Haji Fasil took my father’s kisses, but offered nothing in return. No expression. Just the words “Praise God, it was his will,” like a stone.
Haji Fasil went inside to make tea, and when he returned, we all sat around the fire pit.
“Your father lives close by, Kateb,” Hani cooed. “In Habbaniyah.”
Haji Fasil stirred at the mention of the town, knowing as he did the special quality of men, the Saddam loyalists, who could find accommodation there. “How did you come to live there?”
“Sheikh Hamza, whom I know from the construction of the Grand Canal. He provided the ministry with men for digging. He has given Muhammad and me the former home of an Air Force officer. But we are only there temporarily. Only until we return to Baghdad.”
“When the Shia destroy themselves,” Muhammad added flatly, then sipped his tea. “Do you know Sheikh Hamza, Haji Fasil?”
“No.” He shrugged. Just a simple merchant, wearing his tattered bedouin robes like a shield. Haji Fasil had lived through many such conversations, I am sure.
“We will take Kateb with us, tonight,” Muhammad said. “He should visit with his nephew.” My brother kicked dirt at my feet. “Ibrahim asks for you, Kateb.” He finished his tea in one long gulp. “I trust you can spare him, Haji Fasil?”
“Yes, yes.” Haji Fasil waved his hand. “The business is Hani’s. Kateb’s only work is his studies.”
“Good. We should leave, then. Evening checkpoints will begin soon.” Muhammad stood and slipped his hands into his pockets.
My father placed his teacup carefully in the sand and stood as well. “Are you ready to leave, Kateb?”
They hung their shadows on me, like the old statues of Hero Saddam.
“Momentarily,” I said, thinking of the envelope. “I just need to gather my things.”
The envelope could keep me free and alive if the Americans happened upon us.
“No need for that, Brother.” Muhammad smiled. “We can bring you back before you need a change of clothes.”
With the matter thus settled, Hani and Haji Fasil said good-bye. I stood and followed my family to their Mercedes, my father and brother on either side of me like considerate guards.
Haji Fasil waved from the fire pit, quiet and polite as always.
My brother let the script die, turned to me, and said sternly, “Sit in the back.”
I sank into the leather seat, and he closed the door behind me a little harder than necessary.
On the last day of Professor Al-Rawi’s life, a full month after I had taken up residence in his office, he stayed with me late into the afternoon discussing my thesis.
“You seem overly concerned with the American understanding of authority,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “You ask, ‘From whence do the townspeople derive the authority to tar and feather the Duke and the Dauphine?’ You ask, ‘From whence do the Grangerfords gain the right to seek retribution against the Shepherdsons?’ Tell me, Kateb, why does authority interest you so?”
I was flummoxed. After a moment of thought, I replied, “This is a story of rebellion, Professor. Rebellion must act against authority, yes? Is it not important to understand the authority against which Huck is rebelling?”
“Kateb, Kateb . . .” Professor Al-Rawi laughed. “In the end, Huck must learn two very important lessons. First, that civilization is an illusion. Second, that the only authority is one’s conscience.”
I nodded, as though I understood, but said nothing.
Professor Al-Rawi smiled. “Think about this, Kateb, and we will discuss tomorrow. I must return home now or risk the anger of my wife.” He picked up his briefcase and added with a chuckle, “But perhaps you will not truly understand authority until you have a wife of your own.”
I smiled back and wished him a good evening.
My brother dropped the car into gear and fought through the rutted path.
“You are lucky we found you, Kateb,” my father said, smiling at me from the front seat. “Were you making trouble out here in the desert? Or just helping Hani study?”
“No,” I said, “we left Baghdad, but we had to stop here for fuel. We discovered it was not safe to go on.”
“Used your time to read, then?” my father asked. Then, to Muhammad: “Take the eastern route. I wish to see the state of the canal.”
I rubbed my knees and made myself speak. “Such a joy to see my family well,” I managed. “And after so long without word from you, I had begun to worry . . .”
