SADDAMISTAN

prologue of an unpublished novel on love and war in the land of a falling god

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Switzerland, many years after the war

I knew Robert Price in Baghdad. February of 2003, it was. Nine weeks later I watched him disappear into the Iraqi desert. The memory of that day never left me. Late afternoon, air thick with fire smoke and dust, slaughter and destruction all around us.

“Take this, Andrew,” he said, giving me his backpack. Inside were his journal, an unmarked audio cassette tape and a small shortwave radio. “Take it and walk away.”

I did, because I didn’t know what else to do. Looking back over my shoulder, I watched him stagger to the orange and white Iraqi taxi at the edge of the plateau. The doors were peppered with shrapnel and side windows shattered, but the tires were still inflated and the motor still worked. There was a driver slumped over the steering wheel. Robert pried open the door; the driver tumbled out onto the ground. Half the poor man’s face was gone. Robert climbed over him, slid into the driver’s seat and pulled closed the door. He looked at me, calling through the fire smoke.

“It wasn’t your fault, Andrew. It was Iraq.”

He drove in a wide circle, found the tire tracks that marked the smuggler’s trail. He followed the tracks to the edge of the plateau and down to the desert floor. He was going after the woman carrying his unborn child. The woman’s name was Noor.

I should give you some background, as we say in the news game. I first met Robert and Noor through Tom Elliot. Tom I knew from his days as a London based reporter for World Satellite News, that cable channel based out of London and New York. I was a twenty-eight year old political reporter for Tartan Radio, a small private channel in Scotland set up to rival the Beeb. This was back in 1998. You know those people you sometimes meet whose star is on the rise? Well with his handsome, blue-eyed good looks, Tom was one of those. We saw each other whenever he came up to Scotland or when I went down to London for a story. We met in Brussels and Paris a few times too. He was a good lad. Thirty-two, married like me, two young children.

We were in Edinburgh covering the Queen’s 1999 visit to open the new Scottish Parliament when Tom got the news he’d been promoted to the network’s Beirut bureau. Back in the day being promoted to the Middle East was a huge promotion. Tom was over the moon, and with the Queen’s visit wrapped we headed to the Balmoral Hotel for a celebratory lunch. Tom liked a drink on any occasion, but this called for something special. He ordered a bottle of champagne from the Bollinger Bar. He ended up sharing it with two attractive women at the next table who recognized him. I was a teetotaler in those days so I joined in with a Coke. The champagne loosened Tom’s tongue. He talked about the places he’d be traveling and the stories he’d be covering. Beirut, Jerusalem, Cairo, Damascus, Baghdad. It sounded like a Grand Tour more than a job. The ladies were impressed. They were barristers from Liverpool, I think. The blonde one pulled a camera from her handbag and asked me to take happy snap of the three of them. I was happy to oblige. Chuffed with their brush with fame and the photo to prove it, the ladies left.

A round of coffees arrived with the check. Tom insisted on paying with his company credit card. He’d put me down as senior political contact offering insight to the Scottish independence question. Like I said, a good lad. We left and walked along Princes Street. Tom was quiet. I wondered if after the elation of a his promotion, he was thinking what I was just then.

“You know, it all sounds fantastic, Tom; but there are things to consider, don’t you think?” I said.

“Like what?”

“For starters, it’s a rough neighborhood out there. You could easily find yourself in the middle of a war.”

Tom smiled. “Shortest distance to the anchor’s desk is through a war zone, mate.”

That’s the other thing about Tom Elliot, he was ambitious. His career compass had one direction — up.

“Sure, as long as you don’t get killed along the way,” I said.

“I’ll be fine. The bureau tech is a network veteran, a Yank. He shoots and edits his own stuff; been everywhere, loads of experience in dodgy places. He’s worked in London a few times. Robert Price — ever meet him?”

It was the first time I heard the name. But as Tom checked off some of the stories Robert had covered across the Balkans, Africa and the Middle East, I realized I’d seen his pictures on the news many times.

“That’s reassuring,” I said. “Having an old hand show you the ropes, I mean.”

“I tell you what’s reassuring, he’s got a reputation for making reporters look good in shitholes.”

