Baghdad Central (15 page)

The assistant chimes in, “Mr Khafaji, in our country we have something called ‘the free market'. Most of the time, we take it for granted and don't even think about how great it is. We're lucky because we can take it for granted. When Iraqis experience it, they will start to feel that Iraq belongs to them, probably for the first time in their lives. That's when they'll know what liberty feels like.”

“I have never thought about that,” Khafaji admits, then immediately regrets it. Sermons discouraged end fastest.

“And it all begins with law and order. No matter how you look at it, the key to the puzzle is rule of law. That's why it's so crucial you have decided to make a stand. Without you, this country doesn't stand a chance. We know it and the
terrorists know it – that's why they focus their attacks on the police. As soon as the IPS is back on its feet, coalition troops go home. And the sooner Iraqis see this, the sooner they'll realize their country belongs to them. That's the whole point. To let Iraqis know that from now on, they're in charge. When Iraqis see Iraqi police on the streets, they'll understand that the CPA is working for them, not for the UN or for America or whatever conspiracy they imagine us to be.”

Citrone leans forward. “That's the big picture you should have in mind. The whole justice system is being redesigned top to bottom. We've got experts who are making sure that the whole criminal code is all in complete accordance with Sharia law. We have advisors who know how to cut out red tape and streamline admin law. Iraq is going to be the economic powerhouse of the region. And Inspector, now you see where you fit in.”

“Thanks for the explanation.” Khafaji turns toward the assistant and says, “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about so badly earlier?”

Citrone clears his throat and lowers his voice. “Actually no. We need to tell you about something that has come up, Inspector. One of our interpreters has disappeared. With everything that's happening, we have no illusions about finding her, but…”

The assistant hands Khafaji a photograph of a bright face in a hijab. “Zahra Boustani was one of the first 'terps we hired.” For the second time in a week, Khafaji is staring at the image of a beautiful young woman. He looks up, puzzled.

“Interpreters. Zahra is young and bright. She joined because she wanted to help her country. She got a few of her friends to sign on too. Without people like them, we'd be nowhere.”

He wipes his mouth again. “It's been ten days since Zahra
last showed up for work. The other girls tell us her family haven't seen her in a week. She's probably been kidnapped. Probably nothing can be done. But we have to try. Our interpreters put their lives on the line every day. Most of them can never even tell their own family what they're doing when they leave the house. We need to find out what's happened. If a crime has been committed, we want the perpetrators brought to justice.”

Citrone closes the file in front of him and fixes his eyes on Khafaji. “Look, we're not stupid. There's a war going on here. Lots of people go missing for all sorts of reasons. But we have to try. We owe it to every Iraqi who works with us. We take care of our own.”

They offer Khafaji more information. Zahra only recently graduated from the university. She went to work for the Americans in late May. Since then, she recruited five girlfriends of hers to join up as well.

Khafaji studies the photograph some more. When he looks up, he notices Citrone's jaw working at its frantic pace.

“I will look into this for you. Do you have anything else I could study?”

The assistant answers before Khafaji can finish. “No, sorry. Nothing.”

Citrone gently claps the conversation to a close. “Spend a couple days on this, maximum. No more. Go ask the other interpreters what they know. They know she's gone missing. It'll help them to talk about it. It'll ease their anxiety to know that you're on the case.”

If any place symbolizes what was lost in Baghdad during the sanctions years, it's Ibn Sina Hospital. People continued to call it a “hospital” long after the medicine ran out. It was
a hospital partly because patients kept coming, but mostly because doctors kept the place open. It was the sick who first discovered how bad things had gotten in the country. There was no avoiding it. Khafaji would not have learned so quickly if the cancer hadn't appeared. It ate at Suheir's stomach and forced them to go from hospital to hospital in the hope of finding a cure. Or, barring that, relief. Each hospital they arrived at withered and died before their eyes.

