Khafaji wakes up with a headache. The bathroom light hurts his eyes, so he turns it off and shaves in the dark.
He leaves first thing, before making tea, before he hears any of the neighbors stirring. He greets the beards at the front door. The men last night were exceedingly polite when he came in. And these ones are even more so. They rise to their feet and salute as he walks by. He arrives at the end of the street, relieved.
Khafaji wanders far and wide before he looks for a taxi. He arrives at the front gate. The small crowd tells him he needs to arrive even earlier. Hungry, he eats a fat falafel sandwich with extra amba sauce at Haydar Double’s.
This time, Khafaji has a book to read for the wait. When he takes his place in line and looks at the cover, he realizes he took the wrong book from the piles on the floor. This one isn’t Jawahari’s Diwan. It’s not even poetry. It’s a history of the Qaramatian revolt against the caliphate. Annoyed, Khafaji begins to read half-heartedly about the Africans and Persians who, according to the author, created a utopian state that lasted more than a hundred years. Even without a headache, reading prose sometimes seems like work, even if the story’s good. This is no exception. The words jiggle and squirm on the page, and Khafaji’s eyes can’t follow. He closes the book and rubs his temples. He can’t remember why he owned the book in the first place. He looks at the title page and it comes back. Spring 1985. Two years before Uday was conscripted. A dinner party. People talking about how nothing ever changed and nothing ever would change. A familiar, coded kind of conversation about how nothing on the inside could ever unseat the regime, and how no one on the outside would be foolish enough to try it. Discussions like this usually took place only in families. Or between close friends. But this was different. There was a history professor from Damascus that night. He started it all by asking whether the regime really was as coup-proof as people really claimed. Between his provocations and the alcohol, otherwise stiff tongues became loose.
Someone asked the professor about his work and he began to lecture about the Qaramatians. He kept insisting they were the first Muslims with a genuine anti-imperialist ideology. Someone recounted the infamous stories. Tales of desecrations, massacres of pilgrim caravans and fire worship. But the professor protested, “No, no, no! That’s nothing but Abbasid propaganda!” He didn’t hesitate to explain. “Look, Islam is the only religion that was founded as a state. What do states do?” He looked around at the others holding glasses of wine and Scotch.
“They expand and conquer, they take and they absorb. They eliminate those who dare to resist.”
“Are you saying Islam was imperialist?”
“Not like the British or the Americans. It could have been, and it would have been, had it not been challenged and subverted from within. That’s why the movements like the Zanj and Qaramatians are so important. These were the first Muslims to challenge the imperial character of the Islamic state. The Qaramatians shared their property communally, and made their decisions collectively. Between trying to suppress the slave revolt in the south and trying to eliminate the Qaramatians in the Gulf, the whole northern flank of the Abbasids lay wide open and vulnerable. We remember the Mongols, but we forget they would not have been able to conquer Baghdad had the Abbasids not been so busy with their counter-insurgency campaigns down south.”
“Well then – it doesn’t sound like we have much to thank them for, does it?” It was Suheir who challenged the man on this point. “I mean, why should we celebrate them if they’re the ones responsible for destroying our city at the height of its glory?”
Pushing his glasses back on his nose, the professor continued. “We’re so used to celebrating the Abbasids that we forget the political realities that made their accomplishments possible. We forget the secret police and the coups and the repression of dissent. The Qaramatians were a downtrodden people who built a commune that lasted more than a hundred years – that’s why we should study them and remember them. The Abbasids fell trying to put down a popular, democratic movement – and we’re supposed to feel bad for them? If you want to celebrate all-powerful caliphs and their slave armies, feel free. I’d rather celebrate those who struggle to make a better world.”
Someone proposed a toast to his rebels that night, and everyone raised their glasses and smiled. Afterwards, everyone was embarrassed. At least Khafaji was. The next week, however, Suheir had found a copy of the man’s book and read it. Then she wrote “Celebrate our anti-imperialist past!” on the title page and gave it to Khafaji. And today it made its way into Khafaji’s hands, perfect reading for anyone standing at the gates of empire.
The line moves fast eventually. Khafaji has to look up from the page every few minutes to take a step forward. At some point, the same photographer from yesterday returns, strutting across the street and photographing the circus playing out across the square – the traffic jam, the vendors and their carts, the children playing on the mounds of debris, and the line of petitioners at the gate. After a few moments, someone appears on the ramparts and tells the photographer to leave. He disappears the same way he entered.
At the outer gate, Khafaji removes his jacket and goes through. At the second gate, he finds an identification card waiting for him.
“Wear it around your neck at all times,” the man says.
