Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (7 page)

He said, “You will not sleep and I won’t let you alone.”

The stewardess finished explaining and demonstrating safety procedures. I don’t think any of the passengers were capable of following the instructions in case of an emergency. The sign to unfasten the seatbelts was lit. I got up to wash my face. On my way back to the seat I asked the stewardess for a glass of water. Nursing makes me thirsty and increases my craving for sweets. I noticed that everyone was busy talking among themselves. The aisles were filled with chatter, reminding me of school bus trips. I picked up
the Egypt Air magazine and turned its pages. My eyes caught an ad for camping in al-Wadi al-Jadid, captivating desert with a picture of the sun setting over that great sea of desert sand reflecting an orange color that acquired a deeper red hue at every bend of the dunes surrounding the oasis.

I asked Hilmi Amin as he was describing the drawings of Hasan Fuad, the painter, on the walls of the detention camp cells in al-Kharga Oasis, “Why don’t you write your memoirs so that we might know what happened to Egyptian communists?”

He said, “I wrote an autobiographical account of what I experienced in the oases detention camp. Parts of it were published in
al-Zahra
magazine.”

I said, “Many men in the Egyptian national movement wrote memoirs about the July 23 Revolution and Egypt’s underground political parties before the revolution. We’ve ended up getting conflicting pictures and the truth is lost.”

He said, “The truth is never lost. The only problem is that each of them wanted to be the hero, so he would tell the story with himself as the focal point. But even that is useful because others can respond and correct the narrative. The best of what has been written has been the account given by Ahmad Hamrush, because it is documented and real truthful effort has been expended in telling it, even though I have minor differences with his stand and account.”

I said, “How about my recording an interview with you about your life? That would be useful. Then we can transcribe the tapes and one day we will have material for a book that would be helpful for the youth who don’t know this history.”

“Ok. Let’s start tomorrow.”

Our morning schedule changed. We started setting aside one hour every day to record Hilmi Amin’s life. We started in a very traditional manner about his life in the city of Alexandria and how his family moved there from the south of Egypt looking for work. They settled in the neighborhood of north Ras al-Tin close to the harbor
and customs, where his father, and later on his brother, worked. He was the middle son of five boys. His brothers stopped going to school after middle school but he went on. He worked on the waterfront throughout the summer to finance his education. His mother gave him a gold chain (her shabka), which she had held on to against the vagaries and treachery of time, to pay university expenses, but he got a tuition scholarship because of his good grades. In his youth he joined the Muslim Brotherhood, then left them and joined HADITU (The Democratic Movement for National Liberation) as soon as he enrolled in the university. Egypt at the time was seething against British colonialism and he joined the resistance. He fell in love with the girl next door, Ismat, and they planned to get married after graduation. His mother objected since Ismat’s father, a distant relative of Hilmi Amin’s family, died, leaving the family without a breadwinner. Hilmi’s father thought it was his responsibility to support them. So he married Ismat’s mother in secret even though his wife suspected the relationship but couldn’t be certain. When Hilmi wanted to propose to Ismat formally, his mother angrily told him that Ismat was not suitable for him and that he should propose to an educated woman, a doctor or a teacher. But the engagement took place anyway. Then he was arrested in 1954 with members of the HADITU movement who were split about their position vis-à-vis the 1952 revolution. They took them all to the military prison and a rumor spread among the detainees that they would all be sentenced to death. When his father came to visit him in jail, he told him, “Cash my salary from the customs department and spend it on furnishing Ismat’s house and marry her off to the man who proposed to her. I am no good for her. I’ll be moved from one prison to another. I love her and I wish her the best.” He did not tell him that he was awaiting a death sentence.

The father said, “Ismat will wait for you for years, if you want. She is family.”

Ismat tried to object as much as she could but, of course, she ended up marrying another man. His eyes glistened with tears and he stopped talking. I myself cried as I marveled, “How romantic!”

