Dates on My Fingers: An Iraqi Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (22 page)

“Dad, Rosa. Fatima and I have something we’d like to tell you.”

“We have a surprise for you too.”

“What is it?”

“No, you two go first.”

“Fatima and I have decided to get married.”

They leapt up together out of their seats, joyfully congratulating us and reaching across the bar to grab our heads and kiss us. Then they said to pour us all something to drink, and we began clinking our glasses and exchanging celebratory toasts. “We’ll put on a huge party for you here!”

In the midst of the jubilant commotion, Rosa asked, as any woman might, “And what will you name your children? I mean, for instance, if the newborn baby is a girl?” This may have been her way of creating a greater sense of familial intimacy and letting us know the extent of her hopes. Or maybe she said it because she found in us a way to experience vicariously her unrealized dream of being a mother.

Giving me a significant glance, Fatima responded, “I know what it is.”

My father said, “And I know too.”

“What?” Fatima asked him.

My father looked at me and said, “Aliya.”

Fatima jumped up, clapping for him, “That’s it! That’s it!”

We clinked our glasses again, joining their music with our laughter. After a pause, Rosa said, “And if the child is a boy, I would suggest that you name him Noah.” Her hand massaged the back of my father’s head.

But he interjected with a tone that was meant to be ironic, “No; that’s a bad omen. What sin has the poor little one committed to deserve our making him carry my misfortunes?” His smile widened, and he stared at me, sure that his irony would strike home this time when he said, “We’ll name him Sirat.”

We gave each other a high five like kids, bursting out in loud laughter to the surprise of the two women. I was carried away by the energy of the laughter to take it further, commenting, “But will we add the dot to make it Dirat?”

We gave each other another high five, and my father fell back from the force of his laughter. When he regained his composure and sat back up, I said in all seriousness, “We’ll name him Mutlaq.”

My father clasped my hand and said, “Yes, that’s good.”

Then Fatima asked, “And now, what’s your surprise?”

Rosa looked at my father, saying, “Should I tell them or you?” Then, without waiting for his response, she went on, “We’ve decided to move to Germany and leave the club and our apartment to you, if you want them.” Smiling, she added, “Provided you pay the rent, of course!”

My father said, “We are also going there to look for friends from my oil days in Kirkuk: Kristof and his wife, Sabine.”

The Spanish waitresses came in at their usual time, a little before darkness fell, and of course, the reasons for our festive atmosphere were revealed to them, which led to abundant kisses all around. This delight that some people show in sharing the happiness of others, or a person’s empathizing with the concerns of another, always touches an emotional cord in my breast. It sometimes moves me to tears, as happens to me when watching this sort of thing in the movies. I know that this sympathy of feeling is intuitive and as ancient as the humanity of humans, but as far as I’m concerned, it never gets old. I feel happiness at some good or prosperous thing, just as I feel pain at misfortune.

As darkness descended outside and the city’s street lamps lit up, some of the regular customers arrived early. They postponed the dancing by ordering something simple to eat in addition to their drinks. It was a way of equipping themselves to enjoy the night from its beginning until the time their bodies reached an absolute limit.

As the numbers increased, so too did their noise and smoke. I also noticed that my father was drinking and smoking more too. Whenever he came over to order another glass, he would say to us, “It’s okay, it’s okay. One time won’t hurt, and tonight is a special night. It deserves the biggest possible celebration.”

Instead of reviving my fears and my attempts to explain and judge his behavior, I preferred just to believe him. I said to myself, “I have to learn to accept him as he is, with all his contradictions. For who doesn’t contain contradictions? No one! It’s not my place to keep imposing, both upon my mind and upon him, the image of him that I want.”

