Long before Khafaji sets the box down at the reception desk on the fourth floor he sees the commotion. When he tries to pass the desk, he is stopped by the nurse, who reminds him to sign in. Box clutched to chest, Khafaji walks into the melee. There are so many people crowding into Mrouj’s room that at first he cannot step inside.
The room is filled with balloons and roses and flooded with bright lights. The air is hot and stuffy. Men stand around holding video cameras, microphones and electronic equipment. Khafaji tries to look over their shoulders, but he cannot see his daughter. The curtains around her bed are shut tight. Beside the bed on the other side of the room, an American reporter sits awkwardly, smiling and holding the hand of the other patient, an older Iraqi woman with two black eyes and an oxygen mask. The woman is awake, but not lucid. She looks at the men with the cameras and flashes a thumbs up sign, and the reporter asks the cameraman, “Did you get that?” He nods. “OK, let’s get the doctor back in here.”
Someone shuts off the spotlights, and the temperature of the room begins to drop immediately. Only then does the reporter’s smile fall into a scowl.
A man walks out of the room. Politely, he points to the box in Khafaji’s hands and tells him to step back into the corridor. Two others press by Khafaji, pushing him out of the room. One man holds a clipboard and shouts down the corridor, “Where’s the doctor? We need him now.”
Khafaji slips back into the room. Stepping over toolboxes and backpacks filled with equipment, he nearly trips. One man catches Khafaji, another catches the box then hands it back to Khafaji. Khafaji notices the reporter pointing at him. Khafaji opens the curtain and closes it quickly behind him.
Khafaji sets down the box, and then looks at Mrouj’s sleeping face. She looks weaker than yesterday. Worse in fact. There’s no mistaking the yellow of her skin. Khafaji looks for a chair to sit on, but sees none. He puts his hand in Mrouj’s. Outside, the noise in the room grows louder. Khafaji finally loses his patience.
When he steps out from the curtain, Khafaji finds the reporter standing next to him. “Hello. I’m Caridad Macmillan. They tell me you’re here visiting your daughter.”
Khafaji stares at the woman but says nothing.
“We’re doing a story on Iraqi patients. The human angle. Some good news for a change. Could I talk to you about your daughter’s experience?”
Khafaji looks around the room and simply murmurs, “No speak English.” He reaches around her for a chair. The reporter tries to engage him again, but gives up as soon as the doctor walks into the room. With a harried smile, the doctor first nods at Khafaji, then looks at the reporter. “OK. We can do it now. Let’s go.”
The reporter tells her assistant to bring the others back to the room, but the doctor interrupts her. “If you want to interview me, you need to start right now. You’ve got five minutes.” He looks at his watch, then goes over to the old Iraqi woman in the other bed. She looks up at him with a pale shade of confusion in her eyes. The doctor strokes her arm, checks her pulse and then says, “It’ll be all right,” as the cameras begin to roll. The old woman does not understand the words, but she understands what they mean.
When the reporter gives a signal, the man with the clipboard repositions the doctor on the other side of the patient, opposite the reporter. She turns her smile on again, just as the lights flash on. In an instant, the temperature in the room begins to rise.
“In the battle for Iraqi hearts and minds, there is no weapon more powerful than medicine. And on this frontline, the frontline of healing, American doctors are paving the way for the transition to peace in the new Iraq. We’re here with Dr Lewis Stone, one of the many American doctors treating patients in Baghdad.”
The doctor nods and smiles grimly.
“Could you tell us about your typical day, Dr Stone?”
“Besides the mass trauma, it’s not that much different from a day at home. Seeing patients, figuring out how to bring them the care they need.” His lips are pencil thin.
“So tell me what is different about working in Iraq, Doctor?”
“Well, one thing that is different is that many of my patients here suffer complications from chronic diseases that are perfectly treatable.”
The reporter’s smile never dampens. “What sorts of diseases?”
He now looks directly at the camera for the first time. “Well, at home, I rarely see patients who have something like a kidney or liver condition that is allowed to go untreated for years. But it’s one of the most common things you see here. You’ve got to ask yourself why that is.”
