Baghdad Central by Elliott Colla Read Free Book Online Page A

No funeral. The news delivered late one night, a rumor passed on by an acquaintance. The only official recognition of Uday’s death they ever received was his punishment – the abrupt fall to civilian police.
    In 1991, Khafaji knew from the outset what the visit from the soldier was about. It just took him a while to figure out why it was happening. After an hour, they cleared up the misunderstanding. The messenger was supposed to visit another Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji. Still, the scene replayed in his mind for days after. Khafaji allowed himself to imagine that the death of the other man’s son meant that somehow his own son had survived. That somehow Uday had managed to eke out a few more years of life somewhere. As if that would have taken away some of the pain.
    At that moment, Suheir’s doctors had just discovered that her cancer had metastasized. That misaddressed report of someone else’s death was news neither of them could stomach. They never talked about it again.
    When the other Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji first appeared in his life, it was farce. When he returned a second time, it was tragedy. And now? Khafaji clenches his jaw and tries to ignore the pain.
    Minutes later, the American and the Mosuli walk back into the room, brisk and serious. In their hand, a thick Manila folder. This is the only script he knows, so he recognizes it immediately. File and Dossier . They don’t bother to sit. And now Khafaji recognizes the man. Of course. His picture used to appear in the papers and on the television. Spokesman for the exiles. Anyone would know the face. But it was his Arabic that was so confusing. Until today, Khafaji had never heard the man speak anything but English. It neveroccurred to him that the man even spoke Arabic, let alone like an Iraqi.
    The man’s dream of retribution was now coming true. Now, purity would sit in judgment over corruption; those who left would judge those who remained behind. It’s not for nothing they call exile the cheapest form of patriotism.
    The man looks at a file in front of him, but directs his words at Khafaji. “You claim you’re not Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji?”
    â€œThat’s my name, but you have the wrong person.”
    â€œYou are not Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji of the Qadasiya?”
    â€œThat’s someone else.” Khafaji hears the words coming out and is once again surprised at how remote his voice sounds. Like a wounded bird.
    â€œYou’re an officer in the IPS?”
    â€œI am Muhsin Khadr Ali al-Khafaji. Born Karbala, June 6, 1942. Chief Inspector. Iraqi State Police at Baghdad.”
    â€œParty rank?”
    â€œSection Member.”
    â€œSays here you were a Branch Member.”
    â€œNo.” Khafaji pauses. “I didn’t have much of a choice. It was the same rank anyone else in that position would have. Just look at my file.”
    The two men stare at Khafaji, but say nothing. The American scribbles something in his notebook.
    â€œWhere is my daughter?” Khafaji asks abruptly.
    â€œHmm?” The American makes another note. “We’ll come back to that later.”
    He picks up a photograph and holds it in the air. He squints at it, then at Khafaji, and then at the photograph again. He makes a note. The Mosuli leans over the desk, and gestures for Khafaji to look into his eyes. The light reflecting from his bald head is distracting.
    The American takes more notes, then whispers to the Mosuli, “They look enough alike.” Turning to Khafaji, he asks, “How can you prove who you are?”
    â€œYou can ask anyone. Look at my file.”
    â€œYou burned them.”
    â€œWe never burn archives. They were stored away. I’m sure you have them by now.”
    The Mosuli grabs Khafaji’s right hand before he can pull it away. He studies the palm and fingers. When he speaks, formulas roll off his tongue. “Start with fingerprints. And investigative detention.