A year later, watching Tom’s reports from the Middle East, he looked very good indeed. Always appearing in the middle of the action with rocks flying, or bullets and shells going off; sometimes all at once. He landed lead stories at the top of the hour on a regular basis, especially after the Intifada broke out between the Palestinians and Israelis in 2000. I remember bumping into a pack of fellow hacks outside the Scottish Parliament one day. We were waiting to doorstep some SNP pol. Can’t recall who, but it was cold and pissing with rain. We were huddled under brollies, talking nonsense when the conversation turned to Tom.

“Did you see his story out of Gaza? With the Israeli tank nearly rolling over him?”

“A cracker that one. Could win him a BAFTA.”

“And a bloody fat raise to boot.”

Truth be told Tom had made the big time. The lot of us were dead jealous; all of us wishing we could be in his shoes. You know, my batty grandmother used to say, “Jealousy is the mother of terrible wishes.” My batty grandmother was right. Just after New Year’s Day of 2003 the editor of Tartan Radio called me into his office. Headline: Tartan’s regular foreign reporter had broken his leg in a skiing accident. Subhead: I was leaving to cover the war in his place.

“What war?” I said.

“Iraq. Where else?”

“Has it started?”

“Everything but the bombs, Andrew.”

My editor must have seen the confusion on my face. “You have heard of Iraq, haven’t you, Andrew? You can find it on a map, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Good. You fly to Amman the day after tomorrow. A local fixer named Al Hassan will meet at the airport and walk you through the formalities. You’ll be in Amman a couple of days getting your Iraqi visa. That done Al Hassan will pass you on to one of his Jordanian drivers, who gets you across the border and on to Baghdad. There’s a reservation for you at the Al Rashid Hotel with the rest of the press pack. First thing, get yourself to the Information Ministry and get an Iraqi Press ID. Don’t even think of filing a story until you get your press ID. I don’t need you arrested as a spy before I get my money out of you. Understood?”

I didn’t know what to say. I was bloody gobsmacked. My editor stepped closer to me. “You can say no, Andrew. There’s no shame in saying it, but you need to say it now.”

He gave me a minute to think about it.

“No, I want to go. Thanks for the opportunity. And thanks for setting up the visa.”

“Thank your TV mate Tom Elliot when you see him; he’s already there. Actually it was his cameraman who sorted it. Can’t remember his name, I’ve got it written somewhere for you — Robert something, I think.”

“Price?” I said.

“You know him?”

“Only by name. Tom mentioned him once. He’s an American, I think.”

“Well, when you see him you kiss his all-American ass. The Iraqis refused our own request to let you in. They’re getting jumpy in Baghdad. They think spooks will be posing as journalists, or journalists will be reporting to spooks; so you keep your nose nice and clean. Do your job, but don’t do anything that might get you tossed out. I want you on the ground when it kicks off. Understood?”

“Understood, guv,” I said, still trying to wrap my head around the news.

My editor laughed. “Stop wasting time, lad. Go home and pack, kiss the wife and wee ones goodbye. Tell them you’ll be home in a few weeks. Word from Blair’s mouthpiece at Number 10 is the war will be quick and clean.”

“But don’t I need a helmet or something?”

“Bloody hell, Andrew, You were issued a helmet and flack jacket when you took the hazardous environment course, didn’t you?”

“Oh, right. It’s in stores.”

“So go get it and get going. One more thing: the Iraqis want nothing to do with the Queen’s funny money. There are ten thousand American dollars waiting for you at the Expenses Office. Mind you, I want receipts to the last farthing. We’re not the Beeb, wallowing in the public gift.”

Bang. That was it. One minute, I’m a political reporter; next minute I’m a bloody war correspondent. For a couple of weeks at least, according to Number 10.

“Thank you, guv,” I said. “Thanks for the chance.”

My editor put his hands on my shoulders. “This is the big one, Andrew. I’m giving it to you because I believe you’ll deliver the goods. Don’t let me down.”

A week and a bit later I was standing in the Iraqi Information Ministry in downtown Baghdad. The lobby was packed with anxious reporters like me — all waiting for the big one, but all needing to get their Iraqi credentials first. I was fifth in line for the squatty chap in the glass-walled cubicle off the lobby. Mister Abu Jamal, Assistant Protocol Officer of the Iraqi Information Ministry. He processed incoming foreign journalists; which basically meant parting with two hundred American dollars for a blue press pass with your passport-sized photo attached. Presently, he was taking his time with an attractive, dark-haired woman from Austrian TV. There was another cubicle nearby. That one was full of large Iraqi men watching me and everyone else. They did not look like the helpful sort. In fact they looked downright scary. Dark hair, dark eyes, brown faces, dark mustaches. I was feeling a twinge of paranoia when I heard a friendly voice behind me.

