Please refer to the first chapter for disclaimers and such. That said; here's that glossary!
Abaya: an over-garment worn by some Muslim women.
Adhan: call to prayer by a servant of the mosque called muezzin.
Asr: the 3rd of 5 daily prayers recited by practicing Muslims in the afternoon.
Hijab: is the Arabic term for barrier or dressing modestly. Often used to mean headscarf as well.
Keffiyeh: a traditional Muslim headdress for men often held in place by a rope circlet called egal.
Maghrib: the 4th of 5 daily prayers recited by practicing Muslims in the afternoon.
Thobe: ankle-length garment with long sleeves normally made of cotton and resembling a long robe. The name is often used interchangeably with dishdasha.
Getting out of the humvee that deposited him before General Mustafa Suqur Al-Shahrani's compound, Lt. Hunter was a recruitment poster for the U.S. Army. He was tall and rugged like the Marlboro Man before emphysema. He had the badass walk down to a science and he jumped out of the car a second before it came to a full stop. The narrow street cramped some of his style but he swaggered up to the gate looking nonetheless dangerous if for the wrong reasons. The driver jumped out next, a trim black woman who moved like a cat. The passenger side door opened last and the two soldiers stood in front of the grille straight faced, guarding the lieutenant's progress into the yard despite knowing him well.
Pvt. Nassiri approached the door and opened it from the inside, taking Nadim's job temporarily as the boy helped the driver buff the newly returned Benz. Privates Dumphy and King were talking beside the car and stopped as Hunter drew nearer.
"Sir," Dumphy said saluting. The humvee backing out of the alley drowned out the sound of his address.
"As you were soldier. Where's sergeant Silas?"
"We just got in a minute ago sir," Dumphy replied.
"I'll go see," King offered before Frank could.
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A bird's eye view of the bed would have consisted of a tangle of arms and legs as Chris and Jamila slept in each other's embrace sharing a sheet she had hogged almost entirely. Together they took up little more than the space for one person and it was like this that Chris first opened his eyes with his left arm draped protectively over her waist and his hand in hers. He tried to remember how long they'd been asleep or the last time he'd slept so well in the past year but came up empty on both counts. Sunlight filtered into the room through the curtained glass in the doors making the furniture look like a photo in sepia.
He gathered strands of her hair and took in the sweet smell of gardenias. Jamila stirred one leg first and then the other, stretching them as she opened her eyes lazily. Her smile increased in wattage until she beamed. The moment would have been perfect but for the baggage waiting outside the door.
"My legs feel like Jell-O," she whispered, so close to him, her lips brushed his chin as she spoke. Chris admired the view from his vantage point as Jamila sat up in bed and wrapped the sheet around her shoulders like a cape. "Thank you," she said smiling again.
"What for?" He asked taking her cue and shaking out his crumpled underwear until he could tell which leg went where. Jamila sat next to him.
"For showing me what this feels like with a man who doesn't hate me because I make him feel inadequate," she said leaning her head on his shoulder. "Not having someone praying over my head was nice too," she added in a lighter tone that diffused the sudden gloom. She looked on raptly as Chris finished dressing, trying to remember every detail of his body; the moon shaped mole where his shoulder blades met, the curve of his jawline, the button sized vaccination scar on his left shoulder.
They stood still when the soulful cries of a muezzin shattered the silence. Silas recognized the call to prayer, so familiar to his ears on the tail end of a fifteen month tour of duty but it didn't make him pale to sickly whiteness like Jamila had.
"Asr. That's adhan, you have to go." She managed in a little, wavering voice that was almost lost in the amplifier feedback helping the muezzin be heard. Chris pushed the curtain aside to look at the deserted second floor beyond it. Jamila was halfway into a green linen abaya as he picked up the M4 from the chair where it had kept watch and adjusted the sling out of habit. He opened the door and walked out close to the wall. The red rubber flip-flops on his feet looked ridiculous.
At the foot of the stairs, Williams had been keeping watch, fidgeting with anything on his person that could be tightened, clasped or tugged at. When SSgt. Silas appeared, he had been psyching himself up to climb the steps and warn them of Mustafa's arrival.
"Shit sergeant why'd you have to take so damn long?"
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"Peace be upon you," Nadim said standing in Lt. Hunter's path, fully intent on delivering the visitor's speech he had given the day before when the fire squad had arrived. Hunter sidestepped the boy like one would a dead rat.
"Peace be upon you," he repeated, intercepting the man a second time and again being ignored. Dumphy held him back by the collar of his shirt as the boy prepared to try a third time.
Mustafa emerged from the kitchen with a veiled maid in his wake. The woman balanced half a dozen clay basins on each shoulder. Hunter positioned himself halfway between Mustafa and the door. The maid scurried behind them as Mustafa stopped to make nice.
"General Al-Shahrani," he said giving the man his left hand to shake as he kept his right near the trigger. He was perfectly aware of the offense this represented. Mustafa shook the proffered hand without missing a beat, disliking a lot more, the fact that he had to look up to an insignificant lieutenant who wielded twice the power he had to work with on his best day.
