Shafiq had nothing but disgust for Marcelle as she stood by her greedy husband. That and guilt for not having insisted on stopping the wedding when he and Omar suspected and then confirmed and even proved what a liar Moshe was.
Shafiq could live with losing Marcelle until she came to her senses; he didn’t even want to see her before then. But he felt stabbed when he thought about the sincerity of his parents handing over a dowry of family jewelry that Moshe was going to recklessly sell off to fund his greedy scheme.
And Shafiq felt, along with the rest of his family, devastated when he saw his mother mortifying her own flesh every chance she could as penance for provoking the insult that tore her youngest daughter from her embrace.
She beat herself and cried until she fell asleep. Shafiq thought of all the times his mother used to put salt in his pockets for good luck before he left for school. The way she would talk about the jinn like it was a real force of nature, as ubiquitous and burning as the sun. And how peaceful and content she looked when she was putting a little amulet on a baby for good luck.
“How about that rabbi?” he whispered to his brothers while their mother slept.
Ezra started nodding before he even knew what Shafiq meant. Naji seemed to hesitate until Shafiq pointed out that Reema wasn’t in line to join the young Communists anyway.
“We’re going back to see the rabbi,” Shafiq informed his mother later that afternoon. He would have rather listened to Kathmiya telling Aziza stories about princesses all afternoon than hear the rabbi’s droning lectures about customs and traditions, but if that would drag Reema out of her delirium, he had to try.
Shafiq leaned back on a pillow on the floor, resting his feet on the bare brick wall and looking up at the blank ceiling, trying to recreate times he’d spent with Kathmiya: watching her study, reading her note, the word “Shafiq” in her handwriting.
Reema sat at the rabbi’s feet while he rattled on about lost Jewish traditions.
“Turmoil in the outside world, but not to worry—our ways can save our people.”
Shafiq tried to ignore the conversation, but he couldn’t help but notice how rapt his mother was, listening to the rabbi’s elaborate instructions.
“Never sweep after sunset,” the old man said as though he were teaching hard science instead of delving into the realm of speculation and mystery. “It will disturb the jealous spirits.”
“Perfumes harm children,” he rasped in a voice as coarse as his beard. “If you find clothing from a dead criminal, take it immediately.”
Good one, Shafiq thought, imagining raiding the corpses of thieves with Omar.
“That always brings luck. Especially if it comes from the left side.”
It was going to be some scavenger hunt in the graveyard.
“Learn,” the rabbi continued in that voice meant for fifty people even if he was just talking to one, “from our Muslim and Christian brothers, for they share many of our powerful traditions that must be respected and preserved.”
He opened a small wooden drawer and pulled out an amulet made from bits of blue china and straw. “This is very powerful for conflict in the family,” he said. When he gave it to Reema, she radiated joy.
“Against the jinn?” Shafiq’s mother’s voice revealed the naked, pathetic hope that Marcelle’s estrangement came down to some evil force that could be conquered with a broken-off piece of blue china.
If only.
Walking out, they passed a government building with a large, handwritten announcement scrawled on the wall above a water tank.
Shafiq read it once, and then again and again.
The first time he understood completely. The second time was for confirmation. And once more, just to exult, he went over each word.
GERMANY SURRENDERS UNCONDITIONALLY
The rabid dog was dead.
When Shafiq told his mother, she broke into a wide, irrational smile and he knew she thought the rabbi had ended the war.
“See?” she said, pointing down at her skirt. Sure enough, she was turning out pockets full of salt.
The next day, as if by magic, Moshe showed up at the house.
But it was some kind of cursed spell.
He looked more unraveled than ever, his stringy hair separated into gritty strands, his fake-rich suit obviously borrowed, his tie stained.
“Thank Allah you’re back!” Reema said. “Where’s Marcelle?”
“She doesn’t want to see you,” he replied with sadistic glee. Before Reema could start to hit herself again, he added grandly, “Oh, I tried. I told her, ‘You only have one set of parents in life. You’ll feel nothing but regret when they die.’”
