The American Granddaughter (6 page)

‘Ha ha. The nargileh, of course.’

‘But that’s a nineteenth-century invention, pre-technology.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Lucky for me that I came across it before it’s extinct.’

He finished the rest of his beer and sighed happily before commenting on my choice, ‘I thought you’d choose the laptop.’

It was true that I never parted with my laptop. But despite our attachment, I didn’t appreciate its ultimate necessity until I went to Iraq. If I had to choose between my laptop and the bulletproof vest, I’d take the laptop without blinking an eye. On the white, luminous pages of this little machine, on the screen framed by sky-blue, I would record, night after night, my days in this country that seemed to grip me round the throat. For it was there that I launched my own
jihad
and let my soul go off-road, into the dangerous wilderness of wanton abandon.

Was this, my darling, what they call love?

XII

How much curiosity and hunger does the human eye possess? My eyes were two coals blazing from the dust, my eyelids squinted against the inferno of the sun whose power I hazarded at a trillion watts. But instead of hurrying into the shade, I was still intent on surveying my surroundings. We were on a grassy hill, and the dates on the palm trees were dry and shrunken to the size of small grapes. That was where the two trucks had let us off. Twenty-nine new army recruits standing in the grounds of Saddam’s palace in Tikrit, our belongings piled up in front of us. A corporal came over with a piece of paper and started calling our names. Whoever heard their name had to take their things and stand aside and wait for the Humvee that would take them to their post. Nobody liked their assignments, and protest filled the air. ‘But why did you bring us from Baghdad to Tikrit if you’re going to send us to Nasiriya or Kut?’ Even those assigned to Hilla or Ramadi or Baquba grumbled to themselves as they headed towards the vehicles. Had they been expecting a trip to Hawaii?

A gentle-looking guy called Dawood looked like he was about to be sick. He was being separated from the rest of the group and didn’t know where they were taking him. As for the tough guy from Karbala, he stood to one side smoking in silence and throwing mocking looks at the rest of us, poking fun at our petty fears. I later learned the secret behind his bravery. Before emigrating and settling in Philadelphia, he’d served in the Iraqi army. He’d been through both the Iran and Kuwait wars, and the fear in his heart died after having seen more corpses than the rest of us put together. I hadn’t heard the adjective ‘
jeonky’
in what felt like a lifetime, but that was what came to mind as I watched that man.

We all hoped for a safe assignment. We all hoped for a sip of cold water and a clean bathroom. We hadn’t showered in days, and the heat was adding to our grime and stickiness. Was there no end to this journey? And why did we, the five women in our group, have to show more patience and endurance than the men? One of the women with us was about seventy years old. The company hadn’t put any age limit on applications. Regardless of your age or religion or background or ethnicity or educational level, you qualified for the job as long as you spoke Arabic and English, even if you could barely read them. The corporal told our elder colleague that she would be positioned in Beji. She cried out in panic, ‘Where is that?’ and he answered politely, ‘Ma’am, they will take you.’

Hanaa, who was born in Akra, wanted her work to be there, close to her people. But the list in the corporal’s hand took her to Al-Imara. And when Rula was told she would work in Hilla, she said rashly, ‘I won’t go to Hilla. If I’m not placed in the Baghdad Hotel or the Green Zone I’m going back to the States,’ to which the corporal replied without hesitation, ‘Ma’am, we will put you on the first convoy returning to Baghdad and you can take the plane from there.’ Later on I heard that our Lebanese colleague went back and didn’t complete her contract. The Egyptian followed soon after.

All the names had been called and mine still hadn’t come up on the list. I was still standing after all my travel companions had dispersed.

The corporal approached me and asked, ‘Are you
Zeina
?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘You’re staying in Tikrit. That’s why I didn’t call your name.’ So Tikrit was to be my destiny. I had returned after fifteen years to find myself in the birthplace of the dictator that we came to overthrow. This was turning into a bit of a horror movie,
No Beast Left in the City
.

