(Story) A Slit In The Wall - Day 2 (3,550 words)
Alaric
Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2003
"Father, give me the Bull of Heaven,
so he can kill Gilgamesh in his dwelling.
If you do not give me the Bull of Heaven,
I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,
I will smash the door posts, and leave the doors flat down,
and will let the dead go up to eat the living!
And the dead will outnumber the living!"
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet VI.
* * *
Day 2
Who We Fight
The schoolyard is full of smiling children. Boys with eyes as brown as
hazels and girls with dark hair who stare and giggle. Khurram has clearly
arranged this riotous assembly in advance. The headmaster, a man well past
retirement age with an explosion of grey hair, tells me I'm permitted to ask
them any questions I wish. First, though, the children will sing for me.
The song is melodic and cheerful, the voices high and innocent, but the
words are blades slicing away at the children's' futures. They praise Saddam
Hussein as though he's a faultless deity. They anticipate the death of
Americans.
I've already been taken around the school buildings, seen classrooms lined
with brightly poster painted death scenes - guns being fired at tanks or
aeroplanes emblazoned with the letters USA or with the stars and stripes;
American soldiers lined up before a firing squad. One little girl has
already presented me with a photograph of Saddam, telling, "I carry it
everywhere, but it's yours now. I'll get another." A boy has given me his
painting, which is of a dead Arab man clutching a gun. The painting is
captioned "Martyrs are the true heroes."
"How can they teach such songs to children?" I ask Khurram. "All that hate."
Khurram shrugs. "Our media isn't as efficient as yours. We have to poison
minds on a one to one basis."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"I want to leave," I tell him.
He lights a cigarette, shielding the flame of his lighter with nicotine
stained fingers. Then he says, "I thought this would be enlightening for
you."
"Propaganda from kids? Enlightening? Is this the truth you want me to take
back? Is this Iraq today? Children who can't think?"
Khurram smiles. "The truth lies not in what people think, but in what they
do. Come. I'll show you something else if you wish. But you'll disappoint
the children."
"I know what they'll tell me," I say. "So I'll disappoint them."
* * *
"Their ways are verily loathsome unto me.
By day I find no relief, nor repose by night.
I will destroy, I will wreck their ways,
That quiet may be restored. Let us have rest!
I will establish a savage; 'man' shall be his name.
Verily, savage man I will create.
He shall be charged with the service of the gods
That they might be at ease!"
From Enuma Elish (When On High) - The Babylonian Epic Of Creation.
* * *
The something else is an orphanage. Khurram tells me on the way that divorce
is a growing problem in Iraq and often results in abandoned children. "It's
easier for one parent to throw a child on the street than for two," he
claims.
"Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for that
one."
Again Khurram's mere presence obtains him all the favours he needs. I make a
mental note to ask him why that is - when I made my request of the Ministry
he was identified merely as liaison, but I'm beginning to suspect he's a lot
more than that. Too many people nod at him in the street. Some even step
aside. He's a face, there's no doubting it.
At the orphanage, the children are even younger than those at the school.
Some are just babies. The oldest are no more than five. As at the school,
though, they line up for my inspection. They're in identical pyjamas, red
for blood, red for sacrifice, red for brightness, red for the state. They're
shepherded by a group of women who don't wear identical clothes but do wear
identical looks and do all display headscarves. I've never felt more
American, and I've never felt more manipulated. I've noted from the placard
in the garden that this is Government House Orphanage, and it's obviously a
display institution. I know that Khurram has already taken me to places
where CNN reporters wouldn't be permitted to go, but Government House
Orphanage is, I'm sure, not one of them. I suspect it's open all hours to
interested foreign devils. So I don't understand Khurram's intent in
bringing me here.
I talk briefly with Bayon, the director. I can't think of anything to ask
her without getting a stock answer, but I try to surprise her by enquiring
whether the orphanage employed any men. My provocation seems to annoy her. A
woman's job, she tells me with a sniff, is something a man would find it
hard to adjust to.
I also ask her how the orphanage is funded. She admits that the government
helps. As do some wealthy male benefactors, although that source of revenue
is drying up.
The orphanage children, like the schoolchildren, have organised a show for
me. They gather in a line, and the boys at both ends of it group hold
pictures of Saddam Hussein. "Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be
teachers," they chant, and one boy steps forward and shakes his fist. Not at
me, but his eyes are angry. He knows what he's doing, and he has a vague
idea of why he's doing it. This is not a boy reciting by rote. This is not
the Hokey Cokey.
"Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be farmers," the children then
announce, and a second little boy emerges from the group. Another tiny fist
is shaken.
"Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be soldiers," the children tell
me, and this time an older girl advances to deliver the threatening gesture,
before telling me directly, and with a smile, "We will kill the American
invaders." At this, all the children laugh, and they clap their hands.
Walking back towards the hotel, I ask Khurram, "So how exactly was this
morning intended to benefit me?"
"Are you hungry?" Khurram replies.
I struggle to adjust on to the tangent. "I suppose so. Why?"
"All Americans are hungry," he says. "It's a state of being for you. The
reason for being. The British were hungry before you. And the Turks before
them. But you can't eat us. We'll twist and kick inside you. You might eat
me. But some of those children, the ones who survive your bombs, they'll cut
your stomachs open from the inside."
* * *
"And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and
Calneh, in the land of Shinar."
Genesis 10, Verse 10.
"I looked around for coastlines in the expanse of the sea,
and at twelve leagues there emerged a region of land.
On Mt. Nimush the boat lodged firm.
Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
One day and a second Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
A third day, a fourth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
A fifth day, a sixth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
When a seventh day arrived
I sent forth a dove and released it.
The dove went off, but came back to me;
no perch was visible so it circled back to me."
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet XI.
"When Alexander the Great, died there were, in Mesopotamia alone, three
hundred towns and cities bearing his name."
Saady Yossuf - Postcards from Hajj Omran.
* * *
"Last week the French called themselves the old world and called you the
new," Behbehani says, spitting out enough grains of rice to make me feel
uncomfortable. "Ha! The cheek of it. France! The old world. Such pomposity.
We are the old world, Mr. Aziz. Iraq is the old world."
I'm with Khurram and Midhat Behbehani. Behbehani is a historian, perhaps
Iraq's leading historian. His small black spectacles, perched on the end of
his nose, suggest academia. His eating habits don't. Momma always told me
not to speak with my mouth full. Until I met Behbehani, the logic behind
that bit of folk wisdom was never entirely clear to me.
"Tell him how old," Khurram says. He's unusually subdued, a respectful
student.
I steal his thunder. "I know how old."
"He went to an American school," Khurram tells Behbehani. "General Grant,
Wyatt Earp and Patton. And a brief reference to Uruk."
Behbehani shovels in another forkful of rice. "I suspect our American friend
knows more of our history than you do, Khurram," he says. "I suspect most
people know more of our history than you do."
Khurram colours slightly. And Behbehani has me then, on the basis that my
enemy's enemy is my friend. "I know what the encyclopaedias tell me, but I
don't have a feel for Iraq's past if I'm honest," I admit. "Maybe you can
give me that."
Khurram starts to say something, doubtless something cutting, but Behbehani
holds up a silencing hand. "You're in the Cradle of Civilisation, Mr. Aziz,"
he tells me. "I'm sure you know that part of our history. Once this was
Mesopotamia, the Fertile Crescent - the location, we're told, of the Garden
of Eden, was the land between our two great rivers; between Duja and Furat,
the Tigris and the Euphrates. Eden or not, here was the birthplace of the
civilizations that pushed the world out of prehistory. Civilisation
flourished here before Egypt breathed, before Greeks spread their wisdom,
before Rome conquered the known world. Four thousand years before Christ,
the Sumerian people had developed complex irrigation systems, cereal
agriculture, writing."
"Cuneiform," I say, just to impress.
"Indeed," Behbehani confirms, and I bask in that confirmation. "And here too
we invented the wheel, and constructed the first plough. We developed a
mathematical system based on the numeral 60, which is still the basis of
time in the modern world."
We talk and eat, Behbehani and I, whilst a whipped Khurram remains for the
most part silent. The chicken and rice accompanies the story of Sargon, the
Akkadian who built an empire extending as far as Lebanon - an empire which
fell when the great city of Ur rose up against Akkadian rule. The leftovers
are still being picked at when I'm told of Noah, who lived and floated his
boat from Fara, 100 miles southeast of Bab-ili, soon to become Babylon, or
in English the Gate of God. I chew sticky cake as I'm educated on the life
of King Hammurabi, whose code holds firm down all the centuries in that it
introduced legal protection for even the lowest classes, made the state the
responsible authority for enforcing the law and decreed, "An eye for an eye,
a tooth for a tooth" - that the punishment should fit the crime. The cheese
helps me through the time of the Cassites to the Assyrians, who divided the
circle into 360 degrees, who invented longitude and latitude for
geographical navigation, whose celebrated King Nebuchadnezzar the Second
built the Hanging Gardens, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.
