‘What’s in the bag, snow white?’ said the American soldier.
I smirked but regretted it instantly. It was enough to tickle my throat and set off a mild bout of coughing. I managed to reduce it by swallowing repeatedly. I gathered myself and looked at Gulzar who nodded. I took my bag off my shoulder and unzipped it. I pulled out the plastic blue stumps and plastic bat. The soldier moved closer and prodded his rifle into the stumps as though the three plastic wickets might suddenly grow teeth and attack. I told him it was a sport and he asked me demonstrate. I pulled out the plastic ball and told him that someone bowls it to a batsman and tries to get him out. They have to try and hit the wicket with the ball, I said. He placed the rifle over his shoulder and took the bat and ball off me.
‘So someone just pitches you the ball and you slam it as far as you can?’ he said, pushing the ball against the bat. ‘Sounds a bit weasly.’ He eventually handed me the bat after turning it into an imaginary guitar for a few seconds. He squeezed the ball in his hand and looked up. ‘Aren’t you a bit old for this shit?’
‘I want to spread the game. It’s the best game in the world.’
‘…And that’s the nature of your business here?’
I nodded. He handed me the ball and then looked at Gulzar.
‘And you, Mr Aviator, are you the old timer’s guide?’
‘I live here,’ said Gulzar. ‘I’m showing him around.’
‘Here in Sadr?’
‘…In Baghdad.’
The soldier then asked me to provide my documents and, after a bit of fiddling, I did. He glanced at the picture in my passport and looked up at me.
‘So you were born in Faisalabad…in Pakistan, right?’
‘It was in India then but…yes.’
The soldier looked over his shoulder. He was distracted by the sound of a car failing to start. ‘So do the Pakistanis dig their cricket? Or are they more into IEDs these days?’
Gulzar stepped forward and put his arm across me. ‘We’re going now. All our papers are in order. So you have no reason to keep us.’
The soldier wasn’t listening and was still looking over his shoulder. The sound of a car being driven extremely fast was heard. The soldier shook his head and threw the passport back to me. ‘Baseball rules, bro,’ he said. ‘And get a doc to see to that coughing shit. It don’t look good.’ He ran quickly and skilfully right down the side of the sewage–laden dirt–track towards his colleague near the stall. I took a deep breath as I heard the screeching of tyres. I expected the sound of an explosion but it didn’t come. Instead, there was a thudding sound as though the car had hit something harder than expected. I looked at Gulzar but he still had his eyes on the scampering solider. It was a cold, harsh stare. It took him a long time to avert his gaze. He finally turned around and put his hand on my shoulder. He started walking again and I tried to keep up but he had quickened his pace considerably.
Eventually, after an agonising 10–minute walk, we turned into a wide, deserted road and Gulzar stopped near an ageing shoe seller who was sitting in the shade repairing the base of a sandal. In the cramped jewellery store next to him, another man was kneeling down and praying on a rug which wasn’t big enough to cover his head; he looked like he’d dyed his hair because of the dusty mark on his fringe. Gulzar stood with his hand on his hips and waited for me to catch up. But I was out on my feet: the exchange with the American soldier left me exhausted. I needed a flat bed and a darkened room. I bent down and put my hands on my thighs to catch my breath. Gulzar patted me on the back and then approached the shoe seller, speaking to him in Arabic. They had a conversation for about two minutes and then the shoe seller got up and walked through a small gap behind the stall which led to a back alley and some stairs. Gulzar walked in behind and asked me join him. I wanted to ask him what was going on but didn’t have the energy to do so: I needed a seat. So I followed the two men up the steep stairs and we eventually stopped by a flimsy door which had a couple of dirty football shirts wedged beneath it, presumably to stop any draught coming through. I waited by the door as Gulzar and the shoe seller walked in. There was absolutely nothing to commend the dark, tiny room: a hole in the floor for a toilet, a cracked sink, crumbling blue walls, a dangerous stony floor and a sorry excuse for a mattress. The only thing worthy of a normal sleeping area, or bedroom, was the matching lime green pillow and bed cover.
