Packaged Lives, page 9
At the bar he stood next to a man sitting on a high stool, looking at the barman, his assistant, and the shelves of bottles of alcohol behind them. He sat with his back to the crowd, to me. His body looked old, but his hair was jet black. Was it dyed? He was wearing a black shirt and a pair of black trousers with a line of red running from the waist to the foot on the side. I heard him tell my husband about seagulls. Gray seagulls were newly hatched chicks. White seagulls with bright red dots on their beaks were ready for mating. Seagulls were generally hateful to the fishermen because they stole their catch. And he stopped abruptly. My husband stood there, with a glass of beer in one hand and a shot of whiskey in another, waiting for him to add something new. But he had already turned his face away, now following the waiter’s every move intently. The waiter, out of politeness, intervened, “and they attack each other viciously.” My husband said, “Maybe that’s how they survive.” He waited for a few seconds for the young man to respond, but the young man was busy serving other customers. My husband turned around and came back to me.
I heard a voice in my head. It was the voice of our youngest son who had a mild case of autism. He would ask insistently, “Shall I tell you about my dream? Shall I tell you about my recurring dream?” I could still hear his voice ringing loudly in my head even when I was thousands of miles away. His voice. Shall I tell you about my dream? Shall I tell you about my dream? I held my head in my arms to silence the monotonous, piercing, and persistent voice. What was he doing now, far away, and at home all alone?
A young woman in her midtwenties sat next to us with a young man close in age. They came into the pub attached to each other like a pair of Siamese twins. They left again after a quick glass of beer still clinging to each other. The turnover was fast. We became a feature of the place after occupying the same space for longer than anyone else. We drank one glass after another with the seagull man, the waiter, and the owner of the pub.
Two young women occupied a neighboring bench. The owner of the pub spoke to one of them in a sharp tone when she complained about the brand of a bag of potato chips she was given and when she read out loud the expiry date. She also ordered two screwdrivers. She returned to her bench, sat down, and attached her body to her girlfriend.
My husband downed the third shot of whiskey with the third pint of beer. His face reddened and his voice began to shake. He advised me not to drink more than I could take so as not to disturb my stomach. We were now at the doorstop of the familiar place, I felt, and I wanted to avoid at all cost an inevitable fight. He would start an argument by asking, in profound bitterness, why do you care about him more than us? Why do you sacrifice our life for his sake? He is capable of living a reasonable life without you, so why do you insist on hanging on to him? Isn’t he happier than us in his autism, in his estrangement from us and from the world? I could feel, as I replayed his arguments in my head, the worn-out tightrope I was walking on and that it would break off any minute. I must find a way to avert the ordeal of another hopeless argument and save our holiday from the tempests of our impossible problems.
I played the memory card and waved a key from the past. “This pub is small and cozy, just like the coffeehouses at home.” Joy spread across his face as he caught the imaginary bait. “It reminds me of the coffeehouse my father used to take me to. Wood benches, mats, a stove covered in soot, thick black tea, ‘Chai Noomi Basra,’ with a glass of water. I also remember how my cousin Aziz got arrested in that coffeehouse. He went to prison during the 1956 revolution. All of them, my older brothers and cousins, went to prison in those days. Baghdad was raging with revolution.” I sighed in relief. The distant past was the blanket that saved us from ourselves.
One of the young women returned to her girlfriend with two more screwdrivers and a bag of roasted nuts. The owner of the pub and the waiter looked at her in disgust. She sat, having put down the glasses on the small table in front of them, and held her friend in her arms again.
“Your cousin,” I said, “why don’t we record his memories and stories?” “The idea did occur to me, but he doesn’t like tape recorders and would stutter or go completely quiet when he sees one.” “Let’s buy a small recorder and keep it hidden.”
The young woman put her hand on her friend’s hair and caressed it with affection. Her friend looked at her with eyes full of love.