"All for his concubine Amyitis," Behbehani explains, "Legend says she was
born in Media, and that she pined for the mountains. The Gardens were the
closest thing to those mountains the King could give her."
Coffee, bitter and strong, is the complement to tales of grand invasions -
Cyrus, and Alexander the Great, then Behbehani skips quickly past Christ to
the great wars with the Arab Muslims and to Dhat Al-Salasil, the battle of
the Chains, so named because Persian soldiers were chained together so that
they couldn't flee. This, I'm told, was a time of jihad. It's a word I ask
Behbehani to explain because of its regular appearances in the news.
"Named after Jihad fi Sabeel lillah," he obliges. "Westerners misinterpret
it as all-out war, no holds barred. But Muslims are regulated by religion
even in the way they fight. Prohibited from rape. Prohibited from the
killing of women, children, religious leaders - more broadly, anyone who
hasn't actually engaged in warfare."
Over cigars, I learn of Abu Ja'far Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khawarizmi - he
discovered algebra, invented the number zero and introduced Hindu numbers -
which mediaeval Christian Europeans saw as the work of Satan - to the Arab
world. On then to a more familiar name, the Mongol Temujin, who led his
armies into the Middle East, changing his name along the way to Genghis
Khan. Temujin's grandson Hulagu Khan elected to march on Baghdad with two
hundred thousand Tartars, and contemporary accounts say that rivers of blood
flowed in the streets for forty days, that all the alleys were filled with
bodies.
By now we have brandy in cups. The restaurant is emptying. Behbehani raises
his aperitif in a mock toast to me and winks. "So you see, my friend," he
says, "you will not be the first to try to trample over us."
"Nor the last," Khurram chimes in. "When you are gone, we shall still be
here. Available to supply you with lessons in civilisation."
The weight of the centuries Behbehani has piled on my shoulders leaves me
maudlin. "We're not coming with swords," I say. "When we're done, there may
be no alleys for you to lie in. I don't want that."
Behbehani smiles. "Then you're a civilised man. I hope we meet again."
"I hope so too," I reply.
* * *
"Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their
houses shall be spoiled, and their wives ravished."
Isaiah 13, Verse 16.
"And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE
MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH."
Revelation 17, Verse 5.
* * *
Khurram leaves just after eleven. I collect my key and take the lift to the
eighth floor, where my room is.
Jasim is waiting in the corridor. She's taller than I remember, and her hair
is down. She takes my breath away. When it returns, I use it for honesty. I
can't mislead her again.
"Khurram was taking advantage of you," I tell her. "There's no quick legal
way to get your brother into America."
She nods, says nothing. I look her up and down and decide she'd come to
seduce me, to create a debt. A black, hugging dress, cut just below the
knee. Black stockings. Black high heeled shoes.
I wish things were different. I wish she'd dressed for me, not her brother.
But I force my message across nonetheless. "He wanted to help the book. He
thought you'd give me an idea of how the middle classes were reacting to the
probability of invasion. He caught me by surprise, and I played along. I
wish I hadn't."
She nods again. "I know Khurram of old," she says. "What you say doesn't
surprise me."
"Again, I'm sorry."
"You could still invite me in," she says. "That would be polite."
"Would that be wise?" I ask. "Now you know the truth."
"Wise?"
"Safe."
She chuckles. I think of bells. No, that's a lie. I think of sex. "For you?"
she asks. "Do you have to protect yourself against women, then? Are you
impossible to resist?"
I feel heat in my face. "For you. You might get. oh, I don't know. stoned or
something."
"Just for entering a man's room."
"Yes."
"You've a lot to learn about Iraq before you write about Iraq, Mr. Aziz.
We're a secular society. And Baghdad is a city, not a shanty town."
"I know. But.."
"I can safely go in your room, Martin. If you're prepared to allow it,
naturally."
"Of course." Her use of my first name thrills me, so much so that I fumble
with the key card. She watches with a smile. I'm closer to her now, and her
fragrance reaches me - a subtle cedar note that nudges me towards lust.
Once inside the room, I open the door wide for her, and as she moves past me
I switch on the lights. I expect her to take one of the armchairs by the
window, but instead she sits on the bed. I offer coffee. She declines.
I pull the chair from under the writing desk and straddle it. "So how can I
help you?" I ask.
That smile again. "A bed for the night, kind sir."
"I don't understand. Have you been thrown out of your house? Not because you
met with me, surely?"
