Book of Accounts (Installment #6)

Only one thing had given Abdul Rahman more pleasure than the accounts ledger. Zubeida. Darling Zubi. His daughter — sweet canary — on whom he had doted from the minute of her birth. But since fleeing Baghdad — was it truly two full years now? — Abdul Rahman had not permitted himself more than a sliver of reminiscence. Probably because the memories which swirled up inside of him, like black windy currents, were too painful to control. And Abdul Rahman was a man who prided himself on self-control. Since being on the run he could not allow anything, not even a few moments with his beloved Zubeida, to distract him from the task of staying alive. But here he was trapped. I am in the hands of others. For the moment. And he was glad. Now there was no good reason why for just a few minutes he could not visit his angel, Zubi. There was no photo of Zubeida. Not in the accounts ledger or in any other album. In fact, he had only ever kept one photograph of his daughter, but that, like the rest of his life, seemed lost and beyond recovery. The photograph, like a buried treasure, had lain hidden in the top right drawer of his desk under lock and key. For weeks on end he had drawn pleasure from the fundamental assurance that it was there. The mere knowledge of its existence gladdened him. No need to ogle it every day. But every so often, maybe once in a month, he’d unlock the drawer to admire the features it revealed. The image of a smiling, pretty young woman seemed slightly adrift inside the oversized brass frame. Though it had been made in a studio, how relaxed and candid was Zubeida’s pose. In fact, it was not a pose at all. Her natural confidence and modesty were irrepressible. She was the true lost treasure of his life. She had given the photograph to Abdul Rahman on the day she had been admitted to the university: the same day as his fiftieth birthday. My birthday was of no importance but you insisted on creating a fuss.

For weeks prior to the day, she had made arrangements with the kitchen of a new foreign hotel to prepare a feast of kishmish rice and Greek lamb. A baker in the same hotel constructed a bulky cake in two pieces, one a number five and the other, slightly larger, slightly lopsided, a zero. Her mother had paid over forty dinars without Abdul Rahman’s knowledge, and by some miracle, or threat, had succeeded in keeping the boys’ mouths shut until everyone broke into laughter and screamed, Happy Birthday! over and over again until Abdul Rahman begged them to be quiet.

‘Father, Happy Birthday,’ Zubi kissed his cheek.

‘The greater occasion is your successful entrance into university, Zubi. That achievement means, and will always remain, more significant than any milestone I will ever pass. Especially one as inevitable as a birthday,’ he said.

Zubeida, still not eighteen, smiled. Her eyes were sparkling fountain-spray. ‘Without your encouragement I would never have entered university. You are the source of my success, father.’

Zubi’s modesty was a trait Abdul Rahman had nurtured from her youngest days. That day as she stood on the edge of womanhood, modesty enhanced her physical beauty. She had felt shy in presenting her father with a framed portrait of herself. Such silliness. Self-centred indulgence. Being the centre of attention had always made Zubeida anxious. Her mother had had an argument with Zubi over what sort of frame to put around the gift; she had suggested a simple wood frame painted black, but Zubeida’s natural reluctance to be noticed forced her to choose a wide brass frame painted with a gaudy enamelled paisley pattern instead.

Abdul Rahman and Zubeida shared the sort of understanding only found between a father and daughter: his strength and love guarded her from danger; she protected him from sadness. Since the day of her birth, Abdul Rahman had regarded Zubi as more than his first born. More than even a princess. She was an angel sent to earth especially for him. And as she grew, Abdul Rahman’s fundamental purpose became to serve her. Never had he felt such an urge toward God or religion. Her accomplishments encouraged him as much as her exquisite features cheered him: skin as pale and smooth as milk, eyes the colour of young dates.

