The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (16 page)

“You know that I’m not religious.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is intention.” He invoked the
Qur’an again. “Piety does not consist in turning your faces toward the east or west.

“There are corpses scattered all over the streets and stuffed in fridges. If you purify them and shroud them, God will love you and forgive all your sins whether you pray or not. Plus, trust me, your father will be so pleased and his soul will be at rest in paradise.”

“But I haven’t washed in years and I may have forgotten all the details.”

He smiled, as if sensing his victory, and said: “I don’t believe you, but I can give you a book that contains every detail you need to know about the rules and rituals of washing and shrouding.”

I don’t know why I agreed. It was primarily the need for money, of course. I convinced myself that this would only be a temporary solution until I found a job or some other source of income. I never thought that I would keep on washing for months and years. Was there a mysterious force taking me back to the
mghaysil
? Did you have something to do with it, Father? Are you happy now?

Al-Fartusi hugged me and patted my shoulders before saying goodbye. He said he would get in touch with Mahdi, Hammoudy’s nephew who’d been working with him, and tell him that the
mghaysil
would open again.

I see Reem standing in an orchard full of blossoming pomegranate trees. The wind moves the branches and the red blossoms appear to be waving from afar. Reem waves as well and her hands say:
Come close!
I walk toward her and call out her name, but I can hear neither my own voice nor the sound of my footsteps. All I hear is the wind rustling. Reem smiles without saying anything. I am much closer and I see two pomegranates on her chest instead of her breasts. She notices that I am looking at them and smiles as she cups them with her hands from below. Her fingernails and lips are painted pomegranate red. I rush toward her, and when I reach her and hug her, the left pomegranate falls to the ground. When I bend down to pick it up, I see red stains bathing my arm. I turn back and see Reem crying as she tries to stop the fountain of blood gushing from the wound.

“If your father were alive, he would be very happy.”

My mother chattered excitedly as she prepared the
sufurtas
which she insisted I take to work with me, even though I had told her the night before that I would buy my lunch from one of the shops and that she shouldn’t bother.

“Why would you want to eat outside food, son? Is there anything better than your mother’s homemade food? I packed some chicken stew with potatoes and rice for you.”

She was very pleased that I was going back to Father’s work. I didn’t tell her that the only reason was to be able to pay all the debts from her illness. She kissed me on the forehead and enlisted “God, Muhammad, and Ali” to accompany me and protect me.

Mahdi was slouching against the wooden door of the
mghaysil
with his knee bent and his right heel on the door itself. His hands were clasped over his chest. He was fifteen, with very short brown hair, hazel eyes, and thick eyebrows. His nose was big, and fuzz had already started to appear above his lips and on the sides of his face. He was thin, but with broad shoulders and a strong frame, which enabled him to lift bodies. He was wearing black sneakers, jeans, and a black jacket over a red-and-blue striped jersey with “Barcelona” written on the front.

We had agreed to meet at eight in the morning in front of the
mghaysil.
He straightened up when he saw me and moved away from the door. He greeted me with a smile and was a bit shy. I extended my hand and he shook it, calling me “Ustadh Jawad.” I
told him that
ustadh
wasn’t necessary. I took the key out of my pocket and put it inside the lock to open the door. I thought to myself that he should be in school and not working with me—or with anyone else. He said that he had left school two years ago to support his family. He used to sell sandwiches and soft drinks, then worked with his uncle until his disappearance. His voice trembled as he mentioned the disappearance.

“Let’s hope he will come back,” I said, even though I had lost all hope. I wondered where Hammoudy’s body was now and what had been done to it. That unanswerable and haunting question pierced my heart again as I opened the door.

I hadn’t been to the
mghaysil
in a long time, and the smell overwhelmed me again. It’s strange how some places can retain the same smell for decades. That morning the scent of stale air mingled with the distinct mixture of humidity, camphor, and lotus. I told Mahdi to go in ahead of me, but he hesitated out of respect, so I pushed him gently by the shoulder. He went in and stood on the right, waiting. I closed the door behind us.

