The Bible of Clay (26 page)

"Italy," Gian Maria replied, not knowing whether that was good or bad, since Silvio Berlusconi, the Italian prime minister, supported Bush.

But the news didn't seem to affect the taxi driver one way or the other—he just went on chatting. "We are going through a very bad time—there is much hunger. It was not like this before."

Gian Maria nodded without replying, fearful of giving offense.

When they arrived at their destination, Gian Maria paid the taxi driver and, black suitcase in hand, walked in through a dilapidated door. A sign in English and Arabic announced the headquarters of Aid to Children, the NGO dedicated to providing support to children in conflict-torn countries.

He walked through an anteroom, where women with children clinging to their skirts were waiting to be seen, and approached the young woman behind the desk. She looked him over from head to toe.

"Can I help you?" she asked in English.

"Well, uh, I've come from Rome, and I'd like to see Signore Baretti. I'm Gian Maria—"

"Oh, it's you! We've been waiting for you. I'll tell Luigi," she said, shifting from not-so-fluent English to fluent Italian, and got up and walked to an office partway down a crowded hallway. She emerged a few seconds later, motioning him to come.

"Go on in," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Aliam, by the way."

Luigi Baretti must have been about fifty. He was going bald and carried a few more pounds than seemed healthy but exuded an air of energy and efficiency. Nor was he one to beat about the bush.

"Sit down," Baretti ordered. "And forgive my skipping the niceties. I have no time for them, I'm afraid. Do you know how many of the children in our care have died this week for lack of medicine? I'll tell you—three. You can't imagine how many have died in all of Baghdad. And now here you are, with your big shots behind you, and a spiritual crisis that can only be fixed by a trip to Iraq to 'help out.' I need medicine, food, doctors, nurses, and money, not people who want to salve their consciences by flying in for a while to have a close-up look at the misery before they fly back to their comfortable lives in Rome, or wherever you're from."

"Have you finished?" asked Gian Maria, after a moment of shock-induced silence.

"What?"

"Have you finished insulting me?" "I didn't insult you!"

"No? Then thank you for your welcome."

Luigi Baretti was taken aback. He hadn't expected a man who blushed like this one to stand up to him.

"I'm not a doctor or a nurse, Signore Baretti; I have no money. So I'm of no use at all, according to you. But I would like to help, nevertheless."

"We're overwhelmed here," the director said, by way of apology. He decided to choose his words more carefully, given that this man seemed to have friends in high places in the NGO. The fact that he was there at all was proof enough of that.

Gian Maria was surprised at himself. He had no idea where he'd gotten the strength of character to speak to Baretti that way.

"Of course you can help," Baretti said, retrenching. "Do you know how to drive? We need somebody to drive the children who need to be taken home or to the hospital or to go to the airport to pick up the packages that come in from Rome and our other offices. We need help, of course."

"I'll try my best. Whatever you need," Gian Maria said. "Do you have a place to stay?"

"No, I planned to ask whether you knew of someplace that wasn't too expensive."

"The best thing to do is rent a room in the house of an Iraqi family. It won't cost much, and they can always use the money. We'll ask Aliam. When do you want to start?"

"Tomorrow."

"That's fine with me. Get settled in today, and Aliam can fill you in on how we work."

Gian Maria asked himself again why he was taking on commitments he couldn't keep. He'd come to Iraq to find Clara Tannenberg, and instead he was taking this "spiritual" detour.
What am I doing? Why can \ I control what I do? Who is guiding,
or
misguiding, my steps?

Aliam told him that one of the Iraqi doctors who worked with them had a spare room in his house that he might be willing to rent out. She was going to the hospital to deliver a case of antibiotics and bandages that had come in that morning from Holland, and suggested he come along to meet the doctor.

Gian Maria settled in beside Aliam in an old Renault. She drove very fast, swerving to avoid obstacles and other cars in the chaotic Baghdad traffic. Once there, Aliam strode purposefully through the doors and led Gian Maria down hallways in which cries and moans of pain mixed with the smell of disinfectants.

The doctors' and nurses' faces were lined and weary, and as Gian Maria's tour of the hospital proceeded, the lack of supplies was a constant refrain. Often, they told him, they had to watch their patients die for want of penicillin.

Aliam asked for Dr. Faisal al-Bitar when they came to the pediatric ward. A nurse made a weary gesture toward the door of the operating room. They waited a long while for the doctor to emerge. When he did, his face was creased with anger.

"Another child I couldn't save," he said bitterly to no one in particular.

"Faisal," Aliam called to him.

"Ah, you are here! Have you brought antibiotics?" "Yes. A case came in this morning." "That's it?"

"That's it—you know what happens in customs.
..."

The doctor fixed his tormented black eyes on Gian Maria, waiting for Aliam to introduce them.

"This is Gian Maria. He's just come from Rome—he's here to lend a hand."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"What are you?"

"I've come to help in any way I can—"

"He needs a room," Aliam broke in, "and since you told me you had one, I thought you might rent it to him."

Faisal gave Gian Maria a smile that looked like a mask, a memory of pleasantness more than a sincere emotion, and put out his hand.

