The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (19 page)

My desire for Ghayda’ increased every day. I felt that she was drawn to me, too, but I never mustered enough courage to make a move. I didn’t want to complicate my life and stir up family problems. My intense desire gave free rein to my imagination. My body would thirst for her and be watered by her. It would flow and drown, for her. All while I was asleep in my own bed, which I never thought I might share with her one day.

I woke up one night from a nightmare feeling thirsty. As usual, there was no electricity, so I lit a candle and took it downstairs to the kitchen. Ghayda’ rushed toward me and I suddenly found her hugging me and burying her head in my chest, whispering “I’m scared, Jawad, very scared.” The candle fell and its flame went out. I put my arms around her and asked her softly, “What is scaring you?”

“Nightmares.”

I put my right hand on her head and caressed her hair and said, “Don’t be scared. It’s over now.”

Her breasts pressed against my chest and the warmth in her body flowed into mine. I kissed her head and smelled the henna in her hair. I felt my erection pushing against her. Her lips were kissing my neck. She looked up. I kissed her forehead, but she lifted her head higher and I felt she was on her toes. I wiped a few tears off her cheek. She touched my left cheek. I kissed her wrist and felt her warm breath on my chin.

I kissed her lips lightly and she responded. Our lips met more forcefully. I sucked her upper lip voraciously while my hands caressed her back. She held onto me. My tongue wandered into her
mouth, and she gently bit it. I kissed her cheek and took her earlobe between my lips. She was tickled and swayed like a branch.

The trouble that would erupt if we were exposed flashed into my mind. Her brother was a few meters away and her mother just upstairs. I told myself that I had to stop before it was too late. I put my hand on her cheek. I kissed her one last time on the mouth and whispered in her ear, “I’m sorry.”

She put her head on my chest and said, “I’m not.”

I caressed her hair a bit and then said, “OK, good night.”

She didn’t answer. I left the kitchen and made my way upstairs in the dark. I got back into bed and was gripped by mixed feelings of pleasure and regret. I retrieved our images kissing and started to touch myself. I heard the door opening slowly and she was right there. She closed the door behind her. I got up and stood in front of her.

“I want to sleep next to you,” she whispered.

I hugged her and we kissed. I locked the door and took her to my bed. I took her T-shirt off and kissed her between her breasts. She dropped her sweatpants and they fell at her feet. I touched her underwear and it was drenched. I pushed her to my bed and she lay on her back. I kissed her everywhere, compensating for the years I’d squandered. Her skin felt very soft, and warm to my tongue.

She took the initiative and explored my body with her fingers and mouth. When I took off her underwear she didn’t stop me. She was shaved. I tried to kiss her in between her thighs, but she pushed my head away gently and whispered, “Not today.”

With fingers and hands we made each other shudder, the need for silent secrecy increasing our ecstasy. Afterward, I had to be strict and tell her to go back to her bed before daybreak. She bit my lip and hurt me a bit as she said goodbye.

We had our own secret world every night between two and four in the morning, fleeing from our nightmares to each other’s bodies. It was a world bordered by danger and the fear of scandal. One night she whispered coquettishly, “Do whatever you want with my body, but not from the front.” It was reasonable for her to preserve her capital in a society like ours. The first part of what she said—“Do
whatever you want”—triggered a volcano in my body. We did everything but fully unite our bodies. I played in the taboo zone with my finger and gave my offerings with my tongue.

Her nocturnal presence reminded me that life can be generous, if only for a few hours a day. I found myself singing out loud for the first time in years while I was walking home. I often wished that the entire world would dissolve, including our mothers, society and its traditions, and the entire country. I would look at my hand after touching her breast and could not believe that a few hours later it would touch the body of another man. Her naked body started to flash in my mind as I washed, and often I felt guilty.

“Take me,” she would say. When I pretended not to know what she meant and asked “Where to?” she would say, “To you.” I asked her once, “What do you want with me? I’m too old for you and will be a useless troll in twenty years.” “Why do you think they invented Viagra?” she said and laughed wholeheartedly.

