‘Are there any mills or factories here?’ I asked.
‘Not now,’ said Ibrahim, ‘They’re used for other things like killing…’
‘Must have learnt from Turners,’ I said, under my breath.
‘What’s Turners?’
I didn’t reply but I was satisfied with my quick–witted response. It told me that I still had some intellectual range even if parts of my body were failing.
‘So are you kidnapping me or taking me to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon?’ I asked.
Ibrahim smiled and took out a mobile phone from his inside pocket. He glanced left and right out of both windows before tapping in a number and putting it to his ear. ‘You have to be careful with phones over here; stupid police think something’s being blown up.’
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Gulzar, he’s expecting you.’
I tried to leave the Lidl carrier bag in the car but Ibrahim was watching so I had to pick it up and take it with me. I wanted Gulzar’s house to be a few yards away but each time we walked past a gate or an entrance to the tight, sprawling neighbourhood, we soldiered on to the next building. The baking heat had a slight impact on my breathing patterns but I hardly noticed because I desperately needed the toilet. But there was the odd distraction to keep me going; in particular, a staring, overweight man in a black t–shirt and tight jeans whose face was horribly disfigured by what I presumed was some sort of blast or bomb. His dark face had white blotches on one side and one of his eyes was missing. His other eye made me shudder; he didn’t look away once. I wanted to touch him when I walked past but didn’t have the courage to do so. I wanted to tell him that I understood how everyday people were left on the scrapheap while companies, governments and other authorities carried out their dirty deeds. But when a barefooted old beggar in a grey robe suddenly stood by my side and snatched my Lidl bag all my noble thoughts turned to dust. Good luck with the empty carrier bag, I thought. Maybe the poor codger would use it to put it over someone’s head.
There were other distractions too but none as memorable and disturbing as the staring man. A woman in a burka was telling off her son as he sat on a tricycle, three American soldiers were surrounding a teenager with one checking his pockets and one man was lying face down by the wheel of a motorcycle surrounded by a heap of rubbish, a ripped sofa and a dog sniffing his feet. It was a lot to take in and the atmosphere wasn’t pleasant. I was relieved when Ibrahim finally stopped by a cream–coloured, two storey house with a black gate and black bars across the windows. He waited for me to catch up and then pushed open the gate. I walked in to the small front yard behind Ibrahim and had to carefully sidestep a stack of cardboard boxes full of clothes, picture frames, jewellery and magazines. I could see a man sat on the doorstep in the shade with a home–made fan in his hand. He got up and walked towards Ibrahim. He playfully wafted the straw fan in Ibrahim’s face.
‘Power’s totally fucked again,’ said Gulzar, embracing Ibrahim but looking over his shoulder in the process. ‘Now, who’s this Englishman you’ve brought me?’ Gulzar let go Ibrahim and walked towards me. ‘Ibrahim says you’ve made a great many sacrifices to be here. You’re here to find your grandson, yes?’
‘Yes, but can we talk later? Sorry I just need the toilet…’
‘It’s on the upper floor, first left. Are you in good health? I hope no war criminal has fired on you…’
I shook my head and entered the house.
‘Be careful,’ said Gulzar. ‘It’s extremely hot in there; the walls are like flames.’
I walked in and saw the curving staircase immediately. I wondered what the toilet would be like because I couldn’t really manage a hole in the floor right now. I was too tired and inflexible. It wasn’t as though I’d never done it like that before – in fact, for the first 19 years in Kashmir the hole in the floor didn’t exist and the woods with all their prickly, bottom–grazing pleasures had to suffice – but the journey from Erbil had taken more out of me than I thought and I needed every advantage or luxury I could get. I walked in to the bathroom and thankfully the slim yellow bowl was waiting for me. The sweat was pouring off my hands as I undid my trousers and I just made in terms of sitting down in time before the dam burst; incontinence in Baghdad wouldn’t have been a good start in terms of first impressions.
