Baghdaddy?” He starts telling a joke about why Iraqis have only two pallbearers at their funerals.
“Because garbage cans only come with two handles.”
The men laugh and Luca wishes he were somewhere else. A big guy in a cut-off sweatshirt joins them. He has blue flames tattooed on his forearms.
“This is the mate I was telling you about,” says Shaun. “Meet Edge.”
Edge’s grey eyes flick over Luca as though sizing up his fighting weight. Slightly older than the others, he has deep wrinkles around his eyes and a crushing handshake.
“You’re that journalist living outside the wire.”
“That’s right.”
“Does that make you crazy or fucked up?”
“Deluded, maybe.”
Edge raises his margarita and sucks salt crystals from around the rim. Behind him, the pool lights glow an alien green beneath the water.
Two Filipino women shriek with laughter. They’re wearing short denim skirts and skimpy tops, flashing midriffs and muffin tops to the group of contractors who keep plying them with drinks.
Edge is watching, amused. Sexual conquest is a local sport among the contractors.
“You were here in ’03,” says Luca.
“Saw the whole clusterfuck.”
“So what made you come back?”
“I missed the place.”
Edge drains his margarita and licks his lips.
“I got bored working for my father-in-law. America’s fucked, man-people losing their houses, their jobs, factories going offshore-the bankers and politicians screwed everyone over.”
“You think this place is any better?”
“Here you can shoot the bad guys.” He grins. “In America we give them corporate bonuses and promote them to Treasury Secretary.”
He holds his glass aloft, signaling to the barman for another. “You know the moment I knew I was coming back to Baghdad?”
“No.”
“Happened before I even left. I had to pick up a package from the Military Postal Service-it was a birthday present from my folks. This fat chick was sitting behind the counter painting her nails. She said it was her coffee break and she made me wait fifteen minutes while I watched her stuff her face with Twinkies. I was getting blown up and shot at for twenty-five grand a year while that fat chick, sitting on her fat ass, lifting nothing heavier than a pencil was making four times what I did. Tell me if that seems fair?”
“I’m not a great judge of fairness.”
“Yeah, well, nobody twisted my arm to come here the first time, but now I’m gonna fill my boots.”
Luca glances past Edge to a table on the patio. A woman is sitting with two men. Luca recognizes her from the Finance Ministry. She was part of the UN Audit team. Dressed in grey flannels and low-heeled shoes, she’s wearing her hair down and nursing a glass of wine. Her high cheekbones look almost carved and her eyes are shining in the reflection from the pool. She doesn’t seem to be listening to the conversation at her table.
“I wouldn’t waste my breath,” says Edge, following his gaze.
“Why’s that?”
“I offered to buy her a drink and she treated me like I was contagious.”
“Maybe she’s sick of being hassled.”
“Or she could be an uppity, better-than-everyone, super bitch.”
Edge has the barman’s attention. Luca slips away and stands beneath a palm tree, checking the messages on his phone. The woman is no longer at the table. She’s standing by the pool, talking on her mobile, arguing with someone.
“It’s only for two more weeks… I know… but you can wait that long. No, I’m not at a party. It’s the hotel.” She makes eye contact with Luca. Looks away. “I think you’re being totally unreasonable… I can’t talk to you when you get like this… I’m going to hang up…”
She snaps the phone closed and purses her lips.
“Problems at home?” asks Luca.
“That’s not really any of your business.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
She has an American accent and large eyes with eyelids that pause at half-mast like a face from a da Vinci painting.
“I shouldn’t have been listening. I’ll leave you alone.”
Luca walks away. She doesn’t stop him. He goes to the bar and has a drink with a German journalist and his French colleague, who are both pulling out when the last of the American combat troops leave at the end of the month.
At nine o’clock Luca calls it a night. As he crosses the hotel lobby, he notices the woman again-this time she’s arguing with the hotel receptionist. There is a problem with the room. The power points don’t work. She can’t recharge her laptop.
Luca is going to walk right by but stops and addresses the receptionist in Arabic-sorting out the problem.
“They’re moving you to another room,” he says. “It will take fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” she says, hesitantly, her mouth fractionally too big for her face. Luca nods and turns to leave.
“Where did you learn to speak Arabic?”
“My mother is Iraqi.”
“And you’re American?”
“I was born in Chicago.”
She glances at her feet. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Why?”
The question flummoxes her.
“Do I have to explain?”
“You could say loneliness, or guilt, or perversity…”
“I’m sorry for being so rude to you.”
“In that case I’ll have a whisky.”
Rather than go back into the bar, they go into the restaurant. She’s a foot shorter than he is, but carries herself very straight, her footsteps almost floating across the tiles.
“I’m Daniela Garner.”
“Luca Terracini.”
“That’s an Italian name.”
“My grandfather came from Naples.”
“It’s impressive to meet a journalist who speaks Arabic.”
“I’m glad you’re impressed. How do you know I’m a journalist?”
“Most of the people here are journalists or private contractors. You don’t look like a mercenary.”
“I saw you today. You were at the Ministry.”
She shrugs. A waiter takes their orders. She’s drinking white wine. Luca tries again.
“You’re working for the UN?”
“Who told you that?”
“Shaun is a mate of mine. He called you an IT geek.”
“I’m an accountant.”
She shifts in her chair, recrossing her legs. Everything about her is dainty and refined, yet strong. The restaurant is dark apart from the table lamps.
“We’re installing new software to audit government accounts and keep track of reconstruction spending.”
