The Traveler and the Innkeeper

CHAPTER 1

In the evening, Qasim Husayn, a police inspector in the Bureau of Public Security in Baghdad, would often head to a summer bar. Most of these were located on the sidewalk of the north side of Abu Nuwas Street, which ran parallel to the Tigris River and twisted with it like a viper penetrating the heart of the city, starting from al-Jumhuriya Bridge, which linked al-Rusafa, east Baghdad, and al-Karkh, west Baghdad, at Tahrir Square, and then extending to the historic houses in Karradat Maryam. Qasim Husayn followed this routine especially in the summer, which lasts more than five months, starting toward the end of April and continuing to the end of September. In some months, particularly July and August, the temperature exceeded fifty degrees centigrade, although official weather reports issued by the government treated this as a state secret. Government officials felt that the temperature reported should never exceed forty-five degrees to avoid alarming foreigners heading to Baghdad. Iraqis, however, are accustomed to weather like this and don’t worry about it; perhaps this explains why Baghdad’s residents, unlike other populations, never discuss the weather. Why should they, when they know in advance that the weather tomorrow will be like today’s and will continue the same for months?

In this city, which glittered with brilliant light that dazzled the eye, there was nothing exceptional about Qasim’s routine. Every evening, starting at six, overwhelming numbers of people would leave their musty homes and take to the streets, breathing in the evening’s sweet scent, which was dominated by the fragrance of orange blossoms. Thousands of men, women, and children filled the sidewalks of al-Rashid and al-Sa‘dun streets, traveling in both directions and giving the clear impression that they had quit their homes simply for the pleasure of taking a walk, not with any particular objective. Some had doubtless emerged to shop in the small stores that abutted each other, and others were thinking of going to one of the cinemas—the Khayyam, Granada, Nasr, Atlas, or Babylon—where serious films were occasionally shown alongside detective stories and American cowboy movies, but these were all contingency plans that depended on chance for the most part. The real aim, which was the same every evening for most of those wandering the streets, was to end up at the bars they patronized with the same unchanging group of friends. A few would head directly to their regular watering hole, but most preferred to sit in a coffeehouse first, where they could drink a tumbler of tea and play a game or two of dominoes or backgammon before slipping off to their last resort of the evening: the bar.

Like all other aspects of Baghdad life during those days, the bars were divided into various tiers, grades, and classes, each of which attracted its own special clientele: there were bars for civil servants, for journalists and authors, and for manual laborers, bars for the elite and bars for the working poor, whether porters or automobile mechanics. Some bars, mainly those by the river, served the finest liquors and affected a Western character that was slightly comical. Bars serving the cheap, adulterated arrack known as Handcuff Bait—because after imbibing it the inebriated drinker would often become involved in a brawl that would lead to his being handcuffed and taken to the police station for the night—were located in back alleys branching off from al-Rashid Street. The proprietors of these bars used to nail their metal serving dishes to the tables to keep them from being stolen by drunken patrons toward the end of the night. Apart from the bar—the final goal for which everyone was clearly longing—there was nothing predetermined about the movements of the strolling people. Their evening’s outing depended more than anything else on chance or on destiny’s decree; in any case this wasn’t what concerned the individual, because he might meet who-knows-which friend, almost a routine occurrence, or befriend someone new, or perhaps something would attract his attention and he would focus exclusively on that. Everything had to be left to chance; otherwise, the outing made no sense at all. But, truth be told, no one thought about it this way. All it amounted to was that a man would don trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, pop his feet into his summer shoes with open toes, and head out to the street, where the heat, which was still being reflected from the asphalt, would sear his face. This heat would be especially bad for his health if the city’s vehicles had passed in the street spraying water to freshen the air a little while creating unhealthy humidity.

