The Gardener of Baghdad Page 2

  I told him I’d finished primary school and that I knew how to read and write Arabic and that my uncle and his wife wrote and read it very well. He told me that was a good start, and then he let go of my hand, straightened himself up, and asked me to meet him the very next day, same time and place. He assured me I wouldn’t be disappointed.

  When my uncle came back, I told him about my encounter with Mr. Radhi and begged him to let me stay for another day in Baghdad to meet him again. Much to my delight, he allowed me to stay.

  At precisely the same time the following day, in the exact same spot, Mr. Radhi showed up, as promised. He was carrying a small box of books, which he handed to me. “Ali, four of these books will help you learn English. Read them little by little. The last book, the bigger one with the green leather cover, is an encyclopedia about plants, gardening, and farming. You will need to study them well, but before you take this step, before you embark on the new language, you have to promise me that you will master Arabic, that your uncle and aunt will teach you well.”

  I was extremely happy. I thanked him so many times, with tears in my eyes.

  He took out his handkerchief wiped my tears and told me that if I needed more books, I could look for them in the Al Aadhamiya area, there was a good shop there. He also told me that if I ever needed any help, I could ask anyone in the Safina area about him.

  My life suddenly had more meaning. I continued helping on the farms, and at the same time, I read as much as I could. As the years passed, my younger cousins grew and got more involved.

  Mustafa, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more distanced. His passion wasn’t farming, and the only thing he liked about nature and the outdoors was climbing that palm tree. He wanted to travel, to go as far away as possible. He was always telling me that he wanted to go to Basra, to the port to be more specific, where he could get involved in trading and learn from the best there. His desire was to travel away with the vessels and discover new places, and a few years later, he finally left. He was only sixteen, so his father wasn’t so keen on the idea, but as painful as it was for him to let his son go, he didn’t want to get in the way of his desire.

  My uncle had a friend in Basra who would serve as an excellent guide for Mustafa in the beginning. He also gave him some money that would help him settle in. For the first few weeks after my cousin and friend left for Basra, I felt lonely. He was, after all, my best friend. Suddenly, the person I shared almost everything with wasn’t there anymore. To comfort myself, I took solace in my books, and I dug deeper and deeper into reading.

  Whenever I went to Baghdad, I returned with a book or two. I became fluent in English by reading the books over and over again. For hours at night, I read in the warm glow of the candle next to my bed, and waking up every morning with a book in my hand became normal.

  After I gained a decent command of the language, I decided to study the encyclopedia about plants, the big green book Mr. Radhi had given me. Within a short period of time, I decided to put the advice in that book into practice. I made a small garden for myself, just outside my home, and began experimenting with whatever seeds I could get from my Baghdad acquaintances.

  The more trials I did in my little garden, the better it became, and I gained so much experience along the way. I learned what to plant and when, and my continuous visits to Baghdad broadened my horizons even more. It was the perfect learning process, one that mingled with my imagination.

  I loved Baghdad and found it to be a beautiful place full of kind people. There were newer, wider streets than any I’d seen anywhere else in Iraq, but there were also beautiful, narrow, old streets that seemed to transport me back through decades of time, revealing the city’s heritage. There were palm trees everywhere, and I loved the bridges that linked the two sides of Baghdad together, over the beautiful Tigris River. Just walking beside the Tigris anytime of the day was rewarding for my mind and soul, each breath of air along it a lovely, invigorating treat for my nostrils.

  The city was full of busy markets, and several vendors sold goods out of their wooden carriages. I learned quickly that whatever my heart desired could be found in Baghdad—everything from fresh fruit and vegetables to cattle, poultry, fish, spices, garments, clothes, antique furniture, and musical instruments. There was even a vast animal market where people could purchase pets or even weird, exotic animals like snakes and monkeys. The city was constantly buzzing with life, and I felt more alive each time I visited it.

