Baghdad Central (25 page)

He pauses, but Jabbouri and Khafaji say nothing.

Ford continues. “We did that in Saudi, and it nearly caused a revolution. They limited the number of women in this operation. They say they did it out of respect for Islamic culture. We can't come into their places and flaunt our women. It would be insensitive. I'm not defending it per se. And it certainly does make it difficult to get laid around here.” He grins.

“Laid?” Khafaji blurts out.

There's an uncomfortable pause before Ford turns back to Jabbouri and adds, “I get by just fine.”

The three men laugh. Jabbouri asks, “Really? I've worked in a lot of places. Some, a lot worse than this. But whenever I have, it's always been quite obvious how men get by. No secret about that. But what about here in Iraq? You've got thousands of men stationed here for months. You can't tell me that they take it lying down?” He winks at Khafaji.

Ford laughs. “A lot of porn. Movies. Magazines. You name it, the military supplies it.”

“And the bases?”

Louis laughs again. “You always hear stuff about the Army. Planes flown in from Bangkok. Rumors and gossip about a whorehouse here in the Green Zone.”

He stands up. “Let me get the next round.”

By the time he comes back, the conversation has gone in other directions. Jabbouri and Ford talk for a while about the untapped riches of Iraq. Khafaji yawns and wonders why he's still there, empties his glass, then gets up to leave.

Jabbouri clasps Khafaji's hand and talks about getting together again soon. Ford looks across the room for his friends.

The air outside has turned cold and dark. Khafaji thinks he sees the outlines of the Victory Arch in the distance. Drunk, he starts to walk toward it. He lights a cigarette and imagines what it would be like to touch the giant sculptures. Three cigarettes later, Khafaji is wandering down a road whose asphalt has been chewed up by heavy machinery and tank treads. Khafaji hesitates when he can no longer see anything in the gloom. No lights. No sounds. Nothing but the empty, quiet night. He walks on, hearing nothing but his own footsteps kicking up dirt and gravel. The concrete monument begins to materialize in the darkness. Khafaji stops and stares, the sky spins for a moment before it catches itself. It takes a few moments for Khafaji to realize it is something else. A mosque. Or a tomb. Khafaji walks along the round exterior walls. The textured concrete feels like giant cuneiform writing. Khafaji drags his hands across it for balance, and eventually comes to an entrance. He walks into the shadows. The smell of shit and garbage almost makes him turn back. He lights a match and looks around. The floor is covered with dirt and debris and something else. He walks over to what looks like
a gravestone. When the match goes out, he lights another, and gazes up at the crystal chandelier and the Quranic verses. The brilliant gold calligraphy glitters faintly like a distant constellation. Khafaji knows whose tomb it is. The great Baathist intellectual no one would ever read unless the Party made them. The philosopher who insisted that politics be composed as poetry, and who ruined both in the process. Khafaji remembers hearing about the man's burial. Like everyone else, he wasn't surprised to learn that Michel Aflaq was dead. The only surprise in hearing the news was finding out that Michel Aflaq had been alive all that time.

A whimper in the corner makes Khafaji jump. The match goes out. It takes a few tries to light the next one, and then a moment to see the eyes glowing in the blackness. The match has gone out again by the time he registers what he saw. A feral bitch nursing a litter in the garbage pile. Khafaji steps back to the door.

The night air is even colder now. Khafaji shivers and pulls the jacket collar up around his ears. And now he begins the long walk back. The bracing wind revives him. He lights a cigarette and then another, determined to cover the smell of alcohol by the time he sets foot in a taxi.

He asks the taxi driver to drop him off on Abu Nuwas. Half stumbling, Khafaji traces another long zigzag across his neighborhood before arriving at his street. The guards at the street gate receive Khafaji warily. One of them escorts Khafaji to the front door of the building and leaves only when the guards there can vouch for him. The young man apologizes, and wishes Khafaji a good evening. Khafaji stumbles upstairs and falls into bed without even turning on the lights.

