The Last of the Angels (21 page)

Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri was perplexed about what to do with the gifts that did not fit well inside his jars. Truth be told, he had at first begun to distribute these to the poor in the Chuqor community and other neighborhoods. Then he turned away from this. Believing that excessive generosity would corrupt the poor, he began to sell these goods to shop owners, adding the new money to the buried funds. Eventually, in the small souk, he opened up a shop, which his unemployed son-in-law managed, to put on sale the shrine's gifts that defied burial. He named it “The Depository for the Islamic Shrine.”

Despite the zeal Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri displayed with respect to the Muslims' riches, which he described as his sacred trust, he was not immune to gossip and innuendo. This is customary in a city like Kirkuk, where the residents are renowned for their envy, and Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri, who had never risen above the mentality of a mosque imam even after he became a director general, committed more than one error in handling his high post. It would, for example, have been appropriate for him to forward some of the shrine's benefits to the governor, the police chief, and other high-ranking officials in the city, but he had not done this. Indeed he had even forgotten the ministers of the interior and of religious endowments, as if they were “a couple of scarecrows,” in the words of Khidir Musa, who alluded to the matter in one of his coffeehouse sessions with Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri. The mullah, however, rebuffed him in such a way that he never returned to the topic again: “So you want me to pay a bribe taken from assets that do not belong to me and to abuse the trust that Muslims have placed in me?”

The other matter that inflamed people's sentiments and stirred their resentment was his use, when he went out every afternoon, of Ibn Sa‘ud's gold wheelchair to convey him to the coffeehouse, on the pretext that his legs hurt dreadfully from rheumatism and that it would be hard for him to walk. Even though he took two armed policemen with him to guard the gold wheelchair, children followed him, screaming and singing all the way to the door of the coffeehouse. Men who encountered him en route would stop, overwhelmed by what they saw, and women would dart to the doors of their homes to catch a glimpse of the mullah steering his gold wheelchair.

Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri did not shortchange the plump widow of Qara Qul or their four children, even though rumors reached his ears that strangers visited her home, that she adorned herself inappropriately, and that this was not right for the widow of a saint. He would merely respond, “Some suspicions are sinful.” Each week he sent her all the sugar, tea, rice, and chickens she needed, in addition to a monthly salary of fifteen dinars, which he had allotted her and her children and which she would come and pick up herself. Nonetheless, Satan whispered his temptation to her and she proceeded to demand—incited perhaps by her lovers and neighbors, or even influenced by the flood of African-heritage visitors who came to her home from Egypt, the Sudan, Ethiopia, Senegal, and the Ivory Coast—a real share of the donations presented to her husband's tomb, pointing out that her young, orphaned children had more right to ride in King Ibn Sa‘ud's gold wheelchair than Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri, who was afflicted by senility and love of ostentation.

Relying on an attorney known for winning all the cases he represented by bribing judges, she presented a claim in the second court of first instance of Kirkuk. In this she asked Kirkuk's shari‘a judge to award her four-fifths of the gifts presented to her husband's tomb, relying in this claim on Islamic jurisprudence, which sets the share of the public treasury in any profit or business as a fifth. That enraged Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri so much that he publicly accused her of turning her home into a brothel where men and women met and of practicing black magic, which was something out of keeping with the standing of Qara Qul. The plump, dark-complexioned widow asserted, without anyone believing her, that Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri had attempted to seduce her more than once, although she had kept quiet about it for fear of a scandal and out of respect for her husband's lofty status. Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri almost went crazy when he heard this accusation relayed to him and began to scream at the top of his lungs, “I'd rather sleep with a cow than touch this black bag's pussy.” After gaining control of himself, he commented, “I don't know why God afflicts his righteous worshipers with fallen women like this widow. Behind it, there must be some wise purpose that our limited intellects do not comprehend. God assisted Qara Qul, who had to live with this whore, but—Glory to Him and may He be exalted—He compensated him for his worldly life with the hereafter, where he now lives in paradise, surrounded by beautiful companions. How disparate are the beauty and manners of these heavenly companions from the ugliness of this widow and her morals.”

The city of Kirkuk split into two rival factions, each supporting one side in this dispute, which many considered to be linked to their own destiny. One faction thought that all the wealth was the personal property of Qara Qul himself, and this meant legally that it all accrued to his wife and children, since he was unable to receive it personally, once he was transported to an abode in paradise. Many religious scholars declared in a statement they released—at the prompting of her attorney, who was hopeful of winning the case—that the commerce of a Muslim devolves on his children after his death and that the government has no right or standing to seize and confiscate this commerce. They affirmed their rejection of Communism, which—unchecked by morality or conscience—would plunder the riches of the Muslims or nationalize them. In their declaration, these scholars demanded that the government reinstate the rights of the family and that Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri be removed from his position, in view of his offenses against the principles of religion.

Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri sensed the peril threatening him and understood that he was in danger of losing everything. He was forced, once again, to fall back on Khidir Musa, broaching the matter with him. Khidir Musa, who had been annoyed with the mullah ever since the day he had refused to offer a cut of the shrine's proceeds to government officials, accusing him of attempting to corrupt him, remained aloof, however, as if the matter was no concern of his. The only comment with which he favored Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri was: “I knocked myself out getting you this post. Beyond that, you're on your own.” These few words sufficed to cause the mullah, whose nerves were already shot, to explode into an angry tantrum that surprised even Khidir Musa: “I know you envy me the blessing I've achieved. Don't forget that you were once a shepherd and that that's how I'll always think of you.” Khidir Musa replied disdainfully, “I'll never forget that.” Then Khidir Musa rose and left the coffeehouse, returning home.

