Hassan spoke up first. “Everyone at school was⦔
“Everyone else was going down to the streets? Demonstrating against the king is not wrong. On the contrary, it's patriotic. You want to try again?”
The two boys said nothing.
“Your turn, Muhsin. Tell me what you did wrong.”
“We painted graffiti?”
“No, that's not wrong either.” There was a long pause as their father waited.
“OK. Do you want me to tell you what you did wrong?”
“Yes, Baba.”
“Look at yourselves. You got paint everywhere. Who saw
you when you came home, huh? Did you walk by the baker, or did you go the other way?”
“By the baker.”
“It's too late now, but that was a mistake. Let me tell you what you did wrong: it's not what you were doing, it's how you were doing it. You were doing something adults do, but you were going about it like children. Go wash yourselves off. And give your dirty clothes to your mother.”
The doorbell rang while Muhsin and Hassan were in the bathroom. They heard their father's voice talking to someone in the hallway for ten minutes before the door finally closed again.
“Get out here right now, boys.”
By now, their sister was home. Muhsin saw the fear in her eyes as they walked into the room. Their father was fuming, his voice quavered. “You want to do what you think is right? At least do it right. Listen to this:
The one thing that is braver each day than I is my sense of self-preservation
It moves not, and stands not, unless it is driven by something important
,
I have struggled with dangers until they were left saying:
Has death itself died? And has terror beenâ¦
”
No one said a word. Muhsin and Hassan looked at each other, and then again at their father.
“Tell me something about these lines.”
Hassan went first. “The poet is saying to be brave?”
“No. Muhsin?”
“The poet is saying to be cautious?”
“Are these lines even complete?”
The boys said nothing.
“Why are you telling me what lines mean if you can't even tell whether they're complete? Let your sister try. Rahma?”
“It's the long meter. Acatalectic. There's a missing foot. This line is probably:
Has death itself died? And has terror been terrorized?
That would make sense given the parallelism of the line, and it would also resolve the metrical gap.”
Their father smiled at his daughter. “Good. What else?”
“Mutanabbi is probably the one who composed it. At least, I think so. In any case, it would seem to mean that in fighting, your caution must be bold and your boldness cautious â then you will be invincible. That sort of paradox would be typical of the poet.”
Muhsin and Hassan looked up at their sister and then their father.
“Well done. Good guess. It's Mutanabbi's panegyric to Ali ibn Ahmad ibn Amer al-Antaki. Hassan and Muhsin, go to your room and think about how foolish you were today. You want to make a statement? Learn to recognize the difference between a complete statement and an incomplete one, then you might be ready.”
A boot nudges Khafaji. He rubs his eyes and staggers to his feet. He must have fallen asleep. His headache is back.
The American soldier points with his gun. “Imshi minna.”
“Checkpoint Three, right?” Khafaji shouts back. “I'm supposed to report today,” he adds as he tucks his shirt in and straightens his collar.
“What for?”
“I'm working for the Americans. Here are my papers.”
The soldier squints at the papers in Khafaji's hand. He is maybe eighteen years old. As young as Uday was. He touches the headset on his helmet and speaks. Khafaji can't make out what he says.
With his brown skin, he might even be Iraqi
, Khafaji thinks.
“I'm working for the Coalition Provisional Authority,” Khafaji corrects himself.
“Sit here until I get back. Don't move.” Then he walks away. Khafaji looks and sees a shadow move on the wall above.
He comes back and tells Khafaji to follow. When they come to the gate, the boy smiles for the first time. “Here you are.”
The gate opens enough for Khafaji to squeeze through, then closes again. He finds himself walking along a narrow
path between two high blast walls. The only vegetation is a cluster of tall palms. The concrete beneath is covered with dry barhi dates.
“Papers,” a voice barks. Khafaji hands his papers over to the man.
“Take off your jacket.” Khafaji takes off his jacket and lays it down gently on the floor.
“Pull up your shirt.” Khafaji pulls up his shirt, then his undershirt.
“Turn around.” Khafaji turns around.
“Put your hands on your head and spread your legs.” A soldier pats down his body.
The man nods at Khafaji. “It's routine. We do it to everybody. We're done. Sit down on the bench.”
Khafaji stares at the announcement on the wall in front of him.
Attention: If you hold property rights that pre-date the arrival of occupation forces in this zone, you may be eligible for compensation. Bring your ID, a copy of the rental agreement (or deed of ownership), along with any photographs of the property and structures, to the Municipal Council located next to the Abu Ghraib Courthouse
.
And right above that, in molded concrete, the same initials as everywhere. Sad. Haa.
Khafaji watches the man return, then bundle his ID and papers into a clear pouch marked GUEST.
“Wear this around your neck. Until you get your regular identification.”
On the other side of the second gate, Khafaji finds a middle-aged American in a civilian suit waiting for him under a cover of camouflage netting. The man smiles and offers an outstretched hand. When he opens his mouth, Arabic comes out. “Peace be upon you, Mr Muhsin. Welcome to Free Iraq.”
Formal Arabic, despite the Egyptian accent. His hand feels like a smooth cold stone. The chin of a movie star. And deep-set eyes now studying Khafaji intently. The thin lips may not move, but the jaw never stops moving. Chewing gum.
“Pleased to meet you. Hank Citrone. Liaison officer. We were expecting you early this morning.”
“I tried, but⦔
“They're working on the problem, but for the time being, this is the only way for you to get in. My advice is for you to get here as early as you can. No more late starts, agreed?”