“Everybody who heard his stories found them amazing.” “I remember getting home one day after having taken part in the Suez demonstration. My father asked me, where’s your younger brother, and when I said I don’t know, he told me, go away and don’t come back without him. I went back to the street. Demonstrators everywhere. I looked for my brother. I went to the Alfadl district (in old Baghdad). The police were everywhere too. I saw them chase a group of youth in the alleys. Women hid the demonstrators in their houses to protect them.”
The young woman was crying silently. Her tears were falling on her cheeks. The other took out a yellow tissue from her handbag and wiped her friend’s tears. The bell rang for the final drink of the night. The young woman got up quickly and made for the bar. My husband tripped on the leg of the table getting up to buy more beer. He fetched another pint.
“I saw Aziz giving a speech to a crowd. He demanded that the people unite and called for the formation of a united Arab army. That was a joke, wasn’t it? Nobody understood what he was saying at the time. He was ahead of his time.”
At that very moment my husband and I were close to each other, arm in arm at the floodgate of memory. The fire of bitterness went out, and the edge of our disagreement softened. He held my hand, and excitement shot through my body. I, too, had my own memories. I saw myself as a child sitting with my grandfather in a coffeehouse in Baghdad near al-Maydan Square. A cup of “Chai Noomi Basra” materialized before me. I did not drink it because I did not like it. My grandfather coaxed, “Try it, you will get used to it, you will like it.” I could see in a far corner of the coffeehouse my husband, as he was now, speaking about his family, his neighborhood, and his memories. Aziz was giving a speech to a crowd. I was looking. I was listening. I would tell my mother later about what I had seen and heard. I could hear my grandmother scold my grandfather, “Shame, shame on you, little girls don’t go to coffeehouses with men.” What did my grandfather say? I did not hear his reply.
I heard the pub bell ring for the second and final times. I looked around me. The bench where the two young women sat was now empty. The dining area was in complete darkness. I picked up half words from what my husband was saying: “Aziz refuses to speak to a tape recorder, how do I talk him into it?” The young man was collecting empty glasses and ashtrays from the tables. He was reorganizing the benches and chairs. My husband staggered to get up, knocking his chair backward, and caused a great commotion in the empty pub. He walked to the door shouting joyously, “good . . . goodbye . . . goodbye.” I followed him. At the door, I turned back and looked at the bar, looking for the bits of the present I had missed. I saw a black seagull with red spots glittering in the dark. He flapped his wings and whispered: “good . . . goodbye . . . goodbye.”
Episode Three
Sicily, Italy, November 1999
Day One
The representative of the Universe Packaged Tours Company met us with a welcoming smile. “How many are you?” she asked. “Two.” She said, her voice full of disappointment, “I thought you were six.” “No, only two.” We followed her to the bus that would take us to our hotel, in Taormina, a hilltop town on the east coast of Sicily. We were the first to arrive at the bus because we had little luggage. I had advised my youngest son to do this when I arranged his first trip alone to Lanzarote. The other passengers were still waiting for their bags.
I sat on the bus while he took a stroll. He wanted to look at the new place. It was crowded with German and English tourists dragging heavy suitcases by their leather belts as if they were pulling their dogs by the leashes. Groups and individuals were hurrying out of the airport toward the buses numbered according to their holiday destination. I remained in my seat and watched people from the window for a few minutes. The sun was shining. The air in the bus was as stifling as a greenhouse. I got out of the bus and stood under a tree a few meters away. I did not take a walk or go far. I was afraid the bus would leave without me and I would be lost and alone. That was one of my fears. What if the driver changed his mind and drove away while I was taking a walk in the car park? What guarantees did I have that I would find another means of transportation?
The passengers were arriving at the bus. Big suitcases. Small suitcases. Hats. Winter coats. Summer jackets. Prepared for all kinds of weather. Gloomy faces we used to see in London, stubbornly harsh, turned away from others, or buried in the pages of newspapers or books, took off their masks as soon as they arrived at this holiday destination. Their faces rosy from the excitement of the journey and from the promise of a restful holiday: sunbathing, relaxing, stretching out on a beach, making love, and eating delicious food.
