The Last of the Angels (22 page)

Hameed replied jokingly, “You've shattered my nerves, mullah. I need to drink some glasses of arak to regain my composure. If I weren't afraid of angering you, I'd invite you to taste the forbidden along with me.”

The mullah felt delight flow through him, for he saw that Hameed Nylon was teasing him, after he had feared for a moment that he might have offended him, too. The mullah regained his composure and began to repeat affectionately, “God's curse on you, Hameed Nylon. You want to drag me into depravity and iniquity as well. Our conversation's not over. I want you to pass by me tomorrow so we can go and mend fences with Khidir Musa. I'll think over what you've said. Perhaps you're right. Do you believe, as my adversaries say, that I'm a senile old fool?”

Hameed replied mischievously, “Everyone knows that. There's no doubt that you're senile. But why are you worried about this? We'll take care of the matter tomorrow. Relax.”

The mullah laughed as he chastised him fondly, “No one has your way with words, you son of a bitch. You're Satan himself.”

Hameed had scarcely left the coffeehouse when Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri once again felt lonely. He wanted someone to converse with, anyone with whom he could share his woes.

“I've become annoying; that's clear. They all seek to avoid me. Hameed Nylon has left me too and gone off to drink arak. Doubtless I am senile. I've begun to neglect everything. I should have shined my shoes. They've been dirty for days. That's not the way I should be. The plump whore has shattered my nerves. I should have slept with her to buy her silence. Will Hameed Nylon be able to sort out a matter like this? Do you suppose he will agree? God's curse on Satan. Fine, it seems a bribe is unavoidable. But why should I bribe the small fish? Truly, why the low-ranking men? If a bribe is necessary, then I'll bribe the king himself. But, no; that might anger Khidir Musa, who is close to the king and who would consider that a personal insult. Perhaps it would be best if I became a Communist, as Hameed Nylon suggested. I'll distribute Qara Qul's money to the people. But why should I do that? These people will accept my gifts today and then curse me tomorrow. I know these people very well. They are ungrateful infidels. ‘Give, sir. Give!' Poor Qara Qul escaped by the skin of his teeth from this prostitute, who looks like a rotting sack. But why did he ascend to heaven on Buraq? Why did God choose him—him in particular—for a miracle like this? The truth is that the man was a liar and a cheat and that his broad nose, henna-tinted palm, and the earring on his right earlobe—as though he were Antara ibn Shaddad—were downright annoying. But God must know what He's doing. He chose him especially. I can't offer a prayerful complaint because the man's death was a blessing that descended upon the city, except for the she-ghoul he left behind.”

As Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri left the coffeehouse—having decided to return home after he heard his tummy growl and only then realized he was hungry, since he had forgotten to eat anything all day long—he thought, “I'd better forget the whole thing now. Hameed Nylon is right. I too must learn how to coexist with this damn world. I'm going to have to learn everything afresh.”

It was not past nine in the evening when the mullah found himself once again in the street, which was almost empty of people. He might have gone back home but was on an emotional rollercoaster, like a child who did not know what to do. “I could return to my house, where nothing but sleep awaits me.”

Night, however, had fallen over the city. Nothing remained but dogs chasing from one street to another and cats meowing as they leapt from one ruin to the next. “No. I won't go home. What would I do there? I wouldn't even be able to sleep. Hameed Nylon's gone to quaff arak. So where will you go, mullah?” He mocked himself, saying out loud, “Your ship is about to sink, Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri, all because of a whore whose old man ascended to heaven.” The mullah considered heading for the home of Qara Qul's widow to seek to placate her. “I must buy her silence. I won't be mean to her. She might agree to withdraw her claim if I offer her more of the money. She could wreck everything. She could harm even herself. Who knows? The government could use this whole affair as a pretext to assume control of the shrine. Then we would all have slain the goose that lays the golden egg.”

The mullah found himself heading toward the widow's house, in spite of himself, as if driven there by an alien force that was dictating his actions. In the darkness, which feeble streetlights hung from widely spaced poles dissipated a little, the mullah's legs, which were afflicted by rheumatism, struck the ground haphazardly, pulling behind them a cloak, the tails of which dragged on the ground. One could almost feel the silence that reigned over the neighborhood. After some minutes, the mullah stopped in front of Qara Qul's widow's house. His heart was pounding violently as he approached the door to knock on it. He stretched out his hand, but something made him hesitate, for strange voices reached his ears through cracks in the wooden door. The mullah thought, “They must be her lovers.” He leaned over so that one eye could see into the house through a crack in the door but then drew back in alarm. Summoning all his strength, he cast inside another thoughtful look that caused him to lose even the force to repeat “In the name of God” or to ask God's protection against the devil. What he saw was so upsetting and weird that he rubbed his eyes time and again and then looked back through the crack. Qara Qul Mansur was seated beside Dervish Bahlul in the home's courtyard on two aluminum chairs, drinking tea with three dead men, who were sitting on a carpet spread on the ground. Their white skeletons gleamed in the light of a lamp, which was suspended on the wall over their heads. He struggled to hear what they were saying, but in vain, because a radio resting near them was broadcasting a song by Sadiqa al-Mullaya. A shudder convulsed the mullah's whole body, while his head filled with questions: “If Qara Qul is in heaven, what would make him return to his widow? What is Dervish Bahlul doing here with these dead people?”

