Baghdad Fixer (42 page)

I open the European pastry box for him. “
Tfaddal
.” Take, please.

“No, no,” he says. “It’s too early.” He grabs at the small tyre around his middle. “And my wife says I must watch this.”

We laugh and I sit.

“Miss Samara not in?”

I know he knows she’s not in, so why must he ask?

“She had to stay with her friend Melissa at CNN, over at the Sheraton Hotel. She was asked to do a live interview at midnight. That’s only four in the afternoon in America.” I don’t know why I do this, start making up lies to protect Sam. But what will the men in the hotel think of her if they see she doesn’t come home at night, off late at parties with men and alcohol? They will assume the worst. It’s only for her own good.

Rafik nods, but looks down at his desk. “Want to read a newspaper?”

“Thanks,” I say, getting up to take it. It’s one I haven’t seen before,
Al Sabah Al-Jadida.
The New Morning.
Paul Bremer Arrives in Baghdad Today to Replace Jay Garner, the failed Occupation Chief of President Bush.
In the first paragraph, it says that Mr Bremer is going to dismiss anyone associated with the Ba’ath party and senior and even mid-level officials will be investigated and then banned from government positions. I know that Mr Bremer’s real name is L. Paul Bremer III, because I saw it in a story Sam showed me on her computer screen the other day. Otherwise, if I were only reading the Iraqi papers, I might think his name was Bol Breemer, a terrible start because it’s too close to
buul,
which means urine. Since we have no “p” in Arabic, most people substitute a “b”. When people try to speak English with Sam, they start talking about the Iraqi
beoble,
and that’s when I convince them to stick to Arabic and let me translate.

“So we’ll have a new American in charge,” I offer.

“Aiy,”
says Rafik, nodding. “Things can only improve, yes?”

I wonder if Rafik is testing me, trying to determine whether I actually like the Americans. Who can know whether to trust him? But he is friendly, and does seem to like Sam.

Rafik scans the hallway, where there is no one but us, save a German photographer making his way out of the door. The bank branch across from him is still closed.

I continue reading about what Mr Bremer is expected to do.

“Do you tell the men at the other reception desk what you’re doing when you go out every day?”

I look up. “What?”

“Do you tell them? In the first tower,” he says, lifting his chin with a quick jab towards the pool and the other building beyond it.

“No, not usually.”

“Well you shouldn’t tell them at all,” he says, coughing into his hand, like he’s trying to hide what he just said.

“You don’t trust them?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s just that one of them is mad at you.”

“At me?” I sit up. What could I have done?

“At you and Sam. He says his cousin worked with Sam first and that you took his job away.”

“But I’ve been working with Sam since the start!” I feel my back stiffen, my vertebrae acting defensive. “Since Baghdad fell, I mean.”

“Didn’t she say that she worked with someone before then?”

“No, she said she worked with a Kurdish guy who didn’t want to come south of Tikrit.”

Rafik nods, but says nothing. “And then after, when she got to Baghdad, she must have worked with someone. None of the foreigners are capable of functioning here alone.”

It’s true. I don’t think there’s been any story Sam was able to do without my help — without my fixing. Why didn’t I consider that she must have had someone else before I met her at the hospital?

“Anyway, he’s the brother of one of the bellboys, and he’s got a grudge against you because they think you’ve wronged his family by taking his brother’s job.”

I can feel the blood pushing up against my heart. Why didn’t he tell me this before? Why didn’t Sam?

“There’s another thing you should beware of. You and Miss Samara have a staffing problem.”

My hands have started to shake, and feel moist against the newspaper. I fold it up so Rafik won’t notice. “Really? How is that?”

“You’re a Sunni, and your driver is a Kurd. You don’t have a Shi’ite working for you.”

I shrug. “We don’t have a Christian or a communist, either. Maybe we need one of each of them.”

“I’m serious,” he murmurs. The lift arrives and Joon Park walks out, smiling slightly for a change. “Oh hey, Nabil. Did Leila tell you that Sam decided to stay late at the party at the Sheraton last night?”

