The Gardener of Baghdad Read online

  The Gardener of Baghdad

  By Ahmad Ardalan

  Copyright 2014 Ahmad Ardalan

  This novel speaks about a flower…

  The true red rose in my life,

  The rose that represents existence, beauty and class.

  Baghdad.

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

  Chapter 1

  Adnan brushed away the last shards of shattered window glass that was scattered all over the floor. It had taken six hours of effort, hard labor, to restore his bookstore to order, but finally, a new window was in place, and there was no dangerous glass shrapnel anywhere for any of his customers to step on.

  Luckily for Adnan, he was in the back with a customer when the roadside bomb exploded, the third in two years. The thing exploded about 500 feet away from his store, aimed at a small gathering of workers, and it had taken its bitter toll: five casualties and dozens of injured workers in all.

  Maybe everyone is right, Adnan considered. Maybe it’s time I close up my bookshop and leave the country like most everyone else has. Baghdad wasn’t safe anymore; it hadn’t been since day the regime had changed. Not a day went by without casualties anymore, and bombs, kidnappings, and shootings were rampant. It wasn’t the Iraq Adnan used to live in, the place where people could at least feel safe living with their families. The worst part about it was that the bombings and continuous conflict seemed to be for no reason, and things were just getting worse.

  The questions tumbled in the disgruntled shop owner’s mind: How did this all happen? Who’s behind it all? What do they stand to gain from it? Like most Iraqis, Adnan didn’t care who the ruler was or who was in charge. He’d never been into politics. He’d only wished for a nice, safe place where he and his family and their future generations could live, a place of peaceful harmony, better education, work opportunities, and free of wars.

  Adnan’s wife called again, understandably still worried about the bombing. She wanted to make sure everything was all right now, and before getting off the phone, she again urged him—as she’d done often in recent weeks—to consider leaving Iraq for good. As if he wasn’t already aware of it, she frantically reminded him that she couldn’t take it anymore, that she wanted to raise their family in a better place. “I just want to enjoy a peaceful night for once, Adnan. Baghdad isn’t safe,” she said, her final words before she hung up.

  Adnan was torn apart by it all. If it wasn’t for his shop, he would have left a long time ago, as it was becoming painfully obvious that the tumultuous situation in Baghdad was going to require years, maybe even a decade, before it would calm down.

  He walked around his shop, looking at it from left to right. While he recalled happy memories, they were far from the current reality. He had been working there for the past forty-one years. His father had started the business in 1944, and when Adnan turned six, his father began bringing him along to help him carry books and rearrange them. As the years passed, Adnan realized that he had as much passion for the work and the store as his father did. He eventually took over the shop, and it had been his second home ever since. Come to think of it, he spent more time there than at home, but he had a family of his own now, a beautiful wife and two young boys, and their safety was not negotiable. That’s it. This bomb was the last straw, he decided. He’d been thinking it over for several hours, in fact, and finally his mind was made up. “I’ll organize the bookshop and sell it so we can start a new life elsewhere, in a new and better place,” he said out loud, as if making a vow to no one in particular.

  Adnan knew selling wouldn’t be difficult, as his store was in the path of much traffic and a bevy of loyal customers, and anyone willing to take the daily risks of life would make some good money with the place.

  Around six p.m., Adnan asked his assistant to leave. He needed to be alone. He turned off the front lights, put the CLOSED sign on the door, locked the shop up, and began rearranging books and putting them in the right sections. The Arabic ones were arranged according to subjects, and the English and other foreign language books were on the other side. Adnan’s father was one of the first people to bring non-Arabic books to Baghdad. In addition to selling the books, Adnan’s store also loaned them out. In one small sitting corner, patrons could read the books right there in the shop; his mother used to call it “the elderly corner,” since the neighborhood elders dropped by daily to read and to have their morning tea with Adnan’s father while making small talk.

  Adnan finished putting every book back in its place. Then, with his hands in his pockets and sadness and grief in his eyes, he stared around at the place. “Is this it? Am I really going to abandon you?” he mumbled to himself, looking at the books.

  Then, as if an answer to his question, reality struck him again. He recalled the ominous BOOM! of the last bomb, the image of people running and glass flying everywhere while he stood there in the chaos, surrounded by books.

  “Right. There’s no other way,” he said in a louder voice, forming the words with his brain while his heart was crying out in agony.

  Adnan thought about what life might have in store for him and his family if they left. Will I be able to open a new shop somewhere, or will I have to start from scratch? Will the children be able to adjust? Will my wife love our new home? There were questions, questions, and more questions flooding his mind, but Adnan had few answers.

