I could not believe that grown men would try to cheat on a language exam. I spoke with each one separately, looked each one in the eye, and said, “Did you just change this answer?”
One of the lessons we studied in Level 2 was about body language, and there was a study that showed 70 percent of communication was nonverbal. In their nonverbal way, they were admitting to cheating. Both of them shifted uncomfortably, paused, and said, “No…” while smiling nervously. So, in my nonverbal way, I told them I was not changing the grade on their exams. I narrowed my eyes and said, “Yes, you did.” They both accepted this and went back to their seats.
I felt like I was teaching eight-year-olds. In class they would whisper answers to one another. If I called on Rabar to answer a question, Hawall would bend his head close to Rabar’s desk and mutter something under his breath. I was practically yelling, “Cheating will not help you understand English any better! Hawall, what will Rabar do if he is talking to a native English speaker and doesn’t understand what that person has asked him? You won’t always be standing next to him to whisper the appropriate response.”
In addition to this, during the classroom break, someone went into my refrigerator and drank an entire bottle of my mango juice. I didn’t see this happen; I just saw the evidence of the empty container later. Dalzar and Renas never ate my food.
God, what was wrong with everything? Erbil wasn’t the same anymore. Cheating and lying and eating my food were the new standard: Dadyar and his cleaner-girlfriend, Married Ashton, my new students.
What the hell?
In addition to his Level 3s, Steve was teaching a beginner-level conversation class, and Dadyar was permitted to join the class with his wife, Tavan. The class was in the evening, so there was, disappointingly, no chance for an awkward-but-inevitably-scandalous soap-opera-esque run-in with Vana, the pert Ethiopian cleaning lady. Roughly three weeks into the course, Steve sent me a borderline frantic email:
OMG OMG OMG! [Sometimes Steve could be a little like your best girlfriend.]
We were studying a unit called “Family relations” in class tonight, and we were talking about everyone’s family tree. For practice I would say “Dadyar, what is Tavan?” and Dadyar would answer “She is my wife.” When I asked Tavan a similar question “Tavan, what is Dadyar?” she answered “Dadyar is my husband,” paused, then continued “Oh, and my cousin!”
When love goes wrong, nothing, nothing goes riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.
Chapter Thirty-three
Georgie Catstanza
I was as discouraged with New Erbil as I was with New Warren. No one likes change. Bring back Classic Erbil and Classic Warren, please. Katherine had called an end to the Progressive Dinners because they had gotten to be too much work, and all sorts of people were showing up without contributing food or drink. Several of the really fun English Village expats had packed it up and moved back to their respective countries, and the village was starting to feel more like a ghost town than a Happy Place.
The ghost-town ambiance was enhanced by the periodic dust storms that swept through the region and blanketed everything with almond-toned grit. They were sort of exciting to observe, from the safety of my living room, and I sat with my face pressed against the window watching the dust whip and swirl through the empty streets. Someone had said the dust blew in from the Saudi Arabian desert, which made it sound very romantic, but there were so many people spouting off random, unsubstantiated theories about Iraq that I decided to remain content in my ignorance of the actual facts, rather than make myself rabidly crazy trying to get a straight, confirmed answer.
For example, the population of the cities in Iraq seemed to be nothing more than general guesses. After a Google search I found that Erbil’s population ranged from an unlikely 170,000 to 3.3 million within the short span of seven years. After my second visit to the master statisticians at Security, I was confident they were probably counting me as two people. Who knew what the real number was?
In spite of my despair at the diminished luster of my former home-away-from-home, life still had to go on, and Steve and I settled into a comfortable routine, not unlike an old, sexless married couple. After class we would make lunch, and then bring it out to one of the deck tables to eat while we enjoyed the sun and took in the lazy neighborhood vibe.
We had also befriended a sassy little kitty cat who seemed kind of stray, but kind of not. He was mostly white with gray and brown patches, and had the sweetest little face. He would run right up to us and try to rub against our legs. At first I was wary of touching him (Number 5 in the Cultural Awareness pamphlet—don’t touch stray animals), and Crazy Andy would start bellowing about scabies, but I gave him a close once-over, and he seemed surprisingly healthy and clean for a stray, and I had seen him groom himself on numerous occasions. It is not smart to touch stray animals anywhere, but I just couldn’t help myself—I loved him! I named him George, like the Bugs Bunny cartoon where the giant Abominable Snowman wants to hug Bugs and squeeze him and keep him and call him George. I wanted to hug, squeeze, and keep this little kitty cat, but I knew that I could really only get away with the “call him George” part. I kind of felt like I was cheating on Herb, but it was fun when Georgie became part of our daily routine. He magically appeared around 11:00 a.m. every day, when the students started showing up.
Georgie was a social kitty and preferred to be around people. I suppose he also preferred to be around the turkey I was leaving in the heavy glass ashtray I had designated as his food dish.
