The American takes more notes, then whispers to the Mosuli, “They look enough alike.” Turning to Khafaji, he asks, “How can you prove who you are?”
“You can ask anyone. Look at my file.”
“You burned them.”
“We never burn archives. They were stored away. I'm sure you have them by now.”
The Mosuli grabs Khafaji's right hand before he can pull it away. He studies the palm and fingers. When he speaks, formulas roll off his tongue. “Start with fingerprints. And investigative detention. Custody recommended until we can ascertain his identity.”
Khafaji tries to pull his hand back, but can't. The Mosuli's grip is rougher and stronger than it appears. He squeezes the hand until Khafaji winces. “You've got blood on your hands, cunt â but whose?”
The Mosuli turns to the American. “Let's save him for the IGC tribunal. Keep him apart from the others, at least until we know who he is. No â better idea. Put him in with the jihadis.”
Khafaji holds his throbbing hand and studies the man's clean-shaven face. The sculpted eyebrows. The neatly turning lips with more than just a touch of redness. And skin so smooth, like it's never seen a razor. A boy. A pink rat.
Suddenly, his voice begins to speak again:
“They say that the Minister of Oil has a tail that he keeps hidden! / They say that the Minister of Oil has a tail that he keeps hidden in an American pocket / In an American pocket!”
The Mosuli's fist is thick and fast. It knocks Khafaji to the ground. “Learn some respect, you cunt! Learn who you're talking to. You lost. We won. Smell that shit smell around you? Welcome to your new home. The dung heap of history.”
By now, he has Khafaji's skull in his hands. Khafaji's head hits the concrete. Once, twice, and then he loses track.
The little man's shiny face is up against Khafaji's, whispering, “It doesn't matter who you turn out to be. You Baathist cunt. You're going pay for what you've done.” Khafaji stares at the man's perfectly shaped eyebrows. He imagines the man plucking them in front of a mirror.
Then it dawns on Khafaji that they know nothing about him at all. The strange voice in his throat begins to laugh. He begins to sing with his whole body, though the words are Muzaffar al-Nawwab's.
      Â
While the party of castrati pursue me
      Â
While the party of castrati hound me
      Â
O seeker, search for another door
      Â
You had better search another door
      Â
While the party of castrati hound meâ¦
The Mosuli lets go of him and takes one step back. Khafaji's song is still hanging in the air as the Italian shoes begin to work.
“You're a dead man and your poetry is shit.” After the first few kicks, Khafaji's eyes close and he feels sleep approaching. He hears shouting, then feels hands putting the hood over his head. He feels hands tying his legs. He feels hands dragging him for miles.
At some point, Khafaji becomes conscious of the fact that he's in a room with many other people. His arms are now tied in front, and he manages to roll onto his back. His body jostles others in the process. The ground beneath is cold and wet. Other naked limbs nestle against his legs and arms. It doesn't matter. He surrenders to rest and sleep. In the muffled darkness, he remembers the hood on his head.
He listens and it feels as if he's floating on a gentle sea of human voices. Every current is distinct as they swirl around his ears. Someone on the left is Egyptian. One on the right is from Yemen. The man behind is Sudanese. Like switching from station to station on a radio of the entire Arab world. Khafaji hears snippets from the far west, from Morocco. From Tunis and many from Libya. Others closer to home, someone from Aleppo and someone else from the Hejaz. They are young. Khafaji smiles to himself when sleep finally takes him by the hand.
We were just finishing dinner when my husband heard the knock at the door. Yezid got up from the table to answer it. He was out of his seat and racing down the hall as if he was expecting someone. He was wearing socks and skated halfway down the hall like he always did. We all heard the door open. And we all heard Yezid talking with someone. His sister says she heard at least two other voices. The conversation was friendly. Yezid's sister is sure that he knew the boys who came to the door.
When we heard the door close, we thought nothing of it. Yezid used to disappear after dinner all the time. In summer, he was always in a hurry to go outside for another game of soccer. Or to go play video games. What was it he liked â Grand Auto? It could have been any of his friends from upstairs. He never even put his shoes on.
We never received a note or a ransom demand. No one ever found his body. None of his friends ever came forward to tell us anything. No one here would ever talk to us about it. It took us a long time before we connected it to what was happening at the university. I stopped going to work. Yezid's father began to pray for the first time in his life. He's probably praying right now! When the internet is working I check email. I've been writing to people in Europe to see if there are any university positions in clinical psychiatry. Do you know of any?
