Another note’s sitting on top my underwear, like the one she left on the wall:
“These are very aggressive underpants, Lester. Did you get them in the military? Olive drab. Official but silky smooth too. They’re like danger panties.”
Goddamn adorable, this Lizzy. She’s right, of course. Marine Corps silkies are a strange beast, like boxer shorts with a liner. They do feel odd at first. But now it’s the only underwear that don’t bother me, and since I gave up the dog tags, the last bit of my uniform still in daily rotation.
I shake the pair off the top of the pile and pull them on. Soft and dry. That’s the advantage of the silkies. You can wear them for days if need be. Helps out on the road when you have to sit in the Humvee for hours, sweating and steaming. I pull on my jeans and undershirt and fall back across her bed, feeling a little more relaxed now. No one’s gonna walk in on me naked. No roommates. Or parents, if I’ve messed up that bad.
That grass smell is all over me again. Beautiful.
The phone in my pocket vibrates. I take it out and see the voice message from Landry. I delete it without listening. He’s probably looking to congratulate me. I could listen to it, but then I’d just feel worse. This girl Lizzy. She’ll get to know me soon, so there’s not a lot of time left in this. I’ll just stick around until she comes home. Just to be polite.
Goddamn, that grass smell. What is that? What does this smell remind me of? What am I trying to remember?
The grass down at Nasr Wal Salam. That’s right. Thickest damn grass I ever saw.
We stopped there one day, on our way back from fixing ten miles of potholes. Everyone just exhausted and hoping to push through. But Major Leighton himself got on the radio and told Lieutenant Donovan to stop there and pick up some State Department reconstruction types. They had their own vehicle. Just needed an escort back up the river to Camp Fallujah.
The State Department types, they had grass down there in that little compound, a legit lawn out front of their command shack. A crazy thing to see in the middle of all that.
Lieutenant Donovan went inside to talk to them while Dodge and me leaned against the Humvee. Marceau, up in the turret, stood and took off his helmet. I stared at the lawn and even went so far as to get down on my knees and stick my nose in it. So damn sweet, that grass.
Dodge kicked me in the ass. “Crazy-man Lester. New things for you every day in this war, I see? If truly there is no grass in America?”
“This is a good lawn” was all I could say. “They really take care of this.”
“They must be using bottled water,” Marceau said, looking down from his turret.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. The gray water around here, the kind they pull from the river and have us shower in? It’s alkaline. Put water from the shower tanks on that grass and it’ll shrivel up.”
That got Dodge’s attention. “How do you know so much about plants, James? Are you a farmboy?”
Marceau looked straight ahead. “Yeah. Kind of. Parents had a farm when I was a kid.”
“Ah! Goats and cows. Corn and wheat,” Dodge said. “This is why you are always waking so early? A farmboy habit of childhood?”
Marceau looked straight ahead. “Lost the farm a long time ago. Dad’s a security guard, now. Mom’s a substitute teacher.” Then he dropped back into the Humvee to prep his gear, before anything else could be said about it.
I plucked a few blades of that grass and shoved them down in my pocket.
When Lieutenant Donovan came back, he had a look on his face like he was nervous about something. Not nervous about an ambush or a roadside bomb. Nervous like someone had just told him a funny secret by accident. Like now he knew something embarrassing about these guys he wasn’t supposed to.
Two private-security guys with beards and expensive sunglasses came stumbling out behind him with a big transit case. They were big, these guys, yoked like bouncers, but even they were straining under the weight of that case. An armored Suburban came around from their vehicle lot and the security guys loaded the transit case in the back. Real quick, like they couldn’t wait to wash their hands of the thing.
“Sergeant Gomez!” the lieutenant called out as he wiggled into his body armor. “Corporal Zahn!”
Zahn walked over slow and calm as ever, a nice slug of dip behind his lip. Gomez jogged, her back stiff and straight. So different, those two.
“Do a quick radio check with these guys,” Lieutenant Donovan said to Zahn. “And make sure they have our freqs. If we lose track of these guys, it’ll be bad.”
Zahn chuckled. “Worse than usual, sir?”
