The deer statue through the gates of the Deer Palace, circa 1925.
As absorbed as he was in the deer, Abdul Hussein was nevertheless looking forward to lunch, although not particularly to the company of his sister Munira, whose long face had tested his patience of late. Yet he hoped that she had prepared the food herself, as she sometimes did, because her culinary skills were superior to those of any of her servants. Her turshi pickles were legendary and, like a good bottle of wine, only improved the longer she kept them. Many years ago she had pickled an exceptionally fine batch of cucumbers, storing them in jars, one of which remained in Abdul Hussein’s pantry, where it was coveted by all.
When Abdul Hussein crossed the threshold he learned from a servant that the ageing Agha Muhammad Nawab was already taking his afternoon nap, recovering from his long trip. The dining room was empty, except for a servant girl who was laying out the dishes on the table. Munira was nowhere to be seen, but Abdul Hussein could hear her voice issuing faintly from the kitchen, where she was supervising some final touches. That was a good sign, he thought; she must have done the cooking.
As he sat down, Abdul Hussein automatically reached for the pickles, stuffing one into his mouth. He had barely begun crunching on it when his sister appeared and sat down in silence across the table from him.
Greeting her, he said, ‘What a wonderful deer the Nawab has brought for you! Your husband has really outdone himself this time!’
‘Yes,’ Munira replied dully. Her eyes with their deep shadows remained fixed on her hands.
Abdul Hussein held his plate out to be served another favourite dish: aromatic basmati rice infused with dried lime and saffron-flavoured chicken. He tried another tack. ‘Have you heard about the little boy Hadi found by the shrine, crying?’ Munira raised her head and glared across the steaming dishes at him. This time Abdul Hussein avoided her gaze.
He knew in his heart that she wouldn’t want to hear about children; that she blamed him for her childless marriage to the man she held responsible for their sister’s death. Their sister Burhan, the Nawab’s first wife, had been subjected to all the same rumours of barrenness and inadequacy that taunted her now. True, Abdul Hussein had thought that the match would be a good idea; the Nawab was a rich and influential man who could give Munira a good life. When Burhan had died and Munira had been married to him, nobody had known for certain that he wouldn’t be able to sire a family.
‘He doesn’t speak a word of Arabic,’ continued Abdul Hussein. ‘Probably from Hamadan or somewhere around there.’ When Munira sniffed unsympathetically, he snapped, ‘Not every fifteen-year-old would have done what Hadi did, and brought him home. You could at least be proud of your nephew!’
Munira glowered, but Abdul Hussein persevered: ‘Anyway, he seems to have taken well to the horses in the stables. We’ll sort him out. His name is Ni’mati.’
Munira leaned forward, her face covered with one hand, her elbow propped on the table-top. Abdul Hussein abandoned any further effort to enjoy his lunch. ‘What is wrong now, sister? Speak!’ he exclaimed. ‘You have everything you could possibly want – this palace, a respected and rich husband. A beautiful garden, that wonderful deer. All these servants … What on earth is wrong?’
‘This deer will be a curse,’ Munira said sullenly. ‘There has already been a crowd outside, staring at it. And they’ve started calling our house “the Deer Palace”.’
‘What rubbish!’ Abdul Hussein erupted. ‘Let the people talk – they talk anyway, and now at least they’ll have something pleasant to gossip about.’ He rose to his feet, threw his napkin on the table and curtly took his leave of her.
Munira remained in her seat. Her fingers clenched her water glass, which she suddenly hurled at the wall. She watched as the liquid dribbled down to the floor. The servants could clean up the broken shards later.
Abdul Hussein called for Sattar and the carriage driver, but they were nowhere to be found. He was so angry that he forgot to leave the Nawab a message about the important business of the shrine and the carpets. He tucked his fez under his arm, squashing it with the sheer force of his irritation, and started to march out of the garden, eyes fixed on the ground. Belatedly, he shouted back at a gardener, ‘Tell those imbeciles to follow me now!’
He crossed the grounds that faced the newly-named Deer Palace and walked down towards the riverbank, where he waved at a boatman to bring his guffa over. Guided by the expertise of such boatmen, round-bottomed guffas had been whirling their way down the Tigris for thousands of years. As the little boat transported Abdul Hussein towards Baghdad, the soft breeze calmed his heated temper a little. He could see boys flying homemade kites from the rooftops that lined the river. On the other side, he spotted one of the steamers of the British Lynch company heading south to Basra. It was time for his siesta, but he was still too agitated to rest.
A guffa on the Tigris in Baghdad, circa 1914.
He decided to cross to the eastern bank near the old city, where he could sit in one of the cafés near Maidan Square and smoke a nargilleh – a water pipe. Many cafés had sprung up there in the last few years, havens of music and liveliness, and Abdul Hussein was sure a visit to one would lighten his mood. But as the small boat neared the bank, he remembered the weeping old man back at the shrine, saddened by the behaviour of his three errant sons … An idea came to him, and he told the boatman to turn around and take him to the pontoon bridge at Kazimiya.
The pontoon bridge consisted of wooden boats tied together. As Abdul Hussein approached it, it gently rocked from side to side. Observed from a distance, the crowds of women in their black abayas who were crossing the bridge formed a single swaying mass.
Disembarking nearby, Abdul Hussein paid the boatman and made his way back home. There he found Sattar, and asked him to send one of the servants to fetch a builder and his tools. He ordered another member of his staff to find a huge metal cooking pot. The boy returned with the household’s largest pot, which could hold enough rice for fifty people. The boy must have thought his master had gone mad when he told him to fill it with soil and then cover it carefully so its contents were not visible.
Next, Abdul Hussein sent Sattar to visit the weeping man’s eldest son and invite him and his brothers to come to his house straight away. Surprised, the young men returned with Sattar to find the large covered pot waiting for them in Abdul Hussein’s courtyard. Abdul Hussein grinned at his guests and gestured to the pot: ‘Your father has left this pot and its contents with me in safekeeping for you. I’m instructed to give it to you once he has passed away.’
Presumably concluding that their father had even more money than they had imagined, the three brothers obediently followed Sattar and the other two servants into Abdul Hussein’s house. There, Abdul Hussein introduced them to the builder he had summoned, and explained, ‘I am going to store the pot here in this corner of my stables. This builder will construct a small box to cover it so that no one can tamper with the contents until it’s time. I want you to witness his work now.’
Some weeks later the old man came to visit Abdul Hussein, looking very much happier. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done,’ he exclaimed, ‘but my boys have come back to me! They’re completely changed, and now each one takes his turn to look after me. I’m so relieved.’
‘That is good news,’ Abdul Hussein said warmly. ‘I simply reminded them of the Holy Book’s recommendation that we care for our parents.’
‘Allah yikhalik – may God protect you. They seem to have heeded your advice. I don’t know how to thank you.’
Abdul Hussein smiled. He was quite sure those sons deserved the eventual disappointment of discovering that the pot was filled with mud.