Fives and Twenty-Fives (25 page)
“Now, we have to keep it in the family,” Lieutenant Donovan said. “River City Condition One. No calls home. No e-mails. Let the notification officer get to his mother before she reads it in the town paper or sees it on the news.”
Major Leighton, from the steps of the command building with his arms crossed, watched Lieutenant Donovan. Marines from the other platoons stopped what they were doing and listened, too.
“Nothing anyone could’ve done,” Donovan said. “He died on the helicopter.”
Did he make that up on purpose to protect me? Did he have any clue about the little show I’d put on with all those bandages on a corpse? Was he just choosing not to let on?
Right then, I remembered the morphine syringe in my cargo pocket. Never got around to using it on Marceau, but it was already listed as expended. I thought about throwing it away, tossing it out in the desert like trash. But I stopped myself. At first because I didn’t want to litter, crazy as that sounds. Then, I thought someone might find it and get me in trouble.
Then I thought about all the useless guns. All the useless everything. I got the urge to put something to use. Any kind of use. So I walked over to the bathroom trailer. Word of what had happened was already flying around the company, and the Marine on duty from Bulk Fuel Platoon avoided my eyes, pretending like he was checking for toilet graffiti.
I locked myself in the stall farthest from the guard. A rabbit with an absurd penis was drawn in that stall. Marceau’s standard character, scribbled in felt pen right above the toilet paper. The rabbit was laughing, tap-dancing, and shitting at the same time, with a bubble proclaiming, “I left a little present for you!”
I jabbed the syringe into my leg.
While I waited to feel something, I pulled the pen out my breast pocket and wrote, “James Marceau. 1986–2006.”
Then, as I started to write “Gunnery Sergeant William Stout,” a cloud of indifference swallowed me up, and I didn’t even care to finish. I slipped the used syringe into my cargo pocket and floated back across the compound, back to my cot.
I felt better. I slept good, all night.
After some time in the wilderness
, Huck begins to regress. “It was kind of
lazy and jolly, laying off
comfortable all day, smoking and fishing,” he reflects. “Two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn’t see how I’d ever got to like it so well at the widow’s, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson pecking at you all the time.”
The Arab reader can relate. How easy it would be to cast away the twentieth century, with its cities and wars built on petro-wealth, and go back to our bedouin tents. Huck’s regression, however, offers a cautionary tale.
We circle around the main square in Sousse, my flatmates and I with these pretty girls. We scream for Ben Ali to come down from Tunis and face justice. We scream the name of Mohamed Bouazizi. We wave Tunisian flags and sing stupid songs.
I think of Lester, and how he stopped liking music, stopped making me listen to bands, after the business with Marceau. And how his bag, such a source of pride for him, became a mess as he began stealing pills.
With each time around the square, pushed by the chanting, marching crowd, I let myself drift farther away from my flatmates and their new girlfriends. They are all couples now, paired nicely with each other, and I will have no place in this when their protest becomes a party. Soon, I think. Soon I can slip away, and they will not notice. I can go home and make notes.
But the crowd stops quite suddenly after the fifth time around the square. A university student has found a bullhorn, like the kind the
mulasim
allowed me to use, and is standing on a balcony urging us to become organized. He tells us to block the entrances to the square so that Ben Ali’s police will have to fight through with armor and make a scene for the Western news cameramen who are appearing, though choosing to remain inconspicuous and camouflaged by the crowd.
My flatmates grow excited with the work of this, and now I cannot leave. They drag me along with their new girlfriends to help arrange city buses blocking one of the entrances of the square.
One of the girls, the prettiest one, grabs my arm and pulls me aside. A news camera is over there, she screams into my ear. I have to go speak English for the freedom movement. I have to tell the world our story and why we will win.
Always, I am speaking English on behalf of fools.
