Dates on My Fingers: An Iraqi Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) by Muhsin al-Ramli Read Free Book Online Page A

from them, news about them. How were they now? Whathad happened? What was happening? Who among them had died? Who had married whom, and what children had they had? What were the new names there? Was it still God—or their finger on the Qur’an—that chose for everyone his name and special verse? I would listen only to Arabic music, and I cooked Iraqi meals.
    I had endured much in order to arrive here, and I endured more in order to establish legal residency and to find a way to support myself. I liked living here amid this freedom and this peace. Therefore, when I was out of my apartment, I was one of them, from this place, and I took an interest in what they were interested in: soccer matches, bull fights, celebrity gossip, staying up late on weekends. But when I returned to my apartment, alone, I was from my people, from there.
    So it was until my father suddenly appeared, different from the one I left there, different from the one who lived with me in my memories throughout these years. For where would I situate him according to my bifurcated world? His former image was firmly established within my inner world: my memory, the apartment, these black-and-white pictures, and blood relations. But now I see that he does not belong to it. At the same time, I can’t exactly consider him part of my outside world.
    His friends here were not like my friends. His work was not like mine, nor his behavior. Indeed, he did not resemble himself. His women did not resemble my women. Or at least, they did not resemble those I had met, since I didn’t have women for the most part—or at all. The only woman I had gone out with during my time here was Pilar.
    I met Pilar six years ago, when I went one weekend to a club with my friends, who were my co-workers. She was introduced to me by Antonio, who was responsible for reviewingthe addresses of the newsstands and bookstores, along with the names and quantities of the newspapers we distributed. Pilar was a post office employee. She had a voluptuous body and was a little shorter than me. Her round face overflowed with vitality and desire, and her hair was cut short so you could see that her neck still looked the right length.
    After exchanging some words to get to know each other at the bar, Pilar said, “This is a beautiful Brazilian song. Will you dance with me?”
    “I don’t know how to dance,” I said. “Do you understand what this song is saying?”
    “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “And don’t think that all these dancers know the song lyrics or that they know how to dance. The important thing is to feel the beat. Then you move yourself however you want. There aren’t any specific rules. Come on!”
    She pulled me by the hand to the middle of the smoky circle of dancers out on the floor. The illuminated disco ball spun over the heads of those who were themselves spinning in place. With her encouragement, I was actually able to shed my reluctance to go out on the dance floor. We spent hours twisting and touching, happy, laughing, lusting after the bodies that pulsed exuberantly around us, and forgetting everything that wasn’t before our eyes.
    Our bodies were sweating. We kept sipping drinks and frequently went to the bathroom. Naturally, there was no clock on the wall, but when we felt tired, we asked, “What time is it now?”
    “Quarter to four,” someone replied.
    “Let’s go then,” they said.
    In the hallway heading out, Antonio whispered to me, “Take Pilar with you.”
    “Where?” I said. “When, how, why?”
    “Take it easy!” he responded. “Just like that. Just like I said.”
    “But I—” I started.
    He interrupted me, “It was her idea. Just a minute—I’ll make her ask you on her own.”
    He dropped back, getting close to her. Meanwhile, I went out to wait in front of the door. I enjoyed the sweetness of the outdoor air, free from the smoke and the odors. I felt its chill graze my sweaty body.
    Mario was next to me, busy kissing Carmen.