She loosens her hair still further, so that it falls across her shoulders.
Then she says, "I told you that times are hard for all of us."
"You did, yes."
"So I have to work. When the opportunity arises."
Finally, I understand. "You're saying you're a. that.."
She helps me. "An escort."
"Yes. But no. A woman like you.."
"Just for the last eighteen months. I haven't made a career of it. And I'm
careful. Only the international hotels. Only American men, or Europeans.
Once a month, perhaps. When I have to. When funds are low."
I catch myself wondering whether her legs are really as long as the shape of
the dress implies.
"Why me?" I ask.
"Khurram's idea. If you're offended, I'll leave."
I know how important it is, for my own integrity and that of the book, to
send her home. Instead, I say, "How much will it cost me for you to stay?"
"The bill is paid," she replies.
I'm not surprised. Khurram is such a manipulator.
I recall so many bar conversations in which I've told friends how sad
prostitution is, that it's the yoke of women and the shame of men.
So the fact that I'm not going to be paying acquires substantial importance.
* * *
"A slippery path is not feared by two people who help each other."
The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet V.
"Come, Shamhat, take me away with you
to the sacred Holy Temple, the residence of Anu and Ishtar,
the place of Gilgamesh, who is wise to perfection,
but who struts his power over the people like a wild bull."
Spoken by Enkidu in The Epic Of Gilgamesh.
* * *
And later, I recall other bar conversations when, po-faced and naïve, I held
forth on the need to divorce sex and love, that the first could not beget
the second.
But when Jasim rolls from me. when her lips leave mine and she settles in
the crook of my arm, I know that I've found my Euridice, my Helen, my
Juliet. My heart hammers against my ribcage, and my body throbs in the
aftermath. She's pleased me and she's used me, so that currency wasn't the
only trade. Now she breathes in my ear, and her fragrance spins in my brain.
"Will you stay the night?" I ask her.
"Yes," she replies. "Of course."
"Your husband.?"
"Dead. Desert Storm."
"You're not that old."
"I am that old."
"The children?"
"Grandparents."
We breathe together. In time. Lovers. Oh yes indeed, we're lovers. My heart
slows. I feel myself start to drift. I decide I don't want to drift.
"Tell me about Khurram," I say.
For a moment she doesn't answer. For a moment I suspect that she's asleep.
Then she says, "He's more than he seems."
"More in what way?"
"If he's looking after you, you're an important man."
"Me? Far from it."
"Someone thinks you are."
"Someone?"
"Someone with influence."
"Does he know Saddam?"
"Probably."
"Is he a friend of Saddam's?"
"Possibly."
"I'm not important. I'm just a writer."
"I believe you."
"Are you suggesting Saddam. well..?"
"Knows you're here?"
"Yes."
"Probably. I doubt it's a priority for him."
"But for someone."
"Iraqis believe in the power of history."
"I'm not a historian."
"Won't your book be history one day?"
"It'll be a personal view."
"All history is somebody's personal view." She shifts onto her back. Already
I'm beginning to want her again. The memory is fading and sweet.
"But he thinks I'll be an apologist," I interpret.
"Will you?"
"No. I've seen a lot of things that concern me. And the past concerns me.
The Kurds, more than anything."
"There's concern, and there's propaganda. Perhaps Khurram trusts you to draw
that line."
"That's my intention."
"Then that's why he's working with you."
I consider that. It makes a little sense. "Do you know your Omar Khayam?" I
ask her.
She giggles. "You're an Arab scholar now?"
I caress her breast. Her body lifts. "The moving finger writes, and, having
writ, moves on," I recite. "Nor all thy piety not wit shall lure it back to
cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out one word of it."
She touches me in a place that threatens to end the conversation. "There are
always footnotes," she says, "and some people read footnotes."
"That's my legacy then? A footnote on yet another war to end all wars?"
"My hero," she says. "Shall I give you some adulation?"
I decide to let her change the subject.
--
"I shall hang the world around my neck
And walk
I shall adorn myself with innocent cities
And stroll in Wisdom
Buddhist Spartan Hindu Zoroastrian
Wounded, my heart is inundated with memory of the future."
Siham Jabbar, My Journey.
Huw Lyan Thomas
> A SLIT IN THE WALL
> Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2003
> Day 2
> Who We Fight
> "Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for that
> one."
?
> "Are you hungry?" Khurram replies.
>
> I struggle to adjust on to the tangent. "I suppose so. Why?"
Not sure that you need the struggle thing. Dialogue is all the better
for being unbalanced, like this, so there's no need to comment on this.