If Georgie was out roaming the neighborhood, and I saw him in the distance, I would call “Georgie!” and clap my hands, and his ears would perk up and he would come bounding down the street and through our front yard. He was the sweetest, cuddliest kitty, and would just crawl into my lap and then fall asleep. Before we could stop him, Georgie would run right into the villa if the sliding glass door was open, and after a while I just got used to him coming into the classroom while I was preparing for class. He would jump into my lap and make himself comfortable while I sat at the computer. In one of his increasingly rare Old Warren moments, while visiting Erbil, he had given Georgie the clever last name of Catstanza.
Georgie was the one shining spot in the rapidly downward-spiraling world of Erbil. There would be occasional days when he wouldn’t show up and I would worry about him—was he getting anything to eat? Were other people in the compound feeding him and giving him water? Katherine confirmed that she had seen him in her neck of the compound, five blocks away, being fed by one of her neighbors. I was only jealous for a second, and then felt relieved that he was being cared for by other people too.
Several families with children had moved into some of the villas on our street in the compound, and we would see the kids riding their bikes back and forth. One day we were sitting outside and George had joined us hoping for some table scraps. One of the little boys parked his bike in front of our deck and cautiously approached George.
The boy’s name was Barzan, and he was Kurdish and had recently moved back from the United States—specifically Texas, although he couldn’t remember the name of the city. It was weird how the Kurds chose Texas—Renas had gone there too. Maybe the similar climate was part of the appeal. Or maybe it was the barbecue.
Barzan was eight years old and spoke English very well, so Steve and I chatted with him while he played with George. I was curious about the Kurdish families who had moved away from Iraq in the ’90s and asked him what his father did in the United States, specifically Texas. Barzan told us his dad had worked at a pizza place.
I was certain this was probably one of those typical immigrant tragedies, where a brilliant surgeon or professor was forced to take on a menial job in the new country, so I asked Barzan what his dad did now that they were back in Kurdistan. “Nothing,” he responded, “he just hangs out with his friends.” That kind of blew my romanticized ideas.
Barzan said he really missed Texas and wasn’t happy to be back in Iraq. Th
is was a refrain I kept hearing from Kurds who had been displaced to various Western countries (the United States, United Kingdom, Sweden, Germany, the Netherlands, and others), then had to come back. They hated having to return to Kurdistan. They found it disorganized, dirty, unsophisticated, and generally backward.
I kept hoping that the relocated Kurds would explain the concept of hygiene to their countrymen and women, as my villa was still reeking of body odor on a daily basis. Unit 5 in our textbook was titled “Personal Care and Appearance” and focused on personal hygiene products, how to ask for them, and where to find them. Excellent! A natural segue into the odor issue. One of the exercises was a survey about ways to improve appearance:
Would you try…?
Diet, exercise, massage, creams & lotions, hair removal… etc.
The students were required to mark “definitely,” “maybe,” “probably not,” or “absolutely not” for each option.
I went through the list and had the students raise their hands for each category they would try. We came to “deodorant,” and Rabar raised his hand and asked, “Teacher, what deodorant?” Finally, a teachable moment. So I said, “Deodorant, you use it under your arms…for when you sweat…to smell good!” and I pantomimed the under-the-arm swiping. Rabar’s brow remained furrowed, and he just shook his head and shrugged. I knew they had deodorant in Kurdistan; I had seen it on the shelves at the store. Whether anyone was buying it was a completely different issue. My villa would never smell pretty.
I couldn’t even ask Crazy Andy for some Xanax to help me cope with my increasing depression. Warren finally fired him. Although that, in and of itself, was cause for celebration. He hadn’t been fired because of any of the complaints Steve and I had about him, but instead because he went behind Warren’s back and complained to Jill about an assignment. He had circumvented Fearless Leader, and Fearless Leader was pissed.
Warren loved to use the word “insubordination,” and this situation was the perfect opportunity. Warren was so furious about Andy having gone behind his back that he drove the three hours up to Erbil that same day in order to confront him—veins popping out of his temples. He made me sit in on the conversation so there would be a “witness.”
What I “witnessed” was a testosterone-fueled pissing contest, which is not my preferred entertainment milieu. No costumes, no fun music, no snacks. There was an uncomfortable exchange between the two of them involving Warren saying “insubordination” a bunch of times, sometimes followed by “gross incompetence,” and Andy looking vacant or bewildered and claiming not to understand what was happening. Warren had had a conversation with Andy two weeks prior to this, basically warning him to get his act together, since there had been multiple examples of Andy’s inability to follow specific instructions. I think he must have increased his meds. I started to feel like I might need backup when the tension escalated.
Andy: I’ve been doing this for thirteen years…what’ve you been doing? Selling cars…
Warren: Running a business, Andy, that’s what I’m doing with CED, running a business.
Andy: I’m not going to be anyone’s bitch.
Warren: I’m not sure what you mean by that…
Andy: I mean, I’m not going to be CED’s bitch, and just not question anything.
Before the situation could devolve into fisticuffs, Warren reminded Andy that he had already been given at least two verbal warnings: one just five days ago, and one two weeks ago. Andy whined, “I thought that was just a couple of guys having some beers.” And Warren said, “It should have been.”
