Captivity (17 page)

“Go
hamam
!” Junior barks. I stand up and arch my back. The relief is instant. I want to jump, dance, cartwheel around the room.

After we go to the bathroom, they lock us up and bring our supper, another humburger, as well as a jug and a glass. It takes some figuring out, how to eat and drink when you’re handcuffed to the person beside you. Wrist locked to wrist—this is how it will be for the remainder of our captivity.

“
Killeators
down!” Junior says.

From the doorway, the voice of Number One follows. “Doctor, Jim, Harmeet, Thomas. My man tell to me. You must not to escape. Why this? You are safe with me.” We try to explain, but Number One interrupts. “My man tell to me this. I know.” He moves closer, stands directly behind Norman, rests his hands on his shoulders. “Doctor, you very good with the English. Very good. You must to teach me the English, Doctor.”

“Well, thank you, but I—”

“I have some English book.”

“I should think Harmeet would be better qualified—he is studying English literature in university.”

“But you are the professor. You must to teach me.”

“Well, yes, a professor of biophysics, but of course I have been retired for many years now.”

“You do not want to teach me, Doctor? Why this? Have I said something bad to you?”

“No, no. It’s just not my training.” Norman is flustered. “Harmeet would be better. But if you want me to, I can certainly try.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I love the English. I want—I
need
to speak better. I need to speak the English so I can express everything—everything that’s happened. But there are no words to tell it, to tell everything about the war, the suffering of the Iraqi people. No words.” He speaks slowly, almost as if he is in physical pain.

“Catastrophe? Outrage
?” I offer. He doesn’t answer. The words suddenly feel empty, trivial. “There are no words for the horror of war,” I add.

“No, there are no words,” Number One says. “I wish … I wish that I could speak the English. I wish that I take you. I show you everything. Everything that happen, all around Baghdad. I so wish to show you the destruction of the Americans, so you tell to everyone. But I cannot. I not have the English.”

“Your English is very good,” Harmeet says.

“No, it is not. I need to express everything, and I can’t.”

“What books do you have?” Norman asks.

“I have
The Old Man and the Sea
. It is about some fish man. And Faustus …”

“Oh dear,” Norman says.

“Yes, it is very difficult. And … this book by Fall-ker, it is call
As I Dying.”

“Wow, those are difficult books,” I say. “Are you taking a course?”

“Yes. It is for the university. I have some exam on Monday.”

“You do?” Norman says. “Perhaps I might help you to prepare for it.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

DECEMBER 2
DAY 7

Tom turns to prayer like a warrior preparing for battle. The long, slow exhalations of his meditation-breathing punctuate the days like an intensive-care respirator. The chain at his wrist clinks softly as it passes through his fingers, one link at a time, as though he’s praying the rosary. His resolve and focus are astonishing. “I’m trying to think of our captivity as a
sesshin,”
he says.

“I knew somebody who did that,” I say. “It was at an ashram in India. Ten days of complete silence, fasting and meditation. All they did was sit and try to clear their minds of all thoughts. They weren’t even supposed to scratch themselves if they got an itch. I could never do it.”

“What do you meditate about?” Harmeet asks.

It’s a compassion practice called
tonglin
, Tom explains. He pictures someone—a member of his family, a CPTer, one of the captors, whoever he feels needs a prayer. On the inhale he breathes in the suffering of the person he is thinking about, and on the exhale he breathes out compassion and healing to them. With each breath he passes a link of chain through his fingers. He holds that person for a cycle of four breaths, praying
With the warmth of my heart
in the first breath,
with the stillness of my mind
in the second,
with the fluidity of my body
in the third, and
with the light of my soul
for the last. At the end of the cycle he pauses and surrounds the person with light.

His example chastens me, rouses me from my self-preoccupation, reminds me it is the one thing I can do: pray for the needs of others and the healing of the world. Sometimes I use my fingers to count off the decades of the rosary. Sometimes I say the Jesus prayer,
Lord Jesus Christ only son of the living God have mercy on me a sinner
, over and over, until it becomes a living force within me. And sometimes I make up litanies to the Sacred Heart.
O most holy open heart. O most holy healing heart. O most holy loving heart
. The obvious thing is to pray for the return of our freedom. But I can’t. I don’t know why. Something within me forbids it. It’s like adding gasoline to a fire. Praying for what I most want will only cause me to suffer more. My prayer is just to be open. Open to whatever comes, and to give whatever is asked of me.

