upper floors.
“Is that going to take my weight?” asks al-Uzri.
“Yes, sir.”
He points at Luca. “You go first.”
The journalist climbs the ladder and steps over a collapsed section of the floor. A toilet has come through the ceiling and landed vertically across a doorway. Glancing past it, he can see a long corridor with offices on either side. The desktop computers have melted into modern sculptures.
The senior fireman stops at one of the offices. It takes a moment for Luca to realize what he’s supposed to photograph. A blackened corpse is seated at a metal desk with stiffened half limbs reaching towards the blown-out window. Charred beyond recognition, the skin of the face is shrunken and leathery, gripping the skull, and the mouth is wide open in a scream. A swollen tongue protrudes from between teeth that seem unnaturally white.
Al-Uzri circles the body, examining it from all sides, his wet brown eyes full of wonder but not horror. Luca is taking short breaths through his mouth.
“This is one of the ignition points,” says the fireman. “Someone doused the body with petrol and poured a trail along the hallway to the door.”
Al-Uzri has moved behind the carbonized body. He pulls a small Swiss army knife from his coat, unsheathing the blade. His hand steady, he holds the sharp edge against the corpse’s neck and pulls something away, a wire thread embedded in the skin. A garrote.
He nods to Luca. More pictures are taken.
Closing the knife, he lights a cigarette, blowing smoke towards the ceiling.
Nothing shows in his eyes. Not surprise or sadness. Luca has seen that look before in soldiers who have witnessed such horrors that nothing is new under the sun or moon.
“A bad business,” says the fireman. “Have you seen enough?”
The general nods. He addresses Luca. “Deliver the photographs to my office. They are the property of the Iraqi police.”
Descending the ladders, he retraces his steps through the puddles and up the ramp, pausing only to blow cotton wool from his nostrils. Luca follows him outside where drivers scramble into cars, preparing to depart.
“Excuse me, General, I have a question about the robbery.”
The commander turns.
“Your name?”
“Luca Terracini-I’m an American journalist.”
“Your Arabic is very proficient, Mr. Terracini.”
“My mother was Iraqi.”
Al-Uzri lights another cigarette, shielding it from the spray. He takes a moment to study the journalist.
“Most of your colleagues wear Kevlar vests and travel in numbers. Do you think having an Iraqi mother will protect you?”
“No, sir.”
“Perhaps you are very brave?”
“No, sir.”
Water trickles down Luca’s back. It might be sweat. “The bank manager was tortured.”
“It appears so.”
“Do you know how much money was taken?”
“No.”
“What happened to the other security guards?”
“Perhaps they chased after the robbers.”
“Perhaps they ran off with the money.”
The leaking hoses have doused the general’s cigarette. He stares at the soggy offering. “It is not a good idea to make accusations like that.”
“This is the eighteenth bank robbery in Baghdad this year. Does that concern you?”
The general smiles, but the corners of his mouth barely move. “I find it reassuring that somebody is keeping count.”
His car door is being held open, the engine running. He slides into the passenger seat and waves the driver onwards with a flick of his hand. The convoy moves off, weaving between fire engines, adding one more siren to a city that sings with them.
2
Being measured for a new suit was not something Vincent Ruiz expected to happen until he was lying cold and stiff on an undertaker’s slab. And if that were the case, he didn’t suppose he’d care about an effeminate stranger nudging a tape measure against his balls. Maybe he’s weighing them. Every other measurement has been taken.
Emile drapes the tape measure around his neck and jots down another set of numbers.
“Does sir want the trousers to touch his uppers or the top of the soles?”
“Call me Vincent.”
“Yes, sir.”
He holds the tape measure against Ruiz’s hip and lets it fall before tugging it tight again. “Has sir considered cuffs?”
“Are they extra?”
“No. You have the height to wear cuffs. Short men should avoid them. I’d recommend about one and a half inches.”
“Fine.”
Next the tape measure is wrapped around Ruiz’s upper thigh. “Does sir dress to the left or the right?”
“I like to swing both ways.”
Emile’s eyebrows arch like inflection marks.
“Just give me loads of room,” says Ruiz. “I want to be able to hide a hard-on. My ex-wife is coming to the wedding and she’s a lot hotter since we divorced.”
“Very good, sir.”
Ruiz sighs and gives up trying to get a smile out of Emile. Instead he ponders his daughter’s wedding. Claire is getting married in just under a week and he is supposed to walk her down the aisle and “give her away.” She rang him last night and threatened to ask someone else if he didn’t start following instructions.
“That’s just it,” he told her. “I don’t want to give you away. I want to keep you.”
“Very droll, Dad.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I’m getting married whether you like it or not.”
“I could have Phillip arrested.”
“He’s a lawyer, Dad, not a criminal.”
“Is there a difference?”
Emile picks up his brocade cushion and retreats from the fitting room. Ruiz pulls on his worn corduroy trousers and heavy cotton shirt. As he buttons the front, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Turning sideways and sucking in his stomach, he straightens his shoulders and examines his physique. Not bad for a man who has hurdled sixty. Some mileage on the clock, but that’s to be expected. His doctor wouldn’t agree, of course, but his doctor is the sort of idiot who thinks people should live to be a hundred and fifty.
Slipping on a jacket, he pats the pockets and takes out a metal tin of boiled sweets. Unscrewing the lid he pops one into his mouth where it rattles against his teeth. He gave up smoking six years ago. Sugar is the substitute; calories as opposed to cancer.
