My mother told me to donate my first month’s salary to Father, as tradition dictated. I did so, but he pushed my hand away and said, “Give it to your mother.” My mother refused to take it — so I gave her fifty dinars as a gift that day. I used to give her a good amount of my income every month and told her to spend it on herself. Our economic situation wasn’t that good, but Father owned the house, so our monthly expenses were less of a burden than for others.
My mother said that she was going to save the money I was slipping her for my dowry.
I laughed and said: “Who told you I intend to marry?”
“Sooner or later you will, my son.”
When my brother Ammoury came back on leave from the front line, I told him what had happened. He scolded me because I had spoken of my plans with Father without awaiting his return. He would have known how to talk to Father and convince him, he said, or at least soften his reaction to my decision. Ammoury knew well that I could no longer deal with the mghaysil and its corpses. I also told him that the wages I would make from painting were twice what my father would have paid me.
Ammoury told Father that there was no sense my doing something if my heart wasn’t in it. As long as I was doing something decent, he added, why not painting? He reminded Father of his own words: that in washing bodies, volition is crucial. How could I wash if I possessed no desire to do so, he asked. Ammoury made him see reason, but Father never forgave me for straying from the path.
Firas, the friend I painted with, had a great sense of humor. Although the work hours were long, they passed quickly. His father was in charge of the work and coordinated between the owners of the houses and the workers. He provided the supplies, paints, instructions, and other details. Most of the houses we worked on were newly built and unfurnished. Their owners had yet to move in.
A third coworker, Salam, was a bit older than both of us, and seasoned. He was the one who mixed the paints. If it was an old house, before we started painting, we would scrape the walls with sandpaper and fill any cracks. We would start with a coat of primer and then add the second one. I enjoyed the various stages of the process, but especially seeing how beautiful and spotless the walls and ceilings were when we were done.
After my military service, I was appointed as an arts teacher in Ba’quba. The salary was barely enough to cover one week’s transportation to and from work. Why was I so naïve as to nurture the illusion that I could make a living as an artist, especially during the years of the embargo? There were some artists who were selling their paintings to foreigners. The number of foreigners had dwindled, but some journalists, diplomats, and activists still visited Baghdad and frequented the Hiwar gallery, looking for artwork. Artists also sold to Iraqi expats returning for a visit. However, most preferred traditional works or natural landscapes over abstract art. And so I began to feel bored and bitter in the late 1990s, especially as we were painting the houses of the nouveaux riches who had acquired obscene amounts of wealth by exploiting the embargo.
When I started painting houses, I’d thought that I’d only use those thick-bristled brushes temporarily before returning to the fine and feathery ones with which I felt more intimacy. But instead of the blank canvases that I could color any way I wanted and on which I could spread my imaginative visions, I found myself, for years on end, reduced to using no more than two or three colors. Pale colors on cold and monotonous surfaces. Surfaces without details or surprises, except for the odd electric switch panel or the occasional hook for a chandelier. At times a stupid fly would buzz into the sticky surface of paint and struggle there for a few seconds before dying.
TWENTY-TWO
Father rarely mentioned my uncle Sabri, who was eight years his junior. The few times the topic of Communists and their clashes with Ba’thists came up, he would say: “Sabri’s people.” Uncle Sabri used to visit us every now and then when I was a kid and would sleep on the floor of the guest room. He was a jovial man who always filled my pockets with sweets and played soccer with Ammoury and me in the street in front of our house. He was obsessed with the al-Zawra’ team and he told me that I, too, would one day become a Zawra’ fan. He was right.
The first time I attended a soccer match was with him. I was only eight years old. We went to the opening game of the national league season. I don’t remember why Ammoury didn’t come with us that day. It was scorching hot and there were throngs of people when we got out of the car at the Sha’b stadium. After standing in a long line, my uncle bought two pink-colored tickets for the south of the stadium. Then we stood in another line with lots of pushing and shoving to get inside. A man standing at the gate tore the two tickets in half. We made our way in and climbed to our seats in the bleachers.
The seats were beginning to fill up with fans. Some of them sang and others were beating drums. Uncle Sabri chose a spot high up, next to a group of fans carrying the white flags of Zawra’. From that spot, the field looked like a beautiful green rectangle. My uncle spread newspapers on the concrete seats and we sat down and waited for the game to start.
When the al-Zawra’ players emerged from the underground locker rooms wearing their traditional white jerseys, everyone got up. The stadium filled with applause and cheers. Uncle Sabri lifted me high so I could see. The entire team stood in the middle circle, and the players raised their arms to salute the fans on the opposite side. Chants rose. When they turned around and faced us, the applause grew even stronger. They took the field, warming up, passing balls to each another or taking shots on goal. I saw a group of photographers surrounding a bald player wearing the number eight. I asked my uncle about him. “That’s Falah Hasan, the fox of Iraqi soccer,” he said.
Suddenly I heard everyone around us booing and someone yelled: “Tayaran are sacks.” I figured that they were heckling the opponent, Tayaran, who wore blue. But I couldn’t understand “sacks.” My uncle explained: “It means we will score so often they will be like sacks full of goals.” My uncle put his hand on my head and stroked my hair saying: “You are a diehard Zawra’ fan already.”
After a scoreless first half, Falah Hasan scored with a header in the first few minutes of the second. My uncle was ecstatic and lifted me again so I could see the players hugging one another. But our joy was short-lived, because Tayaran equalized with a penalty kick. The game ended in a draw, and my uncle called the referee blind: the Tayaran striker had faked being fouled to win the penalty kick, he said. The fans chanted “Zawra’, Zawra”’ as we left the stadium. We walked to al-Andalus Square to catch a bus back to Kazimiyya.
I was still excited after the match and told my parents all about it and about the stadium. Father got fed up and said “Enough! You are giving me a headache with your Zawra’. God!”
My uncle took me to Zawra’ games many times, and once he took me to Madinat al-Al’ab park. He and Father loved each other, but sometimes they would argue passionately about things I couldn’t understand. I was ten when he visited us the last time. He would always hug and kiss me upon arrival and departure. But that time I glimpsed a sadness and clouds in his eyes when he kissed me goodbye, saying: “Don’t forget your uncle.”