> "All Americans are hungry," he says. "It's a state of being for you. The
> reason for being. The British were hungry before you. And the Turks before
> them. But you can't eat us. We'll twist and kick inside you. You might eat
> me. But some of those children, the ones who survive your bombs, they'll cut
> your stomachs open from the inside."
Powerful last sentence - and true, unless one considers genocide as a
solution.
>
> Khurram starts to say something, doubtless something cutting, but Behbehani
> holds up a silencing hand. "You're in the Cradle of Civilisation, Mr. Aziz,"
> he tells me. "I'm sure you know that part of our history. Once this was
> Mesopotamia, the Fertile Crescent - the location, we're told, of the Garden
> of Eden, was the land between our two great rivers; between Duja and Furat,
> the Tigris and the Euphrates. Eden or not, here was the birthplace of the
> civilizations that pushed the world out of prehistory. Civilisation
> flourished here before Egypt breathed, before Greeks spread their wisdom,
> before Rome conquered the known world. Four thousand years before Christ,
> the Sumerian people had developed complex irrigation systems, cereal
> agriculture, writing."
Expositional. Many of your readers will know this already, I think. Your
correspondent surely would.
>
> We talk and eat, Behbehani and I, whilst a whipped Khurram
the local dessert? :-)
> remains for the
> most part silent. The chicken and rice accompanies the story of Sargon, the
> Akkadian who built an empire extending as far as Lebanon - an empire which
> fell when the great city of Ur rose up against Akkadian rule. The leftovers
> are still being picked at when I'm told of Noah, who lived and floated his
> boat from Fara, 100 miles southeast of Bab-ili, soon to become Babylon, or
> in English the Gate of God. I chew sticky cake as I'm educated on the life
> of King Hammurabi, whose code holds firm down all the centuries in that it
> introduced legal protection for even the lowest classes, made the state the
> responsible authority for enforcing the law and decreed, "An eye for an eye,
> a tooth for a tooth" - that the punishment should fit the crime. The cheese
> helps me through the time of the Cassites to the Assyrians, who divided the
> circle into 360 degrees, who invented longitude and latitude for
> geographical navigation, whose celebrated King Nebuchadnezzar the Second
> built the Hanging Gardens, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.
This seemed less infodumpy to me. Perhaps because it's summarised, and
your correspondent might credibly not be familiar with all of this.
> "Named after Jihad fi Sabeel lillah," he obliges. "Westerners misinterpret
> it as all-out war, no holds barred. But Muslims are regulated by religion
> even in the way they fight. Prohibited from rape. Prohibited from the
> killing of women, children, religious leaders - more broadly, anyone who
> hasn't actually engaged in warfare."
back into infodump again
> Over cigars, I learn of Abu Ja'far Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khawarizmi - he
> discovered algebra, invented the number zero and introduced Hindu numbers -
> which mediaeval Christian Europeans saw as the work of Satan - to the Arab
> world. On then to a more familiar name, the Mongol Temujin, who led his
> armies into the Middle East, changing his name along the way to Genghis
> Khan. Temujin's grandson Hulagu Khan elected to march on Baghdad with two
> hundred thousand Tartars, and contemporary accounts say that rivers of blood
> flowed in the streets for forty days, that all the alleys were filled with
> bodies.
and once more, the summary approach works better for me
> The weight of the centuries Behbehani has piled on my shoulders leaves me
> maudlin. "We're not coming with swords," I say.
I misinterpreted that at first, as meaning "we're not coming to clobber
you".
> "I can safely go in your room, Martin. If you're prepared to allow it,
> naturally."
How do you hear this voice? She's coming across almost as a native
English speaker.
> "Just for the last eighteen months. I haven't made a career of it. And I'm
> careful. Only the international hotels. Only American men, or Europeans.
> Once a month, perhaps. When I have to. When funds are low."
This jars. You're trying to make her into a nice girl forced into
prostitution, and explaining herself. Even if she's a nice girl, I'm not
convinced she'd do that.
> So the fact that I'm not going to be paying acquires substantial importance.
Heh.
> I decide to let her change the subject.
General comments so far (having read day 1 and 2):
The narrative voice is sounding British to me, rather than American. You
might want to think about using American spelling and word-choices for
this piece.
The quotes work. Great choices. You're either an excellent ancient-world
scholar, or you've spent some time on research :-)
The narrator isn't coming across very strongly as a character. Perhaps
it's the voice thing again. His main function seems to be to record and
observe: he's passive and reactive, which isn't how strong characters
are created. This may of course be your intention: to have a narrator
who bears witness.
