“You’re looking for Abu Wahid?”
“Well, yes, it would be a pleasure to meet Abu Wahid. But we understand that he’s probably not here.”
She looks at me with hurt in her eyes and I can see that her hands are now trembling.
“Are you his relative then?”
“I’m his sister.”
“Ah, I see, it is such a great pleasure to meet you. Such a pleasure to meet someone from such an esteemed family.”
She smoothes her houserobe a bit, attempts to stand up straight, become taller, and smiles almost without moving her lips.
“We’re very concerned about Abu Wahid’s welfare,” I say.
She eyes us standing in the doorway, as if trying to decide whether she should invite us in or tell us she cannot be of help. “Please,” she says at last. “You must come in and have tea.”
“That would be lovely, Sayida Suad. Pardon me, but you are Suad then, yes?” She nods and holds a craggy hand out to invite us inside. “We won’t stay too long,” I say. “We’re just passing through town.”
She leads us into a room of middle-class size, but which is wrapped in an upper-class veneer, and points to places for us to sit. The floor is covered with a red Persian carpet that I know costs at least $2,000 in the market, and the cushions are covered in a velvet fabric. An air of abandonment mopes about the room. Suad leaves us, shuffling off to make tea.
Sam refuses to sit, and takes herself for a tour, ogling the art on the walls. There are two cheap paintings of Saddam, and many family photographs, all well-framed.
“Don’t ask any funny questions about Saddam,” I whisper. “I made it sound like we’re on their side.”
Sam views me with a shot of scepticism.
“It was the only way I could think of to get her to let us in. So, if you can, play along.”
Sam sits, reluctantly, and leans back into the cushion against the wall. She takes a breath that sounds like a sigh in reverse. A young man in his early twenties appears at the door, his eyes open so wide it seems as if he’s in a state of shock.
I rise to shake his hand and exchange greetings. Sam stands up, her hands clasped. He must be Suad’s son. I search his face for signs of Saddam, marks of the same genes as our great leader, murderous and missing. I see none, other than meaty skin with big pores. Saddam’s skin always looked like sandpaper, as if even a lover who brushed his face would be chafed by it.
The young man takes a seat opposite us, taking interest only in watching us and stroking the scant beard growing around the perimeter of his chin. I try to make small talk with him, but he hardly responds, offering a guttural motion to wait for his mother. Maybe he has some sort of speech problem.
Suad comes in with a tray of orange-coloured drinks that appear to have a bit of juice mixed in and sets them down before us. I’m feeling a bit guilty that she has had to bother, when all I want is to have her look at the signatures on the documents, recognize them or not, and then leave. She sits down next to Sam, rather than next to her son, which somehow surprises me.
Suad hadn’t been wearing a scarf when we walked in, but now she’s draped a white one over her head. She has what my father calls country features — a wider nose, thicker lips, a fleshy face.
She waits for Sam to sip the juice and when she does, the rest of us follow suit. “Why are you looking for my brother?” she asks. “Do you work for the Americans?”
“No, no,” I say. “We work for a newspaper.”
“From what country?”
“Oh, Germany. An important newspaper in Germany.”
“Is that German you were speaking to each other? With the lady?”
“Yes.” Something churns in my stomach. Maybe the water mixed in with the juice is bad. What if the son isn’t as stupid as he looks?
“We think maybe your brother will be accused by the Americans of doing things he didn’t do. They’ll look for him and they’ll try to accuse him of war crimes, along with Saddam. Abu Wahid never hurt anyone, did he? I mean, he didn’t kill people.”
“Of course not!” Her face is indignant, her skin a spider’s web of lines that weren’t visible a moment ago. “My brother is an honest man. Only because he was smart and had an important job, he has these problems now.”
“Of course,” I say. “I imagined so.”
Her eyes scan mine for a minute and then she looks to her son, who is staring at Sam. When I catch him, he averts his gaze. I motion to Sam to pass me her bag, and from the main pocket, I pull out the folder. “Would you know your brother’s signature if you saw it?”
“His signature?”
“What he would sign, I mean, on a letter or a cheque, or a document. Anything like that. Would you know his handwriting?”
She nods. “I think so. We were only a year apart in school. He is only eighteen months older than me so I used to use his books.” She purses her lips together, the skin around them lost in wrinkles. “Actually, I stopped going when I was sixteen because my father wanted me to get married and have a family.”
“And this is your son?”
She laughs heartily. “He’s my grandson. One of twelve. They left him to take care of me. But instead I think I mostly take care of him.”
The young man emits a grunting sound like something hurts, and gets up and walks out.
“Where is your brother now?” It’s probably not what Sam would have wanted me to ask, at least not so directly, but that’s how it came out.
Her eyes begin to brim with tears. “Everything is the wrong way round now,” she says, letting two tears go, and then wiping them with the back of her hand. “We have no one coming here but the American soldiers. No one to protect us. No electricity most of the time. Shooting every night.” Her cry is like a near-silent wheeze, her voice suddenly hoarse. “I don’t even know where my husband is,” she wails. “He said he was only leaving for a few days. That’s who I thought you were when I heard you come in.”
Sam reaches into her bag and pulls out a packet of tissues. She hands one to Suad who thanks her and dabs at her eyes, leaving a few white shreds beneath her stubby eyelashes. I wait for a moment, until her crying subsides, and then open the folder.
“It would be really helpful if you could look at this.” I take out one of the papers and put it on the coffee table in front of Suad. “Just tell me if the signature looks like it could be your brother’s.”
She picks up the paper and puts it in her lap. A teardrop falls on to the paper, and she uses the tissue to blot it. She sighs and blows her nose in the same tissue. I feel an urge to grab the paper back, afraid she’ll drip and wipe and ruin it, somehow.