“And these worries kept you in Baghdad?” Muhammad sighed. “I feel so loved.”
“No,” I stammered. “No, I tried to come home that night, but after speaking to my professor . . .” I trailed off, with no will to finish the thought.
My brother ignored me and returned to watching the road. This did not surprise me, but when my father sat quietly as well, a burning grief rose to my throat. I wished my father would demand answers from me. But he said nothing.
Muhammad turned the Mercedes east, onto the highway. The road ran close to the banks of the canal and the lake. Reeds and palms trees grew thick and bent over to the east with the spring wind. On the damp shores, desert shrubs flourished in a reluctant, dim shade of green.
All at once I missed Hani’s stupid beach resort.
My father pointed to a low spot in the canal. “There,” he said to Muhammad. “Like I told you. Pumps and a filtration system, powered by electric lines from Haditha. Built inside an operable lock, set in concrete with steel gates.” He moved his hands like imaginary doors. His eyes became animated with the old dream, dead for so many years now, that he might finish his canal.
“Father . . . ,” I said.
Muhammad opened the window and lit a cigarette. “I will talk to Sheikh Hamza and the American at this next shura and tell them that this is the project the Americans have wanted. A project for the television.”
My father sighed. “The Americans will want government troops to guard the pumps.”
“Troops from Baghdad,” my brother said. “But we need not think poorly on that. Yes? Having those takfiri standing around in the sun? Exposed?”
My father nodded and rubbed his chin.
“Father . . . ,” I said, louder.
He looked at me in the rearview mirror and smiled. “Do not worry. We have not forgotten you, Kateb. These matters require discussion while we can see the ground and make plans. You are welcome to join us.”
“Americans, Kateb,” my brother said. “We talk of Americans, and you know more of Americans than either of us.”
My face burned. I opened my mouth, ready to say something, I did not know what. But the sounds would not come. I turned my eyes to the roadside, to the reeds and shrubs browning as we traveled farther south, away from the river.
“Kateb,” my father said, turning around in his seat and looking confused. “Do you think we are angry with you?”
“Someone is angry. Sheikh Hamza, is it?”
“Kateb. My son.” My father smiled with sincerity. “We are not angry with you. You deal with the Americans? So do we. Everyone does this.”
Muhammad laughed and dropped his cigarette onto the road. “But so few had the idea to sell them soda by the roadside. Well done, Brother.”
My father frowned at Muhammad and continued, “Yes, Kateb. You have been successful, and we are proud of you. And now we will keep you safe, praise to God. This is why we came for you.”
I crossed my arms and went back to watching the roadside. I felt my father’s eyes on me. Willing me to talk. I had wanted this minutes earlier, and for years before. But that was before I knew where the words would take us.
“We will talk after dinner,” my father added gently.
We drove the rest of the way to Habbaniyah in the quiet, save for an odd word from Muhammad on the condition of the road or the placement of a checkpoint, manned by American marines and Iraqi soldiers from the new army. These new soldiers were still learning their profession, Muhamma
d said. Still just thin teenagers from Basra, happy for money to send home. But they grew braver, more confident, all the time.
My brother gripped the wheel tighter each time he saw these soldiers, in ill-fitting uniforms discarded from old American supplies.
The sun had begun to fade as we reached Habbaniyah, and the checkpoints changed. Local police and young men in soccer jerseys appeared carrying Kalashnikovs, replacing the Americans and their Iraqi apprentices. These men seemed to know my father and Muhammad well. They let us through without questions. We passed from the highway onto the narrow roads of the town.
Trash marred the desert highways, as it had since the war began. But once we passed the checkpoints and entered the town, the streets became clean, like the old Iraq. Gravel spread through the market kept dust from clouding the merchants’ booths. Traditional wares, like food and robes, sat in booths next to new necessities, air conditioners and mobile phones. Boards placed across gutters allowed pedestrians to avoid sewage, stepping from their shops and homes.
