In the cafeteria, Khafaji fills a tray with some kind of stewed meat and rice. He searches for plain yogurt, but can only find small cartons of sweetened, fruit-flavored concoctions. A man waves at Khafaji from across the dining room. Khafaji looks closely. An Iraqi in a pressed suit. Another exile. The man looks vaguely familiar, and Khafaji smiles back. By now he has stood up and is motioning for Khafaji to join him.
As Khafaji comes up, the man’s voice booms with excitement, “You’re Hassan’s brother, right? What are the chances? Salman Jabbouri al-Ghanim. You don’t remember me, but I’m an old friend of your brother’s.” His English is British.
Khafaji nods. Jabbouri stretches out a hand and Khafaji shakes it. “Salman Jabbouri, pleased to meet you. You’re Ihsan, right?”
“Muhsin.”
“Right. I was just thinking about Hassan the other day. It’s been years since we’ve seen him. We get a card from them every Christmas, but it’s been years since we’ve seen each other. How is he?”
Khafaji shrugs. “Same as always, I’m sure.”
Khafaji eats while Jabbouri talks. “I think you and I met once years ago. I was back on holiday.”
“You and Hassan were the first Iraqi students at Cambridge, right?”
“And the first ones to marry English!”
Khafaji tries to focus on what Jabbouri says, but he is distracted, trying to identify what kind of meat he is eating. Not lamb. Not beef. He pushes the tray away.
Khafaji concentrates on wiping his mouth before he realizes the other man has stopped speaking. He smiles and asks, “So you are moving back to Iraq for good?”
“Just for the time being. I’m with McCannell and Sutton. Do you know us?”
Khafaji’s face is blank.
“Why would you? I’m part of a team that integrates developing economies into the global market. When the contract came through, I was sent here to head up operations. My wife doesn’t like the idea at all. She thinks it’s dangerous. But she’s listened to me talk about Iraq for thirty years, so she couldn’t very well tell me I can’t come back to help rebuild things.”
Khafaji nods.
“We’ve mostly been tasked to transition Iraqi state industries into viable market frameworks.”
Khafaji looks at his plate, considering whether to take another bite, but then decides against it. When he realizes Jabbouri is waiting for him to say something, he asks, “So tell me what that means.”
“Well, Iraq is a rich country, right? Oil wealth, but no industry. You go anywhere else in the Gulf and you see construction everywhere. Massive cranes. Bulldozers. Cities going up overnight. But here, no building. Nothing. Economists like me look at a place like this and see nothing but man-made disasters. You have aluminium factories here, right? They produce tiny amounts of the stuff. But why does it cost more to make one pound of aluminium foil here than it does to make a ton in Sweden? Or take the petroleum refineries. Their technologies are so antiquated that they add dollars to the price of any drop of oil they pump out. But again, that’s only part of the problem. You have this needlessly expensive refining process, then you go and sell the product for almost nothing on the market. Here’s how I put it: industry is Iraqi for ‘lifetime job’. And in the meantime, look around you. Do you see any factory producing anything at all these days?”
Khafaji murmurs, “The electricity stopped working when —”
“Exactly!” Jabbouri exclaims. “The electrical grid is a total disaster. But it was totally predictable. Given the mismanagement, corruption and neglect, it’s amazing there is still a grid at all. We’re going to have to build a new one from scratch.”
“It used to work before —” Khafaji offers, but Jabbouri begins talking about Thailand, Bolivia, Sri Lanka, and Ireland. Somehow all are directly relevant to Iraq. “We’ve already learned these lessons, Muhsin.”
Khafaji finally interrupts him. “Would you like some tea? Indian tea?”
Jabbouri raises his eyebrows and the two men walk over to the Beverage Bar. The man at the counter hands them two cups of tea. Khafaji invites Jabbouri outside to share a cigarette.
