Yasmina Khadra: The Sirens of Baghdad

Shakir arrives at once, breathless, as if he has a pack of devils on his heels. When he bursts into my suite and sees Dr. Jalal on the carpet with a pool of blood like a halo around his head, Shakir puts his hand over his mouth and utters a curse. He glances over at me, slumped in the armchair, then kneels down next to the body lying on the floor and checks to see if the doctor’s still breathing. His hand pauses on Jalal’s neck. Furrowing his brow, Shakir slowly withdraws his hand and stands up. His voice cracks as he says, “Go into the next room. This is no longer your problem.”

I can’t pull myself out of my armchair. Shakir grabs me by the shoulders and hauls me into the living room. He helps me sit on the sofa and tries to yank the bloody ashtray out of my cramped hand. “Give me that,” he says. “It’s all over now.”

I don’t understand what the ashtray’s doing in my hand or why my finger joints are skinned. Then it all comes back to me, and it’s as if my mind has rejoined my body; a shiver passes through me, shocking me like electricity.

Shakir succeeds in loosening my grip and taking away the ashtray, which he slips into the pocket of his overcoat. He goes into the bedroom, and I hear him talking to someone on the telephone.

I get up and go to see what I’ve done to the doctor. Shakir blocks my path and escorts me — not roughly, but firmly — back into the living room.

About twenty minutes later, two medical technicians enter my suite, busy themselves around the doctor, put an oxygen mask over his face, shift him onto a stretcher, and carry him away. From the window, I see them push their patient into an ambulance and drive off with their siren wailing.

Having mopped up the blood from the carpet, Shakir’s sitting on the edge of my bed with his chin in his hands; his eyes are fixed on the spot where the doctor lay. I ask him, “Is it very bad?”

“He’ll make it,” Shakir says without conviction.

“Do you think I’m going to have problems with the hospital?”

“Those med techs are ours. They’re taking him to one of our clinics. Put it out of your mind.”

“He knew about everything, Shakir. About the virus, the clinic, Professor Ghany, everything. How is that possible?”

“Everything’s possible.”

“No one was supposed to know.”

Shakir lifts his head. His eyes have almost no more blue in them. He says, “It’s no longer your problem. The doctor’s in our hands. We’ll be able to find out the truth. You should be thinking only about your trip. Do you have all your documents?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need me for anything?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to stay with you awhile?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He stands up, walks to the door, and steps out into the corridor. Then he turns and says, “I’ll be in the bar in case you should…” He closes the door. Without a word of farewell, without so much as a sign.

The desk clerk informs me that my taxi has arrived. I pick up my bag and take one last look at the bedroom, the living room, the sun-splashed window. What am I leaving here? What am I taking away? Will my ghosts follow me? Will my memories be able to manage without me? I lower my head and walk quickly down the corridor. A couple and their two little daughters are loading their luggage into the elevator. The woman struggles in vain to budge an enormous suitcase; her husband watches her contemptuously. It doesn’t occur to him to give her a hand. I take the stairs.

The clerk’s busy checking in two young people. I’m relieved that I don’t have to tell him good-bye. I cross the lobby in a few long strides. The taxi’s parked in front of the hotel entrance. I throw my bag into the backseat and jump in. The driver, an obese fellow wearing a gigantic T-shirt, eyes me in the rearview mirror. His hair cascades down his back in long black curls. I don’t know why, but I find him ridiculous, him and his sunglasses. I say, “Airport.”

He nods, puts the car in first gear, and then, with studied nonchalance, slowly drives off. Slipping between a microbus and a delivery truck, he merges with the traffic. It’s hot for April. The recent downpours have washed the steaming streets clean. The rays of the sun ricochet off vehicles like bullets.

At a red light, the driver lights a cigarette and turns up the sound on his car radio. It’s Fairuz, singing “Habbaytak Bissayf.” Her voice catapults me through space and time. Like a meteorite, I land on the edge of the gap near my village where Kadem had me listen to some of his favorite songs. Kadem! I see myself in his house again, looking at the photograph of his first wife.

