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Fiction

A Portal in Space

By Mahmoud Saeed
Translated from Arabic by William Maynard Hutchins
In this story, Mahmoud Saeed touches on life in a society filled with senseless violence.

The Friday bombardment started a little later than usual, at 8:30 a.m. The sound was loud and clear. Umm Anwar sighed, and her pain showed clearly in her expression. Furrowing her brow and ready to explode, she exclaimed to herself loud enough for the others to hear: “The downpour has begun, O Conqueror, O Provider.”

Her son, Anwar, straightened up and rested his elbow on the sofa. He looked at his sister to check her reaction. Then he remarked calmly, “At the end of al-Junaynah, near the Shatt al-Arab—isn’t that right?”

His sister agreed, nodding her head: “Yes, there.”

Their mother continued her preparations for breakfast, setting the table. About fifteen minutes later they heard the noise of a second bomb; it was louder than the first. Nur at once called out, without waiting for her brother to ask, “Near al-Mawani Secondary School. It’s the twentieth time they’ve bombed the area around the secondary school, but no bomb has hit the school.”

“Fortunately!”

“I don’t know why they haven’t bombed the secondary school at al-Ashar.”

Anwar laughed. “That’s because it’s for girls. Like my father, Khomeini likes girls.”

They all guffawed, and the father and children headed to the dining table. They were still laughing when they sat down. Nur looked at her father and asked, “Is it true that you like girls?”

Mundhir chuckled. “Yes, I love not only girls but all females.”

His wife confirmed this, saying seriously, “This is true. He loves even female mice.”

They all continued laughing except the mother, who was busy bringing in their food. Anwar applauded warmly. “Father, something new has been revealed about you today. Is it true that you love mice?”

“Ask your mother if she’s a mouse.”

His wife paused beside him, the bread in her hand, and demanded defiantly, “Tell the truth: don’t you love mice? Who refused to kill that female mouse during the first months we were married?”

His children looked to him for an explanation; so he realized that he would be forced to tell the truth. He looked at Anwar and replied, “Back then, your mother was pregnant with you. I was out in the garden when I heard her terrified screams—as if a murderer or wild beast was threatening her. I dashed into the house and saw her point toward the bathroom with great trepidation. She screamed: ‘In there! There!’ I immediately raced into the bathroom but found no killer or wild beast. So I came back out and saw her standing terrified in the distance, near the door to the garden, ready to flee. I told her, ‘I don’t see anything.’ She approached me apprehensively and pointed toward the bathtub with her forefinger. She was too frightened by the beast to speak its name. I walked toward the bathtub and noticed a small female mouse five centimeters long. She was very lovely: gleaming gray fur, two large black eyes, a beautiful red mouth, and a graceful tail. She was gazing at me with tender affection. I turned to your mother and asked, ‘Is this the problem?’

“She could not answer; she was too afraid to speak. But she nodded yes.

“So I picked up that lovely creature, which made no attempt to escape. She surrendered to me; I don’t know why. After I went to the garden with the mouse in my hand, your mother found her tongue and crowed, ‘Kill her! Kill her!’ I searched for a clump of grass and released her there. Your mother began to squeal: ‘You’re a coward. What kind of man are you? You can’t kill a mouse?’”

Anwar proclaimed, “This occasion calls for a dance.”

Nur agreed, “Let’s dance!”

Their mother protested, “The food will get cold.”

Anwar shouted, “Let it!”

The two began to dance like professional artistes. Nur jiggled her midriff like an excellent belly dancer, and Anwar did a Western-style dance while clapping happily. “Daddy won’t kill a mouse. Iran’s bombs kill us. Hee, hee, heeee! Daddy won’t kill a mouse. The neighbors’ bombs kill us. Hee, hee, heeee.”

Their father said, “That’s some dan—”

The third explosion interrupted his words and their enjoyment. It silenced all of them; the two young people stopped dancing and returned to their seats. Their mother stood near them like a statue, the hot bread in her hand. She said mournfully and sorrowfully, “Who knows what innocent victim has perished!”

A heavy silence reigned. This explosion was nearer to them than the two previous ones. Anwar observed, “This bomb fell on the edge of al-Junaynah Road. It can’t have been more than half a kilometer from our house.”

His mother looked inquisitively at the eyes of her daughter, who agreed with what her brother had said: “Exactly.”

Anwar said, “Can’t we have a single moment of peace! I want a portal in space so I can escape to a world where I feel secure and can travel safely, holding my head high without feeling afraid.”

His sister said, “Find it, and I’ll be right behind you.”

He cast her a warning look. “I want to live alone.”

“Never fear. The moment we reach a secure place, I’ll leave you. I too want to live free; I would like to walk down the street safely. Why are we—out of all God’s creation—singled out for His wrath?”

After breakfast they all moved to a narrow room that overlooked the small garden. The empty side street lay before them on the far side of the garden. Anwar stretched out on the sofa, resting his head on his mother’s lap. A breeze arrived, stirring the branches of their jujube tree, and some small birds flew away. Anwar closed his eyes for a time and then opened them again. He exclaimed, “I love Friday!”

His sister asked, “Why?”

His mother laughed. “Because on Friday I fix the foods you like best and crave.”

Nur endorsed that view. “Yes, this is a bit of the truth, but what is even more important is the way you spoil Anwar on Friday.”

Anwar suggested, “You are starting to become jealous.”

Nur laughed. “Is telling the truth a symptom of jealousy? Don’t you see where your head is?”

Anwar changed the subject. “In all of the world’s developing nations—except for here—school is five days a week. We attend classes six days a week in the shadow of daily shelling and—”

His sister interrupted: “You should say in the shadow of senseless death every day.”

“That’s true, but when will we become human beings?”

Nur asked, “Do you know why?”

Anwar lifted his head from his mother’s lap and glanced defiantly at his sister. “Why, Ms. Know-it-all?”

“Because they study eight hours a day, and we study only four.”

“Where did you obtain this information?”

“Dr. Hanan subscribes to two monthly magazines, one American and one British. She shares them with us when she has finished reading them. Occasionally when she’s busy, she gives them to us before she reads them. I also listen to the BBC in English every day. Do you know why, you backward illiterate?”

Her mother looked at her sharply, although with a slight smile. “How can you call him a backward illiterate when he will graduate as an architect in a few months?”

“A degree doesn’t ensure culture. Your son, Madam, is eminently illiterate. He has never read a book that wasn’t on a course syllabus. He resembles the barefoot doctors in China who only know how to treat one ailment.”

Anwar replied nonchalantly, “Today we enjoy both Friday and Spring Break.”

They were gazing at the small garden where various flowering plants were arranged in circular, square, triangular, and rectangular beds to form a colorful, Oriental carpet.

Anwar’s mother toyed with his short black hair as his head leaned against her thigh. Nur and her father were drinking tea.

A zeita bird landed on the ground. Noticing it, Nur pointed and said, “Look.”

The zeita moved across the garden’s grass with little hops: captivating beauty, an attractive counterpoint of black and white, graceful movements, a spectacular, long tail that flicked up and down to create an impetus that helped it move. Nur said, “Do you know that the zeita has been neglected like the rest of us Iraqis, but no one pays any attention!”

Anwar asked, “How’s that?”

“I think it’s the most beautiful bird in the world—Iraq’s national bird without any competitor! But no one acknowledges that. No author mentions this bird in any school text, and there’s no scientific monograph about it.”

Anwar laughed sarcastically. “Why should it be Iraq’s unrivaled national bird? I have seen lots of unusual birds in the lakes. What about the khudayri bee-eater? Have Iran’s bombs driven you crazy?”

“No, they haven’t. The bee-eater is a seasonal migrant. This bird lives here year-round and is found in no country except Iraq. It’s one hundred percent Iraq’s national bird.”

Anwar chortled. “How do you know all this, Great Scholar?”

Nur was exasperated. “Because I checked out a guide to the world’s birds from the university library. I looked it up in the guide but didn’t find it listed. So I wrote to the National Geographic Magazine in America and sent some photos to them several months ago, giving a description of this bird. Look at him. He’s more graceful and beautiful than most of the world’s birds—more graceful than the swallow and more beautiful too. See how intelligent he is?”

Anwar interrupted: “How do you know it’s intelligent?”

“Look at him. You don’t ever see him stand completely still. He advances extremely cautiously. When he senses any danger, he soars away. Some of my classmates told me one time I was discussing his unique characteristics that when they were young, one of their favorite pastimes was throwing rocks at birds. They killed many sparrows, bulbuls, the wild ba‘i‘i, bee-eaters, desert hoopoes, and ringdoves. But they were never able to hit a zeita. Moreover I suspect that the zeita’s beauty provides strong protection for it, because who would want to hunt it? He would be stunned by its beauty, his hand would tremble, and he would miss.”

Anwar applauded. “Sister Philosopher, you’re right! A profound analysis!”

Her father commented, “Since moving to Basra, I too have wondered about the secret of its beauty. Could it be attributed to the ebony-black and snow-white lines that divide its body at regular intervals, its extraordinary grace, or its black eyes, which are surrounded by a gleaming white?”

Anwar smiled and asked his sister carelessly, “Are you serious? Did you send information and pictures of it to an American magazine?”

“Yes.”

He snickered. “That magazine must have ignored you—saying: ‘Here’s a lunatic, one of those deranged people from the starving, backward Third World, which is wracked by wars.’”

“No, they didn’t ignore me, Mr. Development! They sent a letter thanking me and telling me they were surprised by the description and proud of my achievement. They will publish the pictures and study in next spring’s issue. And they are going to send me five hundred dollars. I replied, asking them to keep the money in any account in my name rather than send it here, because our government punishes anyone who receives money from outside Iraq. So you see, Mr. Anwar, which of us is backward and who is civilized.”

