I Have Iraq in My Shoe (32 page)

Several families with children had moved into some of the villas on our street in the compound, and we would see the kids riding their bikes back and forth. One day we were sitting outside and George had joined us hoping for some table scraps. One of the little boys parked his bike in front of our deck and cautiously approached George.

The boy’s name was Barzan, and he was Kurdish and had recently moved back from the United States—specifically Texas, although he couldn’t remember the name of the city. It was weird how the Kurds chose Texas—Renas had gone there too. Maybe the similar climate was part of the appeal. Or maybe it was the barbecue.

Barzan was eight years old and spoke English very well, so Steve and I chatted with him while he played with George. I was curious about the Kurdish families who had moved away from Iraq in the ’90s and asked him what his father did in the United States, specifically Texas. Barzan told us his dad had worked at a pizza place.

I was certain this was probably one of those typical immigrant tragedies, where a brilliant surgeon or professor was forced to take on a menial job in the new country, so I asked Barzan what his dad did now that they were back in Kurdistan. “Nothing,” he responded, “he just hangs out with his friends.” That kind of blew my romanticized ideas.

Barzan said he really missed Texas and wasn’t happy to be back in Iraq. This was a refrain I kept hearing from Kurds who had been displaced to various Western countries (the United States, United Kingdom, Sweden, Germany, the Netherlands, and others), then had to come back. They hated having to return to Kurdistan. They found it disorganized, dirty, unsophisticated, and generally backward.

I kept hoping that the relocated Kurds would explain the concept of hygiene to their countrymen and women, as my villa was still reeking of body odor on a daily basis. Unit 5 in our textbook was titled “Personal Care and Appearance” and focused on personal hygiene products, how to ask for them, and where to find them. Excellent! A natural segue into the odor issue. One of the exercises was a survey about ways to improve appearance:

The students were required to mark “definitely,” “maybe,” “probably not,” or “absolutely not” for each option.

I went through the list and had the students raise their hands for each category they would try. We came to “deodorant,” and Rabar raised his hand and asked, “Teacher, what deodorant?” Finally, a teachable moment. So I said, “Deodorant, you use it under your arms…for when you sweat…to smell good!” and I pantomimed the under-the-arm swiping. Rabar’s brow remained furrowed, and he just shook his head and shrugged. I knew they had deodorant in Kurdistan; I had seen it on the shelves at the store. Whether anyone was
buying
it was a completely different issue. My villa would never smell pretty.

I couldn’t even ask Crazy Andy for some Xanax to help me cope with my increasing depression. Warren finally fired him. Although that, in and of itself, was cause for celebration. He hadn’t been fired because of any of the complaints Steve and I had about him, but instead because he went behind Warren’s back and complained to Jill about an assignment. He had circumvented Fearless Leader, and Fearless Leader was pissed.

Warren loved to use the word “insubordination,” and this situation was the perfect opportunity. Warren was so furious about Andy having gone behind his back that he drove the three hours up to Erbil that same day in order to confront him—veins popping out of his temples. He made me sit in on the conversation so there would be a “witness.”

What I “witnessed” was a testosterone-fueled pissing contest, which is not my preferred entertainment milieu. No costumes, no fun music, no snacks. There was an uncomfortable exchange between the two of them involving Warren saying “insubordination” a bunch of times, sometimes followed by “gross incompetence,” and Andy looking vacant or bewildered and claiming not to understand what was happening. Warren had had a conversation with Andy two weeks prior to this, basically warning him to get his act together, since there had been multiple examples of Andy’s inability to follow specific instructions. I think he must have increased his meds. I started to feel like I might need backup when the tension escalated.

Before the situation could devolve into fisticuffs, Warren reminded Andy that he had already been given at least two verbal warnings: one just five days ago, and one two weeks ago. Andy whined, “I thought that was just a couple of guys having some beers.” And Warren said, “It should have been.”

I should have been happier about Andy’s departure, but it was a hollow victory. I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of the funk. And I tried hard. I tried self-medicating with Nutella; I tried retail therapy with a pair of brown leather Marni platform pumps at YOOX. I even made a trip down to Suli for some good girlfriend time, where Ellen’s resounding war cry of “There will be CARBS” made everyone gleeful. She wasn’t getting along with Johnny and had, instead, become romantically involved with her oven, and was baking up a storm of cookies and cakes.

But the cookies, cakes, and Nutella were just making my pants tighter, and I wouldn’t get to enjoy the shoes until I went home for Christmas break. I was also worried that Georgie Catstanza had become too dependent on me for food. I was going to be leaving for three weeks and was imagining him shivering and emaciated, meowling at the sliding glass doors. I did what I thought was the noble thing, and gradually cut down on the days I gave him turkey and tuna, so he would stop expecting it and be able to forage elsewhere, while Steve and I were gone for break. That depressed me even more. I needed help. I needed Psychic Sahar.

