The White Zone

by Carolyn Marsden

“This war is not Allah’s fault,” al-Shatri added.

  Talib nodded again. But Allah was still supposed to be all-powerful.

  “Pray with me, Talib,” Mama urged, preparing for her ritual washing.

  Talib shook his head. No.

  CAR GREASE

  In the morning, a crowd had gathered in front of Zaid al-Najeeb’s garage.

  When Nouri went over, he saw al-Najeeb stretched out, blood flowing from a bullet hole in his head, his hands still black with car grease. Someone had stepped in the blood and tracked it up and down the sidewalk.

  Nouri looked up at a row of pigeons balancing on the electric wire.

  ME?

  One scorching afternoon, Talib and Nouri lay side by side on the floor, the coolest place. They had positioned themselves in the line of the fan, so that it blew straight on them, stirring the hot air.

  “There,” Talib pointed to the ceiling. “I see marching camels. And a cave filled with treasure. Or there,” he gestured toward the wall, “Arabs battling Persians.”

  “I don’t see any of that.”

  “Nothing? Not even the camels?”

  “Maybe a woman with long hair.”

  The fan rattled and Talib leaned up on one elbow to take a sip of water.

  Pushing his hair off his damp forehead, Nouri said, “Shiites are moving into Karada. Into the abandoned Sunni homes.”

  Talib drained his glass. “The ones who came to fight?”

  “Probably not. These don’t look like fighters. Just ordinary people. Families. Maybe Shiites who got kicked out of their Sunni neighborhoods.”

  “What about our house?”

  “Someone’s in yours too.”

  Talib tried to imagine a Shiite mother in Mama’s kitchen, a strange father wiping his shoes on the mat, a strange kid in his bed.

  Someday Baba would reclaim the house and they’d move back in. In triumph, they’d kick out those Shiites.

  With a slow clatter, the fan stopped turning.

  “Darn,” said Talib. “The electricity’s gone off.”

  The air now pressed around them like warm bread dough. Talib considered getting up, soaking cloths to drape across their foreheads, but even that effort felt like too much.

  Talib half imagined, half dreamed that one of the camels on the ceiling came to life. He was riding it across burning dunes. . . .

  “You know I . . .” Nouri began. “I . . .”

  “You what?” Talib prompted, his eyes wide, his body thrumming, wondering if, finally, his cousin would admit what he had done.

  “Nothing.”

  Talib sat up. “Were you the one who threw the rock through my window?”

  Still on his back, Nouri spread both hands, as if showing he held nothing. “Me? How could you think that? I was asleep at home that night. It wasn’t me. I’d never do that to you.”

  “Liar,” Talib muttered, lying back down.

  ROOFTOP

  In spite of the nightly bombings, Nouri helped Baba maneuver the cotton mattresses up the narrow stairway to the roof when it got too hot to sleep inside. “I’d rather die of a bomb than perish in this heat,” Mama had said.

  Baba swore mightily whenever the mattresses got stuck.

  Lifting from the bottom, Nouri bore the weight, his fingers pinched.

  When they emerged on the rooftop, the sun burned like a giant kerosene flame, searing the sky, turning it the palest of blues. Even the stiff fronds of the palm trees drooped, weighted down with heat and dust.

  Nouri gazed down at the street below where Talib had stolen the soldier’s helmet. Where Sunnis and Shiites had fought.

  If there was another gun battle, they’d at least have a good view from the rooftop.

  And there, looking like a toy, sat A’mmo’s black car. One of the tires was flat now. Just that morning, in spite of the heat, Nouri had washed it using a small pail of water. No one ever drove the car anymore— gasoline was too expensive.

  Baba stared down too. “Time to sell that car. I’ll talk to that dealer over where the bus makes the turn toward Buratha.”

  Nouri turned away.

  . . .

  “This is like a party!” Shatha exclaimed.

  It was like a party, Nouri had to admit as they gathered around bowls of dates and pitchers of yogurt. He could hear neighboring families laughing and talking on their rooftops. The sound of a reed flute wound its way through the pink air.

