Baghdad Fixer (33 page)

Sam’s head tilts back on her shoulders and her eyes ride up. She seems focused on the ceiling of Rizgar’s Impala, as though she’s never noticed it before. She puts her finger into a hole in the fabric and pulls it out, ripping it a little wider. He glares at her in the rearview mirror. “Sorry,” she says.

“I have an idea,” I offer. “I will go to a few houses on foot. You stay here in the car with Rizgar. Keep your sunglasses on. And cover up your face more, so that only your eyes are showing.” I pull my hand across my face to demonstrate what I mean.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Welcome to Iraq.”

The door slams. I’m out. The two of them soundless inside and me outside, my head hit by the buzz and heat. I wish I hadn’t shut the door as forcefully as I did. I re-open it.

“What did your friend say?”

“He said to try near the homes close to the riverfront and to ask for Abu Wahid, because that’s how people know Hamdani here, so—”

The door closes hard again, as if something else, a wind perhaps, is controlling it.

I head towards the houses, each one a comfortable distance from the next. When I look back I can see that Sam’s face has half disappeared beneath a white scarf, and from this distance anyway she no longer stands out as a foreigner.

This cannot be so hard. I’ll ask people for Abu Wahid and someone will know. Tikrit is a small place. If he was important to Saddam, people will know him. What people? There isn’t a soul on the street. I approach a small house on my right. I knock and they say yes, and I say I’m looking for Abu Wahid, and they don’t answer. At the second house, a man comes to the door, and I ask about Abu Wahid and he stares at me and says he doesn’t know him. The next two houses are shuttered and no one answers at all. As I move on, someone behind me calls out and I spin around, more quickly than I would have liked.

“Are you looking for someone?” Two ageing men, probably in their sixties, are sitting in the shaded doorway of a house, playing
tawli,
which is our version of backgammon. I always thought it funny that there is such an English name for a game that was invented right here in Iraq, a few millennia ago. One of them is shaking the dice in his hand and smiling at me.

“Yes, that’s very kind of you.” I step over to their side of the road and stop at the gate, which isn’t locked. “May I?”

“Tfaddal, ibni
.” Welcome my son, he says, and lets the dice tumble against the wooden side of the playing board. The metal gate creaks as I push it open, and whines behind me as it closes. I take a few steps closer. “I’m looking for Abu Wahid. Or even some of his family.” I’m not sure how that sounds, but it’s been said.

The other man, who has barely looked at me, takes his turn with the dice. When he is happy with his roll, he laughs and smacks his hands together, quickly rearranging the configuration of the board. He laughs again and leaves his jaw open, revealing only a sparse attendance of teeth. There are small stains on his
dishdasha.
He is older than I first thought.

“Why do you want him?” The other man, the slightly younger one, takes the dice and jiggles them rhythmically in his hand.

“Well, I need to ask him something. I, I think someone may have tried to use his signature improperly and I want to find out so I can clear his name.”

He yawns and tosses the dice again. “Oh, is he in trouble?”

“I don’t know. I’m just — do you know where I can find him?”

“You still haven’t told us who you are.”

“I’m a teacher from Baghdad. My name is Nabil. Nabil Amari,” I hold out my hand, and the younger of the two grasps it for a moment, after which his eyes fall back to the board. “I am doing some work, some work for a journalist who wants to disprove some of the lies that have been said in the West about President Saddam.” I can feel my pulse pounding in my neck, that banging in my chest like the feeling I get each year when I walk into a classroom for the first time. Why did I say
that
?

“Oh? What kind of journalist? Where from?”

“Ireland.” If someone passed Sam on the street, wouldn’t they think she was Irish? Many of the Irish kids I met in Britain had red hair.

“Ireland,” the older man spoke up, sending spittle onto the younger fellow’s hand. “Did Ireland help the Americans occupy the country?”

“I don’t know,” the junior player says. “Nabil, did the Irish help the Americans invade Iraq?”

“No, no. Ireland was very much against.” I have no idea how Ireland behaved, or if Ireland had any say at all. Isn’t Irish policy whatever Britain says it should be?

“Really? That’s good.” He pulls out the white plastic chair, its seat half baked to powder by sun, and drags it next to him. “Do you want to sit? Drink some tea.”

“Oh, really, I would like that, but there are some people waiting for me and this matter is very important, so I must keep moving until I can find Abu Wahid.”

“Well,” the man says, resting his arm onto the back of the chair. “I don’t think you’ll find him. He’s probably gone by now. But I do know some family members you could talk to.” He reaches for the remains of the tea glass on the table. He swirls the grainy liquid with interest, frowns and puts the cup down. “I would like to help you, but I think they might be very angry if they knew I was helping some outsiders locate them. You know, the situation around here these days is very bad. Raids all the time, the Americans breaking into our houses and arresting people in the middle of the night, or while we’re having dinner with our families. They come in and look at the women.” He meets my eyes. “The financial situation is especially bad.”

“I understand.”

“Really, it’s terrible. The Americans are blocking us from going anywhere, no one can work. A man needs to feed his family.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Yes. Perhaps there is. I’m sure there are at least fifty people in Tikrit who would like to kill me simply for sitting here talking to you, if you’re working with foreigners.” He returns to the game, and the other man does the same.

I take the tiny notebook out of my back pocket, and then reach into my right front pocket, where I keep a little bit of cash. I pull out a wad of dinars, worth about $30, and fold it between the pages of the notebook, letting the crisp blue edges stand out. I place the notebook on the table next to the older man’s hand. “Could you write me some directions to the place I’m looking for? I don’t really know my way around this area.”

The man takes the notebook, and the bills disappear under his sleeve. Sam probably wouldn’t like it, but there is no other way. Using my pen, he scribbles a quick script in the notebook, then hands it back. “Suad al-Hamdani, in Al-Tamer neighbourhood, just south of here, in Ad-Dawr.” He looks up at me. “That’s Faisal’s sister. She should be around.”

