Holly turns back to the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and starts to remove her makeup. “So, are you going to tell me or not?”
I sit on the edge of the double bed, alert. “Tell you what?”
She dabs cotton wool under her eyes. “I don’t know yet.”
“What makes you think I … have anything to tell you?”
“Dunno, Brubeck. Must be my feminine intuition.”
I don’t believe in psychics but Holly can do a good impression of one. “Olive asked me to stay on in Baghdad until December.”
Holly freezes for a few seconds, drops the cotton wool, and turns to me. “But you’ve already told her you’re quitting in June.”
“Yeah. I did. But she’s asking me to reconsider.”
“But you told me you’re quitting in June. Me and Aoife.”
“I told her I’d call back on Monday. After discussing it with you.”
Holly’s looking betrayed. Or as if she’s caught me downloading porn. “We agreed, Brubeck. This would be your final final extension.”
“I’m only talking about another six months.”
“Oh, f’Chrissakes. You said that the last time.”
“Sure, but since I won the Sheehan-Dower Prize I’ve been—”
“And the time before that. ‘Half a year, then I’m out.’ ”
“This’ll cover a year of Aoife’s college expenses, Hol.”
“She’d rather have a living father than a smaller loan.”
“That’s just”—you can’t call angry women “hysterical” these days; it’s sexist—“hyperbole. Don’t stoop to that.”
“Is that what Daniel Pearl said to his partner before he jetted off to Pakistan? ‘That’s just hyperbole’?”
“That’s tasteless. And wrongheaded. And Pakistan’s not Iraq.”
She lowers the toilet lid and sits on it so we’re roughly at eye level. “I’m sick of wanting to puke with fear every time I hear the word ‘Iraq’ or ‘Baghdad’ on the radio. I’m sick of hardly sleeping. I’m sick of having to hide from Aoife how worried I am. Fantastic, you’re an in-demand award-winning journalist, but you have a six-year-old who wants help riding a bike with no stabilizers. Being a crackly voice for a minute every two or three days, if the satphone’s working, isn’t enough. You are a war junkie. Brendan was right.”
“No, I am not. I am a journalist doing what I do. Just as he does what he does and you do what you do.”
Holly rubs her head like I’m giving her a headache. “Go, then! Back to Baghdad, to the bombs taking the front off your hotel. Pack. Go. Back to ‘what you do.’ If it’s more precious than us. Only you’d better get the tenants out of your King’s Cross flat ’cause the next time you’re back in London, you’ll be needing somewhere to live.”
I keep my voice low: “Will you please fucking listen to yourself?”
“No, you fucking listen to yourfuckingself! Last month you agree to quit in June and come home. Your high-powered American editor says, ‘Make it December.’ You say, ‘Uh, okay.’ Then you tell me. Who are you with, Brubeck? Me and Aoife, or Olive Sun and Spyglass?”
“I’m being offered another six months’ work. That’s all.”
“No, it’s not ‘all’ ’cause after Fallujah dies down or gets bombed to shit it’ll be Baghdad or Afghanistan Part Two or someplace else, there’s always someplace else, and on and on until the day your luck runs out and then I’m a widow and Aoife has no dad. Yes, I put up with Sierra Leone, yes, I survived your assignment in Somalia, but Aoife’s older now. She needs a dad.”
“Suppose I told you, ‘No, Holly, you can’t help homeless people anymore. Some have AIDS, some have knives, some are psychotic. Quit that job and work for … for Greenland supermarkets instead. Put all those people skills of yours to use on dried goods. In fact, I’m ordering you to, or I’ll kick you out.’ How would you respond?”
“F’Chrissakes, the risks are different.” Holly lets out an angry sigh. “Why bring this up in the middle of the bloody night? I’m Sharon’s matron of honor tomorrow. I’ll look like a hungover panda. You’re at a crossroads, Brubeck. Choose.”
I make an ill-advised quip: “More of a T-junction, technically.”
“Right. I’d forgotten. It’s all a joke to you, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Holly, for God’s sake, that’s not what I—”
“Well, I’m not joking. Quit Spyglass or move out. My house isn’t just a storage dump for your dead laptops.”
THREE O’CLOCK IN the morning, and things are fairly shit. “Never let the sun set on an argument,” my uncle Norm used to say, but my uncle Norm didn’t have a kid with a woman like Holly. I said “Good night” to her peaceably enough after switching off the lights, but her “Good night” back sounded very like “Screw you,” and she turned away. Her back’s as inviting as the North Korean border. It’s six o’clock in the morning in Baghdad now. The stars will be fading in the freeze-dried dawn, as skin-and-bone dogs pick through rubble for something to eat, the mosques’ Tannoys summon the devout, and bundles by the side of the road solidify into last night’s crop of dead bodies. The luckier corpses have a single bullet through the head. At the Safir Hotel, repairs will be under way. Daylight will be reclaiming my room at the back, 555. My bed will be occupied by Andy Rodriguez from The Economist—I owe him a favor from the fall of Kabul two years ago — but everything else should be the same. Above the desk is a map of Baghdad. No-go areas are marked in pink highlighter. After the invasion last March, the map was marked by only a few pink slashes here and there: Highway 8 south to Hillah, and Highway 10 west to Fallujah — other than that, you could drive pretty much wherever you wanted. But as the insurgency heated up the pink ink crept up the roads north to Tikrit and Mosul, where an American TV crew got shot to shit. Ditto the road to the airport. When Sadr City, the eastern third of Baghdad, got blocked off, the map became about three-quarters pink. Big Mac says I’m re-creating an old map of the British Empire. This makes the pursuit of journalism difficult in the extreme. I can no longer venture out to the suburbs to get stories, approach eyewitnesses, speak English on the streets, or even, really, leave the hotel. Since the new year my work for Spyglass has been journalism by proxy, really. Without Nasser and Aziz I’d have been reduced to parroting the Panglossian platitudes tossed to the press pack in the Green Zone. All of which begs the question, if journalism is so difficult in Iraq, why am I so anxious to hurry back to Baghdad and get to work?
Because it is difficult, but I’m one of the best.
Because only the best can work in Iraq right now.
Because if I don’t, two good men died for nothing.
April 17
WINDSURFERS, SEAGULLS, AND SUN, a salt-’n’-vinegar breeze, a glossy sea, and an early walk along the pier with Aoife. Aoife’s never been on a pier before and she loves it. She does a row of froggy jumps, enjoying the flicker of the LED bulbs in the heels of her trainers. We’d have killed for shoes like that when I was a kid, but Holly says it’s hard to find shoes that don’t light up these days. Aoife has a Dora the Explorer helium balloon tied to her wrist. I just paid a fiver for it to a charming Pole. I look behind us, trying to work out which window of the Grand Maritime Hotel is our room. I invited Holly out on the walk but she said she had to help Sharon get ready for a hairdresser who isn’t due until nine-thirty. It’s not yet eight-thirty. It’s her way of letting me know she hasn’t shifted her position from last night.