Her father clapped enthusiastically while laughing wholeheartedly. Anwar sat up and applauded and laughed along with his father. Their mother merely smiled with pleased satisfaction.

Straightening up, Anwar looked at his sister and said, “Listen, Philosopher. The most beautiful thing in nature isn’t your little zeita bird; it’s the sunset. The space before us is endless. If, like me, you look West, you’ll see the most beautiful colors in all of existence forming in the sunset.”

Nur chortled. “You’re a knucklehead, Mr. Sophist. It’s morning, and we’re talking about twilight?”

Anwar laughed and asked his mother, although he was looking at Nur, “Why do you love me more than Nur?”

They laughed again, and his mother protested: “I love you equally.”

“No, you love me more than her.”

Nur agreed, “For the first time, this genius makes a true claim. You do love him more than you love me. See how you fondle him like a baby. You put his head on your thigh every Friday. You caress his head. You’ve never done that for me my whole life.”

Her father drew her to his breast and started to run his fingers through her hair. “Don’t fret. I love you more than him.”

She laughed wholeheartedly. “This is true. This is only fair.”

Her mother said, “I don’t put your head on my lap because your hair is long and thick.”

Nur escaped from her father’s embrace and dashed upstairs. Then she returned with a pair of scissors. “Here: cut my hair short like his.”

They all laughed again. Then Anwar said, “Adil claims that his mother loves his four sisters more than him. Who would believe that?”

His mother shot back: “That’s not possible. He’s the only boy in the family. How can his mother love his sisters more than him?”

“He says he can’t remember her ever hugging him. She has never kissed him. Yet she kisses and hugs his sisters every day—when they leave for school and when they return. She fondles them and whispers to them. When he arrives, she blocks his way, as if hoping he won’t come in. Then he almost goes nuts.”

“That’s because he has grown up.”

“It was the same when he was young.”

“Who can say?”

“He has invited us to a large banquet today.”

His mother said, “Don’t go. Don’t you see that the Iranians have grown too big for their breeches with their shelling today? They began during God’s own morning. O Conqueror! O Provider! I beg you: Stay home. Ask for any type of food, and I’ll fix it for you. Stay home with us today.”

“Adil’s mother has fixed everything: stuffed vegetables and roast fish—birzum! She’s an expert cook.”

“We have stuffed vegetables and birzum. I’ll fix them for you. My heart tells me that something will happen today. I beg you: Stay here.”

“No, we are all meeting there.”

His father objected, “Your mother has a prophet’s heart. She sees what no one else does. Listen to what she says.”

She turned toward him, “Are you being sarcastic?”

He laughed loudly. “No. God forbid.”

 

Nur rose and yelled, “I have something amazing to show you.”

She raced upstairs to her room and returned with a large bag filled with something. The moment her mother saw it, she yelled, “Don’t open that. Whatever falls out will soil the carpet, and I spent two hours cleaning the house before you woke up.”

“Just two things.”

Her father said, “Let her.”

She opened the bag and brought out a paper envelope dated January 3, 1980. “Who can guess,” she yelled, “what’s in this envelope?”

No one spoke. So she opened the envelope and pulled out a colocynth seed. She explained cheerfully, “It’s from al-Athal.”

Anwar laughed, “What an idiot! Who collects colocynth?”

Her father objected, “It’s an excellent idea. Collecting something that others overlook is a rare trait.”

“Even something as ugly and bitter as colocynth?”

“Yes. Don’t you see that they give awards for worst film, ugliest face, and strangest customs?”

Pointing to the colocynth seed, Nur said, “Look: a perfect sphere, as if newly minted at the factory. What a beautiful color—yellow with a touch of green. This comes from our last trip to al-Athal. The war has ended excursions; so let’s remember them!”

Her father called out, “You’re magnificent!”

Her brother agreed. “She is more than magnificent.”

Nur asked, “Are you being sarcastic?”

“No, by God.”

She put the colocynth carefully back and pulled out a flask filled with alcohol. It bore the date September 4, 1978, but she held her hand over it. She cried out, “What’s in here?”

They all looked at the flask but said nothing. Hearing no response, she placed the flask before her father. Inside it there was a small, phosphorescent frog an inch long with a turtle the same size. She exclaimed, “See how beautiful they are!”

Then a bomb exploded loudly nearby. Anwar sat up and looked at his sister. “The end of al-Junaynah near the place the first bomb landed. Isn’t that so?”

His mother stared questioningly at the eyes of her daughter, who agreed: “Right.”

Anwar continued, “Usually they don’t shell the same place more than three times; why are they shelling more today?”

Nur added, “Something else is new. Between the first and second bomb a quarter of an hour elapsed. Between the next bomb and the last about five minutes. We’re used to bombs coming at intervals of less than five minutes. Have the Iranians changed their tactics today?”

Anwar’s mother looked at him. “Didn’t I tell you my heart is telling me: ‘Don’t leave home today’?”

Anwar’s father and sister laughed, but Anwar’s eyes stared gravely at a point in the garden. A few minutes later, he saw an automobile stop. He stood up. Then everyone heard the bell; they were all startled. Adil’s thin, medium frame appeared in the street in front of the house. His right hand was on the fence.

Umm Anwar said, “If all of you are invited to Adil’s house, why is he here?” Frowning, she exclaimed, “O Preserver! O Concealer!”

Anwar rushed out to the garden, and they hurried behind him. They heard him say to Adil, “Come on in. Why are you standing there?”

Adil opened the garden gate and quickly entered. He looked terrified, and his face was pale. They hurried toward him. Then he said, “They bombed Sa‘di’s house.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Anwar turned toward Nur, “That must have been the first bomb.”

When Nur did not respond, Anwar asked Adil, “How do you know?”

“Twenty minutes ago I telephoned to remind him to come to our house. Then I heard his sister, who was crying. She said, ‘They shelled us’ and hung up.”

Nur objected, “Why didn’t the explosion take out their phone? If they bombed us, nothing animate or inanimate would be left in our house. Since she was still alive, why was she crying?”

Anwar stared at his friend for a moment and then said, “OK, let’s go see.”

Umm Anwar shouted nervously as she glared at her son and Adil, “No, don’t go. Stay here. This is a safe place. Let’s learn the facts by phone.”

Adil asked, “Why is this a safe place? Is any spot in Basra secure? It’s all within range of their bombs. They haven’t spared an inch of it.”

Abu Anwar interjected, “First of all, because this is a military base. Secondly, officers’ houses are located here. Shelling this camp would guarantee a counterstrike against their military camps and officers’ houses.”

Anwar ignored this entire discussion and insisted, “We must go. Come on.”

Umm Anwar begged both of them with all her heart, “Please, don’t go. If they have shelled Sa‘di’s house, what else might they do there? Telephone!”

Adil said, “It’s an idea.”

They entered the house, and Anwar began dialing the number. He waited for a time and then looked at them. “The phone is ringing but no one picks up.”

Then he made a dash for Adil’s car, and Adil followed him.

His mother followed them—she and his father—but then she stopped and turned on her husband, casting all the blame on him. She shrieked, “Why don’t you stop him?”

He gazed at her, smiled to try to calm her, and opened his arms. “Is he a child? He’s twenty-two.”

“So?”

“No, I won’t.”

She did not wait for him to finish his sentence. She raced instead toward the street, wishing to reach the car before it left. But she failed. When she emerged from the garden to the street, the car was already fifty meters away. Then she saw Anwar’s hand through the rear window. He waved to her as he looked back smiling. She retraced her steps, looking angry and sad.

Inside the car Anwar told Adil, “My mother’s always pessimistic. She says something will happen today.”

“All mothers are like that. No one can prophesy the future—that’s superstition.”

“The war has ended life in Basra. We need to face the fact that we’re all condemned to die sooner or later.”

“But we all dream of being survivors.”

“Dreams alone keep us alive, nothing else. Otherwise we would be dead.”

They approached al-Mawani district and heard clearly in the distance the noise of emergency vehicles heading south. Their car approached Sa‘di’s house. The alley was crowded with people—women, men, and children—but there wasn’t any ambulance. Adil decided that his car wouldn’t be able to navigate the crowded alley and parked it on the street near its intersection with the alley, away from the congestion halfway down the alley. When they left the car, their nostrils filled with the abrasive stink of gunpowder. They witnessed a plume of smoke rising from behind the house—evidence that a fire was still blazing. The house’s yellow façade and teak door were unscathed.

The laments and screams of the women assembled were at a crescendo. Adil and Anwar knew all of Sa‘di’s brothers and sisters but—in the midst of the massive congestion and agonized cries, screams, and chaos—couldn’t pick out any of them. Anwar approached one of the women. Bareheaded, in her forties, on the plump side, she was wiping her red eyes repeatedly with a small white handkerchief embroidered with red roses. He asked her, “Were there any casualties?”

She burst into tears, “The poor darling—just Sa‘di and his cousin. He was in the garden with her. His uncle’s daughter came from Baghdad yesterday to spend the mid-year break here. She wanted a change of air. The rest of the family was in the house. The bomb fell at the intersection of the fences of the four gardens, and everyone in the gardens was killed.”

“How many?”

“No one knows precisely. Eleven were taken to hospital.”

“Which hospital?”

“I don’t know—al-Mawani, the Military Hospital, al-Kabir—I don’t know.”

The alley was growing increasingly congested with every passing moment, and the women arriving began to scream and wail the moment they entered it.

Anwar and Adil moved away, and Adil suggested, “Let’s go to al-Mawani Hospital; it’s the closest.”

“Let’s go.”

The vehicle had only gone about half a kilometer before the shelling began again. Adil stopped the car, feeling quite nervous, and asked Anwar, “Did you hear what I heard?”

Anwar nodded his head: “Yes. Near Umm al-Brum Square.”