"If you wait until I finish here, I'll take you to my home and show you the room. It's not very large, but it should be adequate. I live with my wife and three children—two girls and a boy. My mother lived with us, but she died a few months ago. That's why we have the spare room."

"I'm sure it will be fine," Gian Maria said.

"My wife is a teacher," Faisal explained, "and a fine cook, if you like our food."

"Yes, of course," was Gian Maria's grateful answer.

"If you are going to work with Aid to Children, you must get to know this hospital. Aliam will show you around, will you not, Aliam?"

The young woman led him down more hallways and through offices, stopping to introduce him to the doctors and nurses they met along the way. They all seemed desperate for supplies and medicines.

An hour later, Gian Maria met Faisal at the door of the hospital. The Iraqi's car, another old Renault, gleamed inside and out.

"I live in al-Ganir; there's a church near my home if you want to pray. It's full of Italians."

"A Catholic church?"

"Chaldean Catholic, but it is more or less the same, no?" "Yes, yes, of course." "My wife is Catholic." "Really?"

"Yes. In Iraq there's a large Christian community that has always lived in peace with the Muslims. Now, I don't know how long that will last.
..."

"Are you Christian too?"

"Officially. But I don't practice."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't go to church or pray. It's been years since I lost my way to God. It happened one of those days when I couldn't save the life of some small innocent and I watched him die in the midst of terrible pain. I can't understand why it has to be that way. Don't speak to me about God's will, or tell me that he sends us trials to test our faith. That child had leukemia. He fought for his life for two years, with a strength of spirit that was an inspiration to me. He was seven years old; he had never wronged anyone. God had no reason to make him pass some test. If God exists, his cruelty is infinite."

Gian Maria could not help making the sign of the cross over himself at Faisal's blasphemy or looking at Faisal with pity, but his pity was no match for the doctor's grief and rage.

"You blame God for what happens to men."

"I blame God for what happens to children—innocent, defenseless creatures. We adults bear the responsibility for the way we are, what we have done, what we do, but a newborn child? A three-year-old? What have these babies done to make them die in pain? And do not speak to me of original sin, because I do not allow people to speak stupidity to me. What sort of God burdens millions of innocents with guilt for a sin they did not commit?"

"Are you an atheist, then?" Gian Maria asked, fearing the response.

"If God exists, he is not in Iraq," Faisal replied.

They drove on in silence until they reached Faisal's apartment block. His flat was on the top floor of the three-story building.

The sounds of a children's scuffle greeted them as the doctor opened the door.

"What's going on here?" Faisal asked two little girls, identical as two drops of water, who were rolling and tumbling over each other in the spacious living room and screaming unintelligibly.

"She took my doll!" one of them said, pointing at the other.

"I did not," said the other. "It's mine—you just can't tell them apart."

"That's it—no more dolls alike for you two," said Faisal firmly as he pulled them up to kiss each one tenderly on the cheek. The girls hugged their father, paying no attention to the stranger.

"These are our twins," said Faisal. "Rania and Leila. They're five, and they're little demons, I assure you."

A brown-skinned woman in a business suit, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, came into the living room with a little boy in her arms.

"Nur, this is Gian Maria. Gian Maria, Nur, my wife. And this is Hadi, the baby of the family. He's a year and a half old."

Nur put the baby down on the floor and, smiling brightly, shook hands with Gian Maria.

"Welcome to our home. Faisal called to say that you would be staying with us, if you like the room."

"I'm sure I'll like it," was Gian Maria's spontaneous reply.

"Is he going to live here?" asked one of the twins.

"Yes, Rania, if he wishes to, yes," replied her mother, smiling at the expression on Gian Maria's face—clearly, he was asking himself how in the world he was supposed to tell the two girls apart.

Faisal and Nur showed Gian Maria the room. It was not very large, but it looked comfortable, and it had a window that opened onto the street. There was a bed with a headboard of light-colored wood, a night table, a round table with two chairs in a corner, and a large armoire for his clothes.

"This is fine, just fine," said Gian Maria, "but you haven't told me how much it will be."

"Would three hundred dollars a month be all right?" "Yes, sure."

"With meals, of course," Nur said, apparently to excuse the high price.

"Really, that'll be fine, thank you both very much."

"Do you like children? Do you have children?" Nur asked.

"No, I don't have any children, but I love children. I have two nephews and a niece."

"Well, you're still young; you'll have them in time," Nur consoled him. She showed him through the spacious apartment and then left him to settle into his room.

Gian Maria insisted on paying the full rent in advance, although Nur had suggested he try it out first.

He hung his few shirts and pants in the armoire, where he found a stack of towels and sheets, and then went to find Faisal.

The doctor had gone to work in a little office off the living room, separated by a bookcase he had put up for privacy.

Faisal stood up and seemed pleased that Gian Maria would be staying. "I'll give you keys so that you can come and go as you wish, but I ask that you understand this is a house with children, so . . ."

"I understand—I'll try to be as little bother as possible. I know what it's like to live with a family."

"Do you know how to get to the NGO office from here?" Faisal asked.

"I'll have to learn the way, but I'll manage." "By the way, do you speak Arabic at all?" "A little—I think I'll be able to get by."