The White Zone Read online

  Jabir lifted his hand briefly, then pushed aside a broken metal gate. He gestured toward the inside.

  Gradually, Talib’s eyes grew used to the darkness. He made out great blackened rolls and the darting of rats. Rusted mesh and chunks of concrete poked through the thin soles of his shoes.

  When they reached a stone slab, Jabir sat down and reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

  Talib took his place on the stone, keeping his distance.

  Jabir tapped one end of the cigarette against his thumbnail, then lit it. “So what is it you want?”

  “My cousin Nouri . . .”

  Jabir held up a hand, exhaling smoke through both nostrils. “I don’t care about details. What do you want to do?”

  Talib took a big breath. “I want to get back at my cousin.”

  “Really?”

  In the gloom, Talib sensed Jabir examining him. He swallowed hard. “Really.”

  A truck passed by, and the building shook. Talib glanced up at the trembling ceiling.

  Jabir rapped the stone slab with his knuckles. “Then it’s simple. I can teach you. Throw it and whamo!”

  “But that might kill someone,” Talib protested. He glanced at the light coming from the front of the building. How long would it take to get away?

  “But I thought you wanted to get back at him.”

  Talib shook his head. He imagined hurling a gasoline bomb at Nouri’s house. It might go through a window as the rock had. Or it might sail over the wall to land in the courtyard with the dry fountain. Into A’mma Maysoon’s house of Friday feasts. Blasting her glass room of orange trees and pigeons. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Hey! Who’s in here?” called a rough voice.

  The silhouettes of two Iraqi soldiers appeared, their rifles aimed into the darkness.

  For once, Talib was glad to see soldiers.

  “We’re just talking,” Jabir replied.

  “This place is off-limits.”

  “Get out!” said the other soldier, gesturing with his rifle.

  Talib stood first, followed by Jabir, who lazily stretched as he stood up. They retraced their steps through the building, the soldiers following.

  Outside, Talib blinked in the sunlight.

  “Same time tomorrow,” Jabir said so quietly that Talib wasn’t sure he’d heard. “Over there,” he flicked his index finger toward what had once been a spice shop.

  Talib gave a tiny nod.

  Yet hurrying back to al-Shatri’s, he vowed never to meet Jabir again. He could never create a bomb, much less throw it at his family. What had he been thinking?

  Upon entering the apartment, Talib couldn’t help but notice the way al-Shatri saved bottles. A line of dusty empties was lined up along the wall beside the bags of round white onions.

  HEAVIER

  There was no way that Nouri could walk normally with the large bruise on his side. Talib’s kick had been bad enough. But then he’d fallen down hard on the spout of a metal teapot when Talib had pushed him.

  “Why are you walking like that, Nouri?” Mama asked.

  “I fell off a wall. Jalal and I were playing war.”

  Mama rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what kind of fun that is with real war all around us.”

  Nouri shrugged.

  “Let me take a look. Maybe I can put something on the wound.”

  But with both hands Nouri pulled his shirt down tight. He didn’t want Mama to see. Besides, he felt like he deserved the pain of the bruise.

  But his confession hadn’t released the weight of his burden. The heaviness of what he’d done had only grown worse.

  SPICES

  The next morning, Talib went to the abandoned spice shop after all. He reasoned that if he didn’t go, he wouldn’t be able to face Jabir. And here on Mutanabbi Street, he couldn’t avoid him.

  He didn’t go on time, however. He arrived after the muezzin had called twice.

  Stepping into the murky darkness where sacks of cardamom and black pepper lay broken open, he sneezed.

  “Jabir?” he called in a whisper, and then louder: “Jabir!”

  No one answered. A rain of dust fell from the ceiling.

  Finding the shop empty, Talib let out his breath. To make up for being late, he decided to wait.

  The sacks lay like sleeping animals, and Talib paced among them, trying not to breathe the spices. He knew he shouldn’t get mixed up with Jabir. His ideas were insane. In his wildest fantasies, Talib had never considered becoming a bomber. He didn’t hate Nouri that much.

