FICTION FROM IRAQ

Letter to Waffiya

BY MAHMOUD SAID

Like a deep-red sunflower, his blood spread out beneath his head.

I woke up at six in the morning, but already the Dubai’s summer heat and humidity were rattling my being and mystifying my existence. They were transforming me into a trembling jelly that hovered between imbalance and indifference. I needed a half-hour to sit down and do nothing so that I could clear my head.

I met him today at the terrace café. I was always the first to sit there. As always,  without needing to ask, the emaciated Indian waiter placed my customary breakfast, a cup of tea with milk, before me.

A Pepsi delivery truck parked in front of the café. The workers began to transfer the boxes to the sidewalk, lining them up to the right of the café, blocking my entire view. The boxes’ clatter tore at the morning quiet.

When the speeding car hit him in the knee, it flung him about a meter into the air, as if he were a vaulter trained to jump high to clear an imaginary pole. He bent over in the air and fell on his head, on the driver’s hood.

When I had arrived at the café a few minutes earlier, I was surprised to find him already sitting and waiting. He rose to greet me, his face full of happiness, his eyes bright, his hands moving randomly in great excitement.

He embraced me and said, “Congratulate me!”

Suddenly, my head cleared  even though I hadn’t had my tea.

Again he embraced me, “I’ve found work.”

He was as skinny as a skeleton. Bones were hugging me--bones granted strength from extreme happiness. Had his embrace lasted a few more seconds his arms surely would have injured me.

“Where?”

He extended his hand and pointed: “There, superintendent and accountant for those buildings. The pay includes housing. I’m going to bring over my wife and kids.”

I knew he was illiterate, so how did his job include accounting?

“Are you getting tangled up in accounting?”

“Mere formalities set down in the contract.”

We didn’t see the workers line up and distribute the boxes; nor did we notice them settle the bill with the café owner. The long Pepsi truck obstructed our view. I didn’t even hear the sound of the approaching car in spite of its high speed.

Above the driver’s side of the car, blood spread out in a circle around his head, like a great red sunflower. In an instant, he flipped over three times and landed in front of me on the sidewalk, right in front of the place where he was sitting while waiting for me.

It had been a moment of great joy when he said: “Write a letter to Waffiya for me.”

From his pocket, close to his heart, he took out a piece of paper, an envelope, and a pen. From his letter to his wife I learned all the secrets that he had previously kept hidden from me. He had found his family’s former business manager, who had settled here in Dubai more than a quarter century ago. He had searched for him for six months until he finally found him yesterday after the manager’s return from one of his long trips. The manager was a person who had forgotten neither generosity nor that which is essential in life.

“Imagine. He embraced me three times. He appointed me supervisor over a few of the buildings. Not bad for a beginning. It’s the start of good things to come. He told me, ‘I’ll arrange for the exchange clerk, Jimrani, to send you a plane ticket and travel money. You’ll get the visa within two weeks.’”

He began searching for the address in his white shirt pocket—how quickly the white shirt was bloodied, his thin body lying on the street in front of me, while I was on the terrace of the little café. His face was towards me—a frozen look, raised with pride and detachment, a look of one who had been deeply blessed.

Fourteen years ago in Basra, he used to invite me and my family once a week to his house, or to one of his favorite clubs, “The Floating Ship on the Arabian Coast” or “Sindbad Island.” His garden was more than a thousand meters long. It was shaded by oleander, night jasmine, lotus bushes, orange trees, grape vines, and the best date trees. All of a sudden he lost everything and left with his family to Iran. He took all he could. Men armed to the teeth with guns surrounded the house. With their infernal looks, they planted fear in the hearts of anyone who attempted to approach.

But his frozen look still held the confusion which had started the moment he began looking in embarrassment for the address.

“Where’s the address, Dia’?”

He searched his shirt pocket.

“Hmm… I forgot it in the hotel.”

I can still feel his final embrace. He hugged me with a force that has left its effects in my heart. It’s like his embrace when I happened to meet him here by chance six months ago, both of us strangers to this city.

“What are you doing?”

The time was also early morning. I said: “Look at that mound of watermelons.”

“What of it?”

“It’s mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yes, I sell it in the Hamriyah district.”

The sting made him slap his knee.

“You sell watermelons? A manager selling … . Oh what a time we live in!”

“And your family?”

“In Basra.”

“How did you leave it?”

“I sold my house, and saved my son from the war by helping him escape to France, where he now studies. I was able to do all this thanks to my work.”

“And his mother and brothers and sisters?”

“I send them what they need. And you, how did you come from Iran? Weren’t you comfortable there after you left Basra?”

“Somewhat, but I want to bring my family here to Dubai. I want my children to live in an Arab environment.”

His frozen stares paralyzed me.

He had refused to tell me his troubles. He had the pride of a noble person, scorning humiliation. Dead, not degraded, he remained upright in his bearing. He had refused all invitations from me, even refusing to yield to a cup of tea. Before today, he had refused even to sit next to me at the terrace so that I wouldn’t oblige him to drink anything. He would watch me from where I couldn’t see him. And as soon as I got up I would see him come towards me. We would walk, chatting, remembering better times. Every now and then he would say, “You sell watermelons!”

I would laugh and say in my turn, “A wandering millionaire!”

He would laugh at the word “millionaire,” and in his delight he would stamp the ground with his foot and clap his hands. He would get a bout of happiness as of the old days when we used to sit in his grand. We used to exchange toasts. “To your health!” he would say, and take a sip, then clap his hands again. An accomplished man, yet illiterate, and now dead.

The letter was finished. “What’s the address?”

“I forgot the paper… I know it, but just to be sure I’ll go get it. I won’t be long.”

He got up and took off. The accident took place in lightening speed. Within seconds everything was over. I didn’t hear the sound of the car, or its revving engines when it took off. I didn’t see it. The Pepsi truck obstructed our view. Only when it passed in front of me did I see the car take off like mad in this empty, narrow street. I could see nothing but two colors, the driver’s dark complexion and the car’s white paint. If it weren’t for my stupidity, I, the educated, the literate, the former company manager … I couldn’t make out any number from the license plate. Dumbfounded, I jumped from my seat and stared. He had died already. All this happened within seconds. Was it a dream or the blink of a nightmare? Or was it a blow from another time period? He died, but his eyes remained open, looking out toward a distant horizon… perhaps toward Waffiya.

Dubai

1986

Translated from the Arabic by Pauline Homsi Vinson

This story appeared in Al Jadid, Vol. 8, no. 41 (Fall 2002)

Copyright (c) 2002 by Al Jadid