News From the Red Desert (38 page)

Rami Issay and Chayse Simpson listened as Sara Miller briefed Mr. Burnett on her idea.

“Chayse, tell him your thoughts about the narrative drivers at work here.”

“Oh, yes, sure. It has to do with the complicated status of Mr. Issay's character, as being both completely other and the only solace available in horrible circumstance. He conflates the ideas of comfort and threat in a way that could sustain narrative tension almost indefinitely, if done right.”

“That's interesting. Sara, who do you see writing this?”

Simpson answered: “Me, I should write this.”

Mr. Burnett turned to her and paid attention to what he saw for the first time.

“What have you written?”

“This will be my first show.”

“So, nothing?”

“She could do it, Mark.”

“That would be a pretty risky bet.”

“We're used to those. Remember the first days of
Firefighters' Hoses
? Let's get her to write a pilot.”

“What about
Stars Earn Stripes
?”

“We'll feature him in episode four and then create a social media storm about him.”

“So who's writing episode four?' ”

“I am,” Simpson said.

“Of course you are.” Burnett turned back to Miller. “Does she ever let up?”

Miller shook her head.

As the afternoon wore on, Rami Issay began fretting about the screening. People had been coming by all day asking about it. He had the sense that the turnout might be much larger than with either of their previous showings. At about five, he excused himself from Sara Miller and Mr. Burnett. He went into the back and asked Rashid and Mohammed to begin setting up the chairs. He'd requested a hundred more than last time and now he worried that he still wouldn't have enough.

At six, Rashid set up the projector and ran the extension cord to it. Rami Issay pulled the popcorn popper into place and then pushed a cooler he had borrowed from the DFAC beside it. He loaded it with bottled water. Amr came outside to help now, too. Rami Issay had decided to close the café between seven and ten, so everyone could concentrate on the film. Fazil had pointed out that the screening was not an income-generating event, and was only justified as a way of increasing traffic to the café, so what was he accomplishing by closing it? Rami Issay rolled his eyes, and told Fazil that they could talk about this later.

By seven the line approaching the café was a hundred metres long. The day was still quite bright and Rashid was still setting up the last of the chairs.
Batman.
It was the perfect choice. Next he would ask for
Fantastic Four
—another Jessica Alba vehicle—and then
Iron Man,
some of the
Spider-Man
films. Come autumn, he would book more
thoughtful offerings. Maybe some of those Clint Eastwood directorial projects. He might even be running the café by that point. Rami Issay could be in California.

Deirdre O'Malley sat down forlornly in the sea of happy soldiers. She had heard back from Lattice. “Thanx. Will confirm all.” She'd put her forehead down on her little desk and breathed in and out just as deeply as she could for a long time. Then she filed the piece. Then she thought to herself that it would be better if she were not alone just then. She got up and walked toward the café. She wondered why there was a lineup on Screaming Eagle Way but then saw the rows of chairs.
Batman.
Excellent.

Simpson walked in front of the crowd and took a photograph of it. Later this picture would be studied in considerable detail. The thing everyone would always point out was how happy everyone looked.

In the second row, behind the long-legged men, was Just Amachai, who had come with the hope of seeing Mohammed. Beside her, Amr Chalabi sat with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He had loved Batman since he was a little boy. He had bought the bootleg DVDs of the Michael Keaton and George Clooney
Batman
movies, but he thought that this Christian Bale might be the best Batman yet.

Next to him was Anakopoulus. He had not been arrested. His bosses were not acting oddly. At last he felt that the eye of the storm had moved on. On Anakopoulus's other side sat several nurses from the hospital across the road. Despite the nice weather recently, the fighting—or at least the number of wounded reaching KAF—had been light. The nurses were rested, and the medics and doctors, sitting in the row behind them, were, too.
Batman Returns.
And popcorn and fountain drinks. What could be better?

Just Amachai scanned the crowd for Mohammed. She wanted badly to talk to him. She could not find him. Then she spotted him beside the popcorn popper, operating the butter dispenser. He felt her staring at him, perhaps, because at that moment he looked out at the crowd. She waved to him. He glanced at her, then went back to his work. He had seen her, she felt certain. It eased her ache a little.

Burnett and Miller sat in their reserved seats behind Just Amachai. The rest of the chairs were taken and the light was failing. Latecomers sat on the ground to the sides or stood at the back behind the chairs. Soon the film would begin. As would
Batman.
Again.

Rob Waller wandered up around then. His flight was not until the following morning and he was tired of contemplating the idea of actually looking forward to getting back to Iraq. That was too discomfiting to bear much contemplation. He looked around for someone he knew. He saw his old friend, the sergeant from Bar Harbor, but he was with some other SF NCOs and he decided not to join them and found a spot to stand at the back.

A platoon of Jordanian infantry occupied the last row of chairs. This was unprecedented, seeing the Jordanians out after dark. They had neatly stooked their rifles—AK-47s—with one of their number standing guard. The rest of the men looked as if it took every bit of will they possessed not to break out into gleeful laughter.

Rashid made his way to the projector in the centre of the crowd. He had not left enough room between the chairs to permit free passage and as he slipped between the rows, he tripped many times, “Excuse me, excuse me…” And he thought he was tripped a few times but he wasn't sure.

Finally he reached the projector. He turned on the warming light for the bulb. He looked at his watch. The desert sky was blue-black in the east and in the west, lit up with oranges and reds. He looked over to Rami Issay by the cash register and popcorn popper. Rami Issay looked at the sky and then at his watch. He nodded. Rashid hit play.

The cone of light stabbed into the darkness, and in its stream could be observed innumerable insects, dancing in the light. The hubbub settled
down as the film flickered to life. A softball game was being played in a desert compound; innocence and simple pleasure. A bomb goes off. Then another. This was not, actually, Gotham City. And Jamie Foxx was not in
Batman Returns.
Amr knew this immediately. They had gotten the wrong film again. Of course they had. Title sequence.
The Kingdom.
Rashid turned off the projector.

He looked toward to Rami Issay, holding his palms up. They had seen trailers online for this movie but did not remember the specifics. That miscreant in Ramstein put the wrong film in the cases just to mess with them. But four hundred people were growing restless now and this was the only film they had. It could be worse.
The Kingdom.
A Jamie Foxx adventure vehicle. Rami Issay motioned to Rashid to carry on. He was definitely going to file a formal complaint about this.

But it was much worse than simply not
Batman Returns.
Every Muslim in the film was a terrorist or a terrorist sympathizer. Arabs were brutal, stupid cowards. Amr stood up to leave and he was hissed at for blocking the view. He sat down again. Rami Issay collapsed on a crate. He could not watch the screen. When he did look up he surveyed the audience, who had been puzzled when
Batman
had not shown up on the screen, but had settled in comfortably enough. He searched the faces until he found Mr. Burnett and Ms Miller. They were eating popcorn and whispering to one another. They seemed to be enjoying the show. He glanced at Amr, whose expression was so impassive, someone who didn't know him might have thought he was sleepy.