The mullah was afflicted by a bout of severe coughing that left him weeping. He realized that he had gone too far and that he had risked everything by being insolent to the man to whom he owed everything he had achieved. Although the mullah felt defeated, he resolved to combat the greed of Qara Qul's widow and her attorney. A difficult battle was confronting him now that he had rebuffed the friendship and protection of Khidir Musa. He thought of going to apologize to him for what he had blurted out, but his embarrassment at what he had done prevented him: “Perhaps I can do that tomorrow. I'll do it eventually, unless I lose my mind and go off the deep end.” He paid for the tea he had drunk and went out to the street, overcome by the feeling that he was nothing more than a corpse walking on two feet. The mullah had scarcely reached the nearby barbershop when he saw Hameed Nylon emerge from the salon. Traces of powder were still visible on the back of his neck and he smelled of cologne. Hameed Nylon asked, “Do you like my haircut, mullah? This young barber Yawuz has fingers that know how to cut hair. His problem always is the lice people bring him in their hair.”

The mullah's features relaxed: “You know what, Hameed? You know how to coexist with this damn world.”

Hameed replied in jest, “You can learn how if you want.” His round eyes, which resembled the ones children draw in their notebooks, gleamed affectionately.

“No, I'll never learn that. The devil lives beneath my tongue. The moment I open my mouth out spills the scent of the dunghill.”

Hameed Nylon thought to himself, “The old man's gone senile. It's really sad. He's still living in dreams. Why does a person keep hopeful to the end? What does this mullah want from the world? Perhaps he thought he would live forever. He's a Muslim, at any rate: ‘Live your life as if you would live forever.' Me, I live as if would die tomorrow. I shouldn't tell him that. A man dies the moment he loses hope. This old guy still has the ability to hope.”

The mullah stepped forward and placed his dry palm affectionately on Hameed Nylon's shoulder. Then he suddenly noticed something: “Just a minute.” With his thumb he felt the other man's sideburn. “Your barber should have cut your sideburn shorter than he did. Young men are growing their sideburns long today, just like the Jews. Oh, that doesn't matter. Why don't you come to prayers at the mosque, Hameed? All you lack is guidance toward God.”

“Do you really believe that the mosque is God's house? I believe that He applauds residence in hearts, rather than in your mosque, where men fart with every prostration.”

The mullah replied beguilingly, “What a free thinker you are! But without that, you're not worth a single fils.”

Hameed stopped in front of a store that resembled a hole in the wall and purchased a tin of Black Cat cigarettes. He offered one to the mullah, who said disdainfully, “You smoke Tomcat cigarettes and comb blue pomade into your hair. Young men are always this way. Old fellows like me are content if God shelters them with his expansive mercy.”

Hameed Nylon lit his cigarette. Evening was beginning to fall gradually over the city. Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri said, “If you don't have anything else to do, we could sit in the coffeehouse. I would like to invite you to have a tumbler of tea at my expense.”

“I thought you wanted to invite me to a banquet of roast lamb. What's on your mind? I know you're upset about Qara Qul's whore. Come now; tell me. She's a slanderous viper. You shouldn't have gotten involved with her.”

“Yes, the matter concerns this whore, but I made a mistake with Khidir Musa. I was rude to him. He refused to listen to me and I lost my head.”

“This is a major error, mullah. You know we're all indebted to him, and you in particular. But let's skip that for now. What's with the whore?”

“I'll lose everything. I've damaged my reputation. A whore like Qara Qul's widow has shown that she is more judicious than I am. Even the Muslim scholars have fallen into her snares. They've issued a fatwa against me, wishing to steal the shrine of Qara Qul from me.”

“It's true; she is more judicious than you. You've changed a lot, mullah. The money's changed you. You no longer know any god beside coins. Don't get angry. I just need to tell you this. You know—no one will defend you as long as you consider the riches of the shrine as your personal wealth. The government won't accept that and neither will the religious scholars or the citizens of Kirkuk. If you want the truth, Qara Qul's widow has more right than you to these riches because at least she was his wife.”

The mullah, who was summoning the waiter to order tea, blushed: “While I remain director general of the mausoleum, they will have to accept my rules. These riches are certainly not mine. They are the Muslims' riches and a trust that I bear. I am not ready to renounce it. This government is not an Islamic one to which I can entrust the wealth. As for Qara Qul's whore, she's irrelevant to the matter. The mausoleum is not a shop that her husband owned and that her children can inherit.”

Hameed asked calmly, as though he wished to confide something he did not want others to hear, “Fine; when do you want to return the trust to its people? Distribute the wealth yourself to the people, and then they won't have any argument against you.”

Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri laughed sarcastically to disguise the anger that was beginning to shake his entire body. “So you want me to be a Communist, Hameed? You want me to distribute God's wealth to the people, just like that, in exchange for nothing, so that they can spend it drinking wine and sleeping with prostitutes?”

“Fine; if you want the riches of Qara Qul for yourself, why should we stand up for you?”

Hameed Nylon rose, intending to leave the coffeehouse. There was no longer any benefit to be gained from sitting with the mullah, who was as stubborn as a donkey that suddenly stops running. Night had fallen over the small souk, where stray dogs began to snap at each other outside of closed butcher shops, fighting for bones that had been tossed out on the sidewalk. Other dogs that were ravenous with hunger had stepped aside and begun to eat leftover watermelon slices that shop owners had thrown in the street. In the coffeehouse that towered over the sidewalk, on a bench a person reached by climbing up two steps, the faint light cast shadows over the faces of the few customers, some of whom were playing dominoes. As he stood up, Hameed Nylon noticed the pallor of the mullah's face. It was difficult to say whether it was it from rancor or fear. The mullah, who appeared to want to be friendly, called to him, “I don't want to quarrel with you as well, Hameed. I've begun to lose the people closest to me. You mustn't get angry at me. I'm older than you are.”