The electric shock sent me flipping into air, it was more like I shot up, and the scream that poured out of my mouth was strange, as if I had learnt to speak like my human companions and was just like them, screaming gibberish. I could hear Momo and Bro Ali giggling behind me. I was screaming and yelping like a Mutt prophet who has just received his first prophecy and who is terrified and who wants to return it to the sender. More giggles behind my back. It took me a while to realize that there might have been comic potential in my situation. It occurred to me later that my brothers with their black and white wraps around their waists and their young torsos glistening in the drizzle had no malice towards me. But in that moment I felt like a Mutt. My brain turned them into these neon devilish figures, who were breathing fire and cackling like mad djinns and were about to tear me apart and throw me to other hungry dogs.
Yet in that moment I became me. Before that I was just another above-average Mutt with common desires, beastly urges and an appetite for home-cooked food, but in that moment I rose above the ranks of common strays who had adopted troubled families and were trying their best.
Momo says my brain got fried in that accident. I think I became a philosopher that day.
It was the worst day of my life.
But, who knows, maybe it was the best day of my life.
CHAPTER 21
Ellie
I have had enough of that stupid cockpit–womb analogy. Don’t tell me the cockpit is like a slick womb, paid for by taxpayers, where you can go and hide and feel safe from this world because you refuse to engage with it. Don’t tell me I take things too literally when I remind you that no womb comes fitted with Sidewinder missiles.
When I’m on a mission Cath usually acts as if wars have been started in twenty-three countries so that her husband can stay away from her. I am not personally involved in all twenty-three wars, nor is my unit, and even if it was I wouldn’t be allowed to tell her. But it is quite a stretch to think that your husband finds your evenings together on the sofa so terrifying that he’d rather fly halfway around the world to bomb some place that is already a ruin because of all the previous bombings. That’s not how war works, that’s not how nations operate.
The cockpit isn’t a womb I retreat into; it’s my workplace. I go there to perform a certain task. And, like every task, it’s divided into subsets of tasks. And, after a successful mission, like a home run, one is allowed, how should I put it, a little celebration. And that’s an essential part of the task, it gives meaning to your work, even if your work involves flying two thousand miles up and down very low over enemy territory just to draw fire, so that your buddies can pinpoint hostile pockets. Flying low over potentially hostile settlements and breaking the sound barrier is part of the job. But how do you explain this to your loved ones without freaking them out? So I keep quiet and just say stuff like: That’s work, babe, it’s noisy work but someone’s got to do it. But even when I’m saying it I sound like some kind of ageing geek who tinkers with old transistors in his garage and wants to be respected for having a passion. A passion.
I can’t really tell her that I’ve sometimes volunteered for missions when I could have taken time off and stayed home, building that fence, mowing that lawn, making that curry for which I stuck a recipe to the fridge three months ago.
I can’t really tell her that I find it much easier to drop a load from forty thousand feet than to have a quiet weekend afternoon under her watchful eyes and answer questions like: Is something the matter, you seem quite distant today?
How do I tell her that there actually is something on my mind. I have been contemplating the lemon-scented dishwashing liquid she’s started using. I don’t really hate lemons, I mean who does; everyone likes them in one form or the other. But do you really want your morning coffee cup smelling of industrial lemon? I mean you have just woken up, you’re having your first cup of the day, is it an unreasonable expectation to smell some real coffee? But what you get is a nauseating waft of lemon first thing in the morning. And you can wash your cup before you use it, but what do you wash it with? The same lemon-scented Vim. And even if you rinse it seven times after that, your day has begun with a bad smell.
If you want to smell lemons first thing in the morning that’s your choice, it’s a gender-neutral choice, I am sure there are men out there who start their day by drinking warm lemonade and call it lemon tea. Or there are people who start their day by drinking a litre of warm water and then throw up, yes deliberately throw up, and that is supposed to improve their digestion and keep them virile in their later years. Who am I to judge them? To each their own. It’s a free country, if people want to start their day by smelling and drinking disgusting and smelly things, they can. We’re fighting this war and the previous war and the ones budgeted for next year in order to bring some of these freedoms to the other parts of the world. But if she prefers Vim lemon, if she likes its smell, does it give her the right to shove lemon up my nose first thing in the morning? I mean I am all for equality of the sexes and the distribution of labour between a couple, she chooses to do the dishes and she chooses it because it soothes her, calms her down, and then she goes and does this.
So there I was, sitting on the sofa while she asked me why I have that distant look on my face; she was trying to talk about my condition and I was thinking here’s someone who has no qualms about shoving lemons down my throat every morning and then pretending to care about my mental condition.
In our ‘Suppression of Inexplicable Urges’ module I learnt to let your emotion stay with you, let it grow, and then only let it come out when you can create an ambience that is pleasant.
I can exercise extreme patience in such cases, I have learnt. Because when you are living with someone, that other person is in your domain, and you are in their domain, and it doesn’t matter who is paying the major part of the mortgage or who picked up the bill when the hot water tank broke down last, you are both in each other’s domain. You must preserve yourself. Don’t let the other person un-self you.