I nod. Joon, the one time she bothers to be friendly with me, ratting on us. But then, maybe Rafik’s English isn’t so great; I’ve never heard him say more than hello, goodbye, thank you, and please, as he hands over the keys to the hotel clientele. Maybe he missed it. Otherwise, he’ll start thinking that I’m a liar.

Rafik stares at me until Joon is out of the door.

“You should have a Shi’ite on staff, too. To have all of your bases covered.”

“Maybe a Yezidi for good measure? The Mandeans are also not well-represented.”

Rafik’s nostrils flare so much that I can see black tufts of nose hair.

“Sorry, sorry. I was only joking,” I say. “It’s just, we’re a small team. I don’t think Sam would want another person.”

“You should have a Shi’ite with you,” he says in a low voice. “And maybe a bodyguard.”

“A guard?” I laugh and look out to the pool, where I can see two sets of peach-white arms emerging from the water at a fast clip, racing each other. The truth is, I have thought of it in recent days. If someone ever tried to hurt Sam,
la-smuh-Alla,
God forbid, what would I do? Talk them out of it?

“You need to be very careful about making enemies around here,” Rafik says. “Shi’ites are going to be in control in the future. You have to accept that.”

“You know, I’m also Shi’ite.”

“What do you mean, also? With a name like Nabil?”

“My mother is Shi’ite and my father is Sunni.”

“Oh,” he says, motioning for me to come back with the box of sweet pastries. “That’s different. But you’re still a Sunni. You can’t be both.”

“I am both,” I say, holding the box open. He takes one that looks like a giant chocolate hotdog. I think it’s a Napoleon. No, an eclair.

Rafik mumbles a
Bismillah
and sinks his teeth deep, covering at least a third of it. I hadn’t taken him for a religious man. As he chews he wiggles his head from side to side, as if he likes the taste. “It’s delicious! I have never thought to go in there.”

“In the bakery? It’s right behind you.”

He shrugs. “It’s meant for foreigners, you know. It’s not priced for Iraqis.”

I sit back down, and wait for Rafik to finish. I’d have one myself, but there’s my rule on sweets. Noor.

He eagerly devours the last bit. When it’s gone, he makes a tiny grunt of pleasure. “You can’t be both Sunni and Shi’ite,” he declares.

“Why not? Of course you can.”

“No,” he says. “You cannot. Either you are a supporter of Imam Ali or you are not. Either when you say the
Shahada,
you say there is no god but God and Mohammed is His Prophet
and
Imam Ali is His Successor, or you don’t. Either you fast and cry and suffer on
Ashura
or you don’t. Either you go to a
husseiniye
instead of a mosque, or you don’t. You make pilgrimages to the holy places in Najaf and Karbala, or you don’t. This is what it means to be Shi’ite. You can’t be both.” He smiles, looking at me as if he could go on all morning. “So which is it for you?”

I fold my hands over my stomach, which still seems to be mulling over my breakfast. I am relieved to see Sam at the door, her body swaying backwards as she pulls it open. “I am simply a believer,” I say. “I don’t believe in making these distinctions. All a Muslim needs is faith in God.” I stand, watch Sam stride towards us, her hair still heavy from a shower, her hands swinging.

Beyond the shampoo scent emanating from her hair, as I follow her up the stairs I can smell last night’s party on her clothes: drinks and cigarettes. She pushes open the door, and shuts it behind her immediately. “Nabil, I met someone really interesting at this party last night who I think is going to help us get some answers. And you’re going to be pretty interested to see who he is.”

“So,” I say, “I know him?”

“Hang on. Take a seat for a few minutes. Or better yet,” she says, eyeing Rafik’s paper, which I forgot to hand back to him when I followed Sam up, “translate some headlines for me while I change. I’m curious to know what these new papers are saying.”

