Between the frigid morning air and his throbbing head, Khafaji stays in bed. Olds calls to him as he goes out, but Khafaji waves him away and pulls the sheets over his head. Eventually he gets up to go to the bathroom. He showers and shaves his chin and cheeks. Only then does he wonder what time it is. More than an hour after he was supposed to be at the parking lot, Khafaji leaves the room.
By holding the induction ceremony on a Friday morning, the chief liaison officer pointed out, they would be assured of no disruptions. The streets would be empty until noon. By prayer time, the ceremony would be done. When the Basran asked about risks, the Kirkuki smiled. “You're in the north now. We don't have the problems you have.”
“The city deserves to see these young men honored properly,” the British MP said. “They deserve to witness each step the country takes on the path to reconstruction.”
Khafaji wanders through the conference rooms until he comes across another straggler, a Ukrainian police chief. They share a cigarette as they walk over to the parking lot. Together they climb into the Humvee that will take them to the ceremony.
Looking out toward the north, Khafaji sees the weather
changing. High thick clouds roll in from the west. The air feels damp now, heavy. The first rains. In the distance, Khafaji hears a low rumble, like thunder.
As they drive, Khafaji sees that that the desert he imagined empty is actually full of life. This was no wilderness. Windbreaks of pine and eucalyptus line the route. Railroad tracks and electric lines periodically cross the road at oblique angles, then vanish in the distance. Lines of cars and trucks. For miles, they find themselves trapped behind a long articulated lorry with Turkish plates. Thick black clouds of exhaust pour out from the truck and envelop their car. Khafaji stares at the tiny baby's shoe that dangles from the rear bumper. Off in the tan and brown fields, Khafaji sees a shanty town of black barrels and tents. A woman in a bright orange and green dress removes laundry hanging on the line. The radio crackles on and off. The driver plugs in headphones and concentrates on the road.
A few kilometers away, in the city center, a black cloud rises into the sky. The driver speaks slowly to the wire in his ear. A mile later, he talks over his shoulder. “Massive bomb. Multiple casualties.” They pass through one checkpoint, then another. Two more Humvees fall in behind them. No one talks.
They park blocks away from the station. Khafaji and the Ukrainian walk beside an MP waving a pistol. Plumes of burning petrol blot out the sun. The hot clouds begin to rain soot and ash down on everything. Firemen run down a side street, dragging long hoses behind them. Khafaji ties a handkerchief around his face, and runs toward the wreckage.
A shallow crater tells them where it happened. Sections of the station's courtyard wall are gone. So is much of the façade of the main building. The fronts of buildings across
the street are also missing. Empty windows. The broken glass is like a sparkling carpet.
On a side street, a line of bloodied men lie on their backs. Some try to sit up. Some hold bandages to their limbs. Others are tended by people who have rushed to help. Every few minutes another stretcher arrives. Every few minutes someone is taken off. Khafaji looks around at the crowds. The men running. He stares at the charred remains of cars, and wonders which frames are set to explode next.
When streets are bombsâ¦
he begins, but can't complete the thought. He notices the Basran lying on the sidewalk, a bandage on his forehead. His eyes are closed.
Khafaji comes over and gently touches his arm. “Can I help?” The man opens his eyes, points to his bleeding ears. Then he shakes his head, and shouts, “I can't hear.” He begins to cry. Khafaji goes to a grocer and takes as many bottles of water as he can carry. He goes back to get more water and boxes of tissue paper. He begins to clean the man's head. Despite the blood, the head wounds are not deep. Khafaji tries to talk to him, but the man keeps his eyes closed. The blood from his ears will not stop, and he winces when Khafaji stuffs them with tissues. Khafaji gets up and wanders into the courtyard.
The bodies of young men lie scattered in the debris. The lucky ones were crushed under the wall. Khafaji joins a group of firemen heaving bricks and concrete slabs from the pile. With a medic, he picks up a body in a uniform that matches his own. When they set it down alongside the others, Khafaji covers Salah's head with a jacket. As the line of bodies grows longer, Khafaji recognizes two others. He counts fifteen policemen in uniform. There are also six others in civilian clothes. One of the British liaison officers asks Khafaji if he has seen Olds. Khafaji shakes his head.
