Basra, early 1941
Omar slipped the note through a hole in the wall that separated his house from Shafiq’s.
Or, as the boys liked to think of it, that joined them.
Smuggle her over to the market.
Shafiq knew this meant breaking the law, but he never could resist his best friend’s plots.
The hole had been created one hot summer day shortly after Shafiq’s family got running water and decided to send a pipe through to Omar’s home so they could have it too. When the water started flowing, both families gathered in the yard for a drink. Shafiq would never forget that taste, deliciously metallic, the flavor of shared prosperity. Relished even more because they were all so tired from working in the afternoon heat.
Once the pipe was secure, no one bothered to fill the space around it, and the boys had been planning escapades through that narrow space ever since.
All manner of sellers, shoppers, fortune-tellers and their targets competed for a piece of the crowded market, redolent with the mingled scents of blood from the butcher’s knife, mint from the farmer’s crop and onions simmering in tin pans of white beans. Wicker bowls on the moist ground swayed to the erratic beat of so much movement, and it seemed as though the night-purple eggplants and sun-ripe tomatoes they held were ready to topple out at the feet of passing customers.
“It’s always worked before,” said Omar, who was the taller and sturdier of the two twelve-year-olds, a smile zipping across his face.
“That doesn’t mean it will again.” Despite the waver in his voice, Shafiq kept a firm grip on their product: a spotted white pigeon shrugging occasionally against the constraint.
“The best bird you will ever fly!” Omar started calling out to potential buyers. The ability to exaggerate wildly was really the only license required at this market. “Soars through the air like a plane!”
Shafiq blocked his face with the pigeon and muttered, “This is not worth three fils.”
“This bird will bring good luck to all who touch it!” Omar bested his own slogans. “This bird can cure loneliness and regret!” Under his breath, he added, “Three fils buys a new Ping-Pong ball, which is a lot better than the crumpled paper you try to pass off as sports equipment.”
Against his better instincts, Shafiq craved the prize. There was no substitute for the clicking bounce of a white orb careening back and forth across their rooftop court.
A woman approached and Omar’s prominent smile overtook his face again. “Last chance for this magnificent pigeon!” he urged, but she switched course, apparently doubtful it could cure even her remorse.
“Each time we do this it gets more dangerous,” Shafiq pointed out, watching a shady group of men in the distance with an abiding fear that they were eyeing him with equal suspicion.
Omar took a break from his community outreach to scold his best friend. “Hey, brother,” he said. “She’s going to do what she always does—fly home. And if we have a problem, we do the same.”
“Sure,” replied Shafiq, a sarcastic smile curled on his lips. “We’ll just fly like a plane at top speed.”
Omar could have taken offense, but instead he grew philosophical. “You need a running start if you ever want to take off,” he observed. “If we’re chased, just think of that as our running start.”
That night the bird, whom they had dubbed “Beiti” because it meant “my home” and she was so good at returning there, escaped from her unsuspecting new owner and flew back to Shafiq as planned. The short-lived sale with its secret, self-activating expiration date had earned the boys a skittish Ping-Pong ball. It worked again the next week, and the next, until—
“YOU!”
If Shafiq had looked to the dramatic movies from Egypt, he could not have cast a more menacing-looking adversary. “GO!” he shouted to Omar as the man in black charged toward them, one hand on the curved dagger that hung from his worn leather belt.
Shafiq held on to his frightened bird only long enough to realize that she would easily make it home if he let her go. Then, in violation of the emergency escape plan, he raced after Omar. “We’ll spread out to different cafés and hide behind the backgammon players,” Omar had suggested, even adding a clever detail—they would put on hats to confuse any pursuers. But what had seemed like a sophisticated theory proved utterly useless under the sharp scrutiny of reality. Scared to get caught alone, Shafiq followed Omar, stumbling across vats of simmering beans and past vendors peddling screeching chickens and over boxes of watermelons wondering what made him think there would be a handy fedora to put on while they tore through the market looking for an escape.
“Thieves! Get them!”
Soon the twelve-year-olds, wishing fervently their legs had at least grown to adolescent proportion, reached the outskirts of the market, where the carpets were more threadbare and the vegetables more wilted.
“Robbers! Those two!” The shout came from much too close behind.