After that fantastic relief, I headed back downstairs and could see Gulzar and Ibrahim still standing outside. Gulzar spotted me and came inside. He was a smart, lean man with high cheekbones and a neat moustache. His pinstriped shirt with gold–coloured buttons, grey trousers and shiny black shoes gave him a certain poise and authority The only blemish was a set of stitches beneath his bottom lip which reminded me of the haphazard needle and thread surgery I had to carry out when wicketkeeper Giles Cooper was struck on the chin in Royton during an under 18s match in the early 90s. Gulzar wanted me to join him upstairs on the balcony, where it was cooler. I agreed but wondered where all this was heading. What did he want with an old man like me? Why did he invite me here? What was the nature of his relationship with Ibrahim? I wasn’t worried about his intentions because I had grown to trust Ibrahim but he still looked like a man you wouldn’t quickly say ‘no’ to. I walked out onto the balcony and sat down on the small crimson sofa next to Gulzar. I noticed the far side of the green balcony railing was missing. The hole wasn’t big enough to get a human through but it still looked highly dangerous.
‘It’s the green zone,’ said Gulzar, with a sly laugh. ‘Avoid at all costs.’
Gulzar clasped a yellow cushion tightly to his stomach and rested his head back on the sofa. He didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes so I tried to look out into the city but the scorching beige and blue landscape was difficult to absorb. The River Tigris was visible, cutting across the bunched–up caramel buildings, the odd high–rise hotel and the minaret of a sturdy mosque. There were a couple of moving black spots in the blue sky and I wondered if these were Apache helicopters or simply my failing eyes giving me the runaround. My vision was impeded by the neighbours’ clothes lines outside the balcony so it may have been the latter.
‘You’re grandson’s in Sadr City,’ said Gulzar, putting the cushion down on the sofa. ‘The Khalifa Brigades are having a few problems.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘In this city…’ he said, folding his arms and looking out. ‘It pays to know everything. You have to take any sort of employment you can get.’
My imagination started to run wild. Was Gulzar part of the Khalifa Brigades? Was he a smuggler or a terrorist? Would he use me as bait? I wanted to know more and I hoped he would talk because I could feel another embarrassing throat–clearing marathon coming on. He agreed to tell me everything but only when Ibrahim came upstairs with a bowl of the biggest peaches I’d ever seen. He said he needed the fruit to neutralise the pain. Ibrahim, who took an eternity to come back, placed the fruit on the small wooden table and then sat next to me on the wonky arm of the sofa. Gulzar picked up two peaches and handed me one. I took an awkward bite and was grateful to get some liquid in my mouth although the flat, watery taste was less enjoyable than I expected. Gulzar got through his peach incredibly quickly and then looked up at me and smiled.
‘You have lung issues?’
Some of the liquid dribbled down onto my chin. ‘Er yes, how did you know?’ I said, trying to wipe my chin but only succeeding in getting my fingers sticky.
‘Your swollen fingers. My father–in–law had a stroke before he died. He was in a ward with a man who had fingers like yours. He wanted to hire me because he had lung problems after working at his tiling company. He died before I got back to him.’
Gulzar paused and looked out into the city. There was an excruciating long silence. He started to pick the stitches on his chin.
‘But that was a long time ago,’ he said, finally breaking the silence. ‘My father–in–law always said we should never leave Baghdad no matter how bad it gets. I thought he was w
rong because in 2003, two houses in our neighbourhood were obliterated and I felt we had to leave. So I took my family: three children, my grandfather and my wife and squeezed them in to a small Mitsubishi. Most people were escaping to Syria or Jordan but I had some friends in Kurdistan and in Turkey and I thought it was a good tactic. But just as we passed Kirkuk, a stationary car directly in front of me exploded and I put on the brakes as fast as I could. It must have been a roadside bomb, or something, but I couldn’t stop the front of the car hitting the side of the burning one. Our car flipped over a couple of times…’
He sighed and picked up another peach. He wiped the side of his mouth and put it down again.
