Khafaji sleeps so soundly, he doesn’t even dream. He wakes up early, surprised to find his headache gone and his mind clear. The water is back on, so he fills a kettle, then goes to shave and shower. The aluminium pot squeaks and pops on the gas stove. When it boils, the kettle spits hot water and steam. The tea steeps while Khafaji washes days of dirty teacups sitting in the sink. He listens to the clinking sound each cup makes as he sets them on the drying rack. He sweeps the floor and wipes off the counters. By the time he is done, the kitchen is as clean as it ever was.
Tea in hand, Khafaji returns to the living room. At first he reaches for a book of poetry, Diwan Jarir. But the stacks of books sitting on the ground shame him into work. For Khafaji, reshelving books is like meditation. Or like moving into a new home. He starts to put some in their places, but then gets sidetracked when he comes across a title from his teenage years, Awatif, by Muhammad Salih Bahr al-Oloom. He browses another book for an hour before putting it on the shelf. Kitab Alf Layla wa-Layla Min Usulih al-Ula.
He gets another glass of tea and tries to reshelve others. Eventually, he finds himself sitting on his favorite chair, reading a book he didn’t know he owned. And so it goes for a few hours. Shelving. Book. Tea. And then all over again. By eleven, Khafaji has finished. All the books are back on the shelves, but not the same shelves as before. This time, Khafaji decides to separate Arabic titles from English ones. That solved the issue of alphabetization that had plagued the books before. Granted, it meant mixing genres. But Khafaji gives up and leaves it as is. Imperfect. As he sorts through his collection, he notices just how many of his books are missing. By the time he’s done, there’s nearly an entire shelf gone. All of it poetry. The bare shelf is incontrovertible proof of theft. And now he understands why he couldn’t find Nazik’s diwan.
Khafaji goes to the kitchen to pour another glass of tea. The pot is empty, so he decides that he might as well go to work. Walking out the door, Khafaji finds Ali on the landing.
“Peace upon you, Brother. Are you coming to pray with us?”
“God keep you, Ali. Bless you. I would like to, but…”
Ali quietly adds, “Sunday. The day after tomorrow. I’m sorry it’s got to be like this. But we did give you more time. I trust you’ve found a solution?”
“Yes, I have, thank you.”
He nods and shakes Ali’s hand. Ali’s expression is as warm and sincere as ever, only his eyes are dark. Khafaji grins, almost laughs. It really is not personal. He may even like you. The guards at the door signal to the guards on the corner. Everyone smiles at Khafaji as he walks to the river.
There’s only a handful of people waiting at the gate, and Khafaji walks through quickly. Jacket off. Arms up. Shirt up. He looks at the faces of the guards as he goes through, but doesn’t recognize any of them. He attempts to smile to one, but it goes nowhere. A new group.
Ford is working at his computer and waves to Khafaji when he comes in. He doesn’t get up or turn around. “Hey!” he calls out. “How do you feel this morning?”
Khafaji flips through his notepad instead of answering him. He reaches for a fresh pack of Rothmans in the drawer, tears off the plastic wrapper and tries to toss it in the trash can but misses. He takes out a cigarette and lights it. Then he asks, “Where is Citrone? I need to talk to him.”
Ford smells the tobacco smoke and turns around. “It’s Friday. I know he’s got something later, so he’ll probably come in before. You can’t smoke here, you know.”
“It is a free country now, no?”
“And my cup is not an ashtray. Disgusting.”
Khafaji looks at his watch. It’s nearly 2 p.m. He hangs up his jacket and scarf on the hook and sees the clear plastic garment bag under his desk. The uniform. Khafaji wonders if he should ask about the boots, but decides not to bother.
Khafaji turns to the filing cabinets. By now he’s gone through hundreds of dossiers. He takes a drag and decides to wait until after his next cigarette before he starts.
As if reading his mind, Ford calls out, “Citrone’s expecting your list today.”
Khafaji mumbles, “Yes. Sure. OK.” There is no list.
A few minutes later, Ford shuts off his computer and walks out the door. “I’ll be back later. We’ve got a new clerk coming in this afternoon. Let him know I’ll be back. See you later, Khafaji.”
Khafaji looks at his watch. 3.00 p.m. Citrone still hasn’t shown up. Khafaji calls out, “Hold on! When is Citrone getting here?”
Ford shrugs.
“You are sure he is coming in?”
“He sometimes does on Friday mornings.”
“He said I’d be able to move into a house by now.”
“Sorry.”
“Is there another way I could talk to Citrone?”
“Citrone said he’d be in, but technically it’s his day off.” Ford runs his fingers over his hair.
“But you said he wanted the list today.”
Ford shrugs. “You can give the list to me now. Or tomorrow, when he comes in. I know for a fact he’ll be here early, we’ve got a 9 a.m. You’ll be there, too.”
“What?”
“Our meeting. I told you last night.”
“…?”
“Coordination with the HR team. You asked me to set it up.”
“Oh… Right,” Khafaji says, stubbing out the butt. Ford frowns and walks out into the corridor.
Khafaji continues working at his desk for a few more minutes, before walking over to the door. A 9 a.m. with the Mosuli. Wonder what the hell they were going to talk about?
Khafaji looks at the wall next to the door and sees something he hadn’t paid attention to before.
Warning Siren. High Wailing Tone. 1. Secure all classified documents. 2. Close all windows, lock all doors. 3. Immediately leave building.
Low Wailing Tone. 1. Get away from all windows. 2. Duck and cover. 3. Wait for clear siren, then meet at Evacuation Assembly Area.
Khafaji tries to lock the door, but the key is gone.