  It was quite the social scene. The city was bursting with cafés and restaurants, where elegantly dressed musicians, poets, journalists, and pedestrians gathered. Baghdad was Iraq’s city that never slept. As late-night parties were wrapping up, some were preparing for their morning prayers in the hundreds or more beautiful mosques. The streets were never quiet.

  I’d seen a lot of beautiful places over the years, but one was unforgettable—a particular spot along the Tigris River on the north side of the city. I’d first noticed it while walking along the river on a cold night in February. It was a large, empty area surrounded by an eight-foot-high fence of green-painted wood. There were no buildings on it, and the place seemed abandoned, as if it was unknown or forgotten by the rest of the vibrant city. After I saw it, I visited it every time I went to Baghdad, and not once did I see another soul there.

  I wanted to learn more about the strange, alluring place. One day, I decided to climb the fence and check it out for myself. I knew it was wrong to trespass on land that wasn’t mine and didn’t necessarily belong to the public, but it was as if a strange voice was beckoning me, as if the land itself was crying out, complaining about the neglect it had suffered. Deep inside, I knew that the land deserved more attention than it was getting. I walked around the whole place, admiring its beautiful, untouched soil that felt moist when I picked it up and carried a rich, earthy aroma. I just sat there for an hour, lost deep in my thoughts. I planned what I would do with that land if it was mine, if I had the chance to use it for anything, and somehow, I knew I’d have an opportunity to put those plans into action someday.

  On my following visits to Baghdad, I made some inquiries about the place. As it turned out, the land belonged to a Jewish Iraqi family that had left Iraq. Their only living relative in Baghdad wasn’t at all interested in it and was ready to sell it. I knew it wouldn’t be difficult to purchase the land from them, but I wanted to be sure I was making the right decision. I had to be certain, as well, that if I did decide to take on that new experience, to make that my true future and passion, my uncle would be all right with that. After all he’d done for me, I did not want to leave him shorthanded on my family’s farms.

  I was eighteen at that time, and for the past thirteen months, I’d worked very hard to teach my younger cousins everything I knew about farm work. We’d gone over every detail, no matter how small, and only after I felt sure and confident that they had learned all there was to know, I approached my uncle about my desire to leave and told him what I had in mind. I told him I wanted to sell my share of the land to the family and that I would gladly accept any price he came up with. After all, we were all from the same bloodline.

  Naturally, my uncle was sad to hear that I was ready to leave, but he had watched me grow over the years, and he’d seen a change in me. All along, he’d been waiting for that day to come, the day when I’d be ready to venture out on my own. He’d seen the excitement in my eyes whenever I went with him to Baghdad, and he knew I was destined for something other than working on our family farms. Thus, when I broke the news to him, it didn’t come as much as a surprise. He told me he knew it was only a matter of time and said he was sure I’d succeed in whatever I planned to do. He generously offered to pay more than my share of the family land was worth, stating that without me and all my hard work, the farms wouldn’t have been so prosperous. He hugged me tightly and said, “You are always welcome here anytime you need to come back. This will always be your home, Ali.”

  With the money I got, I
bought the amazing little patch of secluded land in a matter of weeks. I already had everything carefully organized in my head. I’d imagined it all the first time I’d seen the place, and I now just had to put all my thoughts and dreams in action.

  I was going to make the best plant nursery in Baghdad, something Baghdad had never had before. I wanted to create something people would talk about, a place people would like to visit as well as buy from, and I knew just the person to help me achieve those lofty goals. I would contact the same person who’d helped me find my passion and opened that new path in my life in the first place, Mr. Radhi.

  Finding Mr. Radhi was very easy, as everyone in the areas he mentioned knew him. He was a well-respected figure in society, one of the few Iraqi civil engineers who’d graduated in the UK at that time, and he was also close to one of the members of the royal family, in spite of his loathing of politics.

