Sinan Antoon - The Corpse Washer

After spending a year unemployed, he read ads for well-paying jobs at the Ministry of Interior. He went to Nusoor Square early one morning and stood in line to register his name. A suicide bomber standing in line with all the others blew himself up. By the time Um Ghayda’ got to the hospital, Abu Ghayda’ had shut his eyes forever.

Um Ghayda’ cried whenever she remembered her husband and told the story of his death. “Isn’t it a crime?” she would ask. “The man was standing in line to find a job to support his family. Is this their honorable resistance? If they want to kill the occupiers, why come after us?”

Young Ghayda’ joined in her mother’s tears whenever her father was mentioned. As for Ghayth, he would just drown in silence and pretend to watch TV, but the sorrow was visible in his eyes. His semipermanent silence worried me. What was he thinking of? His mother tried to overcompensate for the absent father by buying him whatever game he wanted, and by showering him with kisses and love. He was embarrassed by her attention when we were around, especially when she pinched what she called his “apple-y cheeks.”

Ghayda’ was nineteen. Notwithstanding the sadness in her honey eyes, her face was full of life, and her laughter lit up our gatherings. Her hair was chestnut brown, wavy, but short, exposing her beautiful neck. Her eyebrows and lashes were thick like her mother’s — but unlike her mother’s carefully plucked. Her lips were full, and when she was shy or embarrassed, she would bite the lower one.

Ghayda’ had finished high school with good grades and had been admitted to the English Department at the College of Arts in Mosul, but her parents had refused to let her go. It was too dangerous for her to travel and live there alone while the bombings and massacres continued. Her father was unsuccessful in transferring her to Baghdad or al-Mustansiriyya University, so she lost the year.

Her lively presence spread an air of beauty, femininity, and life, a welcome contrast to those long days washing male bodies to make ends meet, and an incentive to return home in the evening. I started to pay more attention to my looks and my clothes.

One of Giacometti’s statues lies on the washing bench. I assume I am meant to wash it. As I pour water over its tiny head, the sculpture dissolves into tiny fragments. I put the bowl aside and try to pick up the pieces and repair the damage, but everything disintegrates in my hands.

One night I woke up from one of my nightmares around three in the morning. I couldn’t fall asleep and kept tossing and turning. I was thirsty so I went downstairs to get a glass of water. I noticed that the electricity was on so I tiptoed to the living room to watch TV. I kept the volume very low and started surfing the channels. Ten minutes later, I heard footsteps. Ghayda’s face appeared in the dark.

“Is it OK if I watch with you?” she whispered.

“Of course, come in.” I apologized for waking her, but she said she was an insomniac.

“You are still too young for insomnia,” I said.

She smiled. “You have insomnia too?”

“Oh yes, chronic.”

She was barefoot and wore light blue sweatpants and a white T-shirt without a bra. She sat on the couch on the right-hand side, put her feet up, and hugged her knees. I could see the area between her armpit and the slope of her breast. The announcer on one of the satellite channels was recapping the day’s news. I changed the channel half a minute later to an old Egyptian film.

“Thank you for letting us stay here, by the way,” she said.

“Not at all … my mother is very happy to have you here.”

She surprised me by asking: “And you?”

“I am happy too,” I said. “I hope you are comfortable and all?”

“Very. It’s the difference between heaven and hell. There are no shots fired at night here. No threats and no headaches, but I’m sad, because all my books are still back home.”

“Which books? Schoolbooks?”

“No, novels and stuff.”

“I have a lot of books in my room. You are welcome to them. If things calm down we can go to your house and retrieve some of the books.”

“Really? Thanks, that would be super.”

“Sure, tomorrow I’ll lend you some, or you can go in yourself and choose.”

“Thanks so much.” After some silence she said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Are you doing all right with your work?”

It was surprising. Few people ever bothered to ask. My uncle inquired in his letters, and so did Professor al-Janabi. All my mother ever said was, “May God give you more strength.”

“Why do you ask?”

She smiled and bit her lower lip and said, “Never mind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, not at all.”

“It’s just that I see how stressed out you are when you come home. Even though you laugh with us, it’s obvious that you’re totally drained.”

“Well, frankly speaking, it’s very difficult, psychologically.”

Her smile had disappeared and she said, “I’m really sorry,” in a genuine tone.

“Thanks for asking.”

She didn’t ask any other questions about my work that night. We chatted about many things in a hushed voice until dawn. She started to yawn and so did I. I excused myself, saying that I had to get a couple of hours of sleep to make it through the day at work.

“I’m sorry for keeping you up.”

“I’m not — I had fun.”

“Me too.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“You too.”

As I walked upstairs I smiled to think that Ghayda’ and I were becoming closer. Then I stopped smiling: no matter how innocent our time together, our mothers would interpret it quite differently.

He was in his early fifties. He had burn scars on his forehead and right cheek. A bit chubby and bald except for a few scattered white hairs on the sides of his head and a white moustache. His hazel eyes stared at me through black-rimmed glasses. He said that the people at the morgue had sent him my way and that he had a corpse he wanted to wash and bury right away.

“May God have mercy on his soul. Is he a relative of yours?”

“No, I have no idea who he is.”

I must have looked surprised, and he added, as we walked to his car: “You won’t believe me if I tell you what happened to me.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a long and very strange story.”

I didn’t push him further. In the past two years I had seen and heard unimaginable things. He handed me the death certificate. In the blank for the name was written “anonymous.” The cause of death was severe burns, the date two months before. He pointed to a white car parked nearby. A man was seated behind the wheel, but the trunk was open. I saw a thick bag of nylon, of a type often used for anonymous corpses, with its sides stapled. Despite the thickness of the nylon and the many layers of wrapping, I could see that the corpse was charred.

“I can’t wash it if the burns are severe: it’ll disintegrate. We just do tayammum. ”

“Is that what you people usually do?”

I wasn’t sure who was meant by “you people”—washers or Shiites — so I asked him: “What do you mean?”

“Look, brother, I’ll be honest with you. I’m not a Shiite.”

“Why did you bring him here, then?”

“He is a Shiite. Didn’t I tell you it’s a strange story you would never believe?”

He sounded like he was dying to tell me the story.

“If the corpse is too mutilated, burned, or swollen so that washing is difficult and could make it disintegrate, it is not compulsory to wash it,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me your story?”