Dates on My Fingers: An Iraqi Novel (Modern Arabic Literature)

DATES

ON MY

FINGERS

DATES

ON MY

FINGERS

MUHSIN AL-RAMLI

Translated by Luke Leafgren

The American University in Cairo Press
Cairo    New York

This electronic edition published in 2014 by

The American University in Cairo Press

113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt

420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018

www.aucpress.com

Copyright © 2009 by Muhsin al-Ramli

First published in Arabic in 2009 as
Tamr al-asabi‘

Protected under the Berne Convention

English translation copyright © 2014 by Luke Leafgren

First published in paperback in 2014

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 the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978 977 416 644 0

eISBN 978 161 797 552 3

Version 1

To Iraq, the cradle of my childhood and the cradle of civilization

To Spain, my way station of peace after a long road crowded with wars

CHAPTER 1

I
wouldn’t have been able to write my family’s story and expose its shame if my father hadn’t encouraged me to do so while cutting my hair in his Madrid club. “Write whatever you want,” he said. “Nothing will happen worse than has already happened. This world is all fucked up.”

At the time, I didn’t comment on what he had said, forced as I was to focus on his razor, which nearly took off the skin behind my ear.

The story began on the day that my father, Noah, went with my sister Istabraq to the doctors in the city, seeking treatment for the illness that had made her waste away and ooze yellow diarrhea into her clothes. She kept eating carob powder, which the old wise women had prescribed, but that didn’t help at all. Her body became skin and bones, and her breasts drooped down, even though she was only fourteen at the time. She turned a pale yellow, like the leaves of tobacco.

All the same, she seemed more beautiful than the other girls her age in the village because she was kept out of the sun in the fields, which dyed everyone’s face the color of old
wood. My mother wasn’t able to give her any hard work on the farm, so Istabraq was limited to performing small chores in the house, such as making the beds, washing the dishes, sweeping the floors, and hanging out the laundry. Istabraq had been born a twin, but her sister, Sundus, died at nine months. They had been so, so small, squirming in the cradle like two rats drenched in milk. We had all expected Istabraq would die too, but she kept on living. She remained skinny and pale, but she was beautiful and had a good heart.

Noah set off from our first village, Subh, in the afternoon, taking his daughter, who had put perfume on her clothes. They arrived at the city of Tikrit an hour later. On their way to the doctor’s office, Istabraq walked a step behind Noah, who was clearing a path for her on the market sidewalk. As a black Mercedes drove past slowly, a hand stretched out from its window to grab Istabraq’s butt, and a voice was heard: “Nice ass!”

The young girl cried out in fear, and her father spun around. He immediately grabbed the neck of the driver, shouting furiously in his face, “You son of a bitch!” He lifted him up, as someone might lift a jar by its neck, until he had pulled him out of the car through the window.

The driver was a skinny youth wearing blue sunglasses above his first small mustache. He was dressed in a traditional Arabic robe, white and loose, with a wide leather belt around his waist. A pistol hung down at his side. The empty black car continued its slow course until it collided with a parked car and ground to a halt. Meanwhile, Noah rained blows and curses down upon the young man, who was crying out, “Do you know whose son I am?!”

Without caring and without stopping the savage blows, Noah replied, “Yes, I know: your father was a dog, and your mother a whore!”

The white of the robe was stained with the boy’s red blood. He tried to reach for his pistol, but Noah twisted his arm and lifted him upward before smashing him onto the ground. The boy lay still on his face, not moving. Meanwhile, a tide of fury swept Noah away. He bent down and took the revolver from its holster. Opening the chamber, he removed three bullets and threw the pistol into the sewer drain. He pulled away the boy’s clothes to reveal his butt and began forcing the bullets into his anus. He pushed in two before he found himself surrounded by the shop owners and the “beasts of burden,” as the market’s porters were called. The crowd tackled Noah, who was thrashing like a bull. They yelled at him, “Are you crazy? This is the nephew of the vice president’s secretary!”

Afterward, Noah found himself being carried from the darkness of a police beating to the darkness of a prison cell. He didn’t know anything about Istabraq, who, when she saw the blood, soiled her perfumed dress with yellow diarrhea. She sat down in front of a nearby storefront, crying and shaking like a palm branch in the rain. She remained there until some kind strangers brought her back to Subh Village, where her mother washed her and wrapped her up in bed. Her grandfather, Mutlaq, sat at the head of her bed, and she told him what had happened. Mutlaq leapt up, calling to the family, “If a dog barks at you, don’t bark at it; but if it bites you, bite it back!”

That maxim was his philosophy of life, and he had been famous for it throughout the surrounding villages since childhood. At that time, he attended the lessons of Mullah Abd al-Hamid every day, carrying the cloth tote that his mother had made for him by cutting off the bottom half of a bag of rice. She embroidered a winged toddler onto its side and sewed on a strap so he could put it over his shoulder.
The tote would hang down under his arm, carrying a copy of the Qur’an, a notebook with gray paper, a round loaf of bread, a handful of dates, and an onion—just like the bags of all the village boys who were learning the Qur’an from Mullah Abd al-Hamid.

One day, on his way to the mosque, a dog blocked his way and barked at him. Mutlaq walked quickly past it, but the dog walked just as quickly after him. Mutlaq ran, and the dog ran in pursuit. Mutlaq stopped to pick up a stone to throw, but the dog jumped up onto his back. Mutlaq twisted around, and the two fell, wrestling on the ground. The dog dug its claws into Mutlaq’s neck and bit his leg. In response to Mutlaq’s blows, the dog only increased its barking and the ferocity of its attack. Then, at one point in the struggle, Mutlaq found the dog’s neck in front of his face, and he bit it so hard that the dog went still and made no other sound than a low, confused whimpering. It scampered away, tail between its legs, without once turning around. Meanwhile, Mutlaq continued on his way to the mosque, limping. When the mullah asked him about the blood and why he was late, Mutlaq responded in the presence of all the other boys, “A dog barked at me; I didn’t bark at it. But it bit me, so I bit it back!”

