Suddenly, like a scene from a comedy, a violent commotion arose between two customers in the middle of the dance floor just when we were talking about his ability to reconcile the incompatible. An empty beer bottle flew through the air from that direction and shattered against the fingers of Fatima’s right hand, which had been holding the top of a tap, pouring a beer for someone. She cried out, and her blood mixed with the drink in the glass she was filling.
The music stopped and my father burst out of the crowd, coming over to Fatima to comfort her and check her wound. There was a cut that ran along the back of her four fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “It will be okay.”
He told me to put pressure on the wound and take care of her. Then he went back to the adversaries and raised his voice above everyone else’s in a rebuke. With the help of some others, he separated the adversaries and sat them down away from each other. The whole time he was cursing and scolding them amid everyone’s silence.
During this time, I went behind the bar with Fatima. I took hold of her bleeding hand, washed it, and comforted her. She had actually calmed down already, though the surprise had frightened her a little. I began to dry her hand with the apron, which she had hurried to take off. I saw the size of her chest for the first time. It was small, but the two breasts were firm, set apart, and upright, like the newly developed breasts of a young woman. Rosa brought me gauze and a bandage, together with a bottle of iodine, which she had taken from a small first-aid box that was hanging in one of the dark corners. I sat Fatima down on a nearby chair and began wrapping her hand, going around the fingers on their own, then all together.
My father angrily mounted the stage. In a style that ranged from serious to joking, he began addressing the assembly over the microphone, reminding them of the rules of the establishment and his rejection of violence in all its forms. After I had finished bandaging Fatima’s hand, I put my hand on her shoulder, and she stood up with me. We began to watch my father, who was speaking at that moment, giving his address in English, which he would translate himself into German, while Rosa next to him would translate it into Spanish.
“This is a place for happiness, for coexistence, for tolerance, for getting to know each other, for love, for peace, for dancing, for life, for kissing.” (He kissed Rosa, and the crowd laughed.) “For the pleasure of caressing bodies and asses.” (He reached a hand over to Rosa’s butt, and they laughed and clapped.) “Violence is forbidden here, along with arrogance, racism, and calls for force and heroic deeds. Whoever among you wants violence, chivalry, and empty heroism, here’s my passport!” (He took his passport from his pocket and held it up.) “Let him take it and go to Iraq. I guarantee he’ll find violence there. They’ll teach him manners, they’ll put some muscles on his bones, and he’ll eat the shit he’s looking for!”
Laughter and applause went up. He came down and reconciled the two adversaries, making them embrace each other and apologize. Then, to the one who had thrown the bottle that injured Fatima’s fingers, he indicated that he should apologize to her. A fat German came toward us and began apologizing to Fatima.
My father said to him from behind, “Kiss her hand, you donkey! Just like respectable men do to respectable ladies.”
The guy did so, smiling, and Fatima smiled while extending her hand. Everyone applauded, and my father called out to the music band, “Come, now! Let’s continue the party!”
The din and the dancing started up all over again. Then my father came back to Fatima and embraced her, saying, “My dear Fatumi, how are you?”
He examined her wrapped hand, and she said, “No, it’s nothing, just a light wound.”
He said to her, “You can go home, or to my place, or even to Saleem’s, if you want.”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine. I can stay here and take care of the receipts at least.”
“Fine, just as you like. In that case, have a seat. And whenever you feel pain or want to leave, just go.”
Then he spanked her on the butt and disappeared again into the middle of the crowd, his laughter rising above the noise.
I said to Fatima, “Where do you live?”
“In the Barajas district, near the airport.”
“And how do you get there every night then?”
“Sometimes I take a taxi, and if it’s late, I take the subway when the first train comes at six.”
“And Mr. Noah’s house?”
“It’s close to here, on the next street over.”
“In any case, if you want to go to your house, his house, or even my house, I’m happy to walk you there.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
I came out from behind the bar and sat back down in my place in front of her. After about an hour, I noticed that the atmosphere had come back to normal. The dancing and the drinking continued, and Fatima resumed punching in the receipts with her right hand, the smile never leaving her face. I wrote my address down for her on a paper napkin I took from the dispenser in front of me. Then I said goodbye to her and headed off for home.
CHAPTER 8
I couldn’t fall asleep until very late. I stayed up smoking and recalling what had happened, what I had learned that day about my father. So, he still had the Qur’an memorized. And he was proud to confess Grandfather’s method of naming in our family, which he considered to be names chosen for us by God.
He had made Fatima memorize the Cow Sura, yet he spanked her whenever she passed by him. And it was he who had raged like a bull and turned our entire life upside down on account of a guy grabbing my sister Istabraq’s butt.
He took charge of this incompatible multitude, yet he, throughout his life, left the management of our family, and even of his very self, to Grandfather. He would obey Grandfather without discussion, without even looking him in the eyes.
He now drank wine voraciously, yet he was the one who never left a prayer, a fast, or any religious duty unfulfilled. He lived with Rosa, and she wasn’t his wife. (And how exactly did he live with her after what the electric torture had done to his testicles?) His mouth poured out the coarsest of curses in all languages, yet he was the one who never uttered an offensive word in his life. He laughed the loudest of all those assembled, yet if he used to laugh, it wouldn’t be more than a smile because “if the upright believer laughs, he must not guffaw.”
I was thinking that there were two people inside my father. The person that he revealed back there was hiding here; the person that he revealed here was hiding back there. But he didn’t abandon either of them for good. Sometimes he injected one of them into the other.
And finally, what about the way Grandfather died!?
It had been Grandfather’s dream to construct what might be called “The Ideal City,” or at least “The Ideal Village.” The clash with the government furnished a suitable opportunity to put this dream into effect. To a large degree, he succeeded during the first two years after we moved. It was an ideal place for isolation: a peninsula that the river encircled on three sides, with the mountain on the fourth. He made the mosque the center of the village and the biggest, most important, and most beautiful of its buildings, even though it was just a large hall with a prayer niche. He attached to it a small room and a bathroom. He fashioned the shelves of its library by himself out of branches from willow and tamarisk trees, stacking all his books on them. He didn’t have more than fifty books, most of them containing religious or historical material or popular legends. In their entirety, they formed the sum of my first reading: I read them all as I had a lot of free time during those years.