Captivity (29 page)

“Maybe there’s some way we can pick the locks,” I say lamely. No one answers. I have to make a choice: I can share the risks faced by Norman and Tom by saying yes, or I can protect the possibility of escape for myself by saying no. I’m willing to try it, I say, but we have to minimize the risk of getting caught.

“Do you have the Instrument of Grace?” Norman says to Harmeet.

“The Instrument of Grace?” Harmeet asks.

“Why, your little nail, of course!”

Harmeet chuckles. “Yeah, it’s right here in my pocket.”

Norman opens his handcuff in a matter of seconds. The rest of us struggle, but we manage. We practise locking up quickly in the event the captors come to check on us. The fastest we get is twenty-three seconds.

I object. That’s too slow. Tom says he’ll block the door. I say the captors will know there’s something going on right away. Tom says he’ll pretend he’s using the
hamam
bottle. What about the sound of the handcuffs clicking closed? We practise closing them as quietly as we can. It’s still too loud, I say. Tom says he’ll pretend to have a coughing fit. I’m not convinced. Tom insists it’ll be okay. Norman and Harmeet really want to do it. It’s against my better judgment, but in the end I agree. We sleep with our handcuffs unlocked.

I love it—the ability to cradle my head, swat mosquitoes with impunity, rest my hands on my chest or move them wherever I please. But I don’t sleep. I’m braced, girded, ready to move at the first sign of danger. I toss and turn in an agony of questions. Are we sealing our doom, Harmeet and I, by not acting to escape? What happens if we do try to escape and we’re successful? How will we find someone
to help us? What if this is an insurgent neighbourhood? Would we be jumping out of a frying pan into a fire? Where would we hide? A trash bin? Someone’s garden? A construction site? What do we do then—flag down a car, wait for a military convoy, run into a store or an apartment building? Will this put innocent people in jeopardy? And if we do find someone to help us, how do we explain our situation? I don’t know how to call the police—I don’t even know the team’s phone number! And what about Norman and Tom? The consequences could be fatal. On the other hand, isn’t it better to spare at least one family terrible grief than have all four of us perish? But then, if we try it and fail, there is the prospect of merciless beatings, excruciating punishment, death. It’s a zero-sum game. We can wait it out and risk getting killed, or risk getting killed in trying to escape.

The night passes in a merry-go-round of buts spiralling around
what
-ifs. It’s a relief when daylight creeps into the room. “Are you guys sleeping? It’s starting to get light,” I whisper. “We better put our handcuffs back on.”

It is only when my wrists are safely handcuffed again that I fall fast asleep.

JANUARY 20
DAY 56

The voices—loud, excited, running into each other—move to the bottom of the stairway. It sounds like a party. The voices subside. Footsteps in the foyer. Junior and Uncle appear.
“T’al wiyaya,”
Junior says. “Downstairs.”

Uncle unlocks us. I scramble to put my shoes on. I’m irritated with myself. I should be ready, always ready. You know neither the day nor the hour.

“
La
shoes. Come on,” Junior says. My chest tightens like a drum. Where are they taking us? What’s going to happen to us?

We follow Junior through the dark foyer and down the stairs. Nephew, waiting at the bottom, directs us to turn left through an open door. The room we enter is grand, at least fifteen by twenty feet. The walls are plum
grey and crowned with butterscotch-coloured mouldings. A ceiling fan hangs between two cascading chandeliers. The floor is covered with a hard-worn Turkish rug. The walls opposite the door and to my left are banked with cobalt drapes that reach from floor to ceiling.

There’s noise, confusion, people everywhere at once. Video Man is at the door holding a camera. He grips my arm and leads me towards three plastic lawn chairs lined against a blank expanse of wall. He turns me around and pushes me into a chair. He grabs Harmeet’s arm and ushers him towards the chair next to me. Tom is next. “No, I can stand,” he objects, pointing to the empty chair. “For the Doctor. Old man.
Kabir, kabir.”

“Ogod!”
Video Man barks, face reddening. Tom offers to get a chair from upstairs.

“Sit down,” Junior orders, jabbing Tom in the chest with his index finger.

“Chair for Norman. Doctor
kabir,”
Tom says.

“Sit down,” I hear another voice say. I look up. It’s Medicine Man. He takes a step towards Tom. His eyes are blazing.

