Baghdad Central (24 page)
He holds up the page. “Look for yourself.” She glances at the poem for a moment, then puts her finger on one line and says, “OK, found it. Listen to me and tell me what's wrong.” She begins to read from the book while Khafaji listens with his eyes closed. He stops her and says, “You missed a line: âThen comes winter, season of mists, season of rains, season of frost. The enchantment of life is extinguished, and with it sapling branches, blossoms and fruit are all lost.'”
Mrouj hands the book back to him. “Keep reading, Baba.”
“Should I really stick to reading?”
“Yes. But when something's missing on the page, it's your job to correct it.”
“Think what would happen if everyone ignored what was on pages!”
As he reads, he watches her lips soften and her breathing slow. He continues reading for an hour. Rereading poems they both know by heart. He doesn't stop until long after she's fallen asleep. He closes the book and stares out the window at an empty building nearby.
“I've been thinking, Baba.” Mrouj's voice wakes Khafaji. Outside, night has fallen. He stretches his arms and stands up, then sits back down.
“About what?”
“I've been thinking about the story you told me. There's something that doesn't make sense.”
“What do you mean âsomething'? Nothing about the story makes sense.”
“No, what I mean is that first you go out looking for Sawsan. Then you go out looking for this other girl. What's her name?”
Khafaji thinks for a second, then answers, “Zahra Boustani. I think. Supposedly.”
“Then when you're looking for Zahra you stumble across Sawsan. And then the only way you can identify Sawsan is by the name on her ID, which isn't hers at all. I mean, practically the only thing that makes you think it was Sawsan is that she's got a made-up name.”
Khafaji says nothing.
“From our perspective these look like coincidences, right? But from another perspective maybe they aren't.”
“I'm sure you're right!” Khafaji laughs. “Tell me about the other perspective.”
“I don't know, Baba. I am just thinking about it. Both girls went to college. Did this other girl also work for that professor?”
Khafaji says nothing. He thumbs through his notebook to keep his eyes busy.
“You didn't ask, did you? So, Citrone asks you to find the missing interpreter, right?”
“Right.”
“Even though she's supposedly not in the CPA. So how does he know her?”
“What do you mean?”
“How does he know this girl? Zahra?”
Khafaji tries to remember their conversation, then admits, “I don't know.” He thinks again, then says, “Maybe he knows her in some other way. He took a special interest in the case, but that's because he wanted me to talk to the other interpreters about it.”
“He's the one who gave you her picture?”
“Yes. Him or his assistant. I don't remember which.”
“So he knows what she looks like, at least. And you can assume he didn't give you the only copy of the photograph he had. So does the assistant know this girl then?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, you might ask, Baba,” Mrouj says in a raised voice. “If I were you, I would begin by asking.” She closes her eyes.
“You're right, of course. What's wrong?”
“I'm not upset, I'm just frustrated. I sit around here all day with nothing to do. Every day.”
Khafaji laughs. “OK, I'll bring you things to read. You'll see how exciting things can get!”
“It's not that. Some days I feel better. Not much, but a little better. But most days I feel the same. I'm not sure if this is doing any good.”
Khafaji puts down his notebook and strokes her cheek.
Mrouj sits up and asks, “So, Citrone knows what this girl looks like, right?”
“I guess.”
“And Citrone was one of the first to arrive at that house, right?”
“Yes.” Khafaji picks up his pen.
“He could have easily identified Zahra Boustani by himself.”
After a pause, Khafaji says, “You're right, Citrone didn't need to send me on that errand at all.”
In the cafeteria, Khafaji fills a tray with some kind of stewed meat and rice. He searches for plain yogurt, but can only find small cartons of sweetened, fruit-flavored concoctions. A man waves at Khafaji from across the dining room. Khafaji looks closely. An Iraqi in a pressed suit. Another exile. The man looks vaguely familiar, and Khafaji smiles back. By now he has stood up and is motioning for Khafaji to join him.
As Khafaji comes up, the man's voice booms with excitement, “You're Hassan's brother, right? What are the chances? Salman Jabbouri al-Ghanim. You don't remember me, but I'm an old friend of your brother's.” His English is British.
Khafaji nods. Jabbouri stretches out a hand and Khafaji shakes it. “Salman Jabbouri, pleased to meet you. You're Ihsan, right?”
“Muhsin.”
“Right. I was just thinking about Hassan the other day. It's been years since we've seen him. We get a card from them every Christmas, but it's been years since we've seen each other. How is he?”
Khafaji shrugs. “Same as always, I'm sure.”
Khafaji eats while Jabbouri talks. “I think you and I met once years ago. I was back on holiday.”
“You and Hassan were the first Iraqi students at Cambridge, right?”
“And the first ones to marry English!”
Khafaji tries to focus on what Jabbouri says, but he is distracted, trying to identify what kind of meat he is eating. Not lamb. Not beef. He pushes the tray away.
Khafaji concentrates on wiping his mouth before he realizes the other man has stopped speaking. He smiles and asks, “So you are moving back to Iraq for good?”
“Just for the time being. I'm with McCannell and Sutton. Do you know us?”
Khafaji's face is blank.
“Why would you? I'm part of a team that integrates developing economies into the global market. When the contract came through, I was sent here to head up operations. My wife doesn't like the idea at all. She thinks it's dangerous. But she's listened to me talk about Iraq for thirty years, so she couldn't very well tell me I can't come back to help rebuild things.”
Khafaji nods.
“We've mostly been tasked to transition Iraqi state industries into viable market frameworks.”
Khafaji looks at his plate, considering whether to take another bite, but then decides against it. When he realizes Jabbouri is waiting for him to say something, he asks, “So tell me what that means.”