“How did you know it was new?” I ask, but she is already in her room, the door only slightly ajar, rummaging, I presume, for something else to wear. Something much more conservative than the snug black pants and very-short-sleeved black blouse she wore to last night’s party. I wonder why she never mentioned she would be going there when I left yesterday. I feel it is my job now to know about the major things going on in Sam’s life, at least her life in Iraq. How can I fix things for her if I don’t even know where she is?

She appears in a light-blue blouse and those loose khaki trousers she wears often, striking that serious-but-sporty look the women reporters around the Hamra all seem to have. At first it seemed uniquely Sam, but now that I’ve seen it on others, it looks like an American uniform.

“How did you get back this morning?”

Sam stops her rearranging of things in her bag and looks at me, watching without blinking, as if she is gauging what to say based on how capable I am of handling the information. “A friend from the BBC drove me home,” she says. And then raises her eyebrows. “Anything else, Mom?” She laughs a bit and I make a show of laughing with her. “Hey,” she says, eyeing her watch. “We’ve got to head over to the Green Zone.”

“I thought you said your editors didn’t want you to do any more daily stories for now.”

“They don’t. This isn’t a press conference,” she says. “Um, what’s in here?”

I forgot to present her with the box of Arabic sweets; I carried them up in a bag and then set them on the kitchen counter when we walked in. Now she is lifting open the top and discovering them before I had the chance to present them to her. This is Sam; taking what you want to give her anyway. If only she’d be more patient.

“I got them for you to—”

“Wow!” She takes the first box out of the bag and opens the second. “And these, too?”

“I got, well, I bought a box of the Arabic ones for you and the European pastries for my family, because I’d have thought you’d have had enough of that sort of—”

“Oh, Nabil, that’s so sweet of you!” She purses her lips like she might, for just a moment, want to kiss me. “Thanks, Nabil. These look great.”

“Well, they’re just from downstairs. Someday I will take you to Abu Afif. That is the best sweet shop in all of Baghdad. I’m not sure these will be as good.”

Sam lifts up a small one, prying it from its tight alignment. It disappears into her mouth, and she closes her eyes, circling her head and pretending to swoon. “Oh my God. That’s like a direct injection to the veins.”

“Try this.” I point to the round ones in the centre. “It’s called the bird’s nest. See why? The nuts are supposed to be the eggs.”

“I see,” says Sam, but reaches for an Oum Ali instead, which is much too heavy for this time of day. “So at this party,” she continues, holding the pastry up to her mouth and using her teeth to break it in two, depositing the rest on a plate in the sink. “Mm.
So
good. I’ll tell you about it on the way.” She licks two fingers, then holds her hand under the tap, rinsing the stickiness away.

~ * ~

35

Rinsing

By the time we reach Damascus Street, Sam has filled me in on why were heading to the Green Zone. Last night at the party, she got invited to a smaller party in someone’s suite. She walked in, and among the ten or so people there was that rude American man who had forced us to leave the meeting in Fallujah. Except that he wasn’t rude now. He was suddenly very nice to her, and apologetic about how he had acted that day. He took her aside and said he’d love to make it up to her by helping her out, and that she should come to his office today. He’s working in an ORHA office for reconstruction projects, ORHA being the name the Americans have given for the office of all the things they’re supposed to be doing in Iraq, other than just occupying our country with tanks and soldiers. His name is Franklin Baylor, but we can call him Frank.

Rizgar rolls over the Jumhuriya Bridge, inching behind the other cars which gingerly pass the tanks and Bradleys with men posted behind their guns. To our left, the Ministry of Construction stands like a rotting dinosaur, parts of it bombed out by the Americans in the first days of the war, each window shattered, every part of the frame warped and frayed. I wonder if Frank is going to reconstruct that.

“So he’s really not a spook?” I ask.

Sam shrugs. “I’m not so sure about
that.
I think he could be a spook whose cover is that he works on reconstruction.”

What really amazes me is that she has forgiven him so quickly for his treatment towards us that day. Or maybe she just thinks he has something she wants.