I’m incredulous.
Tom
—what’re
you doing?!
“It’s their show,” I try to warn him. “Just sit down.”

Junior takes hold of Tom’s shoulders and forces him to sit. Video Man’s face and gestures are urgent, almost frantic. He points to Norman and Tom. Medicine Man shrugs his shoulders and steps back. Video Man is clearly in charge. He pulls me out of the chair and leads me to a bed heaped with clutter located against the wall. He wants me to sit here instead. I move a plate encrusted with food to make space to sit down. He brings Harmeet to sit next to me.

Then I notice the little boy. He is leaning against a second bed located against the curtain-covered wall to my right, fingers in his mouth, staring at the floor.

Norman has been standing in the doorway to my left. Uncle instructs him to sit down in the chair next to Tom. Norman doesn’t understand.
“Imshee,”
Uncle says. When Norman doesn’t move, Uncle grabs him by the lapels and jerks him towards the chair like a rag doll. Norman’s eyes
are wide, startled, full of fear. Medicine Man touches Uncle’s arm. Uncle lets go with a laugh, fixes Norman’s lapels and steps back.

“I am sorry, Doctor,” Medicine Man says to Norman. “The big man, he is joking. Always he is joking.”

Video Man shoves sticks of gum into Tom’s and Norman’s mouths and lectures them in Arabic. They nod blankly.

Medicine Man steps towards us. He looks pressured. “It’s good to see you,” I say.

He rolls his eyes and exhales. “We have nothing but problems. The border is closed now for two days. Mooshkilla! Our negotiator cannot get back to Baghdad.”

Medicine Man turns back to Norman and Tom. I return my attention to the little boy. Junior is squatting beside him, talking quietly. He turns towards us and points. The boy looks at us cautiously. Our eyes meet. I smile and wink. The boy looks away.
“Zane, zane,”
I hear Junior say. He takes the boy’s hand and brings him towards us. The boy hangs back. Junior smiles. I smile.

“Good, good,” he says to the boy, shaking my hand to show I’m a friend. He encourages him to do the same. I hold out my hand. His hand moves towards me for a brief moment, but then he pulls it away and runs back to the other bed. Junior shrugs his shoulders.

My attention shifts back to Tom and Norman. Video Man is standing in front of them, gesturing, castigating. “We don’t understand,” Tom says.
“La Arabi.”

Medicine Man steps in. “You speak to the camera that you are in good health, you have the good treatment, everything is okay. Just like before. In a high voice. You speak to the camera for the immediate withdrawal of the American soldier. You must to speak against the occupation. That is all. Do you understand?” Tom nods.

As Medicine Man is talking, Video Man approaches us.
“La ilaha illa Allah, Muhammadu Rasul Allah,”
he says. There is no god but God, Muhammad is the Messenger of God. His eyes roll piously upwards and he points his right index finger towards heaven. He searches our faces intently. “This Quran.
Allah wahid. Allah wahid.”
Video Man looks heavenward with open
palms. An ecstatic look flashes across his face.
“Allah,”
he mumbles reverently, as if praying. He makes the sign of the cross on his chest.
“Mozane. El messiahiyea mozane
. No good,” he says, his eyes flashing hate.

A cold chill sweeps through my body. Medicine Man calls to him. Video Man turns away abruptly.

“What the hell was that?” I whisper to Harmeet.

“Disturbing,” he says.

Video Man is standing on a chair, pointing his camera at Tom. “Okay, you begin,” Medicine Man says to Tom. Tom faces the camera and takes a breath. He speaks calmly, authoritatively. Medicine Man signals Norman. As he begins to speak, he is interrupted by the baleful mewing of a cat. Somebody giggles. Medicine Man barks at Uncle.

Uncle parts the curtain and taps gently on the window. “Shhhhh,” he says, putting his finger to his mouth. The cat stops mewing. Uncle turns from the window and stands with his hands behind his back, a soldier at ease.

“Again,” Medicine Man says to Norman. When Norman is finished, Harmeet and I exchange places with him and Tom. As Video Man stands scowling in front of us, behind him Junior is bending down to the little boy. The boy is restless, wants to move about the room. Junior lifts him onto his knee and whispers in his ear. The little boy nods his head and settles obediently.

Video Man speaks to us in Arabic.
“La Arabi, la Arabi,”
we say. He turns to Medicine Man in frustration.