“Why is that, Doctor?” She grins.
“Because for thirteen years we prevented these people from receiving the simple care they needed. For every Iraqi patient I’m seeing today, hundreds of others died in the last decade – simply because they could not get the basic medicines they needed. These problems were all caused by the sanctions system. And who put those in place, Caridad? We did. The American people did.”
“But they must appreciate the care you’re giving them now.”
The doctor is no longer smiling at all, and no longer talking to her. “I am not sure if ‘appreciate’ is the right word.” He looks at the old woman, who struggles to smile as she gazes up at the reporter. “Caridad – imagine being poisoned. Imagine I poison you every day for ten years. I keep on poisoning you to the point that now you’re on your deathbed. Then imagine I magically come one day and tell you I’ve got the antidote. Would ‘appreciation’ describe your feelings toward me?”
The reporter’s smile never fades, though confusion shows in her eyes. But before it can spread, the doctor looks at his watch and announces, “And now I have to get back to work. Thank you very much for your interest. My patients need their rest, so please leave now.”
He catches Khafaji’s eye, then walks over. The two men wait as the crowd exits the room. And then they are alone.
“I am very glad you came, Mr Khafaji. Mrouj’s condition is not so simple.”
“What’s wrong, Doctor?”
The doctor draws back the curtain and feels Mrouj’s wrist. He looks at her face for a minute then answers, “What’s wrong is that we were hoping to reverse the deterioration quickly, but we haven’t been able to. She responded favorably to some of the ACE inhibitors and ARBs and it looked like her condition was stabilizing.”
Khafaji looks puzzled and the doctor explains. “Those are two classes of medication used to treat kidney disease at these levels.”
“So what is happening?”
“Mrouj started to have an adverse reaction to the ARBs – that sort of thing is always a possibility. Did you know she has a heart condition as well, Mr Khafaji?” He pauses. “We are hoping that the dialysis by itself will improve her state, but there’s no guarantee. And as you can see, she’s weak. Lucky for her, she was able to sleep through the circus today.”
Khafaji shakes the man’s hand as he leaves, then sits down at Mrouj’s side. He picks up the book of poetry and begins to read, but can’t concentrate on the lines in front of him. Two hours go by as Khafaji strokes Mrouj’s brow and reads aloud. Every so often, he stops himself. He tells Mrouj about Citrone. About the money. About Zubeida. About Nidal and Maha. About everything. He wonders aloud. He argues with himself in whispers while Mrouj sleeps. By the time Khafaji gets up on his feet again, he is forced to admit that his plan is now no longer an option.
The old woman smiles at him, and Khafaji realizes that she has been listening to him the entire time. Listening to him read poems. Listening to him talking to Mrouj. Listening to everything. Khafaji struggles with the box, then sets it down. He searches around for something to write with. He looks through files until he finds a blank piece of paper. He sets the files down on the windowsill and walks back to the reception desk and borrows a pen. He composes a short note to Mrouj, telling her that he will be away for a few days. When he finishes, he slips the note into the pages of the book, then picks the box up off the floor again. He hesitates before going and looks at Mrouj one last time. When he waves goodbye to the old woman, she holds up her fingers in a victory sign. As he walks out, he asks the receptionist to write down the phone number for him.
“Here’s the main number, and the extension of the room. And I have written down the number for the desk here too, just in case.”
In the back corner of the Dijla Café, Khafaji sits drinking tea. One man passes by, tapping a shoe brush against folded cardboard. Khafaji looks the other way. Another walks up and does the same, and Khafaji looks at his watch. His hands grip the box on the table. Each time he finishes one cup of tea, a man comes to take it away. And Khafaji orders another.
He places the box on the ground and rummages through the clothes and papers on top. He digs until he finds the duffel bag, then glances around the room to make sure no one is paying attention. His hands search through the bag until they find a loose bundle of bills. He slides one into a jacket pocket, then does it again. After closing the bag, he rearranges the clothes. His jacket pockets are now full, with lumps of metal, with packs of cigarettes and paper money. He tries smoothing them over, but it’s hopeless. Khafaji looks at his watch and sees that an hour has already gone by.
