Ishmael's Oranges

by Claire Hajaj

  Omar’s eyes widened as he saw Salim coming. ‘Salim! This is a surprise. Are you well?’

  ‘Not the best, to tell you the truth.’ Salim sat down on the corner of Omar’s desk. ‘When you went to Baghdad last time, you hung out with that singer – what’s her name?’

  ‘Hanan.’

  ‘That’s right. You said she was a close friend of Ramadan.’ Taha Ramadan was the Minister of Industry in Iraq – the man who’d promised so much and was now poised to deliver it all into other hands.

  ‘She is,’ Omar replied, looking completely lost. ‘So what?’

  ‘So I need you to get on the phone to her now,’ Salim said. ‘I don’t care how. She needs to give me Taha’s private number. I have to speak to him today, or this entire project is dead.’ He saw Omar’s face harden.

  ‘I see,’ he said sarcastically. ‘So now I can do something for you, Salim, for your future.’

  Salim shook his head, trying to stay ahead of desperation. ‘I can’t change what happened,’ he said, ‘but if this works, Omar, I will personally walk you into Meyer’s office and tell him you saved us.’ He saw Omar’s struggle, the fight between ambition, shame and resentment that he knew so well. When Omar’s hand twitched towards the phone, he knew ambition had won. He breathed a sigh of relief and went back to his desk, to comfort a frantic Eric and marshal the bewildered technical team.

  He made the phone call at night, just ten hours before their flight was due to depart. Omar’s contact had come through, and Salim had the secret phone number in his hand. Throat dry, he picked up the phone.

  It did not go well at first. ‘How did you get this number?’ Ramadan demanded, his voice a furious bass.

  ‘From your girlfriend, Excellency,’ Salim replied in his best Iraqi dialect. ‘She wants me to check whether you’re seeing anyone else.’ All or nothing.

  There was a silence at the end of the phone, and then a raw belly laugh. ‘These Americans – so serious,’ the deep voice said. ‘I can’t believe I have to deal with you twice in one week.’

  ‘You may have to deal with us sooner than you think, Excellency,’ Salim replied. ‘We’re coming to see you tomorrow. I can’t wait to have some masgouf with you beside the Tigris.’ He had read somewhere that the Iraqi national dish was Ramadan’s favourite – a river-caught carp split in half down its backbone into a flat circle, rubbed with olive and tamarind and slow-cooked on a wood fire.

  Ramadan coughed over the phone. ‘Yani, I wish I could. But my schedule is very busy tomorrow. Why the rush?’

  Salim needed all of his courage to keep going. ‘It’s for you I’m coming earlier. We can pay more than Curran. We can do a better deal. But if they come first, it’s like a man going to his wedding knowing another man’s already been there. My bosses will never allow it. And you’ll be stuck with the lowest price.’

  The other end of the phone was silent except for the wheeze of Ramadan’s hefty breath.

  ‘Why should I care which American I do business with?’ he said eventually. ‘Aren’t you all the same?’

  ‘I’m not an American, Excellency.’ Salim took another breath. ‘And if you don’t meet with me, you’ll never know how different I am.’ Ramadan snorted, but he stayed quiet – a good sign.

  ‘We can call it a friend’s visit,’ Salim went on. ‘We don’t have to make it in the offices. I can arrange something better, something more entertaining.’

  Another cough came from the end of the line. ‘You say you’re coming, so okay, I can’t stop you.’ Ramadan seemed to be choosing his words carefully, so Salim did the same.

  ‘We arrive tomorrow, at eleven in the morning. I hope I’ll see you at the airport, Excellency.’

  ‘Yallah, it’s late,’ Ramadan said. ‘Goodnight, Mr Al-Ishmaeli.’ He hung up the phone, and the dial tone rang long and loud in Salim’s ear.

  That night he dreamed of the Orange House.

  It was behind him, at the end of a long, bright street. The sun above was as white as Marc’s hair, streaming in tendrils down to the ground and obscuring the air.

  Ahead of him, a boy kicked a football. Salim squinted into the light; he recognized Mazen. But then somehow Mazen changed into Hassan and Rafan, as tall as men, and the ball was driving towards him so fast, too fast to catch. It flew past him as they laughed, but he couldn’t turn around to find it again. The Orange House was whispering at his back, and his mother was calling him.

