Ryan continued to visit the International Zone, although since Anna had found out about the pretty redhead on Facebook, he just gave an awkward wave from a distance that neither of us returned. Anna had spent a heartbroken week drinking cheap wine in my room, but things improved when she met a blond-haired Air Force sergeant in the queue for the salad bar one lunchtime.
Anna and I had a routine of working out in the morning, then driving into work with a large coffee and box of semi-frozen melon we’d picked up from the chow hall.
Inside our office, a converted warehouse structure, Anna and I shared a desk in the open-plan area used for doing paperwork and inputting biometric data into the organisation’s extensive and temperamental database. There was also a series of small interview rooms with bare walls and a mishmash of furniture left over from other parts of the compound. If the visa applicants arrived at the office expecting their first insight of the American dream, they left disappointed.
The morning Anna mentioned Adam, I was sat at my desk stirring milk into my coffee. By the time I left Baghdad, my taste buds had been Americanised and I was adding a sickly-sweet vanilla creamer that seemed to be the norm in the chow hall.
As I stirred, I went through a mental checklist of the work that needed completing that day. I had two sets of interviews. The first was with a single man who had been a US interpreter, and the second was someone who had worked on a USAID project and had submitted an application that included his wife, children and elderly parents too.
I took a sip of coffee. Anna cleaned dust from between her computer keys with a can of compressed air that had a long thin tube at its nozzle.
“Ryan emailed me last night,” she said, between squirts.
“What? Why?” I replied. I thought communication between them had stopped completely after the Facebook incident. “You didn’t reply, did you?”
“It was weird. He wanted your email address actually.”
“My email address?” I stopped stirring.
She gave the keyboard one long final blast of air and then placed the can down, satisfied.
“Yeah, not for him though. For his friend Adam.”
“What, you mean the guy you left me with in the chow hall?” I said, as if searching my memory for him.
“That’s the one.”
“Why does he want my email address?”
“Apparently it’s work-related,” Anna shrugged.
“Work?”
“Yeah. I wondered whether you’d been secretly recruited by the Yanks and hadn’t bothered to tell me.”
I laughed.
“Not yet. Did you give it to him?”
“Of course not. I wanted to ask you first.”
“I don’t see how it can be a work thing when I don’t even understand what they do,” I said to Anna.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like, who are they?”
Anna considered me for a moment.
“Did your conversation really not even get that far?”
“I tried,” I said defensively, “but he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”
“They’re Special Forces.”
“Oh,” I said and was quiet. I still wasn’t that much clearer and made a mental note to google it later.
Anna sensed my confusion.
“They work a lot with the local forces,” she said, trying to help me out. “They train them, doing missions, that kind of thing. Apparently they were some of the first troops to enter Iraq – did a lot of work with the Kurdish Peshmerga in the north, even before the invasion”
“Did Ryan tell you all that?” I asked, surprised by her knowledge.
She laughed.
“No, not all. He just mentioned his unit and the internet told me the rest. I like to know who I’m getting into bed with,” she said with a wink.
“Shame you didn’t research his personal life so thoroughly,” I replied.
Anna threw a sugar packet in my direction.
“Shall I give him your email address or not?” she asked.
I took a sip of my coffee, thinking. I was torn. I distrusted the motivations of anyone who had chosen combat as a career path. I also distrusted the motivations of most males in a place where females were in short supply. Men here went to great lengths to spend time with the civilian girls in the compound. The Italian Carabinieri even printed off flyers advertising “pizza parties”, promising better quality wine than we could get in the compound bar. I knew more than one girl who had been enticed by the promise of a good Pinot Grigio. But something about Adam seemed different.
“I’m not entirely convinced…” I said to Anna. “But yeah, give him my email address. Just make sure he doesn’t go circulating it around all the other sex-deprived guys on PRC or RPC or whatever their weird part of the base is called.”
Anna picked up her phone.
“Done,” she said with a grin. “You know, Emma, perhaps I’m starting to rub off on you.”
The first email arrived that evening.
Usually when I remember Baghdad, the weeks and months are barely distinguishable. I see much of it as if through the haze of heat. The edges are softened and everything has the gentle blur of another lifetime, different to the one I inhabit now. But some things cut through the haze and split time with a sharp edge. The emails from Adam were one of those things. They changed everything.
I was lying on my bed when the first email arrived. It had been a long day in the office and a low-level headache had gathered around my temples at lunchtime and hadn’t shifted despite taking multiple Advil from the industrial-sized tubs they sold in the PX.
I knew I should be asleep already, but I was on my third episode of Grey’s Anatomy. I found something comforting about hospital dramas, even though the American doctors with their bright white teeth and complicated personal lives were nothing like my father.
I was debating watching a fourth episode when the email from Adam came through. I probably should have ignored the bleep of my BlackBerry, but most of us in the office were guilty of not having a firm distinction between office hours and personal time. Part of the problem was never actually leaving the place that you worked. The other part was the importance of being contactable at all times for accountability in case of an attack. Phones couldn’t be switched off.
