By the tenth night Rob felt like giving up. He was lying on his bed in his hotel room. The city was noisy and fervid outside. He went to his open window and gazed across the concrete rooftops and the dark winding alleys. The hot Iraqi sun was going down over the grey-gold Zagros Mountains. Old women in pink headscarves were hanging out washing next to enormous satellite dishes. Rob could see plenty of church spires amongst the minarets. Churches of the Gnostics maybe. Or the Mandeans. Or the Assyrian Christians. The Chaldeans. There were so many ancient sects here.
Closing the window to block out the evening call to prayer, Rob returned to his bed and picked up his mobile. He found a good Kurdish network and called England. After a few long beeps Sally came on the line. Rob expected his ex-wife to be her usual curt but polite self. But Sally was oddly warm and enthusiastic: then she explained why. She told Rob she had met his ‘new girlfriend’ and actually liked her, a lot. Sally told Rob she approved of Christine, and that he must have finally returned to his senses if he’d started dating real women, not those bimbos he normally went for.
Rob laughed and said he’d never regarded Sally as a bimbo; there was a pause, and then Sally laughed, too. It was the first laughter they had exchanged since the divorce. They chatted some more, as they had not chatted in quite a while. And then Rob’s ex-wife handed the phone to their daughter. Rob felt piercingly sad when he heard his daughter’s voice. Lizzie told her dad that she had been to the zoo to see ‘nanimals’. She said she could raise her arms right above her head. Rob listened with a mixture of joy and grief and he said he loved her and Lizzie demanded daddy come home. Then he asked her if she had met the French lady Christine. Lizzie said yes and she really liked her and mummy liked her too. Rob said that was great, and then he blew a kiss to his giggling daughter. He rang off. It felt slightly weird, his new girlfriend and his ex-wife making friends. But it was better than mutual animosity. And it meant there were more people looking after his daughter when he wasn’t there.
But then it occurred to him that maybe it was time he was ‘there’: maybe it was time he went back home. Maybe he should just quit. The story hadn’t panned out as he’d hoped. He hadn’t even made it to Lalesh, but it didn’t look like there was any point anyway. The Yezidi were too opaque. He couldn’t speak enough Arabic or Kurdish to get beyond their ancient obscurantism. How could he hope to unlock the secrets of a six thousand year old faith by just pottering around this ancient city saying ‘Salaam’? He was stymied; his hopes were dwindling by the hour. Sometimes that happened. Sometimes you didn’t get the story.
Grabbing his door key, Rob left his hotel room. He was hot and bothered and he needed a beer. And there was a nice bar on the corner of his street. He slumped into his usual plastic seat outside the Suleiman Café. Rob’s temporary friend, Rawaz the café owner, brought him some chilled Turkish beer, and a saucer of green olives. The life of the Dahuk streets passed on by. Rob rested his forehead in his hands and thought again about the article. Looking back on his determined and impulsive excitement at Isobel’s house, he wondered what he had really wanted. Some mysterious priest to explain everything, perhaps in a secret temple, with savage carvings on the wall. And flickering flames from the oil lamps. And of course a couple of handy devil worshippers, happy to be photographed. But instead of realizing his naive journalistic dream Rob was drinking Efes beer and listening to gaudy Kurdish pop from the music store next door. He might as well have been in Sanliurfa. Or London.
‘Hello?’
Rob looked up. A young man was standing, slightly hesitantly, by his table. He wore clean jeans and a well-pressed shirt. He had a round face. He looked scholarly. Geeky even. Yet prosperous and kind. Rob asked the man to sit down. His name was Karwan.
Karwan smiled. ‘I am a Yezidi.’
‘OK…’
‘Today I go to the Yezidi cultural centre and some women told me about you. An American journalist. Wanting to know about Melek Taus?’
Rob nodded: mildly embarrassed.
Karwan went on. ‘They said you were staying here. But they say you might go soon, because you were not happy.’
‘I’m not unhappy. I’m just…frustrated.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am writing an article. About the Yezidi faith. You know, what you guys really believe. It’s for a British newspaper. But no one will tell me, so it’s a little frustrating.’
‘You must understand why this is.’ Karwan leaned forward with an earnest expression on his face. ‘For many thousands of years, mister, we have been killed and attacked for what we believe. What people say we believe. The Muslims kill us, the Hindus, the Tartars. Everyone says we worship Shaitan, the devil. They kill us and drive us away. Even Saddam killed us, even our fellow Kurds they kill us, Sunni and Shiite, they all kill us. Everyone.’
‘But that’s why I want to write my article. Tell the real story. What the Yezidi really believe.’
Karwan frowned, as if he was deciding something. He was silent for more than a minute. And then he said, ‘Yes, OK. This is how I see it. You Americans, the great eagle, you helped the Kurds, and you have protected the Yezidi people. I see American soldiers, they are good. They really try to help us. So…now I will help you. Because you are American.’
‘You will?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes and I will help you because I studied one year in America at Texas University. This is why my English is not so bad. Americans they were good to me.’
‘You were at UT?’
‘Yes, you know? The cowhorns. In Austen.’
‘Great music in Austen.’
‘Yes. A nice place. Except,’ Karwan nibbled an olive, ‘except women in Texas have the most enormous asses. This is problem for me.’
Rob laughed. ‘What did you study, at UT?’
‘Religious anthropology. So, you understand, I can tell you everything you need to know. And then you can go away and tell everyone we are not…Satanists. Shall we start?’
Rob reached for his notebook; he ordered two more beers. And for an hour he plied Karwan with questions. Most of the information he already knew, from Isobel, and from his own research. The origins of Yezidism and the Cult of Angels. Rob was slightly disappointed. But then Karwan said something which made him sit up, very straight.
‘The tale of the Yezidis’ origin comes from the Black Book. Of course the Black Book has gone now but the story is handed on. It tells us we have a distinct…bloodline, it shows how we are different from all other races.’
‘How?’
‘Maybe it is best expressed in a myth, in Yezidi myth. In one of our creation legends there were seventy-two Adams, each Adam more perfect than the one before. Then the seventy-second Adam married Eve. And Adam and Eve deposited their seed in two jars.’
Rob interrupted, his pen poised over his notebook. ’Two jars?’
Karwan nodded. ‘These jars were sealed for nine months. When the jars were opened, the jar containing Eve’s seed was full of insects and terrible things, snakes and scorpions. But when Adam’s jar was opened, they found a lovely boy child.’ Karwan smiled. ‘The boy was called Shahid ibn Jayar-“the Son of the Jar”. And this name is also used for the Yezidi. You see: we are the Sons of the Jar. These children of Adam became the ancestors of the Yezidis. Adam is our grandfather. Whereas all other nations are descended through Eve.’
Rob finished scribbling his notes. A white UN Chevrolet was trundling across the junction opposite the café.
Karwan said, quite abruptly, ‘OK. That is that! Now I must go. But, mister, the Yezidi at the centre, they also tell me you want to go to Lalesh, as well? Yes?’