“Hello, mate. Made it in all right?”

I turned around and saw Tom Elliot. “Hello, Tom! It’s so good to see you.”

“When did you get in?”

“Middle of the night. God, what a miserable drive. It was only surpassed by breakfast in the hotel restaurant.”

Tom laughed. “Come to my office. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“Love to, but I’m waiting to get my press pass.”

“No worries. I’ll get our Arab fixer to sort it.”

“Really? My editor is very keen that I follow proper procedures.”

“Trust me, I’ve got this place cracked. Come on.”

Tom led me through the lobby to a door marked WSN, Baghdad Bureau.

“Prime location in the Ministry, Tom. Very impressive.”

“The network has had this office since Gulf War One. Fucking brilliant isn’t it? Not a thing happens here without me knowing about it first. Where are you working from?”

“My hotel room, I guess. I have a portable satphone to transmit my stories.”

“No, you’ll need somewhere in the Ministry. This is the only place you can watch CNN and BBC. Officially, you’re not supposed to use your satphone from the hotel either, but I can show you how to get around that one. Hey, why don’t you work out of my office? There’s space, and it’ll be a laugh.”

“Really? That would be great, Tom. I still can’t believe I’m here, you know? Oh, I have instructions to kiss your cameraman’s all-American ass.”

“What?”

“My editor at Tartan; he wants me to thank him for his help in getting my visa.”

“Here’s your chance. Just don’t over do it. He’s one of those full-of-himself Yanks.”

“Yes, well, as long as he knows how to make you look good in a shithole, eh?”

It was clear from the look on Tom’s face, three years after leaving the UK, he didn’t remember his own joke. He opened the door, and I saw Robert Price for the first time. He was sitting in the corner, slouched in a chair, his legs resting on a table loaded with video and audio kit. He had grey hair; maybe it was black once. I put him at pushing fifty but in decent shape. He wore blue jeans and a white oxford button-down over a grey t-shirt. He had scruffy Timberland boots on his feet, and a white koufiyeh around his neck. There was a simple wristwatch with a black leather strap on his left wrist. I noticed the watch because he was writing with his left hand; writing in the spiral bound notebook that was his journal. The same journal he would give me nine weeks later — the one I’m holding in my hands just now. Tom introduced me as a mate from Edinburgh. Robert glanced up with hazel eyes.

“Hi,” he said.

Before I could step across the room to shake his hand, he went back to his writing. I sat on a chair near the office door facing Tom. The two of us gossiped about our families and mutual friends a bit. I’m sure Robert heard us, but I’m not sure he was tuning in. Tom started up the kettle and readied teabags in cups.

“Crap, no milk. I’ll pop around to the CNN and get some,” he said.

He dashed out and left me alone with Robert.

I thought I’d make another stab at being sociable, especially as I’d been invited to work in the same office. There were maps of Baghdad and Iraq on the wall behind Robert. A Saddam Hussein wall clock claimed pride of place above the maps, and there was a line of Arabic scribble embedded in the clock face just under Saddam’s chin. The only sound in the room was Robert’s pen scratching over paper, and the tick-tock of the clock on the wall.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Robert, what’s it say on the clock?”

“‘Each minute Saddam is the leader of our days,’” he mumbled without looking at me.

“Ah, right. And how long have you been in Iraq?”

“On and off it’s been three, no, four months. Just had a few days out to pick up some gear in Amman. Got back two, no, three days ago.”

Scratch, scratch, scratch; tick tock, tick tock. So much for being sociable.

I’ve crossed paths with enough news shooters to know the breed; especially those with reputations. They were a tight-knit bunch, and they expected reporters of any stripe to grovel before them upon being presented; especially younger reporters like me. The greater a shooter’s reputation, the more it is expected. I did some digging into Robert’s career before I came to Iraq. Tom had described him as someone with “loads of experience.” That was putting it lightly. Robert had travelled the world, earned a string of impressive awards for his work. He was profiled with other shooters in a Rolling Stone article back in 1995 — Witnesses to Destruction it was called. The article was topped with a photograph of Robert dragging a wounded colleague through a hellish firefight in Mogadishu, while rolling pictures with his own camera. The photo was taken by one of the still photographers featured in the same article. Like I said, a tight-knit bunch. No doubt Robert Price was expecting his due from me.