The day after I painted the sign, Hani sold his first Coca-Cola to the Americans. It was just a small convoy, those first Americans. Just four Humvees coming to see us. They were infantry marines, I know now. Not taking supplies anywhere or filling potholes. Grunts, they say. Marines who would venture out looking only for terrorists to fight. Freed from small matters, like taking food and water to their comrades or building checkpoints, they focused on this most warlike task.
Their convoy saw the sign and pulled off the road, swift and decisive. The infantry marines kicked up dust as they exited their vehicles, calling out sharp instructions to one another with their rifles up, suspecting some trick.
Hani was not afraid, and I admit that his new determination surprised me. He had a particular courage, unique to businessmen, that allowed him to feel safe walking out to the road with Coca-Cola under his arm. He smiled and waved for them to come forward. He kept smiling, even when they aimed their rifles at him.
Mundhir and Abu Abdul, Haji Fasil and me, we stayed back by the farmhouse. I told them to raise their hands. “They are going to search you,” I said. “They will search the buildings, too. Anything they will not like, Haji?”
Haji Fasil put his hands behind his head and shrugged. “God willing, no. But I suppose we will find out.”
Mundhir sighed, already bored. He stood close to Abu Abdul and made sure their feet were touching, always ready to step in front of the old man if need be.
A marine swatted Hani’s Coca-Cola to the dirt. Another searched under his shirt and patted his jeans. Together, these two marines pushed Hani back to the farmhouse.
Hani kept smiling, even with his hands behind his head, acting always like a friend. All smiles, all friendship.
The other marines swarmed the farm like ghosts, and four of them emerged behind us to take control of our little fire ring. They approached us in a crouch, rifles tucked in their shoulders and eyes over their sights. They shouted in English and clipped Arabic.
“Hands! Hands!
La tetharek! Edeik! Edeik!
Don’t move!”
We stood still while a marine slung his rifle across his back and pushed us down onto the log, one at a time with his heavy, gloved hands. When he had us all on our asses, he grabbed our fingers and interlocked them over the tops of our heads.
I peeked over at Mundhir, hoping he would not fight back on Abu Abdul’s behalf. Thankfully, the marine was gentle with the old man and Mundhir complied.
The marines waited to see if we would move and possibly try to run away. I felt every rifle, every muzzle, aimed into my back. It made my skin burn and tickle. I could feel the bullet waiting in each barrel. Waiting for me to make a mistake. My heart pounded and my breath became shallow and hot.
The other marines led Hani around to each mud hut and watched him at the door. They waited for some reaction, I know now. For some hint of fear. They worried that maybe we had set traps, and they wanted Hani to know that he would die first, if so.
Finished with this search, they sat Hani down on the log next to us and called for their officer on the radio. The officer, a black man with arm muscles that showed through his uniform, approached with an interpreter at his side. The fat interpreter, a Kuwaiti judging by his accent and his expensive watch, smirked at us. He was younger than me even.
“Good morning, I am Lieutenant Pederson,” the officer said in English. “Now look, sorry we have to search you like this. The anti-Iraqi forces in this area, the bad guys, they make it necessary. Need to ask you a few questions, though. Need to ask what you’re doing here. Who are you. All that shit.” He pointed to the interpreter.
“This guy? Pederson?” the interpreter said in Arabic. “He is going to fuck your whole world. Fuck you hard up the ass. Tell him where you have the weapons hidden. He’s Fifty Cent’s cousin. I’m not lying.”
“Now, do you have any weapons here?” Pederson continued. “Any rifles? An RPG?” Pederson put the pretend weight of a rocket launcher on his shoulder. “It’s fine if you have a rifle. One Kalashnikov per household.” He laughed softly to himself. “I guess you could call this a household.” He pointed to the Kuwaiti, who again spoke in Arabic for him.
“You
takfiri
know about Abu Ghraib? This will be worse. Tell Pederson where you keep the rockets or we will put you all in a naked pyramid right over there. Take pictures for the Internet. All over MySpace, tomorrow.”
I wanted to stay quiet. Wanted all this to happen while I remained a simple witness. But Hani and Haji Fasil turned to me with their eyebrows high, expecting me to speak. They gave away the secret, so I spoke.
