Captivity (28 page)

“Najis,”
Junior scowls contemptuously. He points to Tom’s left hand and scolds him.
“La, la,”
he says. In Arabic culture, the left hand is considered unclean and never used at table or in greeting.

“It’s because I’m left-handed,” Tom says. Junior glares and Tom switches the spoon to his right hand.

Junior points at me.
“Shoo
? What this?” He apes the way I’ve been eating by taking small bites from an imaginary spoon and chewing
with exaggerated delicacy.
“La Iraqi,”
he says disdainfully. He points at the others. Eat quickly, he seems to be telling me, with gusto like them, this is the Iraqi way.

“Iraqi, Iraqi,”
Nephew says, nodding in vigorous support.

I pat my stomach and smile.
“Akeel
good.
Shokren,”
I say. Junior shakes his head irritably. I don’t mind. If the way we eat matters so much to them, it means they aren’t planning to kill us any time soon.

I tell myself it isn’t Harmeet and Tom’s fault. Hunger is a fierce, indomitable force. It gnaws at you, possesses you like a demon, reduces you to your basest instincts. They were simply hungry. But, try as I might, I can’t talk myself down. The rage won’t stop. I swallow hard. Saying something means breaking the unspoken rule that has governed us rigidly since the first day of our captivity. We work valiantly at it, in every interaction, with generosity, respect, sensitivity to feelings, asking for permission, offering apology for imposition, restraining emotion. It is a relentless discipline. Avoid conflict at all times and in every instance. Our lives depend on it.

Miraculously and marvellously, it has worked for the most part, but now I am chafing against this silent imperative. I can’t do it anymore. Yes, the prospect of an uncontrolled conflict fills me with dread, but unless we can find a constructive way to deal with it, someone is going to explode, and it most likely will to be me. I clear my throat. The time has come.

First, the carefully prepared opening statement. “I’m sorry to have to bring this up. I debated all day about whether or not I should. I tried really hard to let go of it, but I just wasn’t able to.” Then the benefit of the doubt. “You may not have been aware of it, but …” The naming of names. “…  Tom and Harmeet …” And the point of no return. My breath catches. I hesitate. Maybe I shouldn’t. Anger forces the words out. “You ate really fast and took more than your fair share. I felt like I had to race to keep up with you. I never want to be put in this position again.”

Tom apologizes right away. Harmeet, stricken, mortified, shrinks into his chair. In some way I hadn’t anticipated, my words have wounded him. “It’s all right,” I say, reaching desperately for some way to take back what I’ve said. “It’s easy to happen. We’re all so hungry.”

Harmeet doesn’t answer. He can’t. His silence feels like a lash. Tom throws me a lifeline. How can we prevent this from happening in the future? he asks. Norman suggests dividing the serving into four. We don’t need to be slavish about being fair, I say, as long as we’re attentive and eat at the pace of the slowest person. Tom promises to pay more attention.

“Thanks, Tom,” I say. For being so gracious.

Harmeet disappears into a shroud of silence. Tom, Norman and I converse in fits and starts of small talk. We hobble through the day like a dog with a broken leg. For the first time in our captivity we go to sleep without saying good night to each other. I toss and turn all night in self-reproach.

JANUARY 11
DAY 47

Morning exercise. Harmeet’s face is ashen. He avoids my eyes. I wonder if he will bring me a glass of water, as he always does, when he finishes his turn in the bathroom. He doesn’t. I approach him in the middle of some sit-ups. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, I’m the one at fault,” he whispers. “It’s me.” I barely hear him. He turns onto his stomach and begins a round of push-ups. He has nothing more to say.

It’s going to be a long day
, I tell myself.

Uncle enters the room with a big smile on his face.
“Melabas, melabas,”
he says, pinching the cuff of his shirt. We don’t understand.
“Frook hind.
Frook hind.”
He pulls at his shirt, sniffs it, makes a face, makes a whirling gesture with his hands.

Our faces break into joyous smiles. He’s going to let us wash our clothes! My imagination leaps wildly. Does this means we’re going to be released for Eid?

There was no Eid release, but we did get to do laundry. It is draped all over the barricade now and hanging on the banisters in the foyer. It was a relief to be handcuff free for a while and doing something useful, hands working vigorously in warm-water balm, a relief to get away from Harmeet’s funereal mood. He didn’t say a word all day.