“Nabil, maybe she’s too upset to do this. I don’t want to force her to talk when she’s—”
“No, I think she’s fine. She’s just sad, but she wants to help.”
She examines the paper closely. “Muwafeq?” she calls. “Can you bring me my glasses? Muwafeq! They are just sitting on the table in the kitchen.”
The sound of thumping, Muwafeq’s slippers slapping over the tiles. The pace of his feet seems syncopated with the beating of my heart, which is pumping just a little too fast. He hands the glasses to his grandmother, then, without looking at anyone, reclaims the seat he had before, cross-armed and sulky.
“Where?” Suad asks.
“Here.” I lean over and point to a signature on the sheet. “See, it says in print that it’s the signature of Faisal al-Hamdani, and then, here, a signature.” I tap on the page. “Is this your brother’s signature?”
“This? This is someone writing my brother’s name, but it cannot be my brother’s signature.”
“Are you sure? Sam, she says it’s not his signature.”
“Really?” Sam leans forwards a bit. “How good do you think her eyesight is?”
“You don’t want me to ask
that,
do you?”
“He had very wide letters. Fat and large. Which is funny because he’s quite slim. But they say people like to write their names the way they want the world to see them.”
“And this?” I indicate for her to look at the second page. “You’re sure it can’t be his signature?”
“That? No. I’m sure. His signature would be plump and round, like a big man, like watermelons. These are date palms. Too tall. See, this is too angled and neat. I’m sure my brother didn’t write this.”
“Are you positive?”
“
Taban
,” she says, of course. “Why do you keep asking?”
I want to tear out of the house right now, now that we have our answer, now that we’re through with what we need here. But the very thought pushes a wave of guilt over me. I’m thinking just like Sam did, that first day I worked with her. Give me what I want, give it to me now. And now that I have it, I’m through with you. Through. Like a lemon that you squeeze for all its juice, and then let go.
“Sayida Suad, you’ve been so helpful,” I say. “Is there anything we can do for you? Anything you need?”
She looks at me and then at Sam, and then her eyes go misty again. “I just want my family back. I want the soldiers to leave us alone. But you can’t do anything about that.”
I have nothing comforting to offer, except to keep listening.
“Why is somebody imitating my brother’s signature? Just to steal? Is it just money?”
“Maybe. Or maybe more than that.”
“But what do these documents say?” The question surprises me; she’s had them in her hand for a few minutes now.
“Can you read them?”
She scans over them. “I see it’s about paying something. I can’t tell more than that.”
“The reason, I think, is that there are people who want to make everyone who worked with Saddam look bad,” I explain. “And they can use papers like these to prove it.”
Sam’s Thuraya phone is ringing in her bag, which means she must go outside to take the incoming call.
“What’s that?” Muwafeq’s voice is sluggish. I had begun to think he was unable to speak.
“A phone,” I say. “A special phone.”
“Let me see it.”
“It doesn’t work inside,” I say. “And actually, we really need to go because there are some people we have to meet later this afternoon in Baghdad. I’m terribly sorry we can’t stay longer. You’ve been so hospitable to us,” I tell Suad.
“But I didn’t serve you anything yet. I was just heating up a soup for you.”
“Oh, well, that is so kind of you, but we really do have to be there—”
“Maybe you’re spies,” Muwafeq says.
“Muwafeq! Stop it. Don’t say such terrible things to guests.”
I rise slowly and Sam follows my cue. Suad nods with a tight-lipped grin and says we are welcome anytime. I keep thinking I should give her money but I’m sure Sam will be very angry if she sees me offer it, and all the way back to Baghdad she’ll tell me it’s as bad as what Harris did and didn’t I see by now that it is unethical for me to pay someone for information? I’m not sure Sam could see the difference between buying and giving. Sometimes I just want to give.
Our legs carry us to the door and as we open it I see Rizgar waiting in the courtyard, his eyes peeled. I turn to thank Suad, and she is suddenly a little too close to my face.
“Man hafara hufratan li-akhihi waq’a fiha
.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re such a smart young man,” she says. “Do you not know this saying? It is my favourite. I think everything that is happening in Iraq today can be explained by this.” I have to think of how to translate this for Sam.
He who digs a hole for his brother will fall into it.
“I will think about that. Thank you so much, Sayida Suad. Please stay well and safe.”
Suad brings her gnarled hands together in front of her, suddenly looking so disfigured that some of the fingers seem broken. As we leave her, she holds one knotty hand up, as if waving goodbye, or to ask a question, or to tell us to stop right there.
~ * ~
28
Waving
None of us says a word as we drive south from Ad-Dawr, not to comment on our relief at getting out of there alive, nor on our various deceptions to get the information we wanted. It’s quiet in the car until we reach the outskirts of Samarra.
“Look,” I say. “Your namesake city. Funny, isn’t it?”
“What, that I’m named after an Arab city?” She grins back at me with an oversized smile, the kind where you can see both the top and bottom rows of teeth.
“You’re not, are you?”
“What do you think?”
“So why did your parents name you Samara?”
“Guess they just liked it. Sounded exotic to them. And better than naming me Sarah.”
“Why Sarah? I mean, what’s wrong with Sarah?”
“Nothing, just a little boring. It was my grandmother’s name. She died a year before I was born so they wanted something with an S.”
From the highway, I can see the top of the Malwiya minaret. I remember climbing up the amazing spiral staircase on the outside when I was a child, and the thrill of its grandeur.
“Look, Sam, there is the Malwiya tower. Maybe we can stop for a moment so you can see it. You really should.”
“Hmm, that is such a nice thought, Nabil. But I think we need to hoof it back to Baghdad. I need to write up some notes for Miles and the other editors. You know, they wanted answers yesterday, and they’re turning up the heat on me to get them.”