‘My father–in–law had his seat belt on, so did I, but the children, my wife and my grandfather were in the back…’
He got up from the sofa and walked across the balcony. He stopped by the ‘green zone’ and bent down. He looked through the hole out into the city.
‘They were all dead, apart from my grandfather who was badly injured. The car was drivable and I tried to take him to Erbil hospital but he died on the way there…’ He got up and folded his arms. He walked back towards the sofa and sat down.
‘I don’t know how but I ended up sleeping somewhere in the Citadel that night. That’s where Ibrahim picked me up the next morning.’
My mind wandered to the day after Fareeda died and the sense of confusion I felt when I woke and heard the sound of the whistling kettle in the kitchen. It had to be Fareeda, I thought, or there was no point in getting out of bed. She was still with me, serving up my shortbread and cardamom tea. But two minutes later, I knew it wasn’t my wife but my daughter Nadia who’d come to stay with me for a few days. It was a devastating, horrific feeling because those two minutes were the cruellest I’d ever suffered. But what was my suffering compared to Gulzar’s? His whole family had been wiped out and he still managed to look calm and composed. I couldn’t imagine what was going through his head but I had to admit I was starting to feel some kind of connection or kinship with him. Yes, Ibrahim and Azaad were nice people who had helped me greatly but I felt Gulzar knew where I was coming from and understood me.
‘You will stay with us tonight,’ said Gulzar, putting his hand on my knee. ‘There’s more than enough room.’
Gulzar had prepared lamb and rice for dinner but it was so rich and succulent that I could only eat about half a plate. There was also some fruit mixed in with the hot lamb which I’d never experienced before so that gave me an excuse to bail out quickly. After dinner, the three of us sat in Gulzar’s front room drinking tea from glass cups and, although I was tempted by the accompanying stuffed dates, I knew I would have problems getting them past my sticky throat. Instead, I enjoyed rubbing the soles of my feet into the giant blue and orange rug which covered nearly the whole floor. I could tell the room wasn’t used very often; the light yellow curtains hadn’t been drawn, the arm of the brown sofa emitted a waft of dust and the TV had a white blanket over it. It wasn’t a surprise when Gulzar said he’d been trying to sell the house for nearly two years because it looked like a place in limbo. But he feared its plummeting value would mean he would eventually have to take it off the market. I perked up when Gulzar started talking about Ibrahim’s family and how they had helped him recover from his tragedy. He said he had never lived in a quiet, remote mud–shack before and his tedious family lawyer duties in Baghdad were put starkly into perspective. Ibrahim then asked him if he could advise the family in terms of planning and land issues but even though he had no experience in that field, he was desperate to help and began expanding his limited lawyerly knowledge. He was now ready for a battle with developers, he said, and ‘wouldn’t give them an inch’. I began thinking about the battle back home between the developers at the old Turner Brothers’ site and campaigners who were worried that the whole area was contaminated and needed to be made safe. I had only read one article on the subject – through choice – but shouldn’t I have read more? There was plenty of publicity about the campaign so why had I ignored it? As the night wore on, Gulzar asked me about my background and how England had reacted to foreigners in the Sixties. I felt flattered that he wanted to know so much about me and I couldn’t resist the temptation to tell him everything about my illness and how it had come about. He also told me he knew a relatively well–off Iraqi friend in Derbyshire who ran a solicitor’s firm and could help me with my problem.
‘Why haven’t you tried for compensation?’ he asked. ‘I’d take them for everything.’
I didn’t have an answer and chose not to provide the simple one: fear. I didn’t want to go through the strain of being asked detailed questions about my symptoms from solicitors on their daily rounds. They would delve deep and aim to uncover things that weren’t relevant. Some would manipulate and twist the facts. It was an ordeal I could do without at this stage in my life. Gulzar sensed I was uncomfortable talking about it and didn’t press home the point. He also misinterpreted my reticence as tiredness.
‘You can sleep in Rashid’s room,’ he said. ‘Ibrahim will show you where it is.’