  What made things worse was that there were laws in place that forbade the shipping of large quantities of books from one country to another. Many approvals and permits had to be filed, and that meant Adnan would have to buy a new supply of books if he wanted to continue doing what he loved to do—the only job he knew. Buying new books and arranging them wouldn’t be much of a hassle, since he’d have plenty of money from selling his store. It would only take some effort for that problem to be solved. What really pained Adnan, the toughest part, was having to let go of the books in the far right corner of his shop, the masterpieces. Those tomes were all rare, unique books, most more than fifty years old. They weren’t even for sale because they were his treasures, and he considered them priceless. That private collection was very close to his heart, just as they had been to his father’s. Anyone who wanted to read them had to ask days ahead of time and could only read them in the store; none of those books ever left the four walls of his bookstore, not even in the hands of his closest, most trusted friends or relatives. Unfortunately, the modern generation didn’t seem to appreciate Adnan’s treasures, so the corner hadn’t seen much action for a long time, and the 300-plus books or so were all dusty.

  Adnan had read more than half of them, but even he had neglected them for the last three or four years. Of course, this was not out of his own will, but because daily problems had impacted his life and eaten up all his spare time. Adnan moved to the corner where they sat, stood in front of them, and took a whiff, enjoying the ancient, almost musty aroma of those old pages. He moved closer and picked each book up and carefully cleaned their covers and bindings. He knew he could make a good fortune off of those books by selling them to some curator or collector, but those who would truly value the books had either left the country or were dealing with other priorities that left them little spending money for anything as frivolous as rare and beautiful books. Nevertheless, they deserved to be dusted, for they were hidden gems.

  After nearly two hours of dusting and thumbing through some of his inventory, Adnan was in the third row when a book fell. He quickly picked it up, and he could tell from the title that it was French. Funny. I don’t remember seeing this one before. Out of curiosity, he opened the book. As is usually the case for books, the first page contained the name of the publis
her and the copyright information. It was clearly mentioned that the work had been published in 1931. Intrigued, Adnan turned a few pages. Suddenly, something fell out of the book. When he carefully placed the book back on the shelf and bent down to see what it was, Adnan realized it was a small, leaf-shaped, locket. The pendant was dark golden in color, and two green stones, emeralds in the shape of eyes, were embedded in it.

  With the most delicate of touches, Adnan opened the locket. On one side were the letters M&A, clearly engraved, but what caught Adnan’s attention at once was what was on the other side: a black and white photograph of a woman behind a small glass. He quickly dusted it off. Although the photo wasn’t that clear, the woman in the picture looked like a foreigner; she had light hair and features far different from most Arabic women. Still, her eyes were very beautiful and big, and her smile was innocent. In fact, Adnan had never seen such beautiful, wide eyes. She was indeed a very nice-looking woman, but something told Adnan she harbored some sadness beneath that pretty grin. “Who was this woman?” Adnan asked himself.

  He continued staring at the photo, studying it for a few minutes. He brought it very close to his eyes, then held it a bit further away, as if to see if there was more to it, something he’d missed. At the same time, he kept on asking himself the same question: “Who are you? Do I know you?

  When the locket returned no answers, he put it in his pocket and picked up the French book from the shelf. In spite of his efforts to handle it with care and turn the pages gently, the entire inside of the book fell out of its cover, as if it wasn’t attached to the binding at all. Adnan stopped, surprised to see that the original inside pages of the book had been replaced with paper of a very different color. Everything was handwritten in English, not printed from a press, in spite of the publisher’s name in the front. Adnan’s heart began to beat faster as he flipped through the pages. The words were scribed in black ink, all English, with the exception of a few Arabic words scattered throughout here and there.

  A sudden rush of adrenaline ran through Adnan. His face began to sweat, and, full of excitement, he took the pendant out of his pocket. He held it in his right hand and kept the book in his left. Then, with fast feet, he made his way to his desk. He removed everything from his desk and carefully placing his new discoveries in front of him. He looked at his watch and impatiently dialed his wife; fortunately, she answered after a couple of rings. “I won’t be home tonight,” he said. “Don’t worry. I just have some extra work to do in the shop and a few things to fix if I’m going to have to sell the place.”

  While his wife didn’t like to hear that he wouldn’t be home, she was very glad to hear that he’d finally made his mind up. She knew better than to bicker with him about not coming home, as she didn’t want him to change his mind again, after all the time it had taken her to convince him to leave. She took it as good news, more than enough, and quickly told him goodnight and got off the phone.

  Adnan opened the locket again and placed it on its side so the lady’s face was toward him. He then opened the first page of the book.

  The date was written on the top in Arabic, July 12, 1958. Adnan took a deep breath and started reading the book: “I have a feeling things won’t go well when we return to Baghdad tomorrow…”

  ҉҉

  I am writing this so my beautiful daughter knows the sacrifices her mother and I have made in the name of our love. If I’m not there to tell my daughter who her father is, this will help her a lot—or at least I hope so.

  I was born in 1934 in Diyala, an only child to my parents and the light and joy in their lives. My father, along with my two uncles, had inherited a large plot from their late father. It was beautiful agricultural land, with soil so rich that everything they planted turned into gold. My father and uncles were fond of their work and took care of the land very well, and our farms supplied fruits and vegetables to many areas across the country.

  I had a happy childhood. I enjoyed watching my father and uncles do their daily work at the farm, and my mother and my uncles’ wives laughed as they went about their daily chores, whether it was cooking or helping the men with some farm work. I loved running around those green farms, collecting dates, oranges, and grapes and playing with my younger cousins. I was particularly close to Mustafa, who was only four months younger.

