The American Granddaughter

by Inaam Kachachi

  This morning she’d woken up to find there was electricity. So she rushed to the electric massager and proceeded to pray while pressing it in circular movements over her knees. ‘Virgin Mary, mother of beloved Jesus, preserve what’s left of my health and protect me from falling. You are my friend, Maryam, my kind ally and my companion in my loneliness. It is to you that I turn in times of trouble and you listen, to you that I pray and you answer, on your door that I knock and you open. I ask you to include our dead in your mercy, O tender one, and to bless my children and my grandchildren and those still living of my loved ones: Kamel and Siham and their children in New Zealand, Jammuli and Sonson and Tamara and the little one whose name I cannot pronounce; Batoul and her husband in America, and their children Yazan and Zeina; the children of my late brother Dawood: Liqaa and Saad in Syria, Samer in Dubai, Youssef, Sabah and Ruwaida in Canada; and bless my sister Ghazala in Jordan and her children and grandchildren in Sweden, London and I don’t know where; and Tawoos Um Haydar and her sons Haydar and Mohaymen and the rest; and our neighbours on the right, and those on the left as far as the third house, and Saleh the gardener. And Mary, don’t let the postman Hassoun keep me or the people of the neighbourhood waiting. And please remember all those whose names I forgot to mention, but whom you know one by one. Amen.’

  The massager froze, and the old woman yelled at the silver-framed icon, ‘But why, Holy Virgin? Was it beyond your powers to keep the electricity running for five more minutes until I finished the massage?’ She searched her memory for the saint in charge of electricity but couldn’t remember. She was careful not to disturb the Virgin Mary by knocking on her door for every little thing, so she tried to go directly to the specialist saint for each request. When the children were still at home, they used to make fun of Mama Rahma’s way of providing ‘employment’ for the idle saints, keeping them busy so that they wouldn’t get bored while sitting on the clouds with their halos around their heads.

  Her children would laugh while going over the eclectic group of saints and holy persons that they referred to as the ‘Cabinet of President Rahma’: Saint Anthony was in charge of finding lost things, Saint Rita was the patron saint of emergencies, Bernadette Soubirous specialised in healing the sick, Mar Joseph encouraged the lilies in the garden to grow, and Saint Theresa was the guide to little ways that led to big things. When Rahma started treatment with a physiotherapist, who happened to be Coptic, she expanded her cabinet to include Saint Cyril, the patron of students during exams, Mar Girgis, who fought evil spirits, Saint Apollonia, who healed toothache and would do for bad joints, and Peter, the patron saint of fishermen and bringer of riches. Rahma remembered Saint Christopher, the patron of travellers, and let a tear escape. ‘Why do you scatter our family all over your wide world, dear God?’ She was missing her emigrant children and unable to forgive the destiny that led her to end up alone in this big house, as if she was living beyond her years with no purpose. If fate had had mercy on her, it would have taken her soul at the same moment that her husband Youssef had exhaled his last breath. How right she was to have made it a habit to tell him on any occasion, ‘God willing, my hour will come before yours, mister.’ She didn’t know then how the wide wooden bed that for fifty-seven years had held both of them would suddenly feel too big for her. During her angry moments, she resented him for leaving her behind, resented the Virgin and the saints who were slow to grant her death wish, and cursed the children who’d flown away without her. She shed the habitual tear, ever and always available, then blew her nose in a small napkin and got up to go to the kitchen.

  This morning, Rahma had barely finished wiping away that tear when, minutes after the start of the power cut, the green phone hibernating next to the bed started ringing. Batoul’s voice travelled to her all the way from Detroit and brought her incredible news. Was her daughter joking in a moment of good humour or was she lying to her in an attempt to help her cope with her perpetual heartache? Rahma, with the small shrine in her bedroom corner, never doubted that the Virgin Mary would answer her prayers, but for the answer to be so close, practically standing behind the door, this had never happened before. So when Batoul said that her daughter Zeina ‘had some work’ in Iraq and would soon be travelling to Baghdad, the grandmother could not contain her composure and gave praises in her still youthful voice. She looked at the miracle-working picture and shouted, ‘I kiss your hand, Virgin Maryam, for these good tidings.’

