The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Sinan Antoon
Book: The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Sinan Antoon
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Authors: Sinan Antoon
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told Father that there was no sense my doing something if my heart wasn’t in it. As long as I was doing something decent, he added, why not painting? He reminded Father of his own words: that in washing bodies, volition is crucial. How could I wash if I possessed no desire to do so, he asked. Ammoury made him see reason, but Father never forgave me for straying from the path.
Firas, the friend I painted with, had a great sense of humor. Although the work hours were long, they passed quickly. His father was in charge of the work and coordinated between the owners of the houses and the workers. He provided the supplies, paints, instructions, and other details. Most of the houses we worked on were newly built and unfurnished. Their owners had yet to move in.
A third coworker, Salam, was a bit older than both of us, and seasoned. He was the one who mixed the paints. If it was an old house, before we started painting, we would scrape the walls with sandpaper and fill any cracks. We would start with a coat of primer and then add the second one. I enjoyed the various stages of the process, but especially seeing how beautiful and spotless the walls and ceilings were when we were done.
After my military service, I was appointed as an arts teacher in Ba’quba. The salary was barely enough to cover one week’s transportation to and from work. Why was I so naïve as to nurture the illusion that I could make a living as an artist, especially during the years of the embargo? There were some artists who were selling their paintings to foreigners. The number of foreigners had dwindled, but some journalists, diplomats, and activists still visited Baghdad and frequented the Hiwar gallery, looking for artwork. Artists also sold to Iraqi expats returning for a visit. However, most preferred traditional works or natural landscapes over abstract art. And so I began to feel bored and bitter in the late 1990s, especially as we were painting the houses of the nouveaux riches who had acquired obscene amounts of wealth by exploiting the embargo.
When I started painting houses, I’d thought that I’d only use those thick-bristled brushes temporarily before returning to the fine and feathery ones with which I felt more intimacy. But instead of the blank canvases that I could color any way I wanted and on which I could spread my imaginative visions, I found myself, for years on end, reduced to using no more than two or three colors. Pale colors on cold and monotonous surfaces. Surfaces without details or surprises, except for the odd electric switch panel or the occasional hook for a chandelier. At times a stupid fly would buzz into the sticky surface of paint and struggle there for a few seconds before dying.
TWENTY-TWO
Father rarely mentioned my uncle Sabri, who was eight years his junior. The few times the topic of Communists and their clashes with Ba’thists came up, he would say: “Sabri’s people.” Uncle Sabri used to visit us every now and then when I was a kid and would sleep on the floor of the guest room. He was a jovial man who always filled my pockets with sweets and played soccer with Ammoury and me in the street in front of our house. He was obsessed with the al-Zawra’ team and he told me that I, too, would one day become a Zawra’ fan. He was right.
The first time I attended a soccer match was with him. I was only eight years old. We went to the opening game of the national league season. I don’t remember why Ammoury didn’t come with us that day. It was scorching hot and there were throngs of people when we got out of the car at the Sha’b stadium. After standing in a long line, my uncle bought two pink-colored tickets for the south of the stadium. Then we stood in another line with lots of pushing and shoving to get inside. A man standing at the gate tore the two tickets in half. We made our way in and climbed to our seats in the bleachers.
The seats were beginning to fill up with fans. Some of them sang and
Firas, the friend I painted with, had a great sense of humor. Although the work hours were long, they passed quickly. His father was in charge of the work and coordinated between the owners of the houses and the workers. He provided the supplies, paints, instructions, and other details. Most of the houses we worked on were newly built and unfurnished. Their owners had yet to move in.
A third coworker, Salam, was a bit older than both of us, and seasoned. He was the one who mixed the paints. If it was an old house, before we started painting, we would scrape the walls with sandpaper and fill any cracks. We would start with a coat of primer and then add the second one. I enjoyed the various stages of the process, but especially seeing how beautiful and spotless the walls and ceilings were when we were done.
After my military service, I was appointed as an arts teacher in Ba’quba. The salary was barely enough to cover one week’s transportation to and from work. Why was I so naïve as to nurture the illusion that I could make a living as an artist, especially during the years of the embargo? There were some artists who were selling their paintings to foreigners. The number of foreigners had dwindled, but some journalists, diplomats, and activists still visited Baghdad and frequented the Hiwar gallery, looking for artwork. Artists also sold to Iraqi expats returning for a visit. However, most preferred traditional works or natural landscapes over abstract art. And so I began to feel bored and bitter in the late 1990s, especially as we were painting the houses of the nouveaux riches who had acquired obscene amounts of wealth by exploiting the embargo.
When I started painting houses, I’d thought that I’d only use those thick-bristled brushes temporarily before returning to the fine and feathery ones with which I felt more intimacy. But instead of the blank canvases that I could color any way I wanted and on which I could spread my imaginative visions, I found myself, for years on end, reduced to using no more than two or three colors. Pale colors on cold and monotonous surfaces. Surfaces without details or surprises, except for the odd electric switch panel or the occasional hook for a chandelier. At times a stupid fly would buzz into the sticky surface of paint and struggle there for a few seconds before dying.
TWENTY-TWO
Father rarely mentioned my uncle Sabri, who was eight years his junior. The few times the topic of Communists and their clashes with Ba’thists came up, he would say: “Sabri’s people.” Uncle Sabri used to visit us every now and then when I was a kid and would sleep on the floor of the guest room. He was a jovial man who always filled my pockets with sweets and played soccer with Ammoury and me in the street in front of our house. He was obsessed with the al-Zawra’ team and he told me that I, too, would one day become a Zawra’ fan. He was right.
The first time I attended a soccer match was with him. I was only eight years old. We went to the opening game of the national league season. I don’t remember why Ammoury didn’t come with us that day. It was scorching hot and there were throngs of people when we got out of the car at the Sha’b stadium. After standing in a long line, my uncle bought two pink-colored tickets for the south of the stadium. Then we stood in another line with lots of pushing and shoving to get inside. A man standing at the gate tore the two tickets in half. We made our way in and climbed to our seats in the bleachers.
The seats were beginning to fill up with fans. Some of them sang and
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