I went back to the bus. Another fear gripped me. What if someone decided to take my seat? I had the same anxiety attack every time I arrived at the airport. I had to be the first to board as if I needed to in order to get a window seat. I got up as soon as the plane landed and pushed through the passengers crowded in the narrow passageway to be the first to get through passport control and customs. I had to be the first to greet the company representative.
I sighed aloud, looking out of the window. When will my son come back? Where did he go? The driver may close the door and drive off. I pressed my face against the window. I followed the driver’s every move. He was helping passengers loading their suitcases onto the luggage bay. Some passengers were joking with him in the few Italian words they knew. Suddenly, I heard, “Come here, come on, put it here, let him carry it for you, don’t break your back.” What a surprise, someone was speaking Arabic in the Iraqi dialect. An Iraqi reunion in Sicily! I was reminded of the song, “Gracious may the one be who brought us together without appointment.” I saw a woman in her late forties with short black hair. Dyed for sure. The wrinkles on her face demanded white hair. And a dark-skinned man who looked a lot like the woman but for the dyed hair. His hair was gray and framed his round bald spot on the back of his head. He had a big nose, an upside down cup, sitting on the lower part of his face. A man and a woman came after them. They had Iraqi features too. They came in a group.
I could not hear the rest of what they were saying. My son had returned, and I was busy asking him about what he had seen and what was worth seeing in a huge car park and in such heat and humidity. He did not answer me. He could sense my nervousness and I shut up. “We have Iraqis with us,” I said. “Really? How do you know?” “I heard one of them speak in pure Baghdadi.” “I will check their passports,” he teased, “as soon as they get on the bus.” They got on one after another with the rest of the passengers. They saw my big smile, ignored me, and walked past in a hurry, avoiding the empty seats nearby, and chose to sit at the back of the bus. “They are strange,” I whispered in his ear, “they didn’t smile.” He said loudly, “Why are you whispering? Speak normal!” “I don’t want them to hear me.” “Who says they are Iraqis? Maybe they don’t want to talk to strangers. They are on holiday and it’s their right.”
Day Two
I said “Good Morning!” in Arabic to the woman with dyed hair. She pretended not to hear me. She looked to the members of her group some distance away, hoping they would come to her rescue. She then fixed her sight on food. She put two boiled eggs, a large piece of white cheese, slices of tomato, and some black olives on her plate. We were sitting in the hotel restaurant overlooking the sea on one side and the mountain on the other, having breakfast from the wonderfully generous and beautifully presented buffet. “You won’t believe what happened. I said good morning to the Iraqi woman and she didn’t answer me.” He said in a tired voice, “Who says she is Iraqi?” “If you saw what she had chosen to eat for her breakfast, you would know right away she is Iraqi.” “Mama, please leave those people alone. Maybe she didn’t understand your murmurs and didn’t want to embarrass you.”
Day Three
I looked around the restaurant when we were at the dinner party. Sicilian music was playing in the background. I got up four times to refill my plate with different kinds of food from the buffet. Soup followed by appetizers, then grilled fish with roast potatoes and finally Dondurma ice cream. I intentionally walked by the table of four Iraqis every time I went back for more food. I did not hear the Iraqi dialect again. I said to him, “They lowered their voices every time I passed by.” “Mama, if I can’t hear what you’re saying, and I’m sitting right next to you, because the music is so loud, how can they, especially when you’re creeping around like a spy?”
Day Four
I did not run into them at the buffet, not in the morning at breakfast, nor in the evening at dinner. Maybe they had gone to Siracusa on the advertised company tour. Or maybe they had their lunch in the hotel and made do with it, unlike us; our package included only breakfast and dinner.
