By the end of the two weeks, Hamid had purchased fifty-seven carpets, at a cost of a little over $21,000. He had been careful to select only those carpets that would be sought after by the most discerning New Yorkers, and he was confident that this latest batch would fetch almost $100,000 in the United States. It had been such a successful trip that Hamid felt he would indulge himself by taking the earlier Pan Am flight back to New York. After all, he had undoubtedly earned himself the extra $63 many times over in the course of his trip.
He was looking forward to seeing Shereen and the children even before the plane had taken off, and the American flight attendant with her pronounced New York accent and friendly smile only added to the feeling that he was already home. After lunch had been served, and having decided he didn’t want to watch the in-flight movie, Hamid dozed off and dreamed about what he could achieve in the United States, given time. Perhaps his son would go into politics. Would the United States be ready for an Iraqi president by the year 2025? He smiled at the thought, and fell contentedly into a deep sleep.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a deep Southern voice boomed out over the intercom, “this is your captain. I’m sorry to interrupt the movie, or to wake those of you who’ve been resting, but we’ve developed a small problem in an engine on our starboard wing. Nothing to worry about, folks, but FAA authority rulings insist that we land at the nearest airport and have the problem dealt with before we continue with our journey. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour at the most, and then we’ll be on our way again. You can be sure that we’ll try to make up as much of the lost time as possible, folks.”
Hamid was suddenly wide awake.
“We won’t be disembarking from the aircraft at any time, since this is an unscheduled stop. But you’ll be able to tell the folks back home that you’ve visited Baghdad.”
Hamid felt his whole body go limp, and then his head rocked forward. The flight attendant rushed to his side.
“Are you feeling all right, sir?” she asked.
He looked up and stared into her eyes. “I must see the captain immediately. Immediately.”
The flight attendant was in no doubt of the passenger’s anxiety, and quickly led him forward, up the spiral staircase into the first-class lounge, and onto the flight deck.
She tapped on the door of the cockpit, opened it and said, “Captain, one of the passengers needs to speak to you urgently.”
“Show him in,” said the Southern voice. The captain turned to face Hamid, who was now trembling uncontrollably. “How can I be of help, sir?” he asked.
“My name is Hamid Zebari. I am an American citizen,” he began. “If you land in Baghdad, I will be arrested, tortured, and then executed.” The words tumbled out. “I am a political refugee, and you must understand that the regime will not hesitate to kill me.”
The captain only needed to take one look at Hamid to realize he wasn’t exaggerating.
“Take over, Jim,” he said to his copilot, “while I have a word with Mr. Zebari. Call me the moment we’ve been given clearance to land.”
The captain unfastened his seatbelt and led Hamid to an empty corner of the first-class lounge.
“Take me through it slowly,” he said.
During the next few minutes Hamid explained why he had had to leave Baghdad, and how he came to be living in the United States. When he had reached the end of his story the captain shook his head and smiled. “No need to panic, sir,” he assured Hamid. “No one is going to have to leave the aircraft at any time, so the passengers’ passports won’t even be checked. Once the engine has been attended to, we’ll be back up and on our way immediately. Why don’t you just stay here in first class, then you’ll be able to speak to me at any time, should you feel at all anxious.”
How anxious can you feel? Hamid wondered, as the captain left him to have a word with the copilot. He started to tremble once more.
“It’s the captain once again, folks, just bringing you up to date. We’ve been given clearance by Baghdad, so we’ve begun our descent and expect to land in about twenty minutes. We’ll then be taxiing to the far end of the runway, where we’ll wait for the engineers. Just as soon as they’ve dealt with our little problem, we’ll be back up and on our way again”.
A collective sigh went up, while Hamid gripped the armrest and wished he hadn’t eaten any lunch. He didn’t stop shaking for the next twenty minutes, and almost fainted when the wheels touched down on the land of his birth.
He stared out of the porthole as the aircraft taxied past the terminal he knew so well. He could see the armed guards stationed on the roof and at the doors leading onto the tarmac. He prayed to Allah, he prayed to Jesus, he even prayed to President Reagan.
For the next fifteen minutes the silence was broken only by the sound of a van driving across the tarmac and coming to a halt under the starboard wing of the aircraft.
Hamid watched as two engineers carrying bulky toolbags got out of the van, stepped onto a small crane, and were hoisted up until they were level with the wing. They began unscrewing the outer plates of one of the engines. Forty minutes later they screwed the plates back on and were lowered to the ground. The van then headed off toward the terminal.
Hamid felt relieved, if not exactly relaxed. He fastened his seatbelt hopefully. His heartbeat fell from 180 a minute to around 110, but he knew it wouldn’t return to normal until the plane lifted off and he could be sure they wouldn’t turn back. Nothing happened for the next few minutes, and Hamid became anxious again. Then the door of the cockpit opened, and he saw the captain heading toward him, a grim expression on his face.
“You’d better join us on the flight decks,” the captain said in a whisper. Hamid undid his seatbelt and somehow managed to stand. He unsteadily followed the captain into the cockpit, his legs feeling like jelly. The door was closed behind them.