Omar maintained the lead, and Shafiq followed him out of the market with a sick panic, knowing that if the curved dagger didn’t slice him to death now, his parents would finish the job when they heard he’d been selling Uncle Dahood’s best homing pigeon over and over again for weeks.
The panic escalated to terror after he rounded a corner and realized he had lost sight of Omar. And then, as though his body had on its own volition decided to follow his deflating hope, Shafiq fell flat on his face.
“Here!” It was Omar, who had grabbed—or maybe tripped—his best friend to stop his rush ahead and steer him into a small alley.
“What?” Shafiq was panting so hard his whispered question was barely audible, but Omar understood and pointed up. “Look!”
There, on the back door of an unassuming house in a decent section of Old Basra six terrifying blocks from the market, was a mezuzah, the Jewish symbol of good luck. “Any of ’em your friends?”
Shafiq shook his head, but Omar was already banging the brass knocker on the door. A sharp-looking man in his thirties opened it to face the two breathless, guilt-ridden boys.
“Soufayr!” He used Shafiq’s last name like the football coach at school, as if to say, You’re a man, so act it. “Good that you brought a friend. Maybe one of you can solve the political crisis shaking this country—or at least my living room,” he added, laughing at his own in-joke.
Their running start had not exactly led to takeoff, but it seemed as miraculous as a ten-ton plane floating in air that Shafiq and Omar had landed in the home of Salim Dellal, one of Basra’s most gregarious lawyers, known for hosting ongoing salons that attracted all types of people on any given day to his buzzing parlor.
“Sure we can,” offered Omar, winking at his friend.
For a second, Shafiq believed even that was possible.
The obvious strategy was to blend in quietly with the indifferent crowd of sophisticated men debating the politics of the day. Which was why, as soon as the boys entered the shaded living room, Omar had to open his big mouth.
“Our principal says the British are back to control Iraq’s oil.”
Shafiq glared at Omar with his mouth pinched in the universal sign for Shut up!
“Of course!” boomed a gray-haired man wearing a loose Western suit that might have fit before he’d shrunk with age.
“Imperialists,” spat another guest.
Shafiq felt Omar’s sharp elbow in his side.
The stakes were too high, the day too bright, Omar’s confidence too infectious not to chime in. “Her Majesty wants to own everything in Iraq from the oil fields to my uncle Dahood’s best pigeon,” Shafiq declared, buoyed by his best friend’s riotous sense of possibility.
“And my mother’s secret recipe for stuffed grape leaves!” jeered Omar, setting off a wave of approving laughter across the room. The two boys exchanged a mischievous smile.
It was all so clear now. Just blame those blimey British.
After an hour of cocky banter, Omar whispered, “Time to break out of here?”
Shafiq, who had relaxed so much he’d forgotten about their knife-wielding pursuer, suddenly wanted the adventure to continue. “I’ll scope out the front door,” he offered gravely. Omar only nodded in response, trying for equal seriousness.
Shafiq left the room stealthily, as though the British might be spying on his movements in search of national security secrets—or at least a good stuffed grape leaf. By the time he reached the front door, he half hoped he would open it to see an angry mob of people who had paid three fils for Uncle Dahood’s pigeon only to watch it fly away. But looking outside he was confronted by the familiar lull of a Basra afternoon—too much sunlight shimmering off the windows of the attached houses that lined both sides of the tranquil street.
The spell was broken, and Shafiq headed back to the living room with diminished flair. But passing the kitchen, he was confronted by a sight that triggered an adrenaline rush of genuine fear: the huge, black eyes of the most stunning young girl he had ever seen, her luminous face framed by cascading dark curls. And if that weren’t terrifying enough, she was sobbing.
Shafiq was so struck by the sight, he couldn’t move. “I…” he stammered with a weak smile, but as soon as he spoke he realized that he had nothing to say. “Are you all right?” he tried.
For some reason this upset the girl, who began fighting a fresh wave of tears. Shafiq was reminded of the old expression—how did it go?—You applied mascara to make her more beautiful…
The thought fled as he grappled with a doleful stare from the girl, who blinked fat tears from her spectacular eyes. “Go,” she finally answered, in a honey-husky voice that made him ache even more.
Shafiq turned to leave, the full expression now ringing in his ears: You applied mascara to make her more beautiful but ended up blinding her.