Each evening Inspector Qasim Husayn also participated in this mass outing unless he was busy with something or his presence was required in his bureau, which was on the other side of town, opposite al-Qasr al-Abyad in Park al-Sa‘dun. He occasionally enjoyed a nap in his small house in the al-Waziriya district before he headed out, caught the Number 6 bus to the Aqd al-Nasara area of al-Rashid Street, and then proceeded from there on foot. Most of the time, though, he preferred to walk from al-Waziriya to the Maydan quarter, which had once been crowded with brothels but had later become a blighted area where the capital’s newspapers were published. The Ministry of Defense also bordered it on the Sarrafiya side, and every morning and evening the national anthem was played there when the flag was raised or lowered, causing traffic to stop and passersby in the nearby streets to stand at attention to honor the flag as soldiers saluted. On the riverbank near the government palace where the former royal court had been were Ottoman-era pashas’ mansions, which over time for the most part had become print shops and paper warehouses. In the Maydan quarter he would catch the Number 4 bus to al-Andalus Square, where a flower shop’s all-glass building stood at the center of this circular plaza. He did not get out there, however, unless he was on an urgent mission, which was rare, but kept his seat till the bus reached nearby al-Qasr al-Abyad, which faced the Public Security Bureau. On leaving his office, he would take al-Nidal Street and slip down quiet side streets to al-Sa‘dun Street, passing behind the Nasr Cinema and in front of the Safa’ Cabaret, which he had visited once or twice, although he had disliked the excessive attention paid to him by the manager, waiters, and artistes, who had recognized him, perhaps from his agents who were in charge of maintaining public order there. When the management had refused to let him pay his bill, he had tossed the money on the table and left in a rage, realizing they were trying to curry favor with him and unwilling to play the game.

From there he would cross al-Sa‘dun Street to the other sidewalk, where short side routes led to Abu Nuwas Street, as he maintained a leisurely pace, scrutinizing the women who had come out for an evening stroll with their husbands. On his way to the Sargon Summer Bar, he normally stopped at a sidewalk vendor’s to drink a tumbler of super-sweet tea. It didn’t matter much to him whether or not he found a group of friends at the bar, because solitude didn’t trouble him at all. In fact, he preferred to enjoy the arrack, which he consumed in moderation, alone.

He had a Volkswagen at his disposal but only used it when the trip was work-related and rarely drove it home—unlike many of his colleagues, who considered this an incontrovertible, normal practice and a perk of their post. In contrast, he considered it a boon he didn’t need and may also have believed that keeping the car with him all the time would deprive him of the small daily pleasures that restored his spirits during his jaunts through the city.

Inspector Qasim had again spent the night alone with his glass, as he always did, distracted only by some memories, which kept passing through his mind and mixing together as if various videos were being projected before him all at the same time before they were erased from his memory so he wouldn’t recall them again. He found this somewhat oppressive. All the same, his vitality, which he felt in every cell of his body, never abandoned him, perhaps because of the refreshing coolness of the night outside in the bar’s garden.

Finally, at about eleven when Qasim rose to leave the grassy lawn of the Sargon Bar’s summer garden, he felt weaker than he should have, and his legs seemed wobbly. So he straightened up, lifting his head and gazing at the lights that illuminated the tops of the buildings. Once he was back on the street he realized that the waiter had cheated him out of sixty fils. He told himself: This means he made from me, and me alone, a hundred and ten fils, because I thrust a dirham in his hand as I left. If he did the same thing to twenty others, every day, then each month he would earn more than I do. If the number of his victims reached thirty or forty, his income would exceed the director general’s salary and perhaps that of the minister himself. He chuckled about this discovery with which he had surprised himself. Then he started repeating in a barely audible voice, So what? Let him steal; let him steal—they all steal: the director general and even the minister and the prime minister. He turned as if afraid someone had heard him. Then he remarked, But there’s no need for me to make this my business; it’s no concern of mine.

The sweet breeze blowing from the river roused him from these wanton reflections as he passed small shops selling tikka or serving tea; these were scattered down all the alleys that connected al-Sa‘dun and Abu Nuwas streets.