Asymmetry - Lisa Halliday Page 0,52

time America had begun to withdraw its troops and my grandmother was packing up to go home. This time, Sami spoke only to our father, who, after hanging up, immediately took his jacket off the coatrack and went out for a walk. When he got home he went into my bedroom, where my grandmother’s suitcase was three-quarters full and her boarding passes to London, Cairo, and Amman were propped up against my fishbowl of dice. He sat her down on my bed and took her hands in his. Then he told her that Ahmed, her husband of fifty-seven years, had had an embolism that morning, and died.

MR. JAAFARI?

I looked up to see her standing on the other side of the immigration desks, evidently refusing to complete the distance between us.

We’d like to ask you a few more questions. Do you want to come through?

We rode an escalator together down to the baggage claim, where Denise consulted the overhead monitors. Then we walked the full length of the vast hall to locate my suitcase standing in solitude beside a stopped carousel. Extending its handle I tipped it into its wheeling position and followed Denise most of the way back to the escalator followed by a left into Goods to Declare. A male customs officer awaited us there, and while I hoisted my case onto a metal examination table he snapped on a pair of purple rubber gloves.

Pack the bag yourself?

Yes.

Anybody help you pack?

No.

Are you aware of all of the contents of your bag?

Yes.

While he poked around among my socks and underwear, Denise resumed her own questioning, thinly disguised as small talk.

So. What’s the temperature like in Iraq this time of year?

Well, it depends on where you are, of course. In Sulaymaniyah it should be pretty mild, like in the fifties.

What’s that? Denise said to the customs officer. Ten? Twelve?

Got me.

So when did you last see your brother? She opened my Iraqi passport again.

In January of 2005.

In Iraq?

Yes.

Is he an economist too?

No, he’s a doctor.

The customs officer held up a package wrapped in pink-and-yellow gift paper. What’s this?

An abacus, I said.

An abacus like for counting?

That’s right.

Why do you have an abacus?

It’s a present, for my niece.

How old is your niece? asked Denise.

Three.

And you think she’d like an abacus? the customs officer asked.

I shrugged. The customs officer and Denise both pondered my face for a moment and then the officer began prying at a piece of tape. The paper underneath was thin and as the tape peeled away it took some of the color with it, leaving behind a white gash. Peering into the open end, the officer gave the package a little shake; we all could hear the wooden beads clacking together as they slid back and forth on their thin metal rods. An abacus, the customs officer repeated incredulously, before feebly attempting to rewrap it.

I followed Denise back up the escalator and down a narrow hallway into a room where she gestured toward a chair facing a desk. Sitting on the other side of the desk, she began jiggling a mouse. Several seconds passed, and then I asked whether if this was going to take quite a bit longer I might make a call.

To Mr. Blunt?

Yes.

We’ve already called him.

Eventually Denise found what she was looking for and stood up to cross the room and jiggle another mouse attached to another computer. This monitor looked newer than the first and was rigged up to an elaborate array of auxiliary equipment including a glowing glass slide and a camera that looked like a tiny Cyclops. A photograph of my most neutral expression was taken, followed by my fingerprints, all digitally. In order to get a complete and acceptable set Denise had to squeeze each of my fingers between her own forefinger and thumb and roll the tip over the glowing slide at least twice, sometimes three times; with one of my thumbs, four. I did not find Denise attractive. Nor was there anything suggestive to the way she manipulated my fingers, so it was a surprise when our prolonged physical contact began faintly to arouse me. Cooperating as we were, united by our desire to appease her hard-to-please computer with its red Xs and supercilious little pings, gave me the feeling that we were merely playing border control, and that any moment now Denise’s mother would call her in for supper and I would be freed.

Instead, when the fingerprinting was done, we progressed to a second room, this one containing a small square