The other characters' voices could perhaps sound more foreign, and
distinct.
Overall, very nice work so far. Good to see you writing again.
--
Huw
www.hexlibris.com
Michael
> A SLIT IN THE WALL
> Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2003
>
>
> Who We Fight
> The schoolyard is full of smiling children. Boys with eyes as brown as
> hazels and girls with dark hair who stare and giggle. Khurram has clearly
> arranged this riotous assembly in advance. The headmaster, a man well past
> retirement age with an explosion of grey hair, tells me I'm permitted to ask
> them any questions I wish. First, though, the children will sing for me.
OK, good opening again. Only you're lapsing into describing
characters through their eyes a lot - first the two lads in Day 1,
(and their elderly relative too?) and now 'eyes brown as hazels'.
Nothing wrong with it, but perhaps a little variety wouldn't go amiss.
Just my 2p.
> The something else is an orphanage. Khurram tells me on the way that divorce
> is a growing problem in Iraq and often results in abandoned children. "It's
> easier for one parent to throw a child on the street than for two," he
> claims.
Sounds a bit documentary-ish, the "often results in abandoned
children" bit. I felt a bit of a jar here.
>
> "Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for that
> one."
Not sure that reads quite right?
>
> Again Khurram's mere presence obtains him all the favours he needs. I make a
> mental note to ask him why that is - when I made my request of the Ministry
> he was identified merely as liaison, but I'm beginning to suspect he's a lot
> more than that. Too many people nod at him in the street. Some even step
> aside. He's a face, there's no doubting it.
>
> At the orphanage, the children are even younger than those at the school.
> Some are just babies. The oldest are no more than five. As at the school,
> though, they line up for my inspection. They're in identical pyjamas, red
> for blood, red for sacrifice, red for brightness, red for the state. They're
> shepherded by a group of women who don't wear identical clothes but do wear
> identical looks and do all display headscarves. I've never felt more
> American, and I've never felt more manipulated. I've noted from the placard
> in the garden that this is Government House Orphanage, and it's obviously a
> display institution. I know that Khurram has already taken me to places
> where CNN reporters wouldn't be permitted to go, but Government House
> Orphanage is, I'm sure, not one of them. I suspect it's open all hours to
> interested foreign devils. So I don't understand Khurram's intent in
> bringing me here.
Good, strong paragraph.
You need the "on"?
>
> "All Americans are hungry," he says. "It's a state of being for you. The
> reason for being. The British were hungry before you. And the Turks before
> them. But you can't eat us. We'll twist and kick inside you. You might eat
> me. But some of those children, the ones who survive your bombs, they'll cut
> your stomachs open from the inside."
>
> * * *
This is very good. I am reading it, just no nits at the moment.
>
> We talk and eat, Behbehani and I, whilst a whipped Khurram remains for the
> most part silent. The chicken and rice accompanies the story of Sargon, the
> Akkadian who built an empire extending as far as Lebanon - an empire which
> fell when the great city of Ur rose up against Akkadian rule. The leftovers
> are still being picked at when I'm told of Noah, who lived and floated his
> boat from Fara, 100 miles southeast of Bab-ili, soon to become Babylon, or
> in English the Gate of God. I chew sticky cake as I'm educated on the life
> of King Hammurabi, whose code holds firm down all the centuries in that it
> introduced legal protection for even the lowest classes, made the state the
> responsible authority for enforcing the law and decreed, "An eye for an eye,
> a tooth for a tooth" - that the punishment should fit the crime. The cheese
> helps me through the time of the Cassites to the Assyrians, who divided the
> circle into 360 degrees, who invented longitude and latitude for
> geographical navigation, whose celebrated King Nebuchadnezzar the Second
> built the Hanging Gardens, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.
Without being picky, in that damn heat would you be that hungry? I was
in Morocco for a holiday in May last year and boy, I lost weight.
> "All for his concubine Amyitis," Behbehani explains, "Legend says she was
> born in Media, and that she pined for the mountains. The Gardens were the
> closest thing to those mountains the King could give her."
>
> Coffee, bitter and strong, is the complement to tales of grand invasions -
> Cyrus, and Alexander the Great, then Behbehani skips quickly past Christ to
> the great wars with the Arab Muslims and to Dhat Al-Salasil, the battle of
> the Chains, so named because Persian soldiers were chained together so that
> they couldn't flee. This, I'm told, was a time of jihad. It's a word I ask
> Behbehani to explain because of its regular appearances in the news.