Whenever he found a few empty moments or hours, they would sit together and she would tell him about school or her friends. She recited children’s poems; he taught her songs in return. Folk songs, which somehow through the miserable soundtrack of his village youth, he’d managed to retain like the odd coin from a collection long ago abandoned. But his favourite, and Zubi’s as well, were songs from the Indian ‘dance and fight’ films which played in every town’s cinema from Mashad to Moscow. He taught her how to sound the words and she repeated them slowly, deliberately and accurately. Even as a young girl she insisted that her father explain what each song meant. If he refused or hesitated, she pouted and pretended to be angry. ‘You are a cheater, Father. Why do you not do as I request? A big cheater! She would repeat this over and over until he surrendered and explained what the words meant. Abdul Rahman himself cared nothing for the words. Melodies were what he craved. The tunes which came from her bird-like throat entranced him in the same way a cobra is spellbound by the charmer’s gourd pipe.

Zubedia sought her father’s advice on everything: which subjects should I study when I complete high school? Is this a sweet name for the dove? (He had had the bird shipped especially for her from Mosul.) Whatever he requested — sing a song for guests, or bring him coffee in his room — she did gladly.

It was through his little canary that Abdul Rahman discovered colour in

the world. Each pair of her shoes, all her frocks, and the ribbons she tied in her hair, were bright. Yellows and oranges and purples, deep blues and greens. Abdul Rahman made sure she had a new frock for any and every occasion, but one time she pouted after he gave her a billowy dress of pink lace.

‘Pink is for dolls, not dresses. I don’t like pink.’ She threw the dress at him as if it were a rag. Abdul Rahman could see her point but he had to tell her that he disapproved of her attitude.

‘You must never refuse a gift. Especially a gift from your father, someone who loves you more than any other.’ He made a mental note that day to avoid the colour pink in all future gifts, but Zubi never again objected to anything her father gave her. In this way they both were satisfied, and found joy and pleasure in each other’s happiness.

By the time she turned eleven, Zubi understood that she was, to him, the most important person in the world. This pleased her. Who would not feel special if they received such affection as he lavished on her? But he did notice, only occasionally, but very clearly, that his darling angel, in the midst of all his generosity, did feel disturbed as well. It was if she felt that such powerful love was somehow undeserved, and in her modesty she tried to deflect some of the attention she received on to her mother and her two younger brothers.

After Zubeida’s birth Abdul Rahman would have been content to have had no more children. His life’s entire ambition was met in her. Most of his relatives were driven to near madness to produce a son, but for him the idea had no substance whatsoever. They suffered an illness he had never understood. Sons, or even a second daughter, he considered, would be mere accessories. Superfluous to his needs and life, not part of them. Barnacles clinging for dear life to the ship. But his wife, Abida, was like everyone else, and to give birth to a son was of supreme importance. ‘Perhaps she detects that I love her less than Zubeida,’ he once confided in his friend Aziz.

‘Do you?’ Aziz asked.

‘It is true, I confess. Perhaps not less, but differently. Abida has been ignored by her mother and as an adult she has grown sensitive to such things. To give birth to another child is the only way she can diminish her resentment.’

But until Zubeida was six she remained the only child. Two boys, Haroun and Hassan, followed but Abdul Rahman hardly took notice. There was not much left over to give the boys after a day’s doting on his little canary. Of course, there were reasons why they lagged behind their sister when it came to their father’s affection. Neither of the boys liked to study very much; the very word ‘university’ turned their stomachs. Football or comics. That’s what they wanted, and as much as he tried to get them to think straight and to think about the future, (‘how are you ever going to support your family by reading cartoons?’ was his desperate appeal), their attitude only got worse. Somewhere in their young years, Abdul Rahman abandoned his sons to the care of Abida in the hope that she would have better luck than he.

As far as Zubeida was concerned, all he demanded in return for his love was that she study diligently and enter the university. They sometimes talked of her qualifying as an engineer or perhaps a doctor, but he refused to impose his preferences on her. His only demand was that she succeed in her studies. And by the time she entered secondary school it was obvious that the angel would never fail. On more than one occasion Abida passed on to her husband comments from Zubi’s teachers. ‘Mr Nabil was full of praise for Zubeida in the most recent reports. He came personally to the house yesterday to tell us that he believes she has the potential to be a scientist.’ Such comments pleased Abdul Rahman, but not unduly. He considered that he himself had struggled hard and for many years, to mould Zubi into what she was; not to have received such praise would have alarmed him.