  As the sky darkened, music floated from a distant cabaret. Mama sang along to the recording of the Egyptian singer, Umm Kalthoom, so famous she was called Star of the East.

  When Shatha leapt up and pretended to sing into a microphone, Jalal and Anwar laughed.

  “She’s just showing off,” muttered Nouri.

  Baba stood up and turned his back on Shatha. “I wonder how my brother’s family is doing,” he said over the top of Shatha’s singing. “I wonder if they’re partying.”

  Shatha dropped the hand that held the imaginary microphone. Everyone stopped talking. No one looked at anyone else.

  Nouri stared down at the red roof tiles.

  Finally, everyone lay down and examined the night sky. There weren’t as many stars as in the countryside, but a few glittered through the branches of the nabog tree. The night sky revealed omens: would the future be full of health and bounty or did danger lurk?

  Talib had always been the best at the game of seeing things in the sky. Playing at being a fortune-teller, he’d predicted: You will marry a woman with dark eyes. . . . Beware of an overly friendly man. . . . Large amounts of gold await you. . . .

  “I see a monster,” said Jalal. “That star is the eye and the little group there makes the body. . . .”

  “A shooting star!” shouted Anwar.

  “That was tracer fire,” corrected Nouri.

  “Was not.”

  Nouri struggled to stay awake as long as possible. Whenever he closed his eyes, he thought of A’mmo Hakim.

  One spring day, A’mmo had taken him to Mosul. Although the car had air-conditioning, they’d rolled down the windows. With the warm wind blowing through, A’mmo had driven fast, barely missing the donkey carts and the slow buses, while Nouri had laughed with nervous excitement.

  But he mustn’t think of such things anymore. A’mmo Hakim had been dead nearly a year now. Nouri forced his eyes wide open.

  Suddenly he saw three stars lined up like a sword. He covered his heart with both hands. It was the sword of destiny. The stars were about to make him pay for what he’d done. The sword plunged straight downward, aimed at his very center.

  RAMADAN

  During the holy month of Ramadan when the veils of illusion parted, it was said that a person could perceive Allah most clearly.

  Talib fasted, not out of devotion, but because there was little to eat. He thought not of Allah, but of his empty stomach.

  How could he think of Allah? Allah had betrayed him. Thoughts of all that had happened hurtled through his mind. How could Allah have permitted those things?

  . . .

  The ban on foot traffic on Mutanabbi Street had been lifted, though there were still barricades against vehicles.

  “Why don’t you open your bookstall again?” Talib asked Baba.

  “No one will come,” he replied. “They’re still afraid.”

  “If there are books, people will come,” said al-Shatri from across the room. “Someone has to make a move. Someone has to be brave.”

  Baba lifted his hands, but then just dropped them back onto his knees.

  “Yes, Baba, why don’t you?” said Talib. He gestured toward the books that he and Baba had repaired.

  “Books are Iraq’s only hope,” pressed al-Shatri.

  “That’s true,” Baba said, nodding. “I will go down tomorrow.” He looked at Talib, his eyebrows raised in a question.

  “I’ll go too,” Talib said quickly.

  . . .

  The next morning, Baba and Talib rose early and carried bo
oks to the street.

  “Take this too,” Mama said, tucking a small broom under Talib’s arm.

  When they emerged from the stairwell, the tea maker was boiling water in spite of the heat. The silver bracelet seller nodded in greeting.

  The men who’d once gathered in the Shabandar Café now sat at cafés on the sidewalk, dressed in white shirts, sheltered by striped awnings.

  Baba’s bookstall spot was littered with rubble, burned bits of books, and pigeon droppings.

  “It needs a good cleaning,” he commented.

  “That’s what the broom’s for,” said Talib. He chased the large pieces of debris into the gutter, and then the dust.

  When the area was clear, Baba squatted down beside the books. He left them in the boxes, the spines facing outward so that the titles were clearly visible.

  Meanwhile, Talib hunted for bits of abandoned wood to make a new storeroom, new bookshelves. He found some scraps behind a crumbled wall. He found a piece of tin for a new door.