She liked to chat after we were done making love, but I wanted to feel the pleasure of emptiness—which never lasted long and which I felt should never be interrupted by anything. I was more concerned than she that we would be discovered, and I would urge her to go back to her room lest her brother wake up and find her gone. She would cling to me and say that he was a deep sleeper. She usually put two pillows under the blanket to make it look like she was there.

When my mother, who must’ve noticed that Ghayda’ and I liked each other, asked me what I thought of her, I could smell a conspiracy to have us get married.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” she asked me.

“Yes, she is. Why?”

“Do you like her?”

“Why do you ask?”

“If you like her, I can ask her mom.”

“Hold on a second. Who told you I wanted to get married?”

“What do you mean, son? Are you gonna be single forever? I wanna be happy before I die.”

“You have a long life ahead of you.”

She usually shook her head and put her hand on her cheek after these conversations.

My entire body was full of Ghayda’, but my heart was full of death. She started to say “I love you.” I would stay silent and just kiss her. She thought that I was still in love with Reem. More than once she asked, “Is she still in your heart?” I would answer her truthfully, “I don’t have a heart anymore.”

I told her that she should protect her heart. Should I have told her the truth? Did I know it? All I knew was that I was tired of myself and of everything around me. I knew that my heart was a hole one could pass through but never reside in. I desired her and wanted her and wanted to be with her, but I was drained. I was not material for marriage or a family.

Two and a half months after our bodies had met in the dark, Ghayda’s maternal uncle called. He asked her mother to go to Amman with the children so he could arrange their asylum application. He lived in Sweden, which he told her was much more receptive to Iraqi refugees than other countries. He could serve as a guarantor. Ghayda’ was unhappy.

She asked me again, “Don’t you want me?”

This question killed me. “Yes,” I said. “I want you, but I cannot get married.”

“You’re a coward,” she said. It was the only time she ever insulted me.

For the first few weeks after they were gone, her scent lingered in my bed, but then I slowly returned to my habit of solitude. Should I have clung to her? Could I have? We talked on Skype a few times after they left. She would text message me every now and then.

Her voice sounded sad the last time we spoke on Skype. I had told her that I was thinking of leaving Iraq for good and that I might come to Amman in a month or two in order to get asylum or a scholarship. My mom was going to live with my sister. I thought this would make her happy since we would see each other soon, but she said nothing.

“Why are you silent?” I asked her.

“You used to be silent so often when we were together. Don’t I have the right to be silent?” Then she added: “Our asylum application was accepted and we are going to Sweden in a few weeks to live with my uncle.”

We were both silent and then she asked me a question I couldn’t answer: “Why did you let me go?”

Mahdi and I were sitting in the side room when we heard knocks. Mahdi went to open the door. A voice murmured, confirming that this was the
mghaysil.
I got up and stood at the door. A man in his early fifties came in with two younger men who looked like him. He looked well to do and was carrying a black bag. I welcomed them.

“We have a dead man we want to wash and shroud,” he said.

“Sure. Where is the corpse?” I asked.

One of the two young men lowered his head. The other looked at me. The older man extended the hand holding the black bag and said in a trembling voice: “We have only the head.”

I stood silent for about twenty seconds and couldn’t say anything. I had washed a corpse with its severed head a few months ago, but this was the first time I got a head by itself.

“God help you. I’m very, very sorry.” I took the black sack from him and put it on the washing bench. It made a thud. I pointed to the bench next to the wall and asked them to sit there. The sorrowful young man said, “I’m gonna wait outside, Dad.” The other young man walked over and sat on the bench, but the old man stood near the washing bench.

“How are you related?” I asked.

“He’s my son.”

“May God have mercy on his soul.”

“May he have mercy on the souls of your dead.”

I didn’t ask him for the death certificate. I thought about asking him about the cause of death, but then changed my mind. It would only cause him more grief.

“What was his name?”

“Habib.”