‘Zubi, I want only that you enter university. Whatever subject you choose, whichever path your heart leads you to follow, that is the one you must follow. You will succeed in anything you do. Of that I am certain. But you must train yourself now and study hard.’ Zubeida knew her father was right. She appreciated his sincerity.

V

Although it was through Faris’s intervention that Abdul Rahman attained his first professional position in the Ministry of Transport, he did not become friendly with Faris. Not because Faris was an unpleasant man. No. Simply because Abdul Rahman had little interest in or time for friends. Between work’s end and the beginning of another day most of his attention was devoted to maintaining the accounts ledger. A garden could not have been tended more lovingly. He dug and trimmed. He clipped and pasted. Each day he visited his relatives and each day the connection between them grew stronger. Encountering Faris was something for which he would be forever grateful, but Faris was soon transferred to another division and the two men lost contact.

Several years later, Abdul Rahman himself was transferred to the Interior Ministry as Senior Clerk. Not much of a move but the salary was slightly more and his duties were slightly more interesting. For the first time Abdul Rahman was working with people, and was given the task of training and supervising new clerical workers. It was a job that appealed to him because he was able to organise the recruits to do things in an orderly fashion. The way he believed things should be. The head of the Financial Control Division praised Abdul Rahman’s combination of discipline and kindness; Abdul Rahman, the head of Division said, seemed to know how to get the most out of people.

In those days, between the first failed Ba’athist uprising and 1968, when they finally got what they wanted, blood washed the streets of Iraq. The army supported the Ba’athists the first time round but then got fed up with their unsubtle tactics. Within nine months the Ba’athists were put out like a cat into the night. For a while things improved. But by the end of the Six Day War the grand Iraqi army, which had squashed the Ba’athists so decisively just a few years before, now looked weak to everybody. The Zionist humiliation (all Arab armies wiped out in less than one week!) was too much to bear. Which Iraqi can say he wasn’t baying for military blood? A strong government, that’s what we want. And we want it now. No more excuses and delays. So the cat bided its time, and in the morning the door was left open and in marched the Ba’athists once more. This time they refused to budge for anyone.

A month later Faris made an unexpected appearance, with another proposition for Abdul Rahman to consider. Again, Abdul Rahman was waiting for a bus when Faris strolled up acting as if he was just passing by. ‘Oh! Abdul Rahman, brother. How long its been,’ he said. ‘Come, let me buy you a coffee.’

Around the corner a Palestinian named Mazin, famous for serving his coffee with fresh almonds, ran a filthy parlour. The cafe was always full, morning till night, but the two old acquaintances managed to find two seats against the front window.

‘Brother, how is the Finance Division?’ Faris always called Abdul Rahman brother. As his own brother had died as a lad, Abdul Rahman appreciated this.

They chatted about Abdul Rahman’s work and Faris’s own affairs for several minutes. Then very directly Faris looked into Abdul Rahman’s cave-like eyes and said, ‘Brother. Would you like to play an important role in helping to maintain the Revolution? Very good salary. You know,’ he went on without allowing Abdul Rahman to respond, ‘behind President al Bakr is one of our own countrymen. Number two in the Ba’ath set up and he’s from Tikrit. Like you. And my family as well. Al Bakr is President but people are saying that this Tikriti is the true revolutionary leader.’

That was the first time Abdul Rahman had heard the name of Saddam Hussein. Politics, revolutions and parties, even the Ba’ath Party, were to him like the stars and moon. They provided protection and could be lovely to observe, but who has ever visited a star? The place of stars is the skies. The place for humans is in their homes, with their families. On earth. But on the other hand, who could ignore the chaos and uncertainty of the last few years? Every day, the roads of Baghdad seemed to be filled with angry mobs shouting for this and that. Family life had been disrupted by all the strikes. And during the war the price of all essential commodities — sugar, olive oil, tomato paste, flour — left everyone hungry most nights. Abdul Rahman hoped those days were over. Who did not? Everybody knew that the Ba’athists were tough bastards. Things were bound to get better now.