  While walking to his place, I wondered if he’d even remember me. It had been four years since he’d given me those books, the volumes that changed my life forever and opened a new world to me. I reached his home just after noon. It was near the water, surrounded by beautiful villas. Mr. Radhi’s villa was right on the riverfront, just 100 feet away from the Tigris, separated from the roaring river only by a small street used by commuters and cars as well. There was a short, off-white gate and a black door. The whole house could be seen clearly from outside.

  I knocked twice and waited, and just when I was about to knock a third time, an old man greeted me. He was well dressed, sporting a black suit and a crisp, perfectly ironed white shirt. He spoke in a low voice, and I assumed he was in charge of household security. I introduced myself and asked for Mr. Radhi, and the old man informed me that the man I sought wouldn’t be back for an hour. He told me I should return then, but I explained to him that I had traveled a very long way and would prefer to wait there for him. The kind, understanding man opened the gates and invited me to sit in the garden.

  Mr. Radhi’s garden was huge and stretched all across the front of the villa. It was home to many colorful flowers, a few palm trees, and a fairly green lawn, though there were some yellowed patches. Overall it was a decent garden, though not as spectacular as I would have expected. With a minute of observation, I’d already envisioned how I could turn the space into an absolute paradise.

  The house was lovely on the outside, a large, three-level home constructed out of white and off-white stones. The floor of the entrance was fashioned from beautiful fading orange marble. The façade that looked out over the river was equipped with eight windows, four of them reaching from the floor to the ceiling. It was obvious that Mr. Radhi was a lover of light—sunlight in particular.

  Around one p.m., I heard a car approaching. When the horn honked twice, the old man moved quickly and opened the gate, and a black car entered. Mr. Radhi was sitting in the back, still wearing that dapper-looking hat and sunglasses.

  As soon as he got out of the car, he looked over and noticed me sitting in the garden. The old man whispered a few words in his ear, and Mr. Radhi handed his bag to the driver and started walking toward me. “Can I do something for you, young man?” Mr. Radhi asked in Arabic as he neared.

  I replied in near-perfect English, “I’m sure you can, Mr. Radhi.”

  He was a few feet away and looked at me for a second. Then, a big smile crept over his face, and he said, “Ali, is that you?”

  I gave him a slight nod.

  “You have grown into a handsome man! I always believed I’d see you again someday, and this is a pleasant surprise indeed. You must be starving. Come inside, and we’ll have lunch,” he said, patting me on the back.

  The interior of the house was extremely beautiful, with class written all over it. Rustic, antique silk carpets were stretched all over the floors, and the walls were adorned with long, silver-framed mirrors and beautiful paintings. The furnishings included two beautiful green fabric sofas, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. I’d seen quite a few houses in my life, but never had I seen any so elegant. The rosewood tables were exquisite, covered with hand-knitted, soft cloths; I had never felt anything so smooth before.

  Amidst all that rich, artistic beauty, what I admired the most was the meter-and-a-half-tall grandfather clock in the corner. It was fashioned from dark cherry wood, hand-carved with golden angels dancing in the sky, overlooking a festive feast. Amazed, I instantly asked Mr. Radhi about it, and he told me he’d bought the clock from England a few years back. The delicate hand carvings were made by a student of David Roentgen, a well-known German Rococo cabinet- and clockmaker. “The wood’s the best you’ll find anywhere, and the mechanics are absolutely fascinating. It weighs more than a hundred pounds,” he said. “You’d need a real sharp axe to break it!”

  “Oh, but I’d never want to break anything so beautiful,” I said with a smile.

  After I took some time to admire that room and all of its masterpieces, Mr. Radhi showed me around some other rooms, each with its own identity. When we finally entered the dining room, lunch was already being served.

  We were soon joined by a woman, and Mr. Radhi introduced her as his wife, Laila. She was a very elegant lady, rather tall, with long, beautiful, black hair that cascaded down over her shoulders like an ebony waterfall. She had light blue eyes that seemed to glisten, but her most striking features were her prominent cheekbones and her small, straight nose. Her skin was much fairer in complexion than Mr. Radhi’s, but they were a perfect match, both in their forties, no more a year or so apart. I could sense their deep connection immediately, and it was clear that they belonged to each other.