  He looked over the heads of the boy-men standing like shadows on the road, searching for the sea, but it was as dark and still as glass.

  A terror rose inside him, and he pulled himself away from it, turning and turning until his hand hit the floor. Then he woke tangled in the sheets, neither in bed nor out of it, halfway to the ground.

  The plane touched the tarmac in the furnace of Baghdad the next morning, the languorous palms of Mesopotamia beckoning them down. As the wheels screamed their protest, Salim would have prayed if there were any gods left to believe in.

  The team had not slept, had not eaten, and could hardly look at each other. If I’ve led them here on a fool’s chase, they’ll never forgive me.

  There’d been a time for faith, for belief in fairness, and Salim tried to reach back to it. He’d tried so hard, risked so much. Those waving palms, their green fronds so blithely welcoming – were they a sign? The trees were laden with dates close to ripening. They were smaller than oranges, but no less sweet. Had he lost his first harvest to be rewarded with a better one here?

  Passing through customs, they emerged into the arrivals hall. Women and children flocked around them, old and young men hugged each other. Not a dignitary in sight. Salim’s heart, so full of hope, finally sank. It was over.

  Then, Eric clutched his arm and gasped. The doors slid open, and walking in on a wave of summer heat came Ramadan, his deputy and a delegation to greet them. The Iraqis had come. And at that moment Salim knew that he was finally the man he’d dreamed of being – a winner of the race, a master of his fate.

  The touchdown in Kuwait three days later was his first taste of pure triumph. From the company car he looked out at the boundless blue of the Arabian Gulf and felt the cresting surge of victory. He’d pulled off a miracle, he knew. His thrusting young executives were awed to a man. Abdel-Rahman, a gnarled Baghdadi seared to hard leather by years in the crucible of Iraqi politics, had shaken his hand with a wicked smile and said mabrouk – an Arab’s most sincere congratulations. In his briefcase, he carried the signed contract that only a few days before had been destined for another company. Meyer would bask in the glory, take most of the credit and officially confirm Salim as his Managing Director.

  The lift that took him to Meyer’s floor was the same model as the many they would install in Baghdad’s expanding government and business district. It whirred softly upwards, and Salim pushed his hands to its smooth metal walls. Such a strange, boxy thing to carry a man’s life. He closed his eyes and felt the gentle tug of gravity releasing him as Odell’s technology pushed through it.

  Meyer was every bit as delighted as Salim had imagined and replayed many times on the flight from Baghdad. ‘That was one ballsy move, Slim. There’s not a man in a thousand could have pulled it off.’

  ‘The team was amazing,’ Salim said, relaxing back in the leather chair. ‘They all did their part, put together the pitch and delivered it on no sleep.’

  ‘They should get a bonus, don’t you think?’ Meyer walked back over to his desk and made a note. He seemed to prefer talking to Salim perched on the corner of his desk.

  ‘I certainly do.’ He remembered his promise to Omar; now he could finally shake the clinging guilt off his back. ‘You should know, I couldn’t have done it without Omar Al-Khadra. He had the inside track to Ramadan. Thank God he has a busy social life, is all I can say.’

  ‘Well, maybe we should give him a closer look. Maybe something in liaison and oversight, when the ball gets rolling in Baghdad. Right?’

  Salim h
ad a fleeting memory of Mazen’s scorn, his father’s constant dismissals and the superiority of his first colleagues, those mighty Englishmen. ‘The Iraqis will want us to hire one of their own as well,’ he said, hiding his delight. ‘It was part of our unofficial deal with Ramadan.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Meyer said. He stood up again, and sat on the desk, a file in hand. ‘Slim, it’s time we confirmed you in the job. You’ve exceeded expectations, you know. I’m thrilled Doug passed you on to us. I drew up the contract. You can look it over if you like, but I’m happy for you to sign here and now.’ He held the file out to Salim, grey eyes impassively looking down.

  Salim took it, his own hands shaking. As he read the first page, the beating of his heart rose as thunder in his ears, drowning Meyer’s smooth drawl: ‘Of course there’ll be a signing bonus, and well deserved.’

