Sinan Antoon - The Corpse Washer

With time, friendship turned into something more intense. We didn’t talk about what we felt precisely, but our silent gazes meeting for a few seconds were eloquent. When we walked or sat together, I felt the air between us grow moist. Often I drew her and gave her my sketches. She would thank me shyly and say, “Is there no one else for you to draw? No other subject?” I would answer, “No, no one but you.”

I once told her that I would love to sculpt her.

“And the price?”

“For free. A gift. But, you have to … you know. For it to be exact.” Then I gestured with my hands that she would have to get naked.

She laughed out loud: “No way. That’s an old trick. A tree could grow on your head and I would still not allow you.”

“Alas, had you said ‘When a tree grows on your head, then I will allow you,’ I would have at least tried to plant one there.”

She laughed, “Anyway, if your style is abstract as you claim, why do you need a model?”

“Inspiration, my dear colleague.”

“Oh, how collegial of you!”

Suddenly, three months later, she invited me to have lunch at her house. I asked her who would be there.

“Why? Are you afraid?”

I laughed. “No, but am I not allowed to ask?”

“My father is at work and his wife is on a trip to Mosul. Do you want to invite anyone else?”

“No, the two of us will do.”

It wasn’t the first time we’d been alone in her car. We had occasionally gone to plays together, and she would drive me home afterward. But this was the first time I was going to her house or anywhere knowing that we would be by ourselves.

The house was in al-Jadiriyya, huge and elegant. She let me in through the kitchen door and I followed her along a corridor to the guest room. She asked me to make myself at home while she heated the food. I asked whether she needed any help. “No, you are my guest,” she said. She offered me a drink, but I declined. She smiled and left me contemplating the extravagant furniture and precious Persian carpets.

She returned ten minutes later carrying a tablecloth and plates with silverware. She spread the white tablecloth and then set plates down in front of two of the eight chairs. One was at the head of the table and the other right next to it so that we would occupy a corner. I wasn’t used to all these elaborate preparations for a meal. I followed her into the kitchen. She laughed: “Where are you going?”

“It’s not right. I have to help you.”

She scooped the yellow rice she’d warmed into a big dish and asked me to carry it. It was mixed with almonds, raisins, and pieces of chicken. The smell of saffron filled the air. I took the dish and put it on the table. When I went back to the kitchen she pointed to a big salad bowl she’d taken out of the fridge. “That one, too, please.” She followed me carrying a tray that had two bottles of Pepsi, two glasses, and some bread. We sat down to eat.

I loved to watch her do anything, no matter how mundane or casual. I loved to watch her eat. The food was good, and I asked who should be praised. She said the maid, an experienced cook, came three times a week. I asked about her battles with her stepmother. She said that peace now prevailed, because her father had remodeled the house after she had moved back in. He had built an additional room on the second floor. A living room next to her bedroom served as an office and a TV room. She had her own bathroom, so she came downstairs only to eat, and she rarely had to deal with her stepmother. She said, as she smiled shyly, that she would show me what she called her private wing after lunch. I interpreted this as an encouraging sign.

After we finished eating I thanked her and we took the dishes back to the kitchen. She said I could wash my hands in the bathroom upstairs. We went up the stairs, which were made of marble tiles and led to a wooden door. She opened it and I closed it behind us. The first door on the left was the bathroom. She opened the door and showed me in, saying she was going to fetch a towel. Her bathroom was bigger than my bedroom. The walls and floor were tiled in light blue. The floor was covered with tiny dark blue rugs. There was a tub behind a see-through curtain. The oval basin was sky-blue.

I turned the faucet knobs, trying to find the right combination of cold and hot water. I took the yellow bar of soap and lathered my hands and mouth. I gargled and rinsed my mouth and hands and then shut the faucet.

She came in and handed me a white towel.

I took the towel with my left hand and put my right hand on her left. She didn’t pull away. I told her: “I want to wash your hands.”

She laughed: “What? Why?”

I pulled her gently to the basin and turned the faucet on again. I put the new towel over the old one, which was on the bar to the right of the basin. I held both of her hands and put them under the water. She didn’t say a word. I took the soap and lathered her right hand carefully, first the knuckles, then the palm, and then I placed each one of her fingers between my thumb and index finger and rubbed them. I did the same with her left hand and then rinsed them both with water before shutting the faucet. She was looking at me the whole time, smiling. I took the towel and dried both of her hands. After I put the towel back on the bar, I held her hands and looked into her eyes. She smiled and said “Thank you” in a hushed voice.

I pulled her toward me and moved my face closer to hers, but she pulled away. I was disappointed, but then she said, “Let me wash my mouth first.” She laughed and added, “You forgot to wash it! Go and wait for me. I’ll be there right away.”

I stood outside the bathroom watching her wash her mouth. She saw me looking at her in the mirror and smiled. She dried her mouth with the towel. She opened the cupboard and took out some lipstick and put a touch of her favorite pink on her lips. She came out of the bathroom, shut the door behind her, and leaned on the wall next to it, just a few steps from me. I approached and stood close to her. Looking at her lips, I leaned over. She closed her eyes and I lightly grazed her lips with mine. Then again. I kissed the right edge of her lips. My mouth slipped toward her right cheek. I moved to her neck. I put my arms around her waist. She sighed and leaned her head back. I felt her hands on my shoulders. I kissed her neck and inhaled that jasmine perfume which had so dizzied me for months.

I encircled her neck with my kisses, then my mouth climbed, kiss by kiss, to her chin. I trapped her upper lip between my lips. She parted her lips and our tongues met. Her thighs had moved closer to my body, and she must have felt my erection. I put my right hand on her breast and tried to unbutton her shirt, but she held my hand and lowered it. She pushed me away gently without saying anything and then walked toward a door at the end of the corridor. I followed her.

Her bedroom was huge. The walls were white and the floor was covered with Persian carpets. There was a medium-size bed with white sheets. The wall above it had a huge black-and-white photo of a table in a café with a closed book and an empty cup of coffee on it — it looked European. The left side of the room had a huge mirror behind a table and a chair. Next to them was a chest made of Indian oak.

She stood by the bed and then turned toward me. She was wearing a white shirt and a gray skirt which barely covered her knees. I approached her and kissed her with more confidence this time. She put her arms around me. I started to unbutton her white shirt and saw her white bra hiding her full breasts. I moved the shirt away to kiss her left shoulder and then kissed her upper arm. She started kissing my neck and I felt fire in my bones.

I went back to her shoulder and moved her bra strap aside to kiss her shoulder again. Then I moved down to the slopes of her left breast. I could smell her perfume again. I removed her shirt and tossed it on the bed. I took her in my arms, kissed her neck again and fumbled with her bra. She laughed and undid it herself and tossed it on the floor. She started to unbutton my shirt as I kissed her pear-shaped breasts and erect nipples. She took off my shirt and let it fall to the floor. She took off her shoes and kicked them aside. I did the same and bent down to quickly remove my socks. I found my mouth right in front of her navel so I kissed it, and found that she was ticklish. We peeled each other piece by piece until all she wore were her black panties. These she grasped with both hands and lowered to her feet. Her pubic hair was shaved. I I took off my white underpants. I was very hard. Naked now except for the gold chain around her neck with her name engraved on it, she lay on the bed sideways.