I can’t see anything. No one is shouting or screaming anymore. Only the sound of glass falling like the drizzle of rain and Oum Kalthoum.
~ * ~
Hat a’inaik tisrahfi dounyethoum a’ineyyah. Hat eidak tiryah lil-moustahm eidaiyah.
Bring your eyes close so that my eyes can get lost in the life of your eyes.
Bring your hands so that my hands will rest in the touch of your hands.
~ * ~
The hands reach inside the car, many of them, pulling me out through the glass of the back window. And they’re carrying me and I’m saying no, I’m fine, you have to get her out, you have to get Sam. And they say they’re trying, and besides that I have a bleeding head and I should let them take me, but I can stand and I move back to the car and I am starting to blubber and telling them to get Sam out. And the men start to lift the car from the side it’s lying on, but it’s so heavy and our old family junk is scattered everywhere and they’re having a hard time, and instead they go into the car through the front windscreen since it’s gone anyway and they work on lifting out Sam. And they’re all shouting and moving and then I hear Sam moan, a sound of pain like I’ve never heard before, and now she’s crying that no one should touch her and I know it’s my job to tell her that we have to, but just the sound of her being hurt has put tears in my own eyes and I’m hoping I won’t lose it completely in front of all these strangers in long robes.
“Just breathe, Sam. Take in a slow breath like you do when you’re angry and let it out slowly.” I know she’s listening because she tries, but her breathing is short and pained instead, with an occasional
uh!
like someone who was suddenly surprised, over and over again.
They pull her out of the car, her body looking like no part of it is moving, and as they do I can hear her taking quick short breaths every few seconds, and I want to help her but the other men are holding me up. Holding me back. As they lift her, the pillow falls towards her feet and then out of the bottom of her jupeh altogether. As they carry her I see her face which is as beautiful as the day I met her, except that when she opens her mouth to try to talk, there’s a film of blood all over her teeth and on her front lip, and then I feel the nausea rising in me like a wave and floating over me, and I won’t now, I can’t let it...
~ * ~
59
Floating
The ceiling has a very beautiful lamp hanging from it, swinging by just a few centimetres in either direction. And that’s when I realize that I’ve been out of it, like that first day when I met Sam. I look around and then move to sit up, and see the assembly of men, about ten of them in tribal dress and very similar facial features, staring back at me. One of them sitting next to me leans over me and puts his hand firmly on my shoulder, telling me I should rest. I start to search in a panic and then realize Sam is here, lying to my right, with pillows surrounding her head.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s conscious,” the man above me says. “But having trouble breathing. I think maybe she broke something,” he says, pointing to his stomach and drawing a circle, “inside.”
My head flies with fear. Internal bleeding? She might be dying. Baba would know what to do. “She has to get to a hospital immediately. In Baghdad—”
“We know. We have already called the army.”
“The Iraqi army?”
He frowns and puts his hand on my forehead. “You should rest more. Mahfouz, bring him some water.” I lay back, open and close my eyes several times, squeezing them shut to cut out the light, then letting it in again. Maybe it’s another nightmare — one of my bizarre daydreams. If I force my eyes open again, I’ll wake up and see it didn’t happen.
Open, close, open. Still here, on the floor of someone’s home in Samarra.
“...like there’s any Iraqi army left.” One of them sniggers at the other’s comment. “He must have had a good bang in the head.”
“Maybe that’s why he passed out. You should have a doctor look at him, too.”
“Him, he’s fine. He was probably just upset to see his ladyfriend injured.”
My head is swirling. I need to sit up, to take charge. I think I can do it. I roll on to my side and let some invisible force yank me upright, so at least I’m sitting up. They seem surprised to see me up again. I scan the room and count twelve of them, plus two women in
abaya
, tending to Sam. She is conscious, but seems out of it, a bit blank. Maybe she is in shock.
“Sam?” I turn to her. “Are you okay? Sam?”