  As Talib explored an abandoned building, a nail poked through the sole of his shoe and a cloud of dirt fell on his head. He stood looking around, away from the noise of the street. Not long ago, this had been a bustling shop. Now the place reminded him of the cave where the legendary boy, Rejab, had lived.

  He felt something soft underfoot and touched a carpet gingerly with his fingertips. Baba could use a new carpet, even if it did need a lot of cleaning. Talib paused a moment longer, imagining an escape from his own life, coming to live in a place like this, like a character in a book.

  When voices from the street roused him, Talib pried up one edge of the carpet and yanked on it, dragging the load.

  “Look what I found, Baba!”

  Together he and Baba spread the carpet flat. As Talib swept it, triangular designs began to appear, woven with yarn that had once been white.

  Talib moved the boxes of books onto the carpet. He brought over a wooden crate for Baba’s seat, announcing, “Now we have a real bookstall.”

  Baba smiled. “You’ve done enough, Talib. Go on now.”

  “You’ll be all right alone?”

  “I can handle the crowd,” joked Baba, gesturing toward the mostly empty sidewalk.

  When Talib glanced back he saw a man in a red shirt leaning down to stare at Baba’s books. With luck, perhaps he’d buy something.

  He headed to where al-Nakash had once had his magazine stand. On getting closer, he shielded his eyes from the sun. The stand was there again— with magazines piled high on the tables! Jabir stood nearby, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Unlike his father, Jabir didn’t bustle about, helping customers find a rare magazine. Instead he stood, his eyes slits, using his pocketknife to whittle a piece of wood.

  He wasn’t making anything, Talib decided. He was just using the knife.

  . . .

  Two weeks later, the crescent moon was sighted again, bringing an end to the month of Ramadan.

  In the days before the war, Mama would have put away the cloth with the blue flowers and brought out the special one—pomegranate-red embroidered with gold. The long fast over, the table would once have been laid for the feast of Eid al-Fitr: lamb skewered with green peppers and onions; fava beans and eggs cooked in oil; grilled chicken, stuffed tomatoes, rice pudding, sesame cookies, candied citrus peels. . . .

  Now Mama served lentil soup and hot cardamom tea.

  But most importantly, every year when Ramadan ended, Talib had felt his connection to Allah renewed. He’d experienced a sweet confusion, a hazy melting into Allah’s holy presence.

  Now his relationship to Allah felt as stale as a piece of day-old samoon.

  Talib was happy only that al-Shatri, while cleaning, had come upon a bag of sweet dried figs.

  “IT WAS I.”

  Nouri and Talib squatted, taking turns at shooting marbles into a circle, competing to get closest to the bull’s-eye center.

  Nouri flicked a red daa’bul with his thumb, knocking Talib’s green one.

  “No!” Talib laughed, rocking back on his heels.

  In his palm, Nouri clicked together three glass balls. Just then a breeze whirled the dust into a cone. The cone spun across the dirt lot, picking up bits of trash before crossing the daa’bul circle.

  Without meaning to, without planning it—the words rushed out of his mouth on their own. “I did it. It was I,” he said to his cousin. He stared at the cone of dirt moving toward Mutanabbi Street.

  “I know,” said Talib. “I saw you shoot.”

  “Not this. I mean I threw the rock. Through your window.”

  Talib shaded his eyes, stared.

  Nouri bit his lip and nodded. His lip tasted dusty. It was as if he’d shot a gigantic daa’bul and was waiting to see what it would hit.

  Drawing back his arm, Talib raised his hand. The glass ball had struck home.

  Nouri covered his face, preparing his body for the blow. He deserved whatever came. He waited. But there was nothing. He heard Talib stand up.

  Peeking between his fingers, Nouri watched Talib kick all the daa’bul, one by one, across the dirt, still standing right next to him.

  Then Talib lifted his foot and kicked him.

  The blow landed in Nouri’s ribs, and he couldn’t help but scream out.

  Talib shouted: “I knew it was you! I hate you! I don’t ever want to see you again! Never! Never!”

  Nouri scrambled up, holding his side. He backed away, his feet slipping over the scattered daa’bul. He held up his hands, protecting his face from Talib’s blows.

