But across the pool I see them — Sam’s friends. Two of them, Joon and Marcus rise from a table which has more bottles of beer scattered across it than there are people around it.
“Sam!” Joon cries. ‘“My God.” She rushes over, leaving Marcus standing there, the three others with their heads fixed on us. “We were worried sick about you, for Chrissake. Are you all right?”
No answer. Sam still moving towards the door, coming home like any other day. Me following behind, unsure what to say.
“We were close to calling AP to put out a story on you,” Joon says, almost accusingly. She approaches Sam, but something in Sam’s distance holds Joon a few feet away, waiting.
Marcus sizes her up, looking to me for a split second before focusing again on Sam. “I never thought I’d say this, Katchens, but you look like shit. What happened?”
“I’m fine.” Sam’s voice, hoarse but emotionless, as if every time she speaks, she is adding of course. Of course I’m fine. Of course.
“Did you...” Joon stares like she knows something is wrong, but doesn’t want to force the issue — to demand what Sam isn’t offering. She takes hold of one of Sam’s wrists. “What the—? Are you guys all right? Where were you?” Despite Joon’s professed concern, it looks to me like she has been for a swim. I can see the skinny black straps straddling her neck beneath her shirt, like puppet strings to move her shoulders.
Sam unhinges her arm from Joon’s hold. “What the fuck would you care? Wasn’t it only yesterday you accused me of hoarding sources and stealing boyfriends?”
“Sam, I’m sorry about that,” Joon pleads. “I was way out of line.”
Sam stares at her blankly.
“I said I’m sorry What more do you want?”
“I don’t want anything, Joon. I appreciate your concern, but I’m just a little too exhausted to be standing on my own two feet right now, or to speak another word.”
“Really, Sam,” Marcus approaches. “What’s going on? Everyone wants to know—”
“Don’t they always,” she says, and starts for the atrium door. I avoid their stares and follow her.
“Sa-am,” Joon pushes in. “Wait, can we please talk?”
Sam pauses, her right hand on the handle. Her hair has an electrified frizz running through it, as if fully aware of the harrowing hours in Ali’s townhouse on the Tigris.
Joon’s face is a sneer. “You could have at least called or texted one of us to tell us you were all right!”
“No,” says Sam, calm and quiet. As in no, I don’t want sugar in my coffee. “I couldn’t.”
Sam drags the door open as if she needs to pull the weight of her body in the opposite direction to do it. Her eyes train on mine and swing upwards. The night guard has already replaced Rafik, which somehow feels like a great relief. What would he think if he saw me following Sam up to her room at this late hour?
I know Sam usually likes to walk up, but the lift is here, open and waiting for us. Her eyes say it all: I’m too tired to take the stairs. She enters and I follow. Her back is to the wall, and mine to the doors closing behind me.
I can see her watching the numbers change above my head. With her eyes lifted that way, the amber colour looks even more beautiful. But the whites are reddened, as if she hasn’t slept in days.
She catches me staring at her. Neither of us breathes. The lift doors part.
Sam is already holding the key to her room, though I can see she is having a hard time steadying her hand enough to get it into the lock. From behind her, I feel myself inches away from putting myself around her, making her be still, just holding her. The clicking turns three times and pricks at the vertebrae between my shoulders. The sound of Ali’s gun at Sam’s head.
Sam pushes the door open and I hear her exhale, a lungful she had been holding, at the sight of her familiar suite. Sam’s things fall off her — her shoes, her bag — and I feel any second her clothes will follow.
She stands with her back to me and I can feel her thinking, collapse on the sofa? Send Nabil away and go to bed?
“I need a shower.”
“Do you want me to stay here?”
Her eyes lift, rounding towards me like the second hand on a clock. “Yes.”
She walks towards her bedroom, and I am frozen here. She turns back to me. “You...you could have a drink or something. Why don’t you make yourself something? There’s some, I don’t know, some stuff in there,” she says, lifting her chin towards the cabinet with the television on it, the one that has never worked, as far as I know.
The sprinkling of the shower carries into the living room almost like rain on the roof in winter — a sound I used to love. Will I be around next time it rains in Baghdad? Will Sam? I can feel myself stirring. I’m ashamed to even think of these things now, after what happened to us today. But it’s true. I can feel myself burning with it. There isn’t anything I want more right now than to walk in and make love to her right there, with the water falling over us, helping us wash it all away.
A love poem by Nizar Kabbani comes to me, and I air-type it for him, in his memory.
Undress yourself.
For centuries
There have been no miracles,
I am mute,
And your body knows all languages.
Inside the cabinet, below the television, I see what Sam meant. A bottle of Bombay Sapphire, a bottle of red wine that looks to me to be very old, and a bottle of Glenmorangie, the stuff my father likes. I lift out the bottle, only half full, and hold it up to the light. Clear and warm, almost amber, almost the colour of Sam’s eyes. With the uncapped bottle under my nose, my chest shudders. One of the many Western things that appear better than they taste. No point in forcing it. I’ll make tea.