“Um, Robert, I want to thank you for getting my Iraqi visa sorted. I’m very grateful. And given your experience in conflict zones, I’d be grateful for any advice you might offer. As I’ll be working out of your office, I mean.”

He ignored me and continued to write. I took a serious dislike to him. I reached into my bag to pull out some press clippings, thinking I could ignore him as well as he could me. Then the oddest thing happened — he looked up as if remembering I was in the room.

“What’s your name again?” he said.

“Andrew Weaver.”

“That’s it. And what did you just say?”

“I was thanking you for my Iraqi visa. Asking you for advice.”

“No, the part about you working out of this office.”

“Well, Tom thought it would be a good idea.”

Robert jumped up and paced about, studying the layout of the room. He used his hands to imagine furniture being shunted this way or that way. He nodded to himself as if seeing something I couldn’t.

“Yeah, that’ll work. But she needs to steal you a desk from somewhere. No problem, she’s good at that sort of thing.”

“Sorry?”

“About what?”

“No. I mean, I don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Who is ‘she?’”

“She? Oh, Noor, our fixer out of Beirut. I don’t know where she is right now but she’s somewhere doing something. And she’s the one to thank for the visa. Far as advice goes, if you get into any kind of trouble in this town you find Noor, or you get someone to find Noor for you. There are plenty of people in Baghdad you can ask for advice; hers is close to all that’s worth listening to.”

Though a few weeks later, not long before the bombs fell, Robert did give me some of his own advice — he told me I should leave Iraq. He told me I wasn’t the sort who belonged in war. He said I wasn’t ready for it, he said I should go home. I remember I was cross with him for saying it, and I set out to prove him wrong.

Let me tell you, I did a bang-up job of it. So much so that after the Americans tore down Saddam’s statue in Al Firdos Square, I went home to a hero’s welcome. There were awards and television appearances, and a new contract making me one of the highest paid journalists in the UK. It was all bollocks. The hero people saw in the streets was not the man I saw in the mirror. That man was a coward. I mean, how could I tell anyone I was responsible for the deaths of two innocent people and their unborn child?

Going home, I tried to bury the truth of what happened in Iraq. A task made easy after surrendering to the numbing bliss of alcohol. My wife Becky didn’t know what to think. I’m sure she suspected something was wrong the moment I walked through the door. I was withdrawn and silent. When she tried to get me to talk, I drew even further away from her. There were times she reached for me in the night and I pushed her away. It got worse. I exploded at the slightest thing, sometimes for no reason. I never laid on hand on Becky; I didn’t have to. My words could be as brutal as fists, and with my own words I beat our marriage to pulp. Then came the day I knew my own children were terrified of me. They were only four and six then, but they knew the man they called “Papa” was gone. They knew he’d been replaced by a drunken monster. After a year of it, Becky did the sensible thing. She took our children and left to be with her parents in Glasgow. From that point it was a long, comical fall as I drank away my brilliant career. I descended into a bob-job-life as a freelance journalist. Moving from one broadcast outlet to the other for less and less money. I became known as a master of exciting “when I was” tales for anyone silly enough to pay me, or buy me a drink. That’s how I found my way to this place, sitting on this park bench in a Swiss village along the north shore of Lake Geneva.

See, a few weeks ago I was invited to Paris to be part of a TV program rehashing what every one on the planet already knew about the war, especially in light of the now all-to-familiar terror strikes across Europe and America at the hands of Al Qaeda or Da’esh, or the Immortal Warriors of God, or whatever it is the bloody fanatics call themselves this week. Iraq: The Truth of Lies was the name of the program. There was me, a female anchor dressed to the nines who also served as my translator; there was a famous French philosopher known by his initials who was outraged at everything, three French hacks who had been through the war, and one American writer from the New Yorker. He’d been through the war too. There was also a French film actress who was nine years old when the war began. I had no idea what she was doing there, but the philosopher chap complimented her many times on her perspective. At the end of the program the actress sang a French version of Dylan’s Blowin’ In The Wind. The program went out live on France 2. Of course I had to drink up the courage to walk on set but I did well enough. In fact the audience gave me a great round applause after I called Tony Blair a money-grubbing war criminal who belonged in dock of the Hague. The comment made the front page of the next day’s Le Monde. So I was a success, and I made a pocketful of Euros. But I didn’t travel to Paris for the money alone. It was what I planned to do with the money afterward.

