the striped flannel pajamas which they’d given him the day after he was kidnapped, even though he’d always worn silk pajamas before.
Where were his kidnappers? Had his wife paid the ransom?
The affair didn’t end with the return of the hostage. His kidnappers turned up on his doorstep a few days later.
They walked in and greeted him like an old friend. “We missed you!”
They chatted easily for a few minutes, intimating that a close bond had been forged between them and their prisoner. One of them remarked to his wife, “Really, madam, we thought about you all the time. Your husband’s a fussy man. This was too salty. He didn’t like that. This wasn’t properly cooked. We used to say, ‘How does his wife put up with him, God help her!’ ”
Then they got down to business. They complained they had incurred losses which they hadn’t foreseen when they kidnapped him. They’d spent lavishly on his food, bought indigestion tablets and medicine for his stomach, bribed people living nearby to keep quiet, and even the good woman who’d cooked for him had asked more than they could afford. They’d barely finished their complaint and drunk their coffee when Munir disappeared and came back with an envelope containing money, which he handed to them, begging them not to forget the cook. He used to hear her asking the guard if the Christian gentleman had liked his food. She cooked whatever he wanted and she was a good cook, even though she added a lot of garlic and coriander, which madehim drowsy. He’d been surprised at the care she took over his food and her concern that he should enjoy it, despite his circumstances. Then he asked them how they were free, as someone had informed him that they had been disciplined by the party for kidnapping him. It turned out that they had consulted a sheikh, who had issued a fatwa pronouncing him a legitimate target because of his American connections, and so the party had been forced to release them. As he digested this thunderbolt, he assumed an air of indifference, but he was shaking with anger and fear. His wife wanted to throw what was left of the hot coffee over their heads, snatch the money back, and scream that they weren’t her fellow countrymen. The same night the couple decided to emigrate.
Don’t worry, Jill Morrell. Your boyfriend won’t come to any harm in these battles. Things will change. The current deranged bombardment of the city will stop, they’ll gather up the bodies, the Red Cross or the Red Crescent will take the wounded to the hospital, and they’ll announce a cease-fire, temporary or long-term.
This is the problem. That things go back to being exactly as they were, and all they’ve done is added a great deal of salt to the wound. What’s going on now has no connection with anyone but the fighters. Who’s going to take a war of the streets and alleys seriously, and care about its outcome?
I don’t believe I’ll think about anything beyond the confines of my room. But I have to stop myself sneaking a glance through a gap in the garden wall at a house which is said to be occupied by party members. The night was calm, and everyone was asleep. I saw the fighters sleeping withtheir families. I could almost hear them snoring. I lowered my head and wondered if I had really been kidnapped. Perhaps I was still having a bad dream. People sleeping peacefully couldn’t be kidnappers. Then I reminded myself that evil sleeps too.
My Dear Naser,
You’re on my mind again, and if I hadn’t been distracted by the tank parked outside, I’d have been worrying that you were going to fall ill or die. Something always seems to happen to the people I have strong thoughts or dreams about and I hear of it sooner or later. I know these ideas have been ingrained in me since childhood by the women around me, and if I really believed them, nobody I knew would still be alive. I’ve often tried to curb my premonitions, but then I think that they might sometimes turn
Where were his kidnappers? Had his wife paid the ransom?
The affair didn’t end with the return of the hostage. His kidnappers turned up on his doorstep a few days later.
They walked in and greeted him like an old friend. “We missed you!”
They chatted easily for a few minutes, intimating that a close bond had been forged between them and their prisoner. One of them remarked to his wife, “Really, madam, we thought about you all the time. Your husband’s a fussy man. This was too salty. He didn’t like that. This wasn’t properly cooked. We used to say, ‘How does his wife put up with him, God help her!’ ”
Then they got down to business. They complained they had incurred losses which they hadn’t foreseen when they kidnapped him. They’d spent lavishly on his food, bought indigestion tablets and medicine for his stomach, bribed people living nearby to keep quiet, and even the good woman who’d cooked for him had asked more than they could afford. They’d barely finished their complaint and drunk their coffee when Munir disappeared and came back with an envelope containing money, which he handed to them, begging them not to forget the cook. He used to hear her asking the guard if the Christian gentleman had liked his food. She cooked whatever he wanted and she was a good cook, even though she added a lot of garlic and coriander, which madehim drowsy. He’d been surprised at the care she took over his food and her concern that he should enjoy it, despite his circumstances. Then he asked them how they were free, as someone had informed him that they had been disciplined by the party for kidnapping him. It turned out that they had consulted a sheikh, who had issued a fatwa pronouncing him a legitimate target because of his American connections, and so the party had been forced to release them. As he digested this thunderbolt, he assumed an air of indifference, but he was shaking with anger and fear. His wife wanted to throw what was left of the hot coffee over their heads, snatch the money back, and scream that they weren’t her fellow countrymen. The same night the couple decided to emigrate.
Don’t worry, Jill Morrell. Your boyfriend won’t come to any harm in these battles. Things will change. The current deranged bombardment of the city will stop, they’ll gather up the bodies, the Red Cross or the Red Crescent will take the wounded to the hospital, and they’ll announce a cease-fire, temporary or long-term.
This is the problem. That things go back to being exactly as they were, and all they’ve done is added a great deal of salt to the wound. What’s going on now has no connection with anyone but the fighters. Who’s going to take a war of the streets and alleys seriously, and care about its outcome?
I don’t believe I’ll think about anything beyond the confines of my room. But I have to stop myself sneaking a glance through a gap in the garden wall at a house which is said to be occupied by party members. The night was calm, and everyone was asleep. I saw the fighters sleeping withtheir families. I could almost hear them snoring. I lowered my head and wondered if I had really been kidnapped. Perhaps I was still having a bad dream. People sleeping peacefully couldn’t be kidnappers. Then I reminded myself that evil sleeps too.
My Dear Naser,
You’re on my mind again, and if I hadn’t been distracted by the tank parked outside, I’d have been worrying that you were going to fall ill or die. Something always seems to happen to the people I have strong thoughts or dreams about and I hear of it sooner or later. I know these ideas have been ingrained in me since childhood by the women around me, and if I really believed them, nobody I knew would still be alive. I’ve often tried to curb my premonitions, but then I think that they might sometimes turn
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