I went to the faucet and washed my hands and arms. I took out plenty of cotton and scissors and put them on the table near the cupboard. Mahdi washed his hands and arms and started to fill a big bowl with water. I took the scissors to the washing bench and started cutting through the sack from the top down. The right side of the head appeared. The black hair was kinky and dirty. The skin was pale yellow and his beard was unshaved. I put my hand inside the sack. The head felt like thick plastic and I was disgusted. I took the head out of the sack, but then didn’t know how to place it on the washing bench. I tried to place it as if it were still attached to its body, but it tilted to the side, and its cheek rested on the bench.

The man sighed and said, “There is no power save in God Almighty.” The young man sitting on the bench covered his eyes and lowered his head.

Mahdi put the bowl on a stool next to the bench and mixed in the ground lotus leaves. A lather formed and he put the small pouring bowl on the surface of the water. Mahdi was stunned as well, looking at the head. The edges of the severed neck were yellowish like the rest of the face. I could see the tattered skin tissue and flesh and the dried pink and gray ends of blood vessels. There was a huge scar on his right cheek and a black spot on his forehead. I had to turn the head to the other side so we could start washing its right side.

As I poured the water, I wondered about the torture he had suffered right before his head was severed. What was the last thought that went through his head? Could he see, or did they deprive him of the right to face his killers? Could he hear what they were saying? Why, and in what or whose name, did they sever it? Was he a victim of the sectarian war or just thugs?

The head was going to move if I didn’t hold it myself. I asked Mahdi to pour the water. I repeated, “Forgiveness, forgiveness,” and held the head with my left hand and scrubbed the hair on the right side with my right hand. I washed and scrubbed every part carefully from the forehead all the way to the neck, as Mahdi poured the
water. A few clots of dried blood fell off the neck. I turned the head to the other side and repeated the scrubbing. As usual, we washed it once more with camphor and then with water alone. I dried it and put cotton in the nostrils and a lot of cotton around the neck, but it kept falling off. I decided to hold it in place later with a cloth.

Mahdi dried the bench. I put camphor on the forehead, nose, and cheeks. Mahdi brought the shroud. I folded it twice and placed it on the bench and sprinkled some camphor on it. I took the head and put it in the middle of the shroud. I asked Mahdi to cut a big piece of cloth to tie around the head. I held the head with my left hand and put one end of the cloth at the top and pressed down on it with my other hand. I asked Mahdi to put wads of cotton on the neck and hold it in place. I tied the cloth around the neck and the head twice and then put it under the chin. He was all covered in white except for the closed eyes, nose, mouth, and part of the cheeks. There was obviously no need for all three pieces of the shroud we usually use, so I just used a second one to wrap around the head and we tied it with a strap.

I was about to ask the old man whether they wanted a coffin, then realized how silly that might sound. Mahdi was looking at me, waiting for my signal, so I pointed to the corner where the coffins are stacked. We went there and brought one and put it on the floor. This was one of the few times I had not needed Mahdi’s help to carry a man. During the past two years, I had carried the children I washed and put them in their coffins while Mahdi watched.

I carried the shrouded head and placed it in the coffin. I forgot to include a branch of pomegranate or palm. Mahdi brought the cover and I covered it and said to the old man, “God have mercy on his soul.” The young man got up from the bench and approached. The old man thanked me and, after paying the fees, suddenly said, “Do you know what they did to him?”

“Who?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said and proceeded to tell me the story of the head and the man to whom it belonged.

“He was an engineer. They kidnapped him and for two weeks we
didn’t know anything about him. We went to every police station and hospital asking about him. One morning, we woke up and found this sack right at our doorstep. His mother found it. She opened it and had a nervous breakdown and hasn’t been the same since. They had a note with it saying: ‘If you want the rest you must pay twenty thousand U.S. Dollars. Call this number.’ We called for two days, but no one answered. Finally someone answered and said to meet them right behind Madinat al-Al’ab. We borrowed and sold things, but could only get ten thousand. My two sons went to the meeting, and the kidnappers threatened them. They took the money and said they would deposit the rest of the body in front of the house, but they never showed up, and all we have is his head. Can you imagine? Which religion or creed allows such a thing? Does God allow this?”