The captain didn’t waste any words. “The engineers can’t locate the problem. The chief engineer won’t be free for another hour, so we’ve been ordered to disembark and wait in the transit area until he’s completed the job.”
“I’d rather die in a plane crash,” Hamid blurted out.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Zebari, we’ve thought of a way around your problem. We’re going to put you in a spare uniform. That will make it possible for you to stay with us the whole time, and use the crew’s facilities. No one will ask to see your passport.”
“But if someone recognizes me—” began Hamid.
“Once you’ve got rid of that mustache, and you’re wearing a flight officer’s uniform, dark glasses, and a peaked hat, your own mother wouldn’t know you.”
With the help of scissors, followed by shaving foam, followed by a razor, Hamid removed the bushy mustache that he had been so proud of, leaving an upper lip that looked as pale as a blob of vanilla ice cream. The senior flight attendant applied some of her makeup to his skin, until the white patch blended in with the rest of his face. Hamid still wasn’t convinced, but after he had changed into the copilot’s spare uniform and studied himself in the toilet mirror, he had to admit that it would indeed be remarkable if anyone recognized him.
The passengers were the first to leave the plane, and were ferried by an airport bus to the main terminal. A smart transit van then came out to collect the crew, who left as a group and sheltered Hamid by making sure that he was surrounded at all times. Hamid became more and more nervous with each yard the van travelled toward the terminal.
The security guard showed no particular interest in the air crew as they entered the building, and they were left to find themselves seats on wooden benches in the white-walled hall. The only decoration was a massive portrait of Saddam Hussein in full uniform carrying a Kalashnikov rifle. Hamid couldn’t bring himself to look at the picture of his “good and close friend.”
Another crew was also sitting around waiting to board their aircraft, but Hamid was too frightened to start up a conversation with any of them.
“They’re French,”
he was informed by the senior flight attendant. “I’m about to find out if my night classes were worth all the expense.” She took the spare place next to the captain of the French aircraft, and tried a simple opening question.
The French captain was telling her that they were bound for Singapore via New Delhi, when Hamid saw him: Saad al-Takriti, once a member of Saddam’s personal guard, marched into the hall. From the insignia on his shoulder, he now appeared to be in charge of airport security.
Hamid prayed that Al-Takriti wouldn’t look in his direction. Al-Takriti sauntered through the room, glancing at the French and American crews, his eyes lingering on the stewardesses’ black-stockinged legs.
The captain touched Hamid on the shoulder, and he nearly leaped out of his skin.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I just thought you’d like to know that the chief engineer is on his way out to the aircraft, so it shouldn’t be too long now.”
Hamid looked beyond the Air France plane, and watched a van come to a halt under the starboard wing of the Pan Am aircraft. A man in blue overalls stepped out of the vehicle and onto the little crane.
Hamid stood up to take a closer look, and as he did so Saad al-Takriti walked back into the hall. He came to a sudden halt, and the two men stared briefly at each other, before Hamid quickly resumed his place next to the captain. Al-Takriti disappeared into a side room marked Do Not Enter.
“I think he’s spotted me,” said Hamid. The makeup started to run down onto his lips.
The captain leaned across to his chief flight attendant and interrupted her parley with the French captain. She listened to her boss’s instructions and then tried a tougher question on the Frenchman.
Saad al-Takriti marched back out of the office and began striding toward the American captain. Hamid thought he would surely faint.
Without even glancing at Hamid, al-Takriti barked, “Captain, I require you to show me your manifest, the number of crew you are carrying, and their passports.”
“My copilot has all the passports,” the captain replied. “I’ll see you get them.”
“Thank you,” said al-Takriti. “When you have collected them, you will bring them to my office so that I can check each one. Meanwhile, please ask your crew to remain here. They are not, under any circumstances, to leave the building without my permission.”
The captain rose from his place, walked slowly over to the copilot, and asked for the passports. Then he issued an order which took him by surprise. The captain took the passports into the security office just as a bus drew up outside the transit area to take the French crew back to their plane.
Saad al-Takriti placed the fourteen passports in front of him on his desk. He seemed to take pleasure in checking each one of them slowly. When he had finished the task, he announced in mock surprise, “I do believe, Captain, that I counted fifteen crew wearing Pan Am uniforms.”
“You must have been mistaken,” said the captain. “There are only fourteen of us.”
“Then I will have to make a more detailed check, won’t I, Captain? Please return these documents to their rightful owners. Should there happen to be anyone not in possession of a passport, they will naturally have to report to me.”
“But that is against international regulations,” said the captain, “as I’m sure you know. We are in transit and therefore, under UN Resolution 238, not legally in your country.”
“Save your breath, Captain. We have no use for UN resolutions in Iraq. And, as you correctly point out, as far as we are concerned, you are not legally even in our country.”
The captain realized he was wasting his time, and could bluff no longer. He gathered up the passports as slowly as he could and allowed al-Takriti to lead him back into the hall. As they entered the room the Pan Am crew members who were scattered around the benches suddenly rose from their places and began walking around, continually changing direction, while at the same time talking at the top of their voices.
