The Girl in Green (17 page)

The ride to Zahko takes only an hour. They pass vistas of dry beige grass and unfinished stone walls erected by men to mark out their property. They look like ruins of the past, but are meant to be the future.

Here and there, the ground drops from sight, and wadis open in the earth, full of tall grasses and short trees.

After twenty minutes on the road, they come across their first roadblock. Worryingly, Benton sees Arwood's hand disappear inside his satchel and remain there as Jamal rolls down the window.

‘What's going on, Jamal?' Benton asks.

Jamal says, ‘No problem, no problem,' which Benton considers little more than a verbal tic in postcolonial societies. He's as clueless as he was a moment ago.

There are two oil drums to the right of the road, and a makeshift pole with a white flag on the end of it. The right end has a counterweight made of scrap metal, and the guard — a beardless boy — is holding a Chinese-made AK-47 with its distinctive plastic stock.

He is not pointing it at them.

The boy says something in Arabic to Jamal. Jamal answers. The boy speaks again.

As they talk, Arwood asks Benton, ‘You pick up any Arabic along the way?'

‘Words and phrases,' Benton says. ‘I can link them up a bit. You?'

‘I can say, “Open the door or I'll open your head.”'

‘I see.'

‘I can also say, “The international telephone exchange is presently busy; please hold on and await your turn.”'

‘That's awfully specific.'

‘I was in Israel in 1993. I had a thing for this Italian violinist who was studying there. She was so gorgeous it was maddening. She wore these ripped jeans I can still see. When she left for Rome, I called her all the time. They had a recording on international lines from public phones as you waited for a line to open. They repeated the same thing in Hebrew, Arabic, English, and French, and that's what it said. For some reason, they put the telephone centre inside a student bomb shelter. Do you know what the acoustics of bomb shelters are like?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘All those languages trying to rise above each other to get their messages across to people who weren't there. It was obviously a metaphor for something, but I could never figure out what.'

‘That was only two years after we met. What were you doing there?'

‘Making contacts.'

Benton turns away from Arwood when Jamal uses the word ‘Habibi', at which point Arwood says, ‘Now's a good time to scooch. Down. Scooch down. Now. Like this.'

Arwood scooches way down like someone regretting his decision to get on a roller coaster. Benton does the same, but doesn't know why.

‘Why are we doing this?'

Jamal starts to pull the car away from the checkpoint.

‘The guy outside wanted money. Jamal said he'd give him his love instead, and then pulled off. So … we're either about to be shot at or we're not. It's a coin toss, really. So … scooch.'

‘There's nothing behind us but sheet metal. Shouldn't we bend over?'

‘I'd rather get shot in the head and have it pass through my arse than get shot in the arse and have it pass through my head. Wouldn't you?'

‘I've never thought about it.'

‘Could be the last decision you ever make.'

‘Jamal,' Benton says, ‘are we going to be shot at?'

‘No problem, no problem.'

‘See?' Arwood says.

‘Jamal!' Benton says again.

‘It's OK. I know his family. His name is Muhammad. He studies engineering. He's trying to make some money. He didn't realise it was me. Roadblocks are popular because of the refugees. The Syrians come with their money, so we take it away. He shouldn't be doing this, but he wants
away
.'

‘Away. Sure. Who doesn't.'

‘No, no. Not “away”. A
Wii
. Nintendo. Wii II, actually. Very expensive in Iraq. Have to find someone coming through Dubai. Make special arrangement. I think it's a mistake, though. More games on the old one, and the new one isn't back-compatible.'

‘It's true,' Arwood says, sitting up again. ‘I would totally get the older one if I lived here.'

‘Very hard to find a job here. Very hard. Nothing to do. So people shake up the refugees.'

‘Shake down,' Benton says. ‘They shake down the refugees.'

‘OK.'

‘That's not a nice thing to do,' Benton says.

Jamal shrugs. ‘We run to them, they do it to us, they run back to us, and we do it to them. Everyone knows. They know how much is fair to charge. You overcharge, you fight. You charge fair amount, everyone is OK. Everyone knows everything here.'

‘So we're not going to get shot?' Benton asks.

‘No problem.'

Jamal is driving at sixty kilometres an hour. The road is well paved. Every time Jamal comes up on a car going slower, he honks and flashes his lights. None of the other drivers are bothered by this.

‘You know the Middle East?' Jamal asks. Benton notices that this is the first time Jamal has asked a question that isn't directly about the route itself.

‘Who, me?' Arwood says, looking out the window, and taking in the cool and dusty morning air.

‘Yes.'

Arwood laughs as he scans the Iraqiness of the passing countryside. ‘Dude, I've been to more places than Johnny Cash, and I've seen more weird stuff than Han Solo. Especially in the Middle East. You know Johnny Cash?'

‘He is a soldier, like you?'

‘What makes you think I'm a soldier?'

Jamal takes his hands off the steering wheel, and makes circles around his own face with his index finger. ‘Your eyes.'

Arwood ignores this. ‘He was a country-music singer. Played guitar. Dead now.'

‘Drugs?'

‘No, man. He got old.'

Jamal doesn't say anything.

‘What about you, Jamal?' Benton asks. ‘How did you luck into this job with us?'

‘Märta told me you wanted a driver. Märta is a very important person. She is very respected here. Speaks Arabic. She said you needed a driver. Said I could trust you.'

‘Who, me?' Arwood says.

‘No. Not you,' Jamal says, motioning to Benton. ‘Him.'