But unlike Faris, who became more excited as he talked of the Ba’ath party — ‘this man from Tikrit’, ‘the people’s Revolution’, ‘Arab brotherhood’ — politics bored Abdul Rahman. His relative’s talk of politics and revolution did not interest him at all. But Faris’s proposition was quite attractive: the chance to leave clerical matters behind. And to be paid more. Zubeida was just two years old and Abdul Rahman knew that he would not be able to provide for her the things a young girl needs on his low ministry salary.

‘Listen, brother,’ said Faris. ‘This man Saddam Hussein has made it known in Tikrit that the fate of the Ba’ath Revolution ultimately lies with those from that area. Many affairs can be given to those from other regions, but finally this is a Revolution of and for those who live in the areas surrounding Tikrit and Sammara. And it is to us that the Ba’athis have entrusted the most sensitive tasks of the State.’ Faris used such phrases and words as if he had invented them himself, but Abdul Rahman sensed that he hardly knew their meaning. Abdul Rahman had only studied to the eighth class and he knew that Faris had even less education.

Abdul Rahman strained forward to hear Faris because his voice had fallen to a frantic whisper. ‘Under the direct orders of Saddam, a secret department has been established within the Party, Jihaz Haneen, which is responsible directly to one of Saddam’s trusted fellows. When I visited home last week I was approached by a Colonel Petros — or was it Paulus? — who told me all about this new division. And that loyal and committed brothers from the area are required. I immediately thought of you, brother Abdul Rahman. Your village is al Khazimiyah, no? No more than fifty kilometres from Tikrit, no? Perhaps you know of this man already, eh? You know more than I? Is that it?’

He looked at Abdul Rahman, who imagined that Faris’s eyes would pop out of his face at any moment.

‘No, I am sorry. I have never heard of this man, Hussein. In fact, I have never set foot in Tikrit, except that the bus from my village passes that way. Perhaps I am not who you are searching for.’ Abdul Rahman prepared to leave, thinking Faris had nothing to offer except his excitement about the political changes. ‘Excuse me brother Faris, thank you very much for the coffee. I must leave now.’

‘No wait, brother! Why so eager to leave? Drink another cup. Here, boy!’ He shouted loudly at the gloomy child rubbing the tabletop next to theirs with an oily cloth. ‘Bring two more coffees, quickly! Before I slap you.’ He turned to Abdul Rahman again.

‘I am not mistaken. You are like my brother, Abdul Rahman. This is an opportunity for you as well as me. You see, this man, Petros, he told me — that is a Christian name, no, Petros? — that al Jihaz Haneen is seeking one hundred persons. Immediately. In the future more will be needed. But now he is eager to recruit one hundred people from the districts surrounding Tikrit and Samarra. All directions. Up to Jebel Hamrin. No further. Beyond those mountains the people are untrustworthy. That is what the man…Petros…said.’

‘What are these one hundred persons to do?’ Abdul Rahman asked.

‘Research. That much I know. But what of that? He told me that the salary is to be seventy-five dinars a month! I know you brother. You will work in the ministry for seventy-five years before you make such a salary!’ Faris smiled and bobbed his head as if he had made a subtle philosophical point. He slurped his coffee.

‘Of course, that is a fine salary. But what is research?’

‘No idea! Surely it means investigation of some kind. After all, the division is secret, like al Amn: those boys are always watching and collecting information aren’t they? We will do the same, I’m sure. Whatever it is,’ and once again he was whispering, ‘it is very important. Only reliable and loyal Tikritis are to be recruited.’ He gave Abdul Rahman’s shoulder a poke. ‘Like you and me. Those who believe in the Revolution. The division will be very important and responsible to Saddam, that man I told you of just now. Next in line to the President himself.’

Abdul Rahman wasn’t sure. The salary was excellent but the rest of Faris’s talk was vague.

‘I am not Tikriti. And what do I care of the Revolution?’ He pushed back his chair.

