Gods Without Men (42 page)

“So we’ll come back,” Laila pleaded, sobbing into the phone.

“No, darling. That’s not a good idea. There’s nothing for you here anymore.”

Gradually San Diego came to seem normal. The city was exciting; a life that had once been contained inside the rectangle of the TV screen was now spilling out all around her. There were Rollerbladers and convertibles and bikinis and Big Gulp drinks. School was tough. She’d never had to sit in a class with boys before and the other girls were so intimidating that at first she didn’t say anything to anyone. People thought she couldn’t understand English and spoke to her slowly, making hand gestures and exaggerating the words. Most kids thought she lived in a tent and rode camels. She couldn’t believe the Americans were making a war in a place they didn’t seem to know a thing about. When she tried to explain, even the clever ones just wanted to talk about suicide bombers and their stupid 9/11, as if the people in New York were the only ones who’d ever died in the whole world. She lost her temper once and shouted at some football players, who were taunting her in the school cafeteria. “We weren’t savages! We had television! I saw
Cosby Show, Saved by the Bell
!” She couldn’t understand why they found this so funny.

Though she was angry, she was jealous too. She wanted to be an American girl, to be confident and loud and know why it was funny to have seen
Cosby Show
. The nicest girls at school were the misfits, the ones who wore black and seemed at least to have been bruised by life, instead of being unwrapped like pink cakes every morning before
school, fresh and stupid and untouched by human hand. She’d always loved music, so she began to find out about the bands the misfit girls liked, with their lyrics about feeling empty and crying on the inside and being scarred and shattered and wanting to die. She too was an angel without wings. Her heart was in a million pieces. For the first time in her life she had an allowance, and, since her uncle and aunt felt sorry for her, they didn’t stop her from buying big boots and plucking her eyebrows and ringing her eyes with black so she looked like a panda bear. Aunt Sara was appalled, but Uncle Hafiz liked the idea of bringing up a modern teenager. In some ways he even encouraged her; the henna tattoos and briefly purple hair were proof they were an American family, not stupid immigrants who didn’t appreciate the freedoms of their adopted country.

The whole emo thing was fine while they were still in San Diego, but Uncle’s sudden decision to bring them out to the ass end of the universe meant she and Samir had to deal with redneck kids who called them raghead and Saddam and sand-nigger. And though the goth clothes and the overwrought music had begun to seem a little ridiculous, they were hers, and she’d found them by herself, and no one could ever take that away from her.

The weeks went by. The first rotation ended and the clerical major and his troops were deployed to Iraq. Laila and the others watched them leave, then she spent a week back home, trawling the thrift store and hanging out with Samir, who was distant and sullen and kept disappearing to his room to take calls from some girl. Together they watched a lot of TV. One afternoon, still in their pajamas, they sprawled in front of a talk show, watching the presenters discuss the latest twists in the Raj Matharu case, speculating whether the parents were responsible for whatever had happened to their son. They didn’t say anything about Nicky Capaldi, though the blogs were reporting that he was in rehab in England and had vowed never to tour America again unless he received a formal apology from the government. So far the White House didn’t seem to have made that a priority. Fans were getting up a petition, but
she didn’t feel like signing. While the TV presenters swapped theories, she opened Samir’s laptop and they watched a YouTube interview with the Matharus, who wore pastel shirts in complementary colors and held hands and did their best to counter the rumor that they were Satanic pedophile child traffickers.

“So you think they did it?” asked Samir, throwing peanuts up into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth.

“No.”

“I do. That woman looks like a crack whore.”

“You wouldn’t look so good if your child was missing.”

“I wouldn’t be having no stupid assburgers kid in the first place.”

“Well, if you did.”

“I just wouldn’t. That’s all.”

She was almost relieved when it was time to go back to the village.

The major in charge of the new BLUEFOR rotation was very different from the last one. He looked like a cartoon soldier, an injection-molded plastic warrior, flattopped, bug-eyed and steroidal. He made a big show of force on the first day, driving into the village at the head of a convoy, blaring the theme from
Lawrence of Arabia
out of speakers mounted on his Bradley. But despite his confidence, his troops were still incompetent, sheepishly drawling their mispronounced greetings and shooting randomly into crowds. Before long the hearts and minds of Wadi al-Hamam had been lost once again, and Heather was instructing the villagers to stone him when he came by to inaugurate the imaginary new cement factory.

