Captivity (38 page)

Medicine Man talks to us in the light of the lantern, his face all shadow. From the beginning, why do you think the negotiations have taken so long? he asks us. He points to where Tom used to sit. It is because of his government—they will not negotiate. They will do nothing. And the next most difficult government? It is the British. From the beginning you are safe, he says, pointing to Harmeet and me. Your government wants to get you out. But this man here, he says, again pointing to Tom’s place, there is the danger for him because of his government.

Norman asks about the video they took of him. There is no problem, Medicine Man says. We take the video to them, they see you are alive, the Canadian and the British are in Baghdad, we carry you to the house, one by one. Then one big push and you go, all together.

Including Tom? I ask. All together, including Tom, he says. The reason this is taking so long is because it must be secret. The CIA must not hear about these negotiations. If they do, they will cut them. The negotiations must be secret.

This seems impossible, like something out of a Tom Clancy novel. We know for sure that a direct link has been established with at least one government, the British, because of the three proof-of-life questions. Is it possible that one arm of the occupation is working against another? The thought chills me.

Norman and I make a plea for Harmeet. Unless he is released by Monday, we tell him, Harmeet will lose his school year. I not know this until you tell to me yesterday, Medicine Man says. Even if you are release tomorrow, you will not make it. The other side will take you to some
camp, or the Green Zone, or the UN for your safety, and they will have some requirements before they take you out of Baghdad.

He turns to go. I ask if we might interview him about his views on the political situation, the aims of their group, whatever he’d like to tell us. He shrugs and smiles. To have some talk about the situation here, why it’s happened, we need to sit maybe for two, three hours, he says.

We have time, I say. He laughs. This is important, he says. I am here tonight, but … maybe tomorrow morning. You have your copy book and write, and we discuss the situation.

Thank you, we say. I am just downstairs if you need anything, he says.

FEBRUARY 18
DAY 85

We ask each captor once a day if they have any news about Tom. We choose the moment carefully. It has to seem casual and spontaneous, and the captor should have his guard down. Tom called it the captor–captive game—the constant process of reading and tiptoeing around the captors’ moods, figuring out how to please and pacify them, what and what not to ask for, when and how to do it, all the possible reactions and risks—what you have to do to survive when you’re living under somebody’s thumb.

Now, when we ask, they no longer say Tom has been released. Now they say, “Tom in house, Tom
zane, shwaya shwaya
you will go.” Junior, back on guard duty for the first time since Tom was taken, points to himself and says, “This go in car to Thomas in beit,” he says. “Tom
zane.”
His answer dismays me beyond words, to think of Tom being alone with Junior’s hatred all day.

Nephew puffs out his chest and pounds on it like Tarzan. If he starts to run and exercise in the mornings, he says, he will be in shape just like me. I ask him how to say “freedom” in Arabic. He doesn’t understand. I get one of the locks from our chain and show it to him. I close
the gate and say with a sad face, “La freedom.
Mozane.”
I open the gate and say with a happy face,
“Na’am
freedom.
Zane!”

“Yes!” Nephew says, suddenly understanding. He says the word is
hooriya
.

“Hooriya,”
I say, lifting my arms above my head. I love it. It sounds like “hurray.” When I am free, I say, we can exercise together.

Yes, he says. Then he points to himself. I am not free. Every day I am here, I can’t eat or sleep at home with my family. All the time I am thinking about Tom, Norman, Harmeet, Jim. He points to his wrists as if he is in handcuffs. When you are free, I will be free, he says.

I make a sad face and a chopping motion with my hands—the sign we use to show the passing of many days.
“La, la,”
Nephew says. “One, two, three days and go. Big
Haji
, Sayyed, after one month all go. No house, no
faloos
for us. Finished.”

FEBRUARY 19
DAY 86

Today, for the first time, all three captors eat from our dish: Nephew and Junior take a few small bites at lunch, and Uncle helps himself to a small portion at supper. They do it independently, spontaneously, without comment or pretence, as if they have always done this. It is immensely reassuring. It is a gesture that seems to say, despite these handcuffs and chains, this job we have to do, we are brothers.

Downstairs, killing time in front of the television, Harmeet sitting on the floor near the door, Uncle right behind him in a chair, me and Norman in the middle of the room, also in chairs.