Later, after Khafaji has watched them as they loaded bodies for the morgue, someone comes over and tells him to come inside the station. Khafaji goes to the toilet and washes in an old bathroom sink. Then he walks through halls filled with glass and dust until he finds the rest of the group. In the room, everyone is eating from platters of kebab and kofta. There are salads and fresh flat bread. Only then does Khafaji realize how hungry he is.
When Khafaji sits down to join the others, no one seems to remember he wasn't there. He doesn't correct them. The group sits and eats in silence. Then they sit and listen to the British liaison officer talking at them.
“Here is what we know at this stage. Shortly before the induction ceremony commenced⦔ The man clears his throat and begins again. “A four-wheel-drive car drove into the gate. Our men managed to shoot the tires. Otherwise, we might not be here talking to one another right now. Luckily, the driver did not manage to penetrate inside the courtyard.”
He then starts giving details of another incident and it takes Khafaji a moment to understand that it has to do with the two young officers from Kirkuk. “This is to confirm what you heard earlier this morning, gentlemen,” he says in a hushed voice. “Our two colleagues were murdered, along with five others, as they reported for duty this morning at Nnnnn⦔ He stumbles for a moment. “At Nahiyat Hammam station. We can confirm now that the men who murdered them were dressed as policemen. Intelligence suggests that it may have been an inside job. I apologize in advance for what I have to say next, but I do hope you will understand why it is necessary. All you lot are ordered back to the base immediately. You will stay there until we complete our investigation into this breach. We will need your cooperation now more than ever
if we are to close the breach. You will have the opportunity to contact your families once you get there.”
The sound of boots outside the door interrupts the officer, and everyone in the room turns to look at the door. A group of US MPs enters the door, then spreads out to each corner.
The liaison officer continues. “Do not think you are under investigation because we think you are guilty of aiding and abetting the enemy. We know that the vast majority of you are here because you want the right side in this fight to prevail. Personally, I doubt very much that we have been infiltrated, and I hope that my belief will be vindicated. But nonetheless, until we get to the bottom of this, we need to clean up this mess together. We can't let these incidents undermine the progress we're making. We cannot let the terrorists win.”
He pauses and looks around the room. Then he adds, “If you have a weapon, please remove it from your holster and place it under the chair you are sitting on as you stand up and move to this side of the room. These MPs will escort you back to the base. You have my word that we will do everything to make this ordeal as comfortable as we can. The sooner you help us, the sooner it is over.”
Khafaji looks around the room. At bleary-eyed men, tired and now angry. The expressions on their faces waver between anger and disbelief. Khafaji puts a piece of cold meat in his mouth and chews. One of the local recruits shouts out, “What are you saying? We are killers?”
The British officer puts his hands up in the air, then lowers them slowly. “You need to remain calm. You are not criminals, no one has said that. But for the safety of everyone here, for your safety and the safety of your colleagues â”
“They are the terrorists! Not we. Fuck you!” the young
man shouts as he stands up. One of the MPs walks slowly over, baton in hand.
Other recruits begin to stand up, shouting and waving their fists. The MPs move in quickly, forming a cordon around the group. Khafaji sees his chance and drops to the ground. He crawls among kicking feet until he gets to the door. Then he stands up so slowly that no one sees any movement at all. As fights break out across the room, Khafaji walks, then runs down the hall and downstairs.
Khafaji runs too far and ends up in the basement. In a grungy dressing room, he begins trying the doors on lockers. Most are locked or empty. But in one he finds what he needs, though it's not what he expected. The clothes look like they will fit better than the uniform he has on. He finds a changing stall and empties his pockets. He takes off his uniform. The concrete floor feels like ice on his bare feet. In another locker, he finds a towel and goes over to an old metal sink. He splashes cold water on his face, then does it again and again. His eyes are red. They look like they belong to a stranger staring at someone else's mirror. He washes the grime and dirt from his hands and under his fingernails. He removes his undershirt and splashes his chest with more water. He runs the soap over his torso, then rinses off and does it again. He looks at his body in the mirror. Then stares at his face. His eyes are still bloodshot and tired. His moustache is now filling out. He begins to shiver. Standing in a puddle of icy water, his feet begin to feel hot.
