Captivity (45 page)

It puzzles me. Why now? Is it a sign they plan to release us? Is this something that Nephew has decided on his own? Do they feel so comfortable with us that they no longer believe we will hurt them or risk trying to escape? Whatever the reason, I don’t mind. It feels good not to be so hungry.

8:45 p.m.

An hour and fifteen minutes to kill. I used to hate that expression, as if time, God’s glorious gift, the lifeblood of life, were a bad weed or a
cockroach. But I’m afraid I’ve come to adopt it here, where time has become the enemy, a dragon that must be slain.

“Come on, Jim, come on, Harmeet,” Junior says. What a relief. Time for bed. We follow him upstairs. Junior sits down in one of our plastic chairs while we do our nightly rotation through the bathroom. Taking the cup with the roses into his hand, he wants to know where they came from. From the big man—he took them from the garden, we explain.

Junior nods, smiles, smells it. His face becomes pained. “No, this-I-love-you,” he says, gripping his ring finger. He forms an X with his index fingers and places it over his heart. He pretends to pull a ring off his finger.
“Mozane, mozane,”
he says, covering his face with his hands. He makes a big circle with his arms as if to show the circumference of the earth. Life, the world, everything is bad, everything is hopeless, he seems to be saying.

Norman returns and eases himself into his place next to the wall. When I return from the bathroom, Harmeet gets up to take his turn and Junior bends down to chain my foot. “I’m sorry, Jim,” he says. He points to himself and shakes his head. “This no mother, no father, no
beit
. No
zowage
, no madame, no
whalid
. Sister
mooreed
. No
sierra
, no business, no
hubis.”
He body-languages a rifle, looking through a scope, pulling the trigger.
“Kul yoom Amriki,”
he says. This is what he does every day when he leaves in the car. He’s a sniper. He kills American soldiers.

Harmeet returns and takes his place in the middle. Junior handcuffs us together and stands up. “Good night,” he says.

“Good night,” we say. Junior closes the door and leaves.

“Did I miss anything exciting?” Harmeet asks.

“Just Junior’s tales of woe,” Norman says.

MARCH 22
DAY 117

Norman is anxious. It’s beginning to seem as if Harmeet and I may be going first, that the negotiations are now on separate tracks. Norman, preparing for this possibility, asks us what we think is likely to happen.
He wants to think through what it will mean for him if he’s left behind. Would he be moved? If so, where? What would he need to bring?

In the event that we are released first, there are four things he wants us to tell his wife, Pat:

1. he loves her;
   
2. he thanks her for forty-some years of life together;
   
3. he asks for her forgiveness for putting her through this, the consequence of his decision to go to Iraq;
   
4. while this may be a life that is not of her choosing, he gently urges her to live each day fully, to get on and go on with things as best she can—not to put her life on hold.
   

The idea gnashes and tears at me. I could, when it’s my turn to be in the middle, unlock myself with the Instrument of Grace, sneak downstairs, see if I can get out the door. If I can, I’ll run. If I can’t, I’ll return to my place and lock myself up again. At least then I will know and not waste any more energy wondering of my escape.

The consequences could be catastrophic. The captors will learn about the Instrument of Grace. Norman and Harmeet will be punished, immediately moved (if not killed), perhaps separated. Their conditions will most certainly be more restrictive, maybe even unbearable. All of that will be on my conscience.

But—we’re in terrible danger! I want to live! We have to do something!

They don’t feel this sense of urgency. They’re biding their time, waiting it out, trusting in the course of these negotiations. I could risk it. Maybe one evening. When I’m going to the bathroom. Slip into the kitchen. Go to the door, see if it will open. I’d have five, maybe seven seconds to get to the end of the driveway and climb over whatever gate or wall is there before they figure out what’s happening. I’d have to be fast. They will try to shoot me. My heart pounds wildly. It means risking everything. It means leaving Harmeet and Norman behind, exposing them to terrible danger.

The best way is for us to do it together. That way we all share the risk and all share the benefit. But they don’t like talking about it. I wish I could convince them. I’m sure, if we just put our heads together, we could figure something out. Something with minimal risk and a high chance of succeeding. Something we could do today, for example, while Nephew is alone with us.

I begin with a summary of our situation: Uncle up all night with his rocket launcher, Medicine Man’s lies, the apparent failure of the British negotiations, worries about Norman’s health, the precarious political situation in the country. Our time is running out, I say. Unless we take matters into our own hands, we’re not going to make it. They’re going to kill us. It means risking everything, but I’m starting to think we don’t have any option. It’s like a puzzle—we can solve it. Once we come up with a plan, we can practise and prepare ourselves.

Then I make my proposal. “I keep thinking about Harmeet’s story of when he was a kid, how they would twist each other’s shirts so tight that they’d make each other pass out. I’d like to try that, role-play it. We can use the blue blindfolds. Harmeet, if we unlocked you tonight, you could test it out on me, stand behind me with the blindfold, see how long it takes for me to pass out, how long it lasts. I’ll pretend to be Junior or Nephew and see if I can reach around behind to stop you. We can try it a few different times in different ways.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Harmeet says, his voice barely a whisper.

“This is not committing us to any plan,” I say. “It’s just to test something out, to see if it might be an option. Then we can role-play it and perfect it.”

No, Harmeet says. I try again to convince him, but Norman interrupts. “He doesn’t want to do it,” he says, “and neither do I. It’s not worth the risk.”