Signs of government. Signs of care, even.
Muhammad guided the car down a dirt road cutting between onetime officers’ villas. High, yellow walls rose on either side of us, behind which sat identical houses made from poured concrete in the square, Soviet style. All but a few were abandoned and showed no signs of life. Dirt courtyards baked in the sun and dust blew through houses looted for metal window frames and pipes.
Muhammad approached a villa near the end of the street, and I saw green grass and dirty generator smoke through a small gap in the closed gate.
Two men appeared to push the gate open when Muhammad used his horn.
Muhammad drove slowly through the gate, and six men surrounded the car. Another three, wiping their hands on muddy clothes, appeared from around a corner to investigate our arrival. Still two more, with rifles almost hidden under long shirts, sat in chairs on either side of the front door.
They wore no beards and kept their mustaches smartly trimmed. Sunni men, both of them.
I saw my little nephew, Ibrahim, playing in the thin grass with a flat football. The boy I knew before the war was shy and always crying out for his mother. I noticed her, too. Nasim. Too smart and pretty for my brother, I’d always thought. From the kitchen window, she called for Ibrahim and waved for him to come inside with one hand while she worried about her head scarf with the other. She had never worn a hijab before the war. A university girl, Nasim. She had been studying to be a doctor.
Muhammad placed the car in park. A fat man came to my window and opened my door. He smiled and reached over to unbuckle my seat belt.
I resisted him, out of instinct, and looked to my father for help.
“You have many new friends, Kateb,” he said.
“The second son of Abu Muhammad,” the fat man said. “You’ve come home, thanks to God.” He smiled, like I mattered, like he wanted me to remember him.
“Hello,” I managed with a weak smile.
I stepped from the car while the men swarmed all around us. They smiled and offered me welcome, then turned to my brother, ingratiating themselves. Sycophants hoping to be heard. When my father and brother started toward the house, the men melted away. I followed close behind, unsure of my place.
The three men in muddy clothes slipped back around the corner. It seemed they knew their place without question.
Ahead of me, my father whispered something to Muhammad.
My brother continued into the house, leaving my father and I alone in the yard.
My father reached out and took my hand. “You do amaze, my son. You have thrived without us. Nothing matters more than this. I am proud, Kateb. You should be proud, as well.” He pulled me into an embrace. “Now, would you like to see?” he whispered.
I stepped back. “See what, Father?”
“How your father has become a businessman.” He led me by the hand, around to the side yard where the workers had gone, and I understood that the generators did not power such luxuries as lights or air-conditioning for the villa. They powered industry, the backyard factory spread out in front of me.
“This is what your father does for money, now.”
Cement mixers churned while rows of square molds waited for the wet mix. Two dirty men sat on low stools. One chipped away at the plaster encasing blocks fresh from the molds. The other man washed and painted them. Equal stacks of yellow and black stones sat behind him. The third man emerged from a shed in the back, pushing a cart piled high with more stones, still encased in plaster.
Focused on their task, or at least wishing to appear so, these men took note of my father without looking up to acknowledge him.
“Did you notice the highways on our way into town, Kateb?” my father asked. “And how clean the streets are kept?”
“I suppose. Better, at least.”
“Sheikh Hamza is keen on this. Anbar should show these signs of improvement. He has the provincial governor pay him to replace the broken curbstones. He has men for this. We make the curbstones and sell to him.”
“Ah, very clever.” I remembered all the times my father took me to see the canal as a boy, and how he watched the construction work with such satisfaction. Honest work, unlike politics. Perhaps in this new Iraq he had left politics behind completely and become a simple businessman.
“Clever.” He grinned. “Yes. So clever.” He took my shoulder. “Let’s go inside and see what Umm Ibrahim has cooked for us.”
