Khafaji feels a headache coming back on when he finally walks into the office. The first thing that catches his eye is the book of poetry sitting on the desk. Right where he left it. The second thing he sees is the pair of thick-necked men in their shiny suits. Khafaji notices their barrel chests and pauses. By the time he notices their arms, he’s being pushed into a chair. One of them disappears into the hallway. For five minutes, Khafaji sits in Citrone’s chair with a stranger’s hand on his chest. He nods and asks, “Looking for Citrone?” No answer.
Khafaji adds, “Well, he’s not here. Let me go get him for you.”
The man pushes hard then leans forward into Khafaji’s face. His whisper is almost imperceptible: “Shut up.”
Khafaji and his guest sit face to face, their knees kissing. Khafaji tries to look away from the man’s eyes without being too obvious. Khafaji looks left and right, then his eyes settle on the window. Shutters closed like every day. He studies the filing cabinets instead, then closes his eyes and goes looking for Sawsan.
At some point, the other man returns from his errand. He pivots as he walks though the door. By now Khafaji has considered the scene and guessed his options. He is not surprised when the Mosuli strolls through the door, looking as serious as a popular referendum. The other man flashes a shoulder holster as he straightens his jacket. If he were quick, Khafaji could almost grab the man’s gun. The Mosuli sits down. He straightens his suit with smooth, soft hands. Khafaji looks at his shoes. Still new, still shiny. Like he still hasn’t set foot on Iraqi soil.
He doesn’t say a word, he just snorts like a horse. Khafaji starts to fidget and looks at the ceiling then out the door. In the hallway, everything continues as normal. Young Americans in suits walk by with paper cups and cellphones. No one looks in. No one looks around. The man by the door carefully shuts it. Suddenly, the Mosuli leans over and throws a Manila envelope on Khafaji’s lap. I know this script: File and Dossier. Khafaji smiles.
“Open it.”
Khafaji’s fingers uncoil the red thread and pull out a small sheaf of paper. Two photographs slide out onto the floor. When Khafaji leans over to pick them up, he realizes that he does not remember this script at all. When his fingers touch the photos, he begins to wish he was sitting somewhere else in some other room. One is an image of a group of men in uniform, sitting in an office, dated 1988. It takes Khafaji a second to remember. The regional HQ in Sulaimaniya. You can tell they’re laughing even though they are all wearing the old Soviet gas masks. Some are holding up small glasses of tea. Like they were raising a toast.
Khafaji spent 1987 in Kirkuk, dealing with the chaos of resettling thousands of southerners into the city as fast as possible. The next year, he was transferred to the mountains and the front. This was the only year of his life he wished he had never lived. He wrote reams about it, draft memos and reports. But he spoke about it only once – to Suheir. Then never to anyone again. He went to the north, and he managed to survive. And for his service, they stripped him of everything and sent him home.
Those days were long gone. Forgotten, erased. Sixteen years later, Khafaji stares at a picture, and it stares back, dragging behind it a mule-train of memories. Khafaji’s father always said that a secret in the hands of a stranger is a weapon. And he was rarely wrong.
The Mosuli leans forward and waves at Khafaji. “Keep reading. Don’t worry about them getting dirty. The originals are in California.”
The other photograph is from winter. The gates of a place he allowed himself to believe was never anything but a bad dream. He suddenly feels the bitter air and shivers. Houses and horses, mules and boots, tires and pants – everything splattered with mud.
“Recognize that? It’s a place called Topzawa. The Directorate was highly efficient. Some units kept meticulous records of everything. You made sure that yours did.”
Topzawa. The name slashes across the years. It was a name Khafaji used for a year until its sound became so sharp it could cut. A year of ferocious activity, of flying over valleys and diving through reports, of driving headlong through the fog of war.
