Three years later, I learnt that Karima was pregnant again. ‘Let’s see where you end up this time!’ Sadiq joked.
‘Not Africa, I hope!’
‘But we’re there already!’
For me, it already didn’t matter. I was living in the middle of the desert — what else could possibly happen! The third child was a girl — Sumeia. ‘At last, a girl!’ We were all pleased. Three months after she was born, I was forced to leave Africa and head towards Europe, alone. My passport was due to expire soon. And living in the desert without a valid passport wasn’t a good idea.
At the end of my long journey, I landed in Germany, in Munich. Karima wrote, ‘Our Sumeia has a good kick too. You’re in Germany. Finally, you’ve found a good star. You can now find peace of mind. Sumeia deserves a German gift from you!’ I wrote back, ‘No more children, please. The fourth will probably send me to my grave. And your new star will soon receive her German gift.’
Many years passed. Iraq was ravaged by war again, Saddam’s dictatorial regime was destroyed and a new government created under the American occupation. Karima and her family returned to Iraq. Once again, they were dreaming of a new beginning. Karima got a job as a school inspector, Sadiq as a lecturer at the university. Still, they were unable to find peace of mind. Another new form of war was waiting for them. The old followers of the Ba’ath Party, Arab nationalists, the neighbouring Arab dictatorships, Islamic groups, the Iranians, the Turks, various Iraqi ethnic groups, the Americans and their allies and many others turned the streets of Baghdad, and a number of other Iraqi towns, into a blazing hell of bombings and street battles. Iraq was like a stadium in which every single team wanted to win the game. And so, once again, countless corpses in every corner and every hole of the country struck by disaster.
‘The stars don’t want to change,’ was Karima’s commentary on the situation facing Iraq. Sadiq was considering going into exile again. Instead, he reached for the phone. ‘Your sister’s pregnant again!’
‘What?’
‘It was a mistake. We’ve had a row and she’s with her family.’
‘How come? Why the row?’
‘I don’t want this child. What am I supposed to do with it, in this chaos?’
‘No idea! And what’s Karima saying?’
‘She wants it.’
‘I’ll speak to her and see what she says.’
Karima wanted the child and Sadiq was forced to accept it. In Germany, though, I was trembling and thinking, ‘Where will this child send me?’ The boy was born — Ayad. His kick wasn’t so hard. He only sent me from Munich to Berlin. Munich University was again demanding a load of paperwork, as is customary in Bavaria. Berlin, on the other hand, offered me uncomplicated admission to the Studienkolleg, a compulsory preparatory course for foreigners wishing to study. And so I went to Berlin for a year.
I never returned to a place. I always travelled on, and always when one of Karima’s children had given me a good kick. This time, though, I returned to Munich to finally begin studying properly. But who could have anticipated what a tragic blow my return would trigger!
At the end of August, the news reached me through the Arabian online press: ‘Karima Hamid, sister of Iraqi writer Rasul Hamid, wife of Iraqi literary critic Sadiq Hasan, and three of her children, Saber, Basem and Sumeia, have been killed in a terrorist attack in Baghdad. The survivors, her husband and her youngest child Ayad, were seriously injured.’
On the phone, I couldn’t find out much. ‘Bomb outside the house’ and ‘Who?’ and ‘Why?’ No one had any details. The police said, with a shrug, ‘unknown terrorist organization’. I’ve lived through countless terrible times but this was too much. I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, believe it. When their faces visited me for the first time, though, I knew they were no longer alive. Their faces — pale, sad, like all suffering faces — are now my constant companions. They don’t say much. Just that they miss me. Karima’s face, though, set me in a new dilemma, ‘We have changed fate and the stars.’
‘How?’
‘Simple. Saber is fifteen, Basem twelve and Sumeia eight. That makes thirty-five.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘That’s the thirty-five years the fortune-teller predicted for you.’
‘I don’t understand!’
‘You don’t have to.’
Karima would say no more. She’d just look at me, like the others. Since these new faces have begun coming to me, I’ve changed my opinion about dying. I’m no longer afraid. When death does come, I’ll open all my windows and doors and prepare to embrace it as I would a lover. I’ll be able to join the new faces and go to my eternal rest. I’m no longer afraid of the year in which I’ll die. I’m even looking forward to it. It will be the first time in my life when I won’t lose and I won’t cry. Instead, I’ll be lost and people will cry for me. And the faces will no longer haunt me and drive me to madness. Maybe, I’ll be a face myself and visit someone else.
If I’ve understood Karima correctly, though, I won’t have to die at thirty-five. That said, I’d like to reach a special goal and ask all the stars to allow me the time to do that. I want to — finally — finish writing my story. From the faces — via the miracles — to the birth. Or vice versa. The dedication has already been decided:
For those who, a second before they die,
still dream of two wings.
Epilogue
18.14. The childlike smile of my girlfriend, Sophie, awaits me on the platform in Munich. Her eyes light up when she sees me. She waves at me. It’s good to see her again, after the disturbing journey. A warm embrace, and we get straight into her car.
Should I tell her what happened? The whole thing with the manuscript, I mean. But what should I say? That I found a manuscript containing my story? Written by someone also called Rasul Hamid? And with no address or phone number on the envelope? Should I tell her I met a ghost called Rasul? That’s more, surely, than plain ‘unrealistic’. It’s ridiculous, even. ‘Will you go and see a psychiatrist, please!’ I can hear it already — the categorical imperative.
Finally, after supper, I excuse myself. Say I need some time on my own. I’m incredibly tired. .
I lie down on the couch and think about what I’ve experienced. A terrible nightmare. What sense am I supposed to make of all this? How could someone have written my story, put it in an envelope and then left it right next to — of all people — me? If someone stole my story, why did he make sure it got to me, of all people? And the many details that no one could know but me? How did he get hold of them? Even the handwriting is like mine, down to the last dot. Very tiny. Illegible, almost. And in pencil. He changed only a few names, the details of a few incidents. But that isn’t significant. It remains my story, only mine. And then the idea, the structure. My style, exactly. How did he manage to steal that? From my head? I hadn’t discussed it with anyone. So a lot of people knew of my plan to write my life story. But no one knew the exact approach — not even me, until recently. I’d thought about it for a long time. Again and again, I tried to find a form that would allow readers to begin wherever they liked. Each chapter would be a beginning and an ending. Self-contained, yet an essential part of the whole. A novel, a short story, a biography, a fairy tale — all brought together in one work. . That had been my — and only my — idea, damn it! And now, one of the many demons in my life had turned up, wanting to take it all from me. My life, my idea, even my soul?