The Girl from Baghdad (11 page)

‘Dani, this place is heaven! I could stay here forever.'

‘You can come whenever you want. Dad said there's no problem.'

Her father was a member and Dani often invited me to spend the afternoon with her at the tennis club. We had gone almost every afternoon for a few months. My father didn't have anything against it because the place was well-respected and had a select clientele. The children of the well-to-do spent their time playing tennis and walking the paths set between orange trees, bougainvillea and palms. Artificial streams ran next to the big English-style lawn. Dani and I usually stayed until sunset, but sometimes we had permission to stay into the evening to help set up theatrical shows, a film in the outdoor cinema, or a live concert with singers and ballerinas. If we were helping out at night, we ate in one of the complex's luxurious restaurants.

Famous personalities, ministers and well-known diplomats also frequented Al Sayade. Amongst the younger people, Saddam's sons, Uday and Qusay Hussein, were two of the most talked about members of the club. Dani and I often saw the elder, Uday, walking with his bodyguards in the large park around the tennis courts. He was one of the owners of the club. Uday was twenty-one years old at that time, nine years older than me, and
he seemed to exude the aura of a much older man. He was considered heir to the throne, the prince, which meant many people competed for his attention. We didn't know him personally, but we scrutinised his movements at the club and thought we knew a lot about him. Now that Dani and I were regulars, he would very occasionally cast a look in our direction, passing close to the table where we stopped to have a drink at the end of each day. Little by little, we stole glances at each other, and I started dreaming he might notice me.

I joked with Dani, of a day when Uday, my Prince Charming, would come up to meet me.

‘Imagine: a party under the spotlights. A man plays romantic music on the piano in a white tie and tuxedo. You and I are dressed elegantly, seated right here … He arrives, escorted by his two hundred bodyguards –'

‘Why only two hundred? Let's make it a thousand!'

‘Whatever, a thousand! Where was I? Oh, yeah. He arrives, passing through the crowd. He sees me. He stops. He makes a sign to his thousand bodyguards and advances toward our table, alone. Two girls faint as he passes by. A group of his admirers turn green with envy. But he doesn't even see them. Besotted, he walks over, takes my hand and kisses it …' I mimicked the gesture and immediately burst out laughing. ‘Then he'll have to court me for at least a year, like my dad did with my mum. Romantic words, expensive gifts,
and red roses. And I'll play hard to get; I'll make him want me.'

We laughed again. Dani imitated my theatrical manner.

‘Red roses. Gifts. You watch too many American films, Michelle! You know they say that he's a real Don Juan! Put your mind at rest; you don't have a chance.' She smiled, shaking her head, then suddenly signalled for me to turn around. ‘Look who's coming! He must have known you were talking about him!'

We laughed again. As Uday came toward us, the way he looked me in the eye gave the impression he had heard our fantastical remarks.

A surprise awaited me at home: Mum had gone to the hairdresser and had dyed her pretty blonde hair black. She had even cut it shorter, just above her shoulders. She said she wanted a change, and then added it wasn't the only news: she had decided to convert to Islam.

Dad explained to us the ceremony would be simple, and that just two witnesses were necessary. It would take place before the month of Ramadan so Mum could participate, because during Ramadan the sexes were largely segregated. That year we would celebrate El Id,
the period that marked the end of the fast, with an even bigger party.

The news of my mother's conversion to Islam swiftly circulated around Bibi's house. The ceremony was to take place at Grandma's and my aunts offered to prepare lunch to celebrate the event.

The entire family gathered in the living room that day. When the sheikh, who also officiated at weddings, arrived he was given a seat facing the crowd. Then Mum took a few steps toward him. Two witnesses stood behind her. The sheikh read sermons from the Koran and made my mother repeat some verses three times. She covered her head with a white veil. From that day, she would always wear it during prayers.

Mum had become Muslim. Ahlam gave her a hug. My mother went to the armchair where Bibi was sitting. Kasside was standing by her side. Kasside and Grandma exchanged a long look. My mother bowed and kissed Bibi's hands, but as usual, Bibi didn't show much emotion. My mother turned to hug her sister-in-law. Kasside stared at her intensely and, after a few moments, they finally embraced.