“On the Corniche—near our house.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s climb out of the car to hear the next shelling clearly.”

About a minute after they got out of the car, an ambulance shot past, heading toward the south of the city. Anwar said, “They have lengthened the period between one bomb and the next. Let’s go to our house and wait there.”

“Let’s go.”

Before Adil could start the engine, they heard the second bomb. He yelled anxiously, “Just as I expected—near our house in al-Tuwaysa on the Shatt al-Arab.”

“Let’s wait for the third strike.”

Adil objected, “No, let’s go now. I’m afraid for my family.”

“We shouldn’t go now. I won’t move till the shelling stops. There’s no reason to risk our lives unnecessarily. The result won’t be different if we wait five minutes.”

Adil’s eyes looked away as he reflected. “You’re right.”

They were almost at Anwar’s house when the third bomb fell. They reckoned that it had fallen in the same district as the first two. Anwar explained, “I’ll tell my family where I’m going. Then we’ll head straight to your house.”

Anwar did not offer his family any opportunity to ask him about Sa‘di. Instead he swiftly told Nur, who was in the garden waiting for him. When his mother saw him from the window, she sped toward him, almost out of her mind. She grasped his left forearm with both hands and begged him in a crazed scream, “Don’t go!”

He laughed as he freed himself from her grasp with difficulty and departed without uttering a word.

The streets seemed to be emptying of vehicles and pedestrians. Emergency vehicles had the scene to themselves. The two young men entered empty Dinar Street, traversed the Sinalco Roundabout, then the Intelligence Bureau Roundabout—opposite the flour mills—and then Party Headquarters. They did not meet a single vehicle coming from al-Ashar; everyone must have been influenced by the magnitude and severity of the shelling on this Friday. They passed the City Hall in al-Ashar and raced off toward al-Tuwaysa. Before reaching Bait al-Muhafiz Street, which connected with the Corniche, they were surprised to find groups of policemen, first responders, and firefighters blocking the street and preventing people from heading toward al-Barada‘iyah. Anwar and Adil continued on foot, their eyes focused on a house next to al-Rafidain Bank. The garden gate was wide open. Huge hoses that dangled from a red fire truck standing on the pavement there snaked into the house. Water polluted with soot and the fire’s scorched debris gushed from both sides of the gate of the fence onto the sidewalk and flowed into the street. The air of the entire district reeked of gunpowder and of burnt wood, plastic, and clothing. Adil approached a youthful police officer, a man in his thirties. Swarthy and handsome, he seemed to be in charge. With tears streaming down to his chin, Adil pointed to the house and said, “That was our house.”

Pointing to the fence, the officer asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

When Adil uttered this word, weakness overwhelmed him and he began to weep loudly. Anwar interjected, “Do you need to see his ID?”

The officer glanced at them sadly and then looked away as he replied, “Unfortunately. This was one of six houses damaged.”

Adil didn’t stop weeping. Then he suddenly made a run for it and dashed toward the house door at top speed. The officer was caught off guard but quickly gained control of himself and pulled out a large silver whistle. He blew on it so forcefully that his cheeks swelled. A number of policemen standing beside the fire truck near the fence’s gate responded. Staring at them, the officer pointed toward Adil. They rushed him, and two policemen beside the vehicle seized him in their arms in the wink of an eye. He tried to evade them but failed. The first policeman punched him in the face. Adil lost his balance but managed to kick the policeman in the stomach. The policeman felled Adil with a lightning punch to the jaw and began to kick him. Expecting that he would hurt Adil, Anwar stared at the officer and begged, “Please!” The officer blew his whistle loudly a second time, but the policeman’s kick landed before he could restrain himself, and it propelled Adil a few feet away. Then the battle stopped. Three policemen hurried to lift Adil, who wept as blood flowed from his mouth. Anwar hugged him.

© Mahmoud Saeed. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by William Maynard Hutchins. All rights reserved.

English Arabic (Original)

The Friday bombardment started a little later than usual, at 8:30 a.m. The sound was loud and clear. Umm Anwar sighed, and her pain showed clearly in her expression. Furrowing her brow and ready to explode, she exclaimed to herself loud enough for the others to hear: “The downpour has begun, O Conqueror, O Provider.”

Her son, Anwar, straightened up and rested his elbow on the sofa. He looked at his sister to check her reaction. Then he remarked calmly, “At the end of al-Junaynah, near the Shatt al-Arab—isn’t that right?”

His sister agreed, nodding her head: “Yes, there.”

Their mother continued her preparations for breakfast, setting the table. About fifteen minutes later they heard the noise of a second bomb; it was louder than the first. Nur at once called out, without waiting for her brother to ask, “Near al-Mawani Secondary School. It’s the twentieth time they’ve bombed the area around the secondary school, but no bomb has hit the school.”

“Fortunately!”

“I don’t know why they haven’t bombed the secondary school at al-Ashar.”

Anwar laughed. “That’s because it’s for girls. Like my father, Khomeini likes girls.”

They all guffawed, and the father and children headed to the dining table. They were still laughing when they sat down. Nur looked at her father and asked, “Is it true that you like girls?”

Mundhir chuckled. “Yes, I love not only girls but all females.”

His wife confirmed this, saying seriously, “This is true. He loves even female mice.”

They all continued laughing except the mother, who was busy bringing in their food. Anwar applauded warmly. “Father, something new has been revealed about you today. Is it true that you love mice?”

“Ask your mother if she’s a mouse.”

His wife paused beside him, the bread in her hand, and demanded defiantly, “Tell the truth: don’t you love mice? Who refused to kill that female mouse during the first months we were married?”

His children looked to him for an explanation; so he realized that he would be forced to tell the truth. He looked at Anwar and replied, “Back then, your mother was pregnant with you. I was out in the garden when I heard her terrified screams—as if a murderer or wild beast was threatening her. I dashed into the house and saw her point toward the bathroom with great trepidation. She screamed: ‘In there! There!’ I immediately raced into the bathroom but found no killer or wild beast. So I came back out and saw her standing terrified in the distance, near the door to the garden, ready to flee. I told her, ‘I don’t see anything.’ She approached me apprehensively and pointed toward the bathtub with her forefinger. She was too frightened by the beast to speak its name. I walked toward the bathtub and noticed a small female mouse five centimeters long. She was very lovely: gleaming gray fur, two large black eyes, a beautiful red mouth, and a graceful tail. She was gazing at me with tender affection. I turned to your mother and asked, ‘Is this the problem?’

“She could not answer; she was too afraid to speak. But she nodded yes.

“So I picked up that lovely creature, which made no attempt to escape. She surrendered to me; I don’t know why. After I went to the garden with the mouse in my hand, your mother found her tongue and crowed, ‘Kill her! Kill her!’ I searched for a clump of grass and released her there. Your mother began to squeal: ‘You’re a coward. What kind of man are you? You can’t kill a mouse?’”

Anwar proclaimed, “This occasion calls for a dance.”

Nur agreed, “Let’s dance!”

Their mother protested, “The food will get cold.”

Anwar shouted, “Let it!”

The two began to dance like professional artistes. Nur jiggled her midriff like an excellent belly dancer, and Anwar did a Western-style dance while clapping happily. “Daddy won’t kill a mouse. Iran’s bombs kill us. Hee, hee, heeee! Daddy won’t kill a mouse. The neighbors’ bombs kill us. Hee, hee, heeee.”

Their father said, “That’s some dan—”

The third explosion interrupted his words and their enjoyment. It silenced all of them; the two young people stopped dancing and returned to their seats. Their mother stood near them like a statue, the hot bread in her hand. She said mournfully and sorrowfully, “Who knows what innocent victim has perished!”

A heavy silence reigned. This explosion was nearer to them than the two previous ones. Anwar observed, “This bomb fell on the edge of al-Junaynah Road. It can’t have been more than half a kilometer from our house.”

His mother looked inquisitively at the eyes of her daughter, who agreed with what her brother had said: “Exactly.”

Anwar said, “Can’t we have a single moment of peace! I want a portal in space so I can escape to a world where I feel secure and can travel safely, holding my head high without feeling afraid.”

His sister said, “Find it, and I’ll be right behind you.”

He cast her a warning look. “I want to live alone.”

“Never fear. The moment we reach a secure place, I’ll leave you. I too want to live free; I would like to walk down the street safely. Why are we—out of all God’s creation—singled out for His wrath?”

After breakfast they all moved to a narrow room that overlooked the small garden. The empty side street lay before them on the far side of the garden. Anwar stretched out on the sofa, resting his head on his mother’s lap. A breeze arrived, stirring the branches of their jujube tree, and some small birds flew away. Anwar closed his eyes for a time and then opened them again. He exclaimed, “I love Friday!”

His sister asked, “Why?”

His mother laughed. “Because on Friday I fix the foods you like best and crave.”

Nur endorsed that view. “Yes, this is a bit of the truth, but what is even more important is the way you spoil Anwar on Friday.”

Anwar suggested, “You are starting to become jealous.”

Nur laughed. “Is telling the truth a symptom of jealousy? Don’t you see where your head is?”

Anwar changed the subject. “In all of the world’s developing nations—except for here—school is five days a week. We attend classes six days a week in the shadow of daily shelling and—”

His sister interrupted: “You should say in the shadow of senseless death every day.”

“That’s true, but when will we become human beings?”

Nur asked, “Do you know why?”

Anwar lifted his head from his mother’s lap and glanced defiantly at his sister. “Why, Ms. Know-it-all?”

“Because they study eight hours a day, and we study only four.”

“Where did you obtain this information?”

“Dr. Hanan subscribes to two monthly magazines, one American and one British. She shares them with us when she has finished reading them. Occasionally when she’s busy, she gives them to us before she reads them. I also listen to the BBC in English every day. Do you know why, you backward illiterate?”