One day Uncle Hafiz starred in a beheading video. They shot it inside the mosque because it was the most sinister spot in town. All the insurgents wanted to take part, so Lieutenant Alvarado held a casting call and whittled them down to the six he thought looked most terroristical. The video was for Al-Mojave, a fake TV channel broadcast to the troops in their mess hall, which provided their main feedback on the progress of the simulation. The Al-Mojave reporters would sometimes show up and interview the villagers about how pro-American they were feeling. They particularly liked Noor, who had a good line in wailing and angry denunciations. Uncle Hafiz had been collaborating with the occupier, so
he’d been kidnapped from his office in a dramatic dawn raid. He’d spent the day watching Vietnam movies with the insurgents while the flattopped major directed fruitless house-to-house searches. Uncle Hafiz’s death (reported Al-Mojave) would be a major setback for BLUEFOR, since it called into question their ability to provide security in their sector. As far as Laila was concerned, they couldn’t provide snacks and dips for their sector, let alone security, but she supposed this was the sort of thing they needed to find out before they went to Iraq and did it for real. She and Noor watched the beheaders get ready. They were even more ridiculously dressed than usual; one of them had lost his dishdasha and was wearing a
Little Mermaid
beach towel wrapped around his waist. Uncle Hafiz was willing to help them sort out their keffiyehs but was hampered by the fact that his hands were cuffed behind his back.

“Girls, please come help.”

So they tugged and tucked. Much against her will, Laila found herself assisting the tall black insurgent wrap a length of cloth around his head. He looked imposing, and even more scary than usual, like a Berber dressed to cross the desert. To her surprise he smiled and said thank you. It was the first time he’d ever spoken to her.

“You’re Laila, aren’t you,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, almost girlish.

“Yes.”

“Like the song.”

She must have looked blank. He did an impression of someone playing a guitar and hummed a few notes of a riff.

“Not an Eric Clapton fan, then.”

“Not so much.”

“Me neither. I like that one, though. Everyone likes that one.”

He smiled again, waiting for her to say something. She stared awkwardly at the ground.

“Come, Laila,” said Uncle Hafiz sharply. “Come away. Everything is ready now.”

The tall soldier ignored him and stuck out his hand for a dap shake. “I’m Ty.”

She took it, felt it twist and swivel in a quick series of moves, ending in a fist bump.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he grinned. “That’s the way.”

Lieutenant Alvarado clapped. “OK, ladies, let’s get this done.”

Uncle Hafiz knelt down on the floor. Ty put a hood over his head.

“Allahu Akbar!” said one of the insurgents.

“Too soon!” snapped Uncle Hafiz, his voice muffled by the hood.

Since he was best at fiery rhetoric, they’d drafted in the imam to play the insurgent leader. He started off in formal Arabic, apostrophizing Allah the most Gracious and most Merciful and addressing a call to the young men of the Islamic lands never to relent in their fight against the Crusaders and the Jews. He reminded them that there were only two choices in life, victory or martyrdom, and tried to lead his followers in a chant of “death to the Crusader Bush,” temporarily forgetting that none of them understood a word he was saying. Lieutenant Alvarado, who was holding the camera, started to make “wind it up” gestures. The imam ignored him, launching into a new description of the hypocrisy of the invader, who dared use his serpent’s tongue to talk of human rights and dignity when he was the greatest torturer in the history of the world. Alvarado lost patience.

“Just cut his head off already!”

“Allahu Akbar!” shouted the insurgents. Ty started to saw at Uncle Hafiz’s neck, slicing into a blood bag, which spurted realistically down his shirt. Uncle Hafiz fell over onto the ground.

“Cut,” said Lieutenant Alvarado. “That’s a wrap.”

Everyone got up. Ty uncuffed Uncle Hafiz, who insisted on looking at the finished product before he’d let Lieutenant Alvarado pass it for broadcast. He seemed pleased with the result. “Very realistic,” he said. “Very bloodthirsty.” Contentedly he turned the camera screen toward Laila. “See what they did to me? Animals!”

