Khafaji wakes up late. As he makes a pot of tea, he remembers the dream that woke him once, just before dawn. A nightmare in the guise of an Egyptian musical. The band strikes up a song, and a dancing girl suddenly appears in the middle of the dance floor. Close-up on the smile that flashes across white teeth furiously chewing on gum. Other dancing girls swirl around her as she moves forward toward small round tables where the audience sits drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. The girl whirls around, and the other girls disappear into the wings. Suddenly, the violins fade out and the music becomes a purely percussive beat. Dum-tik, tik-dum-tik. Dum-tik, tik-dum-tik. Close-up of the girl’s midriff as it shakes with increasing frenzy. She whirls around and around violently. Spinning and spinning as the music’s tempo rises to a crescendo. Montage of mad musicians. This one blowing furiously on a reed flute, that one hitting the strings of an oud, another banging on a tambour. Finally, the girl collapses in a heap in the middle of the dance floor. Close-up on the girl’s face, her lips contorted in ecstasy and pain. The audience explodes in loud applause, and the girl is carried off the floor.
After a pause, the scene begins on the same stage with another girl, another dance, and another collapse. It repeats five times in all – each girl with her own individual features and flourishes. One is athletic and kicks her legs improbably high into the air. One flips her wrists and fingers like a Hindu goddess. Another curls her lips like an Andalusian gypsy. The last shakes a round belly while rolling her hips in small jerks.
Only later in the morning does Khafaji realize that the faces of the first four are those of the dead girls. And then came the grand finale that ripped him from sleep. At first the body of the last dancer seems to belong to Sawsan. Or Suheir. She circles around Khafaji’s table, but he can’t get a glimpse of her face. She pulls on his tie and swings past him, but he still can’t see who it is. Then, as she begins to shake and bend, she suddenly turns over him, so close Khafaji can feel her breath on his face. Zubeida Rashid.
Khafaji went back to sleep. When he woke up again, he was exhausted, but his headache was gone.
While making tea, he decides to break the news to Nidal. He washes his face, shaves slowly, and gets dressed. As he’s walking out, he remembers the ID cards from the villa, and goes to find the pillowcase. He stuffs them in his pocket and walks out, fixing the door shut behind him.
For the first time in days, there is no one sitting in the building’s entrance. Khafaji salutes the guards at the gate down the street, then walks a slow zigzag through the neighborhood, in the opposite direction from the day before. He looks behind him more than once before heading to Kamal Jumblatt Square, where he catches a taxi. Khafaji mentions the address in Saadun, and the young driver says “As you wish” in a polite voice. The young man pauses, then asks, “Would you mind if I played some music?”
Khafaji replies, “By all means.”
The driver chuckles and slips an old cassette tape into the stereo. Khafaji is glad to hear what he hears. Fayruz’s Immortal Songs. Khafaji closes his eyes and listens to the songs. Music is the only element that has the power to reverse time. The more he listens, the more present the past seems. And it fills him with a warm feeling. A checkpoint diverts traffic, and the detour adds twenty minutes to their drive. Each time they pass a gas station, the flow of cars comes to a halt, then opens up again on the other side.
The building Khafaji gets out at overflows with the bustle of life. Children are everywhere, playing in the street out front. In the garage below. Their laughing voices fill the stairwell.
As soon as Nidal’s wife Maha sees Khafaji at the door, she guesses the news he’s come to deliver. She collapses on the floor. The other women of the house lift her onto the couch and she faints again. They urge her to retreat into the bedroom, and she disappears with one of them. Nidal returns home fifteen minutes later carrying a plastic bag of fresh bread. He hears his wife and sees Khafaji and immediately understands that his daughter is dead. He sits down on the couch next to his brother-in-law. Khafaji’s hand rests lightly on the man’s heaving shoulders. Khafaji looks up and sees a crowd of children thronging around them.
“Go downstairs and play,” Khafaji murmurs. The older siblings grab the younger ones and disappear.
Minutes pass before Nidal recovers his composure. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and says, “We’re done. We’re leaving.”
Khafaji looks away but keeps his hand resting on Nidal’s shoulder. He notices the row of over-packed suitcases along the wall.
After a long pause, Nidal pulls gently on Khafaji’s hand until they’re looking at one another.
“Why?”
“I’m sorry, Nidal. I don’t have any answers.”
“Tell me what happened, then. You found her?”
“Day before yesterday.”
Nidal squints and looks away. Embarrassed, Khafaji continues talking. “There were three others. Murdered.”
Khafaji lets it sink in for a minute before continuing. “I think they were kidnapped. Maybe for ransom. Maybe just because they were working for the Americans. They were killed right when the Americans showed up.”
Khafaji attempts to catch the man’s eye, but now it’s Nidal who’s looking away. “Her body was taken to Yarmouk Hospital, they said. I can go with you when you’re ready.”
A new torrent of wailing spills from the bedroom.
Finally, Khafaji asks, “Did you know that Sawsan was working for the Americans?”
“I knew she was getting paid in dollars. She never talked about what she was doing. So we thought that was a possibility. What did her professor say?”
“She told me nothing. It was someone else who told me. For what it’s worth, Sawsan was only doing what a lot of other kids are doing. Working as translators.”
After a pause, he adds, “There’s a lot worse that kids might do, you know.”
Nidal shakes his head. “Like what?”
“Don’t get me wrong, but there aren’t many decent ways to make a decent living. So what if she worked for the Americans?”
Nidal shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “Is this a joke? Why did you come here?”
“I’m not joking…”
Nidal glares at Khafaji. Finally, he speaks. “So, what was Sawsan translating, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how was she translating for the Americans when she didn’t know more than a few words of English?”
Now it’s Khafaji’s turn to glare.
“Everyone knew that about Susu. She was no good with languages. Her brothers used to tease her in English because they knew she wouldn’t understand them. And she never did.”
He laughs and blows his nose. He shakes his head again and again.
“Only a fool would have hired Susu as a translator. You found the wrong girl.”
Khafaji doesn’t know what to think. He makes a show of looking at his watch and decides to leave. He stands up and tells Nidal, “I swear to you, Nidal, the body I saw was your daughter’s. It makes no sense, I know. Maybe I was wrong. I promise I’ll find out.”
As Khafaji walks downstairs and into the street, he begins to consider the possibility there was a mistake. But you saw her with your own eyes. He rubs his bleary eyes and lets the exhaustion pour across his body. When the headache returns, it comes on fast.
The children swarm around Khafaji as he walks down the street. Their laughter suddenly annoys him. A ball hits a pothole and bounces over to Khafaji. He tries to kick it back, but misses. They scream and take off running after it while he curses under his breath.