2
Dear Mahmoud,
How are you?
I’ve called you dozens of times but it seems your phone is permanently switched off. I’ve been worried about you, my friend. I heard from some friends about the interrogation you went through. That hurt me. They are real bastards. I fear they may have deeply distorted the way you see me and I may not be able to undo the damage, but you are very dear to me. I swear by the life of my mother, who was killed by terrorists in Ramadi on the highway to Jordan, and by the lives of my dear sisters, that I didn’t steal a single penny from this lousy government or the American occupiers. It was a conspiracy against me, and I’m now on the run from their broken judicial system. They wanted to drive me out of the country because they knew I had an honest plan for the country and that the moment of confrontation was coming between the sincere patriots and those who work for foreign interests. They wanted to eat me for lunch before I could eat them for dinner.
You’re not obliged to believe what I say. But tell me honestly, did I ever lie to you? Didn’t I promote you personally, to give you the chance you deserved? Did I mistreat you or anyone else? Wasn’t I helpful and cooperative with everyone? Think back a little and try to remember.
You may wonder why I’m spending this time and effort writing to you and why I’m so eager to persuade you of my point of view. I’m not interested in all the things that have been said about me, or the smears in the press, or the way they’ve portrayed me as an international criminal, or the arrest warrant they’ve asked Interpol to issue. I can deal with those things. I have a strong heart, and I have the energy to fight those bastards. I’ll beat them one day, you’ll see. But I can’t bear the idea that you might think ill of me, especially you. It matters because I see myself in you. We’re very much alike, even if you can’t see the resemblance. I think we are similar and you are someone pure and noble, and what you think of me is more important than anything else.
You’ll remember Brigadier Majid and the time we went to see him. After lunch, he told me what the senior astrologer working with him had told him. We didn’t go there to buy a printing press or to interview him or anything else. I couldn’t tell you the truth at the time, in case you got the wrong idea. I preferred to keep it to myself, but now I feel compelled to disclose it: the visit was for something specific—so his astrologers could tell your future. The future of Mahmoud al-Sawadi. And I was really stunned and surprised by what I heard. The senior astrologer said “this young man,” meaning you, had a brilliant future. He would rise to become one of the most important people in Iraq, but he needed training. He needed a challenge in order to learn how to handle it. I don’t know how you’ll take this now, but in precisely fifteen years, Mahmoud, you will become prime minister of Iraq. Yes, you will be Prime Minister Mahmoud al-Sawadi. And I, ever since I heard this and believed it, have made you my project, and I have given myself a specific role in this project. I will be John the Baptist, and you will be Christ. I will help the weak sapling become a mighty tree.
I shall be back to Baghdad soon, Mahmoud. I will disprove all the charges against me, and you will see people go on trial because of the malicious accusations they’ve made against me. I’ll get in touch with you from there so we can start again and work together.
Be sure to remember the senior astrologer’s prediction, or try to forget it. It makes no difference, because what is inevitable will come true one day.
3
It was a bombshell. It reminded Mahmoud of the way Saidi spoke, of how persuasive he was. Mahmoud couldn’t help having a whole range of feelings toward Saidi, who had given him plenty of help and exposed him to new experiences. He had become more mature and knowledgeable because of him. He was intrigued by the talk of the astrologers and the new explanation that Saidi offered for their visit to the Tracking and Pursuit Department. So Mahmoud had been at the center of events when he thought he was on the periphery.
Mahmoud put his hands on the keyboard, eager to answer Saidi’s e-mail. He was on the verge of apologizing for thinking ill of him, but he soon remembered a slew of uncomfortable facts. He remembered how, under interrogation, he had almost to beg to defend himself against the accusation that he had helped to steal thirteen million dollars. He thought back to many times Saidi had contradicted himself. Sitting in the Internet café, he tried to form a clear, reliable picture of Saidi’s convictions and principles, but he couldn’t.
Mahmoud tapped lightly on the keys, but he didn’t write anything. He was overcome with confusing emotions, and he noticed he was grinding his teeth. After everything Mahmoud had been through, Saidi had managed to trick him and win him over to his cause. He had scored a goal yet again.
“Fuck you,” Mahmoud typed quickly in English. He made the words big and red. He was about to press Send but stopped himself. He hesitated for about ten seconds, then deleted the two words. He combined Saidi’s message and Hazem Abboud’s into one and sent it to the writer. He signed out of his e-mail account and left the café.
Later Mahmoud would send the writer another message, explaining why he decided against answering Saidi’s e-mail. He went out into the street and kept walking. He lit a cigarette and looked up at the ominous clouds. It was like those days he had spent in Baghdad a year earlier, when he had met Ali Baher al-Saidi, Nawal al-Wazir, and the others.