In the morning light, the Green Zone looks more parched and neglected than the day before. Khafaji passes rocky outcroppings, and then a large abandoned cage. He pauses and lights a cigarette.
“Palace zoo. You missed the cheetahs, brother.” Khafaji hears Arabic and turns to smile at the man behind him. If his overalls and plastic flip-flops don’t give him away as a gardener, the shears in his hand do. Khafaji lights a cigarette for the man.
“I was here the day they got out, believe it or not. They were hungry. They howled like someone was stabbing their bellies. They hadn’t been fed for weeks. Someone opened the gate and they bolted across the lawns and ran into the palace. No one saw them again for weeks. In May, the Americans caught two of them at the pool. Kept the skins as trophies.”
Khafaji smiles and thanks him. He is almost at Ibn Sina when he hears someone calling out, “Inspector Khafaji!”
He turns to see Citrone wearing shorts and running shoes.
“Peace be upon you, Inspector Khafaji! I’m glad I ran into you. I’ll be in the office shortly – there’s something I need to fill you in on. It’s urgent.”
Khafaji looks at the entrance to the hospital, then again at Citrone.
“Can I meet you after I visit —”
“No, this can’t wait. I’ll be right there.”
When Khafaji gets to the office, Citrone isn’t there. Neither is the assistant. A uniformed soldier sits at an empty desk by the door. He stands when Khafaji enters, and shakes his hand so hard it smarts.
“Yes. Inspector Khafaji.”
The man speaks so fast Khafaji doesn’t catch his name. “Citrone wants you to start with these.”
“I was told he wanted to see me.”
“He’ll be here any minute.” The man points to a stack of files on a desk, then hands Khafaji a key and points over to a set of long filing cabinets. “When you finish the ones on your desk, start over there on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Khafaji spends an hour looking through personnel files of middle-ranking officers from various branches of the police and state security. The subject matter doesn’t help the throbbing in his head. Most names he doesn’t know at all. Some he knows by reputation. Others are people he’s worked with. Khafaji finds himself dozing off and waking up again more than once. The pictures and biographical information begin to seep off the pages and spread like stains across the desk. Where are they now? The photographs are mostly years old. Most with moustaches, some with glasses, a couple with a cockeye – but always the same portrait stares at the camera. The blank look in their eyes – was it fear or defiance? But now, these are the photos of officers gone missing. Hundreds and hundreds of officers. Departed. Decamped. Detained. Disappeared.
Khafaji rubs his eyes and refocuses on the next file: Yezid al-Aamiri, lieutenant, Special Security Organization. Commendations for physical fitness. Three courses in the Party Preparatory School. Two essays, one on Iraq as the natural leader of the Arab nation, the other on Zionism. The first photo is from the 1970s. It shows a small wiry man, with thick black hair, thin moustache and obsidian eyes. He leans forward into the camera, his neck and chin stretching out toward the lens. The last photo is from 1995. It shows the same wiry man, older and no longer leaning into the camera. The last update is from January, and shows him as serving in Karmah, Anbar province. If that was true then, it isn’t true now. There’s nothing about Aamiri’s face to say where he went. Each one of them has gone somewhere. Some to places no one can follow them to. But for my luck, Khafaji thinks, someone else could be in this office today, looking at my picture and my dossier and wondering the same thing.
Khafaji finishes the pile and takes them over to the cabinets and attempts to put them back where they belong. But it is not so simple. He begins to scan through the tabs, hoping to get a sense of how the dossiers are organized. There are IPS files mixed in with General Security Directorate and some Special Security, and a couple of Military Intelligence. It makes no sense. Not just because it’s hodge-podge, but because whoever arranged these files worked hard to put them in this particular order. Khafaji makes a note, looks at his watch, and puts his head down on his desk for a moment.
Khafaji wakes up as soon as Citrone and the assistant walk in.
“Good morning, Inspector! How is the work coming along?”
Khafaji rubs his eyes, and smiles. After a minute, he answers, “Exciting reading.”
“I knew it would be. Need some coffee?”
“No thanks. I’m awake.”
“Find anything?”
“I won’t be able to find anything until I know a little more about where these files are from.”
The assistant goes over to his desk and opens his computer. Citrone pulls up a chair next to Khafaji.
“What do you mean?”
“I need to understand why they’ve been put in the order they’re in.”
“We were told that the files are ready for review. Aren’t they?”
“But a file doesn’t mean much on its own. You need to understand the archive as a general principle before you can read its constituent parts.”
Citrone laughs. “So, here we are, having that philosophical discussion after all. I will take your question up with the people who gave us the records. But in the meantime, I need you to focus on reading them for what they are.”
