‘Making ice,’ Samuels loaded up the freezer with bottled water, ‘ice. Ice. Cold water.’
‘Just someone at HOSCO.’ Rem watched Samuels, the man diverted, possibly even happy, bottles of water tucked under his arm. ‘Let’s take it easy and see what happens. See if I don’t hear from HOSCO by tomorrow. No point ruining a good night. We’ll talk tomorrow when there’s no delivery.’
* * *
The men gathered under Sutler’s awning with an open crate of beer, the cans packed in a bucket with ice, and they waited, grouped in silence to read mail and open packages. Occasionally news was repeated, read out loud, simple facts or loose comment, but the men mostly read to themselves or listened to messages on headphones. Clark sat with the satphone, his back to the Quonset, contented as he downloaded his emails. ‘See,’ he said, holding up his fist. ‘It’s working for me. Oh, hang on. No it’s not.’
Kiprowski received packages from his mother, and he softly repeated details to Samuels: she’d caught a report on NPR about a contractor who’d handed out footballs to the kids in Nasiriyah, and this had spurred her to speak with the local Wal-mart, who were keen on the idea but hadn’t got back to her. She sent him care packages with candy, Hershey’s Kisses, bars of chocolate, messages from his sisters, cards with found poems, details she thought would interest him, substitutes for the conversations they were not having. ‘She hates Skype,’ he said, ‘email, anything that involves a computer.’
Pakosta butted into the discussion, and zoned in on the poems, and while Kiprowski was willing to share what he’d been sent, he resented the cards being read out loud. Pakosta snatched a card from Kiprowski’s hand, and Rem (surprised to see this) watched with interest as Kiprowski stood up to the man and took the card back without a word.
Clark moved the satphone closer to the Quonset. Watts told him to be careful.
‘You fuck with that and we’re all in trouble.’
Clark looked over his shoulder, sheepish. ‘It kind of gets through then breaks off.’
‘That’s what it does. Try later.’
Samuels moved away from the group, in his hands a bundle of unopened letters.
‘You aren’t reading those?’ Thwarted by Kiprowski, Pakosta sorely needed entertainment.
Samuels tucked the letters into his pockets and mumbled that he’d get to them later.
‘Christ, Samuels, what you waiting for? The Dead Sea to freeze or something?’
‘Dead Sea?’
Pakosta gestured toward Kuwait.
‘You think we’re near the Dead Sea?’
‘Sure we are.’
‘You don’t know where we are.’
‘Yes I do.’
‘Which province are we in?’
‘Al-Muthanna. Al-Amrah?’ Pakosta answered smartly.
‘Which one?’
‘Muthanna.’
‘Al-Muthanna’s a desert. Al-Amrah’s a district. I’m asking about the province.’
‘I knew that.’
‘How many provinces are there?’
The men, interested in Pakosta’s cluelessness, began to guess wildly. Santo said nine, Watts said four. Pakosta said he could give a crap.
‘Name the governor of our province.’
Chimeno stabbed his finger in the air. ‘That’s a trick question. I know for a fact there isn’t a governor.’
Samuels slowly shook his head. ‘Yes there is. There’s a governor who decides on the mayors and the chiefs of police. And there’s the local council, which the governor convenes, which is overseen by the Administrator. The governor would be an Iraqi, the Administrator is someone from Southern-CIPA.’
‘Paul Howell.’ In this they sounded unanimous.
Samuels again shook his head. ‘Howell is the Deputy Administrator. He’s the finance, the guy with the money. The Administrator is responsible for governance. It’s the Administrator we’re missing, not the Governor.’
Chimeno couldn’t keep up. ‘What? How many people run this place?’
Sutler, who was shucking peanuts, interrupted. ‘Actually, they haven’t replaced the Administrator,’ he paused to recall the name, ‘because the English and the Americans can’t agree on his successor. And as it happens, HOSCO is also missing its regional chief, a person they’ve yet to appoint.’
‘So there’s no one running the place?’
‘Howell. Paul Howell.’
‘That’s what I said!’ Chimeno became exasperated. ‘I said that.’
‘But he’s like some deputy, right?’
‘Deputy Administrator. That’s the title, which isn’t quite what you mean.’
‘But he’s the one who got us all this stuff?’
Sutler blew the husks off his hands. ‘No. The provisions are HOSCO but CIPA helped expedite the transport.’
The men raised their beers, clanked cans. Samuels, disgusted at the conversation, said he didn’t see why everyone was so smug. ‘And you guys get to vote come November.’
Santo held his hand to his heart and said he felt a great stirring of hope.
Pakosta laughed. ‘That’s not hope. That’s gas. Won’t make a bit of difference.’
‘You think?’ Samuels picked out a fresh beer and popped it open. ‘Once we’re out of here they’ll start looking for people to blame.’
Kiprowski and Clark worked together to assemble the second barbecue. Sutler announced that he had ground steak, flown in from Germany. The whole lot was defrosted so they had to eat it tonight. The group cheered, opened fresh beers, and toasted Sutler with cries of The man! The man!
When Sutler saw Watts, he handed the tongs to Kiprowski, rooted through the food crate, and called Watts to him and asked casually how he was. Watts replied, ‘Fine,’ sullen enough not to invite a discussion. Sutler, box in hand, approached the table.
Clark returned his attention to the satphone. ‘I’m on! No, I’m not.’
‘It’s not much.’ Sutler offered the box to Watts. ‘You could take some photos and send them to your daughter.’
Beer in hand, Watts looked at the box, a pack of Entenmann’s cinnamon rolls. He looked up at Rem, puzzled.
‘We don’t have candles.’
Pakosta suggested they use cigarettes.
‘Maybe something else? Everyone could sing. I don’t know how you do these things out here.’
Watts cleared his throat and spoke quietly, ‘I don’t have a daughter.’
‘Sorry?’ Sutler froze. ‘I heard it was your daughter’s birthday?’
‘Wife.’ Properly considering Sutler’s gesture Watts softened. ‘And that’s nice. We could do that. I think she’d like that.’
Pakosta immediately complained he’d rather get ass-raped than sing happy birthday over a couple of cupcakes to some woman he hadn’t met. ‘Once that shit gets on YouTube it goes viral.’
Watts hung his head, huffed out a laugh, and Pakosta slapped him on the back and called him pops.
‘What are you talking about?’ Watts looked at Rem as he spoke to Pakosta. ‘I never know.’
Rem heard his name being called and Clark, now sat beside the barbecue, held up his phone. ‘Why is your wife writing to my mother?’
Rem held his hand up to his ear and said he hadn’t heard.
‘Your wife is called Cathy? Cathy Gunnersen.’ He held up the phone. ‘Why is she sending emails to my mother saying HOSCO have shut down the pits?’
The men all turned from Clark to Rem. Santo took the phone from Clark.
Watts hung his head.
‘HOSCO haven’t announced anything.’
‘Is it true?’ Clark stood up.
‘I’ve not heard anything from HOSCO. I’m waiting to hear from them.’