As usual, when he saw that the place had filled up, and after the band members had taken their places, he mounted the stage. He took the microphone off its stand and brought it up to his mouth in order to inaugurate the nightly festivities with his multilingual monologue: some humorous, joking passages and some words to warm up the crowd. Every night he adopted a different personality to act out: a taxi driver, a famous singer, a soldier, a chattering woman, a vegetable seller, a soccer player, a doctor, and so on. Rosa got up next to him to translate whenever necessary. Tonight, he was lighter, more cheerful, more joyful, and more into his character than any previous night. I discovered as I watched him up there with the lights pouring over him that my father was extremely handsome, self-confident, and strong. He exuded life.

He began in a purposefully exaggerated tone of voice, saying, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I hope you’re having a wonderful evening, O my magnificent people!”

They lit up, as usual, with a surge of claps and whistles, and one of them shouted, “Long live the king!”

The rest repeated it, laughing, “Long live the king! Long live the king!”

After that, he gave a little cough, like someone clearing his throat. He mimed straightening his tie even though he didn’t have one, and the crowd laughed. From what he said and his bearing, his facial expressions, and the tone of voice he had assumed up till this point, it seemed that his performance today would facetiously adopt the guise of a king or a political speaker.

“I order you today to loosen the belts around your waists, for we have an endless supply of drinks, and we need the oil to gush from your pockets. Furthermore, I command you to dance until you burst the seams of your underwear. Because tonight I have magnificent news for you: my royal heir, Prince Saleem, will marry Princess Fatima!” Everyone turned toward us with applause, whistling, and congratulations.

“As for Queen Rosa and my own royal highness, we will move to the great country of Germany. My crown prince will remain to take my place. Therefore, I caution that none of you dare annoy him, for in that case I’ll come flying, and you know what I’ll do to you!”

Someone shouted, “What will you do?”

He responded immediately, “I will invite you to have whatever you want, and I’m paying!”

There was laughter and applause. My father continued his speech, skillfully intimating what he wanted to be taken seriously and what he intended to be humorous. He kept repeating the word “magnificent” frequently.

Next to me, Fatima’s cheeks were flushed, and her constant smile was even wider and sweeter tonight. She moved so lightly that she scarcely touched the ground as she filled the customers’ orders and replied to their congratulations. I let her know
that I was thinking of changing this place’s function later on, perhaps from a club to an Arabic restaurant.

“I’m no good at balancing all these contradictions. I couldn’t handle managing a club like my father, Fatima.”

She agreed with the idea and said that she would cook amazing dishes: “I’ll make them line up for couscous in droves.”

My father said into the microphone, “I want to thank everyone for their warm hospitality toward us in our exile. I want you to know that the idols in Iraq will certainly fall. I say the idols, and I don’t mean the statues. At that time, we’ll return to rebuild our beautiful village so that it will be a land for tourists, not for graves. We’ll call it Freedmen, or The Absolute, or Dignity. O God, maintain our love for freedom and for human dignity. Kill us as you want or as we want, not as our enemies want. And let the people say ‘Amen’!”

The crowd echoed, “A-a-men!”

“And everyone is invited to be our guest! But, well, we won’t open a club there, of course.”

One of the women called out, “Then what will you open for your guests?”

“I’ll open your legs for them!” There was laughter, applause, and whistles.

I let Fatima know that I thought we should bring my Cuban neighbor to work with us in our future restaurant. I also told her that I thought we should take my father’s and Rosa’s apartment because it had two rooms. “That way, it would be possible for your sister to live with us too. We’ll also need it for the children. And we will ….”

Fatima put her finger lovingly on my lips, cutting off the flow of what I thought we’d do in the future. I’d been speaking as though guided by my father’s words about what was to
come. “Shhh,” she said. “We’ll keep on living, Saleem. We’ll keep on living. For now, let’s just enjoy this performance.”

Three days later, my father handed over his keys to me … without the bullet.

Three days after that, my father and Rosa departed for Germany.

After three more days, I learned that the young diplomat had been transferred to the Iraqi embassy in Berlin a week earlier.

Translator’s Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Muhsin for entrusting me with his novel and to Khaled al-Masri for guiding my work. Thanks also to Larry Rosenberg and Darlene Leafgren, my first two readers, for their encouragement and support.

Modern Arabic Literature

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