that between Bustanji’s visits, and they were only twenty-four hours apart (he was always on time), the Iraqis had invaded the country. Apparently they had blasted Kuwait City with helicopters and boats and completely taken over everything including airports and borders. A whole occupation had occurred, but I have no note of it, as when I heard the bangs I had not logged them, as I kept forgetting to look at my watch when they happened.
Dad got up. He did not seem to believe Bustanji would just reappear but then again he wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t.
I went outside with Dad. The sun had made itself so hot it had lost itself in its own aura. It was all black fuzz for a couple of minutes and I could only see negative images. Bustanji’s son, Waleed, was standing behind his father, trying to find shade. He was so blond, far blonder than me, that he looked like a doll when the sun hit his cheekbones. He was all flushed. I remember him waiting with the keys to his cheap car in his hands, his shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple, two yellow pubic-looking hairs curling over the top.
‘You should not be coming out here,’ Dad said, ‘we don’t know if it’s safe yet.’
‘I told him.’ Waleed looked so anxious, so exposed, ‘I told him, ya Doctor, we don’t know what will happen, but he insisted…’
Bustanji had green flecks in huge eyes that were always shocked in their sun-beaten skin. That day he was wearing his funny black pantaloon trousers, like an ancient Turk.
‘These plants won’t last two minutes without me in this heat, not two minutes.’ He stroked the dust off the leaves he was holding possessively between the fingers of his left hand.
‘We can water the plants,’ Dad was holding his hand above his eyes. ‘You should stay at home. You should not be travelling over here from Hawalli. You should be thinking about what to do. We may all need to leave. You never know.’
‘Leave? Leave what? The country? Forget this subject. Who would water the gardens? Where would we go? Not again, not again. How many times in one life? Palestine, Jordan, Lebanon … Where can we go anyway? Even if we wanted to? Where in God’s name? Where? Not again.’
‘I told him, Sir, Doctor,’ Waleed’s nose was sweating – little beads huddled together on the tip. He was unable to look at me and I thought that it was maybe because I hadn’t put anything over my vest before I went outside.
It was all dark for a while when we came inside as our eyes adjusted to the change. Dad looked out again at Bustanji bent over the earth in the grey-white light, Waleed trying to argue with his back. ‘He puts everything into that boy, everything,’ and Dad did not seem to be thinking when he did this, but he raised his hand and sort of patted my head, as though half with me, half with himself, but also half comforting, ‘and done a good job too.’
Looking at the diary now, I can see that even my handwriting was changing then, flipping styles mid-sentence, even mid-word. I was still playing around to see what fitted.
02.08.90 16:43 White Ford Pick-up going towards the Police station.
02.08.90 17:20 Caprice Classic moving down towards the highway (silver).
02.08.90 17:42 (Iraqi) Tanks (two) coming from the highway.
I presumed the tanks were Iraqi. I could not imagine that there was anyone else who was about to fight.
That evening I pulled out my maths books and closed the door so Dad would not catch me. I had always quite enjoyed algebra.
It was dark when the knocking started at the door, first with knuckles then with a flat hand or two. I could hear it upstairs. From the banisters I saw Dad place his book down on the coffee table and walk towards the door and I imagined soldiers – armed, sweating, bored and destructive. The picture of the dead South American student I had seen in a colour magazine as a child came back into my head. He had been shot in the back and was lying with his hair still shiny and
Dad got up. He did not seem to believe Bustanji would just reappear but then again he wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t.
I went outside with Dad. The sun had made itself so hot it had lost itself in its own aura. It was all black fuzz for a couple of minutes and I could only see negative images. Bustanji’s son, Waleed, was standing behind his father, trying to find shade. He was so blond, far blonder than me, that he looked like a doll when the sun hit his cheekbones. He was all flushed. I remember him waiting with the keys to his cheap car in his hands, his shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple, two yellow pubic-looking hairs curling over the top.
‘You should not be coming out here,’ Dad said, ‘we don’t know if it’s safe yet.’
‘I told him.’ Waleed looked so anxious, so exposed, ‘I told him, ya Doctor, we don’t know what will happen, but he insisted…’
Bustanji had green flecks in huge eyes that were always shocked in their sun-beaten skin. That day he was wearing his funny black pantaloon trousers, like an ancient Turk.
‘These plants won’t last two minutes without me in this heat, not two minutes.’ He stroked the dust off the leaves he was holding possessively between the fingers of his left hand.
‘We can water the plants,’ Dad was holding his hand above his eyes. ‘You should stay at home. You should not be travelling over here from Hawalli. You should be thinking about what to do. We may all need to leave. You never know.’
‘Leave? Leave what? The country? Forget this subject. Who would water the gardens? Where would we go? Not again, not again. How many times in one life? Palestine, Jordan, Lebanon … Where can we go anyway? Even if we wanted to? Where in God’s name? Where? Not again.’
‘I told him, Sir, Doctor,’ Waleed’s nose was sweating – little beads huddled together on the tip. He was unable to look at me and I thought that it was maybe because I hadn’t put anything over my vest before I went outside.
It was all dark for a while when we came inside as our eyes adjusted to the change. Dad looked out again at Bustanji bent over the earth in the grey-white light, Waleed trying to argue with his back. ‘He puts everything into that boy, everything,’ and Dad did not seem to be thinking when he did this, but he raised his hand and sort of patted my head, as though half with me, half with himself, but also half comforting, ‘and done a good job too.’
Looking at the diary now, I can see that even my handwriting was changing then, flipping styles mid-sentence, even mid-word. I was still playing around to see what fitted.
02.08.90 16:43 White Ford Pick-up going towards the Police station.
02.08.90 17:20 Caprice Classic moving down towards the highway (silver).
02.08.90 17:42 (Iraqi) Tanks (two) coming from the highway.
I presumed the tanks were Iraqi. I could not imagine that there was anyone else who was about to fight.
That evening I pulled out my maths books and closed the door so Dad would not catch me. I had always quite enjoyed algebra.
It was dark when the knocking started at the door, first with knuckles then with a flat hand or two. I could hear it upstairs. From the banisters I saw Dad place his book down on the coffee table and walk towards the door and I imagined soldiers – armed, sweating, bored and destructive. The picture of the dead South American student I had seen in a colour magazine as a child came back into my head. He had been shot in the back and was lying with his hair still shiny and
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