All Our Broken Idols
Page 36
‘I told them everything we did,’ he would say. ‘The police, the army. They know what we had to give up to those madmen.’
‘And?’
‘They know we had to do it. And I showed them the whole list of things we gave them. But I want to get it all back, Katya. All the pieces we lost. I want to trace where they smuggled them through Syria, into Europe. The US. I want to find the black-market sellers, the underground auctions where they sell this stuff. And I want you to come with me. Help me get it all back, Katya. Let’s get those responsible. Let’s make them pay.’
Katya would feel herself fill with exhaustion, and then she would think of her dad. She would think of the look on his face every time he’d left her, tired but full of flint. The way she’d always tried to understand that look. And from somewhere deep within her, she would feel a fire ignite. She would grip Salim by the arm, though she was still weak.
‘Let’s do it,’ she would say. ‘Let’s get those bastards. Let’s get it all back.’
They would kiss again, and she would breathe in the tobacco smell on his clothes, the soap on his neck, barely daring to believe that it was real, that they had both survived. Salim would promise to visit her again the next day, and he would. When she left the hospital, limping on crutches but full of energy, he would be there waiting for her. Her mother would be there too, standing beside him in a headscarf, there to surprise her. They would already be friends.
‘Your father’s daughter,’ her mother would say, mock-scolding, and then burst into tears, running up to her and hugging her. ‘I’m never letting you out of my sight again.’
Life would go on, winding like the river.
In the boat, Katya managed to lift up one of her hands, and brush a fly from her face. When she did, she found tears soaking her cheeks. She thought of Gilgamesh, sailing home along the river. She thought of the flower he found, the gift of life, lost for ever because once again he couldn’t fend off the embrace of sleep. Her own eyelids were getting heavy.
Nearby, she heard traffic, the deep honks of lorry horns. She saw reeds around her, nodding as the boat disturbed them in the water. White birds overhead. Then with a bump and silty scrape, the boat lurched against something. The bank. She lay there for what seemed like hours, delirious with thirst. Time stretched out, and she felt the way she did when it was time to get up for work and she wanted to stay in bed: wouldn’t it be so much easier to just lie there? Another five minutes. A beautiful cool was rising through her body, and her eyes began to close.
‘Get up, Katya,’ she murmured to herself. ‘It’s time to get up.’
Nearby, she heard small feet, and a child’s voice called out something. The sound came closer. Then a head poked over the edge of the boat. It was a little girl, a thread of hair hanging loose over her face, head cocked to the side. Katya lay there and looked up at her, and their eyes met for a moment.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people, without whom the writing of this book would have been impossible. The British Institute for the Study of Iraq (BISI) helped me with research leads, and facilitated my first journey to Iraq. Thanks to Richard Dumbrill of BISI and the British Museum for inviting me to attend the Babylon Festival of Arts and Culture, as well as sharing his expertise on ancient Babylonian poetry and music. Thanks to Geoff Hahn for his expertise and professionalism in guiding me around Iraq on my second visit. Many thanks to Raad Al Qassimi, an unparalleled guide, as well as Saif Alshalah, Ali Hammodi and Athir Al-Adhari, and all the others who worked to keep me safe during my trips, and to share the beauty and spirit of their country.
A great deal of gratitude is owed to archaeologist Flint Dibble, who agreed to read the manuscript and act as a consultant on matters of archaeology. Thanks also to Rebecca Sharrock, who read the novel and helped guide the character of Sharo with her own experiences of Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory (HSAM). Thanks are owed to the Consortium for Arts and Humanities in South England (CHASE), who funded my studies during the writing of this novel. Thanks also to the stone masons at Gildencraft Stone Mason’s Guild in Norwich, and Master Stephen in particular for teaching me some of the basics of stone carving. Also many thanks to Mary Thomson, Sarah Morriss and Myles Schaller for their expertise on the mysteries of spectrometry.
Many thanks to Rasha Al Aqeedi for her Moslawi’s knowledge of Mosul’s geography and culture, and her invaluable input into the novel. Respect and gratitude belong to Omar Mohammed, for his bravery in running the Mosul Eye blog for years, risking his life to bring news of the so-called Islamic State to the outside world, and many thanks also for agreeing to read this novel and advise me on it, as well as inviting me to visit Mosul. I would also like to thank Micah Galen and Daniel Rye (via Puk Damsgård) for their bravery in sharing their stories of surviving ISIS captivity in Iraq and Syria.
Thanks are also owed to the multiple translators and rewriters of the Gilgamesh Epic, whose work fed into my own: Taha Baqir, Benjamin Foster, Andrew George, Maureen Kovacs, Herbert Mason, Stephen Mitchell, Nancy Sandars and Robert Silverberg. All quotations from the Quran are taken with respect from the Saheeh International translation. Special thanks are owed to my teachers, especially Rebecca Stott for her infallible advice and inspirational conversation; to Petra Rau for her direct and honest advice; and to Giles Foden for his insight. I would like to thank all the readers who offered their considered comments and suggestions on the manuscript: David Greaves, Jacob Rollinson, Rebecca Sharrock, Margaret McLaughlin and David Cooper. I would like to thank my agent Eve White, without whom I would be lost, as well as my wonderful editors at Bloomsbury, Alexa von Hirschberg and Marigold Atkey, for their tireless work to make this novel as good as it could be. Thanks to Annie Kelly for her love, support and belief. The book is finally dedicated to all those who risk their lives to uncover the truth of the past and the present, and to the people of Iraq, who have fought so hard and suffered so much.
Note on the Author
Paul Cooper was born in south London and grew up in Cardiff, Wales. He was educated at the University of Warwick and UEA, and after graduating he left for Sri Lanka to work as an English teacher. He has worked as an archivist, editor and journalist, and currently teaches Literature and Creative Writing at the UEA and University of Warwick. His writing has appeared in the New York Times, The Atlantic, National Geographic and Discover Magazine. His debut, River of Ink, was published by Bloomsbury in 2016 to great critical acclaim.
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