Gods Without Men, page 33
“You’re Laila, aren’t you,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, almost girlish.
“Yes.”
“Like the song.”
She must have looked blank. He did an impression of someone playing a guitar and hummed a few notes of a riff.
“Not an Eric Clapton fan, then.”
“Not so much.”
“Me neither. I like that one, though. Everyone likes that one.”
He smiled again, waiting for her to say something. She stared awkwardly at the ground.
“Come, Laila,” said Uncle Hafiz sharply. “Come away. Everything is ready now.”
The tall soldier ignored him and stuck out his hand for a dap shake. “I’m Ty.”
She took it, felt it twist and swivel in a quick series of moves, ending in a fist bump.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he grinned. “That’s the way.”
Lieutenant Alvarado clapped. “OK, ladies, let’s get this done.”
Uncle Hafiz knelt down on the floor. Ty put a hood over his head.
“Allahu Akbar!” said one of the insurgents.
“Too soon!” snapped Uncle Hafiz, his voice muffled by the hood.
Since he was best at fiery rhetoric, they’d drafted in the imam to play the insurgent leader. He started off in formal Arabic, apostrophizing Allah the most Gracious and most Merciful and addressing a call to the young men of the Islamic lands never to relent in their fight against the Crusaders and the Jews. He reminded them that there were only two choices in life, victory or martyrdom, and tried to lead his followers in a chant of “death to the Crusader Bush,” temporarily forgetting that none of them understood a word he was saying. Lieutenant Alvarado, who was holding the camera, started to make “wind it up” gestures. The imam ignored him, launching into a new description of the hypocrisy of the invader, who dared use his serpent’s tongue to talk of human rights and dignity when he was the greatest torturer in the history of the world. Alvarado lost patience.
“Just cut his head off already!”
“Allahu Akbar!” shouted the insurgents. Ty started to saw at Uncle Hafiz’s neck, slicing into a blood bag, which spurted realistically down his shirt. Uncle Hafiz fell over onto the ground.
“Cut,” said Lieutenant Alvarado. “That’s a wrap.”
Everyone got up. Ty uncuffed Uncle Hafiz, who insisted on looking at the finished product before he’d let Lieutenant Alvarado pass it for broadcast. He seemed pleased with the result. “Very realistic,” he said. “Very bloodthirsty.” Contentedly he turned the camera screen toward Laila. “See what they did to me? Animals!”
One of the insurgents wanted to know if he could get a copy to send to his mom. Lieutenant Alvarado suggested maybe a postcard would be more appropriate. Ty came over to Laila, wiping the blood off his hands. “That was pretty cool,” he said.
She shrugged. “If you like torture and violence.”
“True. Say, you’re the one with all the vinyl, right?”
“How did you know?”
“C’mon, we’ve been living here for weeks. You want to bring it over sometime, play us some tunes?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I got some records in my storage unit. Soul music, mostly. Old school.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, I won’t cut your head off.”
Laila didn’t find that funny. Uncle Hafiz put a protective arm around her shoulders. The imam shot Ty an angry look. Ty took a step toward him. The imam pretended he’d gotten something in his eye.
After that, Ty always said hello whenever Laila walked past. Sometimes when he was shooting hoops with his friends, he’d throw the ball to her to catch. He never offered to play records for her again, but she could tell he liked her.
“How old do you think he is?” she asked Noor one day.
“I don’t know. Twenty-two perhaps? Twenty-three? Why?”
“No reason.”
“You like him!”
“Don’t be silly.”
“But he’s a black man, Laila. Your uncle would go crazy.”
“God, Noor! I didn’t say anything. You have a one-track mind.”
One afternoon, she was sitting outside the clinic, waiting for BLUEFOR to turn up on a routine patrol. Ty walked by, wearing his Berber headscarf. She called out to him.
“Are you going to ambush them?”
“No. Not on the list today. We’re firing some rockets at their base tonight. Should be cool.”
“OK.”
“Must be kind of weird for you, all this.”
“All this?”
“Playing war.”
“Isn’t it strange for you, too?”
“But you grew up there, right? Before you came to the States?”
“Yes.”
“So isn’t it weird? Living in this place, watching all these doofuses pretending to attack your people?”
“It’s just life, you know?”
He laughed. “That’s one way to think about it. Where you from?”
“Baghdad.”
“I was there. Not for long—I was in the north, mostly. You know Tikrit?”
“Of course.”
She couldn’t have explained why she asked him the next question. It just popped out. “Did you kill anyone?”
He stared at her for a long time.
“Yes.”
“Iraqis?”
“Who else would I be killing?”
She could feel his eyes on her as she walked away.
That night she lay awake and thought about what he’d said; he hadn’t sounded happy or sad or remorseful or proud. Just blank. She groped for her flashlight. Noor had found a gossip magazine with a picture of Nicky Capaldi in it. She ducked her head under the covers and started to read. He was out of rehab and leaving a charity event in London. BACK ON THE SCENE! Nicky C. “tired and emotional” leaving the Artists Against Anorexia bash at Shoreditch House … She tossed the magazine aside. The girl he was with was as skinny as a rail. Maybe she was part of his charitable work.