For years, all he ever remembered were the wildflowers. He arrived with spring. The mountains were carpets, with cicatrix stitches and fantastical designs. He never saw anything so beautiful. Whites and reds and purples. And greens rolling off into forever. And the red narcissi, bleeding veins in the hills. The air was wild herbs. His driver taught him the Kurdish names for each flower and plant. But now, at this moment, Khafaji can only remember a scent – a green sweet smell. Death. The fragrance of green apples, spring onions and young garlic that would hang for days in the valleys. Mustard gas. Khafaji goes limp in his chair. The papers slide off his lap onto the ground.
Khafaji is not fully conscious of what transpires next, nor even of how long it lasts. He is aware that the Mosuli is talking to him, but it’s as if the room has gone dark. His eyes are wide open and the lights are on, but he sees nothing. Periodically, he hears noises out in the corridor, but they pass by and fade away. Footsteps and conversations that come and go.
At some point, the door flies open, and the assistant walks in with two other young men. They’re laughing at a joke of some kind and holding paper coffee cups.
“Inspector!” he cries out. He then turns to the Mosuli and, suddenly serious, adds, “Very pleased to meet you, sir.” The other young men step forward in turn, eager to shake the exile’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
In reply, the Mosuli has risen to his feet and is busy smoothing over his jacket. He smiles broadly. All too easy.
Khafaji feels the anxiousness of the thick necks at the door, and it wakes him up from his nightmare. He has only a few seconds to take advantage of the situation, so he does. Khafaji stands up and says to the assistant, “Good to see you. We are talking about how to coordinate efforts better.” He shakes the hands of the assistant’s friends, then rests his hand casually on the Mosuli’s shoulder as if they were friends. “Everyone sit down. We might as well start now.”
The assistant sits and asks, “If it’s not an imposition?”
Khafaji replies, “Not at all.”
The assistant introduces the other two young men in suits. “These guys may as well join us too. They’re from Prosperity, but they’re connected to everything we’re doing down here. They may even have some fresh ideas about the coordination process.”
One of them laughs, “Don’t know about that!” They all smile and look at Khafaji.
The Mosuli begins to say something, but Khafaji interrupts. “The process is delicate, but that shouldn’t stop us, should it? Why don’t I get coffee?” The assistant and the others hold up their paper cups and decline. The Mosuli leans back and smiles grimly. Khafaji tries to be gracious as he grabs his jacket from the coat rack. He fails.
“I’ll be back then,” Khafaji announces to the room in a glad voice. He even pats the arm of the man at the door as he walks by.
On the steps of the hospital, he lights a cigarette and tries to think. But all the nicotine in the world would not solve this problem. He flicks the butt away and walks in.
As Khafaji signs in on the fourth floor of the hospital, he remembers the book sitting on his desk. By the time he walks into Mrouj’s room, it’s all he can talk about. “I’m sorry, Mrouji. I haven’t brought you anything. I forgot the damned book again.”
Mrouj looks up with tired eyes and tries to smile. Khafaji looks for a chair, then comes back to sit down next to her. She takes his hand and pats it gently. Mrouj’s hand is warm to the touch. Minutes go by before Mrouj breaks the silence. “What’s making you so upset, Baba?”
Khafaji strokes her hair and murmurs, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her eyes closed, Mrouj whispers, “Talk if you need to. Otherwise, just go.”
Khafaji says nothing. Minutes go by before Mrouj repeats, “Talk.”
Khafaji’s silence drags on, interrupted only by the coughing of the other patient in the room and the gentle pings of medical equipment. Khafaji feels suddenly cold. He begins to shake.
“Baba, are you sick?”
Mrouj’s voice is no comfort. When he opens his mouth to speak, his anger and frustration pour out. He tells Mrouj about her cousin. He tells her about the bodies on the floor and the blood and the flies. He tells her about the traffic and the checkpoints and the morgue. He tells her about the men down the hall. He tells her, though none of it makes any sense. He tells her about the new neighbors in the apartment building. He tells her about the boys with guns in the foyer. He tells her about the roundabout ways he comes and goes home. He tells her they’re being evicted. He stares out the window as he talks, and never once looks at her. Mrouj listens and reaches for his hand. Eventually, Khafaji starts talking about Sulaimaniya. About Topzawa. And he is surprised to find he hasn’t forgotten a thing. He talks for what seems like hours. He tells her everything.
