Asymmetry - Lisa Halliday Page 0,41
a deep breath. “If I’m with you . . .”
Ezra shook his head neatly, as if she’d been misinformed about who he was. “Sweetheart, you’re tired.”
Alice nodded. “I know.”
“And shaken up I think. But we’re going to be fine.”
Sniffling, Alice nodded again and said, “I know. I know.”
He watched her thoughtfully for a moment, the spot of blood under his eye like a stopped tear. Then he grimaced good-naturedly and leaned forward a little to adjust his pillows. Wiping her cheeks, Alice hurried to help, and in the process extracted a handset from where it had slipped down behind his shoulder. “Oh!” Ezra said brightly, taking the control. “There’s a television.” Turning the handset around, he aimed it at the screen, switched the power on, and surfed until he came to highlights of the game. New York was up by three in the bottom of the ninth.
They watched as Renteria struck out.
“Mouth.”
When Ortiz popped one up to Jeter, Ezra turned a hand over on the bed, inviting Alice to rest her own in his palm. He was still looking at the screen. “Alice,” he said rationally. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go. I want a partner in life. Do you know? We’re just getting started. No one could love you as much as I do. Choose this. Choose the adventure, Alice. This is the adventure. This is the misadventure. This is living.”
Shave and a haircut, two bits.
The nurse came in with their hospital chicken.
II
MADNESS
Our ideas about the war were the war.
—WILL MACKIN, Kattekoppen
WHERE ARE YOU COMING from?
Los Angeles.
Traveling alone?
Yes.
Purpose of your trip?
To see my brother.
Your brother is British?
No.
Whose address is this then?
Alastair Blunt’s.
Alastair Blunt is British?
Yes.
And how long do you plan to stay in the UK?
Until Sunday morning.
What will you be doing here?
Seeing friends.
For only two nights?
Yes.
And then?
I fly to Istanbul.
Your brother lives in Istanbul?
No.
Where does he live?
In Iraq.
And you’re going to visit him in Iraq?
Yes.
When?
On Monday.
How?
By car from Diyarbakir.
And how long will you be there?
In Diyarbakir?
No, in Iraq.
Until the fifteenth.
And then?
I fly back to the States.
What is it that you do there?
In the States?
Yes.
I’ve just finished my dissertation.
In?
Economics.
And now you’re looking for a job?
Yes.
In the States?
Yes.
What does Mr. Blunt do?
He’s a journalist.
What sort of a journalist?
A foreign correspondent.
And you’ll be staying with him?
Yes.
At this address?
Yes.
For only two nights?
Yes.
Have you ever been to the United Kingdom?
Yes.
Your passport doesn’t have any stamps in it.
It’s new.
What happened to your old one?
The lamination became unglued.
Sorry?
This part peeled up.
When were you last here?
Ten years ago.
What were you doing here?
I had an internship at a bioethics council.
You had a visa?
Yes.
A work visa?
Yes.
Do you have it with you?
No.
Do you have your ticket to Istanbul with you?
No.
Why not?
It’s electronic.
Itinerary?
I didn’t print it out.
All right then, Mr. Jaafari. Could I ask you please to take a seat?
I WAS CONCEIVED IN Karrada but born high over the elbow of Cape Cod. The only doctor on board was my father, a hematologist-oncologist whose last delivery had been at Baghdad Medical School, in 1959. To sterilize the umbilical scissors, he’d used a slug of flask whiskey. To get me breathing, he’d slapped the soles of my feet. Alhamdulillah! cried one of the stewardesses, upon seeing that I was a boy. May he be one of seven!
At this point in the story, my mother will usually roll her eyes. For many years, I took this as disdain for the male favoritism of her homeland, if not merely relief at having been spared five additional children, whatever the gender. Then my brother, who was nine at the time, suggested a different theory: She rolls her eyes because those stewardesses spent the entire flight leaning over her to light Baba’s cigarettes. In Sami’s version, the whiskey belonged to our father, too.
As to the question of my nationality, immigration officials scratched their heads for three weeks. Both of my parents were born in Baghdad. (So was Sami, on the same day as Qusay Hussein.) The plane in question belonged to Iraqi Airways, and, in the United Nations’ opinion, an in-flight birth was to be considered a birth in the aircraft’s registered country. On the other hand, we were moving to America at a relatively sympathetic time, and even today a baby born in American airspace is entitled to American citizenship, no matter who owns the vehicle. In the end, I was granted both: two passports with two colors and three languages between them, although my Arabic is barely serviceable and I didn’t learn a word of Kurdish until I was almost twenty-nine.
So: two passports, two nationalities,