Our Man in Iraq. Robert Perisic

      

       OUR MAN IN IRAQ

      Robert Perišić is a prominent Croatian writer and journalist. Throughout his successful career, he has written plays, essays and short stories, many of which have been translated into several languages. ‘Our Man in Iraq’ is his first novel and quickly became the best-selling book of 2008, while going on to win him critical acclaim both at home and abroad.

      First published in 2012 by

       Istros Books

      London, United Kingdom www.istrosbooks.com

      Printed in England by

      TJ International Ltd

      Cornwall PL28 8RW

      © Robert Perišić, 2012

      Translation © Will Firth, 2012

      Cover©Roxana Stere, 2012

      The right of Robert Perišić to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

      ISBN: 9781908236043 (print edition)

      ISBN: 978-1-908236-85-2 (eBook)

      This publication was made possible with the help of the Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Croatia.

      This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained therein.

      OUR MAN IN IRAQ

      By Robert Perišić

      Translated from the Croatian by Will Firth

      PART ONE

      1. DAY ONE

      ‘Iraky peepl, Iraky peepl.’

      That’s the password.

      They’re supposed to answer: ‘I’m sory.’

      ‘I’m sory.’

      No sweat.

      I passed the checkpoint. Looked around.

      Yeah! What a view – endless columns on the road from Kuwait to Basra.

      The 82^nd Division’s Humvees, armoured vehicles, tankers, bulldozers...

      The place is full of camouflaged Yanks and Brits, the biological and chemical carnival has begun, and me, fool that I am, I haven’t got a mask. They’re expecting a chemical weapons attack and say Saddam has got tons and tons of the shit.

      I dash around with my camera and ask them all to take my photo. It’s not for keepsakes, I keep telling them, it’s for the paper.

      The columns pour along King Faisal Road towards the border. Dust is always coming from somewhere.

      ‘Iraky peepl, Iraky peepl.’

      ‘I’m sory.’

      We continue on our way.

      I keep looking to see if there are any pigeons.

      I’ve heard that the British biological and chemical detection team allegedly has pigeons.

      There were none in the Land Rover Defender. They set up an air analyser there that registers the smallest changes in the composition of the air. It’s a simple, soldierly device. You don’t need to think: when the indicator goes red, things are critical.

      That’s what they say.

      Things would be critical anyway, even without it. Things are critical with me – I want that to be published. I see all those pieces of iron, pieces of steel, and I’m shut into a piece of metal myself. I can hardly breathe in here. You can’t help me. No, not you. You’d suggest I get out, but that’s even worse. You’d offer me your hand and help me out, but that’s even worse, when you know what’s going on outside. The 82^nd Division’s Humvees. I watch them. They don’t know I’m inside.

      Or do they? The British soldiers don’t want to introduce themselves. They say they’re not allowed to. That’s it, I said, Jeezus that’s it... No introductions. For security reasons. Why am I constantly introducing myself, when I’m not who they think I am anyway, and only put myself in danger for no reason? This job is fucked. You have to introduce yourself. I say I’m a reporter from Croatia. I tell them my name and ask if they’ve got pigeons.

      I ask if it’s true that the NBC team (short for nuclear, biological, chemical), if it’s true that they’ve been given cages with pigeons.

      No reply.

      I tell them I’ve heard (heard?!) about it.

      Birds are apparently the best detectors of airborne toxins cos they’re more sensitive than humans.

      Then they reply. They say they’ve heard the story too but they’re not sure if it’s true.

      I eye them distrustfully.

      They’ve got masks, like I said. But sometimes they take them off and show themselves.

      I don’t know if they’re hiding the pigeons or if they really haven’t got any.

      Do what you like with this. I think the bit about the pigeons is interesting. It’s a good illustration: pigeons or doves in Iraq, the symbol of peace and all that.

      I made up the bit with the passwords.

       Films

      It wasn’t New Year’s Eve, but never mind. I entered the flat carrying some plastic bags and called out in a deep voice from the door: ‘Hoho- ho, Daddy Frost is here!’

      ‘Oooo!’ She held her hand coyly over her mouth, imitating an innocent girl.

      I put the bags down next to the fridge.

      ‘But that’s not all!’ Daddy Frost said, standing up tall and proud. ‘I’ve brought some drugs too!’

      I hadn’t really, but never mind.

      ‘Oooo, lucky me, lucky me!’ she chirped. ‘I can see you’re already smacked up.’

      ‘Just a bit.’

      ‘You naughty baddie, you!’ she said.

      ‘That’s just the way I am, miss,’ I answered, and added a gutsy ‘Yeah!’

      She gave me a loud kiss on the cheek.

      ‘Hey, miss, where were you when I was shooting up? In Biology, learning about the birds and the bees?’

      ‘And pneumonia,’ she said.

      ‘Hmmm. Hmmm. Where does pneumonia come into it?’ I asked.

      But we were already laughing at each other. Not that I really knew why. Part of our love (and understanding) thrived on nonsense. We could talk about non-existent drugs or make up the craziest of things.

      I guess that element of the absurd helped us relax (‘after a hard day at work’). One of us would say something silly and the other would laugh and say: ‘Gawd, how stupid you are! Who am I living with?!’

      We enjoyed exchanging those insults.

      I think it was she who started it, long ago.

      Her name was Sanja and mine – Toni.

      ‘What pneumonia?’ I asked again.

      ‘I watched a Serbian film,’ she explained. ‘A woman kept complaining:

      My child will get pneumonia.’

      ‘I know that film,’ I said with a professorial air.