I need to give you more background. Between the day the statue of Saddam Hussein fell in Al Firdos Square and now, I have used Robert’s backpack as my own run bag for my laptop and radio kit. So digging through it to find whatever I needed at the moment, I’d come across his short wave radio or his journal. The unmarked cassette I told you about — it was lost long ago. But I still use the shortwave to tune in the Beeb when I’m in out of the way places. And his journal? I’ve read through it a thousand times.

There’s a passage mentioning this village. I never knew the place existed until I read about it in Robert’s journal. From what I gather, Robert and Noor vacationed here once or twice. What I know for sure is on their last night together in Baghdad, as American bombs hammered the city, they talked of returning here to raise their child. I remember that night so clearly. I remember watching the two of them from a distance. I had no idea what they were talking about then, but after reading Robert’s journal many years later, I did know. So when the invitation from French telly came, I checked the TGV timetables and found a three hour train from Paris to Geneva, then a forty minute train to Lausanne, then a ten minute local to a village called Cully. That was it. I had to come.

I must tell you, sitting here just now, I get it. Cully is an almost secret place surrounded by hills of terraced vineyards, with the crescent-shaped lake laid out before you. On the far shore is France, and the Savoy Alps rise like cathedral spires. It’s the sort of place a person would come to hide from the world. Knowing Robert, I’m sure it helped there were five wineries in the village, with dozens more scattered through the hills. And the village is populated by characters Noor must have enjoyed too, never thinking there could be such people in the world. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and so far I’ve met a hat maker named Estelle, a fish monger named Philippe who sells the perch he catches each morning from the lake, a famous sculptor named Igor Belinsky, two lesser painters whose names I can’t recall, and one mad Spanish architect who had all the floors and stairs of his house covered in two inches of beach sand imported from the Caribbean. Really. He showed me pictures on his iPhone. To top it off, there’s L’Auberge du Raisin. Just a wee village inn with a Michelin star for the restaurant, and five stars for the rooms.

Last evening, just after I arrived in Cully, I walked by le Raisin as a yellow Ferrari drove up to the entrance. Someone rich enough to check-in, I thought. But a man wearing black-checkered trousers and a white tunic stepped from the car. And he held a chef’s hat in his hands. He walked by me heading for the door of the inn. I saw the name Chef Adolfo sewn across the breast pocket of his tunic.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,” he said in passing.

“Hello,” I said after he had already walked by and gone inside.

I waited a long moment before following him. See, I knew he was connected to Robert and Noor. I had read about him in the journal, too. So in a way, following him would be following my moment of truth — the reason I had made the journey in the first place. To tell you the truth I almost abandoned the idea I was so terribly nervous. But finally, I did go inside.

It was then I saw the villagers I told you about before. The hat maker, the sculptor, and the rest. They were huddled in the small oak-paneled bar just off the lobby. They were in pleasant mood, talking and laughing with glasses of wine in hand. Villages in Switzerland aren’t much different than villages in Scotland I suppose — strangers are viewed with suspicion. The bartender said something in French, Italian and German. None of it sounded like “May I help you?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said. “Might I have a word with the chef?”

“Le chef est très occupé dans la cuisine, monsieur. Vous ave une réservation?”

“Sorry, I don’t speak French very well.”

The bartender leaned across the bar. “If you have a reservation, I can help you, monsieur. The chef is busy in the kitchen.”

“No, I don’t have a reservation. Could you just tell him I knew Robert Price.”

The bartender seemed surprised, as did the villagers. “Where is he? Where is Monsieur Price?” he said.

I took a slow breath. “He disappeared during the Iraq War in 2003. The Americans declared him legally dead a few years ago.”

I’ve never been in a place where a hush fell over a room, but it did as the bartender translated my words to the others. The hat maker who whispered something to the sculptor. I didn’t understand it all but I caught one word — “Noor.”