Khafaji understands that Citrone wants him to agree. Needs him to agree. So he nods. The assistant comes over and sits down, then runs his hand down his red tie.
“Yesterday, you asked me why you need a police force if you have an army,” Citrone says.
“No, I asked why you needed the police…”
“Do you believe that Iraqis are fully capable of governing themselves democratically?”
“Of course,” Khafaji shrugs.
“Did you know that in my country there are people who were opposed to the idea of us liberating you from tyranny? Some of them said, and continue to say, that Iraqi culture is incompatible with democracy.”
“That’s their problem.”
“There are people in my country who want this experiment to fail, Inspector. And there are also people in your country who want this experiment to fail. Some of the people in my country say that western democracy has no place in an Islamic society, and some of the people in your country say the same thing.”
“Ironic.”
“We need to prove the doubters wrong. We need to show them that we were right. We need to prove that Iraqis can have democracy too – we need that to secure our win.”
The assistant chimes in, “Mr Khafaji, in our country we have something called ‘the free market’. Most of the time, we take it for granted and don’t even think about how great it is. We’re lucky because we can take it for granted. When Iraqis experience it, they will start to feel that Iraq belongs to them, probably for the first time in their lives. That’s when they’ll know what liberty feels like.”
“I have never thought about that,” Khafaji admits, then immediately regrets it. Sermons discouraged end fastest.
“And it all begins with law and order. No matter how you look at it, the key to the puzzle is rule of law. That’s why it’s so crucial you have decided to make a stand. Without you, this country doesn’t stand a chance. We know it and the terrorists know it – that’s why they focus their attacks on the police. As soon as the IPS is back on its feet, coalition troops go home. And the sooner Iraqis see this, the sooner they’ll realize their country belongs to them. That’s the whole point. To let Iraqis know that from now on, they’re in charge. When Iraqis see Iraqi police on the streets, they’ll understand that the CPA is working for them, not for the UN or for America or whatever conspiracy they imagine us to be.”
Citrone leans forward. “That’s the big picture you should have in mind. The whole justice system is being redesigned top to bottom. We’ve got experts who are making sure that the whole criminal code is all in complete accordance with Sharia law. We have advisors who know how to cut out red tape and streamline admin law. Iraq is going to be the economic powerhouse of the region. And Inspector, now you see where you fit in.”
“Thanks for the explanation.” Khafaji turns toward the assistant and says, “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about so badly earlier?”
Citrone clears his throat and lowers his voice. “Actually no. We need to tell you about something that has come up, Inspector. One of our interpreters has disappeared. With everything that’s happening, we have no illusions about finding her, but…”
The assistant hands Khafaji a photograph of a bright face in a hijab. “Zahra Boustani was one of the first ’terps we hired.” For the second time in a week, Khafaji is staring at the image of a beautiful young woman. He looks up, puzzled.
“Interpreters. Zahra is young and bright. She joined because she wanted to help her country. She got a few of her friends to sign on too. Without people like them, we’d be nowhere.”
He wipes his mouth again. “It’s been ten days since Zahra last showed up for work. The other girls tell us her family haven’t seen her in a week. She’s probably been kidnapped. Probably nothing can be done. But we have to try. Our interpreters put their lives on the line every day. Most of them can never even tell their own family what they’re doing when they leave the house. We need to find out what’s happened. If a crime has been committed, we want the perpetrators brought to justice.”
Citrone closes the file in front of him and fixes his eyes on Khafaji. “Look, we’re not stupid. There’s a war going on here. Lots of people go missing for all sorts of reasons. But we have to try. We owe it to every Iraqi who works with us. We take care of our own.”
They offer Khafaji more information. Zahra only recently graduated from the university. She went to work for the Americans in late May. Since then, she recruited five girlfriends of hers to join up as well.
Khafaji studies the photograph some more. When he looks up, he notices Citrone’s jaw working at its frantic pace.
“I will look into this for you. Do you have anything else I could study?”
The assistant answers before Khafaji can finish. “No, sorry. Nothing.”
Citrone gently claps the conversation to a close. “Spend a couple days on this, maximum. No more. Go ask the other interpreters what they know. They know she’s gone missing. It’ll help them to talk about it. It’ll ease their anxiety to know that you’re on the case.”