I asked him, “Do you still love her, despite your own marriage and daughters and all the developments in your full life? Do you see her?”

He said, “She is the love of my life. I don’t see her often. Only during Eids and family occasions. She married the son of the family next door and I tried to stay away to avoid causing her any family problems, and also out of concern for my wife, who learned the story.”

These daily stories about his life brought us closer. I let him tell the story in no particular order, then would ask him about the most intricate details in other sessions to find out intimate details that he deliberately tried to avoid or gloss over. He would laugh when I did that and say, “Are you in the Gestapo? What a tough interrogator you are, Mr. Nour!”

I got bored with sitting there uncomfortably. I could make out some laughter coming from the plane’s front seats. The scholar Shahira al-Asi was telling an interesting story as usual. I pushed my seat back and took out a bottle of light cologne from my handbag that was full with the breast pump, the towel, and the creams. I sprayed some cologne over my face and decided to sleep. In my sleep Basyuni with his baby face visited me. God willing, I’ll meet with him and convince him to return.

Why am I thinking so much about Anhar? At several points, I imagined the reason for her disappearance was voluntary, after her love story with Hilmi Amin had reached a dead end. Maybe she wanted to stay away for some time to make up her mind for good, but when their separation lasted for a long time she couldn’t go back and face him. Or perhaps she liked being away from him and started a new life. She is a good journalist and any news agency would welcome her. I remembered her temporary absence once when she went to Mosul without leaving any information for us. Hilmi Amin almost lost his mind. But then one afternoon she rang the bell at the office and came in. We were about to call it a day. I gave her some files and I left. Love between the two of them was ignited and even
though I could see from the anxious and puzzled look in her eyes as she looked at him, wondering what the future held for her, that she was miserable.

During the early days of her disappearance, I imagined for some time that she had gone to Mosul again. I knew that she was very fond of the red anemones that they called the “mother of two springs” which covered its plains and plateaus twice a year, in the spring and in the fall. Then I told myself that she would choose a place he didn’t know. My fear for her turned into anger: why was she doing this to us under these difficult circumstances? I was determined to keep all thoughts of danger away from my mind. I was afraid to believe that Anhar would never come back to us. The story of her first disappearance came at a time when Iraq was enjoying a spell of peace: a ruling coalition of five political parties, economic development, international cooperation, and all kinds of cultural festivals. Now things were different: everything was fraught with fear and everyone was worried, waiting for the coming storm, when rivers would be the color of blood, with detentions right and left, when running away to one exile or another was the only way out, a one-way ticket with no hope of return. No, Anhar would not do that to us. She wouldn’t make such a decision now. Her disappearance must have another meaning, one that has remained mysterious despite the passing of three years since she left. I must visit her mother, Tante Fatima, and know from her what really happened. Maybe she would tell me what she was afraid to tell others.

I gave in to my memory, letting it savor the days slowly.

Hilmi Amin got ready to travel to Cairo. It seemed like a good opportunity for me to go back to my apartment and do some of the things I have been putting off, especially reading and tidying up the house, to which I haven’t been giving much attention. I made a list of books to read and limited them to Iraq. I only left home to get copies of the magazine from the National Company and before leaving the building I’d open the magazine quickly to see if they had
published one of my new features. Then I’d go to the newspapers to which we gave free copies. I developed a close relationship with the women who worked at
al-Mar’a
magazine. They would meet me as they gathered around the hearth and invite me to eat with them.

I would say, “Sandwiches, again!”

Laughing, they would say, “You always come at twelve noon, sharp.”

“Intentionally, of course.”

I would leave them feeling that my relationship with Naglaa and Ilham had grown stronger, while Sajida appeared to be always busy.