‘This is where Wasim stays,’ said Gulzar, blowing his cheeks. ‘But he’s only here for one day a week – and he won’t be here for another four days.’
I nodded but didn’t answer. I looked around the room and knew there was only one solution. I would have to stay here until Wasim returned.
5.
I didn’t want to take my cricket jumper off because I had my standards to keep up but even I had to admit defeat after lying on the rock–hard mattress for 20 minutes. My armpits were drenched and the wool was sticking to the back of my neck so there was no option but to fold the jumper up and use it as a source of air conditioning; it was thick and bulky enough to do a passable job as a substitute fan.
I persuaded Gulzar to go home and he was naturally reluctant because he was worried about my health but I told him there was no way I would budge. He eventually agreed although he insisted he would pay for the so–called room. But he did fill me in about the shoe seller who was a bachelor, comfortably over 80–years–old and had a droopy left eye which only half–opened. Everyone called him Bilu: he had no family to speak of and had lived in the same place for at least 65 years. I wondered how someone like Wasim got to know someone like Bilu. Wasim couldn’t speak Arabic so how did they communicate? It was obviously down to the middlemen or jihadi networks; Wasim never did anything for himself.
After sitting up and wafting my jumper about for 10 minutes, I grabbed my inhaler and breathed in repeatedly. It had little impact but at least the reassuring little blue toy was by my side; we had come a long way. The sound of a distant Azaan faded as Bilu walked in with a tray of food and placed it on the floor by my side. I examined him in more detail than before. He was a short, slim man with pointy shoulders, generous eyes and a closely–cropped beard. He wore a tight grey robe, dark blue blazer and cream–coloured sandals. Surely, the stories of him being eighty odd were a lie? He looked no more than sixty. He’d cooked a watery lentil curry for me with brittle, crumbly naans even though I wasn’t very hungry. After watching me tear off the first piece of naan and dip it into the coriander–heavy curry, he disappeared for a couple of hours only to return with a silver portable TV, a Snakes and Ladders board game and some dubious DVD titles. Bilu began to set up the all–in–one TV and DVD player by the sink with the help of a small, noisy generator. I was truly grateful for his hospitality but told him I didn’t want to watch a film and simply needed some sleep and a bit of privacy. He obviously didn’t understand and went back downstairs to get a wooden shoe rack which he used as a box office seat next to my mattress. His ‘home cinema’ viewing didn’t last too long, however, because he noticed my deep, snorty breathing and curiously looked over his shoulder. I looked into his static eyes and realised I’d never felt so tired and so weak. My head was like a steel football which needed puncturing. The trip had finally caught up with me: the flying, the anxiety, the illness and, of course, Wasim. He had caused all this and I would make sure he knew about it all when I got hold of him.
Bilu pulled away the shoe rack and put his knees on the mattress close to my body. He was arched over me and I wondered what on earth he was doing. He raised his hand and rested it harshly against my chest. He took an extremely deep breath to demonstrate and asked me to do the same. I took the longest breath I could and he pushed down on my chest so hard that it was almost painful. He looked down at my abdomen and nodded. He asked me do it again which I did a number of times. Slowly but surely, I could feel the length and quality of my breathing improve. I could feel tiny waves of energy swimming in from God knows where to temporarily give my depleted body a boost. W
as it as simple as that? Why didn’t anyone tell me that breathing through the abdomen rather than the chest area was better for someone with respiratory problems? Bilu then stopped and smiled. I didn’t want him to stop. I was ready to throw my inhaler away. He then surprised me by raising his rough, yellow–tinged finger towards my chin like a wicked umpire giving a vindictive decision. Again, it felt as though some dormant bulbs had been switched on – but this time it was more uncomfortable because an area at the front of my brain was aroused. Had I been depressed? I must have been because the difference was startling. Bilu then slipped his hand round my neck. He took much longer to find the specific area he was looking for. He eventually pressed down, with three fingers, on a soft area at the back of my neck and, again, there was an immediate impact. There was a glorious rush of energy at the front of my face, particularly my nose, as though my nostrils were about to be unblocked. How could such a small workout make so much difference? At one moment, I even thought I had a new set of lungs and had never set foot in Turner Brothers. Bilu continued with some more procedures: pushing down on my belly–button, clinching my toes with his hands and pinching my wrists but none of it could be compared to the earlier breathing and neck–pressing exercises. There was a certain magic in his bony fingers.
