Baghdad Central (22 page)

Khafaji spent 1987 in Kirkuk, dealing with the chaos of resettling thousands of southerners into the city as fast as possible. The next year, he was transferred to the mountains and the front. This was the only year of his life he wished
he had never lived. He wrote reams about it, draft memos and reports. But he spoke about it only once – to Suheir. Then never to anyone again. He went to the north, and he managed to survive. And for his service, they stripped him of everything and sent him home.

Those days were long gone. Forgotten, erased. Sixteen years later, Khafaji stares at a picture, and it stares back, dragging behind it a mule-train of memories. Khafaji's father always said that a secret in the hands of a stranger is a weapon. And he was rarely wrong.

The Mosuli leans forward and waves at Khafaji. “Keep reading. Don't worry about them getting dirty. The originals are in California.”

The other photograph is from winter. The gates of a place he allowed himself to believe was never anything but a bad dream. He suddenly feels the bitter air and shivers. Houses and horses, mules and boots, tires and pants – everything splattered with mud.

“Recognize that? It's a place called Topzawa. The Directorate was highly efficient. Some units kept meticulous records of everything. You made sure that yours did.”

Topzawa
. The name slashes across the years. It was a name Khafaji used for a year until its sound became so sharp it could cut. A year of ferocious activity, of flying over valleys and diving through reports, of driving headlong through the fog of war.

For years, all he ever remembered were the wildflowers. He arrived with spring. The mountains were carpets, with cicatrix stitches and fantastical designs. He never saw anything so beautiful. Whites and reds and purples. And greens rolling off into forever. And the red narcissi, bleeding veins in the hills. The air was wild herbs. His driver taught him
the Kurdish names for each flower and plant. But now, at this moment, Khafaji can only remember a scent – a green sweet smell. Death. The fragrance of green apples, spring onions and young garlic that would hang for days in the valleys. Mustard gas. Khafaji goes limp in his chair. The papers slide off his lap onto the ground.

Khafaji is not fully conscious of what transpires next, nor even of how long it lasts. He is aware that the Mosuli is talking to him, but it's as if the room has gone dark. His eyes are wide open and the lights are on, but he sees nothing. Periodically, he hears noises out in the corridor, but they pass by and fade away. Footsteps and conversations that come and go.

At some point, the door flies open, and the assistant walks in with two other young men. They're laughing at a joke of some kind and holding paper coffee cups.

“Inspector!” he cries out. He then turns to the Mosuli and, suddenly serious, adds, “Very pleased to meet you, sir.” The other young men step forward in turn, eager to shake the exile's hand. “It's an honor to meet you, sir.”

In reply, the Mosuli has risen to his feet and is busy smoothing over his jacket. He smiles broadly. All too easy.

Khafaji feels the anxiousness of the thick necks at the door, and it wakes him up from his nightmare. He has only a few seconds to take advantage of the situation, so he does. Khafaji stands up and says to the assistant, “Good to see you. We are talking about how to coordinate efforts better.” He shakes the hands of the assistant's friends, then rests his hand casually on the Mosuli's shoulder as if they were friends. “Everyone sit down. We might as well start now.”

The assistant sits and asks, “If it's not an imposition?”

Khafaji replies, “Not at all.”

The assistant introduces the other two young men in suits. “These guys may as well join us too. They're from Prosperity, but they're connected to everything we're doing down here. They may even have some fresh ideas about the coordination process.”

One of them laughs, “Don't know about that!” They all smile and look at Khafaji.

The Mosuli begins to say something, but Khafaji interrupts. “The process is delicate, but that shouldn't stop us, should it? Why don't I get coffee?” The assistant and the others hold up their paper cups and decline. The Mosuli leans back and smiles grimly. Khafaji tries to be gracious as he grabs his jacket from the coat rack. He fails.

“I'll be back then,” Khafaji announces to the room in a glad voice. He even pats the arm of the man at the door as he walks by.

On the steps of the hospital, he lights a cigarette and tries to think. But all the nicotine in the world would not solve this problem. He flicks the butt away and walks in.

