Faris was waiting for me in the hall as I emerged, pushing my luggage trolley. To my right walked Nermine and the anonymous journalist, also pushing their trolleys. As soon as Faris saw me, he waved and I waved back. When he came closer, he shook my hand. Then he shook hands coldly with the journalist, but shook Nermine’s hands with great warmth. He stood with me for a while to allow Nermine and the journalist to leave with their trolleys. When they turned to me, I waved goodbye.
‘Do you know him?’ Faris asked, referring to the journalist.
‘No, but he asked me about my business. So what’s his story?’
‘A suspicious character. No one knows his story.’
Faris was holding a cup of coffee that he’d bought from the airport cafeteria. He was wearing a pair of khaki trousers that I hadn’t seen him in before. He looked as though he’d shrunk a little and lost some weight. He appeared different, perhaps a little paler than before. His bones seemed to protrude as a result of tiredness or premature ageing, and he didn’t look well enough to be able to complete this assignment. His movements, however, were so swift and energetic that they seemed to be someone else’s. He couldn’t bear to stand still. While I went to exchange some dollars for Iraqi dinars at a bureau de change, he kept pacing round in circles. He polished off the hot coffee in three quick gulps, as though it were a magic potion, without saying a word. We stood in the queue again to exit through a narrow doorway. On the other side, the Marines were also standing in a queue, with their clean-shaven faces, their blond hair, their open shirts and their khaki kitbags. Dealing with them was a female official who didn’t stop smiling, while we had a male official who frowned and pulled a long face. His hair was uncombed and he yawned incessantly, as if he’d just woken up.
As we left the airport, a grey Kia minibus was waiting for us. A fat driver was leaning on its bonnet, smoking. His head was shaved, his trousers were baggy and his shirt was buttoned to the top without a tie. His beard was unshaved. We placed our luggage quickly on the back seats. ‘Do you have your laptop with you?’ Faris shouted.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Don’t put it in the boot,’ he said. ‘And where’s the camera?’
‘With me too,’ I said.
‘Take it with you on the back seat.’
With a cigarette in his mouth, he carried his little bag on his back. From time to time he adjusted his glasses with his hand. He sat in front while I sat at the back. As the minibus gathered speed, we were met with tall concrete blocks and four- or five-metre-high barriers covered with an assortment of drawings: legendary heroes, trees and quails, luxury mansions and other colourful objects that were designed to disguise the lifeless concrete. Sparkling light flashed from electric lamps that hung here and there. As the daylight grew stronger, their light began to fade. There were cardboard paintings hanging down, posters that swayed gently in the breeze and political slogans of various types, attacking terrorism, advocating civil concord or calling for elections. There were pictures of politicians and clerics, of all sizes. Political posters and advertising predominated, some of them imitating Iranian revolutionary and graphic styles. They were dominated by the bold, extremely bright colours so revered by the Shias, such as red, green and black. Many of the posters included writing as a complement to the image, in order to maximize the effect. This style of vulgar art or kitsch was prevalent during the Saddam era, produced mainly by amateur artists who filled the public squares with their own type of artistic expression. The recent posters, however, tried to redefine the cultural and social values of Iraq and express its new state of turmoil. They also represented a type of political protest, for they were designed to deface the walls that had been built earlier by the Saddam regime as emblems of its power and authority.
On the road, convoys of black cars passed by. Armed men in black suits and black glasses sometimes jumped out of their vehicles suddenly and urgently, pointing their guns at any approaching car. ‘Blackwater,’ Faris said and then fell silent.
The war had wiped the landmarks from Baghdad’s streets. The Tigris was dry, the flowers were withered, the branches of the trees were scorched and the air was filled with dust. The gardens had lost their greenness and the buildings and houses stood randomly. Dust covered the pale green trees while rubbish accumulated on the pavements. There were potholes and ruts filled with stagnant water and high concrete walls shaded by blighted yellow palm leaves. The orange trees were dry and without fragrance. Only the smell of death was everywhere and its image haunted everything. The windowpanes were smashed to pieces by the boom of explosions, the walls alongside were cracked open and the streets were blackened by blasts.
As soon as our minibus reached a thick, high, concrete wall I knew we were about to enter the Green Zone. We stopped at an American checkpoint, which was considered the gateway to the most important area in the Middle East. The barriers were staggered so that the minibus had to zigzag between them. At the checkpoint stood a group of US soldiers in full combat gear, with their machine guns pointing at us. The driver followed the instructions given to him and moved forward slowly until the vehicle stopped near a wooden hut. Two very tall soldiers in Marine uniform looked out of the hut and ordered us to get out of the vehicle. As we stepped out, three 130 SM military helicopters flew out from a point beyond the concrete barrier. Their rotor blades beat like drums as they turned northwards and moved off into the distance like black insects. The sunlight was getting stronger. The muddy colour that dominated life and what was left of it in Baghdad began gradually to disappear and was replaced by a bright green. My watch showed midday. The temperature was close to thirty. The humid air was stirred by a refreshing breeze coming from the direction of the river that set the palm leaves and their shadows in motion. The American corporal came closer and started scrutinizing our faces and examining our passports, identity cards and papers. The driver was first, followed by Faris. The corporal finally placed his machine gun on his shoulder and took my passport. His face was not completely visible because of his steel helmet and the strap around his chin. As he stood there, four other soldiers behind him examined our faces.
‘What’s your profession?’ he asked, looking intently at my face and then inspecting the photo in my passport.
‘Journalist.’
‘Your press card,’ he said without looking up at me. So I handed it to him.
‘How long have you been out of Iraq?’
‘I was here a year ago …’
He nodded his head, handed back my passport and press card and ordered one of the soldiers to lead the dog around the vehicle to check for explosives. Then we all passed through a metal detector.
There was more zigzagging between concrete barriers and barbed wire until we found ourselves on a wide road. It was paved and very clean, and shaded by thick green trees. Suddenly we were in the middle of a very modern city, a city more akin to the American Midwest than the Middle East. As we approached a small roundabout in the centre of the city, two black cars overtook our vehicle, sped through a huge steel gate and stopped in front of a stone-fronted building. Two formally dressed men got out of the first car. Their guards, dressed in black and wearing dark glasses, swooped out of the second car. The street was full of imposing buildings, expensive cars, security guards and surveillance cameras.