection we felt for each other. My father was persuaded straight away, especially as Jaafar made my father an attractive offer. He said he would buy Souad and me a small house. My father agreed at once because he wanted to relieve the strain in his own house. We were nine brothers and three sisters all living in two rooms and my father was struggling to keep the family afloat. He worked as a baker and my mother gave injections to sick people in the neighbourhood, though she didn’t have a nursing certificate. In fact she was illiterate and because she was so kind, people called her the angel of mercy.
 

When I was a youngster I played on Jaafar’s football team. He discovered my talent by chance. He was watching me as I made a knife that some boy was holding disappear. He was ecstatic and started to hug me. He cheerfully took me to their house and introduced me to young Souad, whose eyes projected the force of life like a strong and beautiful flower. The next day Jaafar took me to Salih the butcher’s shop and introduced me to him.

In those days we used to meet in Jaafar’s house, but his mother and his five brothers would disturb us so then we moved to Salih’s house. He had a room on the roof of the house where he raised birds. We would put the knives on top of a round wooden table and make them disappear one by one, then Souad would make them reappear. We would exchange views and try to analyse the trick. But the conversation soon moved away from knives and turned to jokes and stories about the people in the sector. We continued to meet in the pigeon loft until I got married and Jaafar bought us that small house. Jaafar had considerable wealth from a business he’d been in since he was young. He used to deal in pornographic magazines that were banned, but he was careful to cover his tracks, selling them only in wealthy neighbourhoods.