Human Clusters

A short Story,

translated by Jonas Elbousty

The room was pitch black, apart from a dim light sneaking through the window. A cold breeze came from the air conditioner so I covered myself with a heavy blanket, enjoying some warmth and the darkness. I can see them again: a group of bearded men, holding automatic rifles, in black shirts and black pants, unleashing a heavy storm of bullets at the worshippers. Blood is flying into the air as the ground embraces the bodies; I panic, incapable of stopping them. A hand grabs my right arm, shaking it, and then I hear:

“Get up . . .”

“Leave me alone, woman.”

“Your daughter’s at the hospital.”

“And where’s her husband?”

“He’s with her. Come on, get up.”

“And what can I do for her?”

“Your daughter’s about to have a baby; you’re going to be a grandfather. Don’t you want to see your first grandchild?”

“I’ll visit her tomorrow and see him then.”

“I’m going to change, and if you don’t get up and do the same, I’ll take my car and go alone.”

I sat upright in the bed, wiping my face with my right hand, then, as my wife was opening her closet, I told her: “Fine, I’m coming . . . God give me patience.”

Doha is wonderful after midnight. It has, despite its size and the inflow of migrants, still kept its charm. Except for those young men racing in cars and motorcycles, or the ones passing by us right now, playing devices that produce irritating sounds from their cars. So I close my car window, turn on the AC, and listen to Aljazeera broadcasting an unrelated collection of news on the radio. It starts with a discussion of today’s breaking news: the explosion of a car bomb in Baghdad by an extremist group.

As we come up to the hospital, my wife begs me to stop at the main entrance, so I oblige. She rushes off and runs inside. I shout after her to wait for me at reception, and then go to park the car.

When I walk back to the hospital entrance, I cannot see my wife at reception. I’m lost, and don’t know where to go. I ask the receptionist, who then advises me to go to the maternity department and ask after my daughter.

Once there, I cannot find my daughter’s name; a nurse tells me she was moved to another room, but that I could still see my grandchild. I agree and follow her.

In the maternity room, I see four babies, all born at the same time. The first baby is dark, the second has reddish skin, the third has a light skin (a voice inside me says that this is my grandchild), and the fourth has a daisy, bright skin.

The nurse points to the third. My senses were right. He takes after his father. He watches the joyful expressions on my face, my words, and my index finger caressing his nose. He can’t move much and can’t push my finger away. The nurse says:

“Newborns are angels.”

“They are, but when they grow up you won’t know if they’re going to stay angels, become devils or get lost in between.” I turn to her and ask: “How can I get to his mother?”

“All right . . . come with me to reception. I can find her room number through her name.”

The nurse gives me my daughter’s room number; I thank her and leave. I walk along several corridors until I reached the elevators. I go up to the sixth floor, and start walking to my daughter’s room. Suddenly, I find three young kids in front of me; one holding a toy gun, running and aiming at another kid who is hiding behind a wall and a trash can. The third kid is watching the other two, lost, not knowing who to follow.