seated alone on the big sofa, with one arm draped casually over the back and the other resting near the gun at his waist. I immediately knew by the way they spoke that they were more than just acquaintances; they knew one another well. He looked very much at home in our house—more so at the moment than my father did. Baba was smiling and trying to look relaxed, but I could see he was nervous as well. I set the tray down very carefully, focusing on the cups to make sure nothing spilled.
“And here is our Zainab,” Baba said, his face lighting up when I walked in. My father’s love for me could feel like sunshine. I remember feeling it in particular that day. I could see how proud he was to present his daughter to the president of Iraq.
“Ah, so this is Zanooba!” the president said, as if he’d been hearing about me for years.
I was instructed to call him Amo, just Amo, as my parents did. Later, Mama told me this was a kind of a code name he had asked his friends to call him.
“Good afternoon, Amo,” I said politely. I smiled and leaned down to kiss him three times, as Iraqis do in greeting, once on one cheek, then on the other, then back to the first cheek again. He had surprisingly soft cheeks, as if he had recently shaved, and he smelled of cologne. He gave me a beautiful smile, a wide smile with very white, even teeth. When he picked up the cup, I noticed a small tribal tattoo on his hand.
After serving the coffee, I smiled and politely left the room as was expected of me. Then I went back to the kitchen to look through the window to count how many more people were outside that I was supposed to make coffee for, and counted tens of guards standing in the cul-de-sac. I recognized one of them. It was Uncle Arshad, Aunt Nawal’s husband, and Aunt Nawal was Amo’s sister. I knew them. I had even been to their house a few times. How had my parents gotten to know Amo, and why hadn’t they ever talked about him before? I carried the biggest tray of coffee cups outside I could manage, only to learn guards couldn’t drink anything while on duty. At the far end of the street, I noticed the entry to our neighborhood had been blocked off; and there was some sort of disturbance. It turned out that the entire neighborhood had been cordoned off as a security measure for this visit, but a teenaged neighbor was unaware of the blockade and had been arrested for trying to get to his house after curfew. Mama told me later what had happened when the security guard came in to tell the president about him.
“What would you like us to do with him, sir?” the guard had asked.
“He’s just a kid, he lives down the street,” Baba said. “Don’t worry about him.”
“Should we put him in jail just to scare him?” the guard persisted. “He was arguing with us.”
Amo decided to take my father’s recommendation and let the boy go, which spared him and his family the terror of a prison stay. Because my father was a friend of Amo’s, he was allowed to intervene to help the boy. Of course, if he hadn’t been a friend of Amo’s, the boy wouldn’t have been in danger of arrest in the first place. Friendship and fear went hand in hand.
After Amo left, I went into the parlor to clear the dishes. I was all alone, and I saw Saddam Hussein’s cup—Amo’s cup—sitting there. I remembered Mama and her friend Shaima reading coffee grounds, and I went over and picked up his cup and swirled the last bit of liquid around in it as they did. Then I flipped it over onto the saucer to see if I could make out any shapes in the coffee grounds that could foretell the future. A bird meant someone would bring you news. A fish meant you were about to get money. But all I could see in Amo’s saucer was grounds.
From Alia’s Notebook
I told you this story when you were little, remember?
We first met him in 1972. We were a group of friends, mostly young married couples, having a night river party on the Tigris River. We had rented
“And here is our Zainab,” Baba said, his face lighting up when I walked in. My father’s love for me could feel like sunshine. I remember feeling it in particular that day. I could see how proud he was to present his daughter to the president of Iraq.
“Ah, so this is Zanooba!” the president said, as if he’d been hearing about me for years.
I was instructed to call him Amo, just Amo, as my parents did. Later, Mama told me this was a kind of a code name he had asked his friends to call him.
“Good afternoon, Amo,” I said politely. I smiled and leaned down to kiss him three times, as Iraqis do in greeting, once on one cheek, then on the other, then back to the first cheek again. He had surprisingly soft cheeks, as if he had recently shaved, and he smelled of cologne. He gave me a beautiful smile, a wide smile with very white, even teeth. When he picked up the cup, I noticed a small tribal tattoo on his hand.
After serving the coffee, I smiled and politely left the room as was expected of me. Then I went back to the kitchen to look through the window to count how many more people were outside that I was supposed to make coffee for, and counted tens of guards standing in the cul-de-sac. I recognized one of them. It was Uncle Arshad, Aunt Nawal’s husband, and Aunt Nawal was Amo’s sister. I knew them. I had even been to their house a few times. How had my parents gotten to know Amo, and why hadn’t they ever talked about him before? I carried the biggest tray of coffee cups outside I could manage, only to learn guards couldn’t drink anything while on duty. At the far end of the street, I noticed the entry to our neighborhood had been blocked off; and there was some sort of disturbance. It turned out that the entire neighborhood had been cordoned off as a security measure for this visit, but a teenaged neighbor was unaware of the blockade and had been arrested for trying to get to his house after curfew. Mama told me later what had happened when the security guard came in to tell the president about him.
“What would you like us to do with him, sir?” the guard had asked.
“He’s just a kid, he lives down the street,” Baba said. “Don’t worry about him.”
“Should we put him in jail just to scare him?” the guard persisted. “He was arguing with us.”
Amo decided to take my father’s recommendation and let the boy go, which spared him and his family the terror of a prison stay. Because my father was a friend of Amo’s, he was allowed to intervene to help the boy. Of course, if he hadn’t been a friend of Amo’s, the boy wouldn’t have been in danger of arrest in the first place. Friendship and fear went hand in hand.
After Amo left, I went into the parlor to clear the dishes. I was all alone, and I saw Saddam Hussein’s cup—Amo’s cup—sitting there. I remembered Mama and her friend Shaima reading coffee grounds, and I went over and picked up his cup and swirled the last bit of liquid around in it as they did. Then I flipped it over onto the saucer to see if I could make out any shapes in the coffee grounds that could foretell the future. A bird meant someone would bring you news. A fish meant you were about to get money. But all I could see in Amo’s saucer was grounds.
From Alia’s Notebook
I told you this story when you were little, remember?
We first met him in 1972. We were a group of friends, mostly young married couples, having a night river party on the Tigris River. We had rented
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