Baghdad Central by Elliott Colla Read Free Book Online Page B

Custody recommended until we can ascertain his identity.”
    Khafaji tries to pull his hand back, but can’t. The Mosuli’s grip is rougher and stronger than it appears. He squeezes the hand until Khafaji winces. “You’ve got blood on your hands, cunt – but whose?”
    The Mosuli turns to the American. “Let’s save him for the IGC tribunal. Keep him apart from the others, at least until we know who he is. No – better idea. Put him in with the jihadis.”
    Khafaji holds his throbbing hand and studies the man’s clean-shaven face. The sculpted eyebrows. The neatly turning lips with more than just a touch of redness. And skin so smooth, like it’s never seen a razor. A boy. A pink rat.
    Suddenly, his voice begins to speak again: “They say that the Minister of Oil has a tail that he keeps hidden! / They say that the Minister of Oil has a tail that he keeps hidden in an American pocket / In an American pocket!”
    The Mosuli’s fist is thick and fast. It knocks Khafaji to the ground. “Learn some respect, you cunt! Learn who you’re talking to. You lost. We won. Smell that shit smell around you? Welcome to your new home. The dung heap of history.”
    By now, he has Khafaji’s skull in his hands. Khafaji’s head hits the concrete. Once, twice, and then he loses track.
    The little man’s shiny face is up against Khafaji’s, whispering, “It doesn’t matter who you turn out to be. You Baathist cunt. You’re going pay for what you’ve done.” Khafaji stares at the man’s perfectly shaped eyebrows. He imagines the man plucking them in front of a mirror.
    Then it dawns on Khafaji that they know nothing about him at all. The strange voice in his throat begins to laugh. He begins to sing with his whole body, though the words are Muzaffar al-Nawwab’s.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  While the party of castrati pursue me
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  While the party of castrati hound me
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  O seeker, search for another door
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  You had better search another door
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  While the party of castrati hound me…
    The Mosuli lets go of him and takes one step back. Khafaji’s song is still hanging in the air as the Italian shoes begin to work.
    â€œYou’re a dead man and your poetry is shit.” After the first few kicks, Khafaji’s eyes close and he feels sleep approaching. He hears shouting, then feels hands putting the hood over his head. He feels hands tying his legs. He feels hands dragging him for miles.
    At some point, Khafaji becomes conscious of the fact that he’s in a room with many other people. His arms are now tied in front, and he manages to roll onto his back. His body jostles others in the process. The ground beneath is cold and wet. Other naked limbs nestle against his legs and arms. It doesn’t matter. He surrenders to rest and sleep. In the muffled darkness, he remembers the hood on his head.
    He listens and it feels as if he’s floating on a gentle sea of human voices. Every current is distinct as they swirl around his ears. Someone on the left is Egyptian. One on the right is from Yemen. The man behind is Sudanese. Like switching from station to station on a radio of the entire Arab world. Khafaji hears snippets from the far west, from Morocco. From Tunis and many from Libya. Others closer to home, someone from Aleppo and someone else from the Hejaz. They are young. Khafaji smiles to himself when sleep finally takes him by the hand.

August 2003
    We were just finishing dinner when my husband heard the knock at the door. Yezid got up from the table to answer it. He was out of his seat and racing down the hall as if he was expecting someone. He was wearing socks and skated halfway down the hall like he always did. We all heard the door open. And we all heard Yezid talking with someone. His sister says she