“Would you mind lowering the radio?”

The driver frowns. “It’s Fairuz.”

“Please.”

He’s irritated, probably even horrified. His fat neck trembles like a mass of gelatin. He says, “I’ll turn the radio off if you want.”

“I’d like that.”

He turns it off, offended but resigned.

I try not to think about what happened last night. Dr. Jalal’s words resound like thunder inside my skull. I shift my eyes to the crowds on the sidewalks, the shop windows, the cars passing on both sides of the cab, and everywhere I look, I see only him, with his incoherent gestures, his thick tongue, his unstoppable words. The traffic flows onto the road to the airport. I lower my window to evacuate the driver’s smoke. The wind whips my face but doesn’t cool me off. My temples are burning and my stomach’s in an uproar. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Didn’t eat anything, either. I remained shut up inside my room, counting the hours and struggling against the urge to stick my head in the toilet and puke my guts out.

The ticket counters are thronged. The public-address announcer is a woman with a nasal voice. People are kissing one another, separating, meeting, searching the crowd. It looks like everybody’s getting ready to leave Lebanon. I stand in line and wait my turn. I’m thirsty and my calves are aching. A young woman asks me to give her my passport and my tickets. She says something I don’t understand. “Do you have any bags?” Why does she want to know if I have any bags? She looks at the one I’m carrying. “Are you holding on to that?” What’s that supposed to mean? She rolls a label around one of the straps on my bag, shows me a number and a time on my boarding card, and then points me to the area where people are kissing one another before they part. I pick up my bag and head to another counter. A uniformed agent instructs me to place my bag on a conveyor belt. On the other side of a glass, a woman watches a screen. My bag disappears into a big black hole. The security agent hands me a little tray and tells me I’m to put on it all the metal objects I’m carrying. I obey. “Coins, too.”

I step through a frame. A man intercepts me, runs a wand over me, lets me go. I recover my bag, my watch, my belt, and my coins and walk to the gate indicated on my boarding card. There’s no one at the counter. I take a seat near a big picture window and watch the dance of the airplanes on the tarmac. On the runway, there’s a steady turnover of flights landing and taking off. I’m nervous. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever set foot in an airport.

I believe I must have fallen asleep.

My watch reads 5:40 P.M. All the seats around me are taken. Two ladies are busy behind the counter; the illuminated screen above their heads has been turned on. I see my flight number, the word LONDON, and the British Airways logo. On my right, an old woman pulls her cell phone out of her purse, checks to see if she has any messages, and thrusts the phone back into her purse. Two minutes later, she yanks out the phone and consults it again. She’s worried, waiting for a call that doesn’t come. Behind us, a future father beams upon his wife, whose belly swells under her maternity dress. He attends to her every need, alert to the slightest sign from her, eager to show her how deeply he’s enraptured; his joy shines in his eyes. A young European couple leans against a vending machine, their arms around each other and their golden hair covering their faces. The boy is tall, with a fluorescent orange T-shirt and ripped jeans. The girl, as blond as a bale of hay, has to rise up on her toes in order to reach her boyfriend’s lips. Their embrace is passionate, beautiful, generous. What’s that like, kissing someone on the mouth? I’ve never kissed a girl on the mouth. I don’t remember ever even holding a girl cousin’s hand or having anything resembling a romance. In Kafr Karam, I dreamed about girls from a distance, secretly, almost ashamed of my weakness. At the university, I knew by sight a girl named Nawal, a doe-eyed brunette. We greeted each other with our eyes; furtive looks were our farewells. I think each of us felt something for the other, but neither of us had the nerve to find out exactly what that was. She was in another class. We contrived to pass each other in the halls — our encounters lasted long enough for a couple of strides. A smile sufficed to make us happy; we basked in its memory throughout the ensuing lectures. After classes ended, my fantasy’s father or older brother would wait for her at the university gates and spirit her away from me until the following day. Then the war came and gave my daydreams the coup de grâce.