‘No, I’m fine really.’
‘I insist. We have a lot to talk about tomorrow, particularly your grandson. We will go to Sadr City and get him for you. If you want to stay here, that’s not a problem.’
‘I’d prefer to go myself and see him. It’s really a private matter between us. I’m grateful for everything you’re doing for me but I’d like to do it that way really.’
Gulzar smiled and looked at Ibrahim. ‘Private matters in Iraq, hey Ibsy?’ Gulzar turned to look at me again. ‘There’s not much that’s private over here. There are holes in every wall.’ He sighed and picked up a date. ‘But it’s not a problem; I respect your decision totally. I was simply thinking about your safety and health. Sadr City is not as dangerous as last year because of the surge but it’s still got big problems.’ He put the date into his mouth. ‘But what about seeing a doctor? They’re very good round here – they have to be. I know a very good one who saved my father–in–law after his stroke. He can give you good medication.’
‘Thanks, but I’m only thinking about Wasim at the moment.’
Gulzar nodded and spat out the seed in his hand. ‘Pity, he’s not thinking about you.’
Gulzar wanted me to relax at his house for a few days, particularly after I told him about my umpiring background and how I could bring the game to Iraq, but I didn’t want to waste any more time because I was desperate to know what Wasim was up to. So he decided to drive me to Sadr City himself, in Ibrahim’s car, but admitted he was only doing it because of my stubbornness and his respect for elders. It wasn’t that it was too dangerous, he said, although that was a problem, it was more that he didn’t want ‘a tourist’ like me to see this part of Iraq because it created a bad impression. I felt he was overdoing it but the deeper we got into eastern Baghdad, I started to understand what he meant. As we stopped at the fourth checkpoint, an Iraqi guard with a brown handkerchief tied round his face, checked the boot of our car but I couldn’t stop looking at the massive 12–foot concrete barrier behind him. It stretched down the road as far as I could see, on both sides, and I wondered how the cordoned–off people in this place actually got around. The guard eventually gave us the all–clear and we drove down into a more populated part of the town. I looked out and could see two young boys daring each other to touch the barbed wire as a niqab–wearing mother tried to usher them away. A battle tank and two Humvees were stationed by a burnt–out car with three American soldiers examining the damage; they obviously weren’t concerned about the group of boys on the other side of the car who were running away with one of the wheels. Most of the crumbling, impoverished buildings I could see were still in one piece but the odd one was completely sliced off or disfigured and I wondered if anyone actually lived there. Outside one of these shattered buildings, a young boy was attending to an old man in the back of a wheelbarrow navigated by a donkey. Three women, in multi–colo
ured headscarfs, were a few yards away from him waiting to be ushered across the road by another Iraqi guard. It was a lot to take in but, ultimately, I felt the opposite of what Gulzar had said. I didn’t think the place created a bad impression at all. In fact, it was strangely comforting and invigorating. I felt better than I had for days.
Gulzar drove into a narrow street and hadn’t said anything for about 15 minutes. He obviously knew the place well because he turned briskly into every corner and even acknowledged a beggar by name. Eventually, he stopped by a market area and said we couldn’t go any further in the car. There was less security in this area but I still spotted two American soldiers with their helmets off, sitting on an empty market stall talking to a man in traditional Arab headdress and robe. There were stalls left and right but hardly any customers. Where was everyone? Was there a curfew? We walked down the bumpy dirt–track and Gulzar immediately put his hand over his nose. A few yards ahead, the dirt–track was full of water and muck and we had to walk on tiptoe across the edge to get past. I didn’t look down at the sewage because I didn’t want to feel sick – but it wasn’t as though I hadn’t smelt a lot of that lately.
After a few minutes of deep concentration and delicate walking, I suddenly felt a poke in my back. I turned round to see one of American soldiers looking down on me with his rifle by his side. His tightened the chin strap on his loose helmet and then touched his shades.
A Fistful of Dust Page 6