The land changes. What was brown becomes green. The mountains now exert their presence. The rising sun has infused the air with the full weight of day. The road starts to climb, and the engine strains as Jamal puts the car into overdrive rather than downshift as he should.

Arwood has grown impassive. Benton looks at his right hand dangling down as he rests his elbows on the two front seats.
MORE
, it says.

More what?

Benton looks at the hills. The line across the top of them, in the distance, is so crisp they seem to have been shaved flat by a scythe. Well-tended fields line the road. Farmers do not look up as the car passes. Horses with low backs and tyres used around their heads as harnesses pull makeshift wagons in disrepair. Every colour is faded. Every building is squat and forlorn.

Something is missing, though. Something that has always been here when he has been here. Something that has always accompanied him.

What is it?

‘Something's different,' Benton says aloud.

Arwood's fingers are tapping his bag. He looks anxious. Busy. Something in four/four time. A rock beat, perhaps.

‘What?' he says.

‘Something's different,' Benton says again.

‘What do you mean?' Arwood asks, the wind blowing his hair, but cooling nothing. ‘Different from what?'

‘I've been to places like this many times. Something feels different.'

‘We're alone,' Arwood says. ‘There's no international presence. No UN peacekeeping operation, no US Army, it's all local now, except for the aid agencies.'

‘Maybe that's it.'

‘Got any tunes?' Arwood shouts to Jamal. ‘What do you feed that Sony?'

Jamal opens his glove compartment. There are a few Maxells and TDKs slipping around. ‘You know Hossam Habib?' he asks.

‘No.'

‘You know Tamer Hosny?'

‘No.'

‘You know Yasmine Hamdan?'

‘No.'

‘You know Nancy Ajram?'

‘No.'

‘You know Mohamed Mounir?'

‘No.'

‘Seriously?'

‘I want some Western tunes. Got any Stones?'

‘I only have this,' Jamal says, taking out a gold-coloured ninety-minute tape, and handing it to Arwood. It's a TDK MA90 Metal Bias.

Arwood whistles. ‘Damn. I haven't seen one of these since, like, 1988 or something. Whatever's on this was loved. How'd you get it?'

‘Passenger left it here. Long time ago. Been here since they made the car.'

‘Don't clean out that glove box too often, do you?'

Jamal shrugs. ‘If there's no tomorrow, why get rid of yesterday?'

‘That's deep. What's on it? The label came off.'

‘Something loud. Something with birds.'

‘Yardbirds?'

‘No.'

‘Flock of Seagulls?'

‘No.'

‘The Eagles?'

‘No. Something about crows.'

‘Sheryl Crow?'

‘No.'

‘Counting Crows?'

‘No.'

‘Put it on.'

The Sony tape player starts, and for the first few seconds, before the music begins, it feels like the tape deck is actually sucking the ambient sound from air, making everything more silent. And then ‘Remedy' by Black Crowes starts playing, and Arwood Hobbes goes bananas.

‘Fuck, yeah! We are listening to this until this trip is over. This song is from '92. I was listening to this over and over in Montana when I got back from Desert Storm. I fuckin' love this album. Cosmic voodoo, I'm telling you.'

‘There's no coincidence, Arwood. Nothing's coincided with anything else.'

‘Yeah, well, that's because I haven't told you everything. There's a coincidence. And now we've got a soundtrack for it from the same year.'

‘What haven't you told me?'

‘Everything will be illuminated, my warm-beer-drinking friend.'

‘Our beer is as cold as everyone else's. I'm tired of that line.'

Benton looks at his UN-provided map, and sees that they are coming up on a roundabout designated Echo 23. He checks his watch, and then picks up the Motorola handset.

‘Romeo Charlie Niner Two, to Echo Base, over.'

The response is immediate.

‘This is Echo Base, you are loud and readable, over.'

‘Echo Base, we have reached Echo 23, over.'

‘Romeo Charlie Niner Two, you are thirty minutes late on your ETA to Echo 23. Do you have anything to report? Over.'

Jamal looks back at Benton and shakes his head. ‘Please,' he says. ‘It's no problem. I'll take care of it. He should have known my car. Muhammad doesn't stop internationals. He didn't know you were here. Don't make trouble.'

Benton hesitates and then says, ‘Negative, Echo Base. Only some minor traffic. Over.'

‘Roger, Romeo Charlie Niner Two. Continue to Echo-22. ETA is twenty-five minutes from present location, over.'

‘WILCO Echo base, over and out.' Benton places the radio on the floor, because when he leaves it on the dashboard it has a tendency to slide around, making that grinding vinyl-on-vinyl sound that he finds annoying. He glances at Arwood, who is staring at his fancy watch, which has a GPS inside it. Before, he thought Arwood was simply in a rush to get to the girl. But his continued glances suggest something more to Benton than wanting to hurry.

‘Arwood, you said something about a timeline before. Did you mean that literally?'

There is a road sign up ahead in English and Arabic with the name of a village off to the right that leads on to the foothills. It is no town Benton has ever heard of.

‘Jamal, turn into that village up there,' Arwood says. ‘On the right. Don't miss the turn.'

‘I thought we were going to Zahko, and then on to the site of the attack?'

‘We are. I want to pull in here for a minute first. You want a Fanta and a Kit Kat?' he asks Benton. ‘I want a Fanta and a Kit Kat. A trip to Iraq isn't complete without a Fanta.'

‘I'm fine for now,' Benton says. ‘We have plenty of water.'

‘Oh, come on. Jamal? Fanta?'