  Looking out the small window at the back of the shop—the glass broken—Talib recalled a time when he and Nouri had been about six years old. Nouri had traded his reed flute for a chance to ride an older boy’s bicycle. When the teenager had immediately ridden off, laughing, the flute tucked under his arm, Nouri had cried.

  Talib had offered a pack of gum from his pocket. Together they’d chewed it, peppermint filling their mouths, devising a plan to get Nouri’s flute back.

  This dirt lot outside the window was where he and Nouri had played with the daa’bul not long ago. He leaned out, cutting his finger on an edge of broken glass.

  To forgive Nouri wouldn’t mean he had to go see him. It didn’t even have to mean being friendly. But for now he wouldn’t do anything crazy. He’d wait until he moved back to Karada, and see how he felt then.

  . . .

  Talib strolled over to the magazine stand. He’d say his father had kept him on business. If Jabir pressed him to meet at another time, he’d look him straight in the eyes and say he’d changed his mind.

  At least he’d try to say that.

  As Talib approached the stand, his pace quickened.

  But only a bald, paunchy man stood behind the magazines, under the striped awning.

  “Marhaba, A’mmo,” Talib said. “I’m looking for Jabir.”

  The man shrugged. “He left last night. Didn’t say where to.”

  “He’s gone then?” Talib smiled. What good luck! Jabir had missed their meeting too.

  The vendor shrugged again. “With that boy you never know.”

  ORANGES AND BOMBS

  The winter oranges ripened in Mama’s glass room, glowing like small suns. Each morning, Nouri pulled one off a branch and tore into it. As he bit into the sweet flesh, the juice squirted into his face.

  Nightfall brought the usual battles between Sunnis and Shiites. While the gunfire ricocheted off nearby buildings, Nouri arranged and rearranged his collection of Japanese trading cards. No longer did Baba watch curiously from the window, nor did Mama cower with Shatha behind the table. All four slept in the bedroom at the back of the house, far from the street, used to the sounds of war in the night.

  One morning Nouri went into the courtyard to find a large bullet hole in the windshield of A’mmo’s car. The impact had caused the glass to spider web.

  Nouri bit his lip and looked away.

  Although Baba had talked to friends about buying A’mmo’s car, no one had enough money.

  Nouri should have felt glad that the car was still theirs. Yet it had been a long time since he’d polished it or sat behind the wheel. The car, which had once reminded him so sharply of A’mmo Hakim, now sat with all four tires flat, the once-glossy finish splattered with pigeon droppings.

  A BLUE TAXI

  Slowly, many of the booksellers returned to Mutanabbi Street. Every day, two or three more set up shop. Baba chatted with his old friends, comparing stories of hardship.

  Every day more galleries and cafés opened. Banners flew again. Rock music pounded the air. Men hauled books from one stall to another, their carts clicking.

  More and more shoppers ventured onto Mutanabbi Street, clutching the collars of their winter coats. Whenever anyone stepped onto the carpet of white triangles, Baba smiled and spread his hands, saying, “Look. Please look.” Still, later he’d complain, “Their wallets are so empty.”

  Warplanes crisscrossed the sky and M
utanabbi Street trembled with distant explosions.

  Whenever Talib ventured to the magazine stall, he saw only the older man whom he now guessed to be al-Nakash’s brother. Talib hoped that if and when Jabir returned, he’d have forgotten they ever talked.

  Talib noticed that every day a blue taxi parked in a small side alley. The driver spent his time drinking tea in the chai khana, and the door to the gas cap was missing.

  He noted this out of mere curiosity, he told himself. He didn’t really care that the taxi driver was practically offering him free gasoline. He was just observing.

  Yet when he came upon a short length of rubber hose, he picked it up and tucked it carefully under his coat.

  FIERCER

  That night’s battle was fiercer than usual, with no relief in gunfire. Even sheltered in the back bedroom, Nouri heard bullets pinging against the front of the house.

  Shatha climbed from her spot on the floor into Mama and Baba’s big bed. Nouri wished he could climb in too. But he didn’t feel like sleeping so near Baba.