At some point, the tea begins to catch up with Khafaji. He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. He looks at his watch. He looks around the room again. Nothing has changed. A thousand waiters, a thousand cups of tea. The same old men sitting with each other. Telling the same old jokes and stories. Playing the same old games. The same old waiting.
Khafaji’s bladder begins to make him squirm, but he does not move from his corner. He notices one of his hands is resting awkwardly on the box below his knees. He sits up and stretches his arms. He looks at his watch again and crosses his legs. His mind begins to wander. Away from his body. Away from crowded cafés filled with unemployed men. Away from the fact that a man Khafaji does not know may or may not come to help him.
By the time the shoeshine reappears, Khafaji is nearly pissing in his pants. Khafaji surprises himself by saying yes before the man even asks to shine his shoes. The man happily agrees to watch Khafaji’s stuff first while he goes to the bathroom. When the poor man smiles, a row of missing teeth shine. “Of course. Take your time. I’ll be right here. Where else would I go?”
The bathroom floor is wet and sticky. Khafaji breathes through his mouth to avoid having to whiff the stench of urine coming up from the cracked orange and brown porcelain. Khafaji studies the water as it drips into the basin. As he pisses, an old poem comes to mind:
They put us in the press hoping to squeeze out petrol
Cheers, my friends, drink it up!
The only pollution you suffer is that of your mortal flesh
One man sells everything
And supports every cause in the world
Only to flee from the fight in front of him.
Pissing on him makes me drunk.
Khafaji’s loins wring themselves out, and a warm feeling begins to tingle in his belly and chest. Like he just pissed out gallons of black bile. You are not going to leave your daughter. You’re not going to leave this place. This is your city and you’re not going to surrender it. Khafaji goes to wash his hands. When he finds that the sink is broken, he is neither surprised nor upset. By the time he wipes his hands on his pants, he has made up his mind.
The man is standing patiently by the table and smiles when Khafaji returns. Khafaji stretches sock-clad feet out on the cardboard the man sets on the ground. Khafaji orders two more teas, one for himself and one for the man shining his shoes.
By the time Karl arrives, Khafaji is no longer in a hurry. Somehow, time has slowed down. The two men smile and shake hands.
“Thanks for coming. Let me get you a cup of tea. I’m sorry about the other day. It’s just that there’s a mess right now.”
Karl waves him off. “There’s a war going on right now. I expect people to be late.”
Karl talks about his family. About his pregnant daughter-in-law. About more grandchildren. Two cups of tea later, he stops long enough for Khafaji to speak. “I need your help in a getaway. It’s not for me. It’s for my wife’s family. They need to get to Amman. They are already packed and ready to go. They’re taking nothing, only what would fit in your car.”
Karl laughs. “My car!”
“Today. You need to leave tonight. You’ll be paid well.”
“How much? It’s not an easy drive these days.”
“I can give you ten thousand dollars right now if you agree. Ten more when you deliver them.”
Karl leans back. “I have to think about this.”
Khafaji removes one bundle of bills from his pocket and hands it under the table to Karl. “Why don’t you go into the bathroom and count these before making your decision?”
Khafaji pays the bill and tells the waiter to keep the change. Karl returns with a look on his face somewhere between ecstatic and terrified. He only says, “Yes. I can do it. Let’s go.”
Clutching his box again, Khafaji follows Karl to the battered old Peugeot station wagon. “Seats up to nine, if you put the suitcases on the roof.” Khafaji puts the box on the floor in the back, and the two men drive across the river.
Khafaji says nothing to Karl until they get to Nidal and Maha’s apartment building. They sit in the front seat and Khafaji wonders where to begin. He starts by taking out the other bundle of cash and showing it to Karl. “That’s the other ten thousand dollars.”
The look on Karl’s face is dead serious, and somehow it comforts Khafaji. He hands the money to Karl. “Look, I trust you. Take it all. This is my family. They’re in your hands – this is all we’ve got.”
Karl grins. “Don’t worry. We can go whenever they’re ready. I just need to call my wife.”
