Captivity (19 page)

After completing his first two semesters, Harmeet arranged to begin his summer recess by joining the CPT delegation to Iraq, and from there travel to Palestine to rejoin ISM. Disturbed by New Zealand’s decision to support the occupation of Iraq, Harmeet felt it was his responsibility to find out what was going on first-hand.

The excruciating hours and days of nothing-ever-happening-at-all accumulate and compound. Harmeet becomes helplessly garrulous. His normal reserve breaks into a stream-of-consciousness flood. I fall
silent, nod my head, answer now and then with
uh-huh
. The endless flow of words begins to tear at me.

Though I’m desperate for quiet, I can’t bring myself to ask for it. I don’t want to say or do anything that will impose upon or limit what remains of his freedom. It has become as precious to me as my own. I worry that if I say something, he will feel hurt and withdraw altogether, and that, right now, would be far worse than his talking.

Harmeet has gotten onto chocolate again. “Chocolate—that’s at the top of my list. The first thing I’m going to have when I get back home.
Thick
chocolate cake, and chocolate milk. That’s what I always have, late at night, when I’m studying. It’s brain food!”

“Harmeet,” I groan, “please don’t talk about food.”
Please
, I want to say,
just for a little while, don’t talk at all
.

“When I was in Zambia, you used to be able to get it—chocolate milk. There was this store that sold it—it’s still there, with the same logo and everything. They would sell it in tetrahedral containers. That was back in the days when you could still get things like that in Zambia, before the country was embargoed by the West. You could get pretty much anything you wanted—as long as you had the money, of course. Not anymore. The economy has totally collapsed now.

“One time I was in the south—that was during the motor vehicle trip I told you about, when I broke down in the middle of nowhere—I was taking the bus back home and I was hungry. So I asked around for where to get something to eat. They told me to go to the Shoprite—it’s a South African chain. It’s where the poor shop. It was down the street from the bus stop and around to …”

I can see the words gathering within me, along a horizon far away. A voice within me says,
No, don’t
. As Harmeet talks, the words come closer and closer. They gather and grow like giant, sky-towering columns of cumulonimbus clouds.
Don’t say it
, the voice says, putting up a hand.
Please Harmeet
, my mind starts to beg,
just for a moment, a little tiny bit of quiet. Don’t make me say it
.

I can’t stop it. The words flash and break in a murderous screaming mind-rage: SPARE ME THE INCONSEQUENTIAL DETAILS OF YOUR
INCONSEQUENTIAL LIFE! Loud enough, it has to be, to smash windows and blast apart walls.

I hang my head, fall prostrate in a cesspool of shame. I feel like I have just dumped poison into the room. Could he have heard? No, thank God, he is still talking. I nod, say uh-huh, go through the motions of listening.
Forgive me, Harmeet
, I say, in the voice he never hears.

It takes me several days. I search the whole of my life. I begin with my childhood and work my way through high school and university, young adulthood and recent middle age. I consider every school year and job, every place I have lived, every group I’ve been part of. I try to remember every person I have ever known, those who were an integral part of my life and those whose path I crossed only briefly. I visualize each one, embrace and kiss them, thank them for whatever I have learned or received from them. Each person is a shining sun, a face of God, an indelible part of the man I’ve become. I begin to see that my life has been astonishingly rich, an ever-flowing fountain of friendship and love, a universe of goodness. The joy! So much joy! So much blessing! I thank God for each person, surround them with light, and let them go.

When I am done, a door closes. The desire to think about the people I love—my parents, my brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephew, my friends, even Dan!—disappears. It’s not a choice. It simply happens. I have to set my face to the task at hand. Getting through the next five minutes. And the next five after that. That’s all there is. There’s nothing else.

Deep in the night, the TV is still on, bathing the room in electric blue light. Have I been awake all along? Where’s Junior? I hear English coming from the television, a news voice. I’m instantly awake. “Tom Fox of Clearbrook, Virginia,” the voice says, “age fifty-four, the father of two, formerly a musician.” I steal a glance at the television. I see a picture of Tom. He’s smiling. The channel changes. I fight against panic. Could this be the announcement of his death?

