Hari Kunzru - Gods Without Men

“Girls, please come help.”

So they tugged and tucked. Much against her will, Laila found herself assisting the tall black insurgent wrap a length of cloth around his head. He looked imposing, and even more scary than usual, like a Berber dressed to cross the desert. To her surprise he smiled and said thank you. It was the first time he’d ever spoken to her.

“You’re Laila, aren’t you,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, almost girlish.

“Yes.”

“Like the song.”

She must have looked blank. He did an impression of someone playing a guitar and hummed a few notes of a riff.

“Not an Eric Clapton fan, then.”

“Not so much.”

“Me neither. I like that one, though. Everyone likes that one.”

He smiled again, waiting for her to say something. She stared awkwardly at the ground.

“Come, Laila,” said Uncle Hafiz sharply. “Come away. Everything is ready now.”

The tall soldier ignored him and stuck out his hand for a dap shake. “I’m Ty.”

She took it, felt it twist and swivel in a quick series of moves, ending in a fist bump.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he grinned. “That’s the way.”

Lieutenant Alvarado clapped. “OK, ladies, let’s get this done.”

Uncle Hafiz knelt down on the floor. Ty put a hood over his head.

“Allahu Akbar!” said one of the insurgents.

“Too soon!” snapped Uncle Hafiz, his voice muffled by the hood.

Since he was best at fiery rhetoric, they’d drafted in the imam to play the insurgent leader. He started off in formal Arabic, apostrophizing Allah the most Gracious and most Merciful and addressing a call to the young men of the Islamic lands never to relent in their fight against the Crusaders and the Jews. He reminded them that there were only two choices in life, victory or martyrdom, and tried to lead his followers in a chant of “death to the Crusader Bush,” temporarily forgetting that none of them understood a word he was saying. Lieutenant Alvarado, who was holding the camera, started to make “wind it up” gestures. The imam ignored him, launching into a new description of the hypocrisy of the invader, who dared use his serpent’s tongue to talk of human rights and dignity when he was the greatest torturer in the history of the world. Alvarado lost patience.

“Just cut his head off already!”

“Allahu Akbar!” shouted the insurgents. Ty started to saw at Uncle Hafiz’s neck, slicing into a blood bag, which spurted realistically down his shirt. Uncle Hafiz fell over onto the ground.

“Cut,” said Lieutenant Alvarado. “That’s a wrap.”

Everyone got up. Ty uncuffed Uncle Hafiz, who insisted on looking at the finished product before he’d let Lieutenant Alvarado pass it for broadcast. He seemed pleased with the result. “Very realistic,” he said. “Very bloodthirsty.” Contentedly he turned the camera screen toward Laila. “See what they did to me? Animals!”

One of the insurgents wanted to know if he could get a copy to send to his mom. Lieutenant Alvarado suggested maybe a postcard would be more appropriate. Ty came over to Laila, wiping the blood off his hands. “That was pretty cool,” he said.

She shrugged. “If you like torture and violence.”

“True. Say, you’re the one with all the vinyl, right?”

“How did you know?”

“C’mon, we’ve been living here for weeks. You want to bring it over sometime, play us some tunes?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I got some records in my storage unit. Soul music, mostly. Old school.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, I won’t cut your head off.”

Laila didn’t find that funny. Uncle Hafiz put a protective arm around her shoulders. The imam shot Ty an angry look. Ty took a step toward him. The imam pretended he’d gotten something in his eye.

After that, Ty always said hello whenever Laila walked past. Sometimes when he was shooting hoops with his friends, he’d throw the ball to her to catch. He never offered to play records for her again, but she could tell he liked her.

“How old do you think he is?” she asked Noor one day.

“I don’t know. Twenty-two perhaps? Twenty-three? Why?”

“No reason.”

“You like him!”

“Don’t be silly.”

“But he’s a black man, Laila. Your uncle would go crazy.”

“God, Noor! I didn’t say anything. You have a one-track mind.”

One afternoon, she was sitting outside the clinic, waiting for BLUEFOR to turn up on a routine patrol. Ty walked by, wearing his Berber headscarf. She called out to him.

“Are you going to ambush them?”

“No. Not on the list today. We’re firing some rockets at their base tonight. Should be cool.”

“OK.”

“Must be kind of weird for you, all this.”

“All this?”

“Playing war.”

“Isn’t it strange for you, too?”

“But you grew up there, right? Before you came to the States?”

“Yes.”

“So isn’t it weird? Living in this place, watching all these doofuses pretending to attack your people?”

“It’s just life, you know?”

He laughed. “That’s one way to think about it. Where you from?”

“Baghdad.”

“I was there. Not for long — I was in the north, mostly. You know Tikrit?”

“Of course.”

She couldn’t have explained why she asked him the next question. It just popped out. “Did you kill anyone?”

He stared at her for a long time.

“Yes.”

“Iraqis?”

“Who else would I be killing?”

She could feel his eyes on her as she walked away.

That night she lay awake and thought about what he’d said; he hadn’t sounded happy or sad or remorseful or proud. Just blank. She groped for her flashlight. Noor had found a gossip magazine with a picture of Nicky Capaldi in it. She ducked her head under the covers and started to read. He was out of rehab and leaving a charity event in London. BACK ON THE SCENE! Nicky C. “tired and emotional” leaving the Artists Against Anorexia bash at Shoreditch House … She tossed the magazine aside. The girl he was with was as skinny as a rail. Maybe she was part of his charitable work.

The next day she saw Ty again. He waved, but didn’t stop to talk. Just then the imam bustled up, a grave and clerical look on his face.

“I must talk to you,” he said. “Seriously.”

“What is it?”

“My dear, I am like your older brother. I see what is happening with you and I don’t like it. You are decent girl, so I know you will accept my advice when I say it is very bad to make conversation with — men like this.”

“I was just saying hello.”

“It does not matter. Please listen to me. I am only concerned for your welfare. There is so much immorality these days, particularly in this place. These soldiers, they are very bad people. Like animals.”

“I thought you supported the war.”

“Please, don’t interrupt while I am talking to you. You are fine young girl. I have spoken to your uncle about you.”

“Why?”

“As you know, I make good business with the hair. I have several young girls working for me, but — I will speak frankly — they are whores. Sluts. I see them leaving for their nightclubs and discos, wearing short skirts and other small clothes. It make me very angry. It is why I am severe with you. It is only because I respect you. You are good Muslim girl, not some American prostitute. This is what I say to your uncle.”

“OK. Whatever. I think I need to go now.”

“But you are prey to many influences. He feels this also. These homosexual singers, with their long hair and makeup. I say to your uncle, he has not been strict enough with you. I have offered to help in your education.”