I had planned to fly home for Christmas, and to maximize my frequent-flier points, I once again flew through London.

London was where I was to have my portentous psychic reading with Psychic Sahar.

Katherine had discovered Psychic Sahar via Google and planned to have a reading done when she was on holiday in London in November. Upon her return, I was tingling with excitement and dying to know what Sahar had said. What lay ahead for our Miss Katherine? I practically shrieked, “HOW WAS SAHAR?” into Katherine’s ear on the phone. She responded “Oh, right, I didn’t go. I decided to get my teeth whitened instead.”

This was the opposite of what I had wanted to hear. I was profoundly disappointed in Katherine’s lack of commitment to foreseeing the future. Tooth whitening? How are whiter teeth going to help you fulfill your destiny? Unless your future is in toothpaste commercials; I really shouldn’t judge. I wanted confirmation of Sahar’s psychic skills, and as Katherine had not tested her credibility, I would have to blindly trust that she could help me with my dilemma. And as it turned out, Katherine’s tooth whitening didn’t even happen because the dentist she visited informed her she would be unable to drink coffee or red wine or any dark liquids for at least one week after the treatment. That was pretty much all Katherine had planned on doing for the rest of her trip in London: drinking coffee, red wine, and other dark liquids. So it was a fail on all counts. No guidance from Sahar, and no bright, Chiclet teeth.

It was up to me to look into my own future. My biggest question was, “Did I make a mistake with Awat?” Maybe, despite all basic logic, reason, and common sense, he was the one for me.

Two and a half months had passed since Awat’s “good-bye” email, and I had spent much of that time wallowing. After spending three hours a day, four days a week seeing him, talking to him, and laughing with him, the ending was abrupt and I missed him.

I could no longer make simple decisions by myself. I needed some guidance. Sahar, help!

Psychic Sahar’s website gave several options for a reading. I chose a full life reading:

I needed to “get there.” If you had questions about people, she required you to bring in photos of those people. I printed a photo of Awat and tucked it into the purse I would bring to London.

It was Christmastime on Oxford Street. There were lights and wreaths and miles of garland lining the street, which was choked with black cabs and red double-decker buses. I hadn’t allowed enough time to squeeze and push through the throngs of harried shoppers, bustling along, swinging armloads of shopping bags, to get to Sahar’s office flat on time. I was ten minutes late, huffing and puffing, sweating and apologizing, when I walked through the door. It was not the serene, psychic-ready state I had been hoping to present, but Sahar was very gracious and welcomed me into her cozy living room. Sahar was probably in her fifties and about my height, with thick, black hair and a low, calm, slightly accented voice. We both sat down at a small, round table next to her living room window.

I had done a couple of tarot-card readings before and was always careful not to volunteer any information about myself. I assumed, if they were legitimate, they would just know what they needed to know.

Sahar began by asking, “Why are you here?”

Not a good start.
Wasn’t she supposed to know that?
She’s supposed to be psychic. I told her I was there because I had questions about love and my career. (Mostly love, but I felt ridiculous having that be the sole reason for my $200 visit.)

She nodded and asked, “Have you brought pictures?” I pulled out the photo of Awat and handed it to her. She didn’t look at it right away but started asking me other questions.

Seriously, isn’t she supposed to know things like this?

Her eyes popped open wide.

Why did she not know this already?
And shouldn’t she at least be hiding her obvious shock?

She had begun shuffling some tarot cards on the table while still chitchatting.

How much more information was I going to feed her?

She finally stopped shuffling the cards, then picked up Awat’s photo and concentrated on it. She asked me to close my eyes and try to empty my mind. I had never been able to do that. Thoughts were always spastically ricocheting through, especially when I was trying to quiet them, making sure there was never any stillness. And if it wasn’t thoughts, it was a song,
“Wiiiide opeeeen spaaaceeees…”

Sahar said, “If you are unable to empty your mind, just think of a mantra, over and over, ‘What’s my future, what’s my future…,’ okay?”

I said, “Okay,” and was grateful I wouldn’t mess up the reading with the nonstop yammering in my head.

We sat in silence for a good couple of minutes, which pass by very slowly when the only thing you’re permitted to think is, “What’s my future, what’s my future…” She finally said, “Okay, you can open your eyes.” And then she looked at me with her head sort of cocked to one side and said, “You are a very,
very
interesting person.” Clearly, she had the gift.