DECEMBER 10
DAY 15

In the morning, Junior unlocks us without saying a word. We gather up our bedding, carry it into the next room, sit in our chairs. Junior follows listlessly, face and body drained of all vitality. After he locks us up again, on his way out of the room, he releases a long sigh. “Mooshkilla,” he says, just under his breath.

Hours pass. Junior drifts in like a ghost and the room fills with a deathly gloom. “Okay?” he asks vacuously, his face puffy with sleep. The words
Could we have something to eat?
form briefly in my mind. Every cell in my body is trembling with hunger. He’s forgotten to feed us. “Okay,” we say.

I’m worried. Something’s wrong. My mind spirals helplessly. There’s been a rift amongst the captors. Somebody’s been given an order they don’t agree with. Tom and Norman have been sold or, worse, killed. What else could explain the news clip about Tom, Junior’s ominous despair?

I take a deep breath and try to bring myself back to what I know—I’m alive, I’m sitting next to Harmeet, I’m not in pain—but there is little consolation in it. I might as well be lying in an open grave. Something is terribly wrong.

Day wheels into evening. Number One returns and Junior revives. I hear his voice, now animated, coming from the kitchen, mixing with the sounds of utensils working in metal bowls and Number One’s rich laughter, like a young boy in eager conversation with a parent just home from work.

Junior brings each of us a diamond-shaped piece of flatbread called a
samoon
. He scoops up our water jug and leaves the room again. The spring has returned to his step. I pull the bread apart to see what’s inside. It’s the usual, a tiny, overcooked piece of hamburger, but the bread is actually fresh, and the meat garnished with a slice of salted tomato. “Wow, look at this,” I say. “We have fixings!” It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

“
Killeators
down,” Junior says from the doorway, the order strangely gentle. My hand goes automatically to my hat. Operant conditioning. I hear the soft padding sound of feet on the floor, the clinking of a belt
buckle, clothes rustling. Junior moves away from us. I hear them say Norman and
Tom
, then the word
mot
—Arabic for death. My heart flares wildly. I have to try to find out.

“Excuse me,
haji?”
I say.

“Yes,” Number One says.

“May I ask a question?”

“Of course. Anything.” He stands behind me, his hand lying gently on my shoulder.

“What’s happened to Tom and Norman?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. They are fine.”

“I heard you say Tom and Norman’s names, and I heard you say
mot
.” I can’t keep the anguish out of my voice.

“Do you speak Arabic?”

“No, but I know this word.”

“Why do you ask me this? Have you heard something?” I don’t know how to answer. “Why you ask me this?” he insists. “Please, you must to tell me. What are you feeling?”

My mind reels with fear. I don’t know how honest I should be, what the consequences could be if I tell him what I’m really thinking.

“Please, you can tell me,” he says again.

I take a breath. “Last night I saw on the TV for just a second—
Haji
was changing the channel—there was a picture of Tom on the news.” I point to Junior.
“Haji
is very sad. Now I hear you say Tom and Norman and the word ‘dead.’ ”

“You must to believe me,” Number One says. “They are okay. They not harm in anything. I love the Doctor. I love the peaceful man. They are just in some separate place, for the safety. We are not terrorists. We are different.” I nod. “We have some news,” he continues. “We kill some man. He is American. He is a contractor. He works as some engineer for the occupation. We take him and we kill him. But we not kill Norman and Tom. We kill only the soldiers. And the collaborator. We not kill Norman and Tom. Would you like to see them?”

The thought of being moved terrifies me. “Well, yes. I’d like to know that they’re okay.”

“Tomorrow I bring you to them. I promise. Tomorrow you see them,” Number One says, patting my shoulder.

DECEMBER 11
DAY 16

Medicine Man enters the room on a wave of cologne.
“Sabha il hare,”
he says in the middle of a stride, his voice bright and happy.

“Sabha il noor,”
we say.

Medicine Man stands in the corner facing us, his paunchy body bursting out of his suit jacket, hand on his hip. “How are you? Everything okay?” We are about to answer when we hear an electronicized baby cry. “It is my girlfriend,” he giggles, pulling out his cellphone. “She cannot leave me alone.”

Their conversation is short. When he is done, Junior asks to see Medicine Man’s cellphone. Junior examines it reverently, his eyes full of wonder. Medicine Man pushes a button. The cellphone plays a circus ring tone. The men burst into laughter. “Good!” Junior says.

