a FICTION The Bodies by Sahar Mustafah Respect the gods, Achilles, and show mercy towards me. –King Priam, Book XXIV, The Iliad W hen they wheel in Hassan, we don’t expect him to join in. Not yet. Each of us has needed time to adjust, to come to grips with the fact that we are no longer alive, yet somehow we continue to inhabit our bodies. He’s rolled to an empty space in the corner; the wheels of his metal stretcher cease their squeaking once the brakes are applied. He’s young, maskeen, so we allow him to cry and whimper for his mother. We listen and refrain from shushing him—at least for the first day. The double doors slam behind the orderlies, a jarring noise that rattles our bones. Muneer recites surat yaseen, and the rest of us respectfully keep silent amid Hassan’s low keening. Soon the room will populate again with the living, the fluorescent lights vaguely illuminating our closed eyelids, a stroke of pale orange. Or perhaps we only imagine it, a childhood memory tugging us back to when we are lying in an orchard, the sun beating down on us, warm mulberries staining our lips. We wait for the clacking of their footsteps across linoleum tiles. Time is a strange matter here, what seems like minutes might be hours, like whey slowly strained through cheesecloth. We can’t make out day from night in this windowless room except when the doors open again and we deduce it’s the start of another workday. Today, the scent of freshly cut lemons trails the heavy footsteps passing each of us. It’s Ustaz Lemon Zest, Ismail says and we snicker. We try to preserve a measure of decorum from our past lives. After all, we are dead—not animals. SLIMAN MANSOUR, RITUALS UNDER OCCUPATION / COURTESY OF THE ARTIST WORLDLIT.ORG 31 COVER FEATURE THE BODIES | BY SAHAR MUSTAFAH Our sense of smell, like hearing, endures, an involuntary reflex, and we’ve come to distinguish the ranking coroners from the others: their monotonous voices as they lecture, their distinct odors—menthol cigarettes and fresh soap—hovering as they pass our slabs. We can speak out to one another in the manner a ventriloquist throws his voice, like an imperceptible twitch of the lips. Once we rediscover our voices we can cast them out like a fishnet, our words and sentences catching across the room. Fuck his mother’s cunt, Ismail adds. Cursing is an unscrupulous habit of his, and we chastise him, though not too harshly . We try to preserve a measure of decorum from our past lives. After all, we are dead—not animals. We’ve come to feel a prickly affection for Ismail, who was tortured to death under arrest. He is stone-silent when the coroner pokes and prods him, announcing to the other examiners where the electric jolts had been administered on specific areas of his body. Young Hassan is temporarily distracted by Ismail’s cursing and stops whimpering. He hasn’t quite let go, but his attention has begun to drift to our conversations. Ustaz Lemon Zest is a chief examiner, we’ve surmised, and leads a small group around the room, permitting the other strangers in his charge to trace their scalpels across our chests and limbs. Spicy aftershave wafts in the air—a new and confident male attendant. And—what is that we detect? A hint of gardenia? We keep quiet, waiting for a woman’s voice to reverberate in our ears even if we can’t understand her words. Lateef, who worked with a legal permit inside Israel, alone can decipher their language. Soldiers shot him ten times in the chest and abdomen near the border. The bus carrying the workers had gotten a flat tire, and Lateef descended to help the driver fix it. He waved his hands at a passing army jeep. The report later claimed he’d charged toward the soldiers with a crowbar . The rest of us listen to his disjointed translations, and we’re content with not comprehending their language—it’s a tiny recompense since we’re unable to drown out...