The mullah slipped back, retreating awkwardly. Then he began to run in the dark as though a wild beast were chasing him, as though the three dead men had noticed him and begun to pursue him. He fell to the ground more than once but kept on running, even though he was coughing and gasping and dogs were barking at him.

D
uring the night when Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri saw—at the home of the widow of Qara Qul—the terrifying sight that caused him to take to his sickbed and left him unable to speak, Hameed Nylon kept moving from one place to another. To begin with he passed by the coffeehouse frequented by auto mechanics at the garage located on Railroad Station Street. The patrons there took him along with them after dark to a tavern, bringing with them bottles of arak purchased from liquor stores run by Christians. Hameed Nylon had not even thought about having something to drink. What was important to him was being with people. “There's always a desire to show ourselves to others' eyes. It makes us feel self-confident. This is what they call conviviality.”

Hameed Nylon sat with two young men who were discussing lottery tickets. One of them had won ten dinars, receiving only nine because the vendor had kept a dinar as his tip or perhaps as a tax. One of them placed a glass before Hameed Nylon, saying, “Drink, Hameed. The nine dinars are still in my pocket.”

Hameed Nylon raised the glass and took a large swig from it and then said, “Here's to the first prize, which I hope you win next time.”

Yashar, who was wearing dark glasses even though it was night, because he believed they would attract Turkmen girls, shrieked, “Oh my God! A thousand five hundred dinars in one fell swoop!”

Hameed Nylon cast him a conspiratorial look, and remarked, “You would definitely marry. You would be able to ask for the prettiest girl in Kirkuk. Who would be able to refuse a young man who had that many dinars in his pocket?”

“Yashar has a girl who's waiting for him,” said Jamal, the other young man seated opposite Yashar.

Hameed asked, “Really?”

Yashar said tipsily, “She's from your community, Hameed.”

“Who is she?”

Yashar sighed, exhaling deeply, “Layla, a student in the girls' middle school.”

Hameed asked, “Layla, the daughter of al-Hajj Ahmad al-Sabunji?”

“Yes, that's exactly who she is.”

Jamal interjected, “He waits for her every day when she leaves school.”

Hameed Nylon asked, “Have you spoken with her?”

“I tried, but she rebuffed me, saying that she doesn't make a habit of speaking to young men in the street. I know she loves me, Hameed. Her eyes reveal that. Every time I walk behind her, she turns and looks at me stealthily.”

Hameed Nylon said, “She's truly a beautiful girl, and well bred.”

Yashar invited Hameed to accompany him when he returned home, in order to cast a glance at his sweetheart Layla's home before going to sleep, but Hameed politely declined, saying apologetically that he would be spending the night elsewhere. He was thinking about seeing Ahlam, the prostitute he visited once or twice a week. Hameed Nylon consumed another glass of arak before he slipped out to the street. Patrons from the movie theaters, which had concluded their last show, were dispersing through the dark streets, returning to their homes while a dark silence prevailed over the city. Hameed Nylon focused his attention on this silence, which darkness always inspires, since this matter puzzled him. People were walking along quietly, and only their footsteps on the sidewalk or the street's asphalt were audible. Night watchmen shouldering rifles stood beneath light poles. Most of them were Arabs from al-Hawija.