The morning light looked as if it had retreated outside. I saw the marble washing bench from afar. It was wet with darkness. The timid sun could smuggle only a few rays through the high window. I walked to the end of the corridor. I turned the ceiling fan on and then went to the side door, which led to the small garden where the pomegranate tree stood. I opened it to let some fresh air in. I asked Mahdi to open the window in the side room so the place could breathe in more fresh air. I looked outside and saw the pomegranates dangling down. The cool September air began to fill the place, and I changed my mind about taking off my jacket. I told Mahdi that he was welcome to pluck the pomegranates later and take them home.

“You don’t like them?” he asked.

“I do,” I said, “but not from this tree.”

I went to the cupboards and opened the doors. Everything was in its place just the way father used to have it. There were many bags of ground lotus leaves, but only a few camphor bags. I guessed that was
why Hammoudy had gone to Shorja, but there was enough to last for the next few days. The white towels and shrouds were in their place, but the shrouds were packed in nylon bags and had supplications printed on them. There was plenty of cotton and bars of the olive colored soap, whose scent filled my nostrils. The pots and buckets were all neatly stacked.

I opened the faucet and the water gurgled, then came out in a rush. I stood at the washing bench and ran my fingers along its edges. It was as cold as the bodies that lie on it. I looked at my fingertips and saw the dust. I asked Mahdi to sweep the place. He went to the storage room to get the broom. I went to the side room. Everything was the same. The chairs, table, and the painting of Imam Ali right there next to the window. He had a yellow halo around his head with its green headdress. His eyebrows rose a bit and his brown eyes were darkened with kohl. The hair of his moustache and beard was wavy, and he was wearing a white shirt.

To the right of Imam Ali was a black-and-white photograph of Father, which Hammoudy must have put up. I asked my mother later where he had gotten the photograph and she said that he had asked for one to enlarge, but she had forgotten to tell me. In the photograph, Father had half a smile on his face and wore a white shirt with an open collar. I said to him: “
Here I am, back at the place you wanted me to inherit. I am taking your place, just as you took your father’s. But I am warning you, father, I will not be here for long.
”

I heard the broom scraping the floor and a few minutes later dust particles found their way to my nose. I sat on the chair and looked at Imam Ali’s picture again. I heard the voice of Muzaffar al-Nawwab clamoring in one of his poems where he addresses Ali: “
If you were to return now, your followers would fight against you and call you a Communist.
”

I took from my pocket the notebook in which, one summer many years ago, I had written down everything about washing bodies. Its pages had yellowed, but the cover was still intact. Sketches of my father’s face and his worry beads and Imam Ali’s face and the faces of other people filled the pages and framed the notes I’d taken.
Those notes were now older than Mahdi. I read one of them. “Before washing, we say ‘I wash this corpse of this dead man as a duty and to seek God’s favor.’ During washing we must repeat: ‘Forgiveness, O Lord,’ or ‘O Lord, this is the body … etc.”’ I had written every little detail down in this notebook. Washing wasn’t difficult or complicated. I had watched my father do it hundreds of times and had helped him.

Mahdi finished cleaning and asked what he should do next. I asked him to close the windows and doors, because it was getting cold, and to go to the women’s
mghaysil
and get us some lotus and camphor just in case. He came back and stored the stuff in the cupboards, then stood at the door. I invited him to sit down. He took off his jacket and put it on the back of the chair. I wanted to get to know him better and asked him about his hobbies.

He said he loved soccer and played whenever he had a chance and that he wanted to be a professional player in the future.

“Why not?” I said and smiled. I pointed to his Barcelona jersey and asked whether he wanted to play for them.

“Yes,” he said excitedly.

“What about Iraqi teams?”

“I am a Talaba fan.”

I had stopped following the league, but told him that I was a diehard Zawra’ fan. “What position do you like to play?”

“Striker.”

Before we could chat any more, death knocked on the door. Mahdi got up and went to open it. My heart raced and I stayed in the chair for a few seconds. I heard Mahdi saying, “Yes, it’s here.” I got up, went and stood by the bench, then went to the corridor. Mahdi came back, followed by three men carrying a sheet hiding the dead man. Mahdi pointed to the washing bench and they laid the body there. He then pointed to me and told them, “Ustadh Jawad is the washer.” The sentence had a strange effect on my ears. As if Mahdi had decreed what I would be doing.

