Read Online Baghdad Fixer by Ilene Prusher - Free Book Online
Authors: Ilene Prusher
Tags: Contemporary
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nodded, and though we were sitting in the garden speaking quietly, I felt his discomfort with any political talk in our house. Most people I know don’t like the Kurds, especially the nationalist ones from the north. A Kurd from Irbil probably would have a bad time in Baghdad.
“I was thinking, Sam, that many of the interpreters for the Ministry of Information are professionally trained. Maybe you would prefer to work with one of them.”
Her nose crumples as if smelling something bad. “Someone who used to be a minder? That’s the last person I want to hire.”
I have never heard of a “minder” before, but I can use my imagination.
“You know, they’re basically government lackeys who happen to speak some English. Kinda like a low-grade spy. There’s no way I’d voluntarily work with one of them.” She raises her hand and waves it until a skinny waiter in a bowtie, the ends of it drooping like a frown, heads over to our table.
“Nabil, listen. Your English is essentially perfect, and that’s why I want you to work with me, but I also think this is a good opportunity for you. You’ll get to find out what’s really going on and meet people you’d never meet, and you’ll help me get the right information out there in the public eye. That’s never happened in Iraq before. Do you know how important that is?” She looks up at the waiter and offers a tart smile. “I’m starving,” she says to me. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
I look at my watch. It is nearly 10:15 a.m. I ate almost three hours ago, and I didn’t feel hungry then, either. “Please, not for me.”
She turns back to the waiter. “Do you think you could make me a cheese omelette? With toast?” She seems uncertain about this request. Does she think that Baghdad is such an Arab backwater, that we have nothing but fuul and hummos for breakfast?
She stares at me hard now and when that strange gold-brown light in her eyes hits mine, I have to avert my eyes for a moment.
“Let’s try this,” she says. “Work with me for a week at $100 and see how it goes. You have nothing to lose because school’s not in session anyway, right? If things go well, I’ll ask my editor about bumping you up to $125 a day. If it’s not your thing, fine, no commitment, we go our own ways, s hukran and maa-salaama .”
I raise my eyes involuntarily, surprised at her Arabic.
“Deal?” Sam holds out her right hand.
I am about to give it to her, but am suddenly aware of the waiter rushing back to the table, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, Misses Samara, but no eggs. No eggs today. But toast. We make the toast.”
Sam grins and drops her hand.
“Deal.” I have the urge to take her no-longer-on-offer hand, to feel her skin against mine for a moment longer than a handshake. Then I remember Noor and instead my hand curls in on itself. I feel my nails digging into my palm, almost hard enough to break the skin.
~ * ~
6
Digging
Sam leaves me at the pool and says she’s going upstairs for a minute to change. When she comes back fifteen minutes later, she has swapped her snug jeans and T-shirt for a pair of flowing black trousers and a loose, white blouse with long sleeves. It has blue embroidery around the collar, sort of like a peasant dress converted into a modern lady’s shirt.
As she is on her way over to me, a young man with blond, curly hair shouts her name from the far side of the pool, waving both arms in the air.
Sam beams. “Oh my God,” she squeals. “I can’t believe it!” They rush towards each other, the man more quickly towards Sam, and when they meet they embrace with their bodies locked tightly against each other for a moment.
“When did you get in?” Sam asks when he finally lets go.
“Yesterday,” he replies, “but Jesus, it feels like a week.” His accent sounds like an American one I have heard in a film, maybe
“I was thinking, Sam, that many of the interpreters for the Ministry of Information are professionally trained. Maybe you would prefer to work with one of them.”
Her nose crumples as if smelling something bad. “Someone who used to be a minder? That’s the last person I want to hire.”
I have never heard of a “minder” before, but I can use my imagination.
“You know, they’re basically government lackeys who happen to speak some English. Kinda like a low-grade spy. There’s no way I’d voluntarily work with one of them.” She raises her hand and waves it until a skinny waiter in a bowtie, the ends of it drooping like a frown, heads over to our table.
“Nabil, listen. Your English is essentially perfect, and that’s why I want you to work with me, but I also think this is a good opportunity for you. You’ll get to find out what’s really going on and meet people you’d never meet, and you’ll help me get the right information out there in the public eye. That’s never happened in Iraq before. Do you know how important that is?” She looks up at the waiter and offers a tart smile. “I’m starving,” she says to me. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
I look at my watch. It is nearly 10:15 a.m. I ate almost three hours ago, and I didn’t feel hungry then, either. “Please, not for me.”
She turns back to the waiter. “Do you think you could make me a cheese omelette? With toast?” She seems uncertain about this request. Does she think that Baghdad is such an Arab backwater, that we have nothing but fuul and hummos for breakfast?
She stares at me hard now and when that strange gold-brown light in her eyes hits mine, I have to avert my eyes for a moment.
“Let’s try this,” she says. “Work with me for a week at $100 and see how it goes. You have nothing to lose because school’s not in session anyway, right? If things go well, I’ll ask my editor about bumping you up to $125 a day. If it’s not your thing, fine, no commitment, we go our own ways, s hukran and maa-salaama .”
I raise my eyes involuntarily, surprised at her Arabic.
“Deal?” Sam holds out her right hand.
I am about to give it to her, but am suddenly aware of the waiter rushing back to the table, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, Misses Samara, but no eggs. No eggs today. But toast. We make the toast.”
Sam grins and drops her hand.
“Deal.” I have the urge to take her no-longer-on-offer hand, to feel her skin against mine for a moment longer than a handshake. Then I remember Noor and instead my hand curls in on itself. I feel my nails digging into my palm, almost hard enough to break the skin.
~ * ~
6
Digging
Sam leaves me at the pool and says she’s going upstairs for a minute to change. When she comes back fifteen minutes later, she has swapped her snug jeans and T-shirt for a pair of flowing black trousers and a loose, white blouse with long sleeves. It has blue embroidery around the collar, sort of like a peasant dress converted into a modern lady’s shirt.
As she is on her way over to me, a young man with blond, curly hair shouts her name from the far side of the pool, waving both arms in the air.
Sam beams. “Oh my God,” she squeals. “I can’t believe it!” They rush towards each other, the man more quickly towards Sam, and when they meet they embrace with their bodies locked tightly against each other for a moment.
“When did you get in?” Sam asks when he finally lets go.
“Yesterday,” he replies, “but Jesus, it feels like a week.” His accent sounds like an American one I have heard in a film, maybe
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