“Inheritance,” Ezra whispered, and Shafiq nodded.
“What do you want?” Naji asked, stepping in front of Moshe like a goalie blocking the net.
“You are always welcome,” Roobain said, “but no insults.”
“Except you are wrong about that—I never insulted you. I just wanted to give you a great chance to invest in my business.” Moshe picked up where he’d left off with an alarming lack of self-awareness. Shafiq marveled at his disconnection from the rest of the world. Him and Reema, but at least she was placid, harmless.
“I don’t want a piece of your business,” Roobain said. “Let’s not talk about this anymore.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Moshe sang brightly. “You wouldn’t really want to make me angry.”
“No, you’re my daughter’s husband. I want you to be happy. But is that something I have to pay for?”
“Well, let me put it this way,” said Moshe, working up to a foam. “Let me just say it straight. Your son there, Naji, well he’s crazy getting involved in Communist activities. If the government finds out, they’ll hang him. And, oh yeah, angry people don’t keep secrets. But a rich businessman might.”
Shafiq watched the color drain from Naji’s ruddy face. His parents stared, trying to absorb the shock. They all understood Moshe’s meaning.
It amounted to a death threat.
As soon as Moshe left, Naji broke the silence. “Don’t ask. The less you know the better. Just please trust me: I never wanted to cause you any trouble. I believe in the equality of all people. There’s nothing criminal about that.”
The sun seemed too bright, like it would cast a light on Naji and get him thrown to the dogs of jail…and not any prison, but the one where they reserved the truly brutal treatment for political types accused of crimes against the state.
Shafiq was furious. With that dreamy, risky, impulsive choice, Naji had handed Moshe the keys to the cell where they ruined altruistic young lives.
“I am sure you have done nothing illegal,” Roobain said. “We”—the Jews, they all knew who he meant—“never break the laws of our country.”
“Our country?” Ezra said quietly.
What about it? Shafiq wanted to scream. Of course it’s our country.
Naji looked down. Shafiq suddenly choked on an outflow of love for his second brother, the one with the roped-up muscles and ready laugh and cures for the world. “Naji,” he said with the last drop of his true boy sweetness, “we understand.”
The look in Naji’s eyes changed. Fear was gone. And it took his inhibitions when it left.
“At our meetings,” he said to Shafiq, as though only this young, pure soul could understand, “we talk about being revolutionaries. We want to build an ideal society. But when do you get the chance to actually do that? When you give up what you really love for the cause?”
Something was wrong. His eyes didn’t look normal. Moshe was infected by some garden-variety greed, but Naji was completely overtaken, and he was trying to engulf Shafiq too.
“I’m proud to be a Communist. It is the only way out of the materialism of this world. I’m sorry you had to hear it from Moshe, but I can’t compromise my beliefs—”
“Naji!” Ezra had never sounded so uncertain or so disturbed.
“Moshe will hold this over our heads no matter how much money you give him. You’ll owe him your life savings until I leave the Communist party. And even if I quit today, he can still tell the government that I was a member. They don’t need much evidence to lock me up, or worse.”
Reema had started reciting some superstitious prayer, scratching around at her sides as though she were looking for blue china or salt or the left cuff of a dead criminal.
“So,” Naji said, shining with an external glow, as though he were illuminated by someone else’s light, “I have to go.”
“You are not going anywhere.” Roobain tried to state this as a fact, but it sounded more like he was pleading.
“This is blackmail,” Ezra pointed out.
“Naji, I don’t care if we lose all our savings to Moshe…how can you go? Where are you going?” Shafiq was desperate to break the spell.
“Stop worrying. I’m smarter than Moshe. I’m not going forever, just until the rest of society comes to realize that this is the future for Iraq. Then I’ll be back. Meanwhile, Moshe can’t hurt me, or any of you.”
“You can’t run because of him,” Roobain spoke quickly, trying to dam the flood of Naji’s raging fanaticism.