We left the men to their labor and entered the kitchen from the side door. Little Ibrahim latched onto my leg at once. “Uncle Kateb, are you home now?”
I picked him up and kissed his cheek. “Yes, I am home now.”
“Good, because everyone here is too old to play with me.”
Nasim walked over from the stove and pulled him away. “We must let Kateb rest before he can play with you.” She held me in a long embrace. “So joyous to see you, Kateb. And safe.”
“Wonderful to see you, as well. Cooking for all these men, Nasim?”
“Trying.” She laughed and returned to the stove. “Breakfast and lunch for the workers during the day. Dinner for our little family when they leave.” She carried Ibrahim to a mat in the corner of the kitchen, near the entrance to the sitting room, and placed a tray of bread and cheese in front of him.
I wondered about her dreams of medicine and how they had been traded for the role of cook and maid.
My father came in from the sitting room and stood behind her. He smelled the lamb roast and gave her a little smile. He walked over to the little mat and sat down with his grandson. He placed the boy on his lap and made a show of enjoying the flat bread in an attempt to trick his grandson into eating.
Ibrahim smiled and snatched the bread from his grandfather’s hand.
I heard Muhammad debating with his colleagues in the next room. I moved to the doorframe near my father and Ibrahim. Feigning interest in their activity, I cast a sideways glance into the sitting room.
“Should we watch first or talk?” the fat man asked.
“Watch,” Muhammad answered.
The stone floors squealed as the men pulled their chairs into a circle. The fat man retrieved a camcorder from his bag and played a video on its tiny screen as the other men leaned in close to watch.
The little speaker strained and squeaked. I recognized the sound of vehicles on a highway, of trucks stopping and men yelling. I heard the sound of breathing, too. The cameraman, a scared child by the sound of his whispering, told another child to remain quiet and stop moving.
“See there,” the fat man said, “they all get out at the same time, using their radios to coordinate this.”
“Yes,” Muhammad answered.
“And there. They fan out. About three lengths of a truck.”
“Hmm.”
“But see, they are not fooled. They do not get their robot. It is too obvious. But if we can hide one here, out front, poorly enough that they spot it, well enough that they believe, we
can put another bomb in the curbstone behind it. Right where they stop and get out.”
“This is not new thinking,” Muhammad said. “But, yes. True.”
Down at my heels, sitting on my father’s lap, Ibrahim finished his flat bread and looked around the kitchen for approval. First at my father, then at Nasim. She smiled and patted her leg, and Ibrahim sprang from my father’s lap to run to her. She started a kettle boiling for tea.
My father stayed on the mat and watched his grandson play.
The sitting room hummed. The fat man spoke above the chorus. “You see how they send one man forward to check the old tire in the road? You see how they pull the trucks to the side farther down? We hit the man up front or we hit the trucks behind.”
The other men whispered support, but only to one another. No one addressed the room at large.
My brother cleared his throat and they all stopped talking. “You should discuss that with your men. I am going for cigarettes.” Muhammad saw me and smiled as he crossed the room. “There is a shopkeeper I must go see.”
He stepped through the front door. One of the guards, a young man with a Kalashnikov slung inside his long shirt, hurried after him.
My father, still on the floor next to me, reached up for my hand.
The fat man took over the sitting room, the responsibility given to him by my brother’s departure. He instructed his men, pointing at them in pairs.
“You two. Mark the attack site. Chalk on the curbstones. Use the old pattern.”
My father’s weight moved up my arm as he struggled to his feet with a fantastic groan. He pushed down hard on my shoulder and let his weight settle into his heels.
“You two”—the fat man pointed—“leave the new stones loose so the bombs and detonators slide in easily. The triggermen are not here. You won’t know them.” The fat man saw that my father and I were watching and listening. He stood and spoke to my father. “Abu Muhammad, we are ready. Should we leave now with the stones?”
“Yes,” my father said. “They are outside. The workers will leave soon, too. You should leave with them, together.”
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