MR. JAAFARI?
I looked up to see her standing on the other side of the immigration desks, evidently refusing to complete the distance between us.
We’d like to ask you a few more questions. Do you want to come through?
We rode an escalator together down to the baggage claim, where Denise consulted the overhead monitors. Then we walked the full length of the vast hall to locate my suitcase standing in solitude beside a stopped carousel. Extending its handle I tipped it into its wheeling position and followed Denise most of the way back to the escalator followed by a left into Goods to Declare. A male customs officer awaited us there, and while I hoisted my case onto a metal examination table he snapped on a pair of purple rubber gloves.
Pack the bag yourself?
Yes.
Anybody help you pack?
No.
Are you aware of all of the contents of your bag?
Yes.
While he poked around among my socks and underwear, Denise resumed her own questioning, thinly disguised as small talk.
So. What’s the temperature like in Iraq this time of year?
Well, it depends on where you are, of course. In Sulaymaniyah it should be pretty mild, like in the fifties.
What’s that? Denise said to the customs officer. Ten? Twelve?
Got me.
So when did you last see your brother? She opened my Iraqi passport again.
In January of 2005.
In Iraq?
Yes.
Is he an economist too?
No, he’s a doctor.
The customs officer held up a package wrapped in pink-and-yellow gift paper. What’s this?
An abacus, I said.
An abacus like for counting?
That’s right.
Why do you have an abacus?
It’s a present, for my niece.
How old is your niece? asked Denise.
Three.
And you think she’d like an abacus? the customs officer asked.
I shrugged. The customs officer and Denise both pondered my face for a moment and then the officer began prying at a piece of tape. The paper underneath was thin and as the tape peeled away it took some of the color with it, leaving behind a white gash. Peering into the open end, the officer gave the package a little shake; we all could hear the wooden beads clacking together as they slid back and forth on their thin metal rods. An abacus, the customs officer repeated incredulously, before feebly attempting to rewrap it.
I followed Denise back up the escalator and down a narrow hallway into a room where she gestured toward a chair facing a desk. Sitting on the other side of the desk, she began jiggling a mouse. Several seconds passed, and then I asked whether if this was going to take quite a bit longer I might make a call.
To Mr. Blunt?
Yes.
We’ve already called him.
Eventually Denise found what she was looking for and stood up to cross the room and jiggle another mouse attached to another computer. This monitor looked newer than the first and was rigged up to an elaborate array of auxiliary equipment including a glowing glass slide and a camera that looked like a tiny Cyclops. A photograph of my most neutral expression was taken, followed by my fingerprints, all digitally. In order to get a complete and acceptable set Denise had to squeeze each of my fingers between her own forefinger and thumb and roll the tip over the glowing slide at least twice, sometimes three times; with one of my thumbs, four. I did not find Denise attractive. Nor was there anything suggestive to the way she manipulated my fingers, so it was a surprise when our prolonged physical contact began faintly to arouse me. Cooperating as we were, united by our desire to appease her hard-to-please computer with its red Xs and supercilious little pings, gave me the feeling that we were merely playing border control, and that any moment now Denise’s mother would call her in for supper and I would be freed.
Instead, when the fingerprinting was done, we progressed to a second room, this one containing a small square table and three metal chairs. The upper half of one of the walls was composed of a dimmed glass in which my reflection was less a mirror image than a silhouette. Running horizontally under the glass was a long strip of red plastic, or rubber, like the tape you press on a bus to request a stop. A notice had been taped to the glass: PLEASE DO NOT LEAN ON THE RED STRIP AS IT SETS OFF AN ALARM.
Denise and I sat facing each other, my passports and her fat manila folder on the table between us. Then Denise thought better of this configuration and shuffled her chair around so that we were positioned at a right angle to each other instead. Sitting very erect, she opened her folder and took out a small stack of paper that she tapped vertically into alignment. Then she explained that she was going to ask me a series of questions, my answers to which she would write down and give me the opportunity to review. If I were happy with what she had written, I would sign my name at the bottom of each page, indicating my approval. I could see no fairer alternative to this process, and yet as it was explained to me I began to have the sinking feeling you get when you agree to a game of Tic-Tac-Toe in which the other person gets to go first.
For the next twenty minutes, Denise and I repeated almost verbatim the same conversation we’d had nearly three hours earlier, when I’d first reached the end of the metal maze. This iteration took longer, of course, because Denise had to write everything down in her loopy, schoolgirlish handwriting, and then, whenever she reached the end of a sheet of paper, there was the time it took for her to swivel it toward me and wait while I read it over and signed my assent. Naturally, answering questions I’d already answered felt like a waste of time—but soon enough I regretted my impatience, because when we finally did move on it was into more sinister territory.
Have you ever been arrested?
No.
Is Amar Ala Jaafari the name you were given at birth?
Yes.
Have you ever used another name?
No.
Never?
Never.
You have never told a law enforcement officer that your name is anything other than Amar Ala Jaafari?
No.
Denise studied me intently for a moment before writing this last no down.
Can you tell me in more detail what you were doing here in 1998?
I’d just graduated from college and had a yearlong internship at the Toynbee Bioethics Council. I also volunteered at a hospital on weekends.
What was your address during your stay?
Thirty-Nine Tavistock Place. I don’t remember the flat number.
And how was it that you came to live there?
It was my aunt’s apartment.
Is it still?
No.
Why not?
She died.
I’m sorry. How?
Cancer.
The pen hovered.
Pancreatic, I said.
And now you’re returning to London for the first time in ten years? To see some friends?
To meet up with Alastair Blunt, yes.
For only two days?
I looked at my watch. Yes.
I’m just thinking . . . It’s a long way to come for only forty-eight hours. Not even forty-eight hours.
Well, like I said, I’m flying on to Istanbul on Sunday. It was the cheapest ticket I could find.
What is your relationship to Mr. Blunt?
We’re friends.
Do you have a girlfriend? A partner?
No.
No partner?
Not at the moment, no.
And no job.
No.
Denise smiled at me sadly. Well, I guess it’s not a good time to be looking, is it?
For a moment I thought she meant for a girlfriend. Oh, I said airily. Something will come along.
By the time she had run out of questions our combined handwriting had filled nearly thirteen pages. All right, Denise said brightly, standing and tugging her trouser thighs back into place. I’m just going to take you to our holding room while I make some general inquiries.
Then what?
Then I’ll be discussing your case with the chief immigration officer on duty.
When?
I don’t know.
I’m sorry, I said, I know you’re just doing your job, but could you please give me a sense of what you’re discussing? What the problem is?
There’s no problem; we just need to check a few things. The background of your passports, that’s all. As I’ve already explained to you. Just some general inquiries.
I looked at her.
Are you hungry?
No.
Do you need to use the toilet?
No. But I’m worried about my friend. I’m supposed to meet him in town in less than an hour.
We’ve explained things to Mr. Blunt. He knows you’re here. He knows we’re just making some general inquiries.