She doesn’t answer, but her eyes search around for my voice. Her throat passes a small, broken moan.
“Don’t make her try to move her neck,” one of them says. “It might be broken. They’re sending a helicopter for her.”
I lean over her, so that my face is above hers, directly above her eyes. “Sam, I’m here.” Her eyes float up and focus on mine. Her irises are a muddier brown now, less golden than usual.
“My body hurts,” she whispers.
“Which part hurts?”
She moves a fraction, as if she is trying to shift, and grimaces. “Everything,” she creaks. “I, I can’t take deep breaths.” I notice that her mouth isn’t bloody anymore, though her lip is a little swollen. Maybe the women rinsed it out for her. Maybe she isn’t bleeding from inside. Maybe her teeth just hit against her mouth when we crashed.
“They said help is on the way, Sam. They called the American army. They’re sending a helicopter to bring you to a hospital.” I put my hand to her forehead, which feels hot, and pull out the
dambab
so I can unwind part of the scarf and let in some fresh air, ignoring a whisper of
haram
, shame, from one of the men.
How could God let Sam die? Take her away right before my eyes, like Noor? Please, don’t let me lose her, too.
I turn to face the men sitting on a row of long floor cushions, staring as if they’d never seen such a scene in their lives and I’m suddenly aware of a pain in my right shoulder. I use the rest of my body to move me instead. “How soon are they going to be here, the medical people?”
“They said about fifteen minutes,” says one in the middle of the group, who has coal-black eyes and what may be the most dignified grey beard I have ever seen. If I could have grown a beard like that, surely Baba wouldn’t have disapproved. I can see from his gold-trimmed black robe that he must be a sheikh. The men to either side might be twins, perhaps twenty or twenty-five years younger — at most — than the man in the middle, surely their father. “I asked them to come right away. I told them we had an American woman here, a civilian, and they said they would hurry.”
“How did you call them?”
The man smiles with a world of wisdom in his face, as if he could provide the answers to almost anything I’d ask. “We have our own mode of communications with the Americans.”
“Do you have a Thuraya here? A satellite phone?”
He clears his throat. “Yes, we do.” I begin thinking of all the people I should probably call — my parents, Sam’s editors. But my parents — how would I call them? Sam said that the Thuraya phone couldn’t make calls to landlines inside Iraq, because the landline system is totally out of order. They must take me back to the car at least to get Sam’s bag with her most important things: camera, phone, computer, notebooks. I’m sure they would let me use their phone, if I knew a number to call. They have been very kind, so far. Who are they, anyway? And who do they think we are?
“May I ask your name, young man? Where were you and this American woman driving to?”
I look at him, and then my eyes trail across the nearly-matching faces, varied only in age, facial hair and slight differences in pigment. A receiving line, a tribal court. When my eyes meet his again, he stands up, thanking everyone for coming to help wish our unfortunate visitors well, and begins to give each of them farewell kisses. I can’t stand them staring at me, and so I turn my back and wait for them to leave the room. Sam emits a half-moan and calls my name. A tear runs from her right eye, heading straight for her ear. I catch the tear before it gets far, wiping at it with my thumb.
When most of the extended tribal court is gone, the sheikh chooses a seat closer to me. His two look-a-like sons follow, flanking him like bodyguards.
“Who are you?”
Hadn’t I planned for this all along? A story at the ready for any situation. Sunni, Shi’ite, Kurd, foreign, local — we would have our bases covered. Unless we happened to get stopped by a Turkoman, a Christian, or a Yezidi, which wasn’t terribly likely - or terribly worrisome — there was no community we didn’t have connections with, names to throw around, if we ran into a situation like this.
Like this?
What in the world could be like this?
For Sunnis, Sheikh Faddel el-Duleimy, and maybe Uncle Zaki, Saleh’s father. For Shi’ites, the name of my mother’s relatives in Al-Kut. For Kurds, the letter, tucked safely into the inside pocket of my overnight bag.