They walk out a side door. Beyond the fluorescent light over the doorway, it is now pitch black. Next to an Evacuation Assembly Area sign, Khafaji and Jabbouri huddle in the wind as they try to light their cigarettes. The door opens, and the assistant emerges, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He smiles, though it takes him a moment to recognize Khafaji. Khafaji says hello, then introduces the two men to one another. As they speak, Khafaji hears the young man’s name as if for the first time – Louis Ford. The three men smoke their cigarettes. Khafaji offers them Rothmans, and they both accept. When the tea is gone, Jabbouri wishes out loud for Scotch. Ford begins to tell them about the Rashid Hotel bar. Somehow, Khafaji finds himself dragged along.
On the walk over, Khafaji listens to Jabbouri ask Ford about his life.
“I wrote my senior thesis on the financial connectivities of emerging threats, then I got a great internship in security studies. One day, I’m talking to my boss about converting threats into opportunities. The next day, he’s asking me to join the Iraq Future Group. No interview. And here I am,” Ford laughs and lights another round of cigarettes. As Jabbouri and Louis talk, they quickly establish that they share the same networks.
At the hotel, many people come up to greet Ford. He makes a point of introducing Jabbouri to some. Out of politeness, a couple smile and shake Khafaji’s hand as well. Suddenly, Khafaji’s exhaustion catches up with him and so does his headache. “I am sorry, friends. I’m tired.”
“You can’t leave. If you’re really tired, just have one,” Jabbouri pleads.
The doorman at the bar stops Khafaji. Louis clasps the man’s hand and says, “He’s all right, Tommy, he’s with me.” They click their fingers together in a ritual Khafaji has only seen in American movies.
The room could be anywhere. A dusty mirrored ball sparkles under the long, low acoustic ceiling. It is dark and smoky and very crowded. Louis explains, “It’s one of the few places where you can get a drink.”
At first glance, the clientele seems to be identical to that of the cafeteria. But gradually Khafaji recognizes slight variations. Mostly Americans, but Europeans too. Jabbouri invites them to the first round and sends Khafaji and Ford to find a table. Ford points out the different groups – the British and Australians together, the Italians and Spaniards, the Poles and Ukrainians. “They’re all here. Every Thursday night. I’ll be right back.” Ford strolls over to some friends.
Ten minutes later, Jabbouri returns with three tumblers. Khafaji takes the ice cubes out of his glass and throws them on the floor. The two men sip their Scotch and scan the room. It’s too loud to have a conversation. Twice, Jabbouri excuses himself as he walks over to shake someone’s hand. It doesn’t take long before Khafaji has finished his glass. As soon as he stands up to leave, Jabbouri returns in an excited mood. “Great place, huh?”
Jabbouri looks at Khafaji’s empty glass and then at the other one, still untouched. He hands it to Khafaji and yells over the din, “Here’s your next round.” Soon, Khafaji finishes his second watered Scotch. The edges of the night begin to soften. Jabbouri points out various people in the room. Journalists. Contractors. Businessmen. “Really amazing collection of people in this room, you know? Amazing. Baghdad hasn’t seen this much talent in a thousand years!”
Ford returns at some point with more drinks. Khafaji doesn’t bother to remove the ice. Soon he has finished his fourth tumbler. Jabbouri and Ford go on talking. In the noise, Khafaji finds it difficult to follow. Khafaji is no longer tired. His head begins to swim. Jabbouri slaps him on the back and asks, “So, tell me about what you’re up to. What sort of projects are you working on?”
Khafaji stammers out something, then stops when Ford returns to the table. Jabbouri and Ford go back to their conversation.
Annoyed, Khafaji looks around the room with bloodshot eyes. He becomes conscious of the fact that there are almost no women here. He notices one woman surrounded by men. They are all flirting with her, trying to buy her drinks.
Khafaji asks a question, but his words come out garbled. He asks it again, only now very slow and deliberate. “Where are the women?” He should not have stayed this long.
Jabbouri laughs. “Yes, Muhsin has a point. Where are you keeping all the women, Louis?” He winks at Khafaji and continues, “My old knees may be weak, but I still know how to dance.”
