The Corpse Washer (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Sinan Antoon Page A

others were beating drums. Uncle Sabri chose a spot high up, next to a group of fans carrying the white flags of Zawra’. From that spot, the field looked like a beautiful green rectangle. My uncle spread newspapers on the concrete seats and we sat down and waited for the game to start.
    When the al-Zawra’ players emerged from the undergroundlocker rooms wearing their traditional white jerseys, everyone got up. The stadium filled with applause and cheers. Uncle Sabri lifted me high so I could see. The entire team stood in the middle circle, and the players raised their arms to salute the fans on the opposite side. Chants rose. When they turned around and faced us, the applause grew even stronger. They took the field, warming up, passing balls to each another or taking shots on goal. I saw a group of photographers surrounding a bald player wearing the number eight. I asked my uncle about him. “That’s Falah Hasan, the fox of Iraqi soccer,” he said.
    Suddenly I heard everyone around us booing and someone yelled: “Tayaran are sacks.” I figured that they were heckling the opponent, Tayaran, who wore blue. But I couldn’t understand “sacks.” My uncle explained: “It means we will score so often they will be like sacks full of goals.” My uncle put his hand on my head and stroked my hair saying: “You are a diehard Zawra’ fan already.”
    After a scoreless first half, Falah Hasan scored with a header in the first few minutes of the second. My uncle was ecstatic and lifted me again so I could see the players hugging one another. But our joy was short-lived, because Tayaran equalized with a penalty kick. The game ended in a draw, and my uncle called the referee blind: the Tayaran striker had faked being fouled to win the penalty kick, he said. The fans chanted “Zawra’, Zawra”’ as we left the stadium. We walked to al-Andalus Square to catch a bus back to Kazimiyya.
    I was still excited after the match and told my parents all about it and about the stadium. Father got fed up and said “Enough! You are giving me a headache with your Zawra’. God!”
    My uncle took me to Zawra’ games many times, and once he took me to Madinat al-Al’ab park. He and Father loved each other, but sometimes they would argue passionately about things I couldn’t understand. I was ten when he visited us the last time. He would always hug and kiss me upon arrival and departure. But that time I glimpsed a sadness and clouds in his eyes when he kissed me goodbye, saying: “Don’t forget your uncle.”
    “No, I won’t forget you, but don’t you forget me,” I responded.
    He laughed and kissed me again on my forehead. He hugged everyone tightly, especially Father.
    Afterward, I asked Father about my uncle. He said that Sabri had gone to Beirut. I missed him and asked often when he would return. My mother would say, “He can’t. He’s busy there.” I would ask about his work and when he would be finished. She never gave a straight answer, sometimes saying, “Ask your father.” But Father evaded my questions too. Months later, while doing my homework, I heard on the nightly news that a number of Communist officers in the army had been executed. I heard Father tell my mother, “That’s the fate of Sabri’s people. They won’t leave any of them alive. Thank God he escaped.” I understood then that Uncle Sabri was a Communist. I asked Father, “What does it mean, being a Communist?”
    “None of your business, son.”
    “Uncle Sabri’s a Communist?”
    He shushed me. “Stop asking questions. I told you it’s none of your business.”
    When my brother Ammoury came back home, I asked him about Uncle Sabri and what communism meant. He said the Communists and Ba’thists were sworn enemies and Uncle Sabri had fled because the regime was arresting Communists. Two years later, when I was in middle school, we were all given papers to fill out to join the Ba’th Party. There were questions about relatives living abroad,