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Wed. 31.03.10

Left home at 9:30 a.m for Wakefield Coach Station for coach to East Midlands airport. This was our first time from East Midlands. We arrived on time, checked in and had a good meal in the restaurant, had a quick look around the duty free and was presented with a complimentary glass of Baileys to try to see us on our way. The flight took off early and after a couple of G&T’s on the plane we arrived on time in Monastir. This was our 5th time to Tunisia but we were a bit nervous about the transfer as we had never booked an independent transfer before, but Michelle from Global Holidays had been her usual efficient self and everything went smoothly. We had a whole coach for 4 of us, plenty of room to spread out for the journey to Sousse. We had a quick and efficient check in at Riadh Palms hotel, a lovely room overlooking the pool and sea. Nothing to complain about so far. Went for dinner and had a nice meal of cous cous and lamb, had a quick beer after dinner then back to the room to unpack and catch up with some sleep.

Thurs. 01.04.10

A welcome meeting had been arranged for us at 9:30 a.m. which was a surprise as we didnt expect this as we had not gone with a tour operator. Sarah who was an English girl living in Tunisia was the hotel (Medhotels) rep. We have done most of the touristy things in Tunisia on our previous 4 visits but did make enquiries about the Red Lizzard train and we booked ourselves onto the Alzahra Sound and Light trip. After breakfast we also booked a spa treatment package for the next day with the on site newly opened spa. We sunbathed all day until 4 pm and then had afternoon pancakes but decided we really didn’t need these after all the food we ate at lunchtime so decided we wouldn’t have pancake break again! We then went in search of the England Bar attached to the hotel so we wouldn’t miss the important (to us anyway) upcoming football matches. At 6:30 pm we went to see Sarah to pay for the excursions but she had disappointing news about the Red Lizard it still wasn’t running due to flood damage last year. Never mind, a good reason for returning again as well as the good weather which we had to admit was better than we expected. After evening dinner we played cards in the lounge with the help of a few drinks. As we were still a bit tired we didn’t venture into the disco.

Fri. 02.04.10

Our spa day so we had a reasonably light breakfast in view of all the massages that were coming up, so we headed for the spa at 9:30 a.m. This was a fantastic decadent morning which I can thoroughly recommend. We had a body scrub and body seaweed wrap in the hammam, hydro massage, waterfall massage, etc which all lasted 2 hours. We then went off and booked ourselves into the a la carte restaurant for later in the week followed by a beer before lunch. After lunch we had someone trying to talk us into more spa treatments but we had already decided we would have another go before we went home at the end of our holiday. We sunbathed until at 3:00 p.m. when a cold wind got up. We had pre-dinner G&T’s (but not as we know it!) and after dinner we played cards again with coffee and brandy also not as we know it!

Sat. 03.04.10

After breakfast we sunbathed until 11:30 then we changed and headed off to find a decent football bar. We found the Rose & Crown in the Taj Marhaba Centre as recommended to us which was only a few minutes walk away, this was a nice centre and the bar was really friendly and good atmosphere. 5,600DT per pint all spoilt because we lost. We hurried back for lunch which is served until 3:00 p.m. just made it but they didn’t seem to mind at all and insisted we take as much time as we wanted along with 3 glasses of red wine each and then insisted we finished off the rose, paralytic we then left and went to our room and slept it off then got ready for dinner with usual G&T, dinner, coffee & brandy, etc.

Sun. 04.04.10

Early start on beach for hopefully a full day sunbathing. We took sandwiches made at breakfast time as we were getting a bit over faced with two big meals a day. The cold wind got up again and we gave in at 3:30 pm and walked into Sousse. When we got back we had hot chocolate with brandy and read before getting ready for dinner. Usual after dinner entertainment.

Mon. 05.04.10

Very windy today but nice warm sun so walked into Sousse to look around the medina to see what we couldn’t live without. We bought some saffron but didn’t buy anything else saw lots that we could have! Went to see the hotel where we stayed 35 years ago. The centre of Souse has vastly changed from my memories and the hotel looks something of a 1 star now with no pool. We returned to the hotel mid-day by which time the wind had dropped so we sat in the sunshine and had a couple of beers before lunch at 2:30 pm. After lunch we got changed and went to the beach for an hour. Back to the hotel for an hour’s nap to recover from our long morning walking around. Went down to the lounge about 6 pm for coffee and read for a while before getting ready for our evening in the a la carte restaurant. It was nice to have waiter service for a change. “Entertainment” in the hotel lounge tonight. Singer/organ/synthesiser player but at least people got to have a dance if they wanted and it did make things a bit livelier, we even had a night off from card playing.

