It was a mild affront and I accepted it because it was true. I looked again at Abu Faranci, Claude. What was he staring at so intently on the horizon? There was nothing out there. Emptiness. Death. Dirt. Sand. Wind. Rolling scrub and bullet-ridden concrete walls.

“But is this justice, sayedina?”

“It is not injustice.”

He walked past me. It was as if Abu Faranci had expected him to come his way at this exact moment. Men stood rooted to their designated spots, weapons in hand, looking on; it was not unlike watching a gangster film unfolding in the last place on earth. From where I stood all I could see with my half-good eye was Cleric J’s bobbing turban and Abu Faranci’s stone face. Then Abu Faranci reached to take Cleric J’s hand, then pulled him forward and pecked him on the right cheek twice.

* * *

Jasim asked, “And what did Abu Faranci say to that?”

Jasim and I sat across the table at a new café that had cropped up by Ridha Alwan’s in the Karada District. Before leaving for Baghdad, my last words to Abu Faranci had been to tell him he didn’t have to do what was being asked of him.

“Abu Faranci said I was wrong. He said he had to do it.”

Jasim grimaced. “And you said . . . ?”

“I just repeated to him that he hadn’t signed up for this sort of thing.” Oh, but you are wrong, Saleh, I did sign up. For all of it. There was never a choice.