Her mother looked at her sharply, although with a slight smile. “How can you call him a backward illiterate when he will graduate as an architect in a few months?”

“A degree doesn’t ensure culture. Your son, Madam, is eminently illiterate. He has never read a book that wasn’t on a course syllabus. He resembles the barefoot doctors in China who only know how to treat one ailment.”

Anwar replied nonchalantly, “Today we enjoy both Friday and Spring Break.”

They were gazing at the small garden where various flowering plants were arranged in circular, square, triangular, and rectangular beds to form a colorful, Oriental carpet.

Anwar’s mother toyed with his short black hair as his head leaned against her thigh. Nur and her father were drinking tea.

A zeita bird landed on the ground. Noticing it, Nur pointed and said, “Look.”

The zeita moved across the garden’s grass with little hops: captivating beauty, an attractive counterpoint of black and white, graceful movements, a spectacular, long tail that flicked up and down to create an impetus that helped it move. Nur said, “Do you know that the zeita has been neglected like the rest of us Iraqis, but no one pays any attention!”

Anwar asked, “How’s that?”

“I think it’s the most beautiful bird in the world—Iraq’s national bird without any competitor! But no one acknowledges that. No author mentions this bird in any school text, and there’s no scientific monograph about it.”

Anwar laughed sarcastically. “Why should it be Iraq’s unrivaled national bird? I have seen lots of unusual birds in the lakes. What about the khudayri bee-eater? Have Iran’s bombs driven you crazy?”

“No, they haven’t. The bee-eater is a seasonal migrant. This bird lives here year-round and is found in no country except Iraq. It’s one hundred percent Iraq’s national bird.”

Anwar chortled. “How do you know all this, Great Scholar?”

Nur was exasperated. “Because I checked out a guide to the world’s birds from the university library. I looked it up in the guide but didn’t find it listed. So I wrote to the National Geographic Magazine in America and sent some photos to them several months ago, giving a description of this bird. Look at him. He’s more graceful and beautiful than most of the world’s birds—more graceful than the swallow and more beautiful too. See how intelligent he is?”

Anwar interrupted: “How do you know it’s intelligent?”

“Look at him. You don’t ever see him stand completely still. He advances extremely cautiously. When he senses any danger, he soars away. Some of my classmates told me one time I was discussing his unique characteristics that when they were young, one of their favorite pastimes was throwing rocks at birds. They killed many sparrows, bulbuls, the wild ba‘i‘i, bee-eaters, desert hoopoes, and ringdoves. But they were never able to hit a zeita. Moreover I suspect that the zeita’s beauty provides strong protection for it, because who would want to hunt it? He would be stunned by its beauty, his hand would tremble, and he would miss.”

Anwar applauded. “Sister Philosopher, you’re right! A profound analysis!”

Her father commented, “Since moving to Basra, I too have wondered about the secret of its beauty. Could it be attributed to the ebony-black and snow-white lines that divide its body at regular intervals, its extraordinary grace, or its black eyes, which are surrounded by a gleaming white?”

Anwar smiled and asked his sister carelessly, “Are you serious? Did you send information and pictures of it to an American magazine?”

“Yes.”

He snickered. “That magazine must have ignored you—saying: ‘Here’s a lunatic, one of those deranged people from the starving, backward Third World, which is wracked by wars.’”

“No, they didn’t ignore me, Mr. Development! They sent a letter thanking me and telling me they were surprised by the description and proud of my achievement. They will publish the pictures and study in next spring’s issue. And they are going to send me five hundred dollars. I replied, asking them to keep the money in any account in my name rather than send it here, because our government punishes anyone who receives money from outside Iraq. So you see, Mr. Anwar, which of us is backward and who is civilized.”

Her father clapped enthusiastically while laughing wholeheartedly. Anwar sat up and applauded and laughed along with his father. Their mother merely smiled with pleased satisfaction.

Straightening up, Anwar looked at his sister and said, “Listen, Philosopher. The most beautiful thing in nature isn’t your little zeita bird; it’s the sunset. The space before us is endless. If, like me, you look West, you’ll see the most beautiful colors in all of existence forming in the sunset.”

Nur chortled. “You’re a knucklehead, Mr. Sophist. It’s morning, and we’re talking about twilight?”

Anwar laughed and asked his mother, although he was looking at Nur, “Why do you love me more than Nur?”

They laughed again, and his mother protested: “I love you equally.”

“No, you love me more than her.”

Nur agreed, “For the first time, this genius makes a true claim. You do love him more than you love me. See how you fondle him like a baby. You put his head on your thigh every Friday. You caress his head. You’ve never done that for me my whole life.”

Her father drew her to his breast and started to run his fingers through her hair. “Don’t fret. I love you more than him.”

She laughed wholeheartedly. “This is true. This is only fair.”

Her mother said, “I don’t put your head on my lap because your hair is long and thick.”

Nur escaped from her father’s embrace and dashed upstairs. Then she returned with a pair of scissors. “Here: cut my hair short like his.”

They all laughed again. Then Anwar said, “Adil claims that his mother loves his four sisters more than him. Who would believe that?”

His mother shot back: “That’s not possible. He’s the only boy in the family. How can his mother love his sisters more than him?”

“He says he can’t remember her ever hugging him. She has never kissed him. Yet she kisses and hugs his sisters every day—when they leave for school and when they return. She fondles them and whispers to them. When he arrives, she blocks his way, as if hoping he won’t come in. Then he almost goes nuts.”

“That’s because he has grown up.”

“It was the same when he was young.”

“Who can say?”

“He has invited us to a large banquet today.”

His mother said, “Don’t go. Don’t you see that the Iranians have grown too big for their breeches with their shelling today? They began during God’s own morning. O Conqueror! O Provider! I beg you: Stay home. Ask for any type of food, and I’ll fix it for you. Stay home with us today.”

“Adil’s mother has fixed everything: stuffed vegetables and roast fish—birzum! She’s an expert cook.”

“We have stuffed vegetables and birzum. I’ll fix them for you. My heart tells me that something will happen today. I beg you: Stay here.”

“No, we are all meeting there.”

His father objected, “Your mother has a prophet’s heart. She sees what no one else does. Listen to what she says.”

She turned toward him, “Are you being sarcastic?”

He laughed loudly. “No. God forbid.”

 

Nur rose and yelled, “I have something amazing to show you.”

She raced upstairs to her room and returned with a large bag filled with something. The moment her mother saw it, she yelled, “Don’t open that. Whatever falls out will soil the carpet, and I spent two hours cleaning the house before you woke up.”

“Just two things.”

Her father said, “Let her.”

She opened the bag and brought out a paper envelope dated January 3, 1980. “Who can guess,” she yelled, “what’s in this envelope?”

No one spoke. So she opened the envelope and pulled out a colocynth seed. She explained cheerfully, “It’s from al-Athal.”

Anwar laughed, “What an idiot! Who collects colocynth?”

Her father objected, “It’s an excellent idea. Collecting something that others overlook is a rare trait.”

“Even something as ugly and bitter as colocynth?”

“Yes. Don’t you see that they give awards for worst film, ugliest face, and strangest customs?”

Pointing to the colocynth seed, Nur said, “Look: a perfect sphere, as if newly minted at the factory. What a beautiful color—yellow with a touch of green. This comes from our last trip to al-Athal. The war has ended excursions; so let’s remember them!”

Her father called out, “You’re magnificent!”

Her brother agreed. “She is more than magnificent.”

Nur asked, “Are you being sarcastic?”

“No, by God.”

She put the colocynth carefully back and pulled out a flask filled with alcohol. It bore the date September 4, 1978, but she held her hand over it. She cried out, “What’s in here?”

They all looked at the flask but said nothing. Hearing no response, she placed the flask before her father. Inside it there was a small, phosphorescent frog an inch long with a turtle the same size. She exclaimed, “See how beautiful they are!”

Then a bomb exploded loudly nearby. Anwar sat up and looked at his sister. “The end of al-Junaynah near the place the first bomb landed. Isn’t that so?”

His mother stared questioningly at the eyes of her daughter, who agreed: “Right.”

Anwar continued, “Usually they don’t shell the same place more than three times; why are they shelling more today?”

Nur added, “Something else is new. Between the first and second bomb a quarter of an hour elapsed. Between the next bomb and the last about five minutes. We’re used to bombs coming at intervals of less than five minutes. Have the Iranians changed their tactics today?”

Anwar’s mother looked at him. “Didn’t I tell you my heart is telling me: ‘Don’t leave home today’?”

Anwar’s father and sister laughed, but Anwar’s eyes stared gravely at a point in the garden. A few minutes later, he saw an automobile stop. He stood up. Then everyone heard the bell; they were all startled. Adil’s thin, medium frame appeared in the street in front of the house. His right hand was on the fence.

Umm Anwar said, “If all of you are invited to Adil’s house, why is he here?” Frowning, she exclaimed, “O Preserver! O Concealer!”

Anwar rushed out to the garden, and they hurried behind him. They heard him say to Adil, “Come on in. Why are you standing there?”

Adil opened the garden gate and quickly entered. He looked terrified, and his face was pale. They hurried toward him. Then he said, “They bombed Sa‘di’s house.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Anwar turned toward Nur, “That must have been the first bomb.”

When Nur did not respond, Anwar asked Adil, “How do you know?”

“Twenty minutes ago I telephoned to remind him to come to our house. Then I heard his sister, who was crying. She said, ‘They shelled us’ and hung up.”

Nur objected, “Why didn’t the explosion take out their phone? If they bombed us, nothing animate or inanimate would be left in our house. Since she was still alive, why was she crying?”

Anwar stared at his friend for a moment and then said, “OK, let’s go see.”

Umm Anwar shouted nervously as she glared at her son and Adil, “No, don’t go. Stay here. This is a safe place. Let’s learn the facts by phone.”

