Read Online Baghdad Fixer by Ilene Prusher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ilene Prusher
Tags: Contemporary
Ads: Link
one of those John Wayne Westerns we used to get at the video stall with all the illegal copies of old films. “Came in with the Fourth Infantry. How ‘bout you?”
“About five days ago,” Sam says, “but we’ve been in the north with the Kurds since the start of March.”
“Sammy-baby, what a trooper! You’re my idol, man.”
The man’s clothes look so informal next to mine: faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved undershirt with an adventurer’s waistcoat over it. I look down at my tie, my best trousers my mother pressed to make sure I would be presentable, and I begin to feel ridiculous.
The man smiles widely at Sam and scans her up and down, as though checking to see her own dress code. “You staying here?” he asks.
“Sweet, huh? They’re getting the pool cleaned up and everything.” She turns to me and gives me a hand gesture to come join them.
“Sunbathing in Baghdad. Nice,” the man says. “We’re living in tents in the yard of one of the palaces. Can you believe that? We’re like campin’ on Saddam’s lawn. The generals are in one of his living rooms. But I’m hoping to get out of this embed soon and then maybe I’ll be able to check in somewhere a bit more plush, like this.”
Sam cups a hand over her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun creeping higher in the sky.
“By the way,” he says, “CNN’s having a big barbecue on Friday. You should come.”
“Oh, yeah,” she answers. “I heard that. I’ll try to make it.”
“You look great, Sam. I think war agrees with you. You always manage to look ever so fetching in the middle of a shithole.”
Sam smirks, otherwise ignoring the comment, and then takes my elbow to move me closer to them. “Oh, Mark, this is Nabil. Nabil, Marcus Baker of the New York Times.”
I hold out my hand and he grabs it roughly, squeezing it so hard I feel that all the bones in my hand ought to have been fractured. “Gooda meet’cha, Nabil.” He says my name with a long Nah to start, NAH-bil, placing the accent in the wrong place. It’s wrong, but not worth correcting. I see that Marcus Baker has the same weird phone as Samara. They read off numbers and jab at their keypads. They smile and hug once more.
“Shall we?” She raises her eyebrows at me. “ Y’alla .”
I follow her out of the pool area towards the first tower lobby, pondering whether I should tell her that this use of y’alla is too colloquial, to the point of being rude, as a way of telling someone to move along, unless you know them quite well. We walk around to the hotel entrance, and the drivers loitering near their cars stare at her, then at me, and then pretend not to notice us. Sam lifts her hand to her brow and moves her head from left to right, scanning. “There he is,” she says, and I see Rizgar, the driver who came with her to Noor’s house, stand up and raise his hand.
Rizgar is not driving the shiny black 4x4 jeep he had two days ago, but an old blue Impala that is as long as a living room. He holds the back and front doors open for us and sweeps a hand to show us in. “You remember Rizgar, don’t you?” It seems a strange question. Does she think there were many foreign women with their own drivers who showed up at Noor’s funeral? But perhaps this is her way of reintroducing us.
I feel unsure of where I should sit. Ought not a guest, especially a woman, feel more respected, and more protected, by sitting in the back? But Sam hops into the front seat without a word. The car’s interior is dusty, and I can feel the particles in the air starting to tickle my nose. Most importantly, I feel relief. I am glad to find that Sam is no longer travelling around in that fancy new jeep with a sign that says TV on it.
Rizgar smiles at me in his rearview mirror.
“New car!” I say. “Very nice.”
“The jeep is good for the north, because the roads are difficult,” he says in Arabic.
“About five days ago,” Sam says, “but we’ve been in the north with the Kurds since the start of March.”
“Sammy-baby, what a trooper! You’re my idol, man.”
The man’s clothes look so informal next to mine: faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved undershirt with an adventurer’s waistcoat over it. I look down at my tie, my best trousers my mother pressed to make sure I would be presentable, and I begin to feel ridiculous.
The man smiles widely at Sam and scans her up and down, as though checking to see her own dress code. “You staying here?” he asks.
“Sweet, huh? They’re getting the pool cleaned up and everything.” She turns to me and gives me a hand gesture to come join them.
“Sunbathing in Baghdad. Nice,” the man says. “We’re living in tents in the yard of one of the palaces. Can you believe that? We’re like campin’ on Saddam’s lawn. The generals are in one of his living rooms. But I’m hoping to get out of this embed soon and then maybe I’ll be able to check in somewhere a bit more plush, like this.”
Sam cups a hand over her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun creeping higher in the sky.
“By the way,” he says, “CNN’s having a big barbecue on Friday. You should come.”
“Oh, yeah,” she answers. “I heard that. I’ll try to make it.”
“You look great, Sam. I think war agrees with you. You always manage to look ever so fetching in the middle of a shithole.”
Sam smirks, otherwise ignoring the comment, and then takes my elbow to move me closer to them. “Oh, Mark, this is Nabil. Nabil, Marcus Baker of the New York Times.”
I hold out my hand and he grabs it roughly, squeezing it so hard I feel that all the bones in my hand ought to have been fractured. “Gooda meet’cha, Nabil.” He says my name with a long Nah to start, NAH-bil, placing the accent in the wrong place. It’s wrong, but not worth correcting. I see that Marcus Baker has the same weird phone as Samara. They read off numbers and jab at their keypads. They smile and hug once more.
“Shall we?” She raises her eyebrows at me. “ Y’alla .”
I follow her out of the pool area towards the first tower lobby, pondering whether I should tell her that this use of y’alla is too colloquial, to the point of being rude, as a way of telling someone to move along, unless you know them quite well. We walk around to the hotel entrance, and the drivers loitering near their cars stare at her, then at me, and then pretend not to notice us. Sam lifts her hand to her brow and moves her head from left to right, scanning. “There he is,” she says, and I see Rizgar, the driver who came with her to Noor’s house, stand up and raise his hand.
Rizgar is not driving the shiny black 4x4 jeep he had two days ago, but an old blue Impala that is as long as a living room. He holds the back and front doors open for us and sweeps a hand to show us in. “You remember Rizgar, don’t you?” It seems a strange question. Does she think there were many foreign women with their own drivers who showed up at Noor’s funeral? But perhaps this is her way of reintroducing us.
I feel unsure of where I should sit. Ought not a guest, especially a woman, feel more respected, and more protected, by sitting in the back? But Sam hops into the front seat without a word. The car’s interior is dusty, and I can feel the particles in the air starting to tickle my nose. Most importantly, I feel relief. I am glad to find that Sam is no longer travelling around in that fancy new jeep with a sign that says TV on it.
Rizgar smiles at me in his rearview mirror.
“New car!” I say. “Very nice.”
“The jeep is good for the north, because the roads are difficult,” he says in Arabic.
Similar Books