Friday

5 December 2003

Khafaji sleeps so soundly, he doesn't even dream. He wakes up early, surprised to find his headache gone and his mind clear. The water is back on, so he fills a kettle, then goes to shave and shower. The aluminium pot squeaks and pops on the gas stove. When it boils, the kettle spits hot water and steam. The tea steeps while Khafaji washes days of dirty teacups sitting in the sink. He listens to the clinking sound each cup makes as he sets them on the drying rack. He sweeps the floor and wipes off the counters. By the time he is done, the kitchen is as clean as it ever was.

Tea in hand, Khafaji returns to the living room. At first he reaches for a book of poetry,
Diwan Jarir
. But the stacks of books sitting on the ground shame him into work. For Khafaji, reshelving books is like meditation. Or like moving into a new home. He starts to put some in their places, but then gets sidetracked when he comes across a title from his teenage years,
Awatif
, by Muhammad Salih Bahr al-Oloom. He browses another book for an hour before putting it on the shelf.
Kitab Alf Layla wa-Layla Min Usulih al-Ula
.

He gets another glass of tea and tries to reshelve others. Eventually, he finds himself sitting on his favorite chair,
reading a book he didn't know he owned. And so it goes for a few hours. Shelving. Book. Tea. And then all over again. By eleven, Khafaji has finished. All the books are back on the shelves, but not the same shelves as before. This time, Khafaji decides to separate Arabic titles from English ones. That solved the issue of alphabetization that had plagued the books before. Granted, it meant mixing genres. But Khafaji gives up and leaves it as is. Imperfect. As he sorts through his collection, he notices just how many of his books are missing. By the time he's done, there's nearly an entire shelf gone. All of it poetry. The bare shelf is incontrovertible proof of theft. And now he understands why he couldn't find Nazik's diwan.

Khafaji goes to the kitchen to pour another glass of tea. The pot is empty, so he decides that he might as well go to work. Walking out the door, Khafaji finds Ali on the landing.

“Peace upon you, Brother. Are you coming to pray with us?”

“God keep you, Ali. Bless you. I would like to, but…”

Ali quietly adds, “Sunday. The day after tomorrow. I'm sorry it's got to be like this. But we did give you more time. I trust you've found a solution?”

“Yes, I have, thank you.”

He nods and shakes Ali's hand. Ali's expression is as warm and sincere as ever, only his eyes are dark. Khafaji grins, almost laughs.
It really is not personal. He may even like you
. The guards at the door signal to the guards on the corner. Everyone smiles at Khafaji as he walks to the river.

There's only a handful of people waiting at the gate, and Khafaji walks through quickly. Jacket off. Arms up. Shirt up. He looks at the faces of the guards as he goes through, but doesn't recognize any of them. He attempts to smile to one, but it goes nowhere. A new group.

Ford is working at his computer and waves to Khafaji when
he comes in. He doesn't get up or turn around. “Hey!” he calls out. “How do you feel this morning?”

Khafaji flips through his notepad instead of answering him. He reaches for a fresh pack of Rothmans in the drawer, tears off the plastic wrapper and tries to toss it in the trash can but misses. He takes out a cigarette and lights it. Then he asks, “Where is Citrone? I need to talk to him.”

Ford smells the tobacco smoke and turns around. “It's Friday. I know he's got something later, so he'll probably come in before. You can't smoke here, you know.”

“It is a free country now, no?”

“And my cup is not an ashtray. Disgusting.”

Khafaji looks at his watch. It's nearly 2 p.m. He hangs up his jacket and scarf on the hook and sees the clear plastic garment bag under his desk. The uniform. Khafaji wonders if he should ask about the boots, but decides not to bother.

Khafaji turns to the filing cabinets. By now he's gone through hundreds of dossiers. He takes a drag and decides to wait until after his next cigarette before he starts.

As if reading his mind, Ford calls out, “Citrone's expecting your list today.”

Khafaji mumbles, “Yes. Sure. OK.” There is no list.

A few minutes later, Ford shuts off his computer and walks out the door. “I'll be back later. We've got a new clerk coming in this afternoon. Let him know I'll be back. See you later, Khafaji.”