Tue. 06.04.10

Disaster day the camera broke so spent half the morning trying to make it work but gave up in the end and bought a disposable from the shop outside the hotel. As most of the morning had gone by then and it was an overcast day we had a couple of beers in the hotel gardens and read for a while before lunch, better than being back at work after Easter anyway. We had an early lunch as we were going on an excursion to Friguia Animal Park (a Dolphinarium also opening soon). This was about an hour away and the day finished with a 5 course deal and Zulu entertainment in the early evening. It was a great place for taking children and we were lucky as there were several baby animals around at the time lions and meercats. The seal show was brilliant and very entertaining but the camel ride or not was useless. We were told to head off to the camel ride straight away when we got there, before the coach parties, i.e. Thomas Cook, Thomsons, etc arrived so we wouldn’t have to queue but they wouldn’t let us go on them until the coach parties had been and gone by which time lots of time had been wasted. We didn’t bother but it was very disappointing for children as it then meant they didn’t have time to go around all the park. More time was needed really to go around, we were two adults and didn’t manage to see everything in the time allowed and we walk faster than children. The meal and entertainment were enjoyable. We were back at the hotel at 8:30 pm so rushed straight over to the Rose & Crown to watch the Arsenal/Barcelona match and then headed back to the hotel. We collected 2 double brandies for our room then had an earlier night while we did a quick manicure and pedicure whilst enjoying our brandies.

Wed. 07/04/10

We were now into our second week. It was overcast and windy again today so we went for a walk along the beach in the direction of Port El Kantoui. The sun made a few appearances so in the end we had a nice walk and decided we would do it again on another overcast day. We also made the decision to walk to PEK. We were back to the hotel by 11:30 a.m. for a couple of beers and read before lunch. Great the sun came out and the wind dropped so we decided to have a late lunch and make the most of it. After lunch we sunbathed again and read and had coffee and brandy and got ready for an early dinner and had a quick nap. After dinner over to the Rose & Crown to watch yet another disastrous match. Back to hotel. We decided to try the Ceratine and discovered it was actually what they had been serving us for brandy all week! At least we enjoyed it. Back to our room with double brandies (or was it Ceratine?!) and read before sleeping.

Thur. 08/04/10

We walked along the beach to PEK. It was a dull start to the day but the sun got out as we reached PEK. We nearly got washed away by the sea as we rounded the last bend but managed to dry off by the time we got to the port area. We headed to L’Olivero for pizza and a bottle of wine and sat in the lovely sunshine there for 2 hours. We then went back to the fountain area and discovered we had just missed the afternoon show of dancing waters so sat there in the sunshine for most of the afternoon. We had a quick look around the shops then got a tuk tuk back to the hotel for a well deserved beer at 4:30 p.m. the tuk tuk cost 2DT each as opposed to the taxi which was 5 and the train 15 each. We found a couple of sunbeds in a sunny spot and read for a while enjoying our beers. After dinner we sat in the lounge and watched the more energetic having a dance to the sing/music player. We discovered the hotel “show time” was actually held in the disco from 9:15 pm there was no indication anywhere that this happened! It took us a week to find this out only because we say everyone coming out at 11: pm. I thought this was a bit late for children really. At 11:30 pm we went to give the disco the once over but although it was open it didn’t start until 12:00 midnight. We couldn’t be bothered hanging around waiting so decided we would give it a go another night and collected our usual brandies from the bar and went back to our room for a read before sleeping.

Fri. 09/04/10

Another disastrous day. It started off well enough, nice sunny day. We made sandwiches for the beach so we could make the most of it. We had booked a late afternoon/evening trip to Alzahara, a sound and light show with meal included so we had to leave the beach at 3:30 pm. Unfortunate as this was the best day yet. We headed to reception at 4:45 pm for the coach to pick us up at 4:50 pm but were still waiting hour later so rang Sarah the rep to find out what was going on. She didn’t know why we hadn’t been picked up but suggested we get our own taxi as if! We made it quite clear how annoyed we were as we had come off the beach early and now had to hang around waiting for dinner at 8:00 pm. She said she would give us our money back tomorrow when she came to the hotel at 2:00 pm, so another day we are expected to hang around the hotel. Don’t know what she thinks we need all that money for now when we are AI. Went back to the room to dump our bags and collect our books and headed to the bar to drink and read until it was time to get changed for dinner. Usual evening.

Sat. 10/04/10

Cloudy today so headed for Medina in Sousse to do some present shopping. We had a shower whilst in there. We bought lots of lovely pottery (and still haven’t decided where we are going to put it all!) and then when we got back to the hotel just before lunch the sun had come out. We sat on the loungers and had a drink before dinner but after dinner the shade had caught up with the sun loungers so we headed for the beach. The left hand side of the pool seemed to get the shade by the late afternoon. After dinner we thought about going to watch the Real Madrid/Barcelona game but got a bit late so played cards as per usual.

Sun. 11/04/10

After breakfast we arranged for lava stone massage for Tuesday then headed for beach whereupon we had an argument with the sunbed man who was extremely rude and aggressive, he expected people to tip him for moving a sunbed for them. We were quite capable of doing this for ourselves and tried to make it clear to him but he was very insistent. It annoyed me that sunbeds were always arranged around the pool every day but not on the beach purely, it seemed, so that he could pick one up and put it down for you and you were expected to tip him. We do not mind tipping people on holiday and always do but we do this at the end of our holiday and not every time someone decides to move a muscle for us. To me the whole point of going on an AI holiday is so that you don’t have to worry about having money on you every day. I will be ready for him next year. He was the only person who spoilt our holiday. We had sandwiches on the beach for lunch then headed off to the Rose & Crown to watch the ManU/Blackburn game another disaster drew 0:0, we said our goodbyes to the staff and headed back to the beach. After dinner we sat out in the garden as it was a lovely night.