‘Shh…h…h.!’ The sound Faris made was like air rushing from a tire. ‘Brother! Don’t ever say that again. By Tikrit I mean the area surrounding the city, not only the town itself. I have explained this already. Your native district.’ He was becoming exasperated. ‘The Ba’ath Revolution is our mother and father. Are you not Arab? This Revolution is more important than your parents. They eventually die and become useless. But the Ba’ath Revolution will be the eternal mother and father of all Arabs, and will realise our destiny. I too, know little about the Party, but brother, never say you don’t care. Promise me, brother.’ He looked over his shoulder like a thief. ‘We Arabs have never had such a friend as the Ba’ath Party. Look around us. Arab society is trampled on by foreigners: Jews, Persians, Europeans, and even in this country, Kurds. Under the Ba’ath, society will be based on Arab principles. There will be order and structure, not like when Aref was around, throwing Iraq before anyone who happened along. Even Communists!’

President Aref. The idiot responsible for the recent upheavals. One of the military’s pawns. Thank heavens al Bakr and the Ba’ath had tossed him out like a squatter from the palace. Abdul Rahman’s flagging attention revived. He appreciated stability and an orderly society. Hadn’t his father created havoc and left only turmoil for his mother and him?

‘What am I to do if I say I may be interested in your proposition?’ he asked.

‘Excellent! Abdul Rahman you are a true revolutionary. I will notify you soon about the next stage.’ Suddenly, Faris jumped up, threw some fils on the table and ran from the cafe.

For a month, maybe more, Abdul Rahman did not see Faris. He began to think of his talk as that of a fool. Abdul Rahman continued on in the Finance division at the Interior until October, (Zubeida had been admitted to the hospital with appendicitis and Abdul Rahman had spent two nights by her side) when Faris came to his office, wobbly as if he was intoxicated. He told Abdul Rahman that he should report to a certain room at the Ba’ath Party office next to the GPO the following day. At home, during the night, Abdul Rahman decided not to go, but in the morning his head and arms vibrated with the fever. He had no choice.

When he arrived at the Party office Abdul Rahman’s head was lighter than cotton. The small room was filled with nearly thirty men. He picked a chair against the wall away from the others. He didn’t dare let them observe his shaking hands. But though his anxious state caused him discomfort, a certainty of something momentous about to transpire excited him. Like the day he’d first met Faris.

Faris was not present and after twenty minutes Abdul Rahman had determined to leave, when a man dressed in a military uniform introduced himself as Major Walid al Sammara’i. He began speaking about revolution, enemies, the Party, Arab fraternity. All things which Abdul Rahman knew or cared nothing for. The men were congratulated for stepping forward to play a crucial role in the revolution of the Ba’ath Party; a repetition of what Faris had bumbled that day in the coffee parlour. Then the Major informed the men that Saddam Hussein was personally interested in each of them. At last! The first point of interest. That such a senior and important personage as Saddam would be interested in Abdul Rahman made him weak with gratitude; a curtain had been pulled back in his mind. Light poured in, and for the first time he understood exactly what Faris and the Major were talking about. It was true. Certain tasks of the State could only be entrusted to those from Tikrit. They were too precious and delicate to hand over to strangers. That day, Abdul Rahman became a Tikriti, and by joining Jihaz Haneen, he became wedded to the future President of the Republic.

At the end of the meeting Major Walid instructed the men to return to their departments and ministries. ‘You will continue to work until you are contacted again.’ He threatened them that they were not to mention the meeting or Jihaz Haneen to anyone. ‘Even your heart should not be aware of Haneen.’ Weeks passed but still Abdul Rahman received no further information. No one contacted him. Not even Faris. In fact, he never saw his relative again. Of course, he obeyed Major Walid’s command and did not speak of the meeting or Haneen to Abida or anyone else.

In later years, Abdul Rahman loved to reflect on those events, even though he could not say precisely what steps he had taken to arrive at his destination within Party Intelligence. Indeed, it hadn’t been a destination he had been conscious of wanting to reach at all. But in retrospect there was no doubt that it was the fortuitous hand of fate which had selected him and put him on the path.