I offer my thanks. He says I should be as quiet about his identity as he will be about mine.

“Actually,
hajj,
I didn’t get your name.”

“That’s fine,” he answers, happy that I have bestowed this honorific on him, which is appropriate for a man of his age, regardless of whether he’s made the pilgrimage to Mecca. “I don’t remember yours either. Nizzam was it?” He grins wider, almost towards a laugh, and stands up to shake my hand. He is much taller than he appeared to be when he was seated, almost a full head above me. His hand feels like worn leather, but the grip is strong.

The older man looks up at me and nods. “Be careful, now. There are a lot of crazy people out there.” I nod in agreement and wish them well. I rush off down the street, forcing myself to slow down to a walk. Sam will be thrilled we have names and a location. And what would Sam say if I tell her I paid for it? She’s been clear — we needed to come here to get something done. And look, I’m getting it done. How else could I have done it? It’s an investment in getting the story. If she were an Iraqi, she would understand that sometimes there is no other way.

And if she were an Iraqi, she would never be doing the job she’s doing now. She’d never have been my boss.

I hurry towards the corner where they left me, but Rizgar’s car isn’t there. I scan up and down the main road but I can’t see them anywhere. Why would they leave? Didn’t they say they would wait for me there? Why didn’t I take the phone?

The sun is beating on me like a
masghouf
fish baking in the oven. I walk towards the shade of a few palm trees along the road. Where are they? What if someone noticed Sam and tried to kidnap them? What if she gets killed and the Americans hold me responsible? What if her family thinks it’s my fault?

What if someone tries to kill Rizgar and rape Sam?

I can feel the sweat slipping down my back, the urge to pace. Suddenly I remember something my grandmother used to say.
Al ajala min as-shaytan wattaanni min ar-rahman.
Haste is the devil’s work and patience is from the Merciful One. Just be patient, Nabil. But working with Sam has not taught me patience. And there is nothing, as far as I can see, that is patient about the process of journalism.

A few men in passing cars stare at me as they go by. Where
are
they?

I crouch closer to the earth, the way the day labourers do when they’re waiting for a lift. Like this, maybe I’ll pass for a farmhand. And if I wind up passing out in the sun, I won’t have far to fall.

Finally I see the low-lying hood of Rizgar’s Impala round the corner down the street. The car slowly pulls up next to me with the passenger-side window down. I suppose my face must give away my mood.

“What’s wrong?” Sam, now in the front, looks baffled. “Is everything all right?”

I jump in and shut the door. “It’s fine. I just thought you were going to wait for me here.”

“We were,” says Sam. “But there were some people watching us so we decided to beat it and keep driving around. We drove by one of the palaces. I was dying to go inside to check it out but we wanted to get back here to you of course.”

“I have some names of Hamdani’s relatives. I think we should just go quickly and find them and then return to Baghdad.”

She looks over her shoulder at me. “Realistically? There’s about a million troops in control of this town?”

Does Sam make her equations that way? If there are a lot of American troops, then we’re safe? What if it’s the other way around? The more of them that are here, the less safe we are. People who drive by us seem to stare into our car for too long.

“Why are you so worried, Nabil? Everyone says Tikrit is totally safe now. Last time we were here, it was fine. Right, Rizgar?”

Fine,
except that last time they were here, Luqman, Sam’s last fixer, was shot at. Why does she never mention that?

Rizgar shrugs, reminds me that Sam’s the boss.

I shake my head. “Let’s go to Ad-Dawr now and try to find some of these people and then head back to Baghdad.”

Sam relents and we head towards Ad-Dawr. Going out is much easier than it was coming in and I’m not sure why the soldiers are so much more concerned about one direction of traffic than the other. Soon we’re at the edge of Tikrit again and the big houses turn into mud huts and shacks. In minutes everything and everyone seems much poorer, as if we were in another country altogether.

I roll down my window to ask someone on the street for the Al-Hamdani family. As we follow his directions, we start rocking over an unpaved road with the Tigris visible at the end of it, dreary and brown.

“What palace did you go to last time?” I ask.

She looks surprised at the question. “Oh, we saw the Zulfakker Palace. It had these enormous carved wooden doors on the front and a sign outside that said the palace was built in defiance of UN sanctions. Isn’t that a trip?”

I suddenly feel a well of jealousy against Sam. I would have liked to see Saddam’s palaces. Now that he’s gone, they’re
our
palaces. She continues to explain how it looks, and I’m only half listening. A local person should explain his country to a foreigner, not the other way around. How strange that I’m always seeing Iraq through her eyes, virtually touching it with her hands.

~ * ~

27

Touching

We knock on several doors, all locked. Until we get to this one, which isn’t even fully closed. After tapping on it a few times, I push it open. And then I have the feeling that maybe it would be a terrible idea to just walk in like that and so I step back, just as a voice calls out. “Marwan? Marwan is it you?”

“No, no. Uh, no, it’s — I’m sorry, I was looking for someone from the Hamdani family.” A woman appears from the hallway and looks frightened when she sees me, but after she notices Sam she seems more confused than anything else.

“I was just, pardon me, I was just looking for the Hamdani family and I thought that — is this the right place?”

She stiffens. Her fingers are arthritic, bent at unusual angles that look uncomfortable. “Who are you looking for?” Her clawish fingers grab for each other as if for solace. “Who are you?

“I’m Nabil al-Amari, from Baghdad. This is Miss Samara. She’s a Western journalist I work with.”

Sam, hearing her name, bows her head slightly and smiles. “We wanted to find some of the relatives of Abu Wahid,” I say. “Faisal al-Hamdani?”