“He want you to say that you have the good treatment,” Medicine Man interprets. “You must to beg the Canadian government, the Canadian people, to release you. And you must to beg the Pope for your release, say to him he must to withdraw from Iraq.”

Harmeet and I look at each other. “The Pope?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

“You must to beg the Pope for you release. He tell me the Pope have some forces here.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say, shaking my head. “The Pope doesn’t have any forces here. It will just look silly if I say that.”

The two men confer. Video Man looks at me sharply. Medicine Man turns back to us and waves his hand. “It does not matter. Just your government then.” When we’ve both made our speeches, he signals us to stand.

“At least I didn’t say ‘thank you to our captors’ this time,” Harmeet says in a low voice.

“You did great,” I say. “An Oscar-winning performance.”

Medicine Man and Video Man confer. Video Man issues instructions to Junior and Uncle. Junior moves the three chairs out of the way and Uncle lines the four of us up against the wall.
I hope they offer us a cigarette before they shoot us
, I think.

Video Man stands on the bed where we were sitting. He looks into the camera, points, gives directions to Medicine Man. Medicine Man gives directions to Junior. Junior moves us together until our shoulders touch.

“This video is to show you live,” Medicine Man tells us. “Our negotiator have some meeting and he give this video to show you live. Now you just to say your name and the day. That is all. You know the day today?”

“January 20,” Tom says.

We each state our name and the date. Video Man pans over us one last time. Confusion immediately follows. Video Man grabs Tom’s arm, Junior chases the little boy, Uncle talks to Norman. I step towards Medicine Man to ask if he can tell us more about the negotiations. He’s stressed, wipes his brow. “Just some small thing. I think you—and you”—he points to Harmeet and me—“you release in four, maybe five days. We have some exchange of money, file closed and go.”

I am just about to ask another question when Video Man grabs my arm and hustles me out of the room. It is all I can do to stop myself from smashing him in the face. He releases me at the bottom of the stairs. I go back to our room and sit in my chair.

JANUARY 25
DAY 61

Our third bath day. Uncle fires up the kerosene heater for us. Life is not so bad. We’re warm for a change and I feel human again. After many days
of requests, Uncle has finally brought scissors so we can trim our moustaches. It’s been driving me crazy, the growth of beard over my lip, the way it gets in my mouth every time I eat. And Harmeet has news, both good and bad. The bad news is that the door to the roof is locked. Harmeet snuck up the stairs during laundry, when the captors weren’t looking. The door is secured with a heavy padlock, he says. There’s no way to open it. As for the good news, Nephew has told him there’s a prisoner exchange under way. Four hundred and fifty Iraqi detainees for the four of us.

It seems too fantastic to believe. Still, I can’t help myself. “That would make this worth it,” I say. “If our kidnapping results in the release of a few hundred Iraqis.” The hope of release burns in me all day like an out-of-control wildfire.

JANUARY 28
DAY 64

Medicine Man comes to see us with news. “This very secret,” he tells us. “The Americans will not negotiate for Tom. So we make the prisoner exchange instead. They release 450 of our men, four of our womens. We are just waiting now for two of our womens to be release, and one of our men in the U.S.—Omar Abdel-Rahman. He is the blind sheik. The Americans never say they make this release because of our negotiation. They say this is normal, we just to make the normal release. But it is not. This is our negotiation.” He pauses for breath. “The Canadian money is not a problem, but it not in Baghdad. The negotiations are complete, except for some money from Jack Straw. The British are cold. Only some time now. One day, two day, and go. Canadian money in Baghdad and go. File closed.”

“What about the notebooks?” I say.

He hits his forehead and laughs. “I am sorry. I am bad for this. I bring for you. They are just in my car.” Then he is gone.

“One day, two day, and go,” Harmeet says, imitating Medicine Man.

“File closed,” I say.

–

We dissect, analyze, parse every word. It appears they’re trying to roll a three-pronged negotiation—a prisoner exchange for Tom masked as a routine security-detainee discharge with separate British and Canadian ransom payments—into one release package. It seems like a coherent narrative, but there are two ominously discordant notes. “The British are cold,” Medicine Man said. What does that mean? And the release of Rahman-whoever-he-is. That’s an unrealistic demand. They’ll never agree to that. (Upon our release I learn he was convicted for his involvement in the 1993 al Qaeda bombing of the World Trade Center.)