Returning home from school one day, I was intrigued to find a little folded piece of paper sticking out from a
crack in the wall surrounding my house. I took it, and to my joy, it was for me. I quickly looked around but didn't see anyone. I hid the note in my pocket and went inside. After I greeted my mother I locked myself in my room to read the note. It was from Bàsil:

My heart pounded; the beats so loud I could count them. I re-read those last few lines until I had memorised them. I took a piece of paper and scrawled:

That evening I ran to hide it in a crack in the wall of his house.

Two days later, I found his response; this time it was a real letter. He told me what he did after school, his favourite pastimes. I understood our notes were a kind
of game; getting to know each other little by little, line after line, entrusting our thoughts to each other in these small pieces of paper left hidden in our houses.

Each afternoon, when I came home from school, I looked to see if a note was poking out of the usual crack in the wall. I was never disappointed. I slid the little piece of paper out of the wall with dexterity. I immediately ran to my bedroom, to read it and respond. The letters became longer. In the siesta hour when the streets were deserted, I snuck away to Bàsil's gate and inserted a note in reply. Our relationship strengthened with each exchange of letters. Bàsil repeated that he wanted to meet me and wrote of the adventures he'd had the day before with his friends and his family. I did the same. I felt that his friendship was sincere, and it came naturally for me to speak about my innermost feelings to Bàsil. We created an intimacy that only written words could offer.

In the first months of 1986 the war became a reality in our neighbourhood; the bombing was no longer limited to the periphery of town. At night, I watched the tracers of missiles lighting up the sky. They looked like fire-works, but I understood the horror they caused. They brought death and fear into the lives of many people in our street.

Otůr and I watched people come and go from our neighbour's house. We slipped in between the crowd until we were in the living room. A woman, her head covered with a black veil, was raising her arms to the sky in despair and scratching her face until it bled. The other women were trying to console her. Some family members held her by the shoulders as she
swayed hypnotically. This was the way Shiite families experienced grief, by screaming out the pain so everyone could hear it.

‘What happened? Who are they crying for?' I whispered to Otůr. Then I noticed a woman – most likely the mother – clutching a portrait of a boy in uniform against her body. The boy was very young, probably no more than twenty years old. Her screams became more agonising.

‘It's unbelievable. I saw him leave for the front two weeks ago,' said Otůr. ‘He said goodbye to his mum and now he's gone. Everyone was happy for him, that he was going to serve our country. I can't believe he's dead.'

We stayed for another minute. Unable to cope with such a great outpouring of grief, we finally left without saying a word.

Klara pointed at a little green dress in the window of one of the high-end boutiques of the Hotel Al Rashid. We were shopping with Mum and we were to meet Dad, who was doing some errands, later for dinner. Even though the news reported that the city was seriously threatened by the conflict, we continued to lead the same life. Judging from the windows of the luxurious shops, it didn't seem as if the war had even started.
Nevertheless, I couldn't get the sound of explosions out of my mind.

Klara wanted to go into the boutique and was pulling our mother by the sleeve. I remained in front of the window, thinking.

‘You're not coming in, Michelle?' she asked.

‘No. Mum, could the missiles hit our house too?'

She appeared nonplussed, not knowing what to say.

I continued, ‘If they were to bomb Al Mansùr, would we leave?'

‘I don't know. Probably,' she answered worriedly.

‘I don't want to leave.'

‘We'll only go if we need to.'

‘I heard Baba say Irena and Adel have decided to leave.'

‘They're moving to Czechoslovakia. They bought a house there. They're not coming back. Adel doesn't think their neighbourhood is safe anymore.' Mum couldn't hide her sadness. ‘I'm really sorry that Irena is leaving. I'll miss her.'

Irena was like a sister to Mum. Even if they got together very infrequently, on those occasions, Mum spent almost the entire time chatting with her.

