Disclaimer: I still don't know any Arabic and I still have no ownership interest in anything or anyone to my sad, sad detriment. Mine is only the word arrangement. Here's two new terms for the ol' glossary. Please read. Please. Don't make me beg now.
Keffiyeh: a traditional Muslim headdress for men often held in place by a rope circlet called egal.
Thobe: ankle-length garment with long sleeves normally made of cotton and resembling a long robe. The name is often used intechangeably with dishdasha.
"We are not getting relieved tomorrow morning." Silas said stepping down into the guest bedroom where the fire squad would spend the night. He had skipped the guided tour to radio for orders before all the light was gone.
Helmet now in hand, his double take was poetic. Though not quite palatial, the space was large enough to fit four standard twin beds and a cot on the far wall where a small sofa had been moved to fit the extra guest. A walnut cabinet next to the door housed a bank of monitors fed by the cameras they'd seen outside and though numbers three and seven guarding the only stairwell and the women's drawing room window on the first floor were now playing a constant program of silent static, the remaining screens were trained on every point of access to the house.
The beds were made with a white, down comforter and a feather pillow dressed to match the blue paint on the wall. Pvt. Dumphy was busy going through a set of traditional Muslim clothes that had been laid out for each man, inspecting the fabric and stitching as if quality control was his life. He unfurled two simple white thobes and the long cotton underwear worn under each. He shook open the traditional headdress provided but unlike Mustafa's, styled his keffiyeh like a woman's head cover.
"I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright," he sang in a smooth falsetto dancing in place for an unreceptive audience.
Behind him, Williams and King, unaware of the musical program, faced off for the right to the last bed. Sgt. Silas began peeling off his stiff, dirty uniform growing more and more amused by Williams' frustration with Rock Paper Scissors. He tossed them a quarter and a second later Williams headed into the bathroom the victor muttering under his breath as he hit the light switch.
"Hot damn," he exclaimed looking at the room in front of him. Four heads crowded the doorframe to get a glimpse of the bathroom and appreciative wolf-whistles followed. They were staring at a marble tub deep enough to free float in it and matching sinks with gold fixtures on the opposite wall. The room had intricate waist high mosaic tile-work with the top half painted in a rich green hue. The toilet was furthest from the door through an arched entrance on the right.
"Should we vote who goes first?" Pfc. Nassiri asked breaking the awed silence.
"No way Tinkerbell, finders keepers," Williams answered.
"Really what are you gonna do Smoke put the toilet in your pocket?"
"Dim, there's no need to get defensive with your buddy here when this matter can be resolved so swiftly," Sgt. Silas said leading the group away from the door. "You are going first, no doubt about it, you smell the worst."
"Hey I smell too," Williams said stretching out his arms to reveal sweat stained armpits that stretched down mid torso. Before anyone could react, Sgt. Silas ducked under his left arm and closed the bathroom door from the inside.
"Sucker," Dumphy said laughing as Williams banged on the door desolately, having expected to be on the other side.
SSgt. Silas stood under a jet of water hot enough to make Ramen noodles until a month of compensating for Lt. Hunter's ineptitude seemed small enough to bear a day longer. His reaction to Mustafa had been visceral dislike. The feeling had been absolute with Hunter and not so pronounced when he shook Mustafa's hand but then the latter, however arrogant was not in a position to affect his personal safety at the drop of a very moronic hat. He shuddered at the thought of Mustafa and Hunter side by side in the same room and turned off the faucet. The last of the water drained noisily and he dried off quickly. Wrapped in his towel, Chris hit the light and opened the door. Behind it, Maurice Williams was ready with a towel and a change of clothes draped over his arm.
With not much of a choice, SSgt. Silas slipped into the underwear on his bed and discarded his towel folded into four. It was long and roomy and though he much preferred his traditional Fruit of the Loom boxers from the Post Exchange, he was never above clothing that could not stand on its own.
"Did you get an E.T.A. on that relief sergeant?" Avery asked looking up from a notepad in front of him.
"1800 hours tomorrow is the best they can do," he said omitting the fact that six p.m. was Lt. Hunter's personal best and he had little incentive to come through. Outside, someone rapped on the door twice. SSgt. Silas looked up as Nadim came in without waiting for a reply. He smelled like cinnamon and tea and whatever food was served behind him on a dumbwaiter stacked with covered plates.
"Sergeant, I am to take the dirty clothes for the washing woman," he said in a single breath, saluting with the wrong hand.
"I think we can manage if you show me where to find the washing machine,"
"We only have a washing woman," he mumbled as if ashamed of the archaic methods he had not thought to question before.
"When will they be ready?" Tariq asked unbuttoning his shirt.
"Tomorrow morning," Nadim answered smugly. "General Al-Shahrani is a very big client." Beaming, he counted out the six canvas bags he had secured under and arm and left them on the nearest bed. "Just put all your things in those and be sure to tie them properly because we have lots of important laundry."
"Where should we leave these?" SSgt. Silas asked.
"On the steps outside the door of course. You should not go around the house without me so that I can warn the women and translate them for you," he said glancing briefly at Tariq. "I am being paid extra to do this," he added beaming with pride. He opened the door to leave but seeing the trays added. "Now I serve you dinner."