Mon. 12/04/10

After breakfast headed off to the Medina to do last bits of shopping, we had showers again but it brightened up so we headed for the beach just before lunchtime but it clouded up again and started raining again so headed in for lunch. It was sunny again after lunch so sunbathed all afternoon. After dinner we had music again in the lounge, we had more drinks then at midnight headed off to bed with what we thought was brandy but when we tasted it it turned out to be whisky not too bad though for a local drink!

Tues. 13/04/10

Today we had our lava stone massage straight after breakfast for us both 9:00/10:00 a.m. I did my packing whilst Liz went for her 9:00 a.m appointment. At 10:00 a.m. I went to the spa, first 15 mins hammam then on for one hours stone massage. Best massage I have ever had and thoroughly recommend. Meanwhile Liz had been packing and so we met up at 11:00 a.m. and after confirming our transfer back to the airport we headed for the beach where we had our first beer of the day and read before eating our sandwiches with a glass of wine on the beach. We sunbathed until 5:00pm then headed off for coffee in the hotel before getting ready for evening meal. Dinner at 9:00 pm then finished evening off in hotel lounge.

Wed. 14/04/10

Up at 7:00 a.m. for early departure from hotel at 8:30 a.m after breakfast. Everything went to plan and we were soon settled on the plane with a decent G&T headed for home.

My final thoughts being we will take our own bottle of gin next time!

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Photos: author

At first, there were two villas.

DeBritish, as the Iraqi maids called him, was the boss of both. The protection business was his. He made the deals and everyone had a job thanks to him.

At the New Villa, there was Ali-foreman and Ali-paint. Fat Mohammed was the electrician. Ammar, with the thin, thin neck, dug the holes outside. They came every morning to remodel the place. Every evening they left. No one lived there except me, upstairs in the yellow room.

The contractors jokey ex-marines, ex-paratroopers, ex-Iraqi army slept and trained at the Old Villa. The clients lived there too, in decorated rooms. I was in one of those for a while before there were too many clients. Then I was in a container with the contractors, then in the New Villa behind the Chinese restaurant in the Greenzone.

Each decorated room came with a mini-fridge with a tall can of cold beer and two candy bars inside. It wasnt anything like the Iraq I had seen over the last five months. Everything was clean and put-together.

At the Old Villa, Qusay was the chef. Patrick, the Filipino, was the manager and Saife did everything else. In the evening most of the Iraqi servants left, none of them lived at the Old Villa except for Saife.

**********************

The contractors smoked Honeywell cigars and wore bullet-proof chest plates over t-shirts. They wrapped their compact rifles in Sunni head clothes so the polished metal did not glint in the sun. They ball-busted in dark, dark shades skinny rectangular lenses. They drove around Baghdad in a fleet of bullet-proof Mercedes sedans polycarbonate thermoplastic windows, two inches thick.

Thats how they rolled.

Ambassadors, international businessmen, Non-Governmental Organization big-shots and anybody with wasta wanted them for protection.

What about the roadside bombs, truck bombs, rocket attacks and the militia kidnappers dressed as police, the big shots thought.

Protection is a money-maker in Iraq because those threats thicken the air like the fine dust on storm days. And few big shots know how to kill or when to fight back.

What if the driver gets sniped, they think.

What if its me, they think.

Then they contract some muscle.

All the contractors at the old villa had a good sense of humor. And except for Fingers, they were all big guys with knotted arms and sly, crazy grins. None of them were stupid or pretentious. No ilusionados like in California.

Half the contractors were Iraqis and half were from the United Kingdom. They showed me how to un-jam an AK-47 and how to find the Ukrainian brides with the good proportions.

When there was nothing to do, we talked on the wrought iron chairs in the yard. Here and there we talked about the Thai whores of Dubai but it was mostly about worst-case-scenarios and double-tapping and throat-slitting — the ins-and-outs of all kinds of death, mate.

We talked about killing so much the talk became my thoughts.

After that, everything else was unnatural.

**********************

The new villa was being fixed-up for more expats. The business was growing. Nice lawyers and articulate state-department-types from good universities were moving in to advocate for human rights. They needed protection, breakfast and a clean guarded place to sleep.

One of them brought his Nintendo Wii and a trunk full of fake Nintendo instruments.

Before the Old Villa vanished, Patrick, Saife and I got blitzed three nights in a row and played Rock Band with the expats in the air-conditioned living room, on a wide-screen television.

I was bass, Saife on the drums, Patrick played lead guitar.

“What the fuck ees dees won,” Saife asked.

Is good.

Ees Aerosmith, Fatboy. Dream On.

**************************

In the Old Villa kitchen, under Qusays direction, I chopped cabbage, onions and carrots for broils; potatoes for chips.

“If you are not a soldier, why are you here?” Qusay asked.

“To take pictures,” I said.

“Thats stupid,” he said, switch.

“Why do you have holes in your pants,” he asked.