“Yes.” The lieutenant nodded, leaving it at that.
Zahn shrugged and walked off to coordinate with the civilians.
Sergeant Gomez stuck around. “Something I should know, sir? Before we get on the road?”
Lieutenant Donovan smiled like he wanted to tell her, but then just said, “No. Treat it like any other vic. We’ll do a quick, rolling stop at Fallujah to drop these guys off and head home. Easy day.”
We got settled in the Humvee, and the lieutenant said to Zahn, “Put the Suburban in front. Keep them sandwiched between us and Gomez.”
“You gonna tell me what’s in that truck, sir?” Zahn smirked as he worked the used-up wad of dip from behind his lip into the half-full spit bottle.
“Sure. A million dollars in cash for the sheikhs.”
Dodge reacted first, laughing. “Yes, man! I knew it! You Americans are very clever, indeed!”
Zahn sat still, his eyes fixed on the lieutenant. “You serious, sir?”
“I am. These State Department guys are delivering it to the civil affairs guys in Fallujah, who are delivering it to the sheikhs west of Ramadi. Not enough local Sunnis joining the army, so the million dollars is a bribe to get their sons in uniform.” The lieutenant buckled his helmet strap. “Get a comm check with Gomez.”
Zahn keyed his radio and, speaking over the sound of Dodge’s laughter, said, “Vic four is up.”
“Thug life!” Dodge laughed.
The lieutenant turned around with his mouth open, like he wanted Dodge to shut up. But then he turned around like a father too busy to argue, or too honest to try.
Myself, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the back doors of that Suburban. We left the compound, and desert filled the window on my armored door. The black and yellow curbstones blurred away into one color, and all I could think of was that million dollars. What’d that even look like? Would I get to see it before the Suburban drove off at Camp Fallujah? I thought about the stacks, like the kind you see in movies. How many stacks make a million dollars? I thought about what one of those stacks could do for my father. The new tractor he could finally get.
And then, in an instant, the Suburban disappeared in a big-ass fireball.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I heard myself whisper, as Zahn swerved to avoid the Suburban, skidding sideways off the highway and into the sand. As we passed, I could see that the explosion had only taken the back half. The security guys up front, in a separate armored compartment, looked unhurt.
“Yahtzee!” Marceau screamed, laughing over the hiss and crackle of the burning vehicle.
Lieutenant Donovan keyed his radio. “Vic four is up. Fives and twenty-fives.”
The other vehicles checked in, calmly as he had. But the contractors in the Suburban—they were a little more hopped up, you know? Jumped up onto the net all screaming and cursing. Not what you’re supposed to do. No injuries, at least. But no saving that truck.
Reaching for his can of Skoal, Zahn nudged the Humvee off the side of the road.
Dodge bumped me. “Lester, man. Check your window. Fives, Lester.”
We checked around the Humvee while the dismounted team secured the road and the desert around us. When we didn’t find any secondary devices, the lieutenant said, “Doc, go check them out. Make sure they’re okay.” He sounded kind of put out by the whole thing.
I took off
down the road at a quick walk, cutting by Sergeant Gomez as she was pushing a security team farther out into the desert, getting ready for the bomb team on its way to do a postblast analysis.
The Suburban was in full inferno by this time. The security contractors sat on the curb looking like a couple of guys who knew they were about to get fired. But they were fine. Cuts and bruises only.
Lieutenant Donovan walked up behind me. “Is that case fireproof?” he asked the lead contractor.
“Nope,” the guy said from behind the beard and the fancy sunglasses—not even bothering to look up.
Just a few steps behind the lieutenant, Dodge was laughing his ass off. “This is even more gangster, man! It’s like some rap video! Right? You Americans, you have money to burn!”
And then I started laughing, too. I stood up and looked at Dodge, laughing so hard tears ran down my cheeks.
Then, over my shoulder, damned if I didn’t see the lieutenant laughing, too. But just for a second. He had to go back and radio Major Leighton. Guess the poor bastard had to compose himself for that.