So I didn’t say a thing, I didn’t mention lemons, in fact I didn’t mention any fruits, any washing liquid. Instead I said, ‘Cath, when was the last time we went to Traviata?’
She gave me a puzzled look as if I was asking her a trick question, and I swear upon my unborn baby’s head that I have never in my life asked her a trick question.
‘I don’t know, it’s been a while,’ she said in a non-committal way, as if she believed there was a right and wrong answer to this question. ‘Yes, it’s been a while. Why don’t we book a table?’
La Traviata is the kind of pretentious place that tries very hard not to be pretentious. Mismatched chairs, fake old newspapers instead of tablecloths, crockery that looks like it has been made at a hobby club. Salt and pepper shakers adorned with tribal art. In fact, exactly the kind of place that Cath’s mother would have started if she had been interested in home-cooked Italian food as a small business opportunity and not thrown herself under the train that was carrying Cath to college.
We got a good table, the kind of table that Cath considers good anyway, we were sitting side by side and could see everybody. I guess everybody could see us too. We didn’t have to look at each other while talking, we could look at other people or at our food while talking. Before we had ordered our mains, in fact even before our starters arrived, the waiter brought a small bread basket and a large ceramic dish with a dollop of pink butter and a tiny dish of olive oil. No problems there, one is a citizen of the world and if that means getting a dollop of pink garlic-infused butter with your complimentary bread, that’s fine. But along with the dollop of pink butter sat two lemons wrapped and tied in white cotton gauze. I had come to this establishment to discuss the lemons which are causing me early-morning stress and here I am being served a pair of cut lemons cleverly tied up in white gauze as if in an attempt to disguise them for my personal benefit. There is an interrogation technique that we were taught in the ‘After You Are Captured’ m
odule. Your captors will try and provoke you by doing small things that irritate you in order to get under your skin. The only sensible response is to resist this provocation and focus on something else. I didn’t mention the lemons and looked around to distract myself. Next to our table an old couple were completely absorbed in each other’s company. It was kind of sweet, him whispering things in her ear and her giggling loudly as if she had heard her first dirty joke at this late age.
‘That’s a nice touch,’ said Cath.
‘It’s very pretentious, why camouflage a lemon in white gauze? Why are there lemons in the first place? They are probably Indians pretending to be Italians,’ I added.
‘It’s just practical,’ she said. ‘How many times have you been annoyed by crunching on a lemon pip in your salad?’ I was left speechless. Of course Cath was on the lemon’s side. It’s like a torture victim being told that he is being hung upside down to build his character.
‘Hmmmph,’ I said, and mauled a piece of bread with a knife slathered in pink butter. The old man had thrust his tongue into his old lady’s mouth. I jumped in my seat, then put my hands under my thighs and sat still, trying very hard not to look at the old couple. I have nothing against people expressing their affections for each other, I am not a puritan by any stretch of the imagination, but can’t they do these things in the privacy of their own homes? I know the romantic dinner is practically an institution of western civilization, but how is civilization being advanced by sucking on your partner’s tongue while eating a perfectly good beef lasagne in the middle of a restaurant? Why couldn’t they just order takeaway, get naked if they want to and then smother each other with their couscous salad and feed each other dough balls dipped in each other’s body fluids?
‘That’s sweet,’ Cath caught me trying very hard not to stare at them. She was good at that, my Cath. At catching me staring. And I guess I must have been good at it too. Getting caught, staring.
‘I know people of that age fuck but do we have to watch them doing it while we wait for our dinner?’
‘They’re only holding hands,’ Cath said, staring into my eyes. I dug into my salad and caressed the fork with my tongue with every bite. Sometimes all a man can do and should do is to make his point and then move on and keep eating his food. I could feel her eyes boring into my forehead.
‘Sometimes I lose you,’ she said in a calm, sad voice, the scariest of her many voices. ‘I don’t know where so much anger comes from.’
She looked more puzzled than angry, as if she had suddenly discovered an aspect of my personality that she was unaware of. I can report that I made the same joke, maybe in a different tone of voice, a few days after we first met and she laughed out loud and gave me this look which said oh you make me laugh so much, how could I ever live without you. And now the same Cath, lovely Cath, is sitting there wondering if I should be institutionalized for cracking a joke in the middle of our romantic dinner in our favourite restaurant.
‘Sorry,’ I said, taking a sip of water. ‘Bad joke. Too much time with the boys in the squadron.’ My apologies were sincere.
I told her I’d spend more time at home, and I did. I made her pancakes, bought her a yoga mat, made love on the right days. And for a while it worked. And then it didn’t. I tried to make myself feel better, hoping it would lead to us feeling better. I started telling her again that the world is overpopulated, we should adopt a baby. Are you afraid to commit? she would ask. We are married, we make love, we don’t use protection, we share everything, why would she think I was afraid to commit? Maybe you are an unhappily married woman, I told her. Is there any other kind? she shot back. I should have kept my cynicism out of bed. And she said, here’s the place you come to produce another human being to fill the void that lies between us.