“Thats the style in Canada,” I said.

“Daniel is an Iraqi name too,” Qusay said, “for Iraqi Christians.”

“Are you Christian,” he asked.

Schweyeh, schweyeh, I said.

Qusay shook his head.

He said his name meant a point far, far away. He said that in the same voice he used to talk about Mohammed.

Qusays eyes changed when he talked about those things. They closed halfway.

Qusay knew who the boss was. He knew who was close to DeBritish and who must have meat and who must be served quickly so the food was hot. Qusay chose carefully when to talk about the meanings of Iraqi names and Mohammed. He knew he served a table of lightweight Catholics and atheists.

Saife heard us talking about names with his hands in the dishwater. He straightened an arm toward heaven and said his meant saber. Onion-water dripped on his head.

Saife appeared to be nothing like his name, but he was.

He was 510 and round like a medicine ball. Saife had a huge ass that hung out of perpetually wet sweatpants. He drove a truck on house errands because he could not fit into a car.

But beneath all that meat, bracing his Jurassic spine, there was a steel blade. The blade sang at odd times, like a pitchfork, and the sound of it scraped Saifes brain.

*********

In that way, Saife and Liam, the old Scottish medic, were alike.

Liam heard incoming rockets before anyone else. The brief whistle before the boom scraped Liams brain and pushed his body. His face tightened all of a sudden and he dove from his seat. I learned to follow.

Doont bdaft Danny, geh thfook doon, Liam said.

It was shame made the steel sing in Saifes head. By the time I learned that, Saife was gone and it was too late to follow him.

*********

Saife ate his family. That was the rumor. No one had ever seen them and he rarely spoke of them.
Pobrecito Saife.

When I showed up at the old villa, Saife had just turned eighteen.

“I love Iraqi, I love American, I love British,” Saife said, on a night we nicked two gallons of booze from the contractors stash.

He was not sharp joven, gordo, ilusionado but he was burro-strong and he had spirit.

I was into the whiskey.

Saife finished his sixth or seventh beera then showed me his purple hand.

He put a cigar out on the back of his hand when his uncle joined the Mahdi Army. He re-lit the cigar three more times before he finished burning himself.

Saife was Sunni. He was ashamed of his uncle for joining the Shia militia so he burned through the thickest veins in his hand and he didnt feel anything, he said.

Saife burned himself for shame.

And he didnt like it when he didnt get paid.

And he didnt like it when the Britons called him Fatboy.

“Dudeki!” Saife called back. “Motherfucker! Koosortek!”

But there were more of them than him.

They were just fucking with him.

Sometimes Saife didnt care.

Sometimes he did.

Saife wanted to kill his uncle. Saife wasnt afraid, he didnt feel anything.

Lee-esh, I asked.

Why kill?

It was all very cloudy.

My brain was fat and the colored lights strung around the yard streamed across the wet glaze on my eyes.

Kill him because he joined a militia or kill him because he joined the Shia militia instead of al Qaeda?

Those things were always cloudy here. With the war, these were places to take cover. Now it was just
rubble baking in the sun. Now there were as many questions as there were displaced families.

Are you Sunni first or Iraqi first?

Saife?

Have 150,000 Iraqis died or have that many Shia and Sunni died in Iraq?

It was all very cloudy after the war. Life was beginning again but the militias still bombed the markets
and government buildings, unarmed people. In April, strings of bombings killed and maimed all over Iraq.

The threat thickened the air like the smoke and the dust.

No one knew why. They watched the television news reporters say the militias were backed by money from Iran and Saudi Arabia. The overarching goal was to create instability in al-Malikis new government. Iran and Saudi Arabia were jockeying for influence over Iraq.

When those succinct broadcasts ended people returned to their cloudy lives and all the floating questions:

Are you a peaceful man or the man of the house?

If you are the man of the house you better work.

If you are the man of the house, you better defend it the militias can help with that.

If you are the only man, where do you go?

I was drunk. I promised Saife I would help kill the traitorous uncle.

Sadeeki, we said, one after another.

Outside the sculpted concrete walls of the Old Villa, dumpster dogs growled over one lame, pregnant bitch. She had a matted golden coat and a broken leg that was turning black. Every night, the dogs found her.

Saife and I shook on our murder promise.

We drank some more and threw kitchen knives into the ground and listened to the dirty golden bitch squeal.

That was the night song.

**********

Intesar was boss at the new villa. She was in her thirties and she judged everyones work with bright eyes, black eyelids and pursed wet-looking lips.

The doctor was her assistant. He tested the light switches and brought us lunch.

Intesar was Ali-foremans sister. She ran the construction company and she worked well with foreigners. When she talked to you, she always smoothed your shirt at the shoulders.

When she walked by, Ali-foreman looked at the floor because she was his sister. Ali-paint looked after her and exhaled in English, my God that woman, oh my God.

Ammar, whose head bowed naturally, always said a quiet prayer.

*************

In the new villa, I slept upstairs, in a small yellow room with a huge bathroom. The bathroom had deep, deep blue tile and a western toilet. There was sand in the carpet and the faucets didnt work. Neither did the toilet. For a long time, I used the spigot outside to wash. It was ok. I was out of money. I was stealing booze these days, not selling pictures.