Bilu had done something amazing. He had driven my illness so far underground that I now felt like a buzzing, energetic individual ready to take on some activity rather than lie flat on the mattress all evening. It wasn’t enough for me to watch a film – that needed too much concentration – but it was enough for me to play Snakes and Ladders with Bilu on the mattress. We must have played till midnight at least.
I felt so good in the morning that I was ready to take the game to the opposition. I had slept for six unbroken hours without needing the toilet and Bilu’s breakfast consisting of herbal tea and potato pancakes topped off a fruitful early–morning period which made me wonder how I could be so perked up now and so crippled the day before. So I put my bag over my shoulder and headed out into Sadr City. I didn’t have a clue where I was going but at least my relaxed breathing patterns helped to calm a distant, but natural, anxiety. It was a hazy, humid late morning and there were plenty of people pulling their shutters up on their stores. One man, sitting on a wooden chair with a hookah planted in his mouth, stared at me as I walked past and must have wondered why I was smiling. It was because I could; it had been a long time since that had happened. But I didn’t want to get carried away and walk too far simply because I felt better. Getting lost would be extremely silly after having such a good few hours. So I decided the first group of young children I set eyes on would get the benefit of my experience.
Unfortunately, I walked on and on and on, past stalls and stores, past Iraqi soldiers and shopkeepers and eventually past the Al Rasheed bank which had a sizeable queue of about 40 people outside it. I knew I had come too far because I didn’t have a clue where I was but a sacrifice had to be made to bring the real beautiful game to the masses. I could see a group of about 15 to 20 children playing football further down the road but if my eyes weren’t deceiving me they were using a tennis ball. The ball kept running underneath a stationary yellow truck, which I presumed was a ‘coalition’ vehicle although I couldn’t see any soldiers. As it was so small, there was no problem in retrieving the ball because it usually ran between the wheels and through to the other side. This was my opportunity and I felt excited that a new chapter was about to begin in this is great country’s history. I wanted to find a strip of grass or playing field to demonstrate but knew the road would have to do for now. That was one good thing about Baghdad and the surrounding area, I thought, the roads were always wide enough. I walked quicker than ever towards the children and stopped a few yards away. None of them could have been more than 12–years–old. Two of them were wearing black Real Madrid football shirts, one was wearing a torn grey robe, one had a red England shirt on and another was wearing an oversized baseball cap and Adidas tracksuit bottoms. I admired one of the Madrid boy’s ball controls because it wasn’t easy trying to shield a tennis ball with his flimsy sandals. I watched them for a few minutes as they chased the ball from one side to the other. Where were the goals? I couldn’t see any. I waited until the tall Madrid boy lost the ball, which was a long time, and stepped forward to make my move. He stood with his hands on his hips and turned to look at me. Most of the other boys chased the ball but also stopped when they realised Madrid boy was playing no more. They ran back to join him and all looked at me, wondering what I was up to. I was a couple of feet away from them all now and took a long, deep breath. Most of them folded their arms, tilted their heads and gave me the kind of stare probably reserved for a man with a gun.
‘I’m the Shah of Iraq,’ I said. ‘You want to play a real game?’
No–one answered so I took my bag off my shoulder and started unzipping it. I pulled out the blue cricket bat, the red ball and the blue wickets. I walked to one side of the road and carefully placed the wickets near some empty boxes of cooking oil. It wasn’t easy as the surface was uneven but I got an immediate rush from seeing these three blue sticks standing upright, ready to be the main attraction. Of course, Kwik Cricket wasn’t Test cricket and the latter was always the deepest and most profound challenge on the planet but for the game to flourish, you had to begin somewhere and this was the perfect introduction for young people.