>
> "Named after Jihad fi Sabeel lillah," he obliges. "Westerners misinterpret
> it as all-out war, no holds barred. But Muslims are regulated by religion
> even in the way they fight. Prohibited from rape. Prohibited from the
> killing of women, children, religious leaders - more broadly, anyone who
> hasn't actually engaged in warfare."
>
> Over cigars, I learn of Abu Ja'far Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khawarizmi - he
> discovered algebra, invented the number zero and introduced Hindu numbers -
> which mediaeval Christian Europeans saw as the work of Satan - to the Arab
> world. On then to a more familiar name, the Mongol Temujin, who led his
> armies into the Middle East, changing his name along the way to Genghis
> Khan. Temujin's grandson Hulagu Khan elected to march on Baghdad with two
> hundred thousand Tartars, and contemporary accounts say that rivers of blood
> flowed in the streets for forty days, that all the alleys were filled with
> bodies.
Now I feel a bit overwhelmed. Which I'm sure is the feeling you're
going for, as your narrator feels the same way - but it's a bit much,
to be honest. My brain's full.
>
> By now we have brandy in cups. The restaurant is emptying. Behbehani raises
> his aperitif in a mock toast to me and winks. "So you see, my friend," he
> says, "you will not be the first to try to trample over us."
>
> "Nor the last," Khurram chimes in. "When you are gone, we shall still be
> here. Available to supply you with lessons in civilisation."
>
> The weight of the centuries Behbehani has piled on my shoulders leaves me
> maudlin. "We're not coming with swords," I say. "When we're done, there may
> be no alleys for you to lie in. I don't want that."
>
> Behbehani smiles. "Then you're a civilised man. I hope we meet again."
>
> "I hope so too," I reply.
>
> * * *
>
>
Good, punchy dialogue again.
Not sure you need the "such" there. Think we've got that already. In
fact, forgive me, "Khurram the manipulator" would be stronger, IMHO.
>
> I recall so many bar conversations in which I've told friends how sad
> prostitution is, that it's the yoke of women and the shame of men.
>
> So the fact that I'm not going to be paying acquires substantial importance.
Heh. Why do I get the feeling this is a bad move?
Great stuff. On to part 3... this is really good, Alaric. I think a
slight historical overdose was present earlier - you might not need
all of it, you know. BUt the rest flows effortlessly. Enjoying this a
lot. What you've got in spades is a good balance of conflict, and some
excellent characterisation.
Alaric
"Huw Lyan Thomas" <huwSp...@hexlibris.com> wrote in message
news:MPG.18cb268d1...@192.168.1.4...
> alar...@btinternet.com wrote:
>
> "Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for
that one."
Naughty missed inverts. "You've no "all folks are the same" excuse for that
one."
Not sure that you need the struggle thing. Dialogue is all the better for
being unbalanced, like this, so there's no need to comment on this.
You're probably right. Played with that one a lot. It just didn't seem to
flow.
> Powerful last sentence - and true, unless one considers genocide as a
solution.
Happy now. I was pleased with that one.
> > the Sumerian people had developed complex irrigation systems, cereal
agriculture, writing."
> Expositional. Many of your readers will know this already, I think. Your
correspondent surely would.
Yes. I was aware of that risk. Very difficult balance - probably one of the
two most vital things I wanted to get across was the breadth of Iraq's
history - her status as the oldest country in the world. I'll look at that
again.
>> We talk and eat, Behbehani and I, whilst a whipped Khurram
> the local dessert? :-)
Grrrr.
>> Nebuchadnezzar the Second built the Hanging Gardens, one of the seven
wonders of the ancient world.
> This seemed less infodumpy to me. Perhaps because it's summarised, and
your correspondent might credibly not be familiar with all of this.
Yep. Noted.
> > "Named after Jihad fi Sabeel lillah," he obliges. "Westerners
misinterpret it as all-out war, no holds barred. But Muslims are regulated
by religion even in the way they fight. Prohibited from rape. Prohibited
from the killing of women, children, religious leaders - more broadly,
anyone who hasn't actually engaged in warfare."
back into infodump again
> flowed in the streets for forty days, that all the alleys were filled with
bodies.
Ah. Does that sound infodumpy? I want to get that in, so I'll readjust.
> and once more, the summary approach works better for me
Got it. Thanks, Huw.
>> The weight of the centuries Behbehani has piled on my shoulders leaves me
maudlin. "We're not coming with swords," I say.