  I will never forget the good times we had. Every day, just before sunrise, Mustafa and I used to run to the end of the farm, to a little hut my late grandfather had built years earlier. We’d climb up on top of it and watch the sunflowers open up while the sun was rising. How beautiful a sight it was! We just watched and watched, and everything in life seemed so simple, so perfect. I remember racing him all the way back. We played games like hide-and-seek and football, but the thing Mustafa loves most was climbing that high palm tree next to the house. He loved playing up there, and he never lost to me once when we raced to climb it. He was quick as a bullet, and I’d bet my life that nobody in Iraq could climb it faster than him. With several moves, he was up the tree, picking the sweetest date, while I was still struggling halfway through. It was a lovely, peaceful life till, out of nowhere, a tragedy hit.

  On a rainy day in February of 1943, we received shocking news. My father and one of my uncles were on their way to Baghdad via public transportation, a small, twelve-passenger local bus, the only one in the province that went to Baghdad daily at that time, always at seven a.m. sharp. That day, the roads were muddy and dangerous. It had rained all night before, and the rain continued even after they’d left home. They were urged by my mother and my aunt to delay their visit, but they insisted that they go, stating that they had urgent meetings to attend. In the end, that decision would prove to be a fatal one, but I learned early in life that you can’t fight fate. That day was to be their calling day, that bus ride their last.

  Witnesses recalled that a commuting van slid from one on of the bridges just outside Baghdad and dropped, headfirst, into the Tigris River. The incident resulted in seven casualties, and my father and uncle were among them. They passed away instantly.

  The shock hit us hard. My mother was hurt the most, as she was an orphan herself and had no brothers or sisters. My father was her everything, so she was devastated. She’d finally found someone to love in life, but he was taken away from her in a heartbeat. Before that, she’d always worn the most beautiful smile, but I never saw it again after that day.

  After the tragedy, my youngest uncle was in charge of all of us. It wasn’t easy for such a young man to take care of three families and manage all the farms by himself, so my cousin Mustafa and I tried to help. After all, we were the oldest of the children, both a ripe, old age of ten. I always told Mustafa we had a short-lived childhood, and we were men before our time.

  I loved working on the farm and helping out, but Mustafa only did it because he felt obliged to. Nevertheless, once school was out, we both helped with everything from seeding and irrigation to driving the tractors, the best part of all. At that age, I had four things in my life: my mother, Mustafa, the rest of the family, and the farm.

  Ten months later, life struck me with another harsh blow, when my mother passed away from pneumonia. The doctors tried to help, but they were of little use. She hadn’t been the same since my father’s untimely death, and she didn’t seem to have the will to live anymore.

  So, I was an orphan before I even turned eleven. From that day on, I dedicated everything to my work. I put my heart and soul into it and was my uncle’s right arm. He taught me everything, and as years passed, I began to take on many responsibilities of the farm, lightening his load a great deal.

  As difficult as it was to study, since there were only a few schools within a thirty-miles radius, my father had always insisted that learning was a priority. I finished primary school, but I dropped out after that. With my parents gone, I had no desire to continue my education. Besides, I poured all my attention and energy into our farm, taking care of the land that belonged to my uncle and used to
belong to my father.

  One day, when I was fourteen, I was in Baghdad, waiting for my uncle near a busy market. I saw a well-dressed Iraqi gentleman in a black suit and shiny black shoes. He looked to be in his early forties, with fairly dark skin; big, dark brown eyes; an impeccably trimmed mustache; and a medium build and height. He was speaking English, talking to a British gentleman, and both of them laughed heartily every once in a while. I watched them for several moments, as I was mesmerized by the man’s personality, looks, and manner of speaking. He was so elegant, so confident. I was impressed, and I felt something I still can’t explain. At that moment, I wished I was like him, elegant and able to talk articulately and confidently, just enjoying myself.

  I gave in to my strong urge to approach him. I greeted the men and shook their hands. I made sure to tell the Iraqi that I admired him because he looked so elegant, and I asked him where he’d learned to speak English so well.

  With a warm smile I won’t forget, he tapped me on the back and asked for my name. “And what brings you to this market today, my boy?” he said.

  “I am Ali. We have several farms in Diyala, and my relatives and I take care of them. My uncle and I come here from time to time for our business,” I replied.

  “That’s nice, Ali. I’m Radhi, an engineer. I know English because I studied in the United Kingdom,” he said, with warmth oozing from his voice. He’d answered me, a random kid on the street, even though he didn’t have to, and I was amazed how kind he was to me, right from the start.

  After his answer, I was still curious, and he seemed to sense that. Radhi took me aside, bent down to my eye level, and asked me if I would like to learn English. I nodded excitedly. I’d never thought about it before, but I desired to be able to speak like him with people from other lands.

  He smiled and pulled me closer and said, “To learn English, you must first know how to read and write Arabic, young Ali”