Ford takes a moment to think. “That’s a more serious question than you know. Imagine what would have happened if there were a lot of women here.”
He pauses, but Jabbouri and Khafaji say nothing.
Ford continues. “We did that in Saudi, and it nearly caused a revolution. They limited the number of women in this operation. They say they did it out of respect for Islamic culture. We can’t come into their places and flaunt our women. It would be insensitive. I’m not defending it per se. And it certainly does make it difficult to get laid around here.” He grins.
“Laid?” Khafaji blurts out.
There’s an uncomfortable pause before Ford turns back to Jabbouri and adds, “I get by just fine.”
The three men laugh. Jabbouri asks, “Really? I’ve worked in a lot of places. Some, a lot worse than this. But whenever I have, it’s always been quite obvious how men get by. No secret about that. But what about here in Iraq? You’ve got thousands of men stationed here for months. You can’t tell me that they take it lying down?” He winks at Khafaji.
Ford laughs. “A lot of porn. Movies. Magazines. You name it, the military supplies it.”
Louis laughs again. “You always hear stuff about the Army. Planes flown in from Bangkok. Rumors and gossip about a whorehouse here in the Green Zone.”
He stands up. “Let me get the next round.”
By the time he comes back, the conversation has gone in other directions. Jabbouri and Ford talk for a while about the untapped riches of Iraq. Khafaji yawns and wonders why he’s still there, empties his glass, then gets up to leave.
Jabbouri clasps Khafaji’s hand and talks about getting together again soon. Ford looks across the room for his friends.
The air outside has turned cold and dark. Khafaji thinks he sees the outlines of the Victory Arch in the distance. Drunk, he starts to walk toward it. He lights a cigarette and imagines what it would be like to touch the giant sculptures. Three cigarettes later, Khafaji is wandering down a road whose asphalt has been chewed up by heavy machinery and tank treads. Khafaji hesitates when he can no longer see anything in the gloom. No lights. No sounds. Nothing but the empty, quiet night. He walks on, hearing nothing but his own footsteps kicking up dirt and gravel. The concrete monument begins to materialize in the darkness. Khafaji stops and stares, the sky spins for a moment before it catches itself. It takes a few moments for Khafaji to realize it is something else. A mosque. Or a tomb. Khafaji walks along the round exterior walls. The textured concrete feels like giant cuneiform writing. Khafaji drags his hands across it for balance, and eventually comes to an entrance. He walks into the shadows. The smell of shit and garbage almost makes him turn back. He lights a match and looks around. The floor is covered with dirt and debris and something else. He walks over to what looks like a gravestone. When the match goes out, he lights another, and gazes up at the crystal chandelier and the Quranic verses. The brilliant gold calligraphy glitters faintly like a distant constellation. Khafaji knows whose tomb it is. The great Baathist intellectual no one would ever read unless the Party made them. The philosopher who insisted that politics be composed as poetry, and who ruined both in the process. Khafaji remembers hearing about the man’s burial. Like everyone else, he wasn’t surprised to learn that Michel Aflaq was dead. The only surprise in hearing the news was finding out that Michel Aflaq had been alive all that time.
A whimper in the corner makes Khafaji jump. The match goes out. It takes a few tries to light the next one, and then a moment to see the eyes glowing in the blackness. The match has gone out again by the time he registers what he saw. A feral bitch nursing a litter in the garbage pile. Khafaji steps back to the door.
The night air is even colder now. Khafaji shivers and pulls the jacket collar up around his ears. And now he begins the long walk back. The bracing wind revives him. He lights a cigarette and then another, determined to cover the smell of alcohol by the time he sets foot in a taxi.
He asks the taxi driver to drop him off on Abu Nuwas. Half stumbling, Khafaji traces another long zigzag across his neighborhood before arriving at his street. The guards at the street gate receive Khafaji warily. One of them escorts Khafaji to the front door of the building and leaves only when the guards there can vouch for him. The young man apologizes, and wishes Khafaji a good evening. Khafaji stumbles upstairs and falls into bed without even turning on the lights.