As Khafaji signs in on the fourth floor of the hospital, he remembers the book sitting on his desk. By the time he walks into Mrouj's room, it's all he can talk about. “I'm sorry, Mrouji. I haven't brought you anything. I forgot the damned book again.”

Mrouj looks up with tired eyes and tries to smile. Khafaji looks for a chair, then comes back to sit down next to her. She takes his hand and pats it gently. Mrouj's hand is warm to the touch. Minutes go by before Mrouj breaks the silence. “What's making you so upset, Baba?”

Khafaji strokes her hair and murmurs, “I don't want to talk about it.”

Her eyes closed, Mrouj whispers, “Talk if you need to. Otherwise, just go.”

Khafaji says nothing. Minutes go by before Mrouj repeats, “Talk.”

Khafaji's silence drags on, interrupted only by the coughing of the other patient in the room and the gentle pings of medical equipment. Khafaji feels suddenly cold. He begins to shake.

“Baba, are you sick?”

Mrouj's voice is no comfort. When he opens his mouth to speak, his anger and frustration pour out. He tells Mrouj about her cousin. He tells her about the bodies on the floor and the blood and the flies. He tells her about the traffic and the checkpoints and the morgue. He tells her about the men down the hall. He tells her, though none of it makes any sense. He tells her about the new neighbors in the apartment building. He tells her about the boys with guns in the foyer. He tells her about the roundabout ways he comes and goes home. He tells her they're being evicted. He stares out the window as he talks, and never once looks at her. Mrouj listens and reaches for his hand. Eventually, Khafaji starts talking about Sulaimaniya. About Topzawa. And he is surprised to find he hasn't forgotten a thing. He talks for what seems like hours. He tells her everything.

When he finally looks at her, he sees that she's asleep. He takes his hand out of hers and strokes her cheeks. He pulls the blankets up around her chin. Glancing around at the room, he notices the other patient wide awake and staring at him as if he was a ghost. With a start, he gets up, and Mrouj calls out softly, “I'm here, Baba. Tell me a line.”

“OK, Mrouj.” He pauses before answering,
“Man is half tongue, and half mind, and between them is nothing but a sketch
of flesh and blood. / While fools that are old have no wisdom to look forward to, young fools may sometimes…
”

Khafaji listens for Mrouj's voice, but hears nothing.

“May sometimes become wise
. Zuheir. Goodnight, Mrouj,” Khafaji whispers, “I'll be back tomorrow.”

As he walks away, he looks over at the other patient, and she withers beneath her blankets.

When Khafaji arrives home, he finds the guards are back at their posts. He rushes past them at the gate, and again in the foyer. As usual, they try to stop him with an offer of tea. Khafaji notices the hall is filled with suitcases and cartons. At the stairs, he hears a commotion above.

On the landing on the second floor a group of men throngs around someone wearing black robes and a turban. A cleric. It takes Khafaji a minute to work halfway through the thick crowd. Now they are speaking Persian. Along with Arabic. Ali stands beside the man, trying to calm the crowd. Khafaji sneaks past the last men when Ali catches his eye.

Khafaji goes to unlock his apartment and notices the door is already wide open. Walking through the rooms, Khafaji finds the shutters to the balcony open as well. When he goes to shut them, he looks down at the street. Stopped at the gate is a black Mercedes. The guards signal for him to turn around. The driver leans forward over the dashboard, looking up at the building, scanning each floor. The men at the gate finally force the driver to disappear.

Khafaji goes to the sideboard and finds a bottle of Johnnie Walker. He gulps one shot, then sips a second. He goes back to the balcony and stares past the roofs at the night sky. At some point, he feels someone staring at him and looks around. He looks at the gate, and sees that there's nobody
there. Then he notices the man in the shadows on the street below, looking up at him. Khafaji takes two steps back from the railing. He waits, then looks again to see the same man disappearing into the entrance below. Seconds later, Khafaji sees the man jogging back to his car, followed by one of the guards. As he runs off, Khafaji imagines he knows him. The bodyguard from the university. Down in the street, the guard trots after him.