I stand over the kettle while it builds to a boil, pretending the steam clouds will provide our escape, enjoying how they look when they ride through my outstretched fingers, until my own skin is hot and moist, almost puckered, the way Sam’s must be by now. When it’s done, I hear her water stop, too.
I choose two bags from the fancy box of assorted British teas she picked up at the store the other day, the one offering imported goods to foreigners at four or five times the normal price. Chamomile. Didn’t Sam once say she liked that one? I steep them and seat myself.
She comes out, her hair drenching wet so that it looks more smooth than curly, a white towel in one hand as she tries to squeeze out the water. She is wearing a dark green robe, and she is so striking she looks like a piece of jewellery, an emerald topped with rubies.
When she sees me sitting on the sofa with two steaming mugs on the table, she laughs a little, then collapses into the space next to me, brushing against me as she hits the seat. She has never sat next to me like this. Always on the sofa which is at right-angles to this one, or at her desk.
She leans her head back against the sofa. I can feel the wetness of her hair, the smell of her shampoo. Her eyes are closed. “After all that,” she says in a low voice, “you’re only having tea?”
I sit up to move. “Did you...I can get you something else. I saw there is whisky and maybe vodka, and—”
“I know what we have. Tea’s good.” She pulls her mug towards her, leans her face over it, her elbows on her knees. “Mmm. Chamomile, right?” I thought she had leaned her head that way to feel the aromatic steam on her face. But I hear the air in her throat break. Sam is crying out loud now, streams running over her cheeks and towards her tea.
I hesitate, wanting to stop her, to stop myself. Didn’t she sit here rather than there? My arm is around her. Across her back, my hand wrapped around her shoulders.
She’s crying harder now, in a way I’ve never heard her. Quiet, deep sobs, like she can’t stop it, like something invisible is rocking her, snatching away bits of breath.
I wait for her to pull away, to get up and head for the bathroom, to come back pretending nothing has happened. Nothing has gone wr
ong. I’m fine. Instead she lets her shoulders go, drops them, and falls towards me, shaking without a sound, just contractions of her stomach.
My hands, in that red hair, holding that head, smoothing out the wet curves like ripples in a pond. “Shh...” I whisper in her ear, rocking her a little, so much more slowly than her sobs. “Shh...it’s okay now. We’re okay now.” And there is a rasp in Sam’s throat, the sound of gears moving in different directions, a heave of her chest as if she might be sick. I hold her a little more closely, a little more tightly, her knees curled up almost into my lap. What do you think you’re doing, Nabil? “Shh...” a rocking like a boat on the river, swaying just a little the way the fishing dinghies do when the weather gets windy, and then I can feel it, her cheek against mine, my lips against her cheek, tasting all of that saltiness, almost repelled and yet pulled closer by the taste of her tears, taking in the curve of the damp bone that rounds up to her eye, wanting to soothe everything, every part of her, to quiet her, and then I feel them: Sam’s lips stuttering near mine, and I take them and meet them and kiss them to stop their quavering, kiss them harder than I should. And she’s kissing back. She’s kissing back.
She puts her hand around my neck and she’s stopped crying now, but I can feel that her face is still wet and so I kiss her again and try to wipe away those tears with the palm of my hand, and she kisses me harder for a moment and my head is flying with a thousand thoughts of my life about to begin right now, restarting at this very moment. Me with Sam. Sam and me, making love. Me in Sam and Sam in me. And I move my arms around her back to hold her better, to comfort her, to love her, I will love her like no one’s ever been loved before, or at least like I’ve never loved anyone, like I could never have loved Noor, and just then I feel myself deeper into Sam, closer than I ever have been before. Ever. Ever. And the taste of Sam’s tongue against mine is so salty and sweet and soft that I can’t ever have been happier, ever, ever, and it stops. Sam’s tongue slows, her mouth freezes. She pulls away.
She stares at me with bleary eyes, confused as a girl awoken from a dream. Her mouth strains towards an “o”, a stretch to ask why. Or maybe to say oh-no. I stare back at her, and her eyes study me, taking me in.
“Na, Nabil, I...I don’t know what just happened here.” Silence. A sniffling, an exhalation. “We can’t do this.”
You want to do this. You put your lips next to mine. You didn’t pull away — not straight away, anyway.
“You, you know we can’t do this, right? You understand, don’t you?
You let me kiss you. You kissed back.
Her eyes fill up again, searching mine. They look like they will spill over again, but just build up at the edge of her bottom lids, holding. I watch her, unable to string together a reply. She takes one of my hands in both of hers, lets her eyes close, sets free the waterfall. Her tongue reaches out to catch one without her knowing. She breathes in quick and breathes out slow. “I know you understand. I know you know why this can’t be.” And she rises, leaving my hand alone in mid-air, only a moment ago held in hers.