Seeing the boy intended to deliver each plate individually, Pvt. Williams lifted the entire cart from the top step and placed it inside the room.
"I'll pick those up later," Nadim said hastily and seeing his chore shortened, ran.
"Come to daddy McFalafel," Williams said sniffing the air. Four pairs of eyes looked at him sit down on Dumphy's and bed fill his cup with what turned out to be anise tea from a thermos on the tray. He dug into the food with gusto. "What? Like none of you ever tapped some ethnic ass?"
"When did you?" Tariq asked.
"Compton," Williams said a bite later. "It's very culturally diverse."
SSgt. Silas uncovered the second tray. Like in Williams' plate, the falafel had been deep fried in slightly larger than bite sized balls and served on a bed of diced vegetables and halved loaves of pita bread. He picked up the sandwich gingerly and smelled the concoction. It certainly looked better than what he'd seen street vendors sell as the same thing. He bit into the bread and his mouth filled with the tangy sesame seed sauce holding the vegetables together. One by one, Dumphy, King and Nassiri joined the chorus of approving noises that emptied every plate.
Nadim never came back for the tray. A clock somewhere in the house chimed twelve times for midnight. SSgt. Silas and Pfc. Nassiri were sitting in the front hall looking like their own enemies in thobes and M4s, their eyes already used to the relative darkness that had descended on the first floor. In their beds, King, Dumphy and Williams were enjoying the unexpected night of air conditioned sleep.
"I have a question," SSgt. Silas said nearly whispering.
"About?" Tariq asked leaning his head
"Women, well you know these women not American women,"
"They are not that different."
"No one's paying anybody money for a wife in Detroit are they?"
"A bride price is like compensation to the family because she won't be bringing in any wages anymore. Most men who take more than one wife end up paying it, to prove to the family they can cover the extra expense. Dowries were more popular and the parents paid that to the… sergeant?" Tariq cut his speech short. Beside him, SSgt. Silas had sat up.
"Is that Mustafa? What's he saying?" He asked walking to the end of the hall and motioning for Tariq to follow. Tariq closed his eyes to concentrate.
"Allaahumma jannibnaa al-shaytaan…" he repeated the phrase to himself once more and laughed uncomfortably. "Um, it's a prayer sergeant."
"Now?" SSgt. Silas wondered looking at his watch.
"It's more like he's asking for a blessing. He's supposed to ask Allah to keep the devil away from their children before they have sex."
"How romantic," SSgt. Silas muttered.
The order of the noises was unclear but a shriek and a thud made Silas and Nassiri look up at the source. Someone slammed a door upstairs and beside them, a picture frame shook. Tariq was first on the second floor.
"General Al-Shahrani?" He called out. "Are you okay general?" A shadow crossed from one side of the lit room to the other. "General this is private first class Tariq Nassiri, I am going to count to three and then I'm coming in." The shadow grew larger approaching the curtained French door and before Tariq could start counting, Jamila Al-Shahrani, wrapped in a silk kimono and clearly naked underneath it, threw open the double doors that led into her room.
She looked at the men in their thobes with her eyebrows frozen in arches and stepped back to point at Mustafa with a bare foot. She walked to the opposite side of the room in a swirl of crimson silk and sat on a low, upholstered chaise. Mustafa's arms were splayed at different angles, caught in the sleeves of a pajama top that failed to cover his protruding belly button crowning an equally bloated, hairy stomach. One of his legs was stuck underneath him and the other, a scarred, pale stump, still rested on the platform that lifted a king sized bed off the floor at least a foot.
"Is he okay?" SSgt. Silas asked. "Tariq ask her in Arabic."
"I speak English asshole."
"Was it a seizure? Does that happen often?" SSgt. Silas asked, ignoring the expletive.
"Only when I put rohypnol in food," Jamila said in a thick accent looking at Silas through the vanity mirror in front of her. She tied her waist-long hair into a knot and pulled the embroidered top of a prayer outfit over her head. Tariq knelt next to Mustafa and measured his pulse.
"You shouldn't do that," the latter reproached.
"Okay," she said dismissively.
"I'm not kidding, he could have an adverse reaction and it could be too late before you notice."
"Maybe I send to you next time he want to grope in darkness," she said fiercely through clenched teeth in a tone that would have made a dog whimper.
Tariq stood up suddenly aware of what had been happening in the room. His cheeks reddened, mortified, as if Mustafa had been caught in leather chaps. He saw her bravado for the fear that it was and tried to relax his face.
"Help to carry him?" Jamila ventured noticing the subtle change. "To bed?"
Jamila gathered Mustafa's hands. SSgt. Silas hooked the unconscious man at the armpits and motioned for Tariq to grab the legs. They lifted him with quiet grunts as Jamila held his bulging mid-side. She arranged him on the pillows almost lovingly then held the bedroom door open. Mustafa stirred in bed and Jamila mouthed a silent 'thank you' before closing the door.
And thus concludes the second chapter. I'll owe you the ticker tape parade.