Packaged Lives, page 10
Day Seven
We packed our bags and left for the restaurant to have our last breakfast before leaving for the airport in the company bus. He said, sipping with great pleasure a glass of juice, “When the tour guide told us about the bitter Sicilian orange juice and their failure to market it because it needed too much sugar for it to be drinkable, I had no idea she meant our Narange.” “Your grandfather used to squeeze Narange and add a lot of sugar to it for us to drink as juice.” “I remember that. When was the last time we drank Narange juice?” “1974? Thereabouts. I don’t remember exactly.” Silence. “Did you notice how they avoided us all day yesterday?” “Who?” “The Four Musketeers.” “Yes. I don’t see them today. They must have bought a two-week holiday. They will stay another week.” I drank my Narange juice very slowly, sip by sip, wanting to keep its familiar taste forever. I wanted the intimacy to last an eternity. “Too much sugar in the juice,” I said. “Your grandfather got the balance just right.” He did not answer. He nodded his head in agreement.
Episode Four
Ireland, Train from Dublin to West Point, August 2000
Scene One
He handed me a sandwich in Saran wrap. I thought he was inviting me to share in his lunch. “Thank you very much,” I said to him quickly, “I’m not hungry.” He said, “Unwrap it.” I smiled apologetically, peeled off the transparent wrap for him, and he thanked me. He said, “My fingers are useless as you can see.” He showed me his twisted fingers. And like a child showing off, he let me see them a second time. “They were sawed off when I was injured. They got infected and they cut them off.” He pointed with his head at a woman sleeping next to him. “She was beside me. I told the surgical team that I wouldn’t let them operate if she couldn’t be with me. They protested but I insisted and eventually they gave in. They put her in a sanitized surgical gown and she stayed close.” He laughed, happy with his triumph over the doctors, hospital administration, and infection. “My motto in life, as you see,” he said loudly, “is ‘persist right or wrong and you’ll get what you want.’ ‘Accepting reality’ does not exist in my vocabulary.” He laughed through his blackened loose teeth. “It is true, we all believe in this.” “All?” I wondered. “Yes,” he said, “in Ireland.”
I had a forward-facing window seat. I booked the trip through Universe Tours Company, which my wife liked to use—she insisted that it offered the best packages for holidays inside and outside Britain. The Irishman and his wife, who seemed in their sixties, were sitting facing me. The woman was wearing a white dress with red and blue flowers under a cardigan with horizontal stripes. She was asleep, and that was why I looked in her direction when I looked up from my book every now and then. I avoided exchanging looks with strangers. I did notice the brown, gray, and blond streaks of her hair, for my wife wore a similar cocktail on her head. She was clutching her black handbag to her bosom on top of a Daily Express newspaper on her lap. A small suitcase sat between her legs on the ground. It was a gift from Barclay’s Bank. “Barclays: the bank that listens to you” was written on it in bold letters. “Where are you from?” he asked.
The question slapped me in the face. The unspeakable was happening again. I swallowed hard. I took time to answer. I was, to be honest, pretty fed up with strangers throwing the same question at me, and so freely, everywhere I went. Also, I did not go on a trip on my own, alone, so as to find myself chatting with a person who raised his voice on the train, laughing proudly about his severed fingers and attracting attention to himself. And I really preferred silence when I was on holiday—I just wanted to look around.
“Iraq,” I said, adding very quickly, “but I live in London.” I was trying to avoid the usual comments or questions that would come after the initial bait. There would be nothing new. It would be a routine conversation, as boring as the routines of a hospital patient, that would go like this: “From Iran?” “No, Iraq.” “Iraq?” “Yes, the country whose name ends in a q not an n. Iraq is a neighboring country of Iran.” “Oh, I see, you mean Khomeini’s country!” “No, it’s a country owned by nobody from what I know, its president is called . . .” Stop, don’t say anything, Iraq is Saddam’s country, isn’t it?
But the old Irishman would not have any of it. He stopped chewing and said sadly, “I’m so sorry for the Iraqi people. They are going through tough times. Just like us in Ireland.” I was surprised. Who was it that said, “There is nothing surprising anymore,” and he chose death. I was meeting a man who could sum up everything he wanted to say in two sentences. He knew, and that was amazing. I did not have to explain. He stretched out his hand with severed fingers to shake mine. “My name is Brian,” nodding his head at his wife, “and she’s Mary.”