It was a decade of hospital doors closing, one after another. But so many other doors closed too. Painkillers – closed. Antiseptic – closed. Penicillin – closed. But Ibn Sina's doors never closed. That didn't mean there was much use in them staying open. The doctors who remained were saints. They stayed and they continued to do all they could. Patients treated without anesthesia. Without antibiotics. Without aspirin. But never without hope.

Khafaji walks through the lobby and climbs the stairs to the fourth floor. When he gets there, he notices that the elevators are now working. He walks down the corridor, looking in here and there at the rooms whose doors are open. Many of the beds are empty this morning – certainly more than last night. The halls are clean and polished – and as Khafaji walks, he watches the reflection of lights on the floor.

At the reception desk, the nurse is friendly and helpful even before Khafaji shows his ID.

“She's here all right,” she smiles, and asks Khafaji to sign in. A moment later, she leads him down the hall, to the last door on the right. Suddenly Khafaji wishes he'd brought something with him. A book, flowers, something to eat. Anything.

But when he sees Mrouj's smile, his doubts disappear. She sits upright and still in a wide bed, looking right at the door
as he enters. As if she knew he would walk in at that moment. They say nothing, but hold hands and look at one another for a long minute. At last Khafaji hugs her and breaks the silence. “How are you feeling, Mrouji?”

“Baba, I'm OK. I'm OK.”

“Are they treating you…?”

“I'm fine, Baba. They're nice.”

“I know. I'm sorry I…”

“Don't be sorry, Baba. I'm here and I'm OK. I still can't believe what they did to you.”

Mrouj reaches over and touches Khafaji's upper lip. “I'll get used to it,” she whispers as she pulls the sheets up around her.

Khafaji looks around, and only now notices there's another bed and another patient in the room. Khafaji looks back at Mrouj, who smiles. “She's nice, Baba. I'm asleep a lot, and so is she. We haven't seen each other awake very much.”

Khafaji studies the machines at Mrouj's bedside. Lights blink and lines move in waves. Numbers flash and change. Mrouj smiles and says, “That's the dialysis machine, Baba. They did it the first day I was here and they're going to do it today. They say I'll feel much better. Did you bring something to read to me?”

Khafaji looks at his hands and apologizes for the book he's holding. “Tell me what you'd like me to read you and I'll bring it.”

Mrouj looks at him and says, “How about Nazik?”

“Of course. I'll bring the diwan. We'll read it over and over. How long did they say before you can go home?”

“They're doing tests, Baba.”

“You don't need tests, do you? We already know what the problem is.”

“They said there may be complications and they want to check.”

“But you can come home soon, right? After you're stabilized, we can do the treatments at home.”

“Baba, the doctors want me here for more tests. And they didn't say anything about coming home.”

“At least that means they're giving you good care.” The look of pain on Khafaji's face makes Mrouj squeeze his hand. He bites his lip and says, “I'll come every day to see you. We'll read Nazik from beginning to end. We'll go poem by poem. Line by line.”

“I'd like that, Baba.”

“Aunt Maha and Uncle Nidal send their wishes. How is the food here?”

“Edible, Baba. Everything is fine.”

Just then, an American doctor walks into the room and grins at Mrouj. “Shaku maku?” She forces a smile back and says in a tired voice, “Safya dafya.” He turns to introduce himself to Khafaji, and seems sincerely glad to meet his patient's father. “We don't have many interpreters up here, so if you don't mind, I might use you to find out more about your daughter's condition.” He then calls the nurse and asks Khafaji to tell Mrouj that they are going to run other tests on her today, as well as another round of dialysis.

“She's lucky she made it in when she did, Mr Khafaji. She's got a long way to go, but I'm optimistic. She's a fighter.”

“My daughter said there were complications.”

The doctor tries to remain smiling as he talks. “In the US, we'd say she has all the symptoms of stage five CKD. Hematuria, ischemia, hypocalcemia. You already knew about the dehydration, the blood in the urine, muscle cramps, the itching and dizziness. We'd expect to see this kind of uremia in any chronic case that isn't treated. She's been sick for five years, correct?”