It is during our check-in that he finally breaks his silence. “About what happened yesterday … I … what I did … that’s not … my grandfather went through much worse than this. He would never have done what I did. He went hungry to save somebody else, and I took more than my share.”

Harmeet is referring to the dark, famished months when his grandfather was a prisoner of war in a Pakistani concentration camp. A veteran sergeant in his mid-thirties, the same age as Harmeet is now, he took two Sikh soldiers under his wing. No more than boys, he counselled them when they were losing their faith, nursed them through sickness and fed them his rations to keep them alive. It is the singular act of solidarity and sacrifice that governs Harmeet’s moral universe. When I confronted him for taking more than his share from the common dish, something he hadn’t been aware of, he went into a spiral of shame. He had failed the example of his grandfather, and therefore failed everything he had ever hoped to be.

When the captors depart with the lantern, and all is finished for this day, Harmeet’s nocturnal benediction returns. “Good night, gentlemen.”

“Good night, Harmeet,” we say. He cannot see, but in the dark I am smiling. Harmeet has found his way back to us. All is right with the world again.

JANUARY 14
DAY 50

Nephew is standing in the doorway, all smiles. “Big
Haji
in Jordan,” he says excitedly.

“Faloos, faloos,”
Uncle says, bending over our wrists, locking us up for the day. He puts one hand on top of the other, slides his palm forward and lifts his hand into the air. “Schoooo,” he hisses, mimicking the sound of a jet taking off.
“Canadi, Britannia, Amriki.”
The two men leave.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Norman says.

“I’m just trying to stay in the present moment,” Tom says.

“It’s probably just another false alarm,” I say.

“We can’t believe anything they tell us,” Harmeet says.

But we do. They bait their hooks with little morsels of hope and we bite down hard. It’s a paradox. The days when we know nothing will happen, when we know there is no chance of being released—these days are easier. Much, much easier, in fact. We float and frolic in the stories we tell, the games we invent, the riddles we pose to each other. On those days we swim in pulsing currents, surf on curling waves. At the end of such days we say to each other, “You know, today went by quickly,” or “Today wasn’t too bad.”

But on days like today, when there is even the faintest hope of release, time grinds to a halt. Every minute and every hour becomes a piercing lance.
Today, tomorrow, any day. I get the call and you release. Not long now. Just some small negotiation
. Such days move slower than glaciers and pass through us with the screaming agony of kidney stones.
When! when! when!
our minds and bodies cry. We obsess, speculate, hypothesize, argue about contingencies. Now isn’t soon enough. We burn in the fire of our expectations.

Present moment, present moment
. It sends me to the brink every time he says it. But Tom’s right. There are moments when the four of us, all at the same time, slip out of our handcuffs and chains and lose ourselves in the story we’re telling, the game we’re playing, the riddle we’re solving. I call it breaking into the present. It seems to only happen when we let go of all expectation. Then the walls around us disappear and we’re simply four friends sitting together enjoying each other’s company. We could be drinking beer on a front porch
or pitching horseshoes on a summer day. We have entered the Palace of Now, the only place where we are truly free.

JANUARY 16
DAY 52

“You know, last night I had this dream,” Tom tells us during his check-in. “We were sitting here in the room and Junior came in. His face was a mask of evil. He said somebody has been sold. One of you has to go. He had a gun in his hand. We looked at each other. Nobody moved. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘one of you must decide.’ Then I stood up. ‘I’ll go. I’ll be the one.’

“That’s when I woke up. My heart was pounding and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I began to think, over and over in my mind, could I do that? Could I really do that? And it struck me, you guys are my friends. Yeah, I could do that, I said to myself. I really think I could do that.”

No one speaks. For a moment I’m angry.
Why are you telling us this?
I wonder. I steal a look at Tom out of the corner of my eye. His face is open, searching, reaching. He wants some response. I don’t know what to say. Tom’s nobility astounds and shames me. This, in fact, is a scenario I’ve secretly tested in my imagination. Would I be willing to offer my life in the same way? I have to force myself to admit it: no, probably not.