"Lieutenant Hunter, what an honor to have you in my home. I received word you would be coming by today. Perhaps with good news? When will my bodyguards be cleared?"
"Maybe we should talk inside?" He said as the muezzin began his call to prayer from the minaret.
"If you would do me the kindness," Mustafa replied over the amplified cries of Allah's greatness, "of waiting a short while, I would be forever in your debt. It is time to pray maghrib and my family looks forward to this moment together all day. " Hunter gave no response but simply moved aside.
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When Silas made it to the ground floor where Williams had been keeping watch and before the muezzin started on the second round of the adhan, Jamila was almost dressed for prayers. The overall look, reminiscent of a Catholic virgin's robes, did not quite match the lack of clothing or even underwear beneath. She checked the length of her abaya's sleeves and disappeared inside the dark walk-in closet to come back pulling stretchy black arm covers from a box she threw on the unmade bed. The elasticized lace trim at the wrist held them in place but she raised her arms above her head to make sure no skin was visible from any angle. She tied her hair into a knot then pulled a creamy knit bonnet over the resulting bun until the border concealed the upper half of her forehead. Not being very organized had its upsides, Jamila noted, picking out a long, olive scarf from the back of a chair where she'd discarded it days earlier. She draped the scarf around her shoulders, pinned the shorter end under her chin and wrapped the remaining length twice about her head where a second pin secured the scarf under her ear.
Jamila checked the end product in the mirror and satisfied that at least the appearance of piety was there, ran down the stairs so fast she never noticed Yusef, the driver, squatting before a clay pot full of water performing ablutions a few feet from where the female servants where cleaning up themselves. Until she ran into the women's drawing room and saw Silas and Mustafa cross paths at the front door Jamila still thought she was only slightly late for asr not maghrib. She had slept through the mid afternoon prayers and noticed it only too late.
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"Where's your uniform Pvt. Williams?" Lt. Hunter asked in a tone he had learned he could only use among the lower pay grades lest he wanted to be out-screamed right back.
"They didn't come back from the cleaner today sir," he said referring to his and Silas' attire. His answer gave pause to Hunter who spoke only after a clumsy silence.
"I should be so lucky to have your problems private, sergeant," Hunter announced as if changing his mind on how much further the matter was worth pursuing.
"They are back now," Williams added unsure of what the sudden rash of good judgment on the lieutenant's part could mean. The men stood around in a circle clearing their throats and saying nothing until Nadim interrupted the exchange.
"Excuse me captain," the boy said in a strong, clear voice. Hunter acknowledged his nose. "Sir, I am to lead you to the general's office where you can take refreshments and wait." Having been the unofficial liaison between Yusef and the security detail posted outside the house while Mustafa had been in Baghdad a month earlier for elections, Nadim had learned to read rank in commissioned and non-commissioned officers alike but his instinct about Hunter had been right. The man made no attempt to correct him as he followed the boy to the front entrance where he stood before the door and took a pair of rubber flip-flops from the cubbies on the wall.
"Sir, if you could please remove your outdoor shoes to come in as a sign of respect to the host. I will be fined from my wages if you don't," Nadim said adding a note of theatrical despair to his voice and putting the shoes on the floor for the lieutenant. Again ignoring the boy, Hunter kicked the shoes aside and would have shoved Nadim out of his way if the latter had not ducked in the nick of time. Lt. Hunter pushed the door open and turned around on the threshold to face Dumphy and Nassiri both of whom had taken a seat on the bench and had the sandals they'd worn earlier at their feet.
"Those are not part of your uniform soldier," he said sternly making eye contact only with Tariq. "Tough shit kid," he added at last fully acknowledging Nadim. He looked down at Silas' red flip-flops and snickered derisively. "Show me to the office," he ordered.
At the door, Nadim stood dumfounded, his chin quivering as the child in him absorbed the harsh treatment he wasn't used to. Even Mustafa had a soft spot for the boy's easy charm. Dumphy and Williams scurried into the house after the lieutenant followed by Silas and Tariq. King squatted before him and took a bill from his money clip.
"I'm sorry kid," he said handing him the crisp Jackson portrait. "I hope this helps with the fine." Nadim pocketed the money quickly and smiled content. The fine Mustafa charged him was the equivalent of twenty five American cents and the twenty dollar bill in his pocket covered the next fifty transgressions with change left for new video games.
"Thank you," he said glowing.
"Why don't you forget about his drink?" Pvt. King proposed. "Aren't you supposed to be praying anyway?"
Nadim nodded fully recovered and ran to the courtyard where he filled his bowl from the tap and began performing ablutions though the rest of the servants were already praying along to Yusef's lead. King met Hunter in the hall. The man was looking at the faithful servants with something between disgust and exasperation painted on his face.
"That's the office right there," King said pointing towards the room in question for the lieutenant's benefit. As he went into the guest room where the men who worked for a living had gathered, Hunter turned on a light on the desk and kicked the door closed before he sat down in one of the chairs facing the throne-sized leather monstrosity Mustafa used.