‘You could always visit her,' I said, trying to cheer her up.

‘Of course,' she responded, turning to watch Klara who had already put on the green dress. ‘Take that off,
please, it's almost time to go to the restaurant. Michelle, look for your father and tell him that we'll be waiting for him at the usual table.'

I wandered down the corridor of the shopping gallery until I found my dad. He was chatting with the shop assistant of a boutique that sold very expensive clothing. She was a petite, pretty girl. Her long brown hair fell on the shoulders of a dark, perfectly-cut jacket. Her well-manicured hands were decorated with sparkling rings.

‘This is my eldest daughter, Michelle,' Dad exclaimed as soon as he saw me. ‘This is Zainab.'

‘You're a very cute girl,' the shop assistant said with an exaggerated smile. Turning to Dad again, she continued, ‘You never told me she was so tall.'

I interrupted by pulling my father aside to tell him that Mum was waiting for us. Zainab had started refolding some satin scarves and noticed me looking at them.

‘Do you like them? They just came in from France last week.' She took a light-coloured scarf and put it round my shoulders. ‘Doesn't this colour suit her, Mohamed?'

‘Zainab has exquisite taste,' he assured me with a wink before turning towards her. ‘I think we'll buy it.'

‘Out of the question! It's my gift to your daughter,' insisted Zainab.

‘Thank you, ma'am. It's very nice, but …' I tried to decline politely.

‘Really, it's my pleasure,' she replied, smiling at me again.

We left the shop with the scarf nicely packaged and made our way towards the restaurant. Mum, Linda and Klara were already seated.

‘Finally! We thought you might be lost!' my mother exclaimed as Dad and I joined the table.

‘Look! I have a new scarf! Isn't it beautiful? I want to wear it for the El Id party in two weeks,' I said, opening the package in front of Mum.

‘Another present, Mohamed? You know she already has ten scarves …'

‘He didn't give it to me,' I interjected.

‘Then who did?'

‘Zainab, the girl who owns the shop in the back of the shopping gallery,' I replied.

My mother shot my father a questioning look.

‘You know her, don't you? She works here during the week, but on the weekend she does night shifts at the airport,' he explained.

‘No, I don't know her. Either way, it's a very expensive gift for a little girl,' she remarked, looking at the scarf I had taken out of the package. The waiter arrived, piling the table with dishes.

At the end of dinner, while we sipped mint tea, my parents started talking about the war. Dad alluded to the possibility we might have to leave Baghdad soon.

Many of my parents' friends had already left the country. The Americans and the Europeans were the first to leave, then the wealthy Iraqi families with sons in line for the draft – it was the only way to avoid being recruited.

‘Jana, I'd like to talk to you about something,' Dad said. ‘You remember when we went to Los Angeles?' It had been a longer vacation than usual; the war had just started and it seemed we would have to stay there forever. ‘That money you deposited there, in that account, in case we might need it …'

I remembered that the year after our visit to Los Angeles, Mum had returned to the US with a lot of money hidden on her body. I would find out years later that my parents had originally intended to move to the United States, as many of our fellow countrymen had already done. My parents soon abandoned their plan however, when my mother saw delinquents, homeless people and drug addicts in the American streets. She was especially shocked by the treatment she received at customs: because she came from a Communist country (she travelled on a Czech passport), they searched her like a criminal. While the plan to emigrate to the United States vanished, the money had stayed behind.

‘Now would be a good time to retrieve that money,' my father continued. ‘We could use it.'

‘Are you serious?'

‘I've given it a lot of thought. I think it's the best solution. I called the bank. They'll wire the money to a branch in Frankfurt. I'd like you to go to Germany, close the account and bring the money here.'

‘We can't just make another transfer?' my mother asked.

‘No, with this war, there are checks on all foreign transactions. You have to go, withdraw the cash and come back. If you want, you can stay over at your mother's for a few days.' It seemed as if he had already settled everything.

‘But why me? Wouldn't it be better if you did it? Alone with all of that money …' she drifted off anxiously.

