Sayed takes out a handkerchief and pats his forehead and his temples. He’s on the point of passing out.
“I’m ready, professor.” I don’t recognize my voice. I have the feeling I’m slipping into a trance. I pray for the strength to get up and walk without collapsing to the air lock that leads to the room behind the glass panel. My sight blurs for a few seconds. I breathe deeply, struggling for a little air. Then I come to my senses and heave myself to my feet. My calves are still tingling and my legs wobble, but the floor remains firm. The professor puts on a silver HAZMAT suit, complete with mask and gloves, so that he’s entirely covered. Sayed helps me get my own suit on and then watches us go through the air lock to the other side of the glass panel.
I place myself in the chair, which immediately starts rising and reclining with a mechanical hiss. The professor opens a small aluminum box and extracts a futuristic syringe. I close my eyes and hold my breath. When the needle enters my flesh, every cell in my body, with a single unified movement, seems to rush to the perforated spot. I feel as though I’ve fallen through a crack in the surface of a frozen lake, which pulls me down into its depths.
Sayed invites me to dinner in a restaurant not far from my hotel. It’s a farewell meal, with all that such an occasion entails for him in terms of embarrassment and awkwardness. You’d think he’d lost the power of speech. He can’t bring himself to say a word or look me in the face.
He won’t drive me to the airport tomorrow. Neither will Shakir. A taxi’s going to pick me up at 4:00 P.M. sharp.
I spent the whole day in Professor Ghany’s subterranean clinic. He came in to examine me with his stethoscope from time to time. His satisfaction grew with every visit. Then I had four uninterrupted hours of a deep, dreamless sleep, followed after I woke up by only two dizzy spells. I was as thirsty as a castaway on the sea. They brought me some soup and crudités, which I couldn’t finish. I didn’t feel sick, but I was groggy and pasty-mouthed, and I had an incessant hum in my ears. When I got out of bed, I staggered several times; then, little by little, I was able to coordinate my movements and walk properly.
Professor Ghany didn’t come and bid me farewell. Since Shakir had been sent off duty, it was Sayed who stayed with me in the afternoon. After nightfall, we left the subterranean parking garage in a small rental car and drove away from the clinic. The city lights were at full blaze, illuminating even the surrounding hills. The streets were seething, like my veins.
We pick a table in the back of the dining room so we won’t be disturbed. The restaurant’s packed: families with lots of kids, groups of laughing friends, couples holding hands, shifty-eyed businessmen. The waiters are busy on all fronts, some of them balancing trays, others writing down the customers’ orders in minuscule notebooks. Near the entrance, an enormous and rather odd fellow laughs hard enough to burst his carotid artery. The woman sharing his meal looks uneasy; she turns toward her neighbors and smiles wanly, as if asking them to excuse her companion’s indecorous behavior.
Sayed reads and rereads the menu and remains undecided. I suspect that he regrets having invited me. I ask him, “Have you been back to Kafr Karam?”
He flinches but doesn’t appear to understand my question. I restate it. This relaxes him a bit; he lowers the menu he’s been using as a screen and looks at me. “No,” he says. “I haven’t been back to Kafr Karam. Baghdad gives me no time off. But I’ve remained in contact with our people. They often call up and tell me what’s going on over there. The latest news is that a military camp has been established in the Haitems’ orchards.”
“I sent my twin sister a little money. I don’t know whether she got it.”
“Your money order arrived intact. I talked to Kadem on the phone two weeks ago. He was trying to reach you. I told him I didn’t know where you were. Then he put Bahia on. She wanted to thank you and to find out how you were doing. I promised her to do everything possible to find you.”
“Thanks.”
Neither of us finds anything to add. We eat in silence, each of us lost in his own thoughts.
Sayed drops me off at my hotel. Before getting out of the car, I turn to him. He smiles at me so sadly that I don’t dare shake his hand. We part without pats or embraces, like two rivulets spilling off a rock.
22
There’s a message for me at the reception desk. An envelope, taped shut, no writing on it. Inside, a card with an abstract design on the front, and on the back, a line written with a felt-tipped pen: “I’m proud to have known you. Shakir.”
I slip the note into the inside pocket of my jacket. In the lobby, a large family swarms around a low table. The children squabble and jump off the backs of chairs. Their mother tries to call them to order, while the father laughs, ostensibly having a conversation on his cell phone. Beyond them sits Dr. Jalal, exasperated by the kids’ racket and deep in his cups.
I go up to my room. A brand-new leather traveling bag is sitting on my bed. Inside, there are two pairs of designer pants, underwear, socks, two shirts, a thick sweater, a jacket, a pair of shoes in a bag, a toilet kit, and four large volumes of literature in English. A piece of paper is pinned to a strap: “This is your baggage. You’ll buy whatever else you need once you’re in place.” No signature.