“Hello,” I said in English, coughing and nodding to the lieutenant. “We can speak normally, if you wish. My English is quite good. First, I should tell you that there are no weapons here. I assure you. No rifles, even. This is just a farm. Also . . . it is a beach resort.”
Pederson’s eyebrows jumped.
“Yes, I probably speak English better than this Kuwaiti, too.” I nodded to the interpreter. “And may I share something you should like to know? Your Kuwaiti is lying to you. He claims you are Fifty Cent’s cousin. Remarkable if true, as Fifty Cent is quite good. A favorite of mine, personally. But regardless, this Kuwaiti lies to you. Most likely all the time.”
The fat Kuwaiti turned to Pederson with his palms up and his mouth open.
“So, yes,” I continued, “about this place. About us. We are simple merchants. We sell things for dollars, or for dinar if absolutely necessary, but dollars is what we prefer. We have Coca-Colas and other items of refreshment. We have Iraqi souvenirs, as well, for you to take home to America. This is not my business, to be honest. It is Hani’s business. He is the one on the end who came out with the Coca-Cola earlier. He has poor English, however.”
Pederson pointed a finger at us. “All right, go ahead and stand up. All y’all. Up.”
I stood and put my hands in my pockets. The others slowly followed my lead. “Yes,” I continued, “What does Fifty Cent say? ‘Get rich or die trying’? This place, exactly.”
Pederson rubbed his eyes and grabbed the fat Kuwaiti, seriously angry. He pointed to the Humvees with his other hand. Go away, he seemed to say. We’re finished with you, not even giving the boy a chance to speak for himself.
After the fat Kuwaiti had waddled away in defeat, Hani and I walked Pederson around Tourist Town. Mundhir and Abu Abdul went back to the work of the farm. Haji Fasil stayed by the fire ring and sat quietly.
Pederson’s marines spread out and kept watch. Hani smiled and showed the burly American officer his stock of head scarves, prayer beads, and old money with Saddam’s face. All the while, I spoke English for him.
“Hani says you will not find items of this quality anywhere else outside of Baghdad,” I told Pederson. And because I did not want him cheated, I said softly, “It is junk, however. No one wants these kaffiyeh, which is how Hani procured them at such small expense.”
Pederson nodded. “I appreciate you telling me that. I do.”
After the tour, Pederson went back to his Humvee and talked on his radio for a time. Hani and I went back to the fire ring and waited for him. When Pederson finished on the radio, he had a conversation with another marine. A sergeant, and his second-in-command it seemed. They both shook their heads and laughed.
“What is funny? Why are they laughing?” Hani asked.
“They think you are ridiculous,” I said.
Pederson and his sergeant were still smiling when they came back. “We had to dig around for cash. We don’t really carry money over here.” Pederson handed Hani a wet twenty-dollar note. “We’ll take the sodas. We’ll come back for more later. Souvenirs and the like. But just sodas today.”
Hani smiled and carried a few cases of Coca-Cola over to their Humvees.
Pederson pulled me aside. “I want to thank you personally. I never liked that guy. Never trusted him.”
I shrugged. “There are bad people everywhere.”
“We’ll be back, you know. Often.” He tipped his sunglasses to look me in the eye.
“Of course. You are welcome. Bring your swimming shorts.”
He laughed, shook his head, and walked back to his Humvee.
Hani danced as the Americans drove away. He laughed and made me look at his first dollars. I congratulated him politely, but was not yet ready to admit that I had been wrong. I told him about Pederson’s words. Back for more, and often. As Hani’s smile grew, I began to wonder why Pederson had made such a point to look me in the eye.
The dust from the American Humvees had not settled before Hani’s next customers arrived. A truck hauling diesel fuel from the Baiji refinery, south to Fallujah and Ramadi. An older man and his two sons, Sunnis probably, took a break and drank their sodas by the water while Abu Abdul flashed his friendly, toothless smile and brought them fried fish.
