The Last Testament

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

B AGHDAD , A PRIL 2003

He only had a rumour to go on. His brother-in-law had mentioned it at the garage yesterday, not that he would dare ask him about it now. If he did, he would only demand why he was asking and before long it would get back to his wife and he would never hear the end of it.

No, he would find this out himself. He knew where the café was, just after the fruit market on Mutannabi Street. Apparently everyone had been coming here.

Abdel-Aziz al-Askari took a seat close to the back, an observation post, so that he could see who came in and who came out. He signalled for mint tea, served here piping hot and in a stikkam, a narrow glass as tall as your first finger, and looked around. A few old-timers playing sheshbesh; several puffing on the nargileh pipe; a group clustered around a TV set watching footage of the statue of Saddam falling, apparently played on a loop. They were men and the talk was louder than usual, but there was none of the loud euphoria he had always imagined this day would bring. Liberation! The fall of the dictator! He had pictured screaming, dancing ecstasy; spontaneous hugs between strangers on the street; he had seen himself kissing beautiful women, everyone falling into each other’s arms at the sheer delight of it all.

But it was not like that. People were holding back, just in case. What if the secret police burst in, announcing that the Americans had been defeated and anyone who had so much as smiled at Saddam’s alleged defeat would be hanged? After all, few believed the hated Mahabarat had simply vanished overnight. What if the pictures on Al-Arabiya were in fact an elaborate hoax, designed by Uday and Qusay to test the Iraqi people, to flush out those who were disloyal to the regime? What, above all, if Saddam had not gone?

So the customers here, like everyone throughout this city, were watching and waiting. Happy to chat, but not quite ready to commit. Even those watching the replayed scenes from Paradise Square confined themselves to blandly neutral remarks.

‘It’s certainly an historic event,’ said one.

‘People will be seeing this around the world,’ nodded another. Both kept open the option of adding that it was a ‘wicked act by Zionist counter-revolutionaries who must be punished at once’.

Abdel-Aziz kept sipping his tea, patting Salam’s school satchel intermittently to be sure his son’s discovery was still inside. He had been there maybe fifteen minutes when a younger man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, came in, all smiles and confidence.

‘Good afternoon, my brothers!’ he said, beaming. ‘And how is business?’ He laughed loudly. There were nods in his direction, even a couple of hands proffered for shaking. ‘Mahmoud, welcome,’ said one man, by way of greeting.

Mahmoud. Abdel-Aziz cleared his throat. This must be him. I should seize the moment, talk to him right away. Mind you, I mustn’t seem too eager.

But it was too late. The newcomer, in a black leather jacket and with some kind of bracelet around his wrist, had already spotted Abdel-Aziz, catching the look in his eye.

‘Welcome, my friend. You are looking for someone?’

‘I am looking for Mahmoud.’

‘Well, maybe I can help.’ He turned towards the door of the cafe, pretending to shout. ‘Mahmoud! Mahmoud!’ Then, turning back to Abdel-Aziz: ‘Oh look! I’m right here.’ His face disintegrating into an exaggerated, fake laugh.

‘I hear you-’

‘What did you hear?’

‘That people who have-’

‘What have they been saying about Mahmoud? Eh?’

‘Sorry. Maybe I made a mistake-’ Abdel-Aziz got up to leave but he found Mahmoud’s hand on his arm, pushing him back into his seat. He was surprisingly strong.

‘I can see you’re carrying something rather heavy in that bag of yours. Is that something you want to show Mahmoud?’

‘My son got it. Yesterday. From the-’

‘From the same place as everyone else. Don’t worry. I won’t tell. That would be bad for you, bad for me, bad for business.’ He dissolved again into the fake laugh. Then, just as suddenly, the smile died. ‘Bad for your son, too.’

Abdel-Aziz wanted to get away; he did not trust this man one bit. He glanced back at the others in the café. Most were watching the TV, live coverage of a briefing by the US military from Centcom, central command in Doha, Qatar. They were announcing their capture of yet another presidential palace.

‘So shall we do some business, yes?’

‘Is it safe? To show you, here?’

Mahmoud pulled Abdel-Aziz’s chair with a single tug, shifting him round so that their shoulders touched. Now they had their backs to the rest of the drinkers. Between them, they shielded their small, square table from view.

‘Show me.’

Abdel-Aziz unbuckled the satchel, peeled back the leather flap and offered it for Mahmoud’s inspection.

‘Take it out.’

‘I’m not sure I-’

‘If you want to do business, Mahmoud has to see the merchandise.’

Abdel-Aziz laid the satchel flat on the table and slowly eased the object out. Mahmoud’s expression did not change. Instead, he reached over and, without ceremony, unsheathed the tablet from its envelope.

‘OK.’

‘OK?’

‘Yes, you can put it back now.’

‘You’re not interested?’

‘Normally, Mahmoud wouldn’t be interested in such a lump. Clay bricks like this are ten a penny.’

‘But the writing on it-’

‘Who cares about writing? Just a few squiggles. It could be a shopping list. Who cares what some old hag wanted from the fishmongers ten thousand years ago?’

‘But-’

‘But,’ Mahmoud held up a finger, to silence him. ‘But it does come in an envelope. And it’s only had the odd knock to it. I’ll give you twenty dollars for it.’

‘Twenty?’

‘You wanted more?’

‘But this is from the National Museum-’

‘Uh, uh, uh.’ The finger was up again. ‘Remember, Mahmoud doesn’t want to know too much. You say this has been in your family for many generations and given the, er, recent events, you believe now is the time to sell.’

‘But this must be very rare.’

‘I’m afraid not, Mr…?’

‘My name is Abdel-Aziz.’ Damn. Why had he given his real name?

‘There are a thousand items like this floating around Baghdad right now. I could step outside and find many like it, with a click of my fingers.’ He clicked them, as if to demonstrate. ‘If you want to do business with someone else-’ He rose to his feet.

Now it was Abdel-Aziz’s turn to extend a restraining hand. ‘Please. Maybe twenty-five dollars?’

‘I am sorry. Twenty is already too much.’

‘I have a family. A son, a daughter-’

‘I understand. Because you seem a good man, I will do you a favour. I will pay you twenty-two dollars. Mahmoud must be crazy: now he will make no money. Instead he makes you rich!’

They shook hands. Mahmoud stood up and asked the café owner to find him a plastic bag. Once he had it, he slipped the tablet inside and peeled off twenty-two American dollars from a thick, grubby wad and handed them to Abdel-Aziz who left the café immediately, his son’s school bag swung over his shoulder, now light and entirely empty.