His smile disappears completely when he takes the money. As if the bills were contaminated. He opens a glove compartment and throws both bundles in. When he tries to slam the door shut, it falls open again. With one hand, he jams the money into the back of the compartment, and with his other, he slowly latches it shut again. By the time he’s finished, he says, “Let’s go see them.” The tone in Karl’s voice suggests that the hard part of the journey is already over.
Khafaji grabs his box. Karl helps him to carry it up the stairs. Children run up and down the stairwell calling out to each other. A young girl teases the men as they stop to catch their breath on the third floor.
Maha answers the door, kisses Khafaji’s cheeks, and welcomes both men inside. Neighbors visiting from next door stand up to greet Khafaji and Karl. Everyone sits down, and Maha disappears into the kitchen to make coffee. When they hear Maha crying from the other room, one of the women goes to be with her. Khafaji turns to Nidal and asks to speak to him in the other room. They walk through a bedroom to a tiny balcony. Khafaji offers Nidal a cigarette, but he declines. Khafaji lights one for himself.
“Nidal, I want you to listen to what I say. And I want you to take my advice.” For the first time, he sees how much Nidal has aged in the past week. It is not just that you lose, but that in losing, you lose even more.
Khafaji is halfway through his story when Nidal finally asks him for a cigarette. Maha delivers two small cups of coffee and stares at her husband. “Allah? You haven’t smoked in years!” Nidal sends her off with a serious look.
“In the other room is a box. In the box is a bag full of money. Think of it as compensation for what you’ve lost. It won’t bring Sawsan back. It won’t bring back your old life. But there’s enough there for you to start a new life. Take that bag into your bedroom, and pack the money into one of your suitcases. When we’re finished, you are not going to tell anyone what we have done and you are going to leave immediately. All of you. The man I brought with me…”
“Who is he?”
“He is someone. A driver. I know him from a long time ago. His car is parked downstairs. He’s ready to take you to the border. He’s already been paid. He does not know what is in the box, and he does not want to know. Don’t take anything but clothes. Anything else might attract attention.”
Maha walks onto the balcony. She scowls at Khafaji, then attempts to smile. Nidal nods at her, and she goes back inside.
“When you get to Amman, open a bank account and deposit everything. Don’t tell Maha anything until you have done all this. Understood? Then call me and let me know where you are.”
Khafaji looks at his watch, and realizes he has to leave. The shock is etched on Nidal’s face as he walks back into the salon with Khafaji. He picks up the box and carries it into the bedroom. At that point, Nidal and Khafaji work fast. Nidal empties an old suitcase and together they fold the money into bundles of clothes. Nidal looks at Khafaji from time to time, his eyes frozen in fear. As they close the suitcase, Nidal touches Khafaji’s hand and says, “Muhsin, where is this really from?”
“Don’t ask. Just take it.”
Nidal takes Maha aside and they talk. She protests for a moment, then calls two teenage boys to come back into the apartment. Khafaji and Karl go into the kitchen. Khafaji hands him the revolver and says, “You have enough money to pay anyone who gets in your way. And if you don’t, you also have this.” Karl puts the gun in his pocket and laughs.
“I’ll wait a couple days and call to make sure you got home safe.”
Karl bends the fingers of his other hand into a gun shape and makes a clicking noise. “Bang.”
Khafaji says his goodbyes to the family. The boys are out of breath from playing soccer outside, and they huff and puff as they shake Khafaji’s hand. Maha cries as she kisses Khafaji.
“I’m so sorry, Maha. I will join you in Amman just as soon as I can.”
Maha says nothing, but bursts into tears again. Nidal offers to walk downstairs, but Khafaji stops him. “You’ve got enough to do today. I’ll see you in Amman,” he promises, even though he’s not sure it’s true.
The sun is low, and the children playing on the street begin to run home. Khafaji is still carrying the box as he walks by Karl’s car, only now it’s not so heavy. He notices that the doors are unlocked and windows wide open. The glove compartment is wide open. Khafaji reaches in and feels the money right where Karl left it. He closes the compartment door twice before it sticks shut. Khafaji smiles, sure that he found the right man for the job.