“And unlocking every night the way we used to—that was worth the risk?” I say.

There’s no budging them.
Bury your heads in the sand
, I want to scream.

–

The impasse hovers about us like a pall. I feel like I am baking in a hot oven of silence. I fight with myself to accept the fact that it is their freedom to say no. I can’t.

We need a change of mood. Anyone for a game of Wheel of Fortune or Word Within a Word? I want to ask. I steal sideways glances at Harmeet and Norman. They are closed up, shuttered, somewhere far away. I know it will help us, but I can’t bring myself to ask it. What if they say no to punish me? They know I like those games. They were both my idea. I couldn’t bear it if they said no. Better to stew in this toxic silence.

Nephew comes up to unlock us. “Hayder coming soon,” he says, holding up his mobile. We set up our bed and follow him downstairs. We take our places in front of the television. I open my notebook and begin to write.

“Sometime after 7:00 p.m. Downstairs in haji headquarters, sitting in chairs with good light and no handcuffs, as captive as ever. My mind is largely a blank, perhaps because of thinking about Sheila.” (Sheila is the codeword I used for “escape.”)

I look up from my notebook. There’s a car pulling up the driveway. It has to be Junior, returning from doing God knows what, another long day working in the vineyard of death. I almost laugh. I have this image of Junior entering the kitchen, tired, setting down a bag of groceries, calling out to Nephew, “Hi, honey, I’m home.” And Nephew, preoccupied with some task, an apron around his waist, answering absently, “How was your day, dear?”

Junior enters the room with a bag of fresh
samoons
. I say hello and continue with writing. These are the last words of my notebook:

–

“Come on, Jim, massage,” Junior says to me. He’s lying on his bed.

I sigh, close up my notebook, kneel beside him. I work on his back for a long time. This, at least, is one useful thing I can do. I pray for his sister, and for the healing of his spirit. Only then will he be able to lay down his gun.

When I am done, I sit back in my chair and stare vacantly at the television, simmering with escape plans.

We are sitting cross-legged on the futon waiting for Norman, who is taking his turn in the bathroom. Junior sits facing us on a chair, singing his Shwaya shwaya song with his eyes closed, head swaying in imitation of Kazem Al Saher, the pop star he idolizes. He opens his eyes and lifts his right forearm towards me. “Come on, Jim, massage, massage,” he pleads, pressing his arm to show me how sore it is. I gird myself to say no. Two massages in one day is crossing the line. He gets up from his chair and sits in front of me cross-legged, so close that our knees touch. He holds his forearm out. I laugh. “All right,” I say.
“Shwaya.”

Junior recites the same litany of rue we heard last night—no mother, no father, no house. His voice is pained, aching with despair.

He pulls his arm away, forms his right hand into a gun and points it at his temple. He pulls the trigger, tilts his head, sticks his tongue out, closes his eyes. “This in Canada,” he asks,
“Zane? Mozane?”

He’s asking me if it’s okay to kill yourself in Canada.
“La, la,”
I say, shocked by his question. “La suicide.
Mozane
. This
haram
in Canada.”

He nods. “This good in Canada. This no Islami.” He points to himself. “This no suicide.
La Islami.”

“Good,” I say to him. “
Inshallah
, this
abu zane.”

When Norman returns, I take my turn in the bathroom. When I come back, I’m surprised to find Harmeet and Junior sitting cross-legged together on the mat, Harmeet massaging Junior’s forearm just
as I had been. “Any good news?” I hear Harmeet ask Junior. He’s pressing him for information about our release.

Instead of the usual
inshallah
, or
shwaya shwaya
, his answer is a strange smile. A smile that says yes, it will be soon, very very soon. Harmeet reaches into his pocket and presents him with a peace crane, made from one of the gold candy wrappers. “This is for your sister,” Harmeet says.

“Thank you,” he says, his face very solemn. He puts the crane into his pocket and locks us up. “Good night,” he says, closing the door behind him.

“Good night,” we say.

I lie awake for a long time after that, flailing in an agony of indecision. I want to escape and they don’t. Our lives are hanging in the balance. I don’t know what to do.

MARCH 23
DAY 118

I’m awake, watching the day’s new light gather and grow. Judging by the angle and intensity of the sun, I guess that it’s about seven-fifteen.

The kitchen door slams. I’m instantly alert. This is unusual. Junior is never up this early. I wait for the sound of a car door, an engine roaring to life, the kitchen door to slam a second time. Nothing. Only silence.

Then voices, urgent, indistinct. One voice, louder than the others, rippling with alarm, fear, warning. “Hamid! Hamid!” it cries. The ominous whirring of a tank engine.

I shake Harmeet. “Harmeet! There’s something weird going on,” I say.

Norman and Harmeet both sit up. There’s a heavy clang of metal hitting the ground. Boots run up the driveway and pass beneath our window. “It’s a raid,” I say, standing up.

“Open the door! Open the door!” I hear a British voice shout. The thud of metal pounding against metal. Smashing glass.

My body roars with adrenalin. I don’t know what to do. “What should we do?” I cry. I start towards the window. I need to see what’s going on. No, I might startle someone with a gun, or something could explode below us, sending glass and shrapnel everywhere. We have to find a safer place. I start towards the door. “Should we go out into the foyer?” I call out. I open the door and look into the foyer. No, the captors could come up the stairs and barricade themselves in the room with us, use us as human shields. There could be gunfire coming from the stairwell. I step back into the room.