The next day she saw Ty again. He waved, but didn’t stop to talk. Just then the imam bustled up, a grave and clerical look on his face.
“I must talk to you,” he said. “Seriously.”
“What is it?”
“My dear, I am like your older brother. I see what is happening with you and I don’t like it. You are decent girl, so I know you will accept my advice when I say it is very bad to make conversation with—men like this.”
“I was just saying hello.”
“It does not matter. Please listen to me. I am only concerned for your welfare. There is so much immorality these days, particularly in this place. These soldiers, they are very bad people. Like animals.”
“I thought you supported the war.”
“Please, don’t interrupt while I am talking to you. You are fine young girl. I have spoken to your uncle about you.”
“Why?”
“As you know, I make good business with the hair. I have several young girls working for me, but—I will speak frankly—they are whores. Sluts. I see them leaving for their nightclubs and discos, wearing short skirts and other small clothes. It make me very angry. It is why I am severe with you. It is only because I respect you. You are good Muslim girl, not some American prostitute. This is what I say to your uncle.”
“OK. Whatever. I think I need to go now.”
“But you are prey to many influences. He feels this also. These homosexual singers, with their long hair and makeup. I say to your uncle, he has not been strict enough with you. I have offered to help in your education.”
“You’ve what?”
“I think at the bottom you are a very good girl. But you must wipe off this makeup and dress modestly. And I forbid you to talk to these soldiers. They’re immoral, particularly the black ones. They’re no better than monkeys.”
It was pretty much the freakiest speech anyone had made to her since the president of the math club had written her a poem for Valentine’s Day and tried to recite it in class. She didn’t wait to hear any more, just turned and ran back to the women’s dorm, where she knew the imam wouldn’t follow her. She hadn’t felt so angry since the soldiers came and took Baba. Who did this man think he was? How dare he tell her what to do? Beneath all his pious words was this strange, slimy tone. I will look after you, I will help you with your education.… She knew what he had on his mind, and it was disgusting.
After that, she made a point of spending as much time with Ty as she could. He brought her a disco record he’d found somewhere, a band called Rufus and Chaka Khan. They listened to it loud, sitting on the roof of the clinic container, blasting the music out into the desert as the sun set over the mountains.
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Ty. “I know I can be kind of an asshole. But I find it hard being around Hajis.”
“What?”
“Sorry. I know that’s a bad word to you people. It’s not like I’m racist or anything. It’s just—well, when you’re out there you got to watch your back the whole time. You got to treat everyone as a threat. It kind of eats into you.”
“So you think we’re all terrorists?”
“Not you. Well, maybe that imam dude. He’d like to put the hurt on me.”
“You know he’s a hairdresser?”
“Get the fuck out of here. For real?”
“Ty, why don’t you like us? What have we done to you?”
“It’s not logical. I mean, we’re on a damn Marine base. Safest place in the world. I’m not going to have to go back there, just train other idiots to do it. But I can’t relax. I just want to switch off, you know? Just get a good night’s sleep.”
“Did something happen to you?”
“When?”
“In Iraq.”
“Yes. You could say that.”
“Something bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Are you over it?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
She thought of telling him about Baba. He’d probably have understood. Instead she played him the Ashtar Galactic Command record. He told her it was the worst music he’d ever heard, “worse than Arab music, even,” and though she probably should have been offended, she laughed. He told her they were going to do a big ambush that night, and asked if she wanted to watch. She did, so he took her to the bunkhouse and produced a helmet covered in frayed desert camouflage. Clipped to the front was what looked like a pair of binoculars, a black metal device with twin eyepieces feeding into a single lens. Some of the other insurgents watched as he placed the heavy helmet on her head and adjusted some straps so it didn’t slip down over her eyes.
“You ain’t going to let her borrow that, are you, Ty?”
“Why not?”
“What if she loses it?”
“She ain’t gonna, are you, Laila? Kill the lights, Danny.”
Someone flicked a switch and the room went dark. Ty flipped the binoculars so they came down in front of her eyes, then pressed a button on the side. Suddenly she was in a glowing green world. She could see everything clearly: the guys lying on their cots, the jumble of kit bags and drying laundry, even the pornographic posters on the walls.
“There ya go. Night vision, baby!”
“That’s incredible! It’s like a computer game!”
“Thermal too.”
“Yeah,” chortled someone. “You can see Ty’s got his dick out.”
“Shut your mouth, Kyle.”
At midnight, following Ty’s instructions, she sneaked out of the women’s dormitory and climbed a low hill at the edge of town, which gave her a view over the road. BLUEFOR were due to do a round of punitive house-to-house searches, a favorite tactic of the flattopped major now that he’d more or less given up on Wadi al-Hamam’s hearts and minds. The sky was clear, dusted with stars. Laila flipped down the goggles and watched the insurgents taking up positions, green figures sprawling flat on the ground, assembling a rocket launcher behind a building. They’d buried an IED in the road, primed to explode when the rear truck ran over it, trapping the convoy in what Ty called “the kill zone.” He’d warned her to be very careful where she sat, explaining that if she didn’t go exactly where he said, she could get caught in crossfire. Though the insurgents weren’t firing live ammo and the bombs were just whizbangs, it was still dangerous. She had to stay far up on the ridge, away from the fighting. Luckily the goggles were fitted with a zoom, like a digital camera. She zipped up her hoodie against the chill and played with it, expanding bits of the scene, raking the empty desert with her high-tech gaze.