Huck has difficulty abandoning friends, even when they pose an obvious danger to him. “Well,” he says of the Duke and the Dauphine, “it’s a rough gang, them two frauds, and I’m fixed so I got to travel with them a while longer, whether I want to or not. I druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this town would get me out of their claws, and I’d be all right; but there’d be another that you don’t know about who’d be in big trouble. Well, we got to save HIM, hain’t we? Of course. Well, then, we won’t blow on them.”
Tourist Town
My flatmates come screaming and chanting around the corner, waving flags and stomping feet. I fold Huck Finn into my back pocket and step into the middle of the sidewalk where they will notice me. It seems they have waited for the other university kids to pass in order to sweep up all the pretty girls who have fallen away from the protest for fear of the police.
It is a fine strategy. My flatmates comfort these girls and offer protection, telling them to meet at this building on the corner if anything goes wrong. We live here together in a spacious flat, they say. Follow us back here for safety.
They see me and call out. Our friend, they say. He is Iraqi and has seen much worse than this. And look. He is not afraid. Come with us, friend.
I join with them, but only so my flatmates are not embarrassed. They would not forgive me if I stayed away. We are pushed closer together by the growing mass of people, my flatmates and I, closer and closer together with these pretty girls. The crowd becomes louder and more serious in their chanting as we are pulled forward into the smell of riot gas and gunpowder. We march closer to the main square. Smoke drifts through the abandoned cars ahead of us, the overturned carts.
Our Iraqi friend speaks perfect English, my flatmates tell the pretty girls. He can talk to the Western journalists should we find any. You girls are too pretty to not go on television. He will find a reporter and speak in English for us. You girls will stand behind him and smile for the camera. This is the best way to fight Ben Ali. We will show to the world what pretty girls we have in Tunisia.
A few of the girls laugh, but most of them frown at this foolishness. They are smarter than my flatmates and seem to know better what awaits us in the square.
A pretty girl asks me if I fought the Americans before I left Iraq.
I tell her that I did not. That I am a coward, you see.
“You speak English,” she says. “Did you speak English for them instead of fighting?”
“Sometimes. But most of the time just for myself. For business.”
She turns away, disappointed.
Instantly, I find myself wishing I had told her a lie. Still, I do not blame this pretty girl for her disgust in me. I have disappointed many others before you, I think to myself.
I woke to waves lapping against the bank, opened my eyes, and looked east. I felt the morning sun on my face, listened to Abu Abdul’s rooster, and felt good, for the first time in weeks, months even. Mundhir and Hani had left, and by the touch of their cool blankets I knew they had been awake for some time. I walked up the path to the mud farmhouse, smelling fire and a fresh pot of tea. Haji Fasil came outside with another pot, this one filled with rice.
“Good morning, Haji Fasil.”
“Peace be with you, Kateb.”
“And you, as well.” I yawned, sat down on a fallen eucalyptus log, and warmed my hands by the fire. “I know you have a stove, Haji. Why this fire?”
“It seems the right time for it. I enjoy a fire. Spring is coming and this is most likely the last cool morning until next year.” He handed me tea in a metal cup.
“Are you sure this is not just a show for the city boys? Are you not teaching us a lesson about our bedouin roots?”
“No, of course not.” He wiped his hands on his long shirt. “Besides, I’m sure you do not need any lessons. You look like children of the Party, to me. Baathist fathers? Yes. I’m sure you boys spent each summer at an oasis outside Ramadi. Living in tents, shooting rabbits for sport. Perhaps, as a boy, you once shook the hand of Saddam? How exciting.”
I did not answer. No need to discuss all that, not just yet. I stared out across the lake and waited for the air to thin. “Hani and Mundhir had gone before I woke this morning. Are they off somewhere with Abu Abdul?”
“Mundhir, yes. He walked down the peninsula with Abu Abdul to retrieve the fishing boat. Hani went into town with your car.”
“Did he say what he was doing with it?”
“Yes. He is buying goods at the market. Trinkets to sell to the Americans as they pass by.” Haji Fasil pulled a knife from under his shirt and began cutting basil on a stump.