Khafaji looks at his watch. 3.00 p.m. Citrone still hasn't shown up. Khafaji calls out, “Hold on! When is Citrone getting here?”

Ford shrugs.

“You are sure he is coming in?”

“He sometimes does on Friday mornings.”

“He said I'd be able to move into a house by now.”

“Sorry.”

“Is there another way I could talk to Citrone?”

“Citrone said he'd be in, but technically it's his day off.” Ford runs his fingers over his hair.

“But you said he wanted the list today.”

Ford shrugs. “You can give the list to me now. Or tomorrow, when he comes in. I know for a fact he'll be here early, we've got a 9 a.m. You'll be there, too.”

“What?”

“Our meeting. I told you last night.”

“…?”

“Coordination with the HR team. You asked me to set it up.”

“Oh… Right,” Khafaji says, stubbing out the butt. Ford frowns and walks out into the corridor.

Khafaji continues working at his desk for a few more minutes, before walking over to the door. A 9 a.m. with the Mosuli. Wonder what the hell they were going to talk about?

Khafaji looks at the wall next to the door and sees something he hadn't paid attention to before.

Warning Siren. High Wailing Tone. 1. Secure all classified documents. 2. Close all windows, lock all doors. 3. Immediately leave building
.

Low Wailing Tone. 1. Get away from all windows. 2. Duck and cover. 3. Wait for clear siren, then meet at Evacuation Assembly Area
.

Khafaji tries to lock the door, but the key is gone.

He attempts to turn on the computers, but gives up. He goes to Citrone's desk looking for keys. When he doesn't find any, he tries the drawers. This time, one is unlocked. Khafaji slides it open. The only things he finds are a few duffel bags. Empty. He takes them out and turns each one upside down. Nothing. He leans back and feels for his cigarettes in his pocket.

Outside, someone tries the door handle, but it does not open. Then a hand raps softly on the door. Khafaji gently closes the drawer and goes back to his desk. “It's open,” he calls out.

Zubeida Rashid is halfway across the room before she recognizes Khafaji. When she sees him, she stops. At first he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees she's alone.

“Professor. Come in. Please.” He does his best to sound forceful.

“You?” Her voice is colder than he remembered. “I'm looking for Mr Citrone. Where is he?”

Khafaji smiles and shakes his head. “No, Professor. Sorry to disappoint.” A moment later, he adds, “But we expect him back any minute. Would you like to wait?”

Khafaji gestures to an empty chair. She looks at her watch. Her foot has not stopped tapping since she walked in. She is not trying to hide it. She looks up and says nothing. When she does answer, it comes out like she's doing him a favor or making a threat. “If that's what I have to do.”

Khafaji walks over and pulls out the chair for her. “Please, sit down. Can I bring you a cup of tea while you wait?”

“What are you doing here?” she snaps.

Khafaji tries to explain, but his words make no sense. She pretends not to listen. At some point, she simply interrupts. “Yes. Tea, please.” She stops looking at him.

Five minutes later, Khafaji returns from the cafeteria with two paper cups of sweet, milky tea. As he enters, the phone is ringing. Khafaji puts the hot cups down on the desk. By the time he picks up the receiver, the caller has hung up.

“May I join you?”

“Of course.” She turns to the window, even though the shutters are closed. Khafaji opens the windows and then unclasps the shutters and throws them wide open. Fuzzy lines
of orange and pink streak through late-afternoon haze. For the first time, the room learns what a slight breeze feels like. Khafaji closes the window quickly, but the room is already cold. Khafaji puts on his jacket and sits down, warming his hands with the hot cup. He drinks slowly, gazing out at the dusk as it gathers itself up.

Without sound or motion, tears begin to stream down her cheeks.

“I've done something very stupid, Muhsin. I'm in over my head.” She sniffles. Her words come across as an invitation. Khafaji begins to reach out to touch her hands, then pulls back. She stares down at her feet. Khafaji's eyes follow hers, and suddenly he's staring at thighs, knees, calves, ankles, and finally feet. She is wearing open sandals. Khafaji looks at her painted toenails.