“Well, Iraq is a rich country, right? Oil wealth, but no industry. You go anywhere else in the Gulf and you see construction everywhere. Massive cranes. Bulldozers. Cities going up overnight. But here, no building. Nothing. Economists like me look at a place like this and see nothing but man-made disasters. You have aluminium factories here, right? They produce tiny amounts of the stuff. But why does it cost
more to make one pound of aluminium foil here than it does to make a ton in Sweden? Or take the petroleum refineries. Their technologies are so antiquated that they add dollars to the price of any drop of oil they pump out. But again, that's only part of the problem. You have this needlessly expensive refining process, then you go and sell the product for almost nothing on the market. Here's how I put it:
industry
is Iraqi for âlifetime job'. And in the meantime, look around you. Do you see any factory producing anything at all these days?”
Khafaji murmurs, “The electricity stopped working when â”
“Exactly!” Jabbouri exclaims. “The electrical grid is a total disaster. But it was totally predictable. Given the mismanagement, corruption and neglect, it's amazing there is still a grid at all. We're going to have to build a new one from scratch.”
“It used to work before â” Khafaji offers, but Jabbouri begins talking about Thailand, Bolivia, Sri Lanka, and Ireland. Somehow all are directly relevant to Iraq. “We've already learned these lessons, Muhsin.”
Khafaji finally interrupts him. “Would you like some tea? Indian tea?”
Jabbouri raises his eyebrows and the two men walk over to the Beverage Bar. The man at the counter hands them two cups of tea. Khafaji invites Jabbouri outside to share a cigarette.
They walk out a side door. Beyond the fluorescent light over the doorway, it is now pitch black. Next to an Evacuation Assembly Area sign, Khafaji and Jabbouri huddle in the wind as they try to light their cigarettes. The door opens, and the assistant emerges, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He smiles, though it takes him a moment to recognize Khafaji. Khafaji says hello, then introduces the two men to one another. As they speak, Khafaji hears the young man's
name as if for the first time â Louis Ford. The three men smoke their cigarettes. Khafaji offers them Rothmans, and they both accept. When the tea is gone, Jabbouri wishes out loud for Scotch. Ford begins to tell them about the Rashid Hotel bar. Somehow, Khafaji finds himself dragged along.
On the walk over, Khafaji listens to Jabbouri ask Ford about his life.
“I wrote my senior thesis on the financial connectivities of emerging threats, then I got a great internship in security studies. One day, I'm talking to my boss about converting threats into opportunities. The next day, he's asking me to join the Iraq Future Group. No interview. And here I am,” Ford laughs and lights another round of cigarettes. As Jabbouri and Louis talk, they quickly establish that they share the same networks.
At the hotel, many people come up to greet Ford. He makes a point of introducing Jabbouri to some. Out of politeness, a couple smile and shake Khafaji's hand as well. Suddenly, Khafaji's exhaustion catches up with him and so does his headache. “I am sorry, friends. I'm tired.”
“You can't leave. If you're really tired, just have one,” Jabbouri pleads.
The doorman at the bar stops Khafaji. Louis clasps the man's hand and says, “He's all right, Tommy, he's with me.” They click their fingers together in a ritual Khafaji has only seen in American movies.
The room could be anywhere. A dusty mirrored ball sparkles under the long, low acoustic ceiling. It is dark and smoky and very crowded. Louis explains, “It's one of the few places where you can get a drink.”
At first glance, the clientele seems to be identical to that of the cafeteria. But gradually Khafaji recognizes slight variations.
Mostly Americans, but Europeans too. Jabbouri invites them to the first round and sends Khafaji and Ford to find a table. Ford points out the different groups â the British and Australians together, the Italians and Spaniards, the Poles and Ukrainians. “They're all here. Every Thursday night. I'll be right back.” Ford strolls over to some friends.
Ten minutes later, Jabbouri returns with three tumblers. Khafaji takes the ice cubes out of his glass and throws them on the floor. The two men sip their Scotch and scan the room. It's too loud to have a conversation. Twice, Jabbouri excuses himself as he walks over to shake someone's hand. It doesn't take long before Khafaji has finished his glass. As soon as he stands up to leave, Jabbouri returns in an excited mood. “Great place, huh?”
Jabbouri looks at Khafaji's empty glass and then at the other one, still untouched. He hands it to Khafaji and yells over the din, “Here's your next round.” Soon, Khafaji finishes his second watered Scotch. The edges of the night begin to soften. Jabbouri points out various people in the room. Journalists. Contractors. Businessmen. “Really amazing collection of people in this room, you know? Amazing. Baghdad hasn't seen this much talent in a thousand years!”
Ford returns at some point with more drinks. Khafaji doesn't bother to remove the ice. Soon he has finished his fourth tumbler. Jabbouri and Ford go on talking. In the noise, Khafaji finds it difficult to follow. Khafaji is no longer tired. His head begins to swim. Jabbouri slaps him on the back and asks, “So, tell me about what you're up to. What sort of projects are you working on?”
Khafaji stammers out something, then stops when Ford returns to the table. Jabbouri and Ford go back to their conversation.
Annoyed, Khafaji looks around the room with bloodshot eyes. He becomes conscious of the fact that there are almost no women here. He notices one woman surrounded by men. They are all flirting with her, trying to buy her drinks.
Khafaji asks a question, but his words come out garbled. He asks it again, only now very slow and deliberate. “Where are the women?” He should not have stayed this long.
Jabbouri laughs. “Yes, Muhsin has a point. Where are you keeping all the women, Louis?” He winks at Khafaji and continues, “My old knees may be weak, but I still know how to dance.”
Ford takes a moment to think. “That's a more serious question than you know. Imagine what would have happened if there were a lot of women here.”