I got out of the Humvee that dropped me off at my station. The sun was about to set. I stood and took in my surroundings, in a 180-degree pan from left to right. I counted no less than twelve palaces, the biggest being the one I was standing right outside. It was built with some kind of light-coloured stone. On every stone of the outer wall were carved the letters SH – Saddam Hussein. The marble covering the floor was fascinating, with patterns in rose, pistachio green and violet. I looked up as I entered, taking in the high walls with inlaid wood and the sparkling crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceilings. There was a vast reception hall, still holding some remnants of earlier times, some French-style sofas, Louis XIV and all that. But the upholstery was worn and the wood disintegrating. Did things really fall apart so quickly?

I took the small camera out of my bag and asked someone to take a photo of me sitting on one of the gilded sofas with my leg over the armrest. Vulgarity was necessary under the circumstances. So that was my first photo of the New Iraq. I wasn’t disturbed by the thought of whose behind might have rested on this seat before me, or of how this hall was once crowded with the master of the house and his guests. They were all a bunch of hypocrites and corrupt rulers who’d clung with their teeth to power until the bitter end.

It was a spacious palace, but they couldn’t find room for me to sleep on my own. They seemed to have been expecting a male translator. They debated the issue among themselves while I sat on my gold throne awaiting the outcome. I was then taken to a room that stood between the big palace and the guards’ house, which was itself another palace, though smaller. My room had once been the kitchen of the smaller palace. I panicked a bit as I looked around me at the boxes of provisions and piles of tin cans that filled the place. But then two soldiers came and carried everything out to be stored somewhere else. I spent the evening washing the floor until the coloured marble tiles gleamed once more. Just like that, the guards’ kitchen came to be my personal room in Saddam’s palace. I opened my big green bag and started arranging my clothes and things into food cupboards and cutlery drawers. The two soldiers returned with an iron bed, sheets and a blanket, and wished me a good night. I slept the sleep of the dead.

XIII

Rahma addressed her morning prayer to the miracle-working silver-framed painting of the Virgin Mary that was placed to the left of her bed. Rahma’s style of worship was devised to suit her different moods, her preoccupations and the state of her health. It was even adaptable to the availability or lack of electricity in that it wouldn’t interrupt the soap operas. The morning prayer could be held in the evening, especially when there was a power cut and no TV. There was no harm, either, in saying her Hail Marys while she rubbed her arthritis-stiff hands with almond oil, or in adding in a massage for her strange-looking feet whose big toes curled on top of the others, if she felt like prolonging the prayer. Her ritual was completely her own.

This morning she’d woken up to find there was electricity. So she rushed to the electric massager and proceeded to pray while pressing it in circular movements over her knees. ‘Virgin Mary, mother of beloved Jesus, preserve what’s left of my health and protect me from falling. You are my friend, Maryam, my kind ally and my companion in my loneliness. It is to you that I turn in times of trouble and you listen, to you that I pray and you answer, on your door that I knock and you open. I ask you to include our dead in your mercy, O tender one, and to bless my children and my grandchildren and those still living of my loved ones: Kamel and Siham and their children in New Zealand, Jammuli and Sonson and Tamara and the little one whose name I cannot pronounce; Batoul and her husband in America, and their children Yazan and Zeina; the children of my late brother Dawood: Liqaa and Saad in Syria, Samer in Dubai, Youssef, Sabah and Ruwaida in Canada; and bless my sister Ghazala in Jordan and her children and grandchildren in Sweden, London and I don’t know where; and Tawoos Um Haydar and her sons Haydar and Mohaymen and the rest; and our neighbours on the right, and those on the left as far as the third house, and Saleh the gardener. And Mary, don’t let the postman Hassoun keep me or the people of the neighbourhood waiting. And please remember all those whose names I forgot to mention, but whom you know one by one. Amen.’

The massager froze, and the old woman yelled at the silver-framed icon, ‘But why, Holy Virgin? Was it beyond your powers to keep the electricity running for five more minutes until I finished the massage?’ She searched her memory for the saint in charge of electricity but couldn’t remember. She was careful not to disturb the Virgin Mary by knocking on her door for every little thing, so she tried to go directly to the specialist saint for each request. When the children were still at home, they used to make fun of Mama Rahma’s way of providing ‘employment’ for the idle saints, keeping them busy so that they wouldn’t get bored while sitting on the clouds with their halos around their heads.        