Someone coughs. Norman continues on with his check-in. Our lack of acknowledgement feels like a betrayal. We are captives indeed.

JANUARY 18
DAY 54

“
Haji kabir
in Baghdad,” Nephew announces. We are confused. Is he referring to Medicine Man or the negotiator? He puts his hand above his head to indicate someone with greater authority. It’s the negotiator. What about,
Haji Shwaya?
we ask—Medicine Man. Can you call him and ask him to come? It’s been
thnein asbooah
. Two weeks. Nephew says okay and leaves. He returns a few minutes later, pointing to his watch.
“Haji
one o’clock in house. News good.”

We wait on pins and needles, our ears leaping at every sound. Could this be the Phone Call, the Footstep, the Voice that brings The News? One o’clock comes and goes. At two o’clock we hear the kitchen door open and close, the rattle of the gate, the arrival of a car. Medicine Man enters the house on a wave of laughter. Voices collect at the bottom of the stairs. Finally. His shoes click briskly in the stairway. He crosses the foyer in five steps. He’s in a hurry. “News good,” Medicine Man says. “One week and you release. We have some negotiation and you release. All of you. The Canadians first.”

“What is involved with these negotiations?” Norman asks.

“Negotiation with your government. The Canadians are no problem. The British have some little problem. The Americans, they have some problem. They not negotiate. Anything else?”

I ask about the notebooks. “I am sorry. I forget. I bring for you.” He slips out the door and is gone.

“Oh God, not another week,” I moan.

“At
least
a week,” Tom says. He’s gently reminding me. “Canadians first.” I’m jolted by shame. I was so preoccupied with my own release that I failed to see the devastating implication.

“Hey, look what I found!” Harmeet exclaims. He’s holding the nail he found stuck in his shoe before Christmas.

I stare as though it has magical powers. “Where was it?” I ask.

“Buried in my pocket.”

“The whole time?” I try not to sound suspicious.

“It must’ve been. I found it when I switched back to wearing my track pants this morning.”

I ask him for it. “Remember that movie,” I say, “how they opened their handcuffs with a piece of wire? Let’s try it!” No one says anything. “How does it look, Tom? Coast clear?”

“Yup. Nothing’s happening that I can hear,” Tom says.

“We can use a little amusement,” Norman says.

It is an act of defiance that both thrills and terrifies me. I stick the
nail into the keyhole of my left handcuff and start digging. “Any joy?” Norman asks.

“I’m afraid not. Why don’t you give it a try.” Norman inserts the nail into his handcuff and pushes counter-clockwise, increasing the force until his hand shakes. “Be careful of the mechanism,” I say. “It’ll be difficult to explain if the handcuffs suddenly don’t work.” Norman continues with less force. “Pull up on the handcuff,” I say to Harmeet. He pulls, there’s a click and the handcuff releases.

“Joy!” Norman says.

I can hardly contain my excitement. I have to try again. I turn the nail counter-clockwise and pull on the ratchet. It opens like a charm. I can’t believe it! I examine the handcuff carefully. The design is startlingly simple. The ratchet passes through a housing and catches against a spring-loaded pawl. The key turns against the pawl and the ratchet swings free.

“It’s quite strange,” Harmeet says, “how the nail was sticking into my shoe. Do you think someone could have stuck it there deliberately?” The idea of a secret ally is exhilarating.

“If I had to pick somebody, it would be Nephew,” Tom says, as if reading my mind.

My body shivers with excitement—or is it fear? We now have the capacity to escape.

Tom is keen. Unlocking our handcuffs will help him to sleep better. Norman is too. He’ll be able to turn more easily onto his side and stand up to stretch in the middle of the night without disturbing me. Harmeet thinks it’s worth trying. I don’t. It’s an unnecessary risk, I tell them. We’re gambling away the possibility of escape for the luxury of a better night’s sleep. My voice is hot. If they discover the nail, they’ll take it away. We should only use it for trying to escape.

“Tom and Norman are chained up,” Harmeet says. “We can’t all escape.” We might figure something out in the future, I say. Harmeet disagrees. “We have to deal with our circumstances as they are in the
present,” he says. “It’s not an option for everybody, and I’m not going to try until it is. But since we have the nail, we might as well use it to make things easier.”