When Khafaji wakes up, the hood is off, but his head is pounding. He rubs his temples and neck for a minute before it registers that the cuffs are also gone. He blinks and coughs, and then sees a motley group of young men. Most are wearing nothing more than filthy pants. He looks down at his own nakedness and shudders. He tries to cover his penis with his hands. Someone hands him a dirty towel. With numb fingers, he wraps it around his waist as best he can.
Khafaji sits up and someone offers him a tin cup of water. Not water, but a tepid liquid stinking of sulfur. He drinks it quickly, though it does not go down easily. The throbbing in his head begins again, then the spinning. He lies down again. Hands pick up his body then set him down gently on a cold metal bench.
“Thanks,” he mutters. His old voice has returned, frayed around the edges.
“The brother is Iraqi. We're honored by your presence.”
“The honor is mine.” His right hand touches his heart.
Khafaji lifts his head slightly to see the faces of his helpers. In an instant, the stench of twenty men shitting and pissing into buckets hits him. He covers his face with filthy hands
and fingers. He's smelt it before, but never from this side of the door. He looks down at his wet legs, uncomfortable and now even more ashamed.
Khafaji closes his eyes. He was right â they are young. Half are boys. A couple aren't even old enough to shave. They talk. They tell stories. About families at home. About brothers. About famous men. Two make a point of talking about how much it cost to come. To liberate Muslim Iraq. Khafaji guesses that of the twenty, maybe one was trained to do something more dangerous than picking beans.
The day passes in winding conversation, interrupted at random by loud music that suddenly blasts into the cell for minutes, and that, just as suddenly, disappears again. The light turns on and off without warning, without pattern. When the cell is dark, Khafaji feels at his head and face. He is stunned to find his hair cut, along with half of his moustache. His fingers travel up to his face to feel the patches of bare skin. No sooner does he manage to forget this than his fingers are there again, prodding at the skin on his scalp and his lip. The more his head throbs, the more his fingers dig into his temples.
The lights come on again. The older ones are more than curious to know what an old man is doing in their cell. Khafaji tells them his name is Omar. He says his wife's family comes from Tikrit. He hints that he was captured while leading a unit in Salaheddine province. A string of lies, but Khafaji isn't entirely insincere. A couple of the boys pepper him with questions, others tune out.
The lights go off and they ask Khafaji about the fate of the world. Why were Iraqis so slow to take up arms? Who built this prison? Did Shiites collaborate with Americans because they hate Islam so much? Why did the Kurds love Israel so
much? Khafaji says as little as possible. Nothing to encourage or dampen hopes. Nothing specific. Nothing verifiable. After a few hours, Khafaji pieces together that they were all picked up around al-Ramadi. Most within days of arriving in the country. Some within hours. If they ever returned home, this cell would be the only Iraq they knew.
The weeping is so faint that it takes Khafaji a long time to realize what it is. When the light comes on again, he sees the boy in the corner. Crying. He's been crying for hours. Khafaji watches him urinate on himself more than once. The others around him try to comfort him, but they also move away from the puddle he sits in. His body never stops shaking.
The first time they prepare to pray, they ask Khafaji to lead. He wonders,
Do you remember how? He
apologizes, and his sorry state excuses him. The next time, they don't even ask. After they pray four times in a matter of what seems like a few hours, he realizes: they don't know what time it is any better than him. It could be day or night. A boy complains about the light, and someone else answers, “At least it keeps the bugs away.”
And then there's the sound. Only now does he begin to hear it. There is no sound at all. Or rather, there seems to be no sound except a distant, white roar. From somewhere in the building itself, a distant hissing sound floods the air. No other noise. No sound coming from other cells. No sound from the outside. A seashell's whisper, soft, almost imperceptible. Except that when you wake up to it, it's a deafening roar.
Never once does the power go out here.
One by one, the others fall asleep. At one point, the only other person still awake is the sobbing boy in the corner. Khafaji nods to him.
“Tired?”
“Yes. I haven't slept since I've been here.”
“In this prison?”
“No. In Iraq.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Longer than that, actually. Not since I left home.”
“Egypt? How long's that been?”
“Three or four months, I think. I don't know. Forever.”