“She’s gone too,” I said, stepping into the room and laying the backpack on a nearby stool. “That’s what happened. Robert went into the desert to try and save Noor. Their bodies were never found.”

I’m sure the sight of a tall, ginger-haired Scot in a rumpled sports coat, and one bearing bad news to boot, was something the villagers could not comprehend at first glance.

“Monsieur, you are sure of this?” the bartender said.

“Yes. I was there. I was the last person to see him alive.”

Questions fired from every direction. I waited for translations, answering as best I could. The bartender plied me with white wine to keep me talking. He obviously sensed I was a man with a mean thirst. I found a familiar numbness in the wine, and I drank myself deeper. Chef Adolfo came in with a try of hors d’oeuvres. He sensed the pleasant mood of his bar had gone sour. He looked at me, recognizing me from the street. He gave the bartender a questioning glance. The bartender told him the news.

“Oh, merde,” the chef said, and he rested the tray on the bar. He looked at me again. “Parlez-vous anglais, monsieur?”

“English, yes.”

He stepped behind the bar, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a dusty bottle. He blew away the dust and set the bottle on the counter. There was a small brass plaque around the neck, held by a small brass chain. The plaque was engraved with a name — Robert Dallas Price

“This was Monsieur Price’s private bottle. He preferred wine, but he sometimes enjoyed a whisky after dinner. Or a more than a few, depending on his mood. Sometimes he wanted to talk. I sat with him those nights.”

I read the label. Lagavulin from the Isle of Islay. Small letters reading: Takes out the fire, leaves the warmth.

“I never knew his proper name,” I said. “I never knew never he liked single malt. There is so much I don’t know about him, or Noor.”

“Oui, but you were their friend, and we were their friends. It is our duty to remember them tonight.”

The words sounded strange. I couldn’t put my finger on why at first, then it hit me. “Nobody has come by to ask about them? Not in all the years?”

“Non, you are the only one.”

I thought about it, then something else came to me. “Um, did they leave anything here? You know, things to be kept safe?”

“Why do you ask?” the chef said.

“Well, I’ve been to Beirut and Jerusalem to see if any of their things had been left behind, but everything was gone. I knew they came here once or twice, and that they wanted to live here. I just wondered if perhaps they may have stored things here.”

“What things are you interested in, monsieur?”

I didn’t know actually. “Anything.”

Adolfo smiled. “We will discuss it another time.”

He opened the bottle and poured healthy portions for everyone.

A small man dressed as a field hand came into the bar. François told him the news. Turned out the small man was a winegrower, and the village’s largest property owner, and the mayor. Michel was his name, Michel something. He poured himself a drink from Robert’s bottle, and he made a speech. He spoke very fast but I heard him say Robert et la belle Noor several times. At the end of his speech everyone walked about the room, touching glasses and sipping wine in quiet ceremony.

Just then I couldn’t breathe. It happens sometimes — like the walls are closing on on me and I’m trapped. I stood to go outside for some fresh air. I lost my balance and reached for the bar. I missed and tumbled to the floor with a heavy crash. I lay frozen as fearful images ripped through eyes. Slaughter, suffering, death. And despite Robert’s absolution on that last terrible day, it was my fault — all my bloody fault. The villagers stared at me like I was some pitiful creature in need of putting down. Slowly, I snapped out of it and struggled to my feet.

“I apologize. I seem to have had too much to drink.”

I was sure I had overstayed my welcome. I collected the backpack from the stool. Thinking I could regain a measure of dignity on my way out the door, I looked at them.

“Do he ever tell you what her name means?” I said.

No one answered me. “Her name means — ” then the walls crushed in again, and the world went black.

I woke this morning in an elegant room with no bloody idea how I got there. The windows opened to a pale blue sky. Small white clouds drifted into view, and there was the sound of a passing train. I got up and showered in ice cold water to clear my head, drying myself with the most luxuriant of towels while reading the notice on the back of the door in French, German, Italian, and finally English: Le Raisin: Single occupancy, 550 Swiss Francs per night. I panicked. How I could have been so stupid to check in to such a place? I dressed and went downstairs to talk my way out of one more bad debt. A young woman behind the desk said “Bon jour, monsieur,” then switched to English to ask me how I felt.

“I’m well enough, thanks. Um, regarding my bill. I wonder if it would be possible to forward it to my address in Scotland?”