‘I have too many work commitments to be away for such a long time. And then there's going through customs on the way back. Nobody makes a fuss over a woman. If I were the one to travel, they'd harass me for sure. They'd most likely seize everything.'

Mum looked at the three of us girls with fearful eyes. She took a deep breath. ‘Book me a flight in two weeks. I'll leave after El Id.'

‘Good,' Dad said, smiling. ‘It's the right thing. You'll see that everything will work out.'

‘We'll make a fresh start,' she added, watching him.

He nodded. ‘Yes.'

Despite all that was going on, the afternoons with Dani at the tennis club were still enjoyable. Now that we were older we had permission to stay there in the evening. The gardens were crowded with club members having tea at the restaurant.

One night we were admiring a beautiful sunset, intoxicated by the intense perfume of the jasmine. I decided to tell Dani about my correspondence with Bàsil. I thought she should write to him like I did, as it would be a good way to get to know him better. I was about to open my mouth to speak when she elbowed me. Uday Hussein was coming down the path, followed by his bodyguards. There weren't a thousand like we imagined, but six. He was dressed casually. The light-blue colour of his shirt emphasised his olive skin. He wasn't particularly handsome, but he moved with the confidence of a man who knew that all eyes were on him. There was something attractive about his arrogance.

Instinctively, I adjusted the shoulder of my outfit and tucked an out-of-place lock of hair behind my ear. For the moment, Bàsil could wait. With just one look, Dani understood it was time for us to play.

‘What happens if he doesn't notice us?' Dani speculated.

‘We can always help him notice us.' I took her by the arm, giving her a wink. We made our way towards him.

‘Have you gone insane?' Then she guessed what I had in mind and commented jokingly, ‘But wasn't he supposed to come to you?'

‘Don't forget: when we pass by, pretend not to notice him, okay? He can't think we're parading around just for him. We're not like those flirts who chase after boys.'

We walked slowly towards him, feigning indifference. When we were almost in front of him, I raised my eyes. To my immense surprise, our eyes met. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was electrifying. He nodded and smiled as we passed.

‘He noticed you! He noticed you! And with those eyes!' Dani squealed hysterically, gripping my arm.

Still a little dazed, I felt my legs weaken and I was suddenly short of breath.

Seated at one of the little tables by the bar, we talked about the way he'd looked at me for ages. After dinner, Uday and his bodyguards took a table near us. I saw he was looking in our direction, so I turned away, pretending not to notice him. One of his bodyguards stood up and approached our table. Dani's eyes widened when he presented himself and asked us if he could sit down. We chatted with him, answering his enquiries. From the way he questioned us, we knew he was sent by Uday. They must have had a secret sign because, after a while, Uday came over. My heart was pounding.

‘Good evening. May I?' he pulled out the chair with a gentlemanly gesture.

Dani seemed hypnotised, so I decided to wake her up with a kick under the table.

‘I've seen you here often, but I haven't had the pleasure of introducing myself,' he added.

‘Really?' responded Dani. ‘I'd say that there's no need. You're pretty well known.'

I kicked her again. Dani coughed and pretended to fix one of her earrings.

‘Anyway, I'm Uday.'

‘I'm Michelle, and this is Dani.' I looked him straight in the eyes.

‘Michelle, what a strange name. Where do you come from with such a fascinating name?'

‘From Baghdad. Who would have thought, huh?'

‘Don't pull my leg.' Uday grinned boyishly. ‘There's something French in your eyes.'

‘Not even close,' I said laughing. ‘It's the title of my mother's favourite Beatles song. She's Czech, but my father is from here. He's the last of the Azzawi clan.'

‘An important family, congratulations. While mine, well …'

‘Yours is in all the newspapers!' exclaimed Dani, deserving another kick under the table. Getting the message, she stood up. ‘I'm so thirsty all of a sudden. Michelle, would you mind if I left you alone for a bit
while I go get something to drink?' Dani's saccharine tone made it obvious that her reason for leaving was anything but the need to quench her thirst.