“Does your family know you're here?” Khafaji studies his face. The long nose, round cheeks, and soft lashes might have been copied from an ancient temple wall. A Pharaonic scribe with sleepless eyes.
“Only my brother and cousin. They helped me buy my ticket. No one else. If my father knew, I'd be dead.”
“But he'd also brag about how brave you were.”
“Maybe. But it would only bring trouble. He'd kill me.”
“He must be a good man to have raised a strong young man.”
“Until they made me a girl.”
“What?” Khafaji immediately regrets asking.
“They did that to me. Right outside in the hallway. They made us all take off our clothes. They said I was a girl, and then they made me one. Then they did it over and over. Everyone saw it.” The boy begins to cry.
Khafaji doesn't know what to say. He reaches out his fingers and rests them on the boy's shoulder. The boy leans onto Khafaji's shoulder as he sobs. Onto the warmth of his skin. Khafaji still does not know what to say. The minutes go by as they sit side by side in silence. When the lights suddenly shut off again, the boy stops crying. Khafaji moves away to another corner of the cell.
“Do you ever dream?” the boy asks.
“Of course.”
“I mean, while you're awake? Do you ever see dreams like
they're real? And they are real. But then, later, you realize they were in your mind?”
“Everyone does. When you're sick enough. Sleep is the cure. Sleep, son. Sleep and forget your dreams.”
“Do these dreams come from God, or from the Devil?” Khafaji shakes his head in the darkness. He wants to laugh, but it's too late. Like laughter, grief is also infectious. Khafaji's breath slows and slows until his body finally gives way.
It is hours before the door opens. Two Americans walk in and look around the room. When one of them speaks, they realize she's a woman. She throws a pile of what appears to be women's underwear on the ground and laughs. The boys in the room go bolt rigid. Alert and on guard. The Iraqi guard accompanying them orders a thin Yemeni boy to take the buckets down the hall. The buckets are full, almost too heavy to lift. He carries each one with both hands. The liquid splashes out over his toes, and leaves a spattered trail across the concrete floor. A minute later, the boy is back and retrieves the next one. As he goes back and forth, his plastic sandals slip and slide. By the time he's done with all of them, a large puddle of mess covers half the room. The door closes. In an instant, a line of boys forms, their faces turned away from the others already emptying their bowels.
Khafaji rummages through the pile of underwear and finds something he can put on. Then he dozes off. Khafaji dreams that the Tigris has become a lake, its waters swelling green and stagnant with garbage and human waste, sweating oil and tar. He stares at the heavens and the sky opens. Rain begins to pour down. He smiles to himself. It has been months since it rained in this city. Violent storms sweep across the sky. Clouds fly and loosen like purple turbans unfurling themselves. Sheets
of rain crash against the window. Water gushes down minarets in frothy cascades. The alleys and streets fill with puddles. The crater outside becomes a dancing pool. Streams surge across sidewalks and avenues. A flood sweeps down every street, washing away all the debris and litter. Small cars get caught in the deluge, then trucks, buses, troop carriers and helicopters. The streets are now torrents, spilling everything down to the Tigris. Khafaji and Suheir are eating
masgouf at
their favorite restaurant. He is chewing slowly, picking bones out of his mouth as he watches the gathering destruction. Something sticks in his throat and he begins to gag. Soon he is choking and spitting. As he begins to vomit, a huge carp leaps from of his mouth into the river. He reaches for a glass of water, but the table, the restaurant, and now Suheir are floating off, beyond his reach. He is in the Tigris now, drifting with its current. It is no longer a lake, but a strong, swift river. Slowly, the currents begin to gather speed, and he is carried away. The water is clear and cold and sweet on his lips. He drinks and drinks then gazes into the blue-gray depths below. The whole city, clean and still, drifting hundreds of feet beneath his floating body. Baghdad Atlantis. Suddenly, small dots begin to rise up from the streets and buildings beneath. First in ones and pairs like loose balloons, then like flocks of geese, they float up from below. They grow in size until he can see them clearly: crowds of bloated corpses, gathering speed as they ascend. With a whoosh and splash, each one breaks the surface. Soon, Khafaji is surrounded by a thicket of lifeless bodies, so swollen with air that their shiny bellies look like fleshy spring-onion bulbs. The body next to him turns over, and Mrouj's lifeless eyes gaze up at his.