‘You know I have been working very hard on our marriage, you just don’t. . . ’
She looked at me with unbounded pity.
No, the problem wasn’t too much time in the briefing rooms, the problem was too much time with Cath. I was clocking up as many hours with my therapist as I was in the cockpit. Bombing runs in the morning then going home to get a scolding for not caring about her feelings. Fuck this, I told myself. I need more missions. I am going to sign up for that extension. She doesn’t need to know that it’s optional. I am going to volunteer for more missions just to get away from another romantic fucking dinner. Bring on the war.
Sometimes a distant war is the only way to resolve domestic disputes.
Yes, that’s how I ended up in this mole hole. That’s how I ended up being told what to do with my life by a gung-ho teenager.
CHAPTER 22
Momo
After I put my Falcons for Ethical Hunting programme on hold, I had reached a plateau. And that is when divine intervention took place and someone fell from the sky. Yes, a stranger fell from the sky. Now he says he wants to get out of here. How do you return a gift from the skies? I have to pretend that I don’t know that he fell from the sky but look at his flying suit, look at those sunglasses, look at that pulled-down, depressed crocodile face that he has acquired after pulling a million negative Gs, his skin as pale as my Mutt’s jaundiced eyes. He is dreaming of a lost plane. He is gonna keep dreaming about that plane. I am in the middle of recruitment for my rescue mission and although I have asked him many things there’s one thing I need to ask before I can put him to use.
‘I am gonna ask you a question and I want a straight answer.’ It’s time to be straight with Ellie. I am not gonna have someone on my team who I can’t trust. You can’t go to a boardroom meeting without knowing whether your team has divided loyalties. You don’t go into a battle without knowing what is in your top general’s past.
‘Are you a spy?’
My tone is neutral, almost friendly. I am not interrogating him, just asking him about his day job. He is sitting there with his back to the wall holding his head like a war widow. I think sometimes he pretends that he is a prisoner of war. Although we have been treating him like a guest. Give them a roof, feed them and this is the gratitude you get. He needs a dose of reality and I am gonna give it to him.
‘That’s a trick question,’ he says, still holding his head. ‘What kind of spy would admit to being a spy?’ There you go. He has laid himself open. And he has shut up at the same time. I can tell you that if he is a spy he is not very good at it. He is the kind of spy who wishes that they owned a café and ran a book club.
‘If you were being true to yourself, you would tell me. I promise I am never gonna betray your secret. One shouldn’t be ashamed of one’s day job. I have been thinking of starting a small surveillance unit myself. Information is the new oil. Maybe I can even help you with your spying.’
He looks at me as if I have asked him for a million-dollar loan.
‘I want to be able to trust you fully. Help me help you.’ Sometimes white people only understand things when their self-interest is gonna be involved.
‘I’m homesick. I’m worried about Cath,’ he says, looking into the distance. ‘I have never been away from home for such a long time. Mine was mostly a stay-at-home kind of war. I could be over Mosul at lunchtime but I’d be home to take out the trash, cook dinner or at least help clean up after. She must be worried sick. If a person dies you bury them and you manage your grief. But what do you do when you don’t know if your person is alive or dead?’
There you have it. All lies. Who calls their wife their ‘person’? She is a pretend wife.
This pretend pilot needs to sort his ways. He is always going Cath this and Cath that. I am gonna tell you what I think about Cath. There is probably no Cath. He is probably a cupboard gay and has been in that cupboard for such a long time that he has an imaginary Cath in the cupboard of his mind. Don’t get me wrong, it can happen. For about six months Bro Ali and I used to have an imaginary pet tiger, we took him for walks and fed him imaginary goats. Even Mutt would have imaginary wrestling matches with our pet tiger.
I know
this can happen, it’s a much more common condition than people ever admit. Even now when Mutt feels lonely he plays with his imaginary friends. He has been yelping at birds that come and go all the time but he thinks only he can see them.
When you are dropped in a desert and wander around claiming half your plane is gone it’s obvious you are not on a straight bombing mission. Probably his brain is fried too. He keeps talking about Cath and pancakes and a baby which was never born. What can you do? I mean not with the unborn babies but with pretend pilots who dream up unborn babies. And a wife. Sometimes I want to shout at him: Stop imagining a wife who is not there. Stop imagining sons who are not born, never conceived. If you are gonna make love to a ghost wife, you are gonna have to take care of a ghost baby.
I don’t believe in ghosts though. I believe in dollarized profit margins and better mental health management. If he was supposed to bomb Mosul and has ended up here then God help him and his country.
I don’t tell him that though. Because he is my ticket to Bro Ali and I am his get-out-of-here pass. I want him here, I want him on my side. This is what one has to do: you listen to them. You let them talk. You let them think you are the only person who understands their pain. This is how friendships work. This is how global alliances are formed. This is called team building. This is called Management 3.0.
Sometimes Ellie tests my patience: listening to him is like listening to Mutt whining about the ghosts who don’t let him sleep. All his dead doggie friends turn up every night in his sleep and want to party. And when he wakes up from one of these dreams he climbs onto my bed. And wakes me from my own dreams.
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