DECEMBER 3
DAY 8

Late afternoon. We are sitting, as always, in our plastic-chair places, light filtering through the red curtains—a perpetual infrared twilight that wearies me beyond words. Harmeet has been entertaining Norman and me by summarizing movie plots he watched as a teenager. Tom is far away, breathing his way through his meditations.

The television is suddenly silent and there’s a stir of voices in the kitchen. Medicine Man enters the room. “How are you?” he says. He stands just behind us against the armoire at our left. We turn to look at him. He’s wearing a turquoise suit with a gun tucked into his belt. Great Big Man, standing beside him, looks startlingly businesslike: dark trousers, navy blue suit jacket, baby blue turtleneck. Junior watches from the doorway.

“We have some order. We take you, each of you, to a different place. One here, one here, one here.” He points to different places in the room. “Every one separated. We take you by car. In the boot. I go now to prepare.” He turns abruptly and leaves.

“I should think this is not an entirely positive development,” Norman says.

“That’s an understatement,” I say.

“I’ll go first,” Tom says.

“I can go,” Harmeet says.

“No, I’ll go. I’ve been preparing for this for a year now. Imagining, praying, meditating about it—ever since I came to Iraq. The way I feel now, I can do this forever.”

I turn to look at Tom, astonished that he could say such a thing. His face is illuminated by a serene determination.
Forever is a long time
, I want to say.

“All right,” Medicine Man says. “The American, you are the first one. Stand up.” His voice is hard, incontestable. Tom stands up. I’d forgotten how tall he is. They lock his hands behind his back. Tom looks straight ahead, face solemn and defiant.

“We take you first,” Medicine Man says to Tom, “and then we come for the British, and then you and you. This not be long. Maybe one half an hour. Just go and come back. It is not far.” He looks directly at Tom. “We take you in the boot. You must not to make any sound. No crying, no shouting, no disturbance. Nothing. Must I to tape you?” His voice is sharp like a knife. Tom shakes his head. “If you make any sound, I torture and kill you. Do you understand?”

Tom nods. “What about my shoes?” he asks.

Medicine Man looks down at Tom’s feet. “You do not need them. The rest of you, I not long. The British is next.”

Tom is in grave danger. We are all in grave danger. I feel nothing. There are only facts. The fact that I am sitting in a red plastic lawn chair handcuffed to two other men. That Tom is about to be taken away by a man with a gun. That men with guns like to be obeyed.

Tom turns to look at us. The moment is strangely awkward. I have to say something, but what?
Good luck, take care, God bless? See you later? Jesus loves you, don’t be afraid, he is always with you?
Everything sounds trite, pious, ridiculous. I say nothing. “Be strong,” Tom says.

Great Big Man blindfolds Tom and leads him past Junior in the doorway.
“Amriki,”
Junior says, his voice full of spitting.

After about an hour Medicine Man returns. “Doctor, we are ready for you,” he announces.

“Oh dear, I’ve never ridden in the boot of a car before,” Norman laughs.

“It is not long, Doctor,” Medicine Man says. “Fifteen, twenty minutes and you are there. You must not to say anything. Not anything. If you make any sound, I kill you.” Norman nods. “Okay, we go.”

“See you soon,” Harmeet says.

I reach for Norman’s hand. “Take care, Norman. Be strong. God is with you.”

Medicine Man pulls a second scrap of cloth out of his pocket and uses it to blindfold Norman. “I come for you next,” he says, pointing at me. I shudder.

“I have a feeling they’re not coming back,” Harmeet says when they’re gone.

–

We seize upon every movement and sound. Waiting, hoping, dreading Medicine Man’s return. Darkness falls. The power goes out. Junior sets a lantern on the floor, enveloping us in a sulphurous gloom. He returns fifteen minutes later with our
humburger
supper. They’re not coming back. Harmeet goes back to recounting movie plots. I pretend to be interested.

