their hair was always combed, and their faces freshly scrubbed. their skin was clear and radiant; their blood sang with health. their food was fresh meat from mr hubi the butcher. hubi was about forty, fat and red-faced, with a big belly and a broad, slow voice. he butchered lambs, singing, as if he were water-ing his garden.
this was the only man whose orders were obeyed. everyone in our street wanted to find room in his shop. even the dogs and cats bathed in the smell of his tender, freshly killed meats.
cows, calves, and lambs hung there, washed of their blood and blessed with verses from the qu'ran.
anyone who stopped in front of his shop would be greeted with every compliment and blessing that came into his head.
hubi knew everyone: the family trees of the people who lived in the palaces far away, overlooking the tigris and the old wooden bridge, the pedigrees of the houses that ate their meat in silence, the histories of those who ate bones and broth, and those who threw meat to their dogs or into the garbage.
to us, hubi and the king seemed inseparable. the king of iraq was young. a portrait of him with his uncle hung in hubi's shop, surrounded by splattered blood and animal remans. hubi sold meat only in the afternoon. the morning was for slaughtering and skinning. he sold the hides and heads to abu mahmoud, and the sheep's livers and testicles to restaurants. everything emanated from his shop: problems, quarrels and even secret leaflets.
in the afternoon, our neighborhood in al-a'dhamiyya came to a stop. the noon, afternoon, and sundown prayers were called from the ancient abu hanifa mosque. faces came, figures passed by, and arms strained. hubi sliced away the shanks and legs, intestines and shoulders as if he had been created a butcher at birth.
naphtalene: a novel of baghdad, alia mamdouh.
this was the only man whose orders were obeyed. everyone in our street wanted to find room in his shop. even the dogs and cats bathed in the smell of his tender, freshly killed meats.
cows, calves, and lambs hung there, washed of their blood and blessed with verses from the qu'ran.
anyone who stopped in front of his shop would be greeted with every compliment and blessing that came into his head.
hubi knew everyone: the family trees of the people who lived in the palaces far away, overlooking the tigris and the old wooden bridge, the pedigrees of the houses that ate their meat in silence, the histories of those who ate bones and broth, and those who threw meat to their dogs or into the garbage.
to us, hubi and the king seemed inseparable. the king of iraq was young. a portrait of him with his uncle hung in hubi's shop, surrounded by splattered blood and animal remans. hubi sold meat only in the afternoon. the morning was for slaughtering and skinning. he sold the hides and heads to abu mahmoud, and the sheep's livers and testicles to restaurants. everything emanated from his shop: problems, quarrels and even secret leaflets.
in the afternoon, our neighborhood in al-a'dhamiyya came to a stop. the noon, afternoon, and sundown prayers were called from the ancient abu hanifa mosque. faces came, figures passed by, and arms strained. hubi sliced away the shanks and legs, intestines and shoulders as if he had been created a butcher at birth.
naphtalene: a novel of baghdad, alia mamdouh.