‘Stephen Sutler.’ He offered his hand, his accent, as predicted, British. ‘Can you take me to the unit commander.’
Rem turned the jeep about and explained that there was no unit commander. ‘This concern isn’t military. It’s civilian. There’s nothing much here except burn pits.’
Sutler leaned sideways to listen and didn’t appear to understand.
‘I said burn pits. You know what they are?’
The man indicated that he couldn’t hear and shook his head.
‘They didn’t give you ear defenders? Head gear? Headphones?’ Rem gestured to his ears and raised his voice. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll come back in a couple of hours. I wouldn’t make a habit of it. You heard what I said?’ Rem now shouted. ‘This is civilian. We manage the burn pits, five of them.’ Rem hoiked his thumb in the general direction of the pits. ‘Not much else. So, why are you here?’
After a moment Sutler nodded and spoke in a clear English accent. ‘I need to speak to whoever’s in charge.’
‘We’re speaking. How can I help?’
The man looked at him, blank.
‘I’m preparing a survey.’
‘A survey? What’s this for?’
Again the man couldn’t hear.
‘I asked who for? Who are you working for? Are you working for HOSCO?’
Sutler gave a curt nod.
‘So what are you surveying? What are you looking for?’
Sutler answered that it would take about a week. He’d been assured that he could work with some of the men already based here, which is why he’d asked for the unit commander.
‘There’s eight of us. Including me. What kind of work do you need them for? I need to know the kind of work you’re planning. How long will you be at Camp Liberty?’
Again, the man didn’t answer.
‘You said something about a week? Longer? I said longer? More?’
Rem took a long look to measure the man, to gauge if he was serious or not, because he sounded much too vague. That he was working for HOSCO meant little, the only option for non-nationals was to work private (HOSCO) or government (CIPA). So far Sutler had told him nothing, and from the size of his kitbag he didn’t intend to stop long.
Rem presented the options. ‘I’ll have to put you with someone else, unless someone doubles up. We don’t have much in the way of accommodation.’
He saw the camp through the stranger’s eyes and realized just how mean the site appeared. It wasn’t the lack of provision so much as the scruffiness: the lines of washing and the seven men, hanging around, worse than strays. And here was this guy from England, from somewhere green and wet and moody, stranded now in this unrelenting flat of stone and grit.
‘Welcome to dust and ash.’
Kiprowski sat outside his door, sullen, feet and arms crossed, and seeing him Rem changed his mind about where he wanted to house the new arrival.
‘What did you say you were here for?’
‘HOSCO. A project.’
‘What kind of project?’
‘A planning project.’
And still nowhere.
After the suspicions raised by the arrival of the translator, Rem decided not to bed him with one of the others, especially Pakosta with his paranoid notions about HOSCO, or the increasingly morose Kiprowski. Until Rem had a better measure of what the man wanted, it would be wise to keep him isolated, which meant surrendering his own cabin.
Rem took less than five minutes to gather his clothes and bedding. He asked questions as he packed: how long had Sutler been travelling, where had he come from, and Sutler remained evasive. The answers — eighteen hours, transit through Germany — dry facts, told him next to nothing.
Sutler took the room without thanks, set his bag beside the bed and stood, arms folded, clearly waiting for Rem to leave.
* * *
Kiprowski stood up when Rem came to his cabin, a little astonished: too polite to be put out.
‘This won’t be for long.’ Rem dropped his clothes on Hassan’s cot and scooted it back to the wall. The other men (notably Santo and Pakosta) found unpleasant amusement in this, grinned as he carried his bags from one cabin to another as if this proved some idea they had. If Rem had signalled Kiprowski out for special attention by pairing him with Amer Hassan, he was making a statement of it now.
He returned to his old cabin and waited at the door while Sutler unpacked.
‘We have rations. Army rations. MREs. There’s bottled water, it’s warm but drinkable. You’ll get used to it. Don’t expect to get used to the heat. It’s best to keep these doors open during the day, otherwise you’ll cook. Once the generators are running you can use the air-con, but at night it’ll get cold.’
Sweat stuck Sutler’s shirt to his back in two small wings. ‘I’d like to see the facilities. I’ll need somewhere to work.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I have supplies coming from Amrah City tomorrow.’
The man had little idea what to bring to such an environment. Long socks and long pants — not one piece of common sense — and no keepsakes to speak of his family, personality, or interests.
Facilities. Right. Rem leaned against the doorpost, swung about to point out the Quonset hut, the water tanks, gas storage, the latrines, and over there, the showers. ‘What you see is what we have.’
Sutler stood beside him, hands on hips. ‘And that hut?’
‘The Quonset?’
‘What’s that used for?’
‘Nothing much. Storage. The men use it for shade when they work on the vehicles. We keep the drinking water there.’
‘I’ll need a table. A chair.’
Rem told him to make use of whatever he found. There wasn’t much, maybe a worktable, which he was welcome to. ‘Make it yours,’ he said, ‘for as long as you need.’
* * *
Cathy undertook two web searches. First on pregnancy, a general search: “first trimester” +nutrition +fainting. She’d speak with Maggie, but what did Maggie know? For a short while Maggie and her girlfriend had openly debated approaching Rem as a donor. Something Cathy had found endlessly funny, although she couldn’t see what had amused her so much now. She stared at the computer, at charts, read testimonies, the endless bossy chit-chat on what she needed to do, she found the subject intolerable. And the idea that Rem would make a father. Please.
The second web search came out of pure idleness. Paul Geezler. The author of their separation. That’s the word she used now: separation. Rem in Iraq, in some godforsaken desert, some dried-out, pre-biblical dust bowl. Nothing if not separate.
A search for “Paul + Geezler” brought up nothing. Not even company reports. She eventually found Geezler on the HOSCO website, and couldn’t understand why his page was placed on the European section, not the Middle East, and assumed that this had yet to be updated. Point of fact, there wasn’t much information: a bare statement naming him as the Advisor to the Division Chief, Europe. End of.
She had more luck finding Geezlers on a general search. A basketball coach. Two school teachers (mathematics and physics). A teenager whose hobbies included ‘Jesus’. These people had Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, but above all, implacably duller lives than her own.
She found the largest collection of Geezlers in Wisconsin, alongside a collection of Geislers. A website on family genealogy, maintained by Annie F. Geezler and her husband BJ (seriously), clarified the link between the Geislers and Geezlers. Annie F. had devoted much energy into gathering the family’s history and building a website based on the trivial details she’d found. The Geezlers came from Hamburg. They’d bred in moderation. Conceived of businesses (clothing, printing, transportation). They suffered from bad luck, bad timing, and over-ambition (the Great Depression stopped the clothing business, a warehouse fire terminated the printing, loans crippled the transportation). They fought in wars and died pitifully, and with anonymity (in dockyard bombings, warehouse fires, and on Russian Fronts). Anne F. had married into the Geislers, and Cathy wondered why women always carried the memory of a family. Who else would take on the job? A husband called BJ, she figured, could only be useful for lame innuendo. Christ.