(~44k words) Short stories drawing heavily on Borges and the magical realists; Blasim writes in a deadpan vernacular in which even the most baffling, cruel or horrible events are noted calmly and passed on, in a world in which 'confused armies clash by night' while mere humans try to get along as they play endless roles with masks whose significance they do not understand for an audience they cannot see for an objective that does not bear examination ("The Corpse Exhibition", "An Army Newspaper" and "The Reality and the Record" suggest obscurely that God is the artist portraying all these severities). "I know you now have some questions that are nagging you, but you will gradually discover that the world is built to have more than one level, and it's unrealistic for everyone to reach all the levels and all the basements with ease." Some set scenes are memorable; from "The Killers and the Compass":

Abu Hadid knocked on a rusty door that still had a few spots of green paint, shaped like frogs, on it. We were received by a man in his forties with a thick mustache that covered his teeth when he spoke. We sat down in the guest room in front of the television. I gathered that the man lived alone. He went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of arak. He opened it and poured a glass. My brother told him to pour one for me too. We sat in silence, and the man and I watched a soccer match between two local teams, while my brother stared into a small fish tank.

"Do you think the fish are happy in the tank?" my brother asked, calm and serious.

"As long as they eat and drink and swim, they're fine," the man replied, without looking away from the television screen.

"Do fish drink water?"

"Sure they drink; of course."

"How can fish drink salt water?"

"Sure they have a way. How could they be in water and not drink?"

"If they're in water, perhaps they don't need to drink."

"Why don't you ask the fish in the tank?"

Before the bald man could turn to look at him, my brother had jumped on top of him like a hungry tiger. He threw him to the ground, squatted on his chest, and pinned his arms down under his knees. In a flash he took a small knife out of his pocket, put it close to the man's eye, and started shouting hysterically in his face, "Answer, you cocksucker! How can fish drink salt water? Answer, you son of a bitch! Answer! Do fish drink water or don't they? Answer, shit-for-brains!"

Abu Hadid stuck a cucumber up the man's ass and we left the house. I never would understand what the man had to do with my brother.

Or "The Song of the Goats":

"As he drove through the wheat fields, he was barely in control of the steering wheel. The bumps were about to break my ribs, and only dust kicked up by the truck crept in through the holes in the barrel. The barrel stank like the dead cats on the neighborhood trash heap. Did my uncle pull out fingernails, gouge out people's eyes, and singe their skin with branding irons in the vaults of the security department? Maybe it was the souls of his victims that drove him into the ravine, maybe it was my own evil soul, or maybe it was the soul that preordained everything that is ephemeral and mysterious in this transitory world.

Seven barrels lay in the darkness at the bottom of the cliff like sleeping animals. The pickup had overturned after my uncle tried to take a second rocky bend in the hill. The barrels rolled down into the ravine with the truck. I spent the night unconscious inside the barrel. In the first hours of morning the rays of sunlight pierced the holes in the barrel, like lifelines extended to a drowning man. My mouth was full of blood and my hands were trembling. I was in pain and frightened. I started to observe the rays of the sun as they crisscrossed confusingly in the barrel. I wanted to escape the chaos that had played havoc with my consciousness. I felt as if I had smoked a ton of marijuana: a fish coming to its senses in a sardine tin, a dead worm in an abandoned well, a putrid fetus with crushed bones in a womb the shape of a barrel. Then my mind fixed on another image: my brother sinking to the bottom of the septic tank and me diving after him.

The bleating sounded faint at first, as though a choir was practicing. One goat started and then another joined in, then all the goats together, as if they had found the right key. The rays of the sun moved and fell right in my eye. I pissed in my pants inside that barrel, appalled at the cruelty of the world to which I was returning. The goatherd called out to his flock, and one of the goats butted the barrel."

The endings are abrupt, sometimes twist endings, leaving one pondering what moral there may be, if any; often the lack of closure itself seems to be the point. Given such a enigmatic style, unsurprisingly some of the stories worked much better for me than others (in particular, when he strays into clearer political commentary, the stories seem to get weaker). Hits:


"The Corpse Exhibition" (de Quincey-esque)
"The Killers and the Compass" (nihilistic)
"The Green Zone Rabbit" & "An Army Newspaper" (magical realistic)
"Crosswords"
"The Song of the Goats"
"The Reality and the Record"


Misses:

"The Hole"
"The Madman of Freedom Square"
"The Iraqi Christ"
"A Thousand and One Knives"
"The Composer"
"That Inauspicious Smile"
"The Nightmares of Carlos Fuentes"