Read Online The Tobacco Keeper by Ali Bader - Free Book Online Page B

We drank in the midst of the din, while reporters came and went and waiters ran to and fro carrying glasses, bottles and plates. There were cameras, papers, facts, numerous faces and beards, long hair and dim lights. There was also a strong smell of fermentation as well as shouting, conversations, loud noises and many languages. This was a place I really loved. Nancy sat by my side, her leg touching mine. I talked to her with my shoulder against hers stealing brief glances into her eyes. She felt my warm breath and my touch. She knew that I was choosing my words carefully with the express purpose of exciting her. She laughed loudly and wiped her brow.
    We spoke, of course, about the murdered Iraqi musician. We also talked intermittently, in the midst of the clamour and the shouting, about the trip to Baghdad and the information that was available. Faris sat facing us. He took care of the orders and spoke to the waiters, a cigarette in his mouth and a glass between his fingers, loudly addressing some man or other, or a woman sitting nearby. He allowed me to get close to Nancy and talk of old times. Mostly we recalled things that had happened between us when we’d been together in Beirut. Then the restaurant began to grow quiet. Light-headed from drinking, the journalists in the bar started to head to their homes and hotels.
    At Nancy’s insistence we returned to the topic of Kamal Medhat.
    The following day, Faris left for Baghdad in the hope of arranging a place for me at the agency site, in a building near the Associated Press inside the Green Zone. I stayed on in Amman, from where Iset out to find information. I had to prepare a short biography of Kamal Medhat, as well as detailed maps of the capitals he’d lived in: Baghdad, Tehran and Damascus. I also had to find maps of those cities from the time of his residence and to assess the changes that had taken place.
    I returned to my hotel at noon. The moment I stepped into the lobby, I saw Nancy sitting in the corner with her driver. She saw me come in and rushed over, saying that Faris was in Baghdad and that everything was ready for me. He’d be there to meet me at the airport. She gave me my plane ticket and a card with some important information. She also gave me a badge attached to some blue cord, to hang around my neck. This was my press card with the agency logo, stamp and licence. Nancy looked utterly exhausted, as though the volatility of the situation in the Middle East had left its mark on her face and hands. Although she was only thirty, the curls of her soft hair seemed ashen. She looked as though she were at a funeral. She was pale, worn-out and tense, and she was chainsmoking. Her appearance aroused strange and contradictory feelings in my heart. I reminded her that we were supposed to meet in the evening to spend some time together before I left, but she apologized, saying she had some urgent business to take care of in Damascus.
    By dawn I’d flown to Baghdad.

IV
The imperial city and the emerald bars
    ‘Your destination?’ The man at the entrance of Queen Alia airport in Amman asked me. He had a bushy moustache that hid his lips, and a blue beret pulled down over his forehead.
    ‘Baghdad,’ I said, putting my suitcase on the floor.
    He shuddered a little, looked me straight in the eye and asked, ‘What do you do?’
    ‘I’m a journalist,’ I said and showed him the card hanging from the blue cord on my chest.
    He searched me carefully with his hands, tapping on my back and shoulders as well as between my legs. He ordered me to take off my shoes. So I removed my shoes, my khaki jacket, my glasses, my mobile phone and my belt. I placed all the items in addition to some coins in a grey plastic tray, which he passed through the machine. I was then allowed to go through the metal detector. There was a woman carrying an expensive leather bag walking next to a man dressed in a white suit and silk tie. He had a gold ring on his finger. There was also a