“You haven’t been to St. Patrick?” Brian was incredulous. “You’ve been in Ireland for days and you haven’t been to see St. Patrick?” “I don’t believe in visiting saints’ tombs,” I said apologetically. He gave out his loud, affectionate laugh. “You will believe, you will. We all started like that when we were young. Wait till you get to be my age, and live with a woman like her,” he said in a conspiratorial tone while looking at his wife, “you will believe. St. Patrick is no ordinary saint. He is more than a saint. Haven’t you noticed that there are no snakes in Ireland?” I said, apologetically again, “My itinerary was organized by Universe, and it did not include St. Patrick.” “How on earth could you let a despicable tourist company stop you from visiting St. Patrick?” He shouted in anger, “Fuck Universe!”
Scene Two
Brian and Mary insisted on buying me a beer at a pub near the train station. “Just one pint,” they said in unison, “to wash off our fatigue from the journey.” Brian said, “This is an excellent pub only the locals know about. Come, you must try the true Irish Guinness! Once you’ve tasted it, I promise you, you’ll realize that what they sell you in London is black water.” We stayed in the pub for hours longer than the train journey. We stopped counting after the third beer. I did not remember what we said, but I remembered Mary’s beautiful voice as she stood in the middle of the pub and sang with us singing along. As we said goodbye at the pub door, Brian lifted his glass high and shouted with all his might, “Iraq,” and I lifted my glass, which felt so heavy by then, and tried to imitate his cheer, “Ireland!” I hugged them, crying. I promised them through the tears running down my face that I would change my itinerary and make sure to visit St. Patrick.
Scene Three
A huge crowd was gathering around the Down Cathedral on the drumlins of Downpatrick. Children, young men and women, and old people leaning on their walking sticks arrived in private cars, public buses, or tour buses. The sun was out, basking our bodies in its warmth. An old man standing next to me, noticing my confusion, asked, “Is this your first pilgrimage?” “Yes,” I answered. “Better rent a walking stick from the shop and bring a bottle of water with you. The path up Cathedral Hills to St. Patrick’s Grave is long and steep.”
I lifted my head high but could not see the mountaintop. I saw instead small shapes that looked like ants crawling up the slopes. My heart sank. I realized the grave mistake I had made in coming here. What was I doing on this silly tour, having committed myself to being herded like a sheep in a flock? I would have done better walking around in the city, sitting in a pub or a café, reading newspapers and writing a postcard to my wife and son. I was feeling stuck. I remembered my promise to Brian and Mary, sighed, and joined the moving crowd.
I convinced myself that St. Patrick would be the first of God’s munificent friends I visited willingly, or fulfilling friends’ wishes. I had made pilgrimages to shrines with my family during holy seasons, or even on a normal day, in which I had no say as a child and teenager, but which I abandoned without a backward glance in my youth. Kazim, Karbala, Najaf Imams, and ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Gilani. How many prayers did my mother say while she hung on to the windows of their tombs! She prayed for Iraq’s prosperity, and my sister’s health, wishing her to marry a good boy from a good family as soon as possible. She got the exact opposite of what she prayed for. I had been in exile for twenty years, and my sister in Baghdad was a confirmed spinster. Thankfully my mother did not live long enough to see the effect of her prayers on Iraq.
I was pleased I had put on a pair of good sports shoes. They “protected the feet and prevented slipping,” as my youngest son would say, defending his choice of wearing sports shoes all the time. Or did I hear this in a TV ad? I could not remember. I noticed that the old man walking, or rather crawling behind me with the help of a cane, was wearing a pair of strange-looking shoes. I had never seen the likes before. Perhaps they were custom-made for him. The old man smiled at me. “I see that you didn’t take my advice! You may be right. Young people don’t need walking sticks.” I decided to walk a bit faster to avoid going into another maze of meaningless chitchat.