Water came out of the spigot scalding, as though from a kettle. After a week, its low rumble when Ali-paint washed the rollers started to scrape my brain. Sometimes I flinched.

The water ran for a full minute before it cooled enough.

As it poured out, it did not pool on the ground, it disappeared instantly. The sand ate it.

****************

In exchange for my room at the new villa, I rolled the walls upstairs with Ali-paint and I dug the holes with Ammar. Every day, Ali-paint and I sang along with the Lebanese techno-pop girls on his phone. Ammar liked the Lebanese girls too, but mixed it up with Kathem al-Sahare, the Elvis of the Arab world.

When the spigot was dry, we said, makoo mai.

There were no hammers or pliers or screwdrivers when we needed them in the New Villa. We all shared broken version of each.

Makoo tal nefece.

After a few days, the doctor stopped bringing falafel sandwiches.

Makoo akeel, we said, Koosortek doctor!

Saife had left us some beera, Heinekin and Tuborg, and that was gone too. There were women and beera in Baghdad, just none for the pobrecitos.

“There is no work, no money, no beera, no bitch, so the other pobrecitos in Baghdad go to the militia,” said Ali-paint. For money.

Twice we talked about pitching in for a woman. There was no money and no one wanted to share her. No one except fat Mohammed the electrician, he didnt care at all. He was lying on the cool stone floor smacking his belly.

The second time buying a woman came up, Ammar moved to the other side of the room.

Haram, he said. He took long breaks in the shade of the villa now. He didnt care if the doctor forgot the falafel in samoon bread because it hurt to eat.

Makoo floos! we sang. Makoo nee-itch!

That was the work song.

***************************

We stomped it out with our rollers on the wall.

Wen beera, wen bitch? Makoo floos, makoo nee-itch!

We sang it with our shovels in the sand.

Ali-paint always started it, skipping in place, slapping his knee.

The intro was the list of nothings:

Makoo mai?

Makoo akeel?

Koosortek doctor!

Makoo tal nefis?

Makoo visa?

Makoo camera?

Makoo whiskey?

Makoo sadikis?

Makoo Amreekie?

Nothing food?

Sister-fucker the doctor!

Nothing screwdriver?

Nothing visa?

Nothing camera?

Nothing whiskey?

Nothing friends?

Nothing Americans?>

*********************

The United States was pulling out of Baghdad and Ramahdi and Fahlujah and all the cities in two months. None of los pobrecitos cared about what happened after that.

It was too hot, mang, too harra to think about big shots.

Ali-foreman was sleeping the afternoons away in my room, on the cool blue bathroom tile.

Intesar cooled the damp skin between her neck and her breasts with a red paper fan she called my Japanese.

Ammars abdomen hurt. It was hard, as though filled with water. He pressed on it with his finger tips.

*******************

As the intro finished, Fat Mohammed, the electrician, bellowed his part:

Makoo flooOOS? Makoo flooOOS? he sang from a room further down the hall, where sparks from the exposed wires in the wall shot holes in his cigarette cloud. Rising from tenor to alto, his voice boomed. His eyes rolled back. He smacked his belly, four smacks per measure.

Ammar twirled his wide hands on his stick-arms and bobbed his head on that piece of string. His part was next:

Wen beera? Wen bitch? Eyahaha! he screeched.

Weeen? Eyahaha! Weeen?

His part was the most joyous because without the work song, Ammar had nothing to say.

Me? I was, the wonkey cakewalker, tracking watery white latex up and down the New Villas stone stair case:

Makoo floos? Makoo nee-itch! Eyahaha!

I never felt closer to Allah and the simple truth of it all. I became epileptic.
EYAAHAHAA!

The work song always evolved into a spastic dance-off that ended when Ali-paint fell down laughing.
Intesar always shook her head.

*****************
Viva Iraq mate, viva the sounds of the desperate dogs y los pobrecitos.

****************
You are not Iraqi, Qusay said.

You cannot know my people.

Qusay asked me one day how I could trust a taxi driver in Baghdad.

He asked because thats how I got around, in taxis, with my camera wrapped-up in a kefeeya or a grocery bag. He asked because he heard me introduce myself, more than once, as Canadian, Colombian or Kurdish.

The driver may kill you or sell you off at anytime, Qusay said, flicking a finger across his throat.
Everybody was about to get their throat slit in Iraq. Everybody was doing some slitting.

My taxi screening process was simple. He wanted to know, so I told him.

When a car pulled up I asked the driverin English who would win in a Kung-fu battle, Jesus or Mohammed.

If the driver spoke enough English to respond, he could also translate for me. If he didnt shout haram at the idea of prophets duking it out Shaolin-style, odds were there wouldnt be any shouting about prophets at all.

******************

I had helped around the kitchen for a few days now.

We became friends, Qusay and I, by asking questions.

This time he didnt like my answer. I had insulted Mohammed.

Never speak that again, he said.

I am Shia. I love Mohammed. Say it again say it again you will not live.