Day Five
My son and I got on the slow elevator taking us from the reception hall to our rooms in the hotel (the hotel was built into, or rather, carved into the mountain) at the same time as two members of the group. The woman, in her fifties, was short and fat, but had pleasant facial features. I thought she looked like a traditional Iraqi mother. I said good evening in English and they replied good evening in English with a very strong accent. I looked at my son sheepishly. I wanted to let him know, what did I tell you, they are Iraqis! They were absorbed in a conversation in Italian. He pointed up at the mountain, then down at the sea, and they exchanged a few sentences. The woman pointed at flowers on the mountain slope that brushed against the glass wall every time the elevator went down, and they exchanged a smile. They seemed to be sharing a secret about flowers.
On a deserted beach we sat on the bottom of a canoe parked upside down. Only a few seagulls were there, looking for food remains. “It is the end of the holiday season,” my son said, pointing at the seagulls. He wanted to say something but changed his mind. I played with the pebbles around my trainers, feeling very close to him. I wanted to tell him how happy I was having him with me, even for just a few days. I was with him free of housework and away from his father and younger brother. What a difference between the two brothers! The other was clingy, like a sickness, and only brute force could drag him away from me. His look reminded me that he did not like to talk about his feelings. “The woman in the elevator,” I said, “looks Iraqi, don’t you think?” “Mama, please, God give you a long life, I beg you, let’s talk about something else. What do you think of the sea, for example?” “Beautiful, but, did you notice how they were speaking Italian so slowly, not like other Italians?” In spite of himself, he got dragged into the conversation. “It’s how they speak. People speak differently.” “I have a new theory. What do you think? They are Iraqis who lived in Italy for some time then moved to Britain and now they are back for a visit.” He did not answer. He walked toward the water in deliberate, slow steps, and stopped at the uprush of waves, then moved forward at the backwash, stopped again at the next uprush, and got closer to the sea yet again at the following backwash.
Day Six
We were late getting to the day tour bus. The English tour guide rebuked us. “You’re late! It’s past eight o’clock.” My son replied in a sharp tone that was uncharacteristic of him and at odds with his usual polite treatment of workers in the service sector. “That damned elevator. There were tens of people waiting in line.” I said to him, “You are just like Susan.” He turned his face away. He pretended to look at our fellow passengers getting on the bus, then taking the front-row seats. After a short while, he said teasingly, trying to change the familiar subject of his wife, “Where are your Iraqi friends?” I smiled and whispered, “I saw the four of them in the front row of the lower deck.” He whispered, imitating me, “ .” “I know, I know, I can read your cards, you want to shut me up with one of your ancient texts. What is it this time?” “The first two lines from a Babylonian poem about creation in the Akkadian language.” “What do they mean, if you don’t mind explaining them to me, please, and what does it have to do with my reply?” “I don’t really know, but I thought of them as soon as you mentioned the word ‘lower.’ Here’s the translation: ‘When on high the heavens had not been called (into being) / Below the earth had not been fashioned with a name.’” The tour guide raised her voice to name the villages and neighborhoods we passed on our way to one of the volcanoes on Mount Etna. “This is Zafferana, the village the lava almost drowned in 1992.”
My son only agreed to come on this day trip organized by Universe after many heated discussions. He refused to go on any trip with the English. “Isn’t it enough that I live with them day and night?” he said. I said, in spite of myself, “You could have chosen to live with them during the day only.” He went quiet, as he usually did in recent months, since he moved back with us, having separated from his wife, Susan, and while waiting for his divorce to come through. Silence was his way of avoiding conflict. It was his answer.
I regretted what I said right away. I felt the cruelty of my cold words. My eyes teared up. I looked through the translucent curtain of my tears at his youthful face. The years may not leave traces on his face but will dig deep furrows into his heart. I felt the need to touch him. I put my hand on his hand and squeezed it affectionately. I felt him withdraw. He pulled his hand away quickly. He added jokingly, “The gods may help you to find out who the people sitting in the lower deck are today.”