  Salim’s fingers were cold. He looked up at Meyer, trying to sound cheerful. ‘There’s a mistake here, John. This contract says Associate Director. The agreement was full Managing Director.’

  The American shifted his weight on the desk, his eyes still as mirrors. ‘I’m surprised you would think that, Slim. We talked about a number of positions currently open, including the Managing Director and Associate Director roles. You’ve been filling in for all of them – doing an incredible job, for which I intend to recognize you. This offer is part of that recognition.’

  Salim stood up now, his eyes level with Meyer. ‘I remember our conversation very clearly. You said I would be reporting directly to you, your second in command.’

  ‘As you have been. Now Houston is sending someone, a very talented and experienced man with more than ten years of service to the company. He’s a great guy and I know you’ll love working with him.’

  ‘But it’s my job.’ Salim felt the pain spreading inside him like the kick of a horse to the stomach – breathlessness and dullness giving way to a searing ache. ‘I did everything to earn it. You promised it to me.’

  Meyer was eye-to-eye with Salim now, and he could have been etched from granite, a carving from Andromeda’s rocks. ‘I’m so sorry you feel this way, Slim.’ His voice floated into Salim’s ears. ‘I feel terrible if there was a misunderstanding, that your expectations were raised.’ Behind Meyer’s head, Salim could see waves breaking white on the limitless sea.

  ‘If it makes any difference, I can tell you that we’ve never had a non-American Managing Director here. Wrong, maybe, but that’s how it is. So this is still a great chance for you. You’ll have a fantastic life with your family and get rich just as quickly. If it’s not good enough for you, well, I wish you the very best of luck.’

  Meyer reached his hand out to Salim, who took it by instinct, heart thudding as the dry palm slid into his own.

  ‘You’re a fantastic guy, Slim. You’ll go far in any organization, I’m sure.’ Meyer dropped the hand and motioned at the door. ‘Now, why don’t you go home, take a rest and think about it. You’ve had a long few days.’

  Salim had to force his body to move, force himself not to break out in any more humiliating arguments. If only I had a hat to hold out, I could ask him for some spare change. He walked out of the office like an old man, past the bored secretary, towards the steel of the lift doors that opened for him as if he was expected.

  Once inside, he felt a disorienting lightness. It was a moment before he realized they had begun their descent towards the ground, surrendering to the grip that only closes once you try to escape.

  Jude heard Salim’s car pull into the drive earlier than expected that day. She stood up, The Brothers Karamazov sliding to the floor. Her interview with the Kuwait International School was scheduled for the following morning. She’d spent hours that day brushing up on college reading, taking out her old books and clearing the shelves joyfully in preparation for more.

  Through the glass-fronted door she saw her husband walk in past the villa gate. The sun was setting over the heap of tyres and rubble in the wasteland across the dirt road. His jacket and tie were off and he carried a box under his arm.

  He stopped beside Marc’s beloved, dead lime tree and slowly reached out to touch it. The tiny, bare branches reached into the dry air like atrophied hands.

  At first she couldn’t work out why Salim was standing there, the debris of his office around him. But then, to her horror, he picked up the shovel that stood by the gate and drove it into the ground.

  She barely knew she was running by the time she reached the front door and pulled it open. ‘Sal, don’t!’ she shouted from the porch, her bare feet slipping on the dusty stone. Dirt from the parched ground was swirling around him in a yellow cloud.

  The tree’s little roots were already exposed; Salim dropped the spade, took hold of the trunk and wrenched it loose. Clinging fibres rose and tore, streaming dirt into the deepening hole. Jude felt something pierce the underside of her foot as she scrambled down the steps. Reaching out, she tried to drag Salim’s arm away with all her strength, the choking warmth of dust filling her lungs.

  At that moment Jude heard a wail behind her, a high, savage note, and felt something rush past her and crash into Salim, throwing them both off balance.

  The little boy was crying and thrashing, his hands grappling for the tree falling from Salim’s hand, dirt from the ground covering his face. ‘No, no, no, it’s mine!’ he was shouting.