Adil asked, “Why is this a safe place? Is any spot in Basra secure? It’s all within range of their bombs. They haven’t spared an inch of it.”

Abu Anwar interjected, “First of all, because this is a military base. Secondly, officers’ houses are located here. Shelling this camp would guarantee a counterstrike against their military camps and officers’ houses.”

Anwar ignored this entire discussion and insisted, “We must go. Come on.”

Umm Anwar begged both of them with all her heart, “Please, don’t go. If they have shelled Sa‘di’s house, what else might they do there? Telephone!”

Adil said, “It’s an idea.”

They entered the house, and Anwar began dialing the number. He waited for a time and then looked at them. “The phone is ringing but no one picks up.”

Then he made a dash for Adil’s car, and Adil followed him.

His mother followed them—she and his father—but then she stopped and turned on her husband, casting all the blame on him. She shrieked, “Why don’t you stop him?”

He gazed at her, smiled to try to calm her, and opened his arms. “Is he a child? He’s twenty-two.”

“So?”

“No, I won’t.”

She did not wait for him to finish his sentence. She raced instead toward the street, wishing to reach the car before it left. But she failed. When she emerged from the garden to the street, the car was already fifty meters away. Then she saw Anwar’s hand through the rear window. He waved to her as he looked back smiling. She retraced her steps, looking angry and sad.

Inside the car Anwar told Adil, “My mother’s always pessimistic. She says something will happen today.”

“All mothers are like that. No one can prophesy the future—that’s superstition.”

“The war has ended life in Basra. We need to face the fact that we’re all condemned to die sooner or later.”

“But we all dream of being survivors.”

“Dreams alone keep us alive, nothing else. Otherwise we would be dead.”

They approached al-Mawani district and heard clearly in the distance the noise of emergency vehicles heading south. Their car approached Sa‘di’s house. The alley was crowded with people—women, men, and children—but there wasn’t any ambulance. Adil decided that his car wouldn’t be able to navigate the crowded alley and parked it on the street near its intersection with the alley, away from the congestion halfway down the alley. When they left the car, their nostrils filled with the abrasive stink of gunpowder. They witnessed a plume of smoke rising from behind the house—evidence that a fire was still blazing. The house’s yellow façade and teak door were unscathed.

The laments and screams of the women assembled were at a crescendo. Adil and Anwar knew all of Sa‘di’s brothers and sisters but—in the midst of the massive congestion and agonized cries, screams, and chaos—couldn’t pick out any of them. Anwar approached one of the women. Bareheaded, in her forties, on the plump side, she was wiping her red eyes repeatedly with a small white handkerchief embroidered with red roses. He asked her, “Were there any casualties?”

She burst into tears, “The poor darling—just Sa‘di and his cousin. He was in the garden with her. His uncle’s daughter came from Baghdad yesterday to spend the mid-year break here. She wanted a change of air. The rest of the family was in the house. The bomb fell at the intersection of the fences of the four gardens, and everyone in the gardens was killed.”

“How many?”

“No one knows precisely. Eleven were taken to hospital.”

“Which hospital?”

“I don’t know—al-Mawani, the Military Hospital, al-Kabir—I don’t know.”

The alley was growing increasingly congested with every passing moment, and the women arriving began to scream and wail the moment they entered it.

Anwar and Adil moved away, and Adil suggested, “Let’s go to al-Mawani Hospital; it’s the closest.”

“Let’s go.”

The vehicle had only gone about half a kilometer before the shelling began again. Adil stopped the car, feeling quite nervous, and asked Anwar, “Did you hear what I heard?”

Anwar nodded his head: “Yes. Near Umm al-Brum Square.”

“On the Corniche—near our house.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s climb out of the car to hear the next shelling clearly.”

About a minute after they got out of the car, an ambulance shot past, heading toward the south of the city. Anwar said, “They have lengthened the period between one bomb and the next. Let’s go to our house and wait there.”

“Let’s go.”

Before Adil could start the engine, they heard the second bomb. He yelled anxiously, “Just as I expected—near our house in al-Tuwaysa on the Shatt al-Arab.”

“Let’s wait for the third strike.”

Adil objected, “No, let’s go now. I’m afraid for my family.”

“We shouldn’t go now. I won’t move till the shelling stops. There’s no reason to risk our lives unnecessarily. The result won’t be different if we wait five minutes.”

Adil’s eyes looked away as he reflected. “You’re right.”

They were almost at Anwar’s house when the third bomb fell. They reckoned that it had fallen in the same district as the first two. Anwar explained, “I’ll tell my family where I’m going. Then we’ll head straight to your house.”

Anwar did not offer his family any opportunity to ask him about Sa‘di. Instead he swiftly told Nur, who was in the garden waiting for him. When his mother saw him from the window, she sped toward him, almost out of her mind. She grasped his left forearm with both hands and begged him in a crazed scream, “Don’t go!”

He laughed as he freed himself from her grasp with difficulty and departed without uttering a word.

The streets seemed to be emptying of vehicles and pedestrians. Emergency vehicles had the scene to themselves. The two young men entered empty Dinar Street, traversed the Sinalco Roundabout, then the Intelligence Bureau Roundabout—opposite the flour mills—and then Party Headquarters. They did not meet a single vehicle coming from al-Ashar; everyone must have been influenced by the magnitude and severity of the shelling on this Friday. They passed the City Hall in al-Ashar and raced off toward al-Tuwaysa. Before reaching Bait al-Muhafiz Street, which connected with the Corniche, they were surprised to find groups of policemen, first responders, and firefighters blocking the street and preventing people from heading toward al-Barada‘iyah. Anwar and Adil continued on foot, their eyes focused on a house next to al-Rafidain Bank. The garden gate was wide open. Huge hoses that dangled from a red fire truck standing on the pavement there snaked into the house. Water polluted with soot and the fire’s scorched debris gushed from both sides of the gate of the fence onto the sidewalk and flowed into the street. The air of the entire district reeked of gunpowder and of burnt wood, plastic, and clothing. Adil approached a youthful police officer, a man in his thirties. Swarthy and handsome, he seemed to be in charge. With tears streaming down to his chin, Adil pointed to the house and said, “That was our house.”

Pointing to the fence, the officer asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

When Adil uttered this word, weakness overwhelmed him and he began to weep loudly. Anwar interjected, “Do you need to see his ID?”

The officer glanced at them sadly and then looked away as he replied, “Unfortunately. This was one of six houses damaged.”

Adil didn’t stop weeping. Then he suddenly made a run for it and dashed toward the house door at top speed. The officer was caught off guard but quickly gained control of himself and pulled out a large silver whistle. He blew on it so forcefully that his cheeks swelled. A number of policemen standing beside the fire truck near the fence’s gate responded. Staring at them, the officer pointed toward Adil. They rushed him, and two policemen beside the vehicle seized him in their arms in the wink of an eye. He tried to evade them but failed. The first policeman punched him in the face. Adil lost his balance but managed to kick the policeman in the stomach. The policeman felled Adil with a lightning punch to the jaw and began to kick him. Expecting that he would hurt Adil, Anwar stared at the officer and begged, “Please!” The officer blew his whistle loudly a second time, but the policeman’s kick landed before he could restrain himself, and it propelled Adil a few feet away. Then the battle stopped. Three policemen hurried to lift Adil, who wept as blood flowed from his mouth. Anwar hugged him.

© Mahmoud Saeed. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by William Maynard Hutchins. All rights reserved.

فوهة في الفضاء

 

1

بدأ القصف المدفعي ليوم الجمعة، متأخّراً بعض الشيء. الثامنة والنّصف صباحاً.  الصوت قويّ وواضح. تنهّدت أمّ أنور بألم تبدّى على تقاطيعها، عقصتْ حاجبيها، كادت تنفجر، هتفتْ تكلّم نفسها بصوت مسموع: بدأ الغيث، يا فتاح، يا رزاق.

اعتدل أنور، أسند مرفقه على الأريكة، نظر إلى أخته يستشفّ رأيها. قال بهدوء: نهاية الجنينة قريباً من شطّ العرب، أليس كذلك؟

أكّدت أخته بهزّة رأس: نعم هناك.

استمرّت أمّهما تعدّ الفطور، توزّع الصحون على المائدة. بعد نحو خمس عشرة دقيقةً جاء صوت القنبلة الثانية أقوى من الأولى. هتفت نور مباشرة ومن دون أن يسألها أخوها: قرب ثانويّة الموانئ. هذه المرّة العشرون يُقصف محيط الثانويّة، لكن لم تقع أيّ قنبلة على المدرسة.

– من حسن الحظّ!

– لست أدري لماذا لم يصيبوها كثانويّة العشّار؟

ضحك أنور: لأنّها للبنات، والخميني كأبي يحبّ البنات.

ضحكوا جميعاً بقوّة، اتّجه الثلاثة نحو منضدة الطّعام، جلسوا وهم يضحكون، نظرت نور إلى أبيها: هل صحيح أنّك تحبّ البنات؟

قهقه منذر: “نعم. أحبّ لا البنات حسب، بل كلّ أنثى.” أمّنت زوجته على كلامه بجدّ: هذا صحيح. إنّه يحبّ حتى الفأرة.

