if only someone would cut off that gabby tongue of yours. No, he changed when his wife died, he changed completely. He used to stand around and lecture people, and curse the Regent and the English.
“And he got used to drinking alcohol. At first he drank secretly—he was afraid I’d find out and get cross with him. When I found out, he began to drink in his room or in the bar nearby. At night, the local men brought him home to the house.”
Adil moved off a little, leaning against the wall in front of us. My grandmother took the second ribbon and grasped my hair, and in a tone of voice I had not heard before, Adil asked: “Who gave him the pistol?”
“I asked him to enroll in the police academy. It only takes a few years, and they graduate you a police commissioner, then they promote you to assistant police director. It took him a while to finish middle school. He was failing only the easy classes. Adouli, dear, everyone who goes to the police academy must have a pistol. Huda, sweetheart—”
She took my head and turned it toward her. She held my face in her palms and looked into my eyes.
“He is ill, and your mother is ill. We are all ill. You hear the way your mother coughs at night and spits blood. God forbid if—God forgive my tongue!—I’m not afraid of death, God created us and he takes us back. But there is no longer any patience. Your mother will travel to Syria for a little rest and breathe some good air. Your father’s sister is still young. We are all waiting for Munir Effendi. Munir’s father died and left him the farms and shops, and he’s starting to fritter away the money. He has no brothers or sisters. He is lazy and idle, and the girl cannot marry a stranger. You and Adil are the apple of my eye—you’re the children of that dear sweet woman who has never said an unkind word. Poor thing, Iqbal!”
She hugged me, her arms tight around me. I kissed her and hugged her, burying my head beneath her ribs. I felt her belly, her soft breasts, and her long, narrow neck. I raised my face to her calm, sorrowful, inspired one, which never scolded when I was bad, but which was always responsive when I was sorry.
She tamed us one after the other, without our shedding a single drop of blood. She shared her thoughts with everyone, trained us without threats and took us to her bosom without menace. She prayed over us when we were ill, and fetched us from the end of the road if we ran away. She stood guard at the gates to our souls when we erred. She changed us with every passing hour. She did not interrogate or cross-examine us, or get defeated by our youthful misdeeds. She always said: “If you do a good deed for someone, don’t talk about it. No matter what happens here at home, tell people, ‘We don’t know.’ If someone tells you his secret, don’t ever repeat it. A secret is like a treasure, and has to be hidden in a well.”
And so on and on. When she went to the market, all the shopowners opened up their secret rooms and new sacks of merchandise. They gave her the finest grains and the freshest vegetables, the whitest sugar, the purest rice and shelled lentils. They put all her groceries in clean bags and sent them after her. She did not have to pay the price of all she bought, nor did they put her name on their list.
She paid on the first of every month. She was never late, and never haggled or procrastinated. She hated debt: “God does not want any of us in debt to another. Debt shortens your life and blinds you.” Nestling up to her I mixed her good with my evil.
I gave voice to all my sorrows and dreams, and never feared any punishment from her.
I might disguise myself in other clothes, but to her my bones did not lie; my soul could not deceive, and my head would not bow.
“Dear Huda, she just kisses you, and has never once told us ‘I love you.’”
“No one knows my Huda as I do. God keep you and keep evil far away from you. Now come iron my clothes—tomorrow I’m going to the General Retirement Directorate.”
I did not know what this end of the month would bring. But my grandmother, my father’s sister, and my father knew very well. My grandmother dressed up in her best clothes and combed her hair carefully. We brought her a large basin of hot water and the wide wooden comb that she pulled through her fine, flowing locks.
“Every day a hair falls out of my head. That’s all because of sorrow.” She switched her eyeglasses with the old black round frames for her gold-rimmed ones. We knew all these rituals from previous days. Everything was familiar; the new cloak came out of the bundle and was ironed, along with the only silk dress, with its design of graceful trees. It was ironed last. The high-heeled slippers were taken out of their box hidden in the bottom of the closet. That night my grandmother was transformed into a princess. Everyone was waiting for her blessings, her gifts, and money. The General Retirement Directorate in the crowded Baghdad neighborhood of Bab al-Mu’azzam was waiting for her.
When we set out for school in the morning, we knew that the retirement pension had been distributed. There was a chicken in golden gravy and red rice, fried aubergine, and plates of radishes, cucumbers, mint, and lettuce placed all over the serving platter. There was a tall pitcher of fresh laban. The delicious smell of the cooking made me raise my voice. In school I told Firdous, “We have chicken and red rice at our house. You love it—come and eat with us.”
We did not have one time for dinner and another for lunch. We ate when we were hungry. We knew that money was scarce. Our father gave a share, and our grandmother had to provide the rest. With this and that, we had curdled cream for breakfast every day. We had eggs once a week. My father’s sister arranged all the vegetables on the platter, saying, “These vegetables purify the blood. Look at your face, how sallow it is.”
We wanted more blood, whether pure or foul. It was not important, knowing that my mother’s blood was infected.
I was not afraid of my grandmother’s stories about her. Despite her absences and coughing, to me she still seemed young and strong, and a little older than my father’s sister.
Whenever I asked my grandmother how old my mother was, she laughed and answered, “By God, I don’t know. When she married your father she was in her twenties. She came from Aleppo with her brothers and her mother. Her father died when she was a girl. Her brother Shafiq was a doctor at the clinic in Karbala. He was affectionate and gentle. Your grandmother did not let him enjoy life. She was strong and had a sour disposition, God rest her soul. She always said, ‘My son is a doctor and I must marry him off to a woman with money.’ God rest his soul, he listened to her and worried that she’d get upset with him. Shafiq died a sudden death, before he turned forty.”
“And my Uncle Sami?”
“The day we had the betrothal to your mother, he shouted and cursed. He said the girl’s marriage was a shame, but Shafiq, God rest his soul, he said, ‘Jamil is a nice boy from a good family.’ Your grandmother died three years after he did. She suffered a lot—she thrashed about like a fish. She didn’t die until God took her two months later. That left Sami, Widad, and Inam, and they stayed in the house as if they were his servants. He beat them and cursed. Your mother was the sweetest of all, like a rose. She spoke little. She was gentle and calm and never harmed an ant. Be merciful to her, dear God, most Merciful of all the merciful.”
My mother followed my father to her room. They were face to face. The air in the room boiled with his shouts. She was standing, worn and weary; if she approached a sensitive point she would get burnt, and if she retreated she would be choked. His words came in