Khafaji nods. “Maybe longer. We didn't get a diagnosis right away.”

“Right now, we're using hemodialysis to stabilize her condition. We've got to do that before we can see where we are. I'd like to see some improvement before we go ahead and call it stage five. My hope is that it's going to be treatable. We're running tests – cardio, vascular – to see what complications there may be.”

“So, it's complicated?”

“Yes, you might put it that way.”

Khafaji translates, and Mrouj smiles again despite herself.

“Do you have any questions before we get going today?”

Khafaji and Mrouj shake their heads. The doctor leaves the room while they hold hands and say goodbye. He kisses her forehead. “I'll be back tomorrow with our Nazik. Be strong.”

“Yes, Baba. Tell me a line before you go.”

Khafaji thinks for a moment.
“I'm not quick to thirst, nor one whose herd is ill-pastured at night, whose calves remain unfed while their mother's udders hang free. / Nor am I a mean coward, nor one who clings to his wife and asks her what to do. / Nor am I one who is slow to do a good deed, or someone who stays in the tent all day covering himself with perfumed…
”

Mrouj pauses and asks, “The long meter?”

Khafaji nods. Mrouj closes her eyes and guesses. “Oils and kohl?
Nor am I one who is slow to do a good deed, or someone who stays in the tent all day covering himself with perfumed oils and kohl
.”

Khafaji laughs. “Yes! Good – you're not so sick at all.”

Khafaji takes the elevator instead of the stairs. Exiting the lobby, he reaches for his cigarettes. His hand touches something and he takes it out to look at it. It's the picture of the
interpreter Citrone had handed him. He turns and walks back into the hospital, then downstairs to the basement.

The nurse at the morgue calls her supervisor, and in an instant the coroner appears – a large, lively man with blue eyes that never stop moving. “What can I do for you?” The warmth of the man's hand surprises Khafaji and reminds him how cold the room is. He offers Khafaji a cup of tea, and they sit and talk about the previous coroner, a man Khafaji knew. Khafaji offers him a cigarette. He declines, but encourages Khafaji to smoke as much as he pleases. The coroner walks over to a desk and pulls out a drawer full of unopened packs of Rothmans and Marlboros. He invites Khafaji to help himself. “By the time these arrive in my lab, their owners don't need them any more. No one will miss them.”

Khafaji takes out Zahra Boustani's picture from his jacket and hands it gently to the coroner, who cocks his head. As the man studies the girl's face, Khafaji rifles through the drawer and picks out every pack of Rothmans. He fills his jacket, shirt and pants pockets with them. When the coroner is done, he hands the photograph back to Khafaji. He looks at a clipboard, and glances at the refrigerator. They walk along the rusty steel doors. The coroner stops to pull out a drawer from the bottom row. A young woman's body. Head wounds cleaned and partially filled. Her face is not unrecognizable. Khafaji peers at her. Not Zahra Boustani. A second drawer reveals a middle-aged woman whose feet are missing. Not Zahra Boustani. A teenager with gunshot wounds to her abdomen. Not Zahra Boustani. After closer inspection, a badly burnt body that turns out to be that of a boy. Not a girl. Not Zahra Boustani.

Khafaji pauses and looks around at the rest of the drawers. He lights a cigarette and the smoke is not just sweet,
but a relief. The coroner leaves the room and gives Khafaji a moment to reflect. When he comes back, they walk down the row, pausing now and then to open the drawers of women whose descriptions overlap with the girl Khafaji's looking for. They're not Zahra Boustani.

After twenty, Khafaji comments, “What's with all the rot? I don't remember bodies like this.”

“Mostly it's the power cuts.” The man's face widens into a frown. “The refrigerator goes off for hours. We try to do our best and make do. We don't open the doors very often, in any case. What we need, of course, is a generator. But it's hard to argue that we need it more than the people upstairs who are still alive.”