“It is new,” Medicine Man says. “We call this phone a hummer.” He pushes another button. We hear “Pop Goes the Weasel.” Junior laughs delightedly each time he plays a different tune.

“That is enough,” Medicine Man says, suddenly pocketing the phone, smile vanishing.

“How are Tom and Norman?” I ask. “Are they okay?”

Medicine Man frowns. “You see this on TV?” We shake our heads. “We kill a man. He is American. I think he is some contractor with the Ministry of Education. We hold him for two days and we kill him. He have some work with the Americans. But you, I release you all together. All four together.”

I will learn later that the man was Ronald Schulz. He was kidnapped on November 25 while doing electrical work for a private security organization. On December 6 the Islamic Army of Iraq released a video threatening to kill him unless the United States released all of its prisoners in Iraq and compensation was paid to Iraqis killed by U.S. forces in Anbar province. The group claimed to have
killed him two days later. A video of his execution was released on December 19.

“So Tom and Norman are okay?” I ask again.

“Yes, they are fine. Would you like to see them?”

“We’d like to know that they’re okay,” I say.

“Very well. I take you there.” He looks at his watch. “I bring you today.”

Medicine Man and Junior sweep into the room. “This is for you,” Medicine Man says to Harmeet, handing him a bottle of water and a package of cookies. He steps back. “All right, I take you now. In the boot.”

Junior unlocks my handcuffs, pulls me out of my chair and turns me so I’m facing Medicine Man. Junior’s wearing a turtleneck, a navy blue suit jacket, pressed slacks and carefully polished black shoes. He locks my hands behind my back.

Medicine Man grips my shoulders. “Now I am taking you. No talking. No crying, no shouting. Nothing!” His voice is hard. I nod. “Must I to tape you?”

“No,” I say.

“If you make any sound—any sound!—I torture and kill you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Medicine Man turns to Harmeet. “I back for you in one hour. Not more. You not to make any sound. You not to move. I have the guard who watch the gate for you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Harmeet says. Junior double-checks the locks on Harmeet’s chains.

“Okay, we go,” Medicine Man says to me.

Junior takes me through the living room and stops me in the kitchen doorway. The house is dark. Junior is tense, his body coiled. He pulls my hat down over my eyes. A car engine starts. There’s a shout from Medicine Man. Junior pushes me down into a squatting position.

“No talk,” he orders. I nod. There’s a sudden push—the signal to move. I squat-run through the kitchen, turn left through a doorway and step out into air, outside sounds. Through the bottom of my hat I can see the gritty surface of pavement. The breezes on my chin feel like fresh-air kisses. The yearning for freedom flares madly. He takes me to the back of the vehicle. They lift me into the trunk like a helpless puppet. The trunk is empty and clean.

“No talking,” Medicine Man says one last time. “It not long. Ten, fifteen minutes and we are there.” The trunk lid slams shut. I breathe in. There’s a vague smell of vinyl. I lift my head as high as I can but I can’t touch anything. I stretch my legs. Six inches is all I can move them. I can just touch the back of the trunk with my handcuffed hands. My heart is beating like a jackhammer, my mind reeling into panic. What’s going to happen to me? Am I going to be shot? Are they going to abandon the car with me in it? Am I going to slowly asphyxiate, starve, die horribly in this steel coffin? What happens if there’s a flat tire, or the vehicle breaks down en route? What if the car is searched at a checkpoint?
You have to stay calm
, a voice says.

Doors slam. Laughter, voices. Medicine Man and a woman. His girlfriend? It’s a perfect cover. Who would suspect a “husband and wife” of transporting a hostage in the trunk of their car? I hear the slide-roll-clang of a gate opening. The clutch engages, the car eases forward, turns left, stops. The gate slides closed. A car door clicks open and slams shut. Junior in the back seat, jabbering excitedly. We’re moving again. I feel the turning of wheels, the hum-throb of engine and transmission. First gear, second gear, third, roll to a stop, a turn to the left. Another eruption of laughter led by Medicine Man. Somebody turns the radio on. The speaker is just above my shoulder. It’s an American army radio station. They’re playing something hard and metal.