I opened the email without registering the email address and squinted into the bright light of the screen.
Ms. Cooper,
This is Staff Sergeant Adam McLaughlin. We met in the International Zone, through my colleague, Sergeant First Class Ryan Nova. I hope you will forgive my obtaining your contact details, however I would like to ask your advice on the procurement of US visas for local nationals. I understand, from our brief conversation, that this is your area of expertise. Please let me know if this is something you may be able to assist with.
V/r,
Adam
SSgt Adam McLaughlin
+964 750 7464928
It certainly wasn’t the communication I expected to get from him. I knew Anna had said it was work-related, but I had still expected mention of a get-together, or hanging out, or something else with social connotations.
It was also an unusual request to come from military personnel. Plenty of Iraqis who worked with the US Army applied for asylum in the States, but usually the military didn’t get involved until they had to produce references or confirm employment dates. Who was it that he wanted to help anyway?
I replied quickly, my fingers speeding through phrases that were second nature to me.
Dear Adam,
Thank you for your correspondence. Yes, I do recall meeting you. I was at the pool at the time, if I remember correctly. I am indeed able to advise on visa applications. To clarify, my role is to prepare case applications for Iraqis seeking passage to the United States under the Special Immigrant Visa programme. However, the final interview is conducted by the US government and, as such, I have no influence on the ultimate decision made on the individual(s) in question. Fur
thermore, in order to be eligible for this particular visa, you should note that the applicant must be deemed to have provided services for an entity representing the interest of the United States of America. This includes, but is not limited to: armed forces interpreters, employees of American companies, Iraqi subcontractors, employees of any charity, organisation or media entity that has received funding from a US body. I hope this helps.
Regards,
Emma
I put my BlackBerry down, knowing I wouldn’t sleep straight away, and decided instead that I would watch one more episode of Grey’s Anatomy. I got off my bed to change the disc in the DVD player when the bleep of an incoming email sounded again.
Dear Emma,
Affirmative about meeting at the pool – apologies for any inconvenience caused. Yes, noted about requirements for visa eligibility. Individual in question previously provided services at a US funded medical facility. Also, understood that you have no influence over the final decision on entry to the USA. You are, after all, British.
Would it be possible to meet in person to discuss further? I can come to the IZ if so.
V/r,
Adam
I was intrigued. Who was it that this US Special Forces soldier wanted to help? How had he come into contact with someone working at a medical facility? Could it be a woman he’d had some kind of interaction with? Stranger things had happened. I’d heard stories about soldiers meeting local women in Kurdistan and trying to take them back to the States. I felt a surprising jolt of envy at the thought of this imaginary woman, which I quickly pushed away. From the little I knew of Adam’s personality, it didn’t seem to fit anyway. He seemed too straight. Someone who played by the rules.
I answered. It must have been the tiredness. Maybe it was just the intrigue.
Hi Adam,
Yes, meeting is fine. Let me know the date and time. Preferably not Friday afternoon.
Best,
Emma
7
Adam was already in Green Beans on the embassy compound when I arrived, although I didn’t see him straight away. I knew he planned to take the morning Rhino down from Camp Victory, but the schedule was unpredictable. He’d already cancelled on me twice at the last minute, citing operational issues. I arrived late at the café that morning, wondering if he’d turn up at all. It was the last chance I was giving him.
I did a brief sweep when I walked in, checking the place for colleagues. The café was full, but there was no one I knew, I noted with relief. I didn’t want to be the subject of compound gossip, even if I was meeting Adam for official purposes.
Sampath, a young Sri Lankan man who worked in the café, greeted me. He was wearing the same uniform he wore every day – a pale yellow T-shirt with a dark blue apron bearing the chain’s slogan “Honor First, Coffee Second”. Sampath came to Baghdad from his tiny coastal village to serve lattes to a mix of diplomats, contractors and soldiers who thought it was completely normal to have a gun slung over their shoulder while they ordered their morning muffin.
“Why does your name badge say Sam, not Sampath?” I asked him once.
“They said my name is too difficult for the Americans,” he replied with a good-natured shrug.
Sampath sent all of his earnings home to his family each month and spoke to them once a fortnight via an old Nokia phone that was passed around the other KBR workers.
“How are you today Miss Emma? Americano with half and half, yes? You are looking smart today – big meeting?” he said with a smile. There was a comfort in being known on the compound, even if only slightly, even if among strangers.
“Something like that,” I said, smoothing my clothes down self-consciously. I had exchanged my normal dark linen trousers for a pair of grey office trousers that I usually saved for important events. I was also wearing my only blouse that had survived the compound’s extreme-boiling laundry system. Adam had met me in a bikini and summer dress, and I was keen to reassert my professionalism.
It was at that point that I noticed Adam sat among the other uniformed bodies in the coffee shop. His head had been bent over a Stars and Stripes newspaper, but he must have looked up at the sound of my name.