One of the insurgents wanted to know if he could get a copy to send to his mom. Lieutenant Alvarado suggested maybe a postcard would be more appropriate. Ty came over to Laila, wiping the blood off his hands. “That was pretty cool,” he said.

She shrugged. “If you like torture and violence.”

“True. Say, you’re the one with all the vinyl, right?”

“How did you know?”

“C’mon, we’ve been living here for weeks. You want to bring it over sometime, play us some tunes?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I got some records in my storage unit. Soul music, mostly. Old school.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, I won’t cut your head off.”

Laila didn’t find that funny. Uncle Hafiz put a protective arm around her shoulders. The imam shot Ty an angry look. Ty took a step toward him. The imam pretended he’d gotten something in his eye.

After that, Ty always said hello whenever Laila walked past. Sometimes when he was shooting hoops with his friends, he’d throw the ball to her to catch. He never offered to play records for her again, but she could tell he liked her.

“How old do you think he is?” she asked Noor one day.

“I don’t know. Twenty-two perhaps? Twenty-three? Why?”

“No reason.”

“You like him!”

“Don’t be silly.”

“But he’s a black man, Laila. Your uncle would go crazy.”

“God, Noor! I didn’t say anything. You have a one-track mind.”

One afternoon, she was sitting outside the clinic, waiting for BLUEFOR to turn up on a routine patrol. Ty walked by, wearing his Berber headscarf. She called out to him.

“Are you going to ambush them?”

“No. Not on the list today. We’re firing some rockets at their base tonight. Should be cool.”

“OK.”

“Must be kind of weird for you, all this.”

“All this?”

“Playing war.”

“Isn’t it strange for you, too?”

“But you grew up there, right? Before you came to the States?”

“Yes.”

“So isn’t it weird? Living in this place, watching all these doofuses pretending to attack your people?”

“It’s just life, you know?”

He laughed. “That’s one way to think about it. Where you from?”

“Baghdad.”

“I was there. Not for long—I was in the north, mostly. You know Tikrit?”

“Of course.”

She couldn’t have explained why she asked him the next question. It just popped out. “Did you kill anyone?”

He stared at her for a long time.

“Yes.”

“Iraqis?”

“Who else would I be killing?”

She could feel his eyes on her as she walked away.

That night she lay awake and thought about what he’d said; he hadn’t sounded happy or sad or remorseful or proud. Just blank. She groped for her flashlight. Noor had found a gossip magazine with a picture of Nicky Capaldi in it. She ducked her head under the covers and started to read. He was out of rehab and leaving a charity event in London.
BACK ON THE SCENE! Nicky C. “tired and emotional” leaving the Artists Against Anorexia bash at Shoreditch House …
She tossed the magazine aside. The girl he was with was as skinny as a rail. Maybe she was part of his charitable work.

The next day she saw Ty again. He waved, but didn’t stop to talk. Just then the imam bustled up, a grave and clerical look on his face.

“I must talk to you,” he said. “Seriously.”

“What is it?”

“My dear, I am like your older brother. I see what is happening with you and I don’t like it. You are decent girl, so I know you will accept my advice when I say it is very bad to make conversation with—men like this.”

“I was just saying hello.”

“It does not matter. Please listen to me. I am only concerned for your welfare. There is so much immorality these days, particularly in this place. These soldiers, they are very bad people. Like animals.”

“I thought you supported the war.”

“Please, don’t interrupt while I am talking to you. You are fine young girl. I have spoken to your uncle about you.”

“Why?”

“As you know, I make good business with the hair. I have several young girls working for me, but—I will speak frankly—they are whores. Sluts. I see them leaving for their nightclubs and discos, wearing short skirts and other small clothes. It make me very angry. It is why I am severe with you. It is only because I respect you. You are good Muslim girl, not some American prostitute. This is what I say to your uncle.”

“OK. Whatever. I think I need to go now.”

“But you are prey to many influences. He feels this also. These homosexual singers, with their long hair and makeup. I say to your uncle, he has not been strict enough with you. I have offered to help in your education.”