Baghdad: The Final Gathering Read online

  Baghdad: The Final Gathering

  By Ahmad Ardalan

  Copyright 2016 Ahmad Ardalan

  This novel is a work of fiction, all characters, and names are of the author’s imagination.

  My gratitude to the artist and friend Ali Al Jumaili for his great work on the cover.

  With the drums of war just weeks away, Omar invites all those closest to his heart for lunch at his lavish villa overlooking the Tigris River of Baghdad. He can't help but smile at the faces that have graced his eventful life that spans from an interesting childhood, the two Gulf Wars, and the inhumane embargo that crippled the nation. Loved ones come together, probably for the last time, in the city their ancestors called Baghdad or Baghdadu, "God’s Gift."

  Memories upon memories linger in Omar's head. He has survived times of struggle, holding on to hope and love along the way. As he reflects on his journey, as a man destined to live a hard life in tumultuous times, he ponders a clouded future, on the brink of unknown change.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Introduction

  I don’t reckon that there is anything as controversial as time. Everyone looks at it in a different way. Time, as a noun, is defined as “the indefinite, continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future, regarded as a whole.”

  This is a bit difficult to understand, but so is time itself.

  At any moment throughout history, there are those who wish they had more time. In that same instant, others desire that time would just pass, some even faster than others.

  Imagine, yourself impatiently waiting outside the operating room, desperately hoping for news from a doctor or even a nurse while your loved one is in labor or undergoing surgery of any kind. Imagine waiting to see a long-lost someone dear, perhaps a son or daughter, a friend, a parent, or the love of your life. How slow and heavy is passing time as you wait for that prognosis or that reunion?

  Now, look at it from another side. Imagine taking an exam that will decide your whole future. The clock does not stop its relentless ticking, yet you are still only halfway done. Imagine resting and relaxing in the most beautiful resort you’ve ever seen, the best getaway you’ve ever been on, yet you have to check out in just an hour. Surely, in both of these situations, you would beg for an extra day or even just a few hours.

  Think even more deeply and place yourself on the losing side in the final game of a monumental sporting event—maybe the World Cup or the Superbowl—with the clock running down. In that instance, you would give all you had for just a little more time. One meager minute, just sixty more seconds, would make all the difference. Even a tenth of second could change your life. Do you find this difficult to believe? If you do, ask an athlete who prayed for seconds to kick or throw or run what might have been that winning shot.

  Imagine being imprisoned, an innocent person-deemed-criminal. Every second you spend in that cell would feel like an eternity. If you just so happened to be on death row, though, every moment closer to that horrible sentence would pass far too quickly. Time, either way, would work against you.

  On the other hand, maybe you are a young man or woman waiting to reach some sort of milestone in your life, the legal age to get your driver’s license. That young you counts the days till your next birthday, so you can go on a trip of your own or finally move out.

  Imagine being an old person, trapped in a fragile, frail, withered body, aches every torturous moment, from the minute you wake up. You look back on all your years, those fading memories that make you wish with all your ailing heart that you were younger, wishing you would have done things differently, maybe met different people, married earlier, or had kids or not. Regret consumes you as you wish you could go back and change things, as you yearn for a do-over, wish you had made the right investment when had the chance. Maybe you wish you could travel back in time and do everything over again, but you cannot because time always moves forward.

  Every moment in life has the potential to become a story that can be shared with others for generations. Wars, inventions, disasters, and any event that happens in any given second can be archived and recorded in human memory and our history books. Whether regrets or achievements, successes or failures, happiness or heartbreak, all are points in time.

  Again, it is all about time, time, time, be it an hour, a day, weeks, or years—even generations. Events in time have served as experience, taught all of us lessons about who we want to be and who we do not want to be, what we should and should not do. The novel you are about to read is about some of those moments in time. Once upon a time, in Baghdad…

  Chapter 1: The Gathering

  Although my hair is growing thinner and a few white hairs have appeared over the past few months, I still feel like I am 22 or 23. I can still run just as fast, talk just as smoothly, and laugh just as hard as the guy I was eight or nine years ago.

  I have always loved this suit, even though I’ve only worn it twice before. My daughter’s first day at school was the perfect occasion for it; I looked at her proudly as she entered class that day. I also wore it when I took Fatima out for dinner. I will talk about those precious moments later, but now, I don the suit again, to attend a gathering I have dreamt of all my life, one my heart told me I had only little time left to achieve.

  “The house is amazing. Everything is spotless. Everyone has really done a great job, Daddy. I can’t believe the work my aunt has done! The dining room looks exquisite. The crystal glasses, fine porcelains plates, and silverware sparkle. Mom’s sheets are beautiful, ironed and as white as feather. The food Auntie has prepared is just… Oh, Dad, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, but you forgot something.”

  “What, Daddy?”

  “You, Sarah. You look amazing, my lovely angel, the most beautiful girl on this planet. Go now. I will be done in a minute and be down to join you.”