“Tell them to sit down,” hissed al-Takriti, as the crew zig-zagged backward and forward across the hall.
“What’s that you’re saying?” asked the captain, cupping his ear.
“Tell them to sit down!” shouted al-Takriti.
The captain gave a halfhearted order, and within a few moments everyone was seated. But they still continued talking at the top of their voices.
“And tell them to shut up!”
The captain moved slowly around the room, asking his crew one by one to lower their voices.
Al-Takriti’s eyes raked the benches of the transit hall, as the captain glanced out onto the tarmac and watched the French aircraft taxiing toward the far runway.
Al-Takriti began counting, and was annoyed to discover that there were only fourteen Pan Am crew members in the hall. He stared angrily around the room, and quickly checked once again.
“All fourteen seem to be present,” said the captain after he had finished handing back the passports to his crew.
“Where is the man who was sitting next to you?” al-Takriti demanded, jabbing a finger at the captain.
“You mean my first officer?”
“No. The one who looked like an Arab.”
“There are no Arabs on my crew,” the captain assured him.
Al-Takriti strode over to the senior flight attendant. “He was sitting next to you. His upper lip had makeup on it that was beginning to run.”
“The captain of the French plane was sitting next to me,” the senior flight attendant said. She immediately realized her mistake.
Saad al-Takriti turned and looked out of the window to see the Air France plane at the end of the runway preparing for takeoff. He jabbed a button on his hand phone as the thrust of the jet engines started up, and barked out some orders in his native tongue. The captain didn’t need to speak Arabic to get the gist of what he was saying.
By now the American crew were all staring at the French aircraft, willing it to move, while al-Takriti’s voice was rising with every word he uttered.
The Air France 747 eased forward and slowly began to gather momentum. Saad al-Takriti cursed loudly, then ran out of the building and jumped into a waiting jeep. He pointed toward the plane and ordered the driver to chase after it. The jeep shot off, accelerating as it wove its way in and out of the parked aircraft. By the time it reached the runway it must have been doing ninety miles an hour, and for the next hundred yards it sped along parallel to the French aircraft, with al-Takriti standing on the front seat, clinging on to the windshield, and waving his fist at the cockpit.
The French captain acknowledged him with a crisp salute, and as the 747’s wheels lifted off, a loud cheer went up in the transit lounge.
The American captain smiled and turned to his chief flight attendant. “That only proves my theory that the French will go to any lengths to get an extra passenger.”
Hamid Zebari landed in New Delhi six hours later and immediately phoned his wife to let her know what had happened. Early the next morning Pan Am flew him back to New York—first class. When Hamid emerged from the airport terminal, his wife jumped out of the car and threw her arms around him.
Nadim wound the window down and declared, “You were wrong, Papa. Two weeks turn out to be fifteen days.” Hamid grinned at his son, but his daughter burst into tears, and not because their car had come to a sudden halt. It was just that she was horrified to see her mother hugging a strange man.
CHUNNEL VISION
Whenever I’m in New York, I always try to have dinner with an old friend of mine called Duncan McPherson. We are opposites, and so naturally we attract. In fact, Duncan and I have only one thing in common: We are both writers. But even then there’s a difference, because Duncan specializes in screenplays, which he writes in the intervals between his occasional articles for Newsweek and The New Yorker, whereas I prefer novels and short stories.
One of the other differences between us is the fact that I have been married to the same woman for twenty-eight years, while Duncan se
ems to have a different girlfriend every time I visit New York—not bad going, considering that I average at least a couple of trips a year. The girls are always attractive, lively, and bright, and there are various levels of intensity—depending on what stage the relationship is at. In the past I’ve been around at the beginning (very physical) and in the middle (starting to cool off), but this trip was to be the first time I experienced an ending.
I phoned Duncan from my hotel on Fifth Avenue to let him know I was in town to promote my new novel, and he immediately asked me over for dinner the following evening. I assumed, as in the past, that it would be at his apartment. Another opposite: Unlike me, he’s a quite superlative cook.
“I can’t wait to see you,” he said. “I’ve come up with an idea for a novel at last, and I want to try the plot out on you.”
“Delighted,” I replied. “Look forward to hearing all about it tomorrow night. And may I ask …” I hesitated. “Christabel,” he said.
“Christabel,” I repeated, trying to recall if I had ever met her.
“But there’s no need for you to remember anything about her,” he added. “Because she’s about to be given the heave-ho, to use one of your English expressions. I’ve just met a new one—Karen. She’s absolutely sensational. You’ll adore her.”
I didn’t feel this was the appropriate moment to point out to Duncan that I had adored them all. I merely asked which one was likely to be joining us for dinner.
“Depends if Christabel has finished packing,” Duncan replied. “If she has, it will be Karen. We haven’t slept together yet, and I’d been planning on that for tomorrow night. But since you’re in town, it will have to be postponed.”
I laughed. “I could wait,” I assured him. “After all, I’m here for at least a week.”
“No, no. In any case, I must tell you about my idea for a novel. That’s far more important. So why don’t you come to my place tomorrow evening? Shall we say around seven-thirty?”
Collected Short Stories Page 29