The darkness was alive with motion. So this was how Iraq looked to them; this was how her house looked when they flew overhead in their helicopters. She lay on her back for a while, then stood up and turned a slow three-sixty rotation, ruling the world, dominating it. Out in the emptiness, away from the town, was a single glowing shape. She couldn’t tell what it was, even with the zoom doubling its size. Elsewhere she could see a conga of bright lights, the BLUEFOR convoy driving down the main road toward the village. She watched it come, getting steadily closer as the insurgents settled into their positions, ready to do whatever violent thing they had planned. Suddenly all of it felt very distant, just a boy’s game. Cowboys and Indians. Kick the can.
She turned back to the glow. What was it? An animal? She couldn’t tell how far away it was. How many “clicks”? This was how she looked to the soldiers, a little point of thermal light, a grid reference to be targeted with a bomb or a drone or a shot from a sniper rifle. Press a button, squeeze the trigger. Snuff her out like a candle. Suddenly the strange glow seemed more important than watching the ambush. Taking a last look at the approaching convoy, she scrambled down the hill and started walking toward it.
She walked for ten minutes. Behind her she heard a loud boom, then the sound of gunfire. Turning around, she saw flashes, intense bursts of energy. She turned away again and carried on walking. In front of her was the shape. It was definitely alive. It seemed too small to be a human being.
She put her hand up to her mouth when she saw what it was. He was just standing there, as if he’d dropped from space. A child. A little glowing boy.
1942
He knew how they must look. The very picture of hick cops, him and the sheriff standing on the porch with their bellies stuck out and their mouths open, watching the show.
The convoy came down Main Street like there was a fire: a truck full of soldiers and an olive-drab Plymouth staff car, which coasted to a halt at the foot of the steps. The man who got out wore civilian clothes: a gray fedora, wingtip spectators and a fancy suit with wide peaked lapels. To Deputy Prince he looked more like a pimp or a fag movie actor than a guardian of the nation’s security. He certainly wasn’t a Fed, that was for sure. When he got up close to shake hands, the stink of cologne could have knocked an elephant on its ass.
“Office?” said the man. Too busy for pleasantries.
“You expecting Tojo or something?” Sheriff Grice gestured at the troops in the truck.
“Excuse me?”
“Seems like you come equipped to fight a war. Ain’t no Japanese Army out here.”
“There’s such a thing as the home front. I thought the news might have reached you.”
And with that, the man pushed right past them into the building. He ducked under the counter, walked through to Grice’s office and sat down in his chair. He did just about everything but put his feet up on the desk. The sheriff looked like he was about to split his skull.
“I’ll need your full cooperation,” said the man, swiveling from side to side on Grice’s chair.
“That a fact?”
“And your discretion.” He jerked a thumb at Prince. “Is this boy trustworthy?”
“Reckon so. Ike’s got a good record with the department. And he’s not much on talking.”
“You a native, son?”
“My father was, sir.”
That got him. That always got them. Wrong way round. Instead of some guy having an adventure, tasting a little dark meat, he now had to think about a white woman doing it with an Indian.
“Seems I got myself a regular Lone Ranger and Tonto combination,” he snorted, turning his flash of anger into a joke. “Well, let’s get down to it. We have to check out everything, no matter how slight. My office received a communication from a Miss Evelina Craw, said she suspects you have a German spy in the area. Says he’s transmitting messages.”
Grice grinned. “Sounds to me like you’ve had a wasted journey. Miss Eve-lina’s not the most reliable source. She’s talking about Methuselah. He’s a crazy old bird lives out at the Pinnacle Rocks. Or under them, I should say. Been out there twenty-some years. He’s no more a German than I am.”
“Under them?”
“Dug out a cave with his own two hands. He bought a silver claim off Miss Evelina’s daddy, back when he owned the Bar-T, but everyone knows there’s not a cent of silver or anything else out there. Oh, there was, up in the Saddlebacks, but that was all mined out years ago.”
“Get to the point, Sheriff.”
“The point? You should probably just turn round and go back to Los Angeles. Miss Evelina’s got too much time on her hands.”
Outside, the men in the truck were smoking cigarettes, upending canteens. The official, whoever he was, hadn’t thought to bring them in out of the sun.
“I see,” he said, examining a scuff on the toe of his wingtip. “Methuselah. You have his real name?”
“How about you tell me your name first?” Grice was openly angry now.
The man looked blankly at him. “You may as well call me Munro. The rank’s captain.”
“Captain Munro. What are you a captain of?”
“Being a pain in the ass, it seems. Don’t be obstructive, Sheriff Grice. Yesterday you took a call from your boss, saying to afford me every assistance. You remember that call, right? Every assistance. That’s you affording me, not the other way around. So, if you could just tell me the man’s name, we can wrap this thing up sooner rather than later, and I can let you go about your no doubt urgent official business.”