استمرّوا يضحكون باستثناء الأم، كانت مشغولة بنقل الطعام، صفّق أنور بحرارة: أبي، شيء جديد ينكشف اليوم عنك، أصحيح أنّك تحبّ الفئران؟

– اسألوا أمَّكم هل هي فأرة؟

وقفت زوجته قربه، الخبز بيدها، قالت بتحدٍّ: قل الحقيقة ألا تحبّ الفئران؟ من رفض قتل الفأرة في الأشهر الأولى لنا بعد الزواج؟

نظر إليه ولداه يستفسران، أدرك أن عليه أن يقول الحقيقة، حدّق بأنور: آنذاك، أمّك حامل بك، كنتُ في الحديقة، سمعت صوتها تصرخ مرتعبة، كأنّ هناك قاتلاً، أو وحشاً يهدّدها، دخلت الدار مسرعا، رأيتها في أقصى خوفها تشير إلى الحمّام، تصرخ هناك، هناك. ركضت حالاً إلى الحمّام، لم أجد أيّ قاتل أو وحش، خرجتُ، رأيتها واقفة هلعة بعيداً، قرب الباب المؤدي إلى الحديقة، مستعدةً للهرب، قلت لها: لا أرى شيئاً. اقتربتْ مني بتوجس، أشارت إلى المغطس بسبابتها، لم تستطع نطق اسم الوحش خوفاً منه، تقدمت نحو المغطس، رأيت فأرة صغيرة بطول خمس سنتيمترات، كانت جميلة جداً، شعر رمادي ناصع، عينان كبيرتان مكحّلتان، فم أحمر جميل، ذيل رشيق، كانت تنظر إليّ بودّ وإلفة، التفتُّ إلى أمكما، سألتها: أهذه السبب؟

لم تستطع  الإجابة، لسانها معقود من الخوف، هزّت رأسها، أي نعم.

أمسكت بهذا المخلوق الجميل، لم تحاول الهروب قط، استسلمتْ، لست أدري لماذا، بعد أن خرجتُ إلى الحديقة والفأرة بيدي انطلق لسان أمّكما، صرختْ: أقتلها، أقتلها. بحثت عن عشب ملتف حول بعضه، أطلقتها هناك. أخذت أمّكما تغرّد: أنت جبان، أيّ رجل أنت؟ لا تستطيع قتل فأرة!

قال أنور: هذه مناسبة يجب أن نرقص لها.

وافقته نور: هيّا.

قالت أمّهما: سيبرد الأكل.

هتف أنور: وليبردْ.

أخذا يرقصان كمحترفين. تهزّ نور وسطها كأيّ راقصة هزّ بطن ممتازة. يرقص أنور الرّقص الغربي، يصفّق بسعادة: أبي لا يقتل فأرة. قنابل إيران تقتلنا. هي هي هيي!  أبي لا يقتل فأرة.قنابل الجيران تقتلنا. هي هي هيييي.

قال أبوهما: يا لها من رقصـ

قطع الانفجار الثالث كلامه، متعتهم، أسكتهم، توّقف الشابان عن الرّقص، عادا إلى مكانهما، تصنّمت أمهما قربهما والخبز السّاخن بيدها. قالت بحزن وأسى: من يدري أيّ مظلوم قضى نحبه!

ساد الصّمت ثقيلاً، الانفجار أقرب إليهم من سابقيه، قال أنور: هذه القنبلة على حافة طريق الجنينة، لا يمكن أن تبعد عن بيتنا أكثر من نصف كيلومتر.

حدّقت أمّه بعيني ابنتها متسائلةً، أمّنت هذه على كلام أخيها: مضبوط.

قال أنور: أحرام أن نعيش لحظة سلام واحدة! أريد فوهة في الفضاء أنقذف فيها فلا أجد نفسي إلّا وأنا في مكان آمن أسير فيه باطمئنان، مرفوع الرأس من دون خوف.

قالت أخته: جدها وسأتعلّق بقدميك.

حدّق بها محذراً: أريد أن أعيش وحدي.

– لا تخف. ما إن نصل إلى مكان آمن أتركك. أريد أنا أيضاً أن أعيش حرّة، أسير في الشارع بأمان. لماذا نحن مغضوب علينا وحدنا دون خلق اللّه؟

انتقلوا جميعاً بعد الافطار إلى غرفة ضيّقة مطلّة على الحديقة الصغيرة. الشارع الفرعي الخالي أمامهم. تمدّد أنور على الأريكة واضعاً رأسه في حجر أمه. هبّت ريح خفيفة، حرّكت أغصان شجرة النبق، طار بضعة عصافير. أغمض أنور عينيه برهة ثم فتحهما، قال: كم أحبّ يوم الجمعة!

تساءلت أخته: لماذا؟

ضحكت أمه: لأني أعدّ أفضل ما يعجبكم وما تشتهون في الجمعة.

أيّدت نور: نعم، هذا جزء غير مهم من الحقيقة، أما الجزء الأهم فهو أنّكِ اعتدتِ أن تدلّلي فيه أنور.

قال أنور: بدأت الغيرة.

ضحكت نور: هل الحقيقة غيرة، أنظر إلى رأسك أين؟

غيّر أنور موضوع الحديث: في كلّ دول العالم المتطوّر تداوم المدارس خمسة أيام إلا نحن، ستّة أيام وفي ظلّ القصف اليوميّ و

قاطعت أخته: قل وفي ظلّ الموت العشوائيّ اليوميّ.

– هذا صحيح، لكن متى نصبح “أوادم”؟

سألت نور: أتعرف لماذا؟

رفع أنور رأسه من حجر أمّه، نظر إليها بتحدٍ: لماذا يا فهيمة؟

– لأنهم يدرسون ثمانِي ساعات في اليوم، ونحن ندرسُ أربع ساعات فقط.

– من أين جئت بهذه المعلومات؟

– الدكتورة حنان مشتركة بمجلتين شهريّتين أمريكيّة وبريطانيّة وهي تعطيني إياهما بعد قراءتهما، وأحيانا عندما تكون مشغولة تعطينيهما قبل أن تقرأهما، وأسمع أيضاً يوميّاً الإذاعة البريطانيّة باللّغة الإنكليزيّة، أعرفت السبب يا أميّ يا متخلّف؟

نظرت أمّها إليها بحدّة مغلّفة بابتسامة خفيفة: كيف تقولين أميّ متخلّف وسيتخرّج مهندساً معماريّاً بعد أشهر!

– الثقافة ليست بالشهادة، إبنُكِ يا سيّدة أميّ بامتياز، لم يقرأ كتاباً واحداً خارج منهج دراسته قط. هو كالأطباء الحفاة في الصين، لا يعرف أحدهم سوى معالجة شيء واحد فقط.

قال أنور بدون اهتمام: في هذا اليوم متعتان: الجمعة والعطلة الربيعيّة.

كانوا ينظرون إلى الحديقة الصغيرة، زهور متنوعة، تلتف على شكل دوائر، مربعات، مثلثات، مستطيلات، لتكون أشبه بالسجاد الشرقيّ الملوّن.

تعبث يدا أم أنور بشعر رأسه الأسود القصير، وهو على فخذ أمّه، بينما كانت نور وأبوها يرشفان الشاي.

هبط طائر الزيطة على الأرض. لمحته نور. أشارت إليه.

– انظروا.

ينتقل الزيطة فوق ثيّل الحديقة بقفزات. جمال ساحر، تناسق الأبيض والأسود خلّاب. حركات رشيقة. ذيل طويل رائع يتحرك إلى الأعلى والأسفل ليخلق توازناً يمكنّه من الحركة، قالت نور: أتعلمون أن الزيطة مظلوم مثلنا نحن العراقيّين جميعاً، لا يحظى بأيّ اهتمام!

تساءل أنور: كيف؟

-أظنه أجمل طائر في العالم، طائر العراق الوطني بلا منازع! لكن لا أحد يعترف به، ولا يذكره أيّ مؤلف في أيّ كتاب مدرسيّ، ولا يوجد عنه أيّ بحث.

ضحك أنور ساخرا: لماذا طائر العراق الوطنيّ بلا منازع؟ كم طائراً غريباً رأينا في الهور، ماذا عن الخضيري؟ أجنّنتك قنابل إيران؟

– لا لم تجنني قنابل إيران، الخضيريّ موسميّ، هذا يعيش هنا، لا يوجد في خارج العراق، في أيّ بلد في العالم، إنه طائر عراقيّ وطنيّ مئة بالمئة؟

قهقه أنور: كيف عرفت أيّتها المثّقفة العظيمة؟

احتدّت نور: لأنني استعرت موسوعة طيور العالم من مكتبة الجامعة، وبحثت عنه، ولم أجده، وراسلت مجلة الجغرافية الوطنيّة في امريكا، وأرسلت أكثر من صورة له قبل أشهر، ذكرت أوصافه، أنظر إليه أنه أكثر رشاقة وجمالا من معظم طيور العالم، أكثر رشاقة من السّنونو، أجمل منه، أنظر كم هو ذكيّ؟

قاطع: كيف تعرفين أنه ذكيّ؟

– انظر إليه، لا تراه يستقرّ على حال مطلقاً، يسير بحذر شديد، ومتى ما يحسّ بأيّ خطر يحلّق، قال لي بعض زملائي عندما تحدثت عن تفرّده أنّهم عندما كانوا صغاراً كانت إحدى أفضل هواياتهم هي أن يصيبوا الطيور بالحجارة، قتلوا الكثير من العصافير، البلابل، البعيعي الوحشيّ، الخضيريّ، الهدهد الصحراويّ، الفاختة، لكنّهم لم يستطيعوا إصابة أيّ زيطة، لكنّي أظن أن جمال الزيطة حارسٌ أمين لسلامته، لأن أيّ من يريد صيده لابدّ أن يذهل لجماله، فتنخذل يده ولا يصيبه.

صفّق أنور: أصبحت أختي فيلسوفة! تفكّر بعمق!

قال أبوها: أنا أيضاً أفكّر منذ أن جئت البصرة في سرّ جماله. أتراه منحصراً في الخطوط السود الأبنوسية والبيض الثلجية التي تقسّم جسده بالتساوي؟ أم برشاقته الفائقة؟ أم بعينيه السوداوين المحاطتين ببياض ناصع.

