Keys of Babylon Read Online Free PDF Page B

God’s sake. So it was Iraq against the Rest of the World. All the boys wanted to be Ronaldo or David Beckham. Michael Owen scoring that goal. His greatest goal, they tell me. They couldn’t remember our own golden generation. And what a pitch. The croquet hoops were still in place. But that’s where the captain organised his own World Cup. On the croquet lawn. Sometimes he’d referee. Said it let off steam.
    I remember once I brought him a tin of Russian Caravan tea. It had come from Fortnum and Mason in London. The captain called me into his room and we shared a pot. He looked at me, then at the tin and read aloud: ‘Its light, almost nutty flavour and distinct character evoke the unique position of Imperial Russia on the world’s crossroads, and its rulers’ domestic passion for really superior tea.’ Hmm, he smiled. Rather like imperial Iraq. World’s crossroads and all that.
    He offered it the English way, but the milk was sour because the electricity was off. Tea with milk remains a curiosity. By the way, that’s the tea we’re drinking now. But what an office the captain had. Wood panelling and a glass-topped desk with a reading light under a silver scroll. A picture of the queen on the wall, a picture of Margaret Thatcher. Fine women. They were much admired in Baghdad.
    He was an immaculate man, the captain, his uniform spotless, his holster gleaming like oxblood. We shared Turkish cigarettes and once a pipe. But when the time came, he disappeared with the rest. Hid the imperial uniform, walked away a civilian. He already knew that at the crucial moment, it was not the black Mercedes or the deposit box in Geneva that would save him. Wily Bedouin blood still counted in the capital.
    Your son does well, he would exclaim. He scored against Brazil.
    How we laughed.
    He will make a soldier yet, he added.
    We both knew this was nonsense. But the game had to be followed. The real game. The end game.
    You play chess? Mohammed asks me. Well, the end game had not yet commenced. But we guessed it was very close. All of us would have to escape, each after his own fashion. A little like death, I suppose. But it was understood without speaking. Saddam’s picture also hung on the wall. In this incarnation he was a civilian in a double-breasted suit that might have come from Savile Row. But Baghdad used to have the world’s best tailors. A handsome man, Saddam, I always thought. You could see why the women loved him.
    Now please, the captain would say. Your son is waiting. And I would meet Tariq in the banqueting room, the table still polished every week, the lords, the ladies with their hunting dogs looking down at us from the walls.
    You see, unlike the British, we remember our history. And we do it honour. In Baghdad there is the British cemetery, from the 1920s. All those young men were killed by cholera and sunstroke. And yes, some by bullets. But we have tended it ever since, cutting the grass, revering the dead. Again, unlike you, we remember the dead. Our tribes study their genealogies like you do your scratch cards.
    We sat together at that banqueting table, Tariq and I, exchanging pleasantries. It is hard for fathers to talk to sons. I gave him chocolate and money. But he had changed. No, not because of the army. He had met a girl. Just at the wrong time, he had met a girl.
    They used to see each other when he was off duty. I explained as carefully as I could that it was wrong to tie himself down. The day was coming when he too would need to get out.
    But Tariq laughed and spat date stones into an ashtray. The woman had turned his head, as women will.
    And yes, I confess, I followed him once. It seems she worked in an office. I watched them go into a tea house near the old baths. No hijab, nothing. And I approved of that. Oh, but she was a gorgeous creature, black eyes with long lashes. To me her high cheekbones meant an Iranian family. Yes, she had the blood of Shiraz