Free The White Zone by Carolyn Marsden Page B

had he suggested such a thing?
    Al-Shatri came into the room, rubbing his hands together in their fingerless mittens. He took up a book and read: “When the Mongols sacked Baghdad in 1258, the Tigris ran red one day, black the next. The red was the blood of the victims. The black the ink of the books.”
    â€œSee, Talib,” said Baba, “it’s worth our time to repair these. Iraq has a great tradition of literacy.”
    Talib smiled. Books were the bread of Baba’s soul.
    â€œLet me help,” said al-Shatri, pulling up a stool.
    The three of them worked in silence, handing the books back and forth. In the end, none was perfect, but all could be read.
    When it came time to light the kerosene lamp, Mama set out their little blue bowls, and then brought out the lentil soup, steaming from the stove.
    After they’d washed the soot from their hands and pulled the clattering stools to the table, Talib realized he’d worked for hours without thinking of anything but books. Mama’s lentils tasted good and he ate up his bowlful quickly. The kerosene lamp threw a halo of light onto the small blue flowers of the tablecloth.
    Just as they finished eating, the muezzin’s evening call sounded—holy words floating into the sky. Mama went to the corner and unrolled her prayer mat.
    But Talib stayed seated, tapping his fingertips on the edge of the table.
    â€œYou never pray anymore,” commented Baba.
    â€œI can’t,” Talib responded.
    â€œAllah can be a refuge in hard times,” said al-Shatri softly.
    Talib nodded, noticing that al-Shatri wasn’t praying either.
    â€œThis war is not Allah’s fault,” al-Shatri added.
    Talib nodded again. But Allah was still supposed to be all-powerful.
    â€œPray with me, Talib,” Mama urged, preparing for her ritual washing.
    Talib shook his head. No.

CAR GREASE
    In the morning, a crowd had gathered in front of Zaid al-Najeeb’s garage.
    When Nouri went over, he saw al-Najeeb stretched out, blood flowing from a bullet hole in his head, his hands still black with car grease. Someone had stepped in the blood and tracked it up and down the sidewalk.
    Nouri looked up at a row of pigeons balancing on the electric wire.



ME?
    One scorching afternoon, Talib and Nouri lay side by side on the floor, the coolest place. They had positioned themselves in the line of the fan, so that it blew straight on them, stirring the hot air.
    â€œThere,” Talib pointed to the ceiling. “I see marching camels. And a cave filled with treasure. Or there,” he gestured toward the wall, “Arabs battling Persians.”
    â€œI don’t see any of that.”
    â€œNothing? Not even the camels?”
    â€œMaybe a woman with long hair.”
    The fan rattled and Talib leaned up on one elbow to take a sip of water.
    Pushing his hair off his damp forehead, Nouri said, “Shiites are moving into Karada. Into the abandoned Sunni homes.”
    Talib drained his glass. “The ones who came to fight?”
    â€œProbably not. These don’t look like fighters. Just ordinary people. Families. Maybe Shiites who got kicked out of their Sunni neighborhoods.”
    â€œWhat about
our
house?”
    â€œSomeone’s in yours too.”
    Talib tried to imagine a Shiite mother in Mama’s kitchen, a strange father wiping his shoes on the mat, a strange kid in his bed.
    Someday Baba would reclaim the house and they’d move back in. In triumph, they’d kick out those Shiites.
    With a slow clatter, the fan stopped turning.
    â€œDarn,” said Talib. “The electricity’s gone off.”
    The air now pressed around them like warm bread dough. Talib considered getting up, soaking cloths to drape across their foreheads, but even that effort felt like too much.
    Talib half imagined, half dreamed that one of the camels on the ceiling came to life. He was riding it across burning dunes. . . .
    â€œYou know I