  As I hear the footsteps of my daughter slowly fade away, I take a final look at myself. I admire my clean shave and my hair, short on the sides. Out of all the looks I’ve worn over the years, this is the one that matches me most, that displays the man I really am.

  Sarah’s wonderful words carried me back to the first day we moved in, four years ago. It took a lot of time to get the house to where it is now. I sat for hours and hours with the engineer, and finally, after two years of hard work, brick by brick, my dream home became a reality.

  We moved in back in 1999, my late wife, Sarah, and I. The first two years were great, but then things changed. The sickness escalated, and then dear Farah passed away. The house we had restored no longer felt like home, and our joy faded as the days passed by.

  Our house is one of the biggest villas in the area, occupying a massive 2,300 square meters. The façade that faces the main street is bordered by large, black gates. When the gates open, guests are greeted with a long driveway, flanked by palm trees on each side. That gorgeous natural pathway ends with the high, striking, three-story white house we call home. At first sight, the place would take anyone’s breath away. Layers of glistening glass adorn the front exterior, from top to bottom. To the left is a small, round garden, painted with flowers of all colors. To the right is a sizeable garage that could easily fit four cars.

  Although this is the main entrance, it is still far from being the most impressive, as from the back, like all other villas in the area, the house opens to the great Tigris River.

 
Our white castle, as Sarah calls it, has five bedrooms, two on the second floor and three on the third. The third-floor spaces are luxurious, in baroque style, just the way Farah liked it. Although they vary in size and color, each has the same layout: a seating area at the front, a lovely sofa that perfectly matches the color scheme, and a comfortable bed that faces the outdoors in the back. The hand-carved ceilings are equipped with exquisite hanging chandeliers, giving each room a majestic look. Farah carefully selected the colors for the bed linens and colors, all interwoven with gold. At the far end of each room is a small door that opens to a lovely balcony, facing the river. On those cozy balconies with their panoramic postcard views, it is very easy to get lost in one’s thoughts. It is the perfect place to read a book or enjoy afternoon coffee or tea, to enjoy the sunset and become one with the mighty Tigris itself. From that place, that amazing vantage point, all the pains of the hard life in Iraq seem to melt away, all the tiring days of the embargo wafting away into the bliss of surrounding beauty.

  Yesterday, there was a full moon, and that silvery-blue light magically reflected on the river, a stunning glow that merged with the peaceful flow of the Tigris, the thousands of whispering palm trees of Baghdad on the horizon, and the beautiful houses and mosque just across the way. That ideal portrait inspired me and helped me finally finish reading one of the classics that had eluded me all those years, The Tale of Two Cities.

  Now, the book still lies next to my bed. It was a gift from my father on my first day of high school. It took me many years to read it. I carefully pick it up, place it on one of the shelves, and make my way down the marvelous spiraling marble staircase that runs through the center of the house. Halfway down, I stop momentarily and stare at the second-floor reception area below. My eyes are immediately captured by the big Bohemian vase filled with flowers, carefully placed on the mahogany table, which has been moved from the living room to the center of the entryway. What a smart decision, I think, admiring their efforts. What a lovely way to greet our guests, all those people who have crossed my path, those people who occupy so many memories.

  I know my daughter influenced the choice of flowers for the vase, because of all the colors of tulips we have, she has always adored the purple ones most. The bouquet is a masterpiece of art all its own, all that vibrant violet to welcome people to our home.

  I take my time as I move slowly down, trying to absorb the beauty and changes made to the house to welcome the day’s event. The closer I get, the stronger the sweet, fresh aroma of the flowers is; my nostrils demand heavier and heavier breaths, one after another, to soothe their desire for that wonderful smell. Those gardenias, roses, and tulips tingle and tangle as they intermingle with my senses.

  I turn right and left but see no one, not even my daughter. I quickly choose one of the red roses, cut it free of its stem, and attach it to my suit as a boutonnière, something I learned from my father, who never went out of home without a rose. If anyone ever mentions my gentlemanly elegance, I make sure to give my father all the credit.

  I quickly pass through the rooms. The living area is absolutely shining, with everything in its perfect place, arranged properly. The pride and joy of this room is the grand piano. It still sits in the corner where it was placed as dear Farah’s 30th birthday gift, just 6 short weeks before she was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer.

  Farah was thrilled with the piano; she’d dreamt of owning one ever since she was a child, and she cherished playing it, right up until her last days. Bach was her favorite. I close my eyes for a second and recall her playing “Air on the G String,” while little Sarah slept in my lap. I still hear those notes, that precious lullaby, every time I pass by the piano. “Time. Ah, time…” I say dreamily to myself as I open my eyes and daintily dance my fingers over the keys. I know at least one of our guests will amuse us with the instrument today; No one can resist having a go at playing. Some do well, but most quit after a few tries.