I took 22 short strides back from the stumps. They had to be short or I’d walk into that eyesore of a truck on the other side. I could see the children watching me and I was pleased about that. Observation was a great quality to have. Perhaps a few them could be umpires one day; we definitely needed them. I put my bag down after I’d counted 22 and then picked up the ball and bat. I walked over to Madrid boy and handed him the ball. He grimaced as he clenched the ball in his hand as though I’d just offered him a grenade. He had darker skin than the other boys and the tip of his index finger was missing. He threw the ball on the floor and used his feet to move the ball from side to side.
‘You know Younis Mahmoud?’ he said. ‘I play like him.’
I shook my head and wondered who the hell Younis Mahmoud was: a Real Madrid footballer? I picked up the ball and demonstrated what he needed to do by adopting a subtle overarm motion. I handed him the ball and he attempted to do the same but couldn’t get his arm over to the 360 degree position.
Instead, he gestured that he could throw it which I suppose was a start. Perhaps the boys had plenty of experience of chucking with American soldiers milling around? But woe betide they would throw for long; they had to learn the game the proper way and that meant bowling properly; overarm. So the Real Madrid number ten, sponsored by Siemens, held the ball in his hand while I walked back down the road with the bat to take guard. I flicked away a few stones and the odd drinks can with my bat as I approached the wickets. This was the beginning of a wonderful journey, I thought, it was the birth of a new era in this war–ravaged country. I’d already had a title: A Maiden in Mesopotamia. Whether it would be a book, poem or small article in the Observer, I didn’t know, but it was the start of something special. I had the longest leg in the desert.
If only it could have been that easy. I tried to set the field but gave up when one of the boys became a Saddam–type statue and refused to budge. He was less enthusiastic than the other boys and ended up walking off to join his purple headscarf–wearing mother who had just come out of the bank. He kept looking over his shoulder though, so perhaps I hadn’t lost him forever.
Rishi, the Real Madrid boy, threw down the first ball and I played a neat forward defensive. My sweaty, flimsy hands couldn’t quite grip the bat satisfactorily – but I still got an immense lift by looking into the boy’s eyes while taking guard. One of them, however, a stocky boy in white shorts couldn’t help laughing as soon as any action took place, no matter how slight. He let out a gasp, shriek or giggle every few seconds which sometimes developed into machine–gun laughter. It may have been overex
citement but I couldn’t discount the possibility he may have been laughing at me: Bilu had done a good job but he could do nothing about my embarrassing throat–clearing tics. I varied my strokes from the next few throws so the boys could get a better understanding of the game’s profound palette. I attempted a cover–drive, leg glance, on drive and lofted drive but I tired quickly, after about seven deliveries, so I handed the bat to Rishi and decided to have a bowl. I regretted it instantly. He clobbered my second lollipop delivery over the truck and high into the sky: a bright red bullet fizzing over the toffee–coloured buildings heading into another road, street or shack. Had he played the game before or was he a sporting natural? It didn’t matter because I knew I could work with the boy; his grin and raising of his fist after he’d tanked the ball to kingdom come told me that. He could be my captain. But I had no ball now. I had no energy to go after it and all the boys looked stunned that he’d actually hit it so far. I shouldn’t have worried, however, as Rishi nonchalantly reached into his trouser pocket and picked out the tennis ball. He rolled it down the road to me so I could have another go. Not so fast, I thought, there was no chance I’d serve up another full toss so that Rishi’s eyes could light up once more. I picked up the ball and walked towards Rishi. I almost wanted to embrace him but understood it might be inappropriate. He handed me the bat and I gave him the ball. He put it in his pocket and started to walk off.
‘Don’t leave,’ I said, holding his arm. ‘You could easily play under 18s for Rochdale…’
‘I have to see my father in hospital,’ he said. ‘And get some food also…’
‘Will you come back tomorrow?’
‘Only if I can keep hitting it…’
With that signal of intent, Rishi walked off and most of the other boys peeled away too. I had made my mark but had to be thorough from now on to help the boys’ understanding of the game. I picked up the wickets and walked back towards my bag. I glanced up at the sky and treasured the moment: close of play had never felt so good.
A Fistful of Dust Page 7