Shafiq was hoping to play backgammon with one of his brothers, but they were too busy arguing.
“We can change all the small-minded prejudice, unite the country,” Naji was saying.
“Is that so, rafiq?” Ezra asked sarcastically. Shafiq remembered the word: “comrade.”
“The Communist movement has room for all Iraqis—Jews, yes, but also Christians and Muslims and everyone else, from Armenian refugees to the grandchildren of Turks.” Naji sounded more in love than when he’d ever talked about a girl.
But Shafiq felt unmoored. Communism was illegal. At school they were taught that if they joined the movement, the police would lock them up and torture them. Naji was strong, but the prison guards had guns.
“The Zionist movement is the only one where you will never be in the minority,” Ezra said.
“What’s your point?” Naji asked, cool as the evening breeze. “I don’t need a majority—I want a plurality for my country.”
“Until your country attacks your people. Again. When that happens you’ll be glad some of us organized to defend the Jews,” Ezra persisted. “The Zionist movement is about that and so much more.”
Zionism. That philosophy that Salim was always denouncing as a danger to the Jews of Iraq.
“Ezra, religion is separating us,” Naji pushed back. “Communism can bring us together; Muslims, Jews and Christians in a new Iraq where religion doesn’t matter. Then we’ll all be equal.”
It sounded perfect, except for the parts Naji didn’t mention, like being beaten senseless by the police.
“You completely missed the point,” said Ezra. “Shafiq, you have to ask yourself, am I an Iraqi who happens to be Jewish? Or a Jew who happens to live in Iraq?”
Shafiq didn’t answer. What he really wanted to be was a man of honor, true to his whole heritage. If only being an Arabic Jew weren’t splitting him in half, and dividing his family in the process.
There was nothing honorable about Shafiq’s glee when he saw Kathmiya next at Marcelle’s wedding and realized she was too miserable to be engaged and on her way to a new life without him.
It wasn’t that she watched the bride with envy; it was the way she held Shafiq’s niece Aziza so close, as though only the simplicity of a child could comfort her in this impossibly complicated world.
After the ceremony, Shafiq’s family paid respects to the rabbi, who took the opportunity to lecture them. “Our ceremonies unite us, they strengthen our community, and they protect us from the pollution of the outside world,” he intoned.
Shafiq took the measure of his family. The new groom had wormed out of this little formality, but even without Moshe, Marcelle was glowing. Salim just paced. Ezra nodded while Naji shifted against the natural soccer instincts that seemed to always urge him to toss something in the air.
“Today we see many Jewish families trying to ‘modernize’ by sending their girls to French schools,” the rabbi went on. “But the people running them are not Jewish, and they look down on our customs.”
Shafiq’s parents had sent Marcelle to the French Alliance school, but they didn’t seem bothered by the old man’s approbation.
“Never be fooled. We must preserve our culture or we perish,” the rabbi warned.
Marcelle was admiring her new ring. Salim and Naji had wandered away. Shafiq took a cue and sidled off, hoping to confirm his happy suspicion about Kathmiya’s sadness.
He found her sitting on the ground outside the reception hall with Aziza, who was crawling around.
“Moshe’s a rotten guy,” Shafiq said.
“Yeah, maybe they’ll be miserable,” Kathmiya replied.
He liked her stinging tone. “Who needs marriage, right?” he asked. “Stupid matchmakers don’t know anything.”
It was as obvious as the attraction pulsing between them that Kathmiya had gotten nowhere with hers.
“I did realize one thing, though,” she said after a pause.
“From the old lady?” he asked, grabbing Aziza while she wandered away and switching her direction so she crawled toward Kathmiya.
“That matchmaker has never been married, you know? And I looked at her lonely little hut and the carpet she wore for a dress and the way her ankles were thick like tree trunks and I decided, whatever happens, I’d better find someone, because I don’t want to end up like that.”
In his mind, Shafiq dressed Kathmiya in a carpet and covered her legs in bark, but no luck, he still wanted to kiss her.
“You could marry anyone you want,” he whispered.
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. And he was out of arguments, because he knew that no matter how much he might want to marry her, kismet had other ideas.
It took only one week for Moshe to come charging into the Soufayr home ranting about a new business and demanding that Roobain loan him five hundred dinars.
“We’re going to be rich,” he’d said at first.
“Take it slow, my brother,” Naji replied. “There’s more to life than money.”
But Moshe pressed on about “a ship…a business…moving goods across the river…over to Iran and back.”
“Like hashish and black-market carpets?” Ezra taunted, and Moshe wasn’t even smart enough to deny that he had illegal trading in mind. He just plowed ahead, trying to excavate their father’s pockets for cash.
“I’ll give you a gift,” Roobain finally said. “But I’m not into investments.”
He offered fifty dinars: bribe money to get rid of the pest.
Moshe looked stunned, like he’d been slapped in the face instead of promised enough money to retire for four months, and started murmuring to himself about business, money and professionalism. The family stared.
“Say something!” Shafiq whispered to Naji, the only one with the good nature to burst any tension with laughter.
“Hey, I’ll give you a million dinars to let it go,” Naji tried, but he was more bitter than funny.
“Don’t you know I graduated top in my class from one of the best…” Moshe began.
Shafiq couldn’t take it. “Stop lying,” he mumbled.
“Oh, you want the truth?” Moshe spat. “Are you ready for it? Your. Mother. Is. A. Filthy. Whore.”
“Out,” Roobain said with quiet fury, pressing his fists together until they turned white.
“You are stupid not to appreciate this business opportunity,” Moshe shouted, backing out through the arched open doorway.
“Leave,” Naji commanded.
“Now,” Ezra added.
“Or else,” Shafiq put in, hoping Marcelle would finally be free but suspecting she would stand by her corrupt husband.
He thought of the Jewish girls who ran off with Muslim boys and broke their families apart. They always seemed possessed by some crazy idea bigger than the tribe, which was already the biggest idea of all, the one organizing principle everyone understood.
Marcelle was like that, but her crazy idea was really, really small.
She could at least run off with a Muslim boy, one who was good. One whom we know and trust. One who was—
But Shafiq didn’t follow the thought. Like an anchor, it led straight down to the darkest depths.