> I misinterpreted that at first, as meaning "we're not coming to clobber
you".
Okay. Easily fixable.
>> "I can safely go in your room, Martin. If you're prepared to allow it,
naturally."
> How do you hear this voice? She's coming across almost as a native English
speaker.
Hmmm. Maybe. There is a precision in Arab speech.
>> Once a month, perhaps. When I have to. When funds are low."
> This jars. You're trying to make her into a nice girl forced into
prostitution, and explaining herself. Even if she's a nice girl, I'm not
convinced she'd do that.
I was uncomfortable with this whole scene - maybe I'll do this as a one off
for her.
> The narrative voice is sounding British to me, rather than American. You
might want to think about using American spelling and word-choices for this
piece.
Yep. I might argue the Arab, but not the American voice.
> The quotes work. Great choices. You're either an excellent ancient-world
scholar, or you've spent some time on research.
A lot of research. I read the old Sumerian stuff when I was a kid, and I'm
okay on the old Iraqi history, but 5th century on I credit a platoon of
Internet sites.
> The narrator isn't coming across very strongly as a character. Perhaps
it's the voice thing again. His main function seems to be to record and
observe: he's passive and reactive, which isn't how strong characters are
created. This may of course be your intention: to have a narrator who bears
witness.
Well, it is to a degree, because I wanted to do what Aziz claims is HIS
purpose - show Iraq as it is now. But I need Aziz to be three dimensional
too.
> The other characters' voices could perhaps sound more foreign, and
distinct.
Yep on the US. Thinking about the rest.
Overall, very nice work so far. Good to see you writing again.
Hope this stirs me back to the normal stuff. Thanks, Huw.
--
"There's a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in."
Leonard Cohen.
Alaric
Thank you, Sue.
> I didn't see it as anti-American. Just realistic.
Realistic in this world is unfortunately being defined by George Bush, Tony
Blair and John P. David.
Thanks for the nits. All dead on.
Anopheles
"Wind River" wrote:
> I haven't read Day 2 yet, but one thing which stood out to me in the
> restaurant in Day 1 was the narrator drinking tea. Is coffee available
> in Iraq? I think most Americans tend to go for that over tea. I'm an
> exception (hate coffee, love tea or Coke), and maybe your character is
> too, but it would give the character more of an American feel.
>
> I just went back to see why it sounds more British. I pulled out this
> line as an example: "I watch her to her car. I want to have kept the
> phone number, and I'm glad I didn't.." It seems formal. Americans tend
> to be informal in speech. I'll try to say it as an American, "I watch
> her walk to the car. I wanted to keep her phone number, but I'm glad I
> didn't..." Dunno. What do you think?
Still sounds trans-Atlantic. Try...
"Like, I watch her walk to the auto. Cool! I like so wanted to like keep her
phone number, but I'm like glad I didn't, dude...
Michael Breslau
finish reading it - couldn't see through my tears.
I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks that the U.S.
is on a terrible course.
MIke
Huw Lyan Thomas
> > > I just went back to see why it sounds more British. I pulled out this
> > > line as an example: "I watch her to her car. I want to have kept the
> > > phone number, and I'm glad I didn't.." It seems formal. Americans tend
> > > to be informal in speech. I'll try to say it as an American, "I watch
> > > her walk to the car. I wanted to keep her phone number, but I'm glad I
> > > didn't..." Dunno. What do you think?
> >
> > Still sounds trans-Atlantic. Try...
> >
> > "Like, I watch her walk to the auto. Cool! I like so wanted to like keep her
> > phone number, but I'm like glad I didn't, dude...
>
> "Shoot, I really really wanted to keep her number,..."
>
How about in Redneck dialect:
ah watch her t'her car. ah's hankerin' t'have kepp the phone number,
an' ah's glad ah didn't
:-)
--
Huw
www.hexlibris.com
Alaric
The hell I didn't.
Get on your horse and drink yo' milk.
Shirley, this man wuz the sunna Gawd,
Huw Lyan Thomas
> Shirley, this man wuz the sunna Gawd,
"Put more awe in it, John."
"Aw Shirley, this man wuz the sunna Gawd..."
--
Huw
www.hexlibris.com
Dan Rogers
I'm midway through Part 3 and am finding this excellent and compelling.
There were a very few sections where I thought Martin's character could have
been strengthened. One was when he received the explanation of jihad from
the historian, the part about Muslimism dictating that its soldiers not
participate in sex crimes or slaughter of innocents. Tell that to the
Kuwaitis. I guess I thought that Martin should