One Hundred and One Nights (9780316191913) Read Free Page A

overpass where the highway from Basra to Kuwait and the even larger highway from the port of Umm Qasr to Baghdad intersect. The convoys do not rest today. Just as always, they slow as they approach the off-ramps and the on-ramps between the north-south highway and the military bypass around the western edge of Safwan. Three Humvees accompany each convoy: one in the front, one in the middle, one to bring up the rear. From my store in the market, at the next highway intersection southeast from the American bypass, I can actually see the faces of the American soldiers in their vehicles. They wear dark sunglasses and helmets. They stare into the desert and into the town as they turn the corner away from me, heading north to Baghdad or south to Kuwait. Each Humvee has a big machine gun and small machine gun mounted on a turret on its roof, manned by one of the soldiers whose body protrudes through the turret opening. Some of these soldiers I name in my imagination, a little game I play with myself to take my mind off the boredom of my work. However, I quickly run out of suitable American names, so I have Dave and then I also have Dave Junior and also Dave-Who-Is-Shorter-Than-Dave-Junior and additionally several Patricks, a Robert or two, a Winston. Maybe Winston is more of a British name? I wonder.
    My feelings toward the Americans are mixed. I don’t hate them. I feel sorry for them, exposed and prominent as they are, noticeable as they are. Giving them names makes them seem more real to me, more human. I know that naming them is something I shouldn’t do. It will only increase my feelings of guilt. I should cling to the various jihadist slogans—Evil Empire, Great Satan, etc. But my mind, so lulled by the rhythm of the days in this market, cannot help but indulge in this name-giving diversion.
    Today marks the third day of Layla’s visitations. Also the twenty-first day of business for me since I moved to Safwan. A good day. I sold four mobile phones and fifteen mobile-phone cards with a hundred minutes apiece on them. One man, a Shareefi, inquired about purchasing a satellite dish for his niece’s home. The inquiry calls to mind certain hints that Sheikh Seyyed Abdullah has made, to the effect that I could easily expand my business to sell satellite dishes and other electronics. The extra profit from such sales would be most welcome. The conversation with the man from the Shareefi family seems promising. I resolve to order some satellite-dish sales brochures.
    The guard for the overpass goes into his tent for tea. He is not as tired today as he seemed yesterday and he has spent most of his time pacing from his tent across the intersection and back. At the farthest point in his patrol he is only about fifty meters from my shop. His tent is much nearer, maybe only fifteen meters, perched like the nest of a roc on a little flat space between the precipice of the overpass embankment and the road itself.
    The guard at last ceases pacing. He enters his tent to make tea. As he fools with his tea set, a British patrol approaches, four dun-colored Land Rovers brimming with soldiers. The British bring more soldiers with them than the Americans, wherever they go. The Americans have more stuff; the British bring more people—different styles of war. Maybe all the British are actually robots, which would mean they have the same amount of stuff as the Americans, just more cleverly disguised so that they might fool a simple mobile-phone merchant into considering them people. Meaningless speculation, robots and whatnot. I chide myself and bring my mind back into focus. The patrol moves off the road from Basra into Safwan, taking the exit ramp that passes just behind my shop. I guess they are on their way to a meeting with the town council down near Bashar’s café in the city center. The guard on the overpass does not even notice the vehicles as they turn in succession before him. After all the pacing and watchfulness today, he does not