“Do you know where Sawsan is right now?”
“On any given day, the work might take her anywhere. Just because I don't know where she is doesn't mean anything.”
“Her family's worried, though. She has been gone for days, Professor. Could you tell me what Sawsan does for you?”
“Mr Muhsin, I would like to tell you everything. Her university studies made her particularly valuable. But for security reasons, I can't tell you any more than that.”
Khafaji nods, though he doesn't like the way this is going. “It might help the family relax if they knew what she was doing for you.”
“I don't need to tell you how dangerous it is. Every day, things are getting worse. And right now scholars and teachers are especially at risk.”
“Is that because you're so smart?”
She squints at Khafaji before smiling again. “No. It's because we are the conscience of the nation, Muhsin. I don't say that to brag. I'm just repeating what our enemies say. If they can get rid of intellectuals, then they can wipe the slate of history clean. They can't build their Iraq until we're out of the way.”
She lights another cigarette and takes a long drag. She throws the pack on the desk again.
Khafaji leans forward and asks, “Professor, I am not sure I understand what this has to do â”
The professor interrupts him: “Should we just give our country to the exiles? Like hell. We're the ones who stayed and suffered. Damn if I'm going to let them sell our country
to foreign oil companies. And damn if I'm going to let the ayatollahs take our country away from us either.” She sees the look in Khafaji's eyes. “Here, have another.”
She slides the pack over to Khafaji. He fumbles for a cigarette. “So, how will we defend ourselves? We have to find allies. Which means, we have to create allies. Old enemies might become new friends. Old friends might become new enemies.”
She exhales and another cloud of smoke fills the room. “Relationships might become complicated. Does that make someone like me a collaborator, Muhsin?”
Khafaji nods, then corrects himself. “Of course not.” His tone is too emphatic.
She shakes her head and puts out her cigarette. “You've seen the security outside. We don't hire guns because we're VIPs. No. We hire them because we have to. Because there are people who know that for every intellectual they murder, ten others will leave of their own accord. Half of them think that when they get rid of us, Iraq will magically become a mosque. The other half think it will turn into a gas station or a minimart. They're both right, actually. Without us, this country doesn't have a chance.”
“Professor Zubeida, is there anything you can tell me about Sawsan that might help me find her? You provide a driver for her, right? Can I talk to him?”
When she looks at Khafaji again, he imagines that she is speaking to someone else, probably Hassan. “Suzy is like my own daughter. I'll call the driver and put you in touch with him. Please convey my greetings and concern to her family.”
She takes a fountain pen from her desk and asks, “What's your cellphone number?”
“Take down my landline.”
As he rattles off the numbers, Khafaji looks down at the empty porcelain teacup in his hand. The professor frowns as she copies them. Minutes go by as he wonders what will happen next. Nothing does. Eventually, he sets his cup on the tray and stands up.
“Thanks for your time.”
As he walks out the door, she calls out, “We will be in touch soon, Hassan.” Khafaji doesn't correct her. He doesn't even mind.
They came in the middle of the night. It was hot. The electricity was out, so we had our windows wide open. I heard them when they pulled up in their pickup trucks. You could almost see them through the shutters. I tried to get a better look through the peephole, while waving the children to go back to sleep.
We were expecting it, it just took them longer to get to us.
Why are we here? We had nowhere else to go.
Those who could, left. Years ago.
Three men stayed downstairs at the entrance. The drivers turned off the engines and lights; you could barely make out the pickups. Two of them walked to one end of the street, a few more walked to the other end, then disappeared behind the heaps. With all their clicking and chirping, their radios sounded like little birds. There weren't any patrols in our district. Not that night. Not any night.
It was pitch dark. And their faces were covered. But still, you could see right through the masks they wore. I don't need to tell you who they were. A group of them climbed up, floor by floor. One of them stayed behind on each landing. Their flashlights went on and then off again. We held our breath as one of them knocked on doors with the butt of his rifle. No one opened. No one said a word.
Five men went up all the way to the third floor. Outside, you could hear the portable generators humming and coughing. Then there were a couple shots from down the street. I remember hearing a car's engine, another shot, and then silence. A long silence. It was like we suddenly remembered how hot it was, and we went back to fanning ourselves while we waited in that silence.
When they shouted, “Ibrahim Jabrawi, come out!” none of us was surprised. What surprised us was that he opened the door. Then a scuffle, cries and sobs. I wasn't close enough to hear what happened next, but the man next door heard everything. Ibrahim told them he would come with them. He asked them to leave his family in peace. Then all you could hear was the sound of bone and flesh on concrete.
You know how time stops when you get a shock? Well, that's what we felt as we sat there waiting in the darkness. For minutes. The whole building could feel the silence. It was like getting a shock. That silence was an electric wire lying on the ground.
They told me later that some revolvers are louder than rifles. But what would I know?
The children on the fourth floor began to cry right after the first shot. No one saw a thing, but that did not prevent us from seeing everything. Even those who kept their eyes closed tight saw it all. Those kids kept crying until the last shot, then the building went quiet.
As soon as we heard the pickups roar off, we lit lanterns and rushed over. We told the women to get towels and buckets of water. Not because it would do any good, but because we didn't want them to see five bodies swimming in a pool of blood. Two were so young that the blast severed their heads.
By the next afternoon, we all left and came here to the stadium. They say people moved into our apartments on the day we left. I don't know who's living there now and I don't care.