  Salim gripped Marc by the shoulders and shouted back, ‘It’s dead, do you understand me! It’s dead!’ Jude felt lost in confusion as she saw Salim’s own tears begin to stream down; now he was trying to hug the boy but furious fists pushed him away.

  Marc crouched on the ground and tried to lift his tree, to set it back in its space, only to see it fall down. He tried again, and again, weeping over the brittle branches as they broke and scratched him, leaving red and brown welts on his arms.

  Salim stood up and looked over at Jude, his eyes full of sorrow and something that felt much colder – a kind of disgust. Then he turned around and walked into the house, past her and Sophie standing at the door with wide brown eyes.

  Her first thought was her interview in the morning. Everything was a shambles, all her careful preparation. The neat little patio was a squalid earthy mess; Marc was covered in branches, tears and dirt. And when she leaned down to say ‘Let it go, pet,’ his eyes flicked up to hers, swollen and filled with blue rage.

  It was Sophie who persuaded him to lay the tree on the ground and cover it with a blanket. Sophie whose arms he huddled in, submissive and empty, while Jude put antiseptic on his cuts. Eventually she laid them both in bed, cuddled up against each other. Marc was white and drained and Sophie subdued. ‘Why is Daddy so sad?’ she’d asked her mother. Marc turned his face to the wall. ‘I suppose he had some bad news at work, pet,’ Jude answered, trying to keep the fear from her voice.

  As they lay with their arms wrapped round each other, Jude had the strangest sensation that they were two alien creatures, belonging to each other and not to her at all. She sat with them until their breath slowed and their faces relaxed. The pale and the dark foreheads were inches apart, heartbreaking in their sweetness.

  As night fell, she stood hesitant outside her bedroom door. It opened at the faintest touch of her fingers, and she stepped warily inside.

  He was sitting on the bed in a clean t-shirt and shorts. In his hand he held the picture that lived on their mantelpiece, that fading image of his old house and the baby boy in front of it. His shoulder blades jutted out as he hunched over, the teenager showing through the man. In the middle of her anger, she felt her heart ache for him.

  ‘You didn’t get the job?’ She sat down beside him, a finger’s width away.

  Without raising his head, he passed her the picture. She took it automatically, running her fingers over the baby’s sweet, upturned face, yellowing now in its frame.

  ‘They were right when I was a boy.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Mazen, I mean, about my father and me. He said we were stupid, just fellahin wi
th a little money and big ideas. I used to think he was wrong. But then my father was tricked by Abu Mazen, and now these Americans have shown me I’m just as stupid.’

  ‘What’s happened, Sal?’ He wouldn’t look at her. ‘I thought it went so well.’

  ‘What’s happened is I’ve failed,’ he told her. ‘You and the kids. Everyone.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ She reached for the right words. ‘It doesn’t matter to us.’

  ‘It matters.’ He looked up and laughed. ‘I’ve come all this way for nothing.’

  The picture frame felt heavy in her hands – a leaden weight of memory pushing him back to a past they couldn’t share.

  ‘I’m something, aren’t I?’ Her fingers dug into the glass. ‘Your children are something. We might be the only people like us in the world. Shouldn’t we be proud of that?’

  ‘Proud.’ She saw the black head shake. ‘The twins can watch your tanks crushing my people on the news and wonder who to cheer on.’

  Jude froze. ‘They’re not my tanks, Sal. And now we’re your people. Your family.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, and she wondered if he’d even heard her. Then he said, ‘You saw how it was, that day on the beach. An Arab with pretensions. Maybe it’s all I’ll ever be.’ She remembered Peggy smiling over Kathleen’s shoulder, the closing oak door, and her stomach clenched.

  ‘Let’s just go back to England,’ she pleaded. ‘You’d find a good job there. For God’s sake, Salim, you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.’

  He snatched the picture back from her hand. ‘What do you know about having to prove yourself? You want me to go crawling back to England for some other white man to fuck me over? Or to work in Hassan’s garage? You know, if it wasn’t for your people, for the Jews, I would already be somebody.’ His voice was trembling. ‘A landowner in my own right. Not this.’ He hit his own chest, the flat of his hand slamming down.