The Corpse Exhibition by Hassan Blasim Page B

close to her pillow.
    He held her hand, and tears flowed down his cheeks.
    And after that you came to visit me!
    Yes, we bought a range of mezes, two bottles of arak, and twenty cans of beer, and we drove to your farm.
    I

was

so

happy

to

see

the

two

of

you!

Time

had

flown,

you guys!

We

had

a

wild

time

that

night

raising

a

toast

to our

memories

of

high

school.

We

put

a

table

out

under

the

lemon

tree

and

cracked

open

the

drinks.

Marwan

seemed

cheerful

and

relaxed,

without

any

obvious

worries.

He

was

laughing

and

joking,

not

to

mention

drinking

frantically.

Somebody

brought

up

that

boy

at

school

called

“the

genius.”

He

was

an

eccentric

student

who

had

memorized

all

the

textbooks

within

months.

The

teachers

were

convinced

he

was

a

genius,

and

they

were

shocked

when

he

got

poor

grades

on

the

final

exams,

barely

enough

to qualify

to

study

at

the

oil

institute.

In

his

first

year

of

college,

he

sneaked

in

at

night

and

set

fire

to

the

lecture

hall,

then

shot

himself

with

a

revolver.

It

was

all

a

bit

of

a

tragedy!
    You told us at length about your days of isolation on your farm, where you wanted to be free to write a book on the history of decapitation in Mesopotamia.
    The conversation eventually flagged, and we started to slur our words. We were drunk, and Marwan fell back into a deep silence. We got up to go into the house. Marwan asked me to recite whatever I could remember by Pessoa, his favorite writer.
    I’m not me, I don’t know anything,
    I don’t own anything, I’m not going anywhere,
    I put my life to sleep
    In the heart of what I don’t know.
    It was a wonderful summer night. Three best friends from school reunited. I lay on the grass, looked up at the clear sky, and began to imagine God as a mass of shadows. We heard Marwan’s screams coming from the bathroom. We couldn’t save him. He died in the pool of blood he had vomited.
    You phoned me a week later, and we went to an art exhibition in my car. We were going along the highway when, by mistake, I overtook a truck loaded with rocks.
    Enough, God keep you.
    What, you’re tired!
    I want to sleep awhile.
    Okay, let’s sleep.
    I hope that when I wake up I can’t hear you anymore and you’re completely out of my life.
    Me too, you fuck.

The Hole
    Â 
    1
    I was stuffing the last pieces of chocolate into the bag. I had already filled my pockets with them. I took some bottles of water from the storeroom. I had enough canned salmon, so I hid the remaining cans under the pile of toilet paper. Then, just as I was heading for the door, three masked gunmen broke in. I opened fire and one of them fell to the ground. I ran out the back door into the street, but the other two started to chase me. I jumped over the fence of the local soccer field and ran toward the park. When I reached the far end of the park, down by the side of the Natural History Museum, I fell into a hole.
    â€”——
    â€œListen, don’t be frightened.”
    His hoarse voice scared me.
    â€œWho are you?” I asked him, paralyzed by fear.
    â€œAre you in pain?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s normal. It’s part of the chain.”
    The darkness receded when he lit a candle.
    â€œTake a deep breath! Don’t worry!”
    He gave an unpleasant laugh, full of arrogance and disdain.
    His face was dark and rough, like a loaf of barley bread. A decrepit old man. His torso was naked. He was sitting on a small bench, with a dirty sheet on his thighs. Next to him there were some sacks and some old junk. If he hadn’t moved his head like a cartoon character, he would have looked like an ordinary beggar. He was tilting his head left and right like a tortoise in some legend.
    â€œWho are you? Did I fall down a hole?”
    â€œYes, of course you fell. I live here.”
    â€œDo you