“My condolences,” I said. “What is he to you?”

“My nephew. My sister’s son.”

“May God have mercy on his soul. Can I see the death certificate?”

He asked one of the younger men with him to get it from the car. Mahdi started to fill the buckets with water. The man asked about the fees. I spontaneously repeated what my father used to say: “Whatever you can manage, plus the cost of the shroud, but later. The coffin is donated by the endowment, but we will deal with this later.”

“Fine,” he said.

I asked them to take a seat. The third man did so, but the deceased’s uncle stood still. The young man came back and handed the death certificate to the uncle, who gave it to me with some hesitation. I looked at it. “Full Name: Jasim Muhammad ‘Alwan. Sex: Male. DOB: 8-5-1982. Cause: Poisoning. Drug overdose/pills.”

I handed it back to him without a word. The dead man was only twenty-four and had died before his life had even started. Drugs had become rampant, especially among young men and teenagers. The young man who brought the death certificate went and sat on the visitors’ bench next to the other one.

I approached the washing bench and remembered that I had to take off my shoes and that I hadn’t brought slippers from home. I was a bit flustered. I went to the side room and took off my shoes and socks. I put my socks inside the shoes and hid them under the chair. I could feel how cold the floor was. I rolled up my sleeves and went back to the washing room and headed to the faucet. The water was bitterly cold. I washed my hands and arms with soap and dried them with a towel Mahdi had prepared.

I stood to the right of the bench and removed the sheet from the dead man’s face and body. He was naked except for white underpants. His skin was yellowish. He had short brown hair, a wide forehead, and a pointed nose. There was a mole on his right cheek next to his moustache. His lips were dry and looked thirsty. He had scattered patches of hair on his chest between the nipples. They narrowed to a line trailing down his belly. He was wire-thin. His bones and ribs were visible. I put my arm under his neck to lift him and pull the sheet from under his body. I got goose bumps.

I rested his head on the bench again. Mahdi put his hands under the dead man’s knees to lift the rest of his body. I pulled away the remainder of the sheet and gave it to Mahdi, who folded it and handed it to the uncle. Mahdi brought me another white towel and handed it to me. He held a pair of scissors in his other hand. I put the towel over the man’s waist and took the scissors from Mahdi. I lifted the towel a bit without showing anything and started to cut away his underwear from the side. I went around and did the same to the other side. I removed the underwear and gave it to Mahdi, who put it in a plastic bag he had brought and gave it to the uncle. I returned the scissors to Mahdi and then placed the palms of my hands on the dead man’s belly and rubbed gently. It felt like hard plastic. I filled a bowl with water and poured some on his face. I inserted my index finger into his mouth and rubbed his teeth. Mahdi had started mixing in the ground lotus, which formed a foam and spread a pleasant smell. I poured another bowl of water over the man’s head and washed his face. I looked at Mahdi and realized it was time to turn him on his side. We did so as I repeated, “Forgiveness, O Lord.” I washed his right side from the head all the way down to the toes and repeated the same thing on his left side. Then we washed him again with water and camphor and then a third time with pure water.

For half an hour the only sounds were the splash of water and what I muttered. We dried him and shrouded him and put two branches of palm in the coffin.

After two years of work alongside Hammoudy, Mahdi had mastered the tasks of the assistant and the rhythms of washing. He was always ahead of me, anticipating the next step and preparing for it. This lessened my anxiety that I would do something wrong. When we went to the corner to fetch the coffin, the two young men got up. We put it on the ground next to the bench and placed the body in it. The uncle asked again about my fees and I told him that there was no set figure. He gave me ten thousand dinars. I thanked him and offered my condolences once again. They carried away the coffin and left.

I asked Mahdi about the amount as I put the bills in my pocket.
He said it was very good and that Hammoudy used to ask for twenty thousand if the deceased’s family wanted the special shroud with the fancy print and supplications. I suggested we wash the bench and rearrange the bowls. He said he would do it himself.