If any place symbolizes what was lost in Baghdad during the sanctions years, it’s Ibn Sina Hospital. People continued to call it a “hospital” long after the medicine ran out. It was a hospital partly because patients kept coming, but mostly because doctors kept the place open. It was the sick who first discovered how bad things had gotten in the country. There was no avoiding it. Khafaji would not have learned so quickly if the cancer hadn’t appeared. It ate at Suheir’s stomach and forced them to go from hospital to hospital in the hope of finding a cure. Or, barring that, relief. Each hospital they arrived at withered and died before their eyes.
It was a decade of hospital doors closing, one after another. But so many other doors closed too. Painkillers – closed. Antiseptic – closed. Penicillin – closed. But Ibn Sina’s doors never closed. That didn’t mean there was much use in them staying open. The doctors who remained were saints. They stayed and they continued to do all they could. Patients treated without anesthesia. Without antibiotics. Without aspirin. But never without hope.
Khafaji walks through the lobby and climbs the stairs to the fourth floor. When he gets there, he notices that the elevators are now working. He walks down the corridor, looking in here and there at the rooms whose doors are open. Many of the beds are empty this morning – certainly more than last night. The halls are clean and polished – and as Khafaji walks, he watches the reflection of lights on the floor.
At the reception desk, the nurse is friendly and helpful even before Khafaji shows his ID.
“She’s here all right,” she smiles, and asks Khafaji to sign in. A moment later, she leads him down the hall, to the last door on the right. Suddenly Khafaji wishes he’d brought something with him. A book, flowers, something to eat. Anything.
But when he sees Mrouj’s smile, his doubts disappear. She sits upright and still in a wide bed, looking right at the door as he enters. As if she knew he would walk in at that moment. They say nothing, but hold hands and look at one another for a long minute. At last Khafaji hugs her and breaks the silence. “How are you feeling, Mrouji?”
“Baba, I’m OK. I’m OK.”
“Are they treating you…?”
“I’m fine, Baba. They’re nice.”
“I know. I’m sorry I…”
“Don’t be sorry, Baba. I’m here and I’m OK. I still can’t believe what they did to you.”
Mrouj reaches over and touches Khafaji’s upper lip. “I’ll get used to it,” she whispers as she pulls the sheets up around her.
Khafaji looks around, and only now notices there’s another bed and another patient in the room. Khafaji looks back at Mrouj, who smiles. “She’s nice, Baba. I’m asleep a lot, and so is she. We haven’t seen each other awake very much.”
Khafaji studies the machines at Mrouj’s bedside. Lights blink and lines move in waves. Numbers flash and change. Mrouj smiles and says, “That’s the dialysis machine, Baba. They did it the first day I was here and they’re going to do it today. They say I’ll feel much better. Did you bring something to read to me?”
Khafaji looks at his hands and apologizes for the book he’s holding. “Tell me what you’d like me to read you and I’ll bring it.”
Mrouj looks at him and says, “How about Nazik?”
“Of course. I’ll bring the diwan. We’ll read it over and over. How long did they say before you can go home?”
“They’re doing tests, Baba.”
“You don’t need tests, do you? We already know what the problem is.”
“They said there may be complications and they want to check.”
“But you can come home soon, right? After you’re stabilized, we can do the treatments at home.”
“Baba, the doctors want me here for more tests. And they didn’t say anything about coming home.”
“At least that means they’re giving you good care.” The look of pain on Khafaji’s face makes Mrouj squeeze his hand. He bites his lip and says, “I’ll come every day to see you. We’ll read Nazik from beginning to end. We’ll go poem by poem. Line by line.”
“I’d like that, Baba.”
“Aunt Maha and Uncle Nidal send their wishes. How is the food here?”
“Edible, Baba. Everything is fine.”
Just then, an American doctor walks into the room and grins at Mrouj. “Shaku maku?” She forces a smile back and says in a tired voice, “Safya dafya.” He turns to introduce himself to Khafaji, and seems sincerely glad to meet his patient’s father. “We don’t have many interpreters up here, so if you don’t mind, I might use you to find out more about your daughter’s condition.” He then calls the nurse and asks Khafaji to tell Mrouj that they are going to run other tests on her today, as well as another round of dialysis.
“She’s lucky she made it in when she did, Mr Khafaji. She’s got a long way to go, but I’m optimistic. She’s a fighter.”
“My daughter said there were complications.”
The doctor tries to remain smiling as he talks. “In the US, we’d say she has all the symptoms of stage five CKD. Hematuria, ischemia, hypocalcemia. You already knew about the dehydration, the blood in the urine, muscle cramps, the itching and dizziness. We’d expect to see this kind of uremia in any chronic case that isn’t treated. She’s been sick for five years, correct?”
Khafaji nods. “Maybe longer. We didn’t get a diagnosis right away.”