  XIV

  If Colonel Peterson hadn’t been an officer with our forces in Iraq, he could have made a lot of money as a Hollywood actor. I went in to meet him and receive my assignment on my first morning in Tikrit, and found myself standing in front of a handsome giant in his fifties, with thick eyebrows and a high chin, and a few attractive silver hairs shining through his dark locks. He resembled Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity. The colonel stood up, shook my hand with his soft plump palm that felt like an airbag, and said, ‘You got here just in time.’

  They had one translator and urgently needed a second one, for reasons that I would later understand. A previous night they’d raided a palace that belonged to Saddam’s wife and in which they found countless documents and IDs, and large amounts of money. They wanted to be able to read everything. The colonel took me to an adjacent room, where two tables were covered with sparkling jewellery and ornaments. So these were the kinds of surprises that came with the job. It was like being in a jewellery store in the gold market in Dubai. A pile of papers written in Arabic caught my eye. I leafed through them and came across the Iraqi citizenship certificate belonging to Saddam’s wife, with a youthful photo of her with thick black hair and an upturned nose. Next to the photo was her name, written in blue ink: Sajida Khairallah Talfah.

  I felt a cold shiver down my spine as I imagined whose fingers had touched this document before mine. But this wasn’t the time for daydreaming. I pulled myself together and told the colonel what the document was. He took it and put it in a folder and wrote something on it. He then led me to the other side of the table and pointed, with his palms opening like a magician performing an amazing trick, to something on the floor and watched for my reaction. Wow! My eyes took in piles and piles of hundred-dollar bills. So many new bundles of money that looked like they’d just been issued by the Bank of America. They were ordered tidily in two-foot-high stacks.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I cried out before I could stop myself. I bent down and was about to pick one up, but pulled my hand back before touching it and looked to the colonel for permission, who nodded encouragingly. ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  The bundle I held in my hand might have been ten thousand dollars. I wouldn’t know because I’d never seen so much money in my life, not even in the biggest casino in Las Vegas. And these were dollars and not gambling chips. ‘Is this real money?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried that it might get stolen?’

  As soon as I’d uttered the question I realised how inappropriate it was, but it was too late to take it back. No, I didn’t mean, and it hadn’t at all crossed my mind, that one of our soldiers could steal any of the money. If I, for instance, had happened to find a fortune in one of the cupboards of the kitchen where I slept, I wouldn’t have taken a cent for myself.

  I had an experience in a mall in Miami once that I considered a test of character. I’d been browsing through the expensive handbags when I found a bulging purse on the shelf. At first I thought it was one of the items on display. Then I realised it looked second hand and that someone must have left it there. I opened the purse and found fifteen hundred dollars in hundreds and twenties. I didn’t attempt to hide it or stick it in my bag and hurry out. I took it, matter-of-factly, to the store security, brought out the ID inside it and asked them to call the woman in front of me. I wanted to make sure that the purse would be returned to her. Mind you, I’m not stupidly honest. If I was walking down the road and found a hundred-dollar bill on the ground, I wouldn’t stop and yell, �
�Whose money is this?’ but would gratefully put it in my pocket and walk on. But seeing six million dollars piled under my feet in a closed room! And in Tikrit, of all places. This was what I’d humbly call a new life experience.

  Next to the dollars there were various other bundles of different currencies piled up in no particular order. Iraqi dinars, pounds and euros. I was told they had been counted, added and multiplied, and found to be the equivalent of three million dollars.

  ‘Look at this.’ One of the soldiers in charge of the inventory was holding a chain with a big gold heart. I took it from him and opened it. On its right side was a picture of Saddam and on the left a picture of his wife. The inventory was still ongoing, and news of these findings had not yet reached the media.