He walked toward the market, thinking, “What if Saidi was telling the truth?” But he sensed it was all fantasies and lies. Saidi was preparing to dump another disaster on the head of gullible Mahmoud. But what if one percent of his story were true? Isn’t life a blend of things that are plausible and others that are hard to believe? Isn’t it possible that Saidi reaching out to Mahmoud was one of those hard-to-believe things?
That’s why Mahmoud didn’t send a hostile response to Saidi’s message, or any other kind of response. He left things in a gray area, like the sky that day, trying to use Saidi’s own style against him, leaving him uncertain.
4
On February 21, 2006, the supreme security commanders in Baghdad announced they had finally arrested the dangerous criminal that official reports called Criminal X, and that the public called the Whatsitsname, along with many other names.
They projected a large picture of him on a big screen and announced his name: Hadi Hassani Aidros, a resident of Bataween and commonly known as Hadi al-Attag, the junk dealer.
The defendant had confessed to all the crimes he was accused of, including leading a murder gang, dismembering his victims, and planting them in back streets around Baghdad in order to spread alarm and fear. He had planned the explosion at the Sadeer Novotel by means of a garbage truck packed with explosives and driven by a suicide bomber who was one of his followers. He had murdered a number of foreign security contractors and was responsible for the horrific explosion in Bataween, which resulted in deaths, destroyed houses, and did inestimable damage to Iraq’s architectural heritage. On top of that, the criminal was implicated in acts of sectarian violence and in murders for hire on behalf of gangs and sectarian groups.
Aziz the Egyptian saw the picture of his close friend on television and didn’t recognize him. That wasn’t Hadi the junk dealer. That’s what most of the people in the coffee shop said too. But when they broadcast recordings of the criminal’s confessions, the voice was very similar to Hadi’s. How could he be a murderer?
Seeing Hadi’s disfigured face on television, while sitting with his family at home, Mahmoud al-Sawadi thought this was just another massive mistake. They wanted to close the case in any way possible. It was inconceivable that this elderly man was a dangerous criminal. He had sat with him for hours: he was just a drunkard with an unstable personal life and a powerful imagination, but his story about the Whatsitsname still posed many questions for Mahmoud. Hadi was permanently scatterbrained. He didn’t have any of the eloquence or composure apparent in the digital recordings of the Whatsitsname’s strange long mono
logues. It was impossible that Hadi was the Whatsitsname.
5
When people heard the news, the sky over Baghdad crackled with gunfire. Everyone was in a state of hysterical joy, especially in Bataween. Nobody could believe that this frightening criminal had been living among them, but what the government said must be true.
Umm Salim came out and danced in the street, rattling her golden bracelets on her white arms. Her husband looked on shyly through the crack in the door, his hands pressed into the pockets of his pajama top. Veronica, the old Armenian woman, came out to throw gum and candy on the heads of the children in the lane, and despite the black clouds that were gathering, people continued to dance in the streets and on the roofs of buildings for more than an hour. They were tasting a kind of joy they had forgotten in the decades of disasters that had befallen the country. Everyone was happy, even Faraj the realtor, who had been sunk in pessimism and despair since the massive explosion in Lane 7. Aziz saw the spontaneous celebrations but still wasn’t convinced that Hadi was the criminal. It was impossible. But he went to dance outside the coffee shop anyway.
Reduced to a state of childlike elation, no one could see, or even tried to see, those timid eyes looking out from behind the balconies and windows of the abandoned Orouba Hotel.
Since Faraj had taken down the sign outside, the hotel hadn’t had a name. It was no longer the Orouba Hotel, and it hadn’t yet become the Grand Prophet Hotel, as Faraj had been planning to call it. He had lost a large part of his fortune on the two properties, one of which had been totally destroyed, the other seriously damaged. To repair it he would have had to spend a fortune, so he left it as it was—deserted, a ruin. He didn’t give it another thought. Cats made their homes there, and young men might use it as a venue for hasty love trysts. Rowdier events might have taken place there, but nobody knew exactly. Nabu the cat roamed around the hotel. The specter of an unknown man also lingered there, standing for the past hour at the glassless window of a third-floor room, silently watching the people celebrate, smoking and looking every now and then at the dark clouds overhead.
Nabu climbed the stairs, up the carpet that had been ripped long ago. The old cat jumped over the legs of broken chairs, then went up to the figure standing by the window. It wound itself around his left leg, then looked out and meowed softly. The man threw his cigarette out the window and listened as a local music troupe appeared on the street below, followed by a large throng of children cheering and clapping. Thunder shook the sky, and it began to pour. People ran home, and the music and celebrations stopped. Only the sound of the rain remained.
The man crouched down to pet the old cat, which had lost even more of its hair. They were now close friends.
Baghdad
2008–12
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Frankenstein in Baghdad Page 25