  Finally, Talib pushed him backward into the rubble. He fell hard onto something sharp, then lay still, listening to Talib’s footsteps thudding away.

  MEET ME AT DAWN

  Breathing like a demon, Talib pounded his way through the bookstalls, by the chai khana and the bangle sellers and stacks of Winnie the Pooh cards. He ran through Friday shoppers, and around a corner displaying lumpy, tattered furniture. He almost tripped on a plastic flower. There was nothing to do but keep running.

  At last, he slumped down against a ruined building. His body was exhausted, but his mind still burned. Nouri deserved more than a mere kick in the ribs, more than a few punches.

  He had to be properly punished.

  As his heartbeat slowed, Talib’s thoughts turned to Jabir with his slitted eyes and rough face. Jabir had kept saying that he, Talib Jassim, should do something. As if he had something in mind.

  Talib picked a hole in the knee of his pants. Should he approach Jabir? Jabir was so much older. Jabir might laugh at him, still just a child.

  But it was worth a try. What a fool he’d been to play daa’bul with Nouri, to tell stories with him, to welcome him into his home. . . .

  Talib made his way past the plastic flowers, around the old furniture, and through the Friday shoppers. He went by the chai khana and the bangle sellers and stacks of trading cards. He wove through the bookstalls, all without bumping into the Friday shoppers.

  Finally, he arrived at the magazine stand where Jabir stood with a baseball cap pulled low, wearing sneakers with green laces.

  Talib took up a magazine and pretended to study the black-and-white photographs of a group of rock ’n’ rollers called The Rolling Stones.

  Engrossed in a picture of a Rolling Stone slapping a whip onto the stage, Talib started when a shadow fell over the page. Not daring to look up, he let his gaze fall to Jabir’s sneakers.

  Jabir took a step away, the green laces undone, trailing in the dirt.

  Gripping the magazine, Talib said quickly, “You say I should do something.” His voice sounded tinny, like the voice of a little kid.

  Jabir’s exhale of breath was smoky. “Don’t tear my magazine.”

  Talib set the magazine back on the stack. “I’m ready,” he stated.

  “Ready?” Jabir’s tone was mocking.

  “Yes.”

  Jabir scratched at his dark chin hairs. His words were like the flutt
er of the awning. “Meet me at dawn. Over there.”

  Talib looked up to see Jabir looking toward a building with dirty white columns.

  “Now, go on,” Jabir ordered. “Get out.”

  Walking back along the street, Talib thought of how Jabir had taken him seriously. A person like Jabir understood when a kick and a few punches weren’t enough.

  At al-Shatri’s, he took the stairs two at a time, bursting through the blue door at the top.

  “What is it, Talib?” asked al-Shatri. “What’s happened?”

  Talib’s voice filled the room: “Nouri was the one. He betrayed me! Because of him, I live here!” Talib kicked a box of paper. “He was the one who threw the rock.”

  “Nouri?” Mama asked.

  “Yes, Nouri. That Shiite Nouri.”

  “Talib,” Baba said sternly. “Calm down.”

  But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. His hands itched with the desire to hit Nouri again and again.

  . . .

  That night, Talib lay with his heart in a knot. He had an appointment with Jabir at dawn. In the daylight all had seemed simple. But in the dark, he sensed the rustling of danger.

  Should he go?

  What would Allah think?

  Talib buried his face deep in his pillow.

  . . .

  Before the muezzin’s call, before the sky turned rosy, Talib snuck out. He tiptoed through the room where the printer snored loudly.

  He plunged down the stairs, marched into the street.

  Someone grabbed his collar. “What are you up to?”

  “I live here.” Talib pointed in the direction of al-Shatri’s apartment. He peeked behind him to see an Iraqi soldier.

  The soldier released him, saying, “You shouldn’t be out this early.”

  “My mother needs some tea from Rashid Street.”

  “At this hour?”

  “She’s sick.”

  “Go on, then.” The soldier gestured with his rifle.

  Talib ran toward Rashid, finding a crumbled wall to hide behind. He crouched until the air pinkened and the soldier had disappeared. Then he doubled back.

  He spotted Jabir leaning against the column, wearing plaid pants and a white T-shirt.