Before Khafaji can do anything, Citrone takes him by the arm. They don't talk at all as they stroll across a vast space of broken sidewalks and streets, shot-up signs, and monumental buildings in the Baathist Babylonian style. At first, even the clusters of desiccated acacia and eucalyptus look browner than green. Half of the palms are decapitated, their feet covered in piles of things that look more like dead roaches than fallen dates. Gazebos and sheds scattered behind untended hedges, and people walking alone and in small groups, some with guns slung casually across their backs. Clouds of small birds swirling around a thick stand of shrubs, filling the air with screeches.
“Do you prefer English, Mr Muhsin, or Arabic?” Citrone raises his voice over the growing chatter of the birds. His chin never stops moving.
Khafaji decides to flatter the man. “You speak Arabic well. Do you have Arab roots?” The chirping of the birds grows into a roar, and the shadows stretch across the steps they take.
“I studied it in college. And then even more after I converted.”
Never argue with a convert. Khafaji nods again and tries to look serious.
Toward the Republican Palace, the lawns begin and then the topiary and flowers. By the time they get there, the city seems miles behind. No sounds but a soft pulsing from somewhere or everywhere.
Citrone begins to confide. “I left my career to come to Iraq. Call it a personal sense of duty. You Iraqis need all the help you can get during this transition period. As a Muslim, I have a special role to play.”
In the distance, a call to prayer is heard, then another and another. As if on a single cue, the birds abruptly stop.
“I assume you know about my daughter?”
“Yes, yes, Mr Muhsin.”
“Can Iâ¦?”
“Of course you can. But first, you might be hungry.”
“I am.”
The American looks at his watch and says, “If you want Iraqi food, you can always get something at the Hajji shop. They got pizza there too. But I would suggest we go to the PX, it's not far from here and we can set you up.”
At a squat, domed concrete and marble pavilion, Citrone flashes his badge to the guard, and tells Khafaji to do the same. Citrone takes a shiny .357 out of a holster and places it on the table as he steps through a metal detector, then puts it back.
No palace has ever rejected new owners, especially when they come as barbarians. Around the sides of the ballroom stand forests of upholstered furniture and cardboard outcroppings. Under carved and painted ceilings, the old chandeliers still hang, though the crystal is long gone.
Glued to the walls are oversize technicolor landscapes. A lush forest with a roaring white stream on one wall. A flowery pink meadow framed by snow-covered granite peaks on
another. A pristine tropical beachfront on yet another. And colorful banners: “Flu Shots, Bldg 121”, “Freedom Ain't free!”, “Go Pats!”
Khafaji weaves through a crowd and makes a list:
Everyone is so young. No one walks empty-handed. Paper cups with plastic lids. Electronic devices
.
At the end of the hall, Khafaji and Citrone walk through double doors.
“In the Bubble, we call this place the DFAC. Dining facility. You'll find everything here. It's all shipped in fresh from home.”
One of the walls is covered with large television screens tuned to the same sports channel. There is only one dissident screen; it shows weather. In a single minute, Khafaji learns the scores of football games and the weather in Singapore, Berlin and Washington, DC. Muted, the words scurry across the bottom of each screen then disappear.
“There's where we get the trays.” Citrone has switched to English. “It's self-service. Hot food's over there. Salads and sandwiches over here. Soft drinks at the Beverage Bar.”
Khafaji stands paralyzed. Roast beef, cold cuts, steamed vegetables, rice, macaroni, soups and stews and salads, breads, drinks, cakes, puddings and ice cream. He eventually decides to eat something that looks like lamb. Citrone comes up. “You don't want to eat that. Come over here and I'll show you where the halal meat is.”
Khafaji shrugs and follows, then copies Citrone gesture for gesture: a mound of fried chicken, one of cabbage salad and a large cup of ice. They sit down at a square table. Citrone puts his fingers together and murmurs something into his hands before touching his food. Khafaji begins to eat with a fork. When he sees Citrone eating with his hands, he does the same.
The cafeteria fills up with people. Now and then someone waves or nods at Citrone and he mouths a few words. The workers are in constant motion, unwrapping food, wiping down counters, picking up empty plates and cups. Their hands never stop moving. Khafaji notices they are all Indian.
“Praise be to God for providing sustenance,” Citrone says in English, and rubs his belly. He wipes his mouth and looks at his watch. “How about we grab dessert and coffee and go straight to the office? We'll talk there.”
“As you like.” Khafaji notices that Citrone's jaw is busy again.
Citrone takes him to a large table filled with cakes and picks one out. Khafaji says, “Tea, please.”
There is no tea at the Beverage Bar.
Citrone frowns. “Sorry about that. They're supposed to serve everything. Nothing held back.” He glances over the heads of the workers.
“Tea?”
Khafaji looks up to see a dark-skinned man with a shock of straight black hair cleaning the coffee machines. “I will bring a cup of tea right away, sir. But they have already put sugar and milk in it. I hope that is not a problem for you.”
Khafaji watches him walk around the counter toward a cluster of brown men relaxing on metal chairs. Behind a collection of rags, cleaning bottles, brooms and mops, Khafaji spies an old kerosene stove with a large, battered brass teapot. The man returns with a paper cup of hot, milky tea. Khafaji sips it. Too sweet. But it is tea. With cardamom. The Indian adds, “We always have tea, sir. Come and ask any time. We are at your service.”
Citrone takes Khafaji by the arm again. They walk down another hall. Before they leave the building, a man shouts,
“Still on for fifty, Citrone? You sure you want to bet against the Packers?”
Citrone roars, “Never been surer!”
It takes about five minutes to walk to their building.