“Come on, sleep,” Junior says. He unlocks our handcuffs and holds the lantern up for us to see. We grab our bedding and follow him into the living room. Our shoes have disappeared from the bottom of the stairway. Junior chains Harmeet to the couch and then handcuffs me to Harmeet. He stands back. His face looks sad. “I am sorry,” he says.

I do not answer. There’s nothing to say. I turn onto my side and tuck my blanket under my chin with my free hand. Junior goes into the kitchen. “Harmeet, our shoes are gone,” I whisper.

“Really? That’s not good.” We’re quiet for a long time. “Good night, Jim,” Harmeet says. It sounds like a blessing.

“Good night, Harmeet.”

We breathe, blink our eyes, shift in our chairs. Everything closes around me: emotion, time, space. When things happen in relation to each other I cannot say. There is only waiting. We tread water on waves that rise and fall in the middle of a vast ocean. There is no horizon. Only grey.

On an indeterminate evening, Harmeet and I are sitting, as usual, against the wall. I hear a loud sigh, movement towards Number One’s bed, sounds of undressing. Junior asks questions and Number One answers, his voice tired and flat. Their conversation peters out. Number One coughs.

“
Salam alakum
,” Harmeet says.

“
Alakum salam,”
Number One says. He stands behind Harmeet. His voice is warm.

“How did your exam go?” Harmeet asks.

Number One sighs. “No good, no good. I must to ask my teacher for forgiveness. I cannot sleep. I cannot to think anything. My mind is like—I don’t know how to say in English—it is like some thick cloud. I must to change my life.” He falls silent for a moment. “At night, when I close my eye, I see everything. It is in my mind like a movie. I cannot to make it stop. I am very tired. Every time I am moving to the different house, every night, every week a different house. It very dangerous here, very dangerous. For me, and for you. I must to change my life. How can I? How can I change my life?” His voice rises in anguish.

I’m astonished—an insurgent commander is asking me how to change his life. His question is a doorway, a portal, an opportunity.
I want to say something about how much God loves us, that we were made for living with an open heart, for joy, that we can only discover our freedom when we give our lives in the healing service of others. I measure, test, knit words together. I must choose carefully. They’re all I have. I take a breath, but I’m a millisecond too late.

“Have you seen a doctor to help you with your sleep?” Harmeet asks. I want to curse him.

“I don’t know,” Number One sighs. “I don’t know.” Then he is gone.

Harmeet and I are sitting on our sleeping mats in front of the TV, waiting for the order to bed down. We have become used to the sound of gunfire, the explosions that punctuate the days. But this, out of nowhere, something I have never heard before, a sudden cannonade of ear-shattering rapid-fire gun sound, heavy and light calibre, war breaking out everywhere around us. I lie flat on the floor. What is happening? Countrywide insurrection? A neighbourhood feud? A U.S. military action? I want to take cover, but there’s nowhere to go.

“What the hell is going on?” I say to Harmeet.

“It sounds like we’re in a war zone!” he replies.

Junior and Number One enter from the kitchen, Number One in his green towel. I look up cautiously. Junior points the remote at the television and flicks through the channels. He stops at a soccer team running, jumping wildly, faces ecstatic with victory. Junior breaks into a big smile, speaks excitedly to Number One.

“What’s this?” I ask, forming a machine gun with my hands.

Junior smiles. “Iraqi football. In Syria. Iraq yes! Iraq good!” Junior flexes his biceps and puffs out his cheeks.

“Iraq crazy,” I say, circling my index finger at my temple. Junior laughs.

An indeterminate afternoon. Sitting. Staring. At hands, wrists, fingernails, knees. The pink smoothness of the wall in front of us. The bullet
hole at my knee. The pebble speckles on the floor. It becomes an obsession: finding, sorting, mind-morphing them into patterns and shapes. A Hercules arm, a clown’s face, letters of the alphabet, a foot.

The sharp, cracking sound of a gunshot cuts through this useless thought-babble. I instinctively duck. Adrenalin floods my body. I strain to catch every sound. “Did you hear that?” I whisper to Harmeet. “It came from inside. It was a gunshot.”

“How could that be?”

I hold up my finger. We listen. As far as we know, Junior is the only captor in the house. Is he okay? We hear muttering, the clicking of something metal, a couch being moved. “Hello?
Haji? Haji
okay?” I call out.