Khafaji rolls up his uniform into a ball and throws it into an empty locker. He puts on the vest. The fabric is soft and worn. Khafaji fills the pockets with his wallet and papers. He slips the old white
dishdasha
over his head. The sandals are too large, but the leather is smooth and comfortable.
He takes the
kuffiyyeh
and wraps it around his shoulders and neck. He puts on an overcoat that was hanging in another locker. It's too tight to button, but better than nothing.
Then he walks up a flight of steps and out the side door. Outside the station, Khafaji walks beside a row of trucks, their engines blasting diesel exhaust. Then Khafaji almost walks right into her. She is standing in a small shop, speaking on a cellphone. He almost doesn't recognize her because of her headscarf and heavy overcoat. He almost doesn't recognize her because she looks like a woman you're not supposed to stare at. But there is something about how still she is standing, like she was just about to leap, or just about to flee. After studying her picture for a week, Khafaji is not caught off guard. He would recognize Zahra Boustani anywhere. And after this morning's slaughter, he knows exactly what to do.
Khafaji starts to run as fast as he can, wondering if there was anyone else watching him. Blocks away, Khafaji squeezes into a crowded market street and walks, before turning between a juice stall and a kiosk. He stops to buys a pack of Royales and smokes while watching the street behind him. Finally, he turns to ask about the bus station. The man stares at Khafaji. In that moment, Khafaji feels like he's naked. But the man points and mumbles a few words, and Khafaji heads off in that direction. More than once, Khafaji thinks he hears thunder somewhere far away. His feet walk faster and faster as he goes.
He gets to the station just as the rain starts. Inside, he buys bags of dried chickpeas and sunflower seeds. At a newsstand, he looks for a book of poetry. When he can't find any, he buys as many newspapers as he can. He finds the next bus for Baghdad, and waits for an hour before the seats fill up. He imagines that the policemen in the station can see straight
through his costume, then wonders what they would say if they saw his ID.
He tries to read the papers, but when a policeman boards the bus, he puts them down and pretends to be asleep. The policeman walks up the aisle, checking everyone's IDs. But when the driver starts the engine, the policeman turns around and jumps off the bus. Only as they leave the station does Khafaji look up again. And even then, he cannot relax. He imagines other possibilities. Other men with guns stopping the bus, searching for puppets, for terrorists, or for men who aren't who they say they are. Khafaji stares out the window. The last thing he sees before the sunlight dies is three men racing each other on horseback. The rust-colored speckles on the lead horse look like splatters of blood.
It gives Khafaji no comfort to imagine that the desert could be a place of escape, because he knows it too is home to animals and men and guns. When the lights come on inside the bus, Khafaji finds himself staring at his own reflection. He remembers the lines of poetry Mrouj recited:
As we prepare sword and spike, death slays us without a fight / Tethering our steeds at hand but still, they cannot rescue us fromâ¦
It is frustrating, because he knows the poem. An elegy of Mutanabbi's. Fright? No. It's not the rhyme, it's also the meter.
Khafaji gives up. He looks at the newspapers in his hand, and throws them on the floor. He leans his head against the window and falls asleep. At some point, he wakes up shouting and flailing in his seat. The man next to him glares as if he had gone mad.
When the bus arrives, Baghdad is wide awake. Clouds cover the sky. The air is cold and heavy. A wind kicks up, then dies as it rolls down the wide boulevard. Khafaji walks through the crowded bus station and crosses the street to a busy café. He drinks one cup of tea and then another. A boy comes by hawking newspapers, and Khafaji shoos him away. A few minutes later, another comes selling magazines. Khafaji gives him some dinars and tells him to fetch a pack of cigarettes, Iraqi cigarettes. The boy comes running back with Royales, and Khafaji lets him keep the change.