“It's hard for a man to do anything in this city. All the doors and gates are closed. This city is certainly not Baghdad. There a man can spend the night in the thousand and one bars that stretch all along Abu Nuwas Street. Here there are only Arab night watchmen. Everyone feels out of sorts. But they love their vexation because that's all they know. This is why they get such childish ideas, exactly like Mullah Zayn al-Abidin al-Qadiri. Khidir Musa didn't do him any favor by nominating him to be director general because the man doesn't deserve to be anything more than the imam of a mosque. Director general of a tomb? Imagine that. No, no. What's that all about? Qara Qul's tomb is a gold mine that has fallen on Kirkuk from the heavens. It's our second leading source of income, second only to oil. For this reason the mullah has fallen prey to childish fantasies and madness. All these riches that flow between his fingers! Why doesn't the government act to seize this wealth, which the mullah considers his own riches—his meaningless protests about a sacred trust notwithstanding? I need to discuss this matter with Khidir Musa. We've got to do something before Qara Qul's widow gains control of these riches. Khidir Musa will refuse to intervene in the affair. After his visit to the king, he won't meddle in small issues. He won't wish to dirty his hands in a lawsuit that might harm his reputation. With riches like those the mullah is hiding I could outfit an army for a guerrilla war, an army to liberate Iraq the way Mao Tse-tung's army liberated China.”

Thoughts and dreams collided with each other in Hameed Nylon's head on his way home so that he was oblivious to the passage of time. Even at home, when he was in bed, the beautiful dream did not quit him. He could not get to sleep but tossed and turned in bed, waiting for morning to arrive so that he could take his first step on the road to revolution.

In fact, the first thing he did in the morning was to hunt out Faruq Shamil, who worked in the municipal print shop. After stepping aside with him among the rolls of paper and the containers of ink, Hameed proposed that Faruq and the other members of the union quit their jobs and leave for the countryside with him to start a guerrilla war against the government. The idea shocked Faruq Shamil, who appeared flabbergasted, sank into silence, and began to gaze in bewilderment at the face of Hameed Nylon, who asked, “What's the matter, Faruq? You don't seem to have been expecting anything like this.”

Faruq Shamil answered anxiously, “You certainly have taken me by surprise, Hameed. Let me think about the matter. I'll pass by you this afternoon. It's a great idea but needs some mulling over. You know that revolutionary adventures can lead to back-breaking disasters.”

As Hameed Nylon left, he said, “It's a sure thing. Since the people are against the government, they will certainly follow us. You know that.”

Faruq Shamil did not know that or at least was not certain of it. Indeed the thought of Hameed Nylon leading a revolution made him want to laugh, but he said in a serious tone, “You're the only one to have thought of a revolution. Where did you get this idea?”

Hameed Nylon answered in a way that embarrassed Faruq Shamil: “Thoughts don't come to a man. He goes to them.”

Hameed Nylon departed, leaving Faruq Shamil contemplating with relish this phrase, which Hameed Nylon had heard once from Dervish Bahlul. It had stuck in his mind.

That evening Faruq Shamil led Hameed Nylon through dark alleys that he had definitely never visited before, past young Kurdish men whose faces were barely discernible. They were wearing the baggy shorts that Turkmen derisively called balloons. The men leaned against the wall, staring into the void, waiting for nothing, day after day. Faruq Shamil whispered to Hameed Nylon, “These are the Wall Men. Perhaps you've heard about them. They're all unemployed and have nothing to do. They stand leaning against the wall all day long and part of the night, saying nothing. They return home only to sleep. There, brothers, sisters, father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother are crammed into a single room. They are trying to escape from life itself.”

Hameed Nylon and Faruq Shamil traversed other narrow alleys filled with muck and stinking water. All that a person heard there was the barking of dogs that chased around aimlessly and the meowing of cats that leapt from wall to wall.

Faruq Shamil had notified the Communist leadership in the city of Hameed Nylon's suggestion, asking their opinion and advice. This action had prompted the Communists, who considered themselves experts on making revolutions, despite the fact that they had never organized a single revolution during their entire history, to request a meeting with Hameed Nylon that same day in order to discuss armed revolution with him. Hameed Nylon was not a Communist but had demonstrated his leadership abilities in the Battle of Gawirbaghi and had agreed to represent the Communists, although he had never told anyone, in the delegation that headed to Baghdad and met with the king. He had also attended the memorial service the Communists had held in one of the mosques of Qara-Teppa when Joseph Stalin died. He had recited the opening prayer of the Qur'an for this pure spirit while tears welled up in his eyes. He had noticed that others were shedding tears too. Despite his friendship with the Communists, he had remained outside the Party because he believed that the Communists were all talk and no action and that they hid more than they disclosed. The Communists, who were awed by his magical influence on the people, considered him an exemplary and spontaneous rabble-rouser. This was a type that was hard to squeeze into their mold, which relied first and foremost on the principles and theoretical laws that the great Marxist scholars had devised. Hameed Nylon, to whom the idea of the revolution had suddenly come, needed them now. If they truly were revolutionaries, they should join him or at least grant workers in the union the right to choose. The Communists were eager to learn the truth about this affair, which was new to them. They had spent so many of the previous years in cellars that some had forgotten there was another world beyond the basements where they lived.