It was not easy to get away though, for the ground beneath my feet changed from aged asphalt to rocky terrains covered in sand that was in turn covered with fine pebbles. Every step taken without careful calculation would surely lead to slipping and falling on one’s face. We began our ascent from sea level. I looked back once we reached a reasonable height and saw a beautiful scene of nature taking shape before my eyes: rolling green hills reaching all the way to the sea. I could hear water rippling and dogs barking. I read in the travel guide that the mountain was 800 meters tall. The size of the rocks grew bigger as we climbed higher. They looked like pebbles at first. When I looked closely I realized they were stones of different shape and size. The layer of earth covering them was light, like the fuzz growing on a teenage boy’s face. The mountain had a teenager’s fuzz! A layer of sand was sprinkled over the rocks to disguise their ruggedness. Above us in a distance, I saw a flock of sheep, and further up, on the rugged rocks, a drove of goats. The mountain smelled of droppings and dung. He was one of God’s munificent friends, I thought to myself, who loved to live in nature’s arms. He was at one with nature. He was a green saint. I laughed, in spite of myself, and loudly too, but I quickly stifled my laugh. I looked around, expecting to hear my mother’s voice, scolding me, don’t laugh when you’re visiting with the saints, it’s prohibited, Haram.
I stopped and stood with the others before a small statue of a woman holding a child in her arms. The woman was of course Mary and the child Jesus. A small basin lay at her feet. The old man, appearing out of nowhere, stood beside me. “Dip your hand in the water, then wipe your forehead.” I immediately did what the old man said, cursing Brian under my breath for getting me into this jam. I also cursed my own cowardice, which made me respect old people and obey them even when they went senile. Why didn’t I scream in his face and say no? I did as I was told. This was the last time I listened to anyone. My oldest son would never have done anything he was told without checking and double-checking with tens of questions, of how do you prove what you claim?, and I, I obeyed an old man I did not even know just like that. Damn Brian, damn Mary, damn St. Pat . . . I slipped and fell on my face. Hot liquid streaked down my nose. My eyes were stinging with pain. Scratches covered my arms and legs. The old man helped me up and gave me a white handkerchief smelling of carnation and incense. “Watch your step,” he said calmly, “we’ve only just started.” I looked at my watch. 12:10 p.m. We had two more hours of climbing ahead of us. I focused on my steps. I avoided small stones and walked on big stones, bending my body forward in search of a center of gravity. My leg muscles were not used to this kind of slow climb, and they complained of the ache and from the pain of the scratches on them.
A young woman walked past me, dragging behind her three children tied to leashes that held them from falling. They were laughing. She seemed to have been able to make it fun for them. She convinced them that they were playing a game with certain rules. The children stood enthusiastically in front of a medium-sized stone statue of the Christ protected by a low metal fence. The young woman said, “This is the second stage of our pilgrimage. Go around the statue seven times and repeat ‘Hail Mary’ seven times.” The children ran around the statue counting aloud, one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven. “Seven more times,” she said, “and now say ‘Hail Jesus’ seven times.” She hugged and kissed each of them as they completed their run. I watched the children sitting on a rock nearby. Where was the mountaintop? We were still going up. The young woman and her children were now quite a distance ahead of me, and I could no longer make out the bent back of the old man. All of a sudden I was seeing a completely different scene. I saw a line on the plain before me formed by the winding caravan of pilgrims connecting the next mountain with where I sat watching, a rocky corridor where pilgrims caught their breath momentarily before they embarked on their second climb.
The next mountain, a composite of craggy rocks, looked more like an eight in a child’s drawing. Red earth covered the corridor between the two mountains. It was wet. We were even more likely to lose our balance. The hot sunlight was slapping my face, and I felt a sudden thirst. Out of nowhere a cloud of insects raided us. The pilgrims waved at them, trying to get them away from their faces, exposed arms, and legs sticking out of their shorts. Fortunately I still felt the awe of holy places in me and thought shorts inappropriate for visiting saints, even if they had been sleeping on a mountaintop for hundreds of years. If my mother could see me now, I thought, respecting customs and traditions I would not accept before, not even for her sake, she would have been proud. An old woman ahead of me slipped, and I instinctively put my hand on her back to hold her steady. I sat her down on a rock nearby. She said in jest, “I don’t know why I’m in such a hurry. I’m sure St. Patrick will wait for me. I’ll rest a bit then continue climbing.”