I said nothing. I was smoking one of Saifes Gauloises Blondes, toying with the idea of killing Qusay first.

**************

Earlier, I had asked about Qusays wife.

She was his cousin.

Will you take another wife? I asked.

“Man, I will take three more,” Qusay said.

His other cousins were not menstruating yet. He said he would marry them after that started.

Can you take all four to bed all at once? I asked.

From the dish-pit, Saife shouted, Haram!

No, Haram, Qusay said. No Haram.

Qusay said he will take one in his lap, one on his face and one on each nipple.

He was snickering then. It was ok with Qusay to talk about women.

******************

Now, he glared at me through his half-closed eyes. We were no longer friends, though we shared the same patch of shade beneath the only tree in the yard. Qusay loved Mohammed. For that he should kill me, he said.

A cubic mile opened-up between us. Perhaps it was other things, I thought, a buildup of slights.

Perhaps it was because I drank in the kitchen or because I looked at the maids.

In the shade of the tree, it was a livable blue. Without the shade, the world was yellow and baking.

I cracked a false smile and laughed and asked that puta to chill-the-fuck-out but he didnt budge.

After that, there were no more questions. He was stroking the inside collar of his chef jacket with both hands.

Puta sucia, I said.

He understood because I had taught him a few words in my native Colombian but there were no more jokes either.

I can kill, Qusay said in crisp English.

I will do it, Qusay said, kissing his fingers, Ask it again.

******************

I thought about killing him because the idea was easy here.

It was fine.

If he came after me, it would be with a curved kitchen knife in my lower back, I knew that much. Qusay would think long and hard about when to do it. Qusay, esa puta sucia, con su cuchillo divino, would choose a time carefully.

But Id kill him first with my Beretta double-tap mate. Send a round through each collarbone and pistol-whip him; lick his ear and let him know what Ill do to his mother.

In hand gestures and broken Arabic I’d paint a spectacular picture, mate.

The sharpened tire iron would work too.

When he tries to deflect the lunge at his guts, Ill bury the crooked point of it in his femur.

Yes, mate.

Liam said the femur is where all the blood is made.

Spear the femur all the way through, hell go down. Pull it out, and hell bleed to death. Doing it this way allows twenty minutes for theatrics while he bleeds. Thats how Liam would do it, with an improvised speech.

Twenty minutes to mock his family and his religion. Twenty minutes to watch the sand swallow gallons of his leg.

From that day until the end of the two villas, I never turned my back on Qusay.

He wasnt scared of my thoughts.

I was.

That puta knew I could never kill anybody.

********************

The Iraqi contractors stayed in the caravan when it was too late for them to leave the Greenzone or when they had to transport a client early in the morning.

It was a plywood box next to the Old Villa with a television and bunk beds.

Saife stayed there all the time. If he had family, no one knew where.

If they werent washing their cars and juggling footballs in his stomach, Fingers said, they might be in the north, maybe Mosul, maybe Tikrit.

In the caravan, Saife and I watched Kathem al Sahare sing on the television.

Kathem was singing on a neon blue stage. Behind him an orchestra of shadowy oud, qanun and darbuka players swayed with his voice. Circles of cool blue light rippled from where he stood like the stage was a pool of water.

Saife sat to my right, trading insults on the phone with his sadeeka, spitting as he spoke. To my left was a mountain of cigarette boxes and a row of water bottles half-filled with cigarette-butt soup.
The whole place smelled like tuna sweat.

It had been three months since DeBritish paid him. There was no money for sadeeka or her family, Saife said.

Kathem was singing about a woman named Ensa, a woman he could not forget. The harshness of the world was too much. Kathem wanted Ensa by his side.

His body fidgeted on the pale screen as if restrained by ropes. At the height of the longest note, Kathems hands broke free and opened like flowers. His head plunged backwards.

Sadeeka wants too much, Saife said at last, balling-up on his side, tilting the bottom bunk.
This was when Saife, the first to disappear, began his departure.

*************************
After Kathem al Sahare sang of Ensa, Saife stopped talking.

He smoked his Gauloises Blondes and sweated stolen booze and let his work go unfinished. You could smell the booze when he sulked by.

Blankness replaced his wide open eyes and toothy smile.

He was silent for two days. In the early hours of the third day, he spoke again, but not convincingly.

What I know, I heard secondhand from Muthana:

Saife rolled up to the check point at the edge of the Greenzone before sunrise of the third day.

There was something about Saifes voice or his face the guard didnt like.

Maybe the guard didnt like fat-ass Sunnis. Maybe Saifes bribe was chincey. Whatever it was, the guard did something very unusual in Iraq: his job.

Unlucky Saife, gordo, pobrecito.

Muthana said that guard should be promoted to Iraqi general, because he wasnt asleep or wanking.
Qusay’s diced, deep-fried eggplant breakfast was tossed in ketchup for Saifes birthday. The maids and the contractors nodded at Muthana with full, greasy mouths.

It was amazing: the guard checked Saifes papers and searched the car.

Pobrecito Saife, Allah willed it.

The car belonged to DeBritish. It was one of the armored Mercedes. Saife had copied the keys in secret.

