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

and a separate sheet on which to list the names of relatives who belonged to the Communist Party or the Da’wah Party. I wrote in my uncle’s full name: Sabri Hasan Jasim—Communist.
    We would receive letters from him once every year or two. He would always include a line for me alone, like “kisses to my handsome Jawad. Is he still a loyal Zawra’ fan cheering on my behalf?” I wrote a letter of my own to him, and we included it in the family letter. I wrote about school and Zawra’s performance in the league and its new star players. I told him that I missed him very much and was waiting for him to come back.
    He once called us on the phone to let us know that he was all right. Father was summoned to the directorate of secret police and was interrogated for three hours because of that one call. He wrote to my uncle after that asking him never to call again. I used to think of Uncle Sabri a lot, especially when I heard the news about the civil war in Lebanon. After his letters from Beirut, we received two from Cyprus. Then we heard that he’d gone to Aden, and we received letters with Yemeni stamps on them. He had started working as a teacher there. A civil war erupted there as well, and he had to go to Germany, where he was given asylum. He would send us money from time to time, especially in the late 1990s, when the embargo suffocated us.
    After my father’s death I sent a letter to Uncle Sabri in Berlin, at the last address we had for him. I told him that phone lines were all down after the bombing and we had no idea when they would be repaired. One day three months later, my mother was fluttering her hand fan, saying: “We thought the Americans would fix the electricity. How come they’ve only made things worse?” The absurdity of the situation could be expressed only with equal absurdity.
    There was a knock at the door, and I quipped, “Maybe that’s the electricity at the door waiting for your permission to come in.” She laughed for the first time in weeks. I looked out the window and saw a white-haired man with sunglasses standing at the door as a taxi idled. He had turned to the other side so I could see only his back and shoulders. I went to the door and asked, “Who is it?” “Sabri,” he said. “Open the door. It’s Sabri.”
    The years had turned his hair white, leaving only some darker ash on his sideburns and eyebrows. I yelled in disbelief: “Uncle Sabri!” He hugged me tight and laughed: “Oh my, Jawad. You’re taller than I am.” We both cried as we kissed each other seven or eight times. He held my face in his hands as he used to do so often two decades before and repeated my name “Jawad” as if he, too, was in disbelief. My mother came to the door and said, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe my eyes.”
    They embraced and she thanked God for his safe arrival, but chastised him: “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming, Sabri, so we would prepare something.”
    “Prepare what? I’m not a stranger. I came to see you.”
    We took his suitcase out of the car and brought it inside. He paid the taxi driver and asked him to come back eight days later at six in the morning. Then he took out another small bag from the back seat and slung it over his shoulder. We went in and my mother led him toward the guest room. He said, “What is this? Am I a guest? I want to sit where we used to.”
    We sat in the living room. My mother offered him food, but he asked only for some water. He took off his sunglasses and put them on the table. He took out another pair of plain glasses from his pocket and put them on. He said that he was late because he had gotten lost and couldn’t find the house: “Baghdad has changed so much.” He had tried to call us from Amman, but the phone was dead. He looked at the black-and-white photographs of Ammoury and my father on the wall and said, “May God have mercy on their souls.”
    My mother brought a tray with a jug of water and a glass. She