Junior enters in his street clothes, loud, excited, agitated. He takes off his suit jacket and throws it on the coat stand by the door. Everything they wear is draped there: towels, dress shirts, track pants, ties. He has a gun tucked into his belt. He kicks off his shoes, goes to the bed in the opposite corner of the room, puts his gun under the pillow then returns to the doorway. He talks to Uncle as he undresses, face full of anguish
and arms moving furiously. He undresses blindly and heaps his clothes onto the rack until he is standing in just his underwear and undershirt. He is oblivious to Harmeet sitting on the floor and stands with his groin just inches from Harmeet’s face. His things, covered in a jungle of black hair, bulge like his forearms. I glance quickly at the pillow: the gun, I’m only five feet away from it. Junior pulls his captor uniform out of the coat stand and puts it on. “Jim,” he says, shoulders suddenly drooping, “come on, massage.”

He flops himself down on the bed with his head facing the television and his feet resting on top of the pillow. I get up from my chair. The gun, it would be so easy to grab, I could have it in my hands before either of them have time to react. If I knew for sure it was loaded, if I knew how to use it, I could order them onto the floor face down with their hands on their heads and we would make our escape, just like in the movies.

Alas, I am a pacifist and I do not know how to use a gun, so I lay my hands on his shoulders and begin to massage. “Good,” he says, his face softening, easing into a smile. I keep one eye on the television. The news is on and I want to see if there’s anything about Tom. Without lifting his head, Junior rubs his left buttock, the place where his gun must press into his hip all day. “Jim, this, massage,” he whines.

I raise an eyebrow in astonishment. “This?” I ask, touching his buttock tentatively.

“Yes, this,” he says, in the same matter-of-fact tone one would refer to an elbow or knee. I want to say no, but I can’t. The word won’t come. I shake my head, aghast at what I am about to do. Surely this is crossing the line, I think. I’ve fallen headlong into it, Stockholm Syndrome, become an accomplice to my own enslavement.

When I finish, Junior turns onto his side, tucks his knees into his chest, pulls a blanket around his head and curls his hands under his chin. Within seconds he is snoring. Behold the man,
Ecce homo
, armed insurgent, warrior of God, sleeping innocent.

I pick up my notebook and begin to write: “It strikes me that the only thing that separates us is a gun or two, the willingness to use it,
and a set of keys. We share the same mortal precarity, are tenants of the same house of captivity, sit chained by the same anchor of waiting.” I pause for a moment to think. Yes, we are the same, but we are also separated by two radically different and antithetically opposed desires. I continue writing.

FEBRUARY 20
DAY 87

I’m not sure, but I think he was trying to be funny. Nephew was explaining why he couldn’t bring us tea, even though we hadn’t asked for it. He said it was because there was no sugar, which we knew to be a lie, having seen a clear plastic bag full of it when we were downstairs last night. He pulled out a gun, invisible under a bulky sweater and tucked into his waistband at the left hip, and pointed it directly at Harmeet.

“Sugar? No sugar. Give me sugar,” he said, pretending to rob Harmeet for sugar.

His gun is worth $2,500, he told us. We looked at him with disbelief. Yes, he said, a peacock fanning his feathers, this twenty-five one hundred. He pointed the gun at the floor and pretended to shoot it seven times. We kill this many
jaysoos
, he said. His cellphone rang. “This
Haji Kabir,”
he reported at the end of the call, helplessly self-important. Any news? we asked.

“Shwaya,”
he answered. “One day, two day, five day. Not long.” Everything has to be very secret. If the CIA finds out, there won’t be any deal. “
Inshallah
, not long, go to the house, one day, sleep, take new clothes and go. Everything okay.”

Nephew looked around the room to check that everything was in order. Then, excusing himself with a bow, he left.

Harmeet was furious. “So Nephew has a gun. That’s very impressive.”

“That was funny, eh? Give me some sugar or I’ll kill you,” I said.

“I bet it was plastic,” Harmeet said.

“It looked pretty real to me,” I said.

“They have plastic guns now that look real. He looked so ridiculous with it. All he deserves is a plastic gun. Yeah, you’re a tough guy—what are you going to do with a plastic gun?”

“We should have asked him if it was a lighter,” Norman joked.

“He did it to assert his authority because he was nervous. Medicine Man probably told him to do it,” Harmeet said. “All he needs is a fancy car and he’ll be all set for an action film.”

In the morning, a window-shaking explosion. Somewhere in Baghdad, a crater smoking with hatred, everything and everyone in its vicinity there is burning, bleeding, metal-twisted, shrapnel-shredded, wailing, running. Another day in the life of a war.