In the trunk the guard found several unregistered AK-47s; in the glove box, a heavy wad of cash; in the backseat, a hundred pounds of ammunition and medical field kits worth thousands in the states.

Saifes plan was to sell the car and the rest of it. He was almost there. The buyer was twenty yards away, on the edge of the Fourth of July Bridge, Muthana said.

“That guy was probably going to resell to al Qaeda or the other militias,” Muthana said.

Instead of embracing and kissing cheeks with a briefcase full of floos for his sadeeka, for Tuborg and Heineken a cubic mile opened between the money and the fat ass.

Saife was detained by the guard at rifle-point and arrested by Iraqi police.

His buyer disappeared.

DeBritish got a phone call and the Old Villa Iraqis turned on Saife.

Muthana and the other Iraqi contractors paid police to kick the shit out of him.

No one had been paid in months not even the muscle.

Saife was fucking it up for men with children.

Saife is Ali Babba, Muthana said.

They sent him back to his family.

**********************

Saife was the first to disappear. Before we all followed, I heard he awoke from his concussion somewhere in Karrada, with two teeth and a dozen broken ribs.

It hurt for sure, but the shame sound, the scrape, may have left his mind.

Two weeks later, the heat died down and the market people talked about the 18-year-old chunk who stole guns, cash and a car from a pack of mercenaries.

If that gordo-Ali Babba could walk, he walked a little taller in Karrada, with wasta.

Wasta of a different type, mate, not a title mate, or money; not an advanced degree and good intentions, the kind reserved for Iraqi men with bothered heads, who bet their lives against armed contractors and militia wholesalers.

Think about the burro balls that took mate, and tell me fat-boy, fat-tart, fat-fuck and Saif-e-licious dont really mean saber.

*********************

The villas are still standing, weathering the dust and the weekly rockets from Sadr city. They are still there, just not as I knew them when I arrived the spring before last.

When I last saw the Old Villa, it was empty. No more plush couches and big refrigerators. No beds. No fancy garden swing with thick blue cushions. Makoo wide-screen TV. All that stuff was repossessed before our eyes and from under our asses.

Less than a month after Saifes beating, mate, DeBritish, boss of both villas, retired early. He fucked-off on an early morning flight to Dubai and disappeared.

Debritish was the second to vanish. When he left, he took the clothes on his back and the contents of the safety-deposit box.

One more Ali Babba, Muthana said.

Si, said I, Bandito.

None of the contractors had been paid. Saife, Qusay and Patrick had not been paid. Intesar y los pobrecitos had not been paid. Los pobrecitos didnt even get lunch.

Koosortek doctor!

Rent on the villas had not been paid. The plush furniture, the fleet of Mercedes and $10,000 in auto maintenance had not been paid for either.

The man who made all the deals flew with everyones money — between $300,000 and a million dollars by Liams estimate.

In less than a day, word spread that DeBritish wasnt coming back and the old villa was swarmed by armed collectors. They wanted their money and there wasnt any so they took what they could grab.
They started with the electronics, then the tables and chairs, then the paintings on the wall. Some Iraqi tried to run off with one of the upright toilets.

The maids were crying. I worried after them all, especially Souhaila. Now that she had worked with westerners, no one Iraqi would give her a job, she said.

Militia men had threatened her life already, she said. The make-up was sliding off her face. The make-up was much lighter than her real skin.

She had no choice but to work with westerners, she said:

“My son! He is eighteen! There is something wrong with his head! He wont work. He wont leave the house. He wont open the shades and leave his bed!”

No husband, she said.

The lazy son is the only man.

Souhaila was round like Saife but small, with kite-stick legs. I saw shadows of them once when the wind hit her abbayah head-on and the black fabric became paint on her body.

The sticks were wobbling now. Souhaila leaned heavily on the other maids and cried until she disappeared. When the maids left, they took all the remaining food and the medicine with them.

The expats were next.

They texted, Facebook-ed and emailed their way to a new contract with different protection service.
They were sweating more than usual in their jackets and ties. It was an oven without the villas shade. Their collars came undone but I never really worried after them. A powerful wasta, the U.S. Department of State, was on their side. They would all find their way to decorated rooms elsewhere.

When the expats disappeared from the Old Villa in borrowed van, they took their trunks, all the fake Nintendo instruments and all the wine.

I didnt worry much after the contractors either. The Iraqi half knew where they werent welcome in Baghdad and the Britons had all seen much worse.

The short end of the stick though, belonged to the Britons. All the Iraqis had jobs on the side. The Britons had become like los pobrecitos: no home, no money. They had makoo to show for the last several months but two feet in the fine, eager sand.

Perhaps they were los pobrecitos all along.

Ammar knew about being sexless and he knew the difference a little cash can make in a mans life he never saved enough for a wife, but before the war, when there was work, Ammar didn’t worry about sharing his prostitutes.

The day DeBritish left, Ammar was too sick to be angry about his pay. He lay on the cool blue tile between Ali-foreman and Ali-paint, far from fat Mohammed the electrician, and he recited a long prayer for the contractors.