ابتسم أنور، قال دون مبالاة: أأنت جادة؟ أأرسلت معلومات وصوراً عنه إلى مجلة أمريكيّة؟

– نعم.

قهقه: لابد أن المجلة أهملتك، قالوا مخبولة، إحدى مختلّات العالم الثالث المتخلّف الجائع المشغول بالحروب.

– لا، لم يهلموني أيّها المتطوّر! أجابوني برسالة شكروني بها، قالوا أنهم فُوجئوا بهذا الكشف، وأنهم فخورون بي، وأنهم سينشرون الصّور والتحقيق في عدد الربيع القادم، وسيرسلون لي 500 دولاراً. أجبتهم، بأن يحتفظوا بالمبلغ باسمي في أيّ حساب، وأن لا يرسلونه لأن حكومتنا تعاقب أيّ شخص يتسلّم أيّ مبلغ من خارج العراق. وهكذا ترى يا سيد أنور من منّا المتخلّف ومن منّا المتطوّر؟

صفّق أبوها بحرارة، وضحك من كلّ قلبه. نهض أنور من حضن أمّه. شاركه التّصفيق والضّحك، بينما اكتفتْ أمها بابتسامة رضاً وسعادة.

اعتدل أنور، نظر إليها: اسمعي أيتها الفيلسوفة: أجمل ما في الطبيعة ليس طائرك الصغير الزيطة، بل غروب الشمس. أمامنا فضاء لا متناه. إن نظرت كما أفعل إلى الغرب، ترين أجمل ألوان الكون يتجسّم في الغروب.

قهقهت نور: يالك من مشوّش. خبير بالسفسطة، نحن في الصباح وتتكلّم عن الشفق!

ضحك أنور، سأل أمّه وهو ينظر ناحية نور: لماذا تحبينني أكثر من نور؟

ضحكوا مرّة أخرى، قالت أمّه: أحبّكما سواسية.

– لا، أنت تحبِّينني أكثر منها.

أكّدت نور: أول مرّة يقول هذا العبقريّ شيئاً صحيحاً، تحبّينه أكثر مني، أنظري إنك تدللينه كطفل، تضعين رأسه على فخذك كلّ جمعة، وتربتين على رأسه، لم تفعلي معي هذا طيلة عمري.

جذبها أبوها إلى صدره، وبدأ يجوس في شعرها بأصابعه: لا عليك أنا أحبّك أكثر منه.

قهقت من كلّ قلبها: هذا صحيح، معادلة ممتازة.

قالت أمّها: لا أضع رأسك على حجري لأن شعرك طويل وكثيف.

   أفلتت نور نفسها من عناق أبيها، أسرعت إلى الطابق الثاني ثم نزلت وبيدها المقصّ: هاك قصّي شعري مثله.

ضحكوا جميعاً مرّة أخرى. قال أنور: يدّعي عادل أن أمّه تحبّ أخواته الأربع أكثر منه، من يصدّق؟

بادرت أمّه: مستحيل، هو الولد الوحيد في العائلة، فكيف تحبّ أمّه أخواته أكثر منه؟

– يقول إنه لم يتذكر أنها عانقته، لم تقبّله قط، بينما تقبّل وتعانق أخواته كلّ يوم عندما يذهبن إلى المدرسة وعندما يأتين، تدلّلهن، تتكلّم معهن بهمس، وعندما يأتي تتوقف كأنها تريد ألّا يتدخّل، يكاد يجنّ.

– لأنه كبير.

– حتى عندما كان صغيراً.

– من يدري!

–  دعانا اليوم إلى وليمة كبرى.

قالت أمّه: لا تذهب، ألا ترى الإيرانيّين (انكلبوا) اليوم في قصفهم! بدؤوا من صباح اللّه، يا فتاح يا رزاق، إبقَ، أطلبْ ما تشتهي من طعام أحضّره لك، ابقَ معنا هذا اليوم.

– أعدّت أمّ عادل كلّ شيء، دولمة، برزماً مشوياً، إنّها خبيرة.

– عندنا دولمة وبرزم، سأعدّهما لك، قلبي يحدّثني أن هناك شيئاً ما سيحدث اليوم، رجاءً إبقَ هنا.

– لا، سنجتمع كلُنا هناك.

قال أبوه: قلبُ أمّك قلب أنبياء، ترى ما لا يراه أحدٌ، اسمعْ كلامها.

التفتتْ إليه: أتسخر؟

ضحك بقوّة: لا. معاذ اللّه.

نهضت نور وهي تهتف: سأريكم مفاجأة.

أسرعت صعدت إلى غرفتها، ثم نزلت بكيس كبير مليء، ما إن رأته أمّها حتى هتفت: لا تفتحيه سيسقط منه ما يلوّث السجّادة، قضيت ساعتين في تنظيف البيت قبل استيقاظكم.

– فقط شيئان.

قال أبوها: دعيها.

فتحت الكيس، أخرجت ظرفاً ورقيّاً عليه تاريخ: 1/3/ 1980، هتفت: من يحزر ما في هذا الظّرف؟

   لم يتكلّم أحد، فتحته أخرجت حنظلةً، قالت بفرح: إنّها من الأثل.

    ضحك أنور: يا غبيّة! أيوجد أحدٌ يحتفظ بحنظل؟

   قال أبوها: فكرة ممتازة. الاحتفاظ بشيء يهمله الآخرون امتياز نادر.

  – حتى إن كان قبيحاً ومرّاً كالحنظل؟

   – نعم، ألا تراهم يعطون جائزة لأسوأ الأفلام؟ لأقبح الوجوه، لأغرب العادات!

   قالت نور، وهي تشير إلى حبّة الحنظل، انظروا: كرة مثالية، كأنها خرجت لتوها من مصنع، ما أجمل لونها الأصفر الضارب إلى الخضرة، من آخر زيارة لنا للأثل، ما دامت الحرب قضت على السفرات فلنتذكرها!

هتف أبوها: أنت رائعة.

أمّن أخوها: إنّها أكثر من رائعة.

قالت نور: أتسخر؟

– واللّهِ.

أرجعت الحنظلة إلى مكانها بعناية، ثم رفعت قنينة عليها تاريخ 1978/4/9 مليئة بالكحول، لكنّها غطتها بيدها، هتفت ماذا هنا؟

نظر الجميع إلى القنينة، لكنّهم لم يتكلموا، وإذ لم تسمع إجابة، وضعت القنينة أمام أبيها، كان في القنينة ضفدعة فسفورية صغيرة بحجم إنج، وسلحفاة في نفس الحجم. ثم قالت: انظروا أيّ جمال!

جاء صوت القنبلة قويّاً قريباً. اعتدل أنور، نظر إلى أخته: نهاية الجنينة قريباً من القنبلة الأولى، أليس كذلك؟

حدّقت أمّه بعيني ابنتها متسائلة. أمنت هذه على كلام أخيها: صح.

قال أنور: عادة لا يقصفون المكان بأكثر من ثلاثة قنابل، فلماذا زادوا اليوم العيار؟

أضافت نور: هناك أمر ما جديد أيضاً، بين القنبلة الأولى والثانية نحو ربع ساعة، وبين قنبلة وأخرى نحو خمس دقائق، عوّدونا على ثلاثة قنابل في أقل من خمس دقائق، أغير الإيرانيّون “تكتيكهم” هذا اليوم؟

نظرت أمّه إليه: ألم اقل لك أن قلبي يحدّثني، لا تخرج من البيت اليوم.

ضحك أبوه وأخته، بينما سهمتْ عينا أنور على نقطة ما في الحديقة، بعد بضع دقائق رأى سيّارة تتوقّف، نهض. ثم سمع الجميع صوت الجرس. اُستنفروا جميعاً. ظهر عادل في الشارع أمام البيت بقامته المتوسطة النحيفة يضع يمناه على السياج، قالت أمّ أنور: إن كنتم مدعوّيين عند عادل فلماذا جاء؟

تجهّمت تقاطيعها: يا حافظ يا ستار!

أسرع أنور خارجاً إلى الحديقة. أسرعوا خلفه، سمعوه يقول لعادل: تعال، ما بالك وقفت؟

فتح عادل باب سياج الحديقة، دخل مسرعاً، مرعوباً، وجه مصفرّ، اندفعوا نحوه، قال ما إن وصل إليهم: قصفوا بيت سعدي.

– أأنت متأكد؟

– نعم.

التفت أنور إلى نور: لاشكّ أنها القنبلة الأولى.

لم تقل نور شيئاً، سأل أنور: كيف عرفت؟

– اتصلت به قبل عشرين دقيقة لأذكّره بالمجيء إلى بيتنا، فسمعت صوت اخته تبكي، قالت قصفونا، وسدّت الهاتف.

احتجّت نور: لماذا لم يَقطع الانفجار هاتف البيت، قصفونا يعني قصفوا البيت، لا يبقى فيه حيّ ولا جماد. مادامت حيّة لماذا تبكي؟

حدّق به أنور برهة ثم قال: حسناً لنذهب ونرَ.

هتفتْ أم أنور بعصبيّة وهي تنظر إليه وإلى عادل: لا، لا تذهبوا. ابقوا هنا. المكان أمين هنا، دعونا نتأكد من القضيّة بالهاتف.

سأل عادل: لماذا المكان أمين هنا؟ هل في البصرة مكان أمين؟ كلّها تحت مرمى قنابلهم، لم يتركوا شبراً منها.

تدخّل أبو أنور: لأن هذه المنطقة معسكر أولاً، وبيوت ضباط ثانياً، وقصفها يعني أننا سنقوم بقصف مماثل لمعسكراتهم وبيوتهم.

تجاهل أنور الحديث كلّه، قال: لابدّ من الذهاب. هيّا.