The fervor looked so celestial, Shafiq almost envied Naji’s rapture. He might have followed Naji underground, to a secret Communist meeting, to the Soviet Union, to wherever he was going to build this perfect world—but then Shafiq saw his parents looking devastated as a second branch broke off the battered family tree.
Roobain appeared feeble, opening his mouth to speak and then coughing on his own dry spit. And Reema just looked unhinged.
“I’m not running because of Moshe,” Naji said calmly. “I’m following my true path. He’s just an excuse to get me there. For the sake of the family and for Iraq.”
“I don’t care about Moshe.” Roobain was begging. “I care about you. Shafiq’s right, I’ll find five hundred dinars for him. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
“No.” Naji was firm in body and mind.
Shafiq realized that Moshe was not even the danger anymore; it was this outsized cause that had stolen his brother’s soul.
Naji packed a few shirts and slacks into a small rucksack while Ezra tried to stop him. “You are killing your mother. Is that how you save the world?”
“You’ll understand someday,” Naji replied, so oddly serene.
“The Communists will never protect us if we suffer another attack. You know as well as I do that the police did nothing during the riots—they even participated in the killing. Killing and injuring and robbery and all kinds of other crimes against our people, just because we’re Jewish—”
“And it was the Muslims who saved us—our brothers! Isolating yourself from the rest of Iraq instead of trying to build an ideal society—is that what you want?” Naji asked, his olive skin glistening not with sweat but conviction.
“I don’t want to be isolated, I want to be free to defend myself if I’m attacked. You know,” Ezra tried, “it’s completely selfish to expect the Kurds and other good people to protect us. We have to be prepared.”
“By preparing for a confrontation you are creating the conditions to engender one,” Naji declared.
Shafiq, overwhelmed by powerlessness and gloom, didn’t try fancy arguments based on some geopolitical logic—he just begged. “Don’t go, Naji,” he said, hugging his brother’s strong chest. “Please. We need you. We’ll miss you.”
“I’ll be back, probably sooner than you think. And anyway, if you ever really have to find me, just ask at Al-Wattan café.”
Shafiq looked into his brother’s eyes and found a measure of reassurance when Naji nodded with a lively smile.
Okay. It will be okay. Naji might be dreaming of going to Moscow for training, but as long as he could be found through Al-Wattan café, he’d never be out of reach.
Al-Wattan. It meant “The Nation.” Everyone loved Iraq but no one knew how to help her.
It only took one day turning to night before they knew Naji was really gone, maybe already very far. And when Ezra went to the café, he came back defeated. “They said we’ll hear from him in time. And they tried to recruit me to their misguided movement.”
“Then,” Roobain said, “I don’t want you going back. I’ve lost too much already. We wait for Naji and in the meantime don’t get mixed up in this business.”
“I’ll never buy their arguments,” Ezra said.
“Shafiq.” Roobain took him by the shoulders. “Never go there. Ever.”
Naji’s departure left more than an empty stretch of life ahead without him. It was murderous, but Shafiq kept telling himself there was an ending where he’d find Naji and they’d be together again, either in an ideal world or a corrupt one, where they could play soccer and laugh about movies.
But his brother’s absence also created a gaping distance between Shafiq and everyone who didn’t know the truth, including Omar. The official story was that Naji had headed to school in Lebanon, and Shafiq wasn’t going to expose his best friend to the truth and endanger him in the process, so their conversation stayed superficial and dull.
It was as if Naji had rejected his own family for some worthless, diseased whore.
The more Shafiq thought about it, the more furious he was that even in self-destruction, Naji was easy and graceful. He hated that Naji was so talented and resourceful that he could leave behind his whole life in one stroke. If only he had been more selfish, less good, less brilliant even, he might not have pulled it off. But Naji was Naji, and everything Shafiq loved and admired about his favorite brother had been used in the service of something so destructive the only comfort he could salvage was rage.