“Do not concern yourself with the bill, monsieur.”

“Sorry?”

“I have this note from le chef. If you go into the garden, that way, you will find fresh coffee waiting for you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you out. You’ve been so kind already.”

As I said those words, images began to pass through my eyes again. Last night they were fearful things. In the light of day, it was like traveling back through time. I was in Baghdad; in room 406 of the Al Rashid Hotel. Robert and Noor had taken me under their wings and fed me every night for two solid weeks. Each time, Noor would invite me to sit down and eat, and I’d say those same bloody words about not wanting to putting anyone out, and how they had been kind enough already. After the fourth or fifth time Robert had enough of my politeness — “For fucksake, Andrew. Just sit down, shut the fuck up and eat.” And I saw Noor, too. She was laughing, punching Robert in the arm — “Robert, stop it. Don’t tease Andrew,” then laughing again. My God, her laughter. I blinked myself to the present. The young woman behind the desk was watching me. “Monsieur, is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. Coffee would be lovely. Thank you.”

I found my way to the garden and sat down to a table set with fine china, fresh squeezed orange juice, and freshly baked croissants. Delicious smelling coffee waited in a silver pot. I poured a cup, took a few sips to settle the shakes in my hands, then I opened the note.

Dear Msr Weaver,

First I must apologize. You never told us your name so I searched through your wallet to know your identity. Under Swiss law, all hotel guests must be properly registered.

You were correct. Robert and Noor did wish to live here. Though how you know this information is of great interest to me. Did he tell you he bought a vacation cottage in our village while he was in Iraq? It was a cottage in which they had stayed a few times. In fact, he bought the property from me. I have been maintaining and renting the property according to his wishes, and depositing the proceeds into his account at the local UBS bank all these years. Not hearing from him in so long, I assumed they had changed their minds about living here, but wished to keep the cottage as an investment property. This is quite common in Switzerland. People come and buy such properties, and we do not see them again for many years. Sadly, now, you come with this terrible news.

Presently the cottage is unoccupied until the summer, and I propose that you use it for as long as you plan to stay. Frankly, I would appreciate it if you could stay awhile to assist with legal matters that will now arise regarding the property. Surviving family members must be located, though I never heard any such persons mentioned by Robert or Noor. My feeling was they only had each other. Your assistance in confirming this would be appreciated.

Also, in answer to your question of last evening, Msr Price did forward two large footlockers of personal possessions from Beirut when he bought the cottage. He asked that I keep them safely stored. It is one more sadness, that as you said, all their possessions have disappeared. One can only think that the items in the footlockers were things they held most dear. The footlockers are secure in the wine cellar of the cottage and have not been disturbed. As they were addressed to me they are, officially, in my charge. Perhaps, if no relatives are located, we can go through the footlockers, together, and see to disposition of the items within.

It is a pleasant walk to the cottage. You must cross the street in front of the hotel, then follow the lane to Boulangerie Martin. To the right you will find a small archway that leads under the train tracks and out the village. The lane continues up the hill and into vineyards. Halfway up the hill, in the middle of the vineyards, you will see a small, stone cottage with green shutters and a grey slate roof. At this time of year there will be daffodils growing in the garden. You cannot miss it. The key is under the third flower pot to the left of the door. I trust you will find the view from the cottage comforting, knowing it was a view from which Robert and Noor took so much happiness.

There is one additional point of business I must raise with you. Robert asked me that if he and Noor never returned, and if someone came by and to deliver such news, would I please invite that person to dinner as his guest. He left money for such a dinner with me. So, please, would you join us tonight? It would be my honor. As he once told me, anyone who came with such news would be his friend. I will hold his favorite table by the fireplace for eight-thirty.

À bientôt, Aldolfo

So here I am. Waiting for a dinner in a Michelin Guide restaurant, paid for by a dead man who thought I was his friend. I’m inclined to accept the invitation. It seems the proper thing to do. In the meantime I could read through Robert’s journal again. Remembering him, remembering Noor — remembering those nine weeks in Baghdad.

I’m sure you must think me mad. Well, you would not be far off the mark. But many years ago there was a place called Saddamistan. And it was there I met a man, and the woman we both loved.

for T.E.L.

Jon Steele is an American expat writer living in Europe. [email protected]