  A quick scroll to the left leads to the recreation area; half the floor is dedicated to that purpose. It is occupied by an L-shaped swimming pool, and adjacent Jacuzzi, a sauna, a treadmill, and, finally, a billiards table, which I am sure most of my friends and cousins will enjoy later today. This area is a must, a requirement, and I demanded it in my initial architectural planning right from the start. My difficult life and business never allowed enough time for me to visit any gyms or sports club, so I wanted one in my own home, and the engineer who helped me did not disappoint. It was a solid competitor for any small, five-star health center. The swimming pool was bedecked with a beautiful mosaic of tiles. The Jacuzzi was made of the finest wood, and the walls were a calming, rich color. It is this space I visit to cool down after a long day.

  My aunt, my father’s youngest sister, really did an amazing job with the dining room. “Beautiful,” I mutter, looking around, not nearly enough of a compliment for what lies before me. The sunny March day makes everything look even more brilliant and brighter.

  The sixteen-seat dining room table faces the backyard gardens, visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. As long as the sun is out, the pure satin curtains remain pulled, from dusk till sunset the next day. This room is the heart of the house, and today, it will tell a story: my story.

  Now, though, the room is still quiet and empty. Through the windows, I see that a few of my guests have arrived already. Some are huddled together, sipping drinks and engaging in conversations in the garden or on the marvelous patio.

  Within an hour, almost all family and guests have arrived. We gather in the garden, scattered around the musical fountain in the center. The fountain always receives the high praise it rightfully deserves, and, like so many times before, I am asked to tell the story behind it. “How?” they ask. “When? Where did you get your hands on those angels atop flying lions?” I cannot help but smile as I thrill them with the tale.

  I have always been fascinated by fountains. During my childhood in Berlin, I saw them everywhere, and they always represented life to me. They seemed to attract people—lovers, adults, and kids like me, not to mention the pigeons and birds that seemed to enjoy and thrive in the sound of the splashing water. In the summertime, it was another reason for us to get wet, and our parents didn’t seem to be bothered by it; honestly, they were probably far from happy about it, but we were inevitably going to do it anyway, so they learned to accept it and got used to it. There is no feasible way to separate a child from splashing around in the water. I know this simple truth from my own childhood but also from raising my precious Sarah.

  As the years passed, I saw lots of lots of fountains, such as the magical ones in Barcelona, the Versailles fountains, the Bartholdi fountain in Lyon, the Petrhof fountain in St. Petersburg, and, of course, the Trevi fountain in Rome. Each has its own story, but my favorite story is still the one I heard so many times as a child, about the Neptunbrunnen.in Berlin. I used to call it “beard man fountain.” After all, the Roman god Neptune, surrounded by those four women who each represent a river, does, in fact, have a very long beard! I vowed that one day, I would beautiful my own home with a masterpiece of a fountain, and my angels on flying lions were just that.

  I met Roberto six years ago, at a reception party. The young gentleman, an artist and, more precisely, a sculptor, started working on his passion at the tender age of 6. He followed his dream and built his reputation over time. Some of his works now sell for more than $50,000. We have kept in contact throughout the years and met several times, talking about fountains over espressos. My love of such architectural waterworks wonders was not lost on him.

  Roberto promised to transfer my ideas into a living structure for free. At the end of April just three years ago, I traveled to Milano and met with Roberto several times over the course of two days to tell him what I had in mind. I wanted my fountain to be a mix of marble and stone, with four angels riding four flying lions, on what I had envisioned as a stormy day. I requested that Roberto Make it clear that the four angels are of
different ages. Each had to have a unique, distinctive look, so there is no resemblance between the quartets of celestial beings. I also insisted that their appearance had to capture their fight and struggle against the storm and their effort to control the paths of the powerful lions. The lions themselves had their own story, and their facial expressions were carved immaculately, right down to the last detail, exhibiting resistance, power, and loyalty. “Roberto, the winds are powerful, and the rain is pouring,” I explained. Six months later, my vision was a reality, and that masterpiece was added to my yard, to bring even more life to my beautiful garden. By the time I finish telling the story, every one of my guests has neared the marble angels and lions, and I find them staring inquisitively at their perfectly carved expressions, with awe and wonder in their eyes.

  My brother is the last to show up, around two p.m. we linger in the garden for another twenty minutes, then make our way into the dining room, where food will be served.

  I watch each and every one of them as they take their places around the dining table, which is majestically arranged. Their voices are like angelic, symphonic notes to my ears. This is the moment I have wished for all my life.

  Even as a boy, when I was asked, “Omar, what do you wish for?” I gazed into my own world for a few seconds and visualized all those I love sitting at one table in my beautiful home, enjoying life and each other. Years and years later, here they are, all those closest to my heart. They all entered my life at different times, from different paths, but now they converge in one place, laughing and talking, enjoying the unforgettable gathering, all dressed in their finest and grinning from ear to ear in utter happiness. As gleeful as my visitors are, though, I am sure none are as happy as I am while I look into their friendly, familiar faces and recall all the moments that have woven our lives together.