Her children would laugh while going over the eclectic group of saints and holy persons that they referred to as the ‘Cabinet of President Rahma’: Saint Anthony was in charge of finding lost things, Saint Rita was the patron saint of emergencies, Bernadette Soubirous specialised in healing the sick, Mar Joseph encouraged the lilies in the garden to grow, and Saint Theresa was the guide to little ways that led to big things. When Rahma started treatment with a physiotherapist, who happened to be Coptic, she expanded her cabinet to include Saint Cyril, the patron of students during exams, Mar Girgis, who fought evil spirits, Saint Apollonia, who healed toothache and would do for bad joints, and Peter, the patron saint of fishermen and bringer of riches. Rahma remembered Saint Christopher, the patron of travellers, and let a tear escape. ‘Why do you scatter our family all over your wide world, dear God?’ She was missing her emigrant children and unable to forgive the destiny that led her to end up alone in this big house, as if she was living beyond her years with no purpose. If fate had had mercy on her, it would have taken her soul at the same moment that her husband Youssef had exhaled his last breath. How right she was to have made it a habit to tell him on any occasion, ‘God willing, my hour will come before yours, mister.’ She didn’t know then how the wide wooden bed that for fifty-seven years had held both of them would suddenly feel too big for her. During her angry moments, she resented him for leaving her behind, resented the Virgin and the saints who were slow to grant her death wish, and cursed the children who’d flown away without her. She shed the habitual tear, ever and always available, then blew her nose in a small napkin and got up to go to the kitchen.

This morning, Rahma had barely finished wiping away that tear when, minutes after the start of the power cut, the green phone hibernating next to the bed started ringing. Batoul’s voice travelled to her all the way from Detroit and brought her incredible news. Was her daughter joking in a moment of good humour or was she lying to her in an attempt to help her cope with her perpetual heartache? Rahma, with the small shrine in her bedroom corner, never doubted that the Virgin Mary would answer her prayers, but for the answer to be so close, practically standing behind the door, this had never happened before. So when Batoul said that her daughter Zeina ‘had some work’ in Iraq and would soon be travelling to Baghdad, the grandmother could not contain her composure and gave praises in her still youthful voice. She looked at the miracle-working picture and shouted, ‘I kiss your hand, Virgin Maryam, for these good tidings.’

XIV

If Colonel Peterson hadn
’
t been an officer with our forces in Iraq, he could have made a lot of money as a Hollywood actor. I went in to meet him and receive my assignment on my first morning in Tikrit, and found myself standing in front of a handsome giant in his fifties, with thick eyebrows and a high chin, and a few attractive silver hairs shining through his dark locks. He resembled Burt Lancaster in
From Here to Eternity
. The colonel stood up, shook my hand with his soft plump palm that felt like an airbag, and said, ‘You got here just in time.’

They had one translator and urgently needed a second one, for reasons that I would later understand. A previous night they’d raided a palace that belonged to Saddam’s wife and in which they found countless documents and IDs, and large amounts of money. They wanted to be able to read everything. The colonel took me to an adjacent room, where two tables were covered with sparkling jewellery and ornaments. So these were the kinds of surprises that came with the job. It was like being in a jewellery store in the gold market in Dubai. A pile of papers written in Arabic caught my eye. I leafed through them and came across the Iraqi citizenship certificate belonging to Saddam’s wife, with a youthful photo of her with thick black hair and an upturned nose. Next to the photo was her name, written in blue ink: Sajida Khairallah Talfah.

I felt a cold shiver down my spine as I imagined whose fingers had touched this document before mine. But this wasn’t the time for daydreaming. I pulled myself together and told the colonel what the document was. He took it and put it in a folder and wrote something on it. He then led me to the other side of the table and pointed, with his palms opening like a magician performing an amazing trick, to something on the floor and watched for my reaction. Wow! My eyes took in piles and piles of hundred-dollar bills. So many new bundles of money that looked like they’d just been issued by the Bank of America. They were ordered tidily in two-foot-high stacks.