Truth be told, however, Hameed Nylon—like many other people—had only a murky idea about the cellars that the leaders customarily inhabited. Faruq Shamil had told Hameed Nylon, “It seems that the idea of a revolution has created quite a stir among the leaders. That's why they want to meet you today, if there's nothing to prevent that.” Hameed Nylon had replied, “That suits me fine, for there's not much time for us to waste on trivialities.”

In the darkness that a pale moon overhead was beginning to affect, down one of the alleys, Hameed Nylon and Faruq Shamil approached a ruined house that not even the devil would have suspected. Faruq Shamil whispered, “We've finally arrived.” Hameed Nylon stared at the ancient wooden door covered by cobwebs, beneath which a dove was sitting on her eggs. Over the screen door stretched a gray viper of terrifying size.

Hameed Nylon was unnerved and felt afraid: “This house is abandoned, Faruq. There can't be anyone here.”

Faruq Shamil smiled, “Don't be deceived by appearances, Hameed. Wait a minute.”

He walked up to the door and said in a rather loud voice, “Open, sesame.” The viper raised its long, heavy head and gazed for some moments at Faruq Shamil's eyes. Then it lowered its head and slipped into a large crevice above the door. Faruq Shamil looked at Hameed Nylon and explained, “The viper has gone inside to inform the comrades of our arrival. A perfect camouflage. One of our comrades is a snake charmer with amazing ideas about clandestine work.”

The door creaked open and Faruq Shamil and Hameed Nylon entered quietly, for fear of disturbing the dove, which was sleeping on her nest on the doorstep. A young woman whose features Hameed Nylon could not make out greeted them in the dark and then led them inside a deserted house that smelled of neglect. She cautioned them that the area was infested with scorpions and mice, “But you needn't fear them. They're all very well trained.” Then looking at Hameed, she said, “I hope the viper at the door didn't upset you. She's very gentle but occasionally likes to tease. As a matter of fact, she's the angel who guards all of us.” The girl pushed on a door, which opened onto an illuminated stairway descending into a deep cellar. Hameed Nylon had a chance to get a glance at the woman who was leading the way. A pretty girl, she wore a short black skirt, a red blouse, and black high-heeled shoes. Hameed Nylon wondered, “Where do Communists get pretty girls like this?”

Inside the cellar, everything was the opposite from the exterior. It really was not a cellar, although it was below ground. It was an elegant new construction, which reminded him of the offices of the English oil company. There was a long hallway with beautiful crystal chandeliers hanging from its ceiling. On each side was a row of rooms with handsome doors. Above each of these was a small bronze plaque. These clearly were offices. The girl pushed on one of the doors. It opened to reveal a man seated behind a table. The man, who was staring at the girl through his glasses, said, “The comrade must have arrived. I must record this in the arrivals' register.” Then, opening the large ledger in front of him, he turned to Hameed Nylon, who was standing in front of the door, “Your Party name, please.”

Hameed Nylon was surprised by this question, which he did not understand. He thought he was being asked his nickname. He tried to mask his discomfort with a laugh: “The whole world knows me as Hameed Nylon. If you wish to give me another, better name, I'll have no special objection.” Then he turned to the girl who was standing beside him, “I don't know how you can receive a person whose name you don't know.”

The girl shook her head flirtatiously enough for Hameed Nylon to forget his objection: “Hameed, there has to be a bit of bureaucracy. That's life.” Then she turned to the man who was sitting perplexed behind his ledger: “Write down any name. You know your work better than we do.” Then she grasped the hand of Hameed Nylon, who thought she was flirting with him and squeezed back.

She led him to the end of the hallway, on the walls of which were hung white cloth banners with gleaming red lettering: “A Free Nation and a Happy People,” “Long Live the Iraqi Working Class,” “Long Live the People's Struggle under the Leadership of the Great Soviet Union,” and “Taiwan Is an Inseparable Part of the Chinese Homeland.” At the end of the hallway, the girl pushed on a door that opened onto a spacious chamber with a huge, circular table at the center and many elegant chairs. In the corners were piled many bundles of pamphlets and booklets—obviously prepared for transport elsewhere. The walls were decorated with pictures of strange faces, which Hameed Nylon had never seen before, except for the portrait of Stalin, whose stern peasant's face and bushy mustache anyone would recognize. He almost asked the girl about the other bald man and the two awe-inspiring old men—who resembled Dervish Bahlul—with beards that came down to their chests, but felt embarrassed, fearful of displaying his ignorance to the young woman, whose attention he was wondering how to attract.