"What did you do all day?" Williams asked Nassiri as he tossed his clothes aside.
"Smoke, a warning, please," Pvt. Dumphy said as Williams took off his underpants facing the wall. SSgt. Silas had gone into the bathroom. The faucets were running full blast.
"Kiss my black ass Dim," Williams replied pulling on his boxers and his pants almost at the same time. He had a special talent for dressing quickly and this complemented his preference for attached or otherwise unavailable women very well.
"Played cards with some of the guards," King jumped in. "The place was full of Iraqi policemen. These were pretty well trained. No one even went near the building all damn day."
"How about you and Scream?" Dumphy asked taking off his helmet.
"I caught up on my sleep but uh, you should ask Sgt. Scream," Williams said pausing both to button up his uniform shirt and for suspense. "He was gone with Scheherazade for a looong ass time."
"Was it one of the maids?" Dumphy whispered.
"The wife Dimwit," Williams snickered. "Damn you really are dumb. Have you looked at those maids?" He shivered.
"Which one?" Nassiri asked.
"What's with the face?" Dumphy asked before Williams could answer.
"She's married. It just doesn't feel right," Tariq said as if he'd surprised himself by his own objection. The water stopped running in the bathroom and the conversation outside ceased. SSgt. Silas came out fully dressed in his crisp, clean uniform. The sharp, useless air the same clothes conveyed on Lt. Hunter was absent on him. As he walked out of the bathroom, face tuned to the 'don't fuck with me right now' channel, Dumphy and Williams welcomed him with congratulatory applause in a rare moment of agreement ruined by the dead silence with which their cheering was met.
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Mustafa entered the drawing room like a lion stalking prey. At the end of the wife parade, with her hands clasped before her and her eyes fixed on a stray rug thread at her feet, Jamila's heart was pounding in her chest. She knew the look on Mustafa's eyes very well and beside her Fatima gasped almost loud enough to be heard. Not yet thirty, she was still young enough to remember that look herself. He greeted Raja with a kiss on her onion-thin forehead, a gesture that would have been tender if his eyes had not been focused on Jamila at the time. Raja was the good wife. She had produced Mustafa's only male heir (married) soon after their marriage almost forty years earlier and remained the darling as each of Zukia's five pregnancies produced one daughter after another (also married off) and Fatima's another three tiny stillborn girls.
Each woman received her greeting forcing contented smiles and as Mustafa put his lips to Fatima's forehead, Jamila dug her nails into each of her hands to keep them from shaking. At last he placed a hand on Jamila's shoulder and raised her face to his with the other. The smile he gave her had more in common with an aggressive grimace than any other expression. He traced the oval of Jamila's face with a fingertip and tightened his grip on her shoulder until she stifled a whimper. To her surprise the same rigid kiss he had deposited on Fatima's head descended on hers. He held her with both hands pulling her close to his chest until Jamila had folded her head into a forced hug. It took her a second to notice what Mustafa was trying to do and all her strength to stand motionless as he smelled with his nose close to her skin like a bloodhound on someone's trail.
Mustafa put his nose to the crook of Jamila's neck and hooked his index finger to the edge of her headscarf. He took a deep breath, a whiff really and pulled the scarf with a brusque gesture that stopped only when his elbow hit the side Fatima's head. The pins holding Jamila's scarf in place cut through the skin beneath them leaving inch-long scratches where they had been fastened.
"Hijab is for decent women," he seethed closing his hands around Jamila's neck, pushing her backwards onto a sofa. "I can smell him on you." Her hands closed around his as she tried to pry his fingers loose.
"Min fadilak Mustafa," she croaked managing only a syllable at a time.
"Askut," he ordered gripping harder until her eyes bulged with the strain of trying to draw a breath. Mustafa placed his right thumb on her trachea and dug his middle finger on the back of her neck. Jamila gasped for air and gagged almost at the same time. Mustafa gathered the seam of her abaya in his free hand and pulled it up over her knees as she strained to get away. He applied pressure on the soft spot between her collarbones until Jamila gave up and he could push the robe as far up as it would go. She fought him as he tried to force open her legs. With his free hand, Mustafa grabbed a handful of Jamila's hair and pulled toward him until he felt her relax. He retained his grip on the hair and shoved his right hand between her legs as Jamila emitted a frightened, muted jumble of whimpers and gasps for air. Mustafa looked at the wet fingertips of his right hand, rubbed them together and licked each finger like one would a delicacy. "Whore," he spit hoarsely as he slapped Jamila so hard her head bounced on the sofa cushion.
"Out," he yelled looking at the three women behind him, surprised to see them standing there with looks of shock in their faces. "Out," he yelled again, waving a bloody clump of Jamila's hair in his hand as he pointed to the door. The women scurried out like mice around the courtyard full of kneeling servants and one by one, in order of seniority, climbed the stairs.
And that was chapter five. I changed the layout of the house a bit to make the preceding more plausible and now I'm gonna go figure out how to start wrapping this up coz I'm running out of vacations faster than I thought.
Oh yes, and as I understand: min sadilak means 'please' and askut meant 'shut up.'