“When?”
“Al-Sahhaf came here to broadcast a live speech from the studio. An hour later the building was bombed.”
“And nothing happened to the other buildings?”
“No, but they torched the library and all the air conditioners were stolen.”
“Who stole them, who torched the library?”
“I really don’t know, son. No one does. I couldn’t be here when the bombing was going on. It was very dangerous. But when I returned, I saw they were gone. The rooms had locks and the locks were not broken. So those who stole them knew. Thank God some of the students came back to clean away the rubble and put things back together.”
“Are any of the professors here?”
“No, none are here today.”
“Excuse me. I’d like to go inside and see.”
“Sure, sure. Go ahead.”
I walked to the library. The iron door had been unhinged and lay a few meters away. There were pieces of rubble and metal scattered around it. I stood at the entrance and a strange smell assaulted my nose. The desk that the librarian usually sat behind was still in its place, but her chair was gone. Most of the rectangular blocks of the thick stained glass wall were hollowed out by the heat of the fire. Some of the blocks had melted and changed shape. The ceiling was covered with soot. I took two steps inside and went to the left where the book stacks used to stand. I felt a pang in my ribs when I saw heaps of ash everywhere.
I remembered the hours I had spent reading and leafing through glossy art books here. This is where I had been captured by the works of Degas, Renoir, Rembrandt, Kandinsky, Miró, Modigliani, and Chagall, de Kooning, Bacon, Monet, and Picasso. This is where I spent hours poring over images of statues by Rodin and Giacometti, my beloved Giacometti.
I stood there for ten minutes, letting my eyes wander, then walked toward the audiovisual arts department. I passed by the bench where Reem and I had sat many times. Two students were perched on it. I greeted them in passing. I saw the face of Picasso, which occupied the wall of the department of plastic arts to the right. His features looked sterner that day.
The front wall of the audiovisual department had collapsed in its entirety. The rubble was piled in front of the building, blocking the first floor. I climbed through the debris. When I got to a point high enough to see into the building, it looked like a corpse that had been skinned and then had its entrails burnt and its ribs exposed. The studio was charred and both the ceiling and floor had collapsed. The hall next door had scores of burned film reels scattered across its floor. I jumped over and went to the left. I could see the projection room. Its floor was charred and parts of the collapsed ceiling and shards of glass glittered in the sunlight. The empty seats and walls, which had witnessed so much before, were now blinded by blackness.
I climbed back over the mound of rubble and felt the wreckage I’d been carrying inside me mount even higher, suffocating my heart. I passed by the department of plastic arts. Its building was intact except for the windows. The glass had been shattered and the air conditioners removed from their metal racks. Before leaving I said goodbye to the doorman and asked him to tell Professor al-Janabi that I’d asked after him.
TWENTY
I’m standing next to a washing bench. It isn’t in the mghaysil, but rather in some other place I’ve never visited. There are high ceilings, but no windows. There are neon lights, some of which blink. The bench is very long. It extends for tens of meters and has a white conveyor belt. Bodies are stacked on it. The belt moves toward the right and leads to a huge opening, and outside men wearing blue overalls and white gloves carry the bodies and throw them into a huge truck. Scores of water faucets protrude from the wall, each with an empty washbasin and a bowl under it. I hear a voice yelclass="underline" “What are you waiting for?”
I turn to look for the voice and see Father sitting on a chair in the corner, his worry beads in his hand. Again the question: “What are you waiting for?” But now it comes from a different direction. I turn and see Father in another corner. I rush to the closest faucet to open it, but there is no water. The same happens with all the other faucets. I look everywhere, but Father has disappeared from every corner. The corpses keep moving to the opening on the conveyer belt.
TWENTY-ONE
The beginning of the summer break after my first year at the academy had been a pivotal point in my confrontations with Father. I’d agreed that I wouldn’t work with him during the school year in order to focus on my studies, but that I would be by his side during my summer breaks. But after my first year of studies, I became convinced that I should channel all my energies on art and not go back to the suffocating atmosphere of the mghaysil—no matter what. I’d heard from one of my colleagues about the possibility of getting work as a house painter. He said it paid well, and I figured it could help me buy my art supplies. I could even contribute a bit to expenses at home.
Father came back from work one evening soon after I had passed my final exams and said: “Come on! Haven’t you had enough rest already? When are you coming to work?”
I told him that this was something I wanted to discuss with him.
He stood at the door of the living room, his worry beads in his hand. “What is going on?”
“One of my friends … his father is a contractor. He paints houses. He has work for me this summer and it pays well.”
Father frowned. He looked down and then stared me right in the eye and said: “Why would you want to do that? You have a good job with me.”
“I thought I’d just give it a try for a few days and see.”
“Do you even know how to paint?”
“It doesn’t take much, Father. He said he’d teach me.”
Father’s disappointment was visible on his face: “So that’s what it comes down to? A painter? I’ve been waiting all these years for someone to help me out on the job and ease my burden.”
“It’s just for the summer. And I’ll help out with expenses here at home.”
He repeated the word “painter” again as if it were a disgrace.
“What’s wrong with it?” I said. “It’s a decent job.”
“And our profession isn’t decent? Not good enough for you, is it? My father, my grandfather, and his grandfather all did it. Now you’re too good for us. Well, thanks ever so much.”
He went into the hall on his way to the stairs. My mother had overheard our conversation and came in from the kitchen to ask what was the matter.
“Your son would rather be a painter than do what I do,” he told her as he climbed the stairs.
She asked: “Is that true, Jawad?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Why, son? Your father needs you to be by his side.”
“What? Is it so shameful to work as a painter?”
I got out of the chair, turned the TV off, and went out for a walk. I wanted to avoid the tense atmosphere which would continue all evening if my father and I stayed in the same room. I hadn’t expected him to be happy with my decision, but I didn’t think he would be totally surprised. He must have known that this day was coming. It’s impossible that he didn’t sense that I had lost all interest in his line of work. Once when I was young I had asked whether he had ever thought of closing the mghaysil or selling it when the war with Iran came to an end and Ammoury would be discharged and able to practice medicine. He said he would never retire and that his work wasn’t some ordinary job but rather a way to gain favor with God. He said that I would inherit the job from him just as he’d inherited it from his father, and his father from his.