  Whenever the bombs burst, Nouri sensed the three in the bed above flinch. Even Baba flinched.

  Sometime after midnight, a plane zoomed overhead, droning like a gigantic insect. Then came a huge blast.

  Nouri froze, waiting, his fingernails plunged into his palms.

  After a few minutes of silence, he whispered, “We’re still here.”

  “Praise be to Allah,” Mama whispered back.

  “Praise be,” echoed Shatha in her small voice.

  Only Baba remained silent.

  NEVER

  Talib had settled himself on the wooden box, ready for a day of bookselling, when Baba said, “You’ll need to work alone this morning.”

  “Why, Baba?” Perhaps Baba was off for a long chat with one of his old friends.

  “I’ve heard news about Karada. I’m going back there.”

  “What news?” Talib sheltered his eyes from the cold sunshine, looking up into Baba’s face. Was the news good? Was it now safe to go home?

  Baba’s gaze drifted to a spot somewhere beyond the ruins of the Shabandar Café. He drew his eyebrows together. “A bombing.”

  As the words exploded in the cold air, Talib jumped to his feet. “I have to go with you.”

  Baba shook his head. “Another time.”

  “No, now!”

  Baba rearranged his red scarf. “There’s been heavy fighting in Karada. Last night the battle got so out of control that the Americans brought in a plane and bombed.”

  “A bombing could end all that fighting.”

  Baba grunted, looking down at Talib. Then he bent down and placed a stack of books in a box. “If you’re coming, we’ll have to pack up.”

  . . .

  The bus driver was still suspicious; the red vinyl seats were still dusty. The Tigris River looked drier than ever.

  Talib leaned his forehead against the cold window glass. What would he and Baba find in Karada?

  At last, Baba signaled the driver to let them out and they descended the steps. Once the two halves of the door had closed behind them, Talib looked around. Debris littered the streets. Red and black graffiti, pocked with bullet holes, screamed from the walls of buildings and homes.

  Three American tanks rolled slowly down the street, rubble popping under the great treaded tires. An ambulance roared past, driving halfway up on the sidewalk.

  As they walked, Baba kept looking over his shoulder. There were a few others out, but Talib recognized no one.

  Instead of going straight, Baba turned right, as if to avoid Nouri’s house.

  Two more turns and they’d come to the two-story tan building with the blue trim and the narrow gate. How would he feel to see other people’s laundry on their line? To maybe get a glimpse of a stranger through their windows?

  Suddenly Baba stopped.

  “What . . . ?” Talib started to say. Then he choked his words back.

  This was his street. But there was nothing. Nothing.

  The whole block had been knocked down. Burned. Even his two-story tan building with the blue trim and narrow gate. Even the persimmon tree outside the kitchen window. And Mama’s jasmine bush. Masses of wilted bougainvillea lay over the fallen walls. The row of palm trees stood, but with blackened fronds.

  A group of American soldiers tramped through the rubble, talking quietly among themselves, their guns at their sides.

  Talib looked behind him. This couldn’t be his street! Baba must have taken a wrong turn.

  But Baba was crying out. He held both hands to his head and cried out.

  A cold hand gripped Talib’s heart. This was the right place. This had been his home.

  He would never live here again.

  “I’m going to find Nouri!” Talib shouted, turning away.

  “Talib! Stop!” Baba gripped his arm. “Nouri is in school.”

  “I’ll find him there!”

  “Talib! Nouri didn’t do this. . . .This wasn’t his fault.”

  “But . . . but he . . .” Talib’s mind filled with a red fog.

  Baba held Talib tight until his hot sobs died away.

  Walking back to the bus, they came across a lump of burned cloth. Poking at it with his foot, Talib discovered the stars and stripes of an American flag.

  . . .

  Back on Mutanabbi Street, Talib—hands clenched— went again in search of Jabir. Jabir’s idea was wild. But it was the only idea left.

  At the sight of Talib, the older man shook his head at him. “He’s still not back.”

  “Thank you, A’mmo,” Talib said, then turned away. Really, he didn’t need Jabir, after all. He already knew what to do.