Khafaji sees that the water is on, so he rushes to take a shower. Quickly, the water turns into a trickle, then dies. By the time Khafaji reaches for his towel, the lights also go out. Khafaji dries off in the darkness. Shivering, he looks for a gas lantern. When he can't find any matches in the kitchen, he fumbles through his jacket for a lighter. For the first time since the morning, his hand finds the ID cards. In the flickering light, he studies them one by one. Candy Firdawsi. Sally Riyadi. Sawsan.

Khafaji studies the girl's face, but soon he is looking at Suheir. Aunt and niece. Past and present. Then he remembers what Nidal said.
You wanted to find Sawsan so much, you imagined it. You still imagine it
. He reaches for the photograph of Sawsan that Nidal gave him. He looks at the two images side by side, and begins to see the differences.

He pours himself another shot to forget these girls. Another to forget memories spilling down from the mountains. Another to forget the Mosuli. The minutes pass. Then hours. It goes quiet outside. The bottle is half empty, but Khafaji's mind is fuller than ever.

Khafaji picks up the IDs again and studies them one last time. Candy Firdawsi. Sally Riyadi. He picks up the photo of Sawsan and imagines that her smile is meant for a lover. Suddenly, Khafaji is not thinking of Sawsan or Suheir, but
Zubeida. Sawsan's face belongs to Suheir, but the makeup belongs to her professor. Only then, in the daze of the Scotch and the whisper of the gas flame, does he notice that the name on the ID is not Sawsan Faraj, but Suzy Jinna. He wasn't wrong. He wasn't imagining anything.

Thursday

4 December 2003

Khafaji's head is almost clear when he wakes up. He shaves and leaves the house quickly. Coming downstairs, he bumps into Jaafar, who is walking up, carrying a tray of empty tea glasses. The boy smiles and shouts, “Good morning, Mr Muhsin!”

On the landing below, Khafaji almost stumbles over the new guard. He stands alert and salutes Khafaji, with a pious “Peace upon you, and God's mercy and blessings”. The guards at the door rise to their feet and ask Khafaji to join them for a cup of tea.

As Khafaji turns out the door, he sees two other men posted at the end of the street. They stand, weapons on shoulders, looking the other way. Khafaji is nearly past them before they notice. A voice calls out from the building, and the guards wave and smile to their comrades in the street. Half-smiling, one grunts, “God's grace.”

Khafaji is the first through the gates today, and the first to arrive at the office.

He looks over at the bag with his uniform, but decides not to wear it. He leans back and lights a cigarette, and then he starts reading.

Some files are like compact, short stories. Others are like fat novels. This one wanted to be a teacher. Failed out of high school, limited success at the police academy. Twice failed in Party courses. Reassigned to Mosul vice during the Faith Campaign of 1990s. Another man studied engineering in college. He alludes to the fact in each of his unsolicited lengthy memoranda, which are composed of extensive statistical analyses of crime. He produces charts for each year of the sanctions. Rates for begging, prostitution, smuggling, drug sales, addiction, and black-market trading. Very interesting if accurate. Another man probably killed someone in a family feud when he was young. His file does not come out and say this, but there is a note which explains that he should not be assigned to Irbil. One dossier, belonging to a colonel in the DGS, contains multiple studies on the importance of women's rights and family planning. It makes no sense until Khafaji reads a note in the margins: “Has nine children.” Today, the dossiers seem like fiction. Some might even qualify as good literature.

Later, he goes to the DFAC for a quick meal of stale bread and plastic cheese.

In the afternoon, Khafaji begins reading the dossier on Basra's last police chief. Even before he picks it up, Khafaji understands that the man was someone to stay away from. Most files from the sanctions years are like that, either pitiful or filthy. This man's hands were so dirty you could see the shit on his elbows. Nothing extraordinary until '91, then promotion after promotion until last year. This guy learns to fly right when the sky falls. Khafaji throws the file down on the table. The file says he's civilian police, but the story makes him out to be intelligence. He lights a cigarette.
Why should it bother you?
Maybe because files lie. Maybe it's like
reading files that could be yours.
But you weren't like this at all. Your generation had hopes and dreams. And ideology
.