Ammars body was crumpled the way it was after a few short hours of work, his hands and feet looked awkward and limp but his eyes were lucid.

In his brain, Ammar saw the contractors fair dispassionate wives and Ukrainian brides and their girls-on-the-side lit pale blue.

He saw the Britons return to beds as cold as the weather that fell on their homeland. The most basic principle of the universe, Ammar said, applied to big-shots and ex-soldiers and ditch-diggers the same: makoo floos, makoo nee-itch.

Ali-paint smoked Davidoffs and laughed as he translated.

Ammars prayer celebrated that common bond. And he asked Allah not to forget the Britons, but, maybe, show los pobrecitos de Iraq the path to money first.

“We are much closer to Mecca,” Ammar said.

I pressed on Ammars turgid belly through his dirty purple dress shirt with my fingertips and thought of all the lesser poets growing old in their starched, dreary suits.

It was painful to think of how clean they are.

*************************

Ammar, Both Alis, Mohammed and Intesar left early that day and stopped showing up to fix the new villa.

It was their turn to disappear.

The doctor had been a myth for weeks now.

Me? I said as many goodbyes as I could and encouraged the expats to take more wine. Then I went back to the yellow room.

I wasnt ready to leave yet.

Patrick, the Filipino manager, tossed a stone at the window at dusk.

When he left the Old Villa, he took all the hard liquor with him. I promoted him from Old Villa Manager to Benevolent Genius and we invited some other Filipinos over to witness his inauguration. They all worked for different western agencies with kitchens and each one nicked a different kind of food for the party.

There was a toast and a promise. I promised to one day help Patrick find his estranged father. The father was a retired Karate teacher and part-time stuntman in Los Angeles. The father was a soldier who left Patrick in the Philippines with his mother and never returned.

“I just want to ask why,” Patrick said.

I was drunk.

Yes, I said, Why abandon your family?

Lee-esh?

We toasted more and I stopped thinking about my voice. I thought about my ears and I scanned the darkness for the night song. I was sure it was there. I was sure it knew why. There was a desperate note that would tell Patrick all he needed to know.

*********************

After the Filipinos disappeared, I resumed painting.

Wen beera? Wen bitch? I asked the last uncovered wall. I was stirring the water-cut paint alone.
I had to finish the big, empty living room of the New Villa.

It was my job since I stopped selling photographs.

It was the least I could do. I was the only one who got paid.

Before he left, DeBritish handed me an envelope with five-hundred dollars inside. That envelope and some ingenuity paved my way to Afghanistan before fall.

Five-hundred dollars will get a pobrecito a long way. In Karrada, a kebab and a post-war pack of Gauloise Blondes comes to a buck you can squeeze two kebabs out of it if you act a little squirrely.

The first thing I did with it was catch a football game on Aaras Island: Karrada Vs. Sadr City.

Lah.

The first thing I did was catch a taxi to Aaras Island.

I picked an innocuous corner off of Yaffa Street and waited with my head wrapped up in a dirty black-embroidered kafeeyeh.

There were kids playing between reinforced Iraqi police pick-up trucks. They were Ford f-250s with machine guns mounted in the back.

Suited men hopped the puddles and mud patches in the unpaved sidewalk. There were a hundred taxis, always compact, white 4-door cars with orange fenders.

I passed on the first seven.

One guy had an AK-47 in the back seat and gun parts all over the dash. That one was like Saife, on his way to wasta.

One guy was driving on a flat tire. Another smelled like donkey shit. None of them spoke English.

When the eighth pulled up, it was a young, sad-looking guy. Beer bottles were in a pile on the floor on the passenger side so I said hello and made small talk in shitty Arabic.

The sad-looking guy answered in sad-sounding English, so I asked him:

“In a Kung-Fu fight, who would win, Jesus or Mohammed?”

*****************

What I would have given for Qusay to be numero ocho, mate.

After the Kung-fu question Id rip the dirty kafeeyah from my face!

Salam, puta suciaaaa!

Id choke the sister-fucker with a sly, crazy grin.

***************************

No such luck.

Instead, I got Fahady: I dont know man who thinks about that? Its shit.

Fahady was not witty.

He charged too much.

He off-gassed a powerful form of frustrated depression, that, I believe, jammed the airwaves around his taxi.

Thats why the radio never worked.

On the bright side, his English was good and he had friends in the police who called when there was an explosion.

He was it.

For the next two months Fahady took me to bomb sites all over Baghdad and to the hospitals.

The slow, folksy song he sang, quietly, something like a chant, something like a prayer, while we waited for orderlies to open up the emergency ward, was the hospital song.

It always spread down the flickering corridors, moving into from one mouth to the next like an act of hypnotism. I remember the shutter sound of my camera cutting into it in the dingy waiting areas and in every yellow-lit room.

It was breathed by all the motionless cousins and grandparents squatting on the floor, smoking with their elbows on their knees.

Fahady translated a portion of it for me, the part about a dying pobrecito trying to impress beautiful Layla.

‘I hide my approaching death from everyone,
If they knew, they would try to console me.
I know they cannot.
I walk and smile, Layla, I am stubborn.’

Its still in my head, this long after I disappeared.

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