Hilmi Amin came back carrying letters from the family and news about Egypt and a new batch of bureau features published in the magazine. I noticed that publication increased when he went to Cairo and after his return tapered off gradually. Our relations with the Foreign Correspondents Office at the Ministry of Information, which they called Directive Relations, grew stronger. Hashim, who has lived in Egypt and who was always jovial, told us about the Dokki neighborhood where he and Saddam Hussein, the vice president, lived and about the coffeehouses where they met in the evening and about the vendors and the teachers and colleagues, and about Orman Park. I noticed how easy it was to deal with Iraqis who have lived in Egypt. For some reason or another we got along well and quickly, maybe because we shared homesickness. There was also Hazim, always quiet, who kept us informed about reaction to our articles and features on the Iraqi side and who got in touch with us to invite us to celebrations and conferences. We became the only press bureau that moved around without need of prior permits to go where we wanted. They encouraged us because they liked our enthusiastic energy. Sometimes we met their boss, Hajj Abbas, an Iraqi Ba‘thist with strong nationalist feelings unaffected by the oil craze. He always took pains to remind us of the true generous face of Iraq so that we wouldn’t feel bad when we encountered any problem.

I did not feel the heavy hand of security that everybody spoke of secretly until I came face to face with it one day. I had been
invited together with Hilmi Amin to a formal party. I asked Hilmi before going home to change clothes, “Does the invitation include Hatim also?”

He said, “If you are invited, as a married woman, it is natural that Hatim should come with you.”

I asked him hesitantly, “Are you sure?”

He said, “Invitations always include the wife. So, why not the husband?”

I said, “The situation in Iraq is slightly different.”

He said, “No, no. Let Hatim come so you would go back with him at the end of the party.”

I presented the invitation at the gate. I noticed the puzzled look on the face of the security officer as he looked at me then at Hatim. Before he could make up his mind, Hazim, who was watching the arrival of the guests from a distance, realized what was happening and came in a hurry to tell us to please come in.

We stood chatting with friends in a beautiful garden as waiters with trays of light finger food made the rounds. I remembered the comic actor Abd al-Salam al-Nabulsi in the Egyptian movie
Hikayit Hubb
(A Tale of Love) when he cornered the waiter saying, “What happened to you? Are you a water buffalo that cannot see? You go round and round while I am going so hungry my tummy is making noises?” I smiled, trying to keep myself from thinking of the security men who were now observing our every move, from a distance. I whispered my observation to Hilmi Amin who said, “Act natural. Vice President Saddam Hussein is here. You have established a precedent today. From now on they know that inviting you means also inviting your husband. They will make inquiries about him and reassure themselves security-wise, then they won’t bother you or Hatim ever again.”

He added, laughing, “Perhaps they are making those inquiries even as we speak.”

“Did you know that ahead of time?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied.

I like to go out early in the morning, to expose myself to the cool drizzle and enjoy the sun which sometimes, coyly, takes her time rising. I follow the thawing of patches of light and rare patches of snow covering the green gardens and sometimes staying on treetops and car roofs. On such days I arrive at the office with my pants wet up to the knee and their bottoms muddy, and my shoes soaked in rainwater. I leave a pair of clean dry shoes in the office that I put on as soon as I arrive. I place my wet shoes in the sun on the balcony railing. The fashionable platform heel style in which the heels rose ten centimeters above the ground did not help protect against the wetness either. I saw that Iraqi journalists were always very well dressed and I didn’t understand how they did it, then I realized that they used their work cars in moving about and did not have to walk in rain-covered streets. My appearance after a walk in the rain must cause them to wonder as much as it causes my resentment. Once I said to myself, “I am working and this is a price I have to pay for that and they must also wonder when they read my beautiful feature articles.”

I would run on my way upstairs. Our neighbor Karima would hear my footsteps and she and her young daughter Dina would say, “Good morning.” I found out from the director that only chance led him to this place when the Iraqi government decided to evict all bachelors from apartments as one way to solve the housing problem in the capital. A number of Egyptians applied to police stations and registered their request for apartments. Most of the apartments in the building went to university professors and
al-Zahra
magazine bureau.