“Wow, I guess you’re a regular in here,” he said, standing up and walking towards me. I held my hand out to shake his and noticed he was taller than I had remembered. I wondered just how much of Sampath’s comments he had heard and willed my cheeks not to burn.
“Hi Adam, glad that you could make it this time,” I said, sounding more assured than I felt. It was his turn to look uncomfortable now.
“Yeah, uh, I’m really sorry about that. Stuff came up last minute.”
“It’s fine, I get it,” I said. “The fight for freedom doesn’t wait for anyone.”
“Yeah, freedom, something like that. Can I get your coffee? Americano with half and half was it?”
“It’s fine, I’ve got it.”
“No, please, I asked for your help. At least let me get the coffee.”
I noticed Sampath watching the whole exchange with interest and I shifted awkwardly.
“Well, okay, thanks. I’ll get the next one.”
“Oh, we’re having another coffee?” he teased, unexpectedly.
“Actually, it was just the polite British thing to say,” I replied.
I went and sat down at the table where Adam had been reading the newspaper, facing myself towards the counter. I caught Sampath grinning at Adam as he handed over the coffees, then as Adam turned, Sampath shot an approving wink in my direction. I gave him a warning glare. Adam joined me at the table with an Americano and a towering latte that smelled of caramel and vanilla.
“I know, it’s like two days of calories, but it was an early start,” he said, almost apologetically. “Lots of waiting around for the Rhino.”
“No judgement here,” I said, holding my hands up in front of me. I didn’t tell him I was actually noting that he waited for my arrival to get a coffee, despite the red of his eyes betraying how desperate for caffeine he must have been.
“So,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee, “now that we’re both here, tell me what’s going on.”
Adam started talking. Based on the chow hall experience, I had expected our conversation to be stilted, awkward. But today was different.
“So, there’s this woman… Ameena,” he said. I felt strangely deflated for a moment, but then he continued. “She’s the cousin of my ’terp, Ali. He’s a solid guy. I said I’d try and help him out.”
Adam wanted advice about the special visa programme for the cousin of his interpreter, or “’terp” as the US soldiers tended to call them. He said he didn’t know much about Ameena personally, but Ali was worried about her. And a distracted interpreter in a conflict zone wasn’t good for anyone.
Adam said Ali had been a Special Forces interpreter for the past three years. He came from Basra, a city in the south where he had been training to become a doctor. Adam spoke about Ali with a mix of professional respect and genuine affection.
“You know, when Ali was studying, they didn’t even get to learn on real bodies. Some kind of religious regulation apparently. Can you believe that? Dead bodies all over the damn place and med students are all just examining one single body that was preserved in the seventies.”
I raised my eyebrows slightly and Adam went on. There was something undeniably attractive about his passion.
“I don’t know how they learnt anything at all. Y’know, back in the day, this place was way ahead of the rest of the region in terms of medicine… Sorry for ranting about it, it just makes me really mad,” he said. “I’m a medic too, so I guess that’s why Ali and I kinda bonded, talking about training and treatment and stuff. He’s a smart guy.”
“Wait, you’re a medic?” I said. He had surprised me again.
“Uh, yeah…”
“I thought you trained Iraqis.”
“Well, I do that too. We do a bunch of stuff.”
“Oh,” I said, try
ing to wrap my head around the information. “So, does it take a lot of training to be a medic?”
“I guess. I mean, it adds an extra year to your training, but I knew most of what we learnt already.”
“Why? Were you the kind of kid that operated on cats or something?” I joked and immediately regretted it. I had a tendency to make inappropriate jokes when I was nervous.
“Actually, I studied medicine at college,” he said. “But you know, us SF medics train on cats sometimes too.”
I laughed.
“No, really. At least, we used to. Wait, you’re not a cat lover are you?”
“I’m more of a dog person.”
“Good. Me too. Luckily we didn’t have to practise on them.”
I smiled and he looked down and stirred his coffee. I found myself doing the same, as if embarrassed by the lightness of the exchange between us. I was intrigued.
“So, you studied medicine at college?” I asked, encouraging him to continue.
“Yeah. I was going to be a doctor, but then, well, SF happened. Or 9/11 to be exact. Both my brothers were military and I knew I couldn’t stay in the States while they were deployed. Especially when I had skills that could be useful.”
I had the sudden desire to tell him that my father was a doctor. That I had grown up around medical terms. That I shared my father not only with my sister but with thousands of patients I never met. But I held back this surge of personal information. I barely knew the man, why was I so keen to tell him so much?
“So, anyway,” he said, turning his cup between his hands, “Ali didn’t get to finish his studies like I did. His brothers were killed, so it was down to him to support the family. Can you imagine? He left his studies and got a job as an SF ’terp through some contact of his. But he says he’ll go back to school when—”
I shifted in my seat and stretched out a leg, which came to rest against Adam’s. Realising this, I withdrew it quickly. Adam paused, as if he’d forgotten what he was saying.
“—When, um…”
“When this is over?”
“Yeah. Right. When this is over.”
Pieces of Me Page 4