He left the house in the evening and took the bus to Al-Saadoun Street. As he passed in front of the door of the Semiramis Cinema, he stopped briefly to read the declarations of war pasted beside posters of semi-naked actresses basking in the summer sun on a European beach. At that time, he became a regular visitor to a bar at the corner of the street. He went there almost every week, sitting alone and speaking to no one. He would watch the clusters of coloured lights coming from the music shops. He saw women standing in the rain at cinema box-offices. He smelt hamburgers coming from a nearby shop and the wet stones of Baghdad’s streets on a rainy evening. He’d be happy walking in his heavy coat, black gloves and grey scarf. He entered a music shop and bought a medium-quality violin. At that particular moment, he realized how much he loved this part of Al-Saadoun Street in winter. So he stopped some distance from the Al-Nasr Square buses, took a cigarette out of the packet and lit it in the cold, damp air. He blew out the smoke and looked straight ahead at the street. He walked on until he reached the tunnel leading to the eastern gate. There he discovered a very different city. He was appalled by the posters for the war effort. Deep in his heart, he felt that the longer the war continued the more barbaric and deadly it would become.
Baghdad, unlike Damascus and Tehran, was a cosmopolitan city. There were foreigners almost everywhere and women went about the streets dressed in modern clothes until the small hours. There was a bar on almost every corner of Al-Saadoun Street; even shawerma restaurants served draught beer with sandwiches. The cinemas showed the latest movies, and the walls displayed posters for concerts like any modern metropolis. Plays and operas from around the world were performed at the most prestigious theatres in the Middle East. But Kamal Medhat sensed that behind the modern, civilized veneer of the city lurked flagrant examples of decay and death. He sensed that the soul of the old city was fretting and moaning because its powerful imagination was being bridled and suppressed by the political rhetoric of tyranny.
When he got home, he found Nadia sitting embroidering a dress for the baby she was expecting. He placed the stand near the large window overlooking the garden and began to play. That day, he wanted to regain his skill and recover his technique through various exercises on the violin. He soon found himself responding emotionally to the instrument, swaying as he used to do in the past. His heart thumped with pure joy as though he were under the influence of opium.
The Opium Concerto was the piece he’d composed on his return from Tehran in the late fifties. It was his most beautiful creation, but it had been confiscated together with his books and documents after his expulsion to Tehran. What if it was resurrected once again? He tried to recall the basic melody and introduce new variations. This was what he told Farida in one of his letters. But it’s clear that he went back to his old habit of watching trees and flowers as a way of feeling the music of the universe.
Kamal Medhat played the music as he looked at the garden. He saw the trees with their huge trunks and their long branches towering tall and magnificent. The lush green colour emphasized the will to life, while wars emphasized the wills of their individual perpetrators. Wars were the conflict of different wills, embodying destruction and death. That night Kamal could not sleep. His soul was ablaze with the violin and he felt happy and fulfilled. He wanted to take a long walk in the rain, so he went out in his raincoat and strolled along Baghdad’s wet streets. He sat on a bench in Al-Zawraa Park, his back turned to the cars and the buildings. He sat under the pouring rain the whole night, until his shoes became soaking wet. When the sun came up, he wandered a little in the park till he reached Al-Mansour Street, where he stopped in front of a man selling tea. The man had a large white moustache whose ends were yellowish from smoking. Kamal ordered a cup of cardamom tea and began to take one sip after another.
After a break from music of nearly three years he went gradually back to practising and playing.
Through practice his fingers, which had become rigid and stiff, began to grow supple, light and flexible. What was he going to do now? He was back in Baghdad, but what was he going to do? During this period his wife Nadia gave birth to a son, Omar. But like most artists, Kamal felt that children were of no great importance to him. The questions of art and work continued to plague him, until he was introduced to a Russian pianist, Maria Ivanova, who played in the large hall of the Sheraton Hotel. He began to accompany her on the violin at this place that was more of a café than a concert hall. The customers talked, drank and laughed as Kamal Medhat stood tall in his black suit and long hair, playing music and accompanied by the twenty-year old Ivanova, who wore a long dress with a slit that reached up to the thigh.
Kamal stood in front of Maria Ivanova as she bent over the piano and played. He stood tall, with his dark face and light, greying beard inclining as he slid his bow over the strings. He was much happier with the music than he was at being in a hall full of chattering people.
One day, a couple were sitting in the corner, listening to the music of this astonishing violinist who swayed with his violin like an accomplished dancer. This tall man with the greying beard and hair was no ordinary musician, for he never kept still while he played. He plucked the strings with tremendous force, moving his bow and turning this way and that. He leaned forward and produced exquisite, plaintive sounds amidst the noise of people drinking and laughing. The Russian pianist worked hard to keep up with this skilful violinist who swayed from side to side and produced such beautiful and technically accomplished music.
The young couple got up and came towards him.
‘Who are you?’ the young man asked in surprise.
A trembling Kamal Medhat stood stock still. His heart fluttered like a little squirrel within his chest. He felt that somebody had discovered his identity and wanted to arrest him. He realized his mistake in expressing himself through music, for his skilfulness might betray him. His talent, if discovered, would lead people to ask who he was. But it was music that tempted him to display his skills in front of Maria Ivanova.
‘Kamal Medhat,’ he said in a low voice.
The young man extended his hand to shake his. ‘I’m Amjad Mustafa, a violinist,’ he said, ‘and this is my wife Widad, a cellist at the Symphony Orchestra.’
‘Lovely to meet you,’ he said, out of breath.
‘I’ve never seen such ability or such technical competence. Where did you learn your music?’
‘In Russia,’ he said reluctantly.
‘I studied in Budapest, at the Franz Liszt Conservatory.’ He stressed the word Liszt, then added, ‘May I give you my phone number? I would love to see you.’
Kamal Medhat placed the scrap of paper in the pocket of his black jacket, adjusted his red bow tie and went back to Maria Ivanova, who was enchanted by the way that he swayed and danced while playing the violin. He wasn’t, in fact, playing music at all. He was dancing and making love to the instrument. He held it gently as though it were a woman, swayed with it as though he were kissing her, rising with her as she responded to him. He would probe deep inside her and mount higher and higher with her until he reached the zenith.
During the interval, Kamal Medhat went with Maria Ivanova to her room upstairs for an hour’s rest before returning to the hall. He stood in front of the low table, opened a bottle of vodka and poured himself a glass. Then he poured another for her in the cut-crystal glass. He turned to her and asked, ‘Would you like a drink?’