When he finally looks at her, he sees that she’s asleep. He takes his hand out of hers and strokes her cheeks. He pulls the blankets up around her chin. Glancing around at the room, he notices the other patient wide awake and staring at him as if he was a ghost. With a start, he gets up, and Mrouj calls out softly, “I’m here, Baba. Tell me a line.”
“OK, Mrouj.” He pauses before answering, “Man is half tongue, and half mind, and between them is nothing but a sketch of flesh and blood. / While fools that are old have no wisdom to look forward to, young fools may sometimes…”
Khafaji listens for Mrouj’s voice, but hears nothing.
“May sometimes become wise. Zuheir. Goodnight, Mrouj,” Khafaji whispers, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
As he walks away, he looks over at the other patient, and she withers beneath her blankets.
When Khafaji arrives home, he finds the guards are back at their posts. He rushes past them at the gate, and again in the foyer. As usual, they try to stop him with an offer of tea. Khafaji notices the hall is filled with suitcases and cartons. At the stairs, he hears a commotion above.
On the landing on the second floor a group of men throngs around someone wearing black robes and a turban. A cleric. It takes Khafaji a minute to work halfway through the thick crowd. Now they are speaking Persian. Along with Arabic. Ali stands beside the man, trying to calm the crowd. Khafaji sneaks past the last men when Ali catches his eye.
Khafaji goes to unlock his apartment and notices the door is already wide open. Walking through the rooms, Khafaji finds the shutters to the balcony open as well. When he goes to shut them, he looks down at the street. Stopped at the gate is a black Mercedes. The guards signal for him to turn around. The driver leans forward over the dashboard, looking up at the building, scanning each floor. The men at the gate finally force the driver to disappear.
Khafaji goes to the sideboard and finds a bottle of Johnnie Walker. He gulps one shot, then sips a second. He goes back to the balcony and stares past the roofs at the night sky. At some point, he feels someone staring at him and looks around. He looks at the gate, and sees that there’s nobody there. Then he notices the man in the shadows on the street below, looking up at him. Khafaji takes two steps back from the railing. He waits, then looks again to see the same man disappearing into the entrance below. Seconds later, Khafaji sees the man jogging back to his car, followed by one of the guards. As he runs off, Khafaji imagines he knows him. The bodyguard from the university. Down in the street, the guard trots after him.
Khafaji sees that the water is on, so he rushes to take a shower. Quickly, the water turns into a trickle, then dies. By the time Khafaji reaches for his towel, the lights also go out. Khafaji dries off in the darkness. Shivering, he looks for a gas lantern. When he can’t find any matches in the kitchen, he fumbles through his jacket for a lighter. For the first time since the morning, his hand finds the ID cards. In the flickering light, he studies them one by one. Candy Firdawsi. Sally Riyadi. Sawsan.
Khafaji studies the girl’s face, but soon he is looking at Suheir. Aunt and niece. Past and present. Then he remembers what Nidal said. You wanted to find Sawsan so much, you imagined it. You still imagine it. He reaches for the photograph of Sawsan that Nidal gave him. He looks at the two images side by side, and begins to see the differences.
He pours himself another shot to forget these girls. Another to forget memories spilling down from the mountains. Another to forget the Mosuli. The minutes pass. Then hours. It goes quiet outside. The bottle is half empty, but Khafaji’s mind is fuller than ever.
Khafaji picks up the IDs again and studies them one last time. Candy Firdawsi. Sally Riyadi. He picks up the photo of Sawsan and imagines that her smile is meant for a lover. Suddenly, Khafaji is not thinking of Sawsan or Suheir, but Zubeida. Sawsan’s face belongs to Suheir, but the makeup belongs to her professor. Only then, in the daze of the Scotch and the whisper of the gas flame, does he notice that the name on the ID is not Sawsan Faraj, but Suzy Jinna. He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t imagining anything.