dish to watch television,” I explain. “The only person who could have a phone like this would be mukhabarat, you know, the secret police. Maybe some other people working directly for Saddam.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says. She picks up the coffee the waiter brought while she was on the phone and blows on it with puckered lips. “And please, call me Sam.”
“Even though your given name is Samara? It’s a beautiful name.”
“Thanks. But I prefer Sam.”
“Samara almost sounds like an Arabic name. We even have a city by this name, but we say it a little differently.”
She grins at me and sips the coffee, placing it a bit lazily back into the saucer, so that a milky film spills over into it. I hate this kind of coffee, with the hot milk and too much sugar, but I assume that the hotel makes it because this is the way foreigners like it.
“I know,” she says. “I passed it on my way to Baghdad.”
I feel embarrassed again, because she is new in my country and has already been to places I hardly know. Samarra is less than two hours to the northwest, but I only remember going there once, when I was a boy and our parents took us on a holiday up north.
“Where else did you go? Did you go to Tikrit?”
“Yeah,” she says, gazing into the distance, as if remembering the view of it. “We were covering the war from the north and went everywhere we could on the way down, essentially wherever the lines were retreating — from Suleimaniye and Irbil down to Kirkuk, and then Tikrit, through Samarra and then here.”
“And you did all of that without an interpreter?”
Sam makes a face like I have just posed the most preposterous question in the world. “Oh, no. That’s never an option. We had a translator until Tikrit. And then he, well, decided to give up and go home. So I teamed up with Jonah for a while and shared a fixer with him.”
“A fixer?”
“Fixer, translator, same thing. More or less.”
“And so your friend Jonah is okay.”
“Yes,” she smiles, her chest falling with relief — or exasperation. “You heard?” She wags a finger at me. “You were eavesdropping.”
“You were not speaking quietly.”
She picks up her coffee cup again and puts it to her mouth, all the while with her eyes set on me. “Also, Rizgar’s been my driver all along. I mean, since Suli.”
After a moment I realize she means Suleimaniye, and I feel a rising distaste over the idea that Sam and her colleagues have already given abbreviations to Iraqi cities I have never seen, as if they are old friends, on intimate terms.
“What happened to the last interpreter?” I suddenly realize that it is as if I’m interviewing Samara, not the other way around, and now I regret my words. I certainly don’t want her to find me cheeky or rude.
She grins close-mouthed, her lips spread wide. “I like you, Nabil. I like people who aren’t afraid to ask questions.” She drinks her coffee again, watching me across the rim of her cup. “My last translator was Saman. Kurdish, of course. He and Rizgar started with me in Suli. They were a good team. But Saman’s Arabic was weak and he had an accent when he spoke it, and so when we got to Tikrit he had a hard time.”
“What happened?”
Sam lifts her cup higher this time, and I can hear the rest of its contents draining into her throat. When she’s done, she shrugs. “Someone said something nasty or something, then, when we were trying to leave, they threw things at the car. It was just...it scared him a bit and he decided not to come to Baghdad with us. Hopped a ride back to Irbil, where he’s from.”
“I see.” Most of the people I know think that the Kurds are part of the cause of the American invasion. One of Baba’s friends who came for a visit a while back said the Kurds have been selling their souls for years, begging for Washington to overthrow Saddam. Baba
“Yeah, I know,” she says. She picks up the coffee the waiter brought while she was on the phone and blows on it with puckered lips. “And please, call me Sam.”
“Even though your given name is Samara? It’s a beautiful name.”
“Thanks. But I prefer Sam.”
“Samara almost sounds like an Arabic name. We even have a city by this name, but we say it a little differently.”
She grins at me and sips the coffee, placing it a bit lazily back into the saucer, so that a milky film spills over into it. I hate this kind of coffee, with the hot milk and too much sugar, but I assume that the hotel makes it because this is the way foreigners like it.
“I know,” she says. “I passed it on my way to Baghdad.”
I feel embarrassed again, because she is new in my country and has already been to places I hardly know. Samarra is less than two hours to the northwest, but I only remember going there once, when I was a boy and our parents took us on a holiday up north.
“Where else did you go? Did you go to Tikrit?”
“Yeah,” she says, gazing into the distance, as if remembering the view of it. “We were covering the war from the north and went everywhere we could on the way down, essentially wherever the lines were retreating — from Suleimaniye and Irbil down to Kirkuk, and then Tikrit, through Samarra and then here.”
“And you did all of that without an interpreter?”
Sam makes a face like I have just posed the most preposterous question in the world. “Oh, no. That’s never an option. We had a translator until Tikrit. And then he, well, decided to give up and go home. So I teamed up with Jonah for a while and shared a fixer with him.”
“A fixer?”
“Fixer, translator, same thing. More or less.”
“And so your friend Jonah is okay.”
“Yes,” she smiles, her chest falling with relief — or exasperation. “You heard?” She wags a finger at me. “You were eavesdropping.”
“You were not speaking quietly.”
She picks up her coffee cup again and puts it to her mouth, all the while with her eyes set on me. “Also, Rizgar’s been my driver all along. I mean, since Suli.”
After a moment I realize she means Suleimaniye, and I feel a rising distaste over the idea that Sam and her colleagues have already given abbreviations to Iraqi cities I have never seen, as if they are old friends, on intimate terms.
“What happened to the last interpreter?” I suddenly realize that it is as if I’m interviewing Samara, not the other way around, and now I regret my words. I certainly don’t want her to find me cheeky or rude.
She grins close-mouthed, her lips spread wide. “I like you, Nabil. I like people who aren’t afraid to ask questions.” She drinks her coffee again, watching me across the rim of her cup. “My last translator was Saman. Kurdish, of course. He and Rizgar started with me in Suli. They were a good team. But Saman’s Arabic was weak and he had an accent when he spoke it, and so when we got to Tikrit he had a hard time.”
“What happened?”
Sam lifts her cup higher this time, and I can hear the rest of its contents draining into her throat. When she’s done, she shrugs. “Someone said something nasty or something, then, when we were trying to leave, they threw things at the car. It was just...it scared him a bit and he decided not to come to Baghdad with us. Hopped a ride back to Irbil, where he’s from.”
“I see.” Most of the people I know think that the Kurds are part of the cause of the American invasion. One of Baba’s friends who came for a visit a while back said the Kurds have been selling their souls for years, begging for Washington to overthrow Saddam. Baba
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