  That was in May 2003.

  XV

  Her voice was still ringing in my ear since I’d spoken to her on the phone from Tikrit, two days after my arrival in Iraq.

  ‘Zayoun, my life, where are you? Still in Amman? When do you get here, my lovely?’

  The words stuck in my throat. I stuttered. I didn’t know how to break the news to her. Would she be happy or would she start lamenting? ‘I’m in Tikrit. Don’t worry about me. I’m working as an interpreter for a construction company. I’ll come visit as soon as I’m given leave to travel to Baghdad.’

  ‘What construction in these black days?’

  ‘It’s an electricity company, Grandma. They’re building new power stations to replace those bombed in the war.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re actually here, in Iraq. Call me every day, sweetie pie. Every day, Zein, okay?’

  I’d heard that Grandmother Rahma was very alert and never missed a thing. She could ‘see through thick yoghurt’ is what they used to say. I hadn’t experienced her abilities first hand until the second phone call. As soon as she heard my voice, she said sharply, ‘Listen, Zein, my daughter, I haven’t been able to stop thinking since we talked yesterday. I want to come see you in Tikrit. I can’t wait any longer.’

  ‘But the company doesn’t allow visitors.’

  ‘I understand. Stop right there. You work with the Americans, don’t you?’

  She interrupted with the panic of an oriental mother who suspects her unmarried daughter is pregnant and will tarnish the family’s honour. The pain in her voice made me fear that her heart would stop beating if I told her the truth. So I lied to my Grandmother Rahma, I couldn’t have done otherwise. I told her I was a UN representative observing the operations of the US Army among Iraqi civilians. I felt life return to her as she listened to me, as if she was eager to reject her own intuitive certainty and believe me, hanging on to the weak thread that I extended to her. She asked in her Mosul accent, which added to the seriousness of the situation, ‘So who do you get your salary from, daughter? Bush or Kofi Annan?’

  I almost replied that it was the same pocket anyway, that appearances didn’t make much of a difference. But I reassured her instead, and carried on with my fabric of lies, telling her that our role was necessary to prevent American transgressions. I was scared she would demand, like my mother did, that I ‘swear on my father’s life’. But she didn’t. That would have been the only way to catch me out.

  Two days later, my grandmother arrived at our base in Tikrit. She introduced herself to the outside interpreter. He sent me a note telling me that Rahma Saour was asking for me at the gate. I changed quickly into civilian clothes and ran outside. She was standing in the line next to the palace wall that was designated for the women who gathered there every day, from early morning, to enquire about a missing husband, register a complaint or request compensation. I quickly signalled for the interpreter to bring my grandmother to the guardroom. I completely surrendered myself to her embrace and her smell. We hugged and cried while the soldier looked on sympathetically and the Iraqi translator wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. But when I invited her to enter the camp she refused, resolutely shaking her head. It was her Kurdish stubbornness that she carried like a birthmark from the day she was born in Bikhal, and which had been passed on to her daughter Batoul, who in turn passed it on to me. Stubbornness was genetic for the women in our family, like the mule. ‘I came to this world under the waterfalls,’ my grandmother took pride in saying, when I was a little girl sitting on her lap, by way of explanation for her natural steadfastness, telling the story of my great-grandfather, the pistachio trader who moved between the Kurdish villages and roamed the borders of Turkey and Iran. A determined and stubborn man, the legacy passed on by the women of the family. It was a story that crossed continents, as the details had reached me when I was older in Detroit.

  As we hugged, I cried tears of love and nostalgia, and she cried tears of love and frustration, and maybe shame. She must have seen the male and female soldiers coming and going around us, the army vehicles entering through the gate, the interpreters receiving the terrified folk and mediating the rising anger. But things were still unclear during those chaotic first few months. People were still recovering from the earthquake-like shock, still unsure whether to welcome those who’d arrived in tanks or to spit on them.