I should have been happier about Andy’s departure, but it was a hollow victory. I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of the funk. And I tried hard. I tried self-medicating with Nutella; I tried retail therapy with a pair of brown leather Marni platform pumps at YOOX. I even made a trip down to Suli for some good girlfriend time, where Ellen’s resounding war cry of “There will be CARBS” made everyone gleeful. She wasn’t getting along with Johnny and had, instead, become romantically involved with her oven, and was baking up a storm of cookies and cakes.
But the cookies, cakes, and Nutella were just making my pants tighter, and I wouldn’t get to enjoy the shoes until I went home for Christmas break. I was also worried that Georgie Catstanza had become too dependent on me for food. I was going to be leaving for three weeks and was imagining him shivering and emaciated, meowling at the sliding glass doors. I did what I thought was the noble thing, and gradually cut down on the days I gave him turkey and tuna, so he would stop expecting it and be able to forage elsewhere, while Steve and I were gone for break. That depressed me even more. I needed help. I needed Psychic Sahar.
Chapter Thirty-four
Psychic Sahar
I had planned to fly home for Christmas, and to maximize my frequent-flier points, I once again flew through London.
London was where I was to have my portentous psychic reading with Psychic Sahar.
Katherine had discovered Psychic Sahar via Google and planned to have a reading done when she was on holiday in London in November. Upon her return, I was tingling with excitement and dying to know what Sahar had said. What lay ahead for our Miss Katherine? I practically shrieked, “HOW WAS SAHAR?” into Katherine’s ear on the phone. She responded “Oh, right, I didn’t go. I decided to get my teeth whitened instead.”
This was the opposite of what I had wanted to hear. I was profoundly disappointed in Katherine’s lack of commitment to foreseeing the future. Tooth whitening? How are whiter teeth going to help you fulfill your destiny? Unless your future is in toothpaste commercials; I really shouldn’t judge. I wanted confirmation of Sahar’s psychic skills, and as Katherine had not tested her credibility, I would have to blindly trust that she could help me with my dilemma. And as it turned out, Katherine’s tooth whitening didn’t even happen because the dentist she visited informed her she would be unable to drink coffee or red wine or any dark liquids for at least one week after the treatment. That was pretty much all Katherine had planned on doing for the rest of her trip in London: drinking coffee, red wine, and other dark liquids. So it was a fail on all counts. No guidance from Sahar, and no bright, Chiclet teeth.
It was up to me to look into my own future. My biggest question was, “Did I make a mistake with Awat?” Maybe, despite all basic logic, reason, and common sense, he was the one for me.
Two and a half months had passed since Awat’s “good-bye” email, and I had spent much of that time wallowing. After spending three hours a day, four days a week seeing him, talking to him, and laughing with him, the ending was abrupt and I missed him.
I could no longer make simple decisions by myself. I needed some guidance. Sahar, help!
Psychic Sahar’s website gave several options for a reading. I chose a full life reading:
A Full Life Reading is a comprehensive, or “wholistic,” one-hour, long-term psychic reading covering all aspects of your life including career, relationships, health, and finance. It’s a bird’s-eye view of your life, if you like. It can help you better understand your life’s purpose and how to realize it by reflecting back at you where you are at now, where you are meant to be; offering guidance on how to “get there.”
I needed to “get there.” If you had questions about people, she required you to bring in photos of those people. I printed a photo of Awat and tucked it into the purse I would bring to London.
It was Christmastime on Oxford Street. There were lights and wreaths and miles of garland lining the street, which was choked with black cabs and red double-decker buses. I hadn’t allowed enough time to squeeze and push through the throngs of harried shoppers, bustling along, swinging armloads of shopping bags, to get to Sahar’s office flat on time. I was ten minutes late, huffing and puffing, sweating and apologizing, when I walked through the door. It was not the serene, psychic-ready state I had been hoping to present, but Sahar was very gracious and welcomed me into her cozy living room. Sahar was probably in her fifties and abo
ut my height, with thick, black hair and a low, calm, slightly accented voice. We both sat down at a small, round table next to her living room window.
I had done a couple of tarot-card readings before and was always careful not to volunteer any information about myself. I assumed, if they were legitimate, they would just know what they needed to know.
Sahar began by asking, “Why are you here?”
Not a good start. Wasn’t she supposed to know that? She’s supposed to be psychic. I told her I was there because I had questions about love and my career. (Mostly love, but I felt ridiculous having that be the sole reason for my $200 visit.)
She nodded and asked, “Have you brought pictures?” I pulled out the photo of Awat and handed it to her. She didn’t look at it right away but started asking me other questions.
Sahar: What do you do for a living?
Seriously, isn’t she supposed to know things like this?
Me: Well, I’m currently teaching English…in Northern Iraq.
Her eyes popped open wide.
Sahar: Really! How interesting.
Why did she not know this already? And shouldn’t she at least be hiding her obvious shock?
Me: Yeah, it is definitely interesting.
She had begun shuffling some tarot cards on the table while still chitchatting.
Sahar: What made you decide to do that?
Me: Oh, an old friend talked me into it…
How much more information was I going to feed her?
Sahar: I am from Iran, originally, so I know that must be quite a change for you.
I Have Iraq in My Shoe Page 21