I nodded slowly to hide my fury, trying to pretend that it had been our plan all along. “Ah. How much money did he take?”
“All of it, I presume. But this should not worry you. Rich boys can always get more money from their fathers. Yes? Where is your father, Kateb?”
I stood, brushed off my jeans, and ignored his question. “Thank you for the tea, Haji Fasil.” I turned back toward the lake.
Haji Fasil stopped me. “Abu Abdul did not lose his tongue to cancer. You know this, yes?” He pointed the knife at me and raised his eyebrows.
I stopped, turned around. “Yes, I figured that.” So, it was time to talk.
“We are from Halab.”
I sat back down.
Haji Fasil continued chopping basil and spoke as if he were telling me the recipe for his rice. “After the first war with the Americans, Abu Abdul and I joined the uprising. Saddam’s helicopters came and slaughtered us. We had families, then. Wives and children. All dead. I ran away. The Mukhabarat found Abu Abdul and cut out his tongue. I escaped.”
I nodded and took a sip of my tea.
“You three boys were young children then.”
“Yes.”
“Living in Baghdad? Mansour, I suppose? Big houses? Gardens, fancy cars?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “All of that. University, too.”
“And now you are running away.”
I nodded and pushed dirt around with my toe. “We . . . ,” I began, like I, too, had a story to tell. “We are running away,” I said simply.
“Oh, how it feels to run!” Haji Fasil diced faster. “I remember it.” The knife became a blur. “But how will you run without money to fuel your car?” Haji Fasil stuck his knife in the stump and pushed the basil into the rice. “And if Hani cannot make a quick profit on these goods, quickly turn your dinar into dollars, I imagine you will be forced to sell your car. And I wonder what will become of it? After it is turned into a bomb, I mean. Driven into a checkpoint? Left by the side of the road? This all depends on the buyer, I suppose. You Sunnis are becoming more fond of martyr attacks. More like Sadrists all the time.”
“I am not one of them,” I said, the edge on my voice sharper than I had intended.
“You are not Sunni?” Haji Fasil took a
step in my direction. “Do you think me stupid?”
“No, Haji Fasil. I am not a terrorist. I am a student. I do not care for any of this.”
“Yes? And what do you study, child?”
“English.”
“You fool.” He went back to the fire and hung the pot over the low flames. “What does your Baathist father say about that? What does your mother think about a son who does not fight for the Party?”
“My mother died long ago. Cancer. Which is how I knew you were lying about Abu Abdul’s scar. My father raised my older brother and me while working for the Ministry of Agriculture.”
“Ah, the son of a simple farmer. How pleasant.”
“An engineer. He designed the Grand Canal.” I pointed to the stagnant ditch in the distance, leeching slowly from the depths of Lake Thar Thar.
“A rather poor engineer, then.”
“He could never finish it. He could never procure the necessary pumps after the first war. The Americans would not allow it.”
“Is that why you learned English? To help your father with the Americans?”
“No. My father wanted me to study English, yes. But only so I could go abroad for secondary school. My father still hoped, even after the first war, so I still learned. I grew quite fond of American books, and of their music, too.”
“And your friends? Hani? Mundhir? What do they study?”
“Hani studies business. And Mundhir . . . Mundhir is not a student. We met him in Karada when we were finishing second-level school. Hani and I organized rock music shows in Baghdad for our university friends. Mundhir was our security.”
Haji Fasil stirred his rice. “May God be merciful on all three of you. You are such fools for coming here.” He went back to the stump and pulled out his knife.
I was tired of him, tired of his knife. Sick of the way it watched, like the third member of our conversation. I stood and took a step toward him. “Have you seen Baghdad lately, Haji? Do you think I left my garden and my bloody Mercedes to come here? I have not seen my father in a year, if you must know. I sleep in my dead professor’s office. I work diligently at a thesis he will never read. This place?” I waved my arm over the beach and the lake. “This place, Haji Fasil, is paradise. Look, your family is dead and I am sorry. But I did not kill them. Mundhir and Hani did not kill them. You want Iraq? It is yours now. You can have it.”
Fives and Twenty-Fives Page 14