The protruding edges of the rocks were sharp and could cut. Some were like thorns sticking out of stems and roots invisibly buried in the mountain. Others were like shells or skins that fell apart as soon as we put our hands on them. We were climbing on all fours now. There were no railings, fences, or footholds for climbers to lean on. I climbed with the rest of the pilgrims. Our feet searched for footholds. We bent our bodies to keep our balance. Our faces reddened. Our exhausted bodies were perspiring profusely. Our shirts and sweaters were soaking wet. We were struggling for air. Everybody was overwhelmed by the same feeling of one in all and all in one. We were a part of the mountain. The mountain was a part of nature. Where was the Saint’s Grave in this sea of unity? We must be getting very close to the top, to the Grave. We could see the faces of the descending crowd shine with happiness. They greeted us enthusiastically and encouraged us to continue climbing when they saw that some of us were about to give up from exhaustion. “Just a few more steps, it’s a short distance away.” “Go, go on, it is a terrific experience.”
My joints and muscles were in pain, and the insect bites on my face were swelling up. I felt a sudden rush of air push me from behind and turned very cold. Did the temperature drop? Did the air pick up speed? Or was I coming down with a cold? We were only a few meters away from the Grave. Everybody was speeding up, driven by their longing and impatience. The old recovered their energy, and the young were promised new games. St. Patrick, here we are, St. Patrick, come to see you. “A few more steps and we’ll be there,” my mother held my hand firmly in hers so that I would not get lost and coaxed me to continue walking with her. “Mama,” I pleaded, “Mama, I’m very tired.” “We will visit the Imam first,” she answered me patiently, “and then we will rest. You’ll see for yourself how good you’ll feel.” We were circumambulating around the fenced-in tomb in a large circle formed by human bodies, being carried forward by the legs of the crowd. I could hear our guide recite in a strong quiet voice: “Peace be upon the chosen friends of God. Peace be upon the allies of Abu ‘Abdallah. Love to our Prophet and blessings on our Imam. Blessings on the earth where you lie. May we share in your victory!”
I felt exhausted. This body in its fifties let me down. How did I manage to remember the words of a prayer from so distant a past when I could not even remember a sentence, a number, or a name? My weakened body was telling me to turn around, to give up, but the energy of the ascending bodies carried me up. I found refuge in them and let go of my control. Up and up we went. The cool breeze dried our sweat. Our faces brightened. The urgency of doubt and protest calmed down. I gave in and gradually the heaviness of my spirit lifted. Even my body became light. I was reaching the top and the cool shaded area. I looked up. The face of the old man peered down at me from the edge of the mountaintop, his friendly eyes, his silver hair, his smell of incense and all, smiling and encouraging. He was looking straight in my eye, and I saw in the clarity of his eyes the reflection of his face in my own eyes. I tripped. He reached out to me with his hand and pulled me toward him.
Episode Five
Álora, Spain, April 2001
I ran away from Fuengirola, from the packaged holiday organized by Universe, and from the hotel jam-packed with tourists. From the coastal town filled with the smell of fish and chips, the noise the children on spring holiday made, the uniform gift items displayed in shops, the instructive pictures of local dishes restaurants pasted on the walls, and from pizza, hamburger, and banana and strawberry milkshakes. I remembered my friend, Brian, and what he said, “Why on earth do you allow a despicable company to arrange your life?” The company, my wife, how I lived my life, I’ve had it, all of it. In a moment of lucidity, I decided it was the last time I let this happen to me. I took the first train from Fuengirola to Málaga, and from Málaga to the end of the line.
“Álora is the last stop on the line,” the conductor said, when he noticed my hesitation getting off. I was the last to disembark. I exited the train station that was more like a cozy, neat, family living room, and stood on the sidewalk looking around. Where did everyone disappear to? The sky was blue and the sun was warm. I could feel her rays coming through my cotton shirt and trousers. How I missed the sun, her light and warmth! The road on my right looked as if it would descend into a flat plain. I saw the one on my left go uphill and took it. The empty road was fenced in from the side overlooking a valley. I walked fast, and a few minutes later the road began to wind around and up the mountain, which reminded me of the steep path up to Saladin summer resort and of the Spiral Minaret in Samarra. I looked for the street name. Nothing. I could see small houses built on the right side of the road with tiny windows that looked like openings of mountain caves. Álora was one of the municipalities of al-Andalus. Why was the architecture here so different? The row of houses grew in number. Did the houses sweat under the warm sun? I saw an open door. I pretended to amble along, stealing looks through the door, hoping to find an Andalusian courtyard with a fountain surrounded by beautiful plants in the middle. Nothing. I caught a glimpse of a small living room in semidarkness. No plants. No people.