“Right now, we’re using hemodialysis to stabilize her condition. We’ve got to do that before we can see where we are. I’d like to see some improvement before we go ahead and call it stage five. My hope is that it’s going to be treatable. We’re running tests – cardio, vascular – to see what complications there may be.”
“So, it’s complicated?”
“Yes, you might put it that way.”
Khafaji translates, and Mrouj smiles again despite herself.
“Do you have any questions before we get going today?”
Khafaji and Mrouj shake their heads. The doctor leaves the room while they hold hands and say goodbye. He kisses her forehead. “I’ll be back tomorrow with our Nazik. Be strong.”
“Yes, Baba. Tell me a line before you go.”
Khafaji thinks for a moment. “I’m not quick to thirst, nor one whose herd is ill-pastured at night, whose calves remain unfed while their mother’s udders hang free. / Nor am I a mean coward, nor one who clings to his wife and asks her what to do. / Nor am I one who is slow to do a good deed, or someone who stays in the tent all day covering himself with perfumed…”
Mrouj pauses and asks, “The long meter?”
Khafaji nods. Mrouj closes her eyes and guesses. “Oils and kohl? Nor am I one who is slow to do a good deed, or someone who stays in the tent all day covering himself with perfumed oils and kohl.”
Khafaji laughs. “Yes! Good – you’re not so sick at all.”
Khafaji takes the elevator instead of the stairs. Exiting the lobby, he reaches for his cigarettes. His hand touches something and he takes it out to look at it. It’s the picture of the interpreter Citrone had handed him. He turns and walks back into the hospital, then downstairs to the basement.
The nurse at the morgue calls her supervisor, and in an instant the coroner appears – a large, lively man with blue eyes that never stop moving. “What can I do for you?” The warmth of the man’s hand surprises Khafaji and reminds him how cold the room is. He offers Khafaji a cup of tea, and they sit and talk about the previous coroner, a man Khafaji knew. Khafaji offers him a cigarette. He declines, but encourages Khafaji to smoke as much as he pleases. The coroner walks over to a desk and pulls out a drawer full of unopened packs of Rothmans and Marlboros. He invites Khafaji to help himself. “By the time these arrive in my lab, their owners don’t need them any more. No one will miss them.”
Khafaji takes out Zahra Boustani’s picture from his jacket and hands it gently to the coroner, who cocks his head. As the man studies the girl’s face, Khafaji rifles through the drawer and picks out every pack of Rothmans. He fills his jacket, shirt and pants pockets with them. When the coroner is done, he hands the photograph back to Khafaji. He looks at a clipboard, and glances at the refrigerator. They walk along the rusty steel doors. The coroner stops to pull out a drawer from the bottom row. A young woman’s body. Head wounds cleaned and partially filled. Her face is not unrecognizable. Khafaji peers at her. Not Zahra Boustani. A second drawer reveals a middle-aged woman whose feet are missing. Not Zahra Boustani. A teenager with gunshot wounds to her abdomen. Not Zahra Boustani. After closer inspection, a badly burnt body that turns out to be that of a boy. Not a girl. Not Zahra Boustani.
Khafaji pauses and looks around at the rest of the drawers. He lights a cigarette and the smoke is not just sweet, but a relief. The coroner leaves the room and gives Khafaji a moment to reflect. When he comes back, they walk down the row, pausing now and then to open the drawers of women whose descriptions overlap with the girl Khafaji’s looking for. They’re not Zahra Boustani.
After twenty, Khafaji comments, “What’s with all the rot? I don’t remember bodies like this.”
“Mostly it’s the power cuts.” The man’s face widens into a frown. “The refrigerator goes off for hours. We try to do our best and make do. We don’t open the doors very often, in any case. What we need, of course, is a generator. But it’s hard to argue that we need it more than the people upstairs who are still alive.”
He laughs. “But don’t worry, I’m told we’re right after them in line.” Khafaji lights another cigarette and laughs too. The more he smokes, the less he has to smell the formaldehyde.
Khafaji shakes the coroner’s hand again and is again surprised by its warmth. He writes down Citrone’s name on a piece of paper and says, “Let us know if you come across a body matching the description.”
The coroner smiles and says, “I’ll be calling you every day, my friend.”
When Khafaji arrives at the stairs, the power goes out. He stands in the darkness, listening to the rustle of living bodies. Footsteps, breath, conversation, even laughter. Then matches striking and the hissing of gas lanterns. Someone offers to lead a small group up the stairwell and out to the lobby. There, Khafaji joins the crowd of people streaming out, leaving the building to its doctors and patients, both those above and those below.