He attempts to turn on the computers, but gives up. He goes to Citrone’s desk looking for keys. When he doesn’t find any, he tries the drawers. This time, one is unlocked. Khafaji slides it open. The only things he finds are a few duffel bags. Empty. He takes them out and turns each one upside down. Nothing. He leans back and feels for his cigarettes in his pocket.
Outside, someone tries the door handle, but it does not open. Then a hand raps softly on the door. Khafaji gently closes the drawer and goes back to his desk. “It’s open,” he calls out.
Zubeida Rashid is halfway across the room before she recognizes Khafaji. When she sees him, she stops. At first he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees she’s alone.
“Professor. Come in. Please.” He does his best to sound forceful.
“You?” Her voice is colder than he remembered. “I’m looking for Mr Citrone. Where is he?”
Khafaji smiles and shakes his head. “No, Professor. Sorry to disappoint.” A moment later, he adds, “But we expect him back any minute. Would you like to wait?”
Khafaji gestures to an empty chair. She looks at her watch. Her foot has not stopped tapping since she walked in. She is not trying to hide it. She looks up and says nothing. When she does answer, it comes out like she’s doing him a favor or making a threat. “If that’s what I have to do.”
Khafaji walks over and pulls out the chair for her. “Please, sit down. Can I bring you a cup of tea while you wait?”
“What are you doing here?” she snaps.
Khafaji tries to explain, but his words make no sense. She pretends not to listen. At some point, she simply interrupts. “Yes. Tea, please.” She stops looking at him.
Five minutes later, Khafaji returns from the cafeteria with two paper cups of sweet, milky tea. As he enters, the phone is ringing. Khafaji puts the hot cups down on the desk. By the time he picks up the receiver, the caller has hung up.
“May I join you?”
“Of course.” She turns to the window, even though the shutters are closed. Khafaji opens the windows and then unclasps the shutters and throws them wide open. Fuzzy lines of orange and pink streak through late-afternoon haze. For the first time, the room learns what a slight breeze feels like. Khafaji closes the window quickly, but the room is already cold. Khafaji puts on his jacket and sits down, warming his hands with the hot cup. He drinks slowly, gazing out at the dusk as it gathers itself up.
Without sound or motion, tears begin to stream down her cheeks.
“I’ve done something very stupid, Muhsin. I’m in over my head.” She sniffles. Her words come across as an invitation. Khafaji begins to reach out to touch her hands, then pulls back. She stares down at her feet. Khafaji’s eyes follow hers, and suddenly he’s staring at thighs, knees, calves, ankles, and finally feet. She is wearing open sandals. Khafaji looks at her painted toenails.
By the time Khafaji remembers his tea, it has gone cold. He hesitates, and finally breaks the silence. “Zubeida, it’s OK. Whatever it is, it’ll be OK.”
“It is not OK, Muhsin.”
“Maybe I can help?”
“I don’t think so, Muhsin.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, Muhsin. It’s you who don’t know.”
A minute goes by, then Khafaji ventures, “Tell me about what happened to Sawsan then.”
She doesn’t look at Khafaji. He continues, “It’s about Sawsan, isn’t it? And Zahra and the others, too.”
Now she looks at Khafaji. “What do you know?”
“I know they were working for you. I know they got killed because they worked for you.” Khafaji pauses, then lies, “And I know that you work for Citrone. I know how much you are paid.”
She pauses, and dries her eyes. She looks out the window and begins to talk. “The other day, I heard an American reporter talking about how the lives of Iraqi women have improved since the invasion. Imagine – our lives, improved!”
Khafaji notices he’s still staring at her feet. Embarrassed, he looks up at the ceiling. The phone rings, but he ignores it.
“They want to rescue us women. They want to free us. They invent stories about American women captured by Bedouins. It almost worked, until it turned out the stories weren’t true. You’d think after that, they would shut up about saving women.”
Khafaji’s smile dies. She goes on. “They do not have the slightest idea about what they’re doing here. They got on a horse, but they don’t know how to ride. And now they’re just beginning to understand it’s more dangerous to get off than to keep riding.”
Khafaji takes out a cigarette and lights it. He leaves the pack on the table in front of her, and goes over to get Ford’s coffee cup.
“So the Americans will sign on anybody they think might be an ally. But do any of them care about women’s rights? Do the Mullahs think I should be allowed to go out at night? Will Kurdish grandfathers stick up for sisters in the south?”
She turns to look at the door, then picks up her cup. She takes a sip, frowns and sets it back down. Now she is looking directly at Khafaji. “Maybe this strategy was stupid.”
“It was stupid,” Khafaji agrees, then remembers it’s best to let others talk themselves out. He nods for her to continue.
“It was better than some of the alternatives. What would you have them do? There’s no other work.”
“Yes, but it’s dangerous.”
“We had promises. My girls had assurances. Only now, something has broken down. Can you help us?”
“With what?” Khafaji regrets saying it as soon as it comes out.
“I need to talk to Citrone. He needs to do more like he said he would.”
“What should I tell him when I see him?” Khafaji asks.
“Tell him that I know I can count on him. And tell him to make things right, or it’s over.”
There’s no warning siren when she leans forward and kisses Khafaji’s cheek. No high wailing tone, no low wailing tone. Just the scent of her perfume burying itself deep in his mind. He tries to look away, but her fingers catch him gently by the chin. She takes a tissue from her purse and wipes lipstick off his skin. Then she walks out without saying another word.
Khafaji leans back in his chair, more seriously confused than ever. Outside, the sky is dark, the sun has set. As he sits there, the phone begins to ring again. He ignores it and slowly smokes his cigarette. The ringing stops, then starts again. Khafaji drops the butt on the floor and stamps it out before he picks up the receiver. On the other end, Ford’s voice is hysterical. “Khafaji, I need you to come quick. There’s been another incident. Can you meet me right now?”
Khafaji hangs up, buttons his jacket and turns out the lights as he races out.