  We enjoyed the food and conversation for more than two hours. I learned that the couple had only had one child, but he’d died at the age of five, due to fever .I could still see the sadness in Madam Laila’s eyes whenever she talked about their son; coincidently, his name was the same as mine, Ali.

  After our delicious and friendly lunch, Mr. Radhi took me to his study, a small, square, cozy room decorated with brown leather armchairs and a small, round table. There were shelves on all four walls, full of books, and on top of the shelves in the center wall was a glass-encased saying by the Prophet Muhammad: “Go in quest of knowledge, even unto China.”

  When Mr. Radhi saw me staring at those words, he said, “Ali, there is nothing better than learning. I have learned all my life and I will continue to do so.” He then talked a bit about his book collection and explained where the books had come from. After that, he asked me to join him in the garden so he could have a smoke of his pipe; his lovely wife didn’t like him smoking inside their lovely home.

  In the garden, we talked for hours. Mr. Radhi showed genuine interest in hearing everything about my life. I started from the beginning and told him all that had happened to me up to that point, everything I could recall about my life leading up to that moment. I explained how I’d lost my parents and told him about the hard but rewarding work on our farms for all those years. I talked about my passion for agriculture, nurturing plants, and farming. I also made sure to mention the influence he’d had on me the day I’d met him in the old market. “You opened my eyes that day,” I said. “You showed me that my life could hold adventures I never expected.” I then told him I’d bought a nice plot of land near the river in the northern part of the city. “It’s not a huge piece of land,” I said, “but it’s big enough for what I’ve got in mind. I can set up my nursery there, and I want it to be unlike any other place in Baghdad.” I was very excited about my new mission in life, and he allowed me to go on and on without interruptions, until I finally stopped.

  All his words seemed wise, but this time, he uttered some I’d never forget: “Ali, I am confident it will be special, and I’m ready to help you however I can. I will design a house for you there and supervise its construction. Also, my house is always open to you, and you may consider all my books yours, if you need to learn more about anything”

  For the next few months, I work
ed together with Mr. Radhi and the laborers he’d hired. In exactly four months, everything was ready. My small house, complete with a climbing vine, was built in the far end corner that led to the river. It had a living room, a bedroom, a small kitchen, and two bathrooms. The small garden ended at the river, and I had a small wooden boat yard there so I could take a ride in my small boat whenever I felt compelled to. In the front was a nursery, cultivated for growing roses, tulips, jasmine, and other flowers. The flowerbed stretched from the main entrance to the corners, where palms and citrus trees grew in neat arrangements. There was a small sitting area positioned in front of a beautiful fountain, with two angels playing music in the center of it all. All of this was surrounded by a quaint fence, and the place was a heaven all its own.

  Mr. Radhi refused to accept any payment for the work, so in exchange; I offered to redesign his garden for him. When he agreed, I asked him to give me a week to finish the layout I had in mind and several months to follow through with the plans. I already had great plans in mind for his garden, and I knew exactly how I thought it should be. It was a wonderful space, and I could picture lovely outdoor sitting areas there, where Mr. Radhi, his wife, and their guests could enjoy the surrounding natural beauty I had planned for it.

  It was simple enough to go on instinct for what colors and types of flowers and trees would work best. It was my first chance to put my years of farm experience to the test, and I was confident I would succeed.

  Mr. Radhi’s house was designed without gardens outside the gates, so I had to make the best of what rested behind them. I wanted each garden I designed to have its own special identity, I didn’t like the idea of open gardens. After all, it wasn’t a public park that just anyone could walk into. I wanted Mr. Radhi’s garden and any others I worked on to lure visitors in with its beauty. To me, the garden wasn’t an object; rather, it was as much a living thing as any human, and it had the right to express itself however it chose. Just like a house, I believed the garden should have its own privacy and an entrance.