Roy Scranton - War Porn

“Let me see your hand,” Mohammed said.

“I… It’s… I have to go to Baqubah. I need the Toyota.”

“You’re not going anywhere with your hand like that.”

Qasim pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. “You’re not… going to stop me,” he said. “You always want to stop me.”

Qasim tried to push past him, but as Mohammed stood to hold his shoulders, he fell back on the couch. Mohammed knelt, taking Qasim’s bandaged hand on his knee and unwrapping it. He gagged on the stench of the infected flesh.

“Help me carry him out to the car,” Mohammed said to Othman.

On their way toward Yarmouk Teaching Hospital, which should have been a ten-minute drive, Mohammed and Othman had to go through three different checkpoints, each time arguing with the clean-faced recruits and fat reservists that they had a medical emergency and needed to be allowed to pass. Other than the Hizbis, the city seemed evacuated, estranged from itself. There was almost no traffic. Trenches had been dug in parks, berms built up in front of schools. No buses ran and all the cigarette stands stood empty.

The hospital was quiet too. The nurse told them it might take a while: “We’re running a skeleton crew, to let our staff rest. The full shifts start at midnight.” A few others waited in the lobby: a young boy, crying, his head resting in his mother’s lap; a fat old man wheezing like faulty bellows; two or three bandaged and broken; others with less visible afflictions. Guardians of the Nation played on Iraq TV in the corner. Twice orderlies rolled stretchers through to the ER, one man bleeding from a gunshot wound to his chest, another trembling and hyperventilating, his leg broken in a Z.

At last the nurse came for Qasim. Dr. al-Amman, quiet, short, sleek as an otter, said little to Mohammed and Othman as he dispassionately examined Qasim’s hands. He examined the splint set on his smashed little finger. He jabbed Qasim’s rotting hand with anesthetic and, with the help of a nurse, began to cut away dead flesh. Qasim was awake but delirious, and Mohammed and Othman helped hold him down. The doctor cut away the gangrenous bits and dropped them in a bucket while the nurse soaked up blood with a sponge. It did not take long. Finished, he slathered on topical antibiotic and had the nurse wrap the hand.

“He should be fine. There’s no indication of rabies, but we’ll run blood tests. We’ll call you—Insha’Allah—within the next few days. It appears to be a localized infection, but it may have gone further up the arm, so I’m going to prescribe some very strong antibiotics—he’s not allergic, is he? Good. He needs to take the antibiotic with every meal, three times a day. He can’t miss one single pill. Don’t cut the pills up, don’t sell them to someone else, don’t hoard them. Unless he takes every single pill, the infection will spread and kill him. Do you understand?”

“Doctor, I’m no thief,” Mohammed said.

“Very good. He may be delirious for a week or so while the antibiotic kills the infection. Make sure he gets plenty of water and bed rest. The hand should be unwrapped every other day and washed. Boil some salt water for five to seven minutes, then let it cool. When it’s room temperature, use it to wash his hand, gently. A proper scab must form. I’ll prescribe some topical antibiotic as well. Put that on the wound, then wrap with a new bandage. With proper care and regular cleaning, he’ll be okay. There is some deep tissue damage, so his hand will likely be permanently weakened, but functionality will return in time.”

Driving home, Othman pointed to the horizon. Thick black clouds of smoke ribboned up from the greenbelts around the city, where the army was burning oil in big pits. Beyond them loomed a distant bruise, thickening across the sky.

The sandstorm came later that afternoon, choking the city with oily grit, turning the world beyond the windows to a howling red void. It lasted until after well after nightfall. As soon as it had blown over, Othman went up on the roof to replace the satellite dish, but now there was no signal. Ratib thought the storm might have knocked out the local retransmitter, but Othman was sure it was Saddam and his flunkies, the stupid bastards, he muttered, blinding us in our moment of darkness.

They attached the aerial to the TV and tuned in to the local station replaying the same programs from earlier in the day, the same state demonstrators cheering, ministers pontificating, Saddam speechifying. “Shut it off,” Othman said.

“Nothing to do but wait,” said Ratib, slumping into an armchair.

“I can’t believe it’s happening again.”

“I was in the south last time.”

“You could feel it. The air would hum and you could feel it in the back of your neck. You could feel them coming.”

“It was fast in the south. Everything was fast. You’d be sitting there for hours, bored out of your mind, and all at once the earth would explode. There’d be a whistling, you wouldn’t hear it until later, after the explosion you’d remember—I heard whistling. But before, nothing. They hit us with jets and artillery. Those rockets they shoot.”

“I helped dig people out of the rubble. After every raid, as soon as the explosions finished, we went down to the mosque—this was when I lived off Asmai Street, in Adhamiyah. When I worked for the Iraqi Film Commission. Anyway, after a raid, we’d meet down at the Abu Hanifa. We had boys, some of the men’s sons, and if we didn’t know where the damage was, we sent them out as runners. Then we’d go dig. It was awful.”

“There wasn’t any rubble in the south. Just wrecked tracks and bodies. Men’s helmets burned onto their heads because of the webbing inside and the coating, the laminate on the inside of the helmet. It just melted onto their skin.”

Othman sat on the couch. He watched the TV’s blank screen while Ratib got up and scanned the DVD rack.

“I need a drink,” Othman said to himself. “Mohammed!”

Mohammed shuffled in from the kitchen. “Stop yelling, pig. If I’d known you had the habits of a Jew, I’d never have brought you into my home.”

“Where’s your bottle?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The good stuff, the Johnnie Walker, not the arak you give your clients. It’s time for a real drink. We could all be dead tomorrow.”

“I should see my God with liquor on my breath?”

“As if your God cared,” said Othman.

“He cares,” said Ratib.

Othman waved him off. “Go get your bottle.”

“You’ll order me now, like I’m your little woman?”

Othman leaned back and gazed soulfully into Mohammed’s eyes: “‘Your yearning shows, whether you restrain it or not, and likewise your weeping, whether or not your tears flow. How many times your composed smile deluded a companion, while between your hips—what was invisible. The heart commanded its tongue and its eyelids and they concealed it, but your body is an informer.’”

Mohammed laughed and rubbed Othman’s shoulders. “Sad bachelor. If you want to drink so bad, why don’t you go down to the Writers Union?”

“I want to drink with my old friend Mohammed and his son-in-law Ratib.”

“I don’t drink,” Ratib said.

“There is a time for your God, and there is a time for your heart,” Othman said. “You’ll have one drink.”

“Alas, my friend,” Mohammed said, throwing up his hands. “I already drank it all.”

Othman closed his eyes and covered them with the fingers of one hand. “‘Father of every perfume,’” he recited, “‘not of musk only, and of every cloud—I do not single out the morning clouds—every man of glory boasts of only one quality, whereas the All-Merciful has joined in you all. While other men are esteemed for their generosity, in your generosity you bestow esteem.’” His eyes opened, peering into Mohammed’s. “‘It is not much that a man should visit you on foot, and return as king of the two Iraqs. For sometimes you give the army that has come raiding to the lonely petitioner who has come begging, and you despise this world as one who has proved it all and seen everything in it—except yourself—perish.’”