  . . .

  When al-Shatri wasn’t looking, Talib grabbed one of the empty bottles from the collection. He smudged out the clean circle it left on the dusty floor and moved a bag of onions to cover the empty spot.

  He tucked the bottle into a spot between his mattress and the wall.

  . . .

  And yet, Talib still waited for Jabir. He didn’t want to get this wrong.

  He visualized making the bus ride all by himself. But he wondered if his arm was strong enough to throw the bottle far enough. And he worried that he might be seen.

  When he really thought about it, Talib was horrified by the idea of hurting or killing anyone. But sometimes he didn’t think about what would happen when the flaming bomb hit its target. He thought only of his joy in finally doing something, of the moment he would let the bomb fly.

  At last, on a day of cold wind and a bitingly blue sky, he caught sight of Jabir standing guard under the awning of the magazine stall. He wore a scarf wound up around his ears and he hunched against the chill. As Talib drew close, Jabir busied himself with rearranging the magazines.

  Talib flexed his fingers in his mittens. “I need help,” he said.

  “You haven’t done anything yet?” Jabir asked, straightening a stack. “What are you, a little coward?”

  With the toe of his shoe, Talib shoved a pebble back and forth. “I just wanted to be sure of exactly what the . . . what it . . . you know, looks like.”

  Opening a magazine, Jabir took out a pen. He looked around. Then, over an advertisement for a sleek car with fins on the back, he sketched a bottle, drew wavy lines inside it, and then added the rag stopper. Finally, laughing, he drew a picture of a lighted match. Moving the magazine close to Talib, he said, “Throw it quickly so you don’t become a martyr.”

  “Some people choose to become martyrs,” said Talib.

  Jabir stared at him. “Are you ready for that?”

  “Not . . . no . . .” But Talib thought of how the martyr at Buratha had been a young boy like himself. Was he prepared for such a fate?

  “I have no money for the bus.”

  Jabir sighed, searched his pocket, and finally handed over some coins. Then he ripped out the magazine ad, crumpled the page, and tossed it away into the cold wind.

  . . .

&nb
sp; At dusk, the blue taxi was parked in its usual spot, the driver nowhere to be seen. For a few moments, Talib stood looking up and down the alley: no one. Quickly, he knelt. At last, the hose swished against something.

  Talib sucked and got a mouthful of burning gasoline. As he spit it out, the pale pink liquid flowed through the hose and into his bottle.

  As he waited—the hose was quite narrow— memories of Nouri flickered through his mind. Once he’d gone with him to A’mma Maysoon’s family farm in Mosul. That warm morning it had been their job to kneel in the soft soil, pinching three leaves off each watermelon plant, leaving the fourth to grow fruit. He and Nouri had worked elbow to elbow.

  Toward noon they’d scared off a small brown snake.

  At the end of the day they lay together in the field as dusk gathered, pink at the edges of the sky.

  Maybe he wasn’t so angry with Nouri after all.

  But then Talib thought of the wreckage that had once been his home.

  At last the bottle was full and Talib took a rag from his pocket. He was stuffing it into the neck of the bottle when someone called out, “Hey, boy, what are you doing?”

  Talib looked up to see the taxi driver, waving his cap, dashing toward him.

  He hid the bottle under his coat and ran down the alley, passing a group of older boys playing soccer.

  When he looked back, the driver was nowhere in sight.

  Working his way along the side streets, he arrived back at Mutanabbi. It was too late to go to Karada today. He’d get on the bus late afternoon tomorrow. Once in the neighborhood, he’d hide out until nightfall.

  Meanwhile, where should he store the bomb? He couldn’t take it home—not with the strong smell. He thought of the spice shop, which had its own pungent odor.

  He located the shop, looked both ways and entered the gloom. Once inside he felt the sacks with one hand, clutched his deadly burden with the other. Finally, he plunged the bottle deep into a bag of cinnamon sticks.

  THE LIGHT OF ALLAH

  The winter days had grown colder and more bitter than anyone could remember. Mama stuffed towels around the window, but the icy wind still found its way in.