My bagl
And Sam’s! Did they take anything out of the car?
“Did you find, did you take any of the bags which were—”
“We took two small ones,” says one of the sons. “There was too much so we had to leave the rest. It’s all upstairs.” His voice is deeper than his father’s. It suddenly occurs to me that we’re downstairs, in their basement. Why had I not noticed it earlier? Was I so out of it when they carried us inside? My head swirls with a wave of nausea, my shoulder throbs.
“Why are we waiting downstairs?” My voice sounds shaky. I wonder if they notice.
“It’s for your safety,” the sheikh says. “We don’t know who shot at you and perhaps it’s possible they will try to come and finish the job. It’s better this way. If anyone comes looking, they won’t find you. Not many houses here have basements, so this is your best protection. That and your blessing from God,” he says, putting a hand over his heart. He turns to the son who has been quieter. “Ask Maysoun to make tea, won’t you?” The son pulls himself up reluctantly, his eyes still on me. “So you are from Baghdad?” the son asks. “Which family?”
Fast fast fast.
Hesitate and die, one of Sam’s colleagues at the Hamra had taped to his laptop. “The Duleimy family I mean, I am from Baghdad, but the larger family is from Fallujah and Ramadi. Do you know Sheikh Faddel, my cousin?”
I see a sheen of scepticism in his eye.
“This woman is an aid worker, a doctor who was sent here to help in the hospitals,” I say. “I was trying to take her to visit some clinics in the north where there is a great shortage of medical staff.”
“But then why was your car loaded with household goods as if you were moving to somewhere?”
“Hassan,” the father says, lifting a hand like a scolding motion: Go easy.
“And if you are from the Duleimy family, what are you doing carrying around a letter like
this?”
“Hassan! I said no.”
Hassan unfolds a white piece of paper. Across it, three creases and Safin’s handwriting. My mind is screeching as he pulls it open to reveal the rectangle of incriminating evidence, held up before my face, Baba’s deliberate insurance policy turned into a death sentence before my eyes.
Too many words rushing to my mouth, and not enough air and space to get them out. My lips moving, but no sound passes over them.
“Well?”
They know they have me cornered. Maybe they didn’t really call the army for help after all. Maybe they’ll leave Sam here to die and then they’ll kill me, too.
The sheikh’s head shakes with a shortening of patience, laced with mercy. “Do not let my son frighten you,” he says.
Hassan frowns, lowers the letter. Sets it down next to him.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of this,” the sheikh says.
“Why don’t we start again. So you must know by now that you’re in the south of Samarra and that you’ve been fortunate enough to come under the protection of the Albu Baz tribe. You are our guest, and especially as you are in distress, we will take good care of you.” His voice is matter-of-fact and calm. Vaguely kind, even. “Would you be so good as to tell us who you are?”
“The Albu Baz?”
“That’s right. I am Sheikh Hikmet Mumtaz al-Baz, and this is my son, Hassan Mumtaz.” Hassan forces his lips into a smile, clearly annoyed at his father’s exceeding generosity. “You may call me Sheikh Mumtaz. Who are you? And who is the lady?”
I look down at Sam, who appears to have drifted off to sleep with her eyes half open. Isn’t that dangerous? Should I wake her up? I put my hand to her cheek.
“My daughter gave your ladyfriend some strong pain pills because she was suffering,” Sheikh Mumtaz says. “Her husband is our local pharmacist. It may make her sleepy, but it is nothing to worry about. She will suffer less.”
I have to dam up the tears flooding into my eyes and nose, send them back to where they came from. “She isn’t my ladyfriend. She is my boss, actually. I am her translator.”
“For?” Hassan leans forwards. “The Americans? CIA?”
“No,” I say. “Nothing like that. She works for a newspaper in America. I am her translator.”
“How can you know?” Hassan snaps. Again, his father holds a hand in front of Hassan, the way a driver braking hard protects a passenger next to him.
“I know. I trust her. We’ve worked together for a long time.”