  It was, of course, out of the question for me to leave the base unguarded, so I stayed with my grandmother in the guardroom, tissues drenched with snot, sweat and tears piling up between us. I was lost for words, so I said, ‘Is there anything that you need? Do you need money?’ She shot me a glance that made my tongue freeze and replied in her wonderfully metaphorical dialect, ‘Wallah, now you can fart from a big ass.’

  I looked around, embarrassed that any of the translators might have heard her, and my grandmother smiled for the first time since she’d entered the poorly air-conditioned room. She stretched out her swollen legs and smoothed her long dress. She was wearing a pair of new black clogs with thick black stockings, the standard footwear for Iraqi women of her age. She’d arrived from Baghdad in a car driven by a broad-shouldered young man who had long hair, a thick moustache and a deep cleft in the middle of his chin. He was Haydar, she told me, the son of Tawoos. And while I was used to hearing the name Tawoos – Tawoos did this, Tawoos said that, Tawoos cooked this – I still wondered at the strangeness of the name – which meant ‘peacock’ in Arabic – every time I heard it. Tawoos had been with the family since the days before my mother was married. She had dedicated her life to their service and become one of them.

  ‘Have you forgotten Tawoos?’ my grandmother asked me as I searched my memory for a face to put to the name. I shook my head and reassured her that I hadn’t forgotten. How could I? But I was seeing her son for the first time and had never heard his name. ‘Haydar. His name is Haydar, Zeina. He’s your milk brother.’ That strange phrase didn’t stop me in my tracks at the time. I didn’t quite take it in. How could he be my brother when I didn’t know him and hadn’t heard his name before? But the young man was there in front of me, standing next to the car with a bottle of water in his hand and watching me like I was a riddle he was trying to solve. It wasn’t until later, when I moved to Baghdad, that Haydar would solve my riddle and I would get used to his presence in my life.

  I sat for two hours or longer with my grandmother, talking and exchanging news. She asked about our many relatives who were dispersed in different countries, forgetting the names of children and mixing up the names of cities. Did the Hekmets find asylum in Sweden or in Holland? Who was it who died and was buried in New Zealand, Jalal or his brother Kamal?

  She asked about my brother, Yazan, and I told her that we called him Jason now, as it was common to Americanise our names. I told her that Yazan had been involved with drugs, but was getting help and hoping to return to school. I talked to her about my mother’s illness and her constant cough. ‘Hasn’t she quit smoking?’ she asked. ‘No. She’s just as you left her. Smokes excessively and suffocates herself. She has the lungs of a policeman who never refuses a cigarette.’ My grandmother looked impressed that I still remembered those local figures of speech.

  She hesit
ated for a moment before asking about my father. I told her that we didn’t see him often since he’d split up with Mom and moved to Arizona. He’d opened a small bookshop there and printed a local classified ads paper. ‘What happened to the love that your mother took on the world for?’ I didn’t know how to answer. Although I was pushing thirty, I had never experienced such love that would make one oppose the whole world in order to live it.

  My grandmother refused to eat or drink anything at the base. Despite the heat, she pushed my hand away when I offered her a glass of water. As if our water was poisoned. Then she got up and returned from where she’d come. Before the car drove away, I heard her reproof, ‘Was it necessary, this tasteless job of yours?’

  XVI

  The old woman put her hand on the shoulder of the young man with the thick moustache sitting on the kitchen chair on the other side of the table, and brought her face closer to his. Her paleness contrasted with his darkly tanned skin. Her lips parted to say something but words failed her. Her heart wouldn’t let her say out loud what she was thinking. She forced the words, and her voice came out with a strange rattle, like that of a rusty tin can left to the wind.

  ‘She’s working with the Americans. Zeina’s working with them.’

  ‘Khala, everyone works with the Americans these days.’

  ‘No, Haydar, my sweet. That’s not true. None of our relatives or neighbours work with the occupation.’