Nadia al-Amiry was a deranged, pretentious woman, who bequeathed her arrogance to her son Omar. Nevertheless, she flattered Kamal as if she were a servant and would never embarrass him. She dedicated her life to raising her son, while Kamal was engrossed in his friendships, affairs and his love of art, while neglecting everything else. But Janet’s murder transformed the lives of the two families entirely.
It’s clear that Widad and Amjad reached a point where they could no longer go on together. Nobody knew whether Kamal was responsible for the rift, but everybody confirmed that Amjad’s relationship with Kamal was not affected. This implies that the breakup happened for other reasons, related to the nature of Widad and Amjad’s relationship. Widad got divorced from Amjad and after a while emigrated to the United States. One day, Widad got in touch with Nadia al-Amiry, who was spending the summer with her son Omar in Beirut, as usual, and suggested they meet in Beirut. It was the summer of 1990. She received Widad’s letter a week before her departure. Widad actually went to see Nadia at the Hilton Hotel on Al-Hamra Street. Nadia was sitting in the lobby when a woman came up and said hello. Nadia didn’t recognize her, because Widad had become very fat. She’d cut her hair so short that her scalp showed through and her eyes were lacklustre and empty. She confessed that she’d been unfaithful to her husband and committed adultery. But she didn’t deny that her love for Kamal was overpowering and destructive.
When Nadia returned to Baghdad, she was bitterly angry with Kamal. Her anger grew when she saw the huge transformation in Amjad Mustafa. He’d become flabby and was doing the rounds from one nightclub to another, staying up late and drinking too much.
During that time, Baghdad was commemorating its victory over Iran and the celebrations continued for a whole week. Kamal Medhat stood in front of Saddam Hussein for the second time on Victory Day, before the Arch of Triumph that had been erected by Saddam for the anniversary. Near the Arch the helmets of the defeated Iranian soldiers were piled up. Saddam was extremely happy and his eyes gleamed with the joy of victory. It was the first time that Kamal could scrutinize Saddam’s face. His eyes were jaundiced and twinkling, and his dark face had a yellow hue. Everything about him suggested order. When he smiled it was from the left corner of his mouth. The lips parted, revealing a section of his teeth, while his eyes remained fixed on the person in front of him. The place was deathly silent. But Kamal wasn’t afraid of him, even though he knew that this was a man who would stop at nothing. He was a force moving forward and capable of demolishing anything that stood in its way. He wasn’t a mythical creature, but he was strong and had powerful instincts. A number of artists, playwrights, writers, architects and physicians were among those who were offering their congratulations. At the beginning, Kamal counted down from ten to zero, in order to conceal his confusion. He advanced towards Saddam. Forgetting himself, he bowed his head while shaking hands, as he often did at a musical performance.
‘Good to see you,’ he said to Kamal, ‘we want you at a private party, to play music for us at the presidential palace in celebration of Victory Day.’
‘With pleasure, Sir,’ he said, smiling.
He later explained to Farida the exchange between him and the president, making the following remark: ‘I looked at the president, who was flushed with the victory he’d achieved. His eyes sparkled and his face was cheerful. He must have been extremely happy because he’d crushed his adversary, while Khomeini, who’d been defeated, had to swallow poison. I ask myself what happiness means. Those politicians always follow their instinctive feelings. They enjoy the pleasures of life to the utmost and take ruthless revenge for the slightest offence. Their anger is bitter and their demolition of their enemies is brutal. As far as I’m concerned, I feel nothing. Music gives me a kind of comfortable oblivion that drives away all the fear and anxiety I have felt throughout my life.
‘You may ask me about the person who caused Tahira’s death and the disappearance of my son, Hussein, the person responsible for destroying my whole life. Do I have a sense of malice towards him? Do I want revenge? Never. I have no such feelings. All my feelings can be summed up by the Iraqi song that you loved so much: “If I cannot take revenge myself, God can.”’
Kamal Medhat pushed the violin under his chin and held it with a supple arm. He looked at the bright sun and the swimming pool in the presidential palace. He was tempted to remove his clothes and take a dip in the water.
The president laughed with his guests, while Kamal felt some pain in his fingers as he pressed on the strings. The spirit of music was gone from the instrument and it seemed to produce an unfeeling moan. Mozart was no doubt turning in his grave because the musician didn’t feel the music but was obliged to continue producing the notes nonetheless. Nobody paid any attention to Kamal. All he had to do was to play louder. He thought of Mozart, who played music for the king in the morning and in the afternoon sat at the servants’ table and played for them at the orders of the chef, the king of the kitchen.
When Kamal Medhat performed in front of an audience, he soared with the sounds until he became totally oblivious to everything around him. His body, however, remained firmly on the ground like a dead shell. At the end of his performance, he felt that his music had washed his soul clean. But at the presidential palace, he felt absolutely nothing. He had just one desire, to take off his clothes in front of the guests and jump into the swimming pool.
In a letter he sent to Farida, he told her that he was the person who’d advised Saddam Hussein to invite the architect Venturi to take part in the competition to build a mosque in Baghdad. Venturi was the indisputable master of architectural kitsch.
What made him give Saddam this advice?
The only reason was that Kamal Medhat realized, both intuitively and rationally, that Saddam Hussein, whose tastes were so populist in nature, would admire the work of the most brilliant architect in the world. Venturi was an artist who endowed vulgarity, populism and earthiness with a high aesthetic value. Kamal Medhat might have realized, too, that the grand design that Venturi created for San Francisco’s cafés was not the model likely to attract the president’s attention. But the popular touch that he might add to the mosque would undoubtedly make the design attractive to Saddam Hussein, whose taste by that time was very cheap. The mosque would be a place of worship in the first place, but it would also be a Western work that appealed to popular taste. It would become a place combining modern, Western and popular cultures, a place where more than thirty thousand worshippers would pray. It would represent an architectural leap forward along the lines of the president’s desires and dreams.
Venturi entered the hall of the presidential palace.
The president stood at the centre, a huge bookcase behind him. A large chandelier hung from the high ceiling. There were luxurious sets of upholstered and high-backed chairs. Special guards without berets stood around. Thick, black moustaches covered the mouths of the guests. Venturi stood in the middle of a large circle of architects that included the Spaniard Ricardo Bofill and Jean Pondo, and behind him was a group of Iraqi architects and painters as well as Kamal Medhat in his black suit and bow tie. The model for Venturi’s mosque was on display in front of the president.
It had a high, decorative dome that was borrowed from classical Islamic architecture and a pastiche of Orientalist images taken from Hollywood movies and novels about Baghdad. The dome looked like a huge tree standing in a courtyard. It was bright and airy, providing shade to the prayer area and the worshippers beneath. The new mosque was a colossal structure that looked like a casino. It paid tribute to popular taste while downplaying the stark solemnity of the traditional mosque. Entry into the mosque was meant to be as joyous as stepping into a restaurant or a nightclub.