توسّلت أم أنور بهما من كلّ قلبها: رجاءً لا تذهبوا. إن قصفوا بيت سعدي فماذا تستطيعون أن تفعلوا له؟ اتصلوا بالهاتف.

قال عادل: فكرة.

دخلوا البيت، أخذ أنور يدير أرقام الهاتف، انتظر برهة، نظر إليهم: الهاتف يعمل لكن لا أحد يرفع السمّاعة.

ثمّ أسرع نحو سيّارة عادل، فتبعه هذا.

لحقت به أمه، هي وأبوه، لكنّها توقّفت، التفتتْ إلى أبيه تلومه بشدّة، وتصرخ: لماذا لم تمنعه؟

حدّق بها هذا، ابتسم في محاولة لتهدئتها وهو يفتح ذراعيه: أهو صغير؟ عمره اثنتان وعشرون سنة.

– وإنْ؟

– لا، لن أفعل.

لم تسمع كلامه كلّه، ركضت نحو الشارع. أرادت أن تصل إلى السيّارة قبل أن تقلِع، لكنّها لم تستطع، وحينما تجاوزت السياج وخطتْ في الشارع كانت السيّارة قد أصبحت على بعد نحو خمسين متراً، عندئذ رأت يد أنور من خلال الزجاج الخلفيّ تلوّح لها وهو يلتفت إليها باسماً، فرجعت، وتقاطيعها ممزّقة بين الغضب والحزن.

قال أنور: إمي متشائمة دائماً، تقول سيحدث هذا اليوم شيء.

– هكذا الأمهات كلّهن. لا يمكن أن يتنبأ المرء بما سيحدث، التنبؤ خرافة.

– قضت الحرب على الحياة في البصرة. لكي نكون واقعيين علينا أن نتوقع أنّنا جميعاً محكوم علينا بالموت عاجلاً أم آجلاً.

– لكنّنا جميعاً نحلم بالنجاة.

– الحلم وحده يُبقينا أحياء لا غير، وإلا فنحن ميتون.

اقتربا من حيّ الموانيء. سمعا من بعيد أصوات سيّارات الإسعاف تنطلق نحو الجنوب وبوضوح. اقتربت السيّارة من بيت سعدي. الزقاق مليء بالناس، نساءًَ، رجالاً، أطفالاً، لكن لم يكن هناك سيّارة إسعاف. قدّر عادل أنه لا يستطيع أن يدخل بالسيّارة في العطفة المزدحمة. تركاها في بداية الشارع مع الزقاق الفرعي، بعيداً عن التكدّس الملموم في وسطه. حين ترجّلا منها ملأت خياشيمهما راحة البارود المخرّشة. شاهدا خيط دخان ينبعث من وراء البيت يكشف أن هناك حريقاً لازال يلتهب. بينما كانت واجهة الدار الصّفراء، والباب الساج الخشب سالمتين لم يصبهما ضرر.

 أصوات النحيب وصراخ النسوة المتجمّعات حول الباب على أشدّها. كان عادل وأنور يعرفان جيمع إخوان وأخوات سعدي، لكنّهما وسط ذلك الزحام الشديد، وأصوات التفجّع والصراخ والفوضى لم يستطيعا تشخيص أيّاً منهم، اقترب أنور من إحدى النسوة. سافر في الأربعين، شبه ممتلئة، تمسح عينيها الحمراوين بين لحظة وأخرى بمنديل صغير أبيض مطرز بورود حمر، سألها: أهناك مصاب؟

انفجرت تبكي: يا عيني عليه، سعدي وابنة عمه فقط، كانا في الحديقة، جاءت ابنة عمّه البارحة من بغداد، لتقضي عطلة نصف السنة هنا، أرادت أن تغيّر الجوّ. باقي العائلة كانوا في البيت، وقعت القنبلة في ملتقى أسيجة أربع حدائق، قتلتْ جميع منْ كانوا في حدائقها.

– كم واحداً؟

– لا أحد يدري بالضبط، نقَلوا إلى المستشفى أحد عشر شخصاً.

– أيّ مستشفى؟

– لا أدري، الموانئ، العسكري، الكبير، لا أدري.

يزداد الزقاق ازدحاماً كلّ لحظة، تبدأ النساء القادمات بالصراخ والعويل ما إن يدخلن الزقاق.

ابتعد انور وعادل قال الأخير: لنذهب إلى مستشفى الموانئ إنها الأقرب.

– هيّا.

لم تكد السيّارة تقطع نحو نصف كيلومتر حتى بدأ القصف من جديد، أوقف عادل السيّارة، كاد يفقد أعصابه. سأل أنور: أسمعت مثلي؟

هزّ أنور رأسه مؤكداً: نعم. قريباً من ساحة أم البروم.

– على الكورنيش، قرب بيتنا.

– نعم.

– لننزل كي نسمع الثانية بشكل مضبوط.

بعد ترجلهما بنحو دقيقة، انطلقت سيّارة الإسعاف باتجاه جنوب المدينة. قال أنور: أطالوا الفترة بين قنبلة وأخرى. لنذهب إلى بيتنا وننتظر هناك.

– هيّا.

قبل أن يشغّل عادل السيّارة جاء صوت القنبلة الثانية، هتف بقلق: كما توقعتُ قرب بيتنا في الطويسة، على شط العرب.

– لننتظر الضربة الثالثة.

قال عادل: بل لنذهب الآن، أنا قلق على أهلي.

– لن نذهب الآن، إن لم ينتهِ القصف فلن أتحرّك، لا داعي لتعريض حياتنا للخطر من دون سبب، لن تُغيّر النتيجة بتأخرك خمس دقائق.

زاغت عينا عادل وهو يفكّر: أنت على حقّ.

وصلا بيت أنور بعد وقوع القنبلة الثالثة بنحو ثانية واحدة، قدّرا انها في المنطقة نفسها، قال أنور: سأخبر أهلي بوجهتي ثم ننطلق إلى بيتكم.

لم يترك أنور فرصة لأهله أن يسألوه عن سعدي، بل أسرع أخبر نور التي كانت في الحديقة تنتظره، وحينما رأته أمّه من الشبّاك أسرعت إليه، تكاد أن تجنّ، شدّت كفيها على زنده الأيسر، رجته وهي تصرخ بجنون: لا تذهب. تخلّص من قبضتها بصعوبة وهو يضحك. تركها. لم يقل شيئاً.

بدت الشوارع مقْفِرة من السيّارات والمارة، سيّارات الإسعاف وحدها سيّدة الموقف، دخلا شارع دينار الخالي. اجتازا دوار السّينالكو، ثم دوار المخابرت المقابل لمنشأة المطاحن، ثمّ بيت الحزب، لم يريا أيّ سيّارة قادمة من العشار كأن الجميع كانوا مقتنعين بأهمية وقسوة القصف هذه الجمعة. اجتازا مركز المحافظة في العشار، وانطلقا نحو الطويسة، قبل أن يصلا إلى شارع بيت المحافظ المتصل بالكورنيش فوجئا بثلّل من الشرطة ورجال الإسعاف والمطافئ تسدّ الشارع، تمنع الذاهبين نحو البراضعية. ترجّل أنور وعادل وأنظارهما تتجه نحو بيت ملاصق لمصرف الرافدين. باب سياج حديقة البيت مفتوح على مصراعيه. سيّارة حريق حمراء واقفة على الرصيف. يتدلى منها أنبوب ضخم، يمتد إلى داخل البيت. تتدفق من زوايتي باب السياج العريض إلى الرصيف مياه مختلطة بالسخام ومخلفات الحرائق بشكل كثيف، ثم تنساب في الشارع. تفعم جوّ المنطقة كلّها روائح البارود والخشب والبلاستيك والملابس المحترقة، اقترب عادل من ضابط شرطة شاب في ثلاثيناته، أسمر، وسيم، بدا وكأنه هو المسيطر على الأمن، أشار إلى البيت ودموعه تصل إلى ذقنه: ذاك بيتنا.

تساءل الضابط، وهو يشير نحو السياج: أأنت متأكد؟

– نعم.

لم يكد عادل ينطق بالكلمة حتى غلبه الضعف، ارتفع بكاؤه. تدخّل أنور: أتريد هوّية للتثبّتْ؟

نظر إليهما الضابط بحزن، قال وهو يبعد عينيه عن عيني عادل وأنور: مع الأسف. هو أحد ستة بيوت متضرّرة.

لم يتوقف عادل عن البكاء، ثم فجأة انفلت يجري نحو باب البيت بأقصى سرعة يقدر عليها. فوجئ الضابط بالحركة، لكنّه تمالك نفسه، أخرج صافرة فضيّة كبيرة، أخذ يصفّر بقوّة نفخت وجنتيه. تنبّه بضعة شرطيين إلى صوت الصافرة، كانوا واقفين قرب سيّارة الإطفاء القريبة من باب السياج. أشار الضابط إلى عادل وهو ينظر نحوهم. هُرعوا نحوه، تلقّفه اثنان قريبان من السيّارة بأذرعهما بمثل لمح البصر، أراد أن يتملص منهما فلم يستطع. عندئذ لكم الأول في وجهه، فسقط على الأرض، وركل الثاني بقدمه في بطنه، لكنّ الشرطي عاجله بسرعة البرق بلكمة في حنكه أوقعته أرضاً. همّ بركله، توقّع أنور أنه سيؤذيه، فحدّق بالضابط وقال متوسلاً: رجاءً. صفّر هذا ثانية بقوّة، لكنّ رفسة الشرطيّ سبقت السيطرة على النفس، فدحرجت عادلاً بضعة أقدام، ثم توقّفت المعركة. هُرع ثلاثة شرطيين إلى إنهاض عادل وهو يبكي، والدّماء تنزف من فمه. تلقفه أنور معانقاً.

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