Free The Corpse Exhibition by Hassan Blasim

blood analysis robot was chasing me,” she said.
    She was sucking her finger, which was swollen like a mushroom.
    â€œThat’s normal,” I said apathetically, then crawled toward the corpse of the old man.

The Madman of Freedom Square

I N THOSE UNFORGETTABLE DAYS BEFORE THE MIRACLE happened and I discovered the truth that everyone now denies or ignores, we used to guard the platform where the two statues stood. We had light arms, three mortars, and seven RPG launchers. The prominent people and opinion-makers in the neighborhood had rejected an order from the new government to remove the statues, and we had information that the army would storm the neighborhood by night. While deep down I didn’t consider this to be my battle, it was much easier to deceive myself than to bear the shame of running away. The battle might break out at any moment and I might lose my life for the sake of these two young men cut from stone who stood upright on the dais as though they were about to fall flat on their faces. It’s clear that the sculptor was just a building worker who knew nothing of the art of sculpture. The fanatical Islamists had a fatwa that all the statues in the country should be removed because they were idols and incompatible with Islamic law. As for the government, it had decided to remove everything that symbolized the period of the former dictatorial regime. The notables and other people of the neighborhood held the view that the statues had nothing to do with the former regime nor with repressive fatwas. I didn’t believe in that kind of nonsense. My father said it was a symbolic battle of destiny for the sake of the neighborhood’s future. I don’t know how my father, as a science teacher at the high school, could believe such superstitions. Of course, there are dozens of versions of the statues story, but perhaps the version that my grandfather told was the one closest to the truth. The touch of realism in my grandfather’s story made the people of the neighborhood seem even more naive, whereas his intention was to portray them as friendly, intelligent, and generous. This is what I was thinking at the time, before my life changed forever.
    Perhaps it would be best if I first repeated to you in brief my grandfather’s version of the story, before I tell you what happened to me on the night of the battle. With great sadness he would say, “No one knows when exactly the two young men appeared. They were the same age, the same height, and as alike as twins. People in the neighborhood thought they were from those rich districts far away, but they could not guess where they were going. Each of them carried a backpack, and they wore smart clothes suggesting they were wealthy and well bred. What struck the people of the neighborhood most was their blond hair and their white complexions. The Darkness district was one of the most wretched in the city, and the inhabitants were skinny with swarthy complexions they had inherited from their peasant ancestors. It was the people in nearby parts of the city who gave the name Darkness to the neighborhood, the only one that did not have electricity. I imagine it was the first time the people of the neighborhood had seen visitors of this species of humanity.
    â€œEvery morning the two young men would walk through the village toward the river in the distance, coming from the direction of the wasteland that separates the Darkness district from the Arbanjiya district. They would smile tenderly and with affection at the half-naked children of the neighborhood, and greet the elders with a slight nod that suggested respect. They would avoid the muddy patches in the lanes simply and unassumingly, without showing signs of disgust or haughtiness. The people of the neighborhood saw them as angels from heaven. Nobody spoke to them or asked them any intrusive questions, or stood in their way for any reason whatsoever. The neighborhood was dazzled by the