~ * ~
50
Leaving
Sam told me she needed to sleep for a few hours. Four, to be exact. That nothing could be done, no decisions could be made, no discussing why we can or can’t do anything, until she had four solid hours of sleep. She read somewhere that sleep experts have discovered that we sleep in four-hour cycles which are in sync with our dream sequences, and therefore, give us enough time for deep sleep and rapid-eye movement. So if you can’t sleep eight hours, the study found, better to sleep four. To sleep five or six would only frustrate the mind’s internal clock, which would know that it was being woken up in the middle of a four-hour cycle. With that, she left me here, on the sofa with my shirt still spotted from her tears, and went to bed. I reminded her that I thought we should leave the hotel as soon as possible, and that we should do it at night, when no one would be watching. And she reminded me that she needed to pay the Hamra for her last month of hotel bills, and that the main reception desk wouldn’t be open until five. She promised to wake up in four hours, at 4.45 a.m., and pack up her essentials. Then she further reminded me that if we violate the curfew without a special permit -something Technical Ali apparently has no problem attaining - we might wind up dead anyway. And who would drive us? No sign of Rizgar or his car.
It’s been more than an hour that I’ve been lying here in the dark, in the spare room across the hall from hers, the one where Carlos sleeps whenever he is here, the one where Marcus slept at least once, and where other men might sleep in the future.
I get up and turn on the light. Maybe I’ll try to read one of her books, because there is no way I’ll be able to sleep. How can Sam?
I walk through the suite to get a glass of water from the kitchen, and stop at her door on the return trip. Put my ear against it, wince when I hear it creak. Stillness. Soundlessness. Not even the heavy breathing of a troubled sleep.
Lying on my back again, I go through the selected pieces of the story I will feed my family when I bring Sam home tomorrow. Today, rather. I will bring Sam home today. I feel the rush of blood around my chest, the pounding in the pulse points in my neck, wired like Frankenstein in the old black-and-white film, rising from the dead, feigning health and happiness. I close my eyes, and Ali’s face fills them. Maybe the deadline is you. Open. Better open. I will simply lie here, eyes open, and wait. Wait for the light to come. Keep myself from slipping into that crazy corner of my mind, the one that thought I could fill Sam up with me, instead of words and stories.
A trio of beeps, sounding four or five times, and then the click that brings it to an end. Sam is stirring just as she promised, using the bathroom and letting the door slam, rattling mine.
I go into the kitchen to make coffee, the real one that takes time. The dallah, the pot for making real coffee, was in the cabinet all along, next to the other basic crockery the hotel leaves for its guests. I suppose Sam never thought to use it.
I stand and stir, watching the dark foam rise and fall and rise again. Make it sweet, but not too sweet. By the time it is done, I turn to find Sam pulling along a large black suitcase, made of hard plastic and rounded at the edges, into the main room. Manipulating the handle, she wheels the upright case next to her desk and sits down in her chair. She looks at the laptop, dark and idle, and taps twice on the space key.
“I made some coffee.”
“I have to call Miles.”
“Now? I think we should leave here before people wake up. Before everyone sees us leave. You can stick a note under Joon’s door and tell her you’re all right. Or leave a note for Carlos and ask him—”
“I need to tell Miles what happened. I should have called him the minute we got home. I should at least e-mail them.”
“Sam?” She doesn’t turn, starts typing away at the computer. “Sam! Would you listen to me?” I take the coffee off the stove, pour it into two porcelain cups. I bang the dallah back down harder than I should.
“Don’t start getting angry at me, Nabil. That’s the last thing I need right now.”
“It’s not a matter of angry!” In my head I imagine myself taking the coffees and sending them across the room, letting them fly past Sam’s head, just close enough to shock her, before landing on the sliding glass door, a crash of black and brokenness. Instead I leave them on the counter, and move towards the sofa that separates us. She watches my approach and then stands, moving incrementally, her arms crossed in front of her.
“I want you to understand. It’s not anger. I’m just trying to help you. Not just you. I have my family to think about. These people already know you’re here. Maybe they know where I live.”
Sam claps the computer shut and pulls out the plug.
“Listen to me for a minute!”
“I am listening. I’m listening while I pack. You want me to pack, right? This stuff has to come too. If they know where you live, then let’s not go
to your house.”
“Actually, I don’t think they know where I live. Ali called me a professor’s kid. Which means he doesn’t know who my father is, I don’t think.”
“But what about those guys who grabbed you? They knew.”
“Outside my house? Just small-time neighbourhood thugs. I doubt they have anything to do with these guys.”
“Nabil,” she says. “I’m worried about Rizgar.”
“Me too,” I say, but in fact, I’m even more worried about what I tried to do on the sofa a few hours ago. Right here, on this sofa, us kissing, only hours ago. “Rizgar probably just went home after a while. He wouldn’t stay out after curfew.”
Sam reaches to pull plugs out of the power strip, quickly winding them up.
Baghdad Fixer Page 50