Eid Mubarak. There is much to be thankful for at this special Eid for Iraq. This Eid, Saddam the dictator has become Saddam the fugitive. This Eid, there is no Mukhaberat. This Eid, Iraqi schoolteachers earn enough to put food on the table. This Eid, for the first time ever, you know you are going to have a democracy â and you know exactly when you will have it.
A
DDRESS OF
L. P
AUL
B
REMER TO THE
I
RAQI
P
EOPLE
The electricity goes out just as he opens the door.
In the dark, Mrouj calls out, “Is that you, Baba? I'm getting the lamp.”
Khafaji puts down his shopping bags and pauses.
“I got some cucumbers and yogurt, Mrouji.”
The lights flicker on again and his daughter's silhouette floats into view. With unsteady hands, she holds onto the door frame.
“How do you feel?”
She hobbles across the floor, reaching for a chair, then a table. As she approaches, he sees the familiar smile on her face. Teeth like pearls. Eyes flashing like moonlight on the river.
“Still the same. I got up because I had to. I was getting sick of sitting in bed anyway.”
“And?”
“A little blood, but not as much as before.”
She is young, though her face doesn't give it away. He reaches out for her hand. Girl's hands, still soft. Outside, the call to prayers goes up from the mosque on the main street.
“Are you hungry, Baba? I can make dinner.”
“Only if you eat with me.”
“I'll try, Baba.”
“Let's see what there is.” Mrouj leans against her father, and the two of them shuffle across the rug then onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. They know the refrigerator is empty; they unplugged it finally last month. They look anyway. They open cupboards, pretending surprise when they find nothing but cans, cartons, packets and jars. Nothing that needed refrigeration, nothing that would spoil. Mackerel, tuna and sardines. Chickpeas and condensed milk. Tea and crackers and juice. Rice, sugar and powdered milk. Dried apricots, prunes and sour cherries. Thyme and sesame, cardamom and saffron. Dates, dried limes, apricots, almonds and walnuts. Pickled turnips, carrots, cauliflower and cucumbers. Briny white cheese and lemons. Pomegranate syrup and olive oil.
When Suheir was alive, the family ate well every day. No matter how bad things were, they always ate their late lunch together. But that was years ago. When Mrouj began to lose her appetite, Khafaji stopped eating too. Neither of them ever cooked anything more elaborate than a pot of tea or rice.
When they sit down to eat, Mrouj looks at the calendar and says, “Happy Eid, Baba. I can't believe it's here already.”
“Happy Eid, Mrouj. I saw your uncle today. They're expecting us tomorrow.”
“I wish I could. You go, Baba â for both of us.”
“Did Sawsan ever talk to you about her work?”
“When, Baba? I haven't seen her since summer. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Invite them over, Baba. They could come on Friday. Tell Sawsan to come over in the morning. She can help me cook.”
“I'll ask. It's been a long time since you made
fasanjan
. Would you make it?”
“Of course, Baba. Tell me something you like about Eid.”
“I like that day at last goes back to being day and night to night. Everyone can finally go back to their routines. And this absurd cycle of abstaining and gorging ends.”
When he sees the expression on Mrouj's face, Khafaji apologizes. “I also love seeing the children in their new clothes. That's something I'll never stop loving. Your mother always spent so much time buying just the right Eid clothes for you. We loved watching you parade around the neighborhood in them. You and Uday were so proud of your fancy new clothes.”
Mrouj looks away. “Baba, can I take your plate?”
Mrouj's voice brings him back to the present. He looks down and sees the fork in his hand. He sees that his plate is now empty.
“No, I'll wait until you finish, Mrouj. Try to eat a little more.”
She puts another cucumber into her mouth, but chews without enthusiasm. She drinks the rest of her yogurt, then wipes the smoky flavor from her lips. He looks outside to see the night drinking up shadows. He looks again at his watch as if it had something to tell him.
Mrouj insists on washing the dishes. Khafaji stands beside her and dries. Together, they listen to the neighbors talking and laughing. Families end their fasts so solemnly and quietly at first. But with each bite, the table becomes a feast, then a
carnival. As he dries the last of the dishes, Khafaji listens to the cackles coming from across the way and the floor below, and then to the sound of televisions being turned on one by one in the neighboring apartments. Somewhere, behind the televised noise, Khafaji can hear another call to prayer. As he stacks plates and bowls in the cupboard, he listens also to a parade on the stairwell. Only when he is folding the dish towel does he notice that Mrouj is sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.
“What's wrong, my love? Can I help you get up?”
“Baba, will you read to me?”
“Of course, my love. Let's get you to bed.”
Khafaji helps his daughter to the bathroom and closes the door gently behind her. He waits down the hall for minutes as she tries to urinate. Mrouj washes her face, then opens the door. He looks at her, and she shakes her head. Together they shuffle down the dark hall. She lies down. He reaches over to turn on the light.
“Mrouji, what would you like to hear?”
“Something you like, Baba.”
Khafaji walks back to the living room and takes a worn book from the shelf. When Mrouj sees the book in his hands, a puzzled look interrupts her grin. She closes her eyes as her father begins to read. Words go by, then stanzas.
      Â
Immortality, they said
      Â
And I found it in a shadow
      Â
That emerges from the shriveling of life
      Â
And flings itself in a leisurely way