The mullah was silent for a moment. Then he smiled and said, “Give him a round of applause!”

He took off his turban and used it to bandage Mutlaq’s leg. Then he gave him a handful of dates and patted him on the shoulder. Since that time, this story about him has been famous, and Mutlaq began to take pride in it, considering his words to be a maxim he had discovered, a maxim sealed by the honor Mullah Abd al-Hamid had shown him: “A thousand mercies upon your soul, O Mullah Abd al-Hamid!”

Up leapt Grandfather Mutlaq, who took pride in bearing the name of our first ancestor, which means ‘The Absolute.’ He summoned his nine sons and all his grandsons, his brothers with their sons and grandsons, and his cousins with their sons and grandsons. He said to them, “Get your weapons and your cars ready for us to storm Tikrit and break Noah out of prison! For if we keep still when they give us the finger, they will mount up and ride us to the ground!”

So everyone hurried to get their clubs, swords, daggers, multi-pronged fishing spears, rifles, and pistols out from behind the headboards and from the garbage dumps where they were buried. My mother pointed to a spot in the mud wall of our house for me to break open once she had taken down the wall hanging of the “Chair Verse” from the Qur’an that was covering it. She handed me the axe she used for firewood and said, “Strike here.”

So I swung at the wall and kept on hitting it until the axe struck something metal.

“Take out this box,” she instructed.

My blows became a delicate excavation, which I widened in a circle until I found the edges of the box and was able to remove it. It was made of tin, and rusty. My mother explained softly, “The box was your grandmother’s gift to us for our wedding, and what’s inside was the gift from your grandfather and his brothers.” Then she added, “Bring it to your grandfather.”

It was heavy, and were it not for the darkness and the short distance, I would have opened it up on the way. But I was patient until I set it before Grandfather, who was surrounded by five of his sons and one of his sons-in-law. He opened it and took out a disassembled rifle and two pistols wrapped in rags that were wet from the petroleum grease smeared on the weapons.

Relatives were crowding into Grandfather’s house, where tension showed on people’s faces and strained their words. There was bitter coffee, war stories, and calls for manliness. They kept repeating the story of Grandfather with the dog when he was small, together with his maxim, as inspiration.

They made their plans in the light of incomplete information from some of those who had visited Tikrit recently, given that Grandfather didn’t know anything about the city now. He said, “I used to know Tikrit when it was a small village, with its red earth covered with rats and its donkey-trading shepherds. So, where is the prison?”

They said, “We don’t exactly know since there are so many buildings and police stations there now. Mustafa knows because they put him in prison two years ago for cursing the government in the sheep market.”

“Bring me Mustafa,” Grandfather replied.

We didn’t sleep that night. The entire Mutlaq clan gathered together, along with all the villagers who had married into it. The house and the courtyard were packed with men getting their gear ready and loading their guns. Checkered kuffiyas were draped over their shoulders as their hands ran over their weapons, becoming reacquainted with how they worked. Meanwhile, the women busied themselves with cooking and bringing out equipment hidden in old cloth bags. And with whispering about what had happened to Istabraq. And with fear.

The children were playing a war game, and whenever they took a break to rest, their glances fell on the weapons between their fathers’ hands, which they tried to touch by sitting quietly nearby until their fathers weren’t paying attention or were preoccupied by conversation. Some of them pleaded with their mothers to tell their fathers to bring them along, but the
mothers rebuffed them with decisive sharpness: “You’re not going anywhere. This is serious business and not a game.”

As the night drew on, the children slept in their mothers’ arms, on their fathers’ laps, or on the grass. The men sat in small groups while Grandfather reminded them of the raids of the first Muslims and recited the Qur’an until the first of the roosters announced the arrival of dawn. Grandfather rose and gave the order for the call to prayer. Then he led us in prayer as a group. I was seventeen years old at the time and considered one of the men.

We got in our cars and set off in a convoy to arrive at first light. We surrounded the provincial government building. My uncle fired a shot into the air, prompting the governor to come out onto the balcony behind the flower pots in his red-striped pajamas. He looked us over before disappearing to give orders to those inside to call the police and the central authorities. He came back into sight on the balcony, but this time he was wearing an elegant suit and necktie. Grandfather whispered into the ear of my uncle, who shouted out to the governor, “Give us Noah immediately! If you don’t, we’ll tear the building down around you!”

The governor called out nervously, “Please, come inside! Come now, friends, let’s come to an understanding!”

Grandfather said to my uncle, “Tell him, ‘There’s nothing here for us to come to an understanding about. Give us our Noah and we’ll return to our homes!’”

My uncle called out these sentences, circling his palms around his mouth like a funnel in order to amplify the sound.

The governor pushed his child, who had come out rubbing his eyes, back inside and called back, “Which Noah? I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Grandfather elbowed my uncle in the ribs, and they began climbing the main steps in front of the building until they disappeared into the darkness beyond the gates. The governor also disappeared from the balcony when he saw the two of them entering.

It was only ten minutes before the armored vehicles and police cars surrounded us, and two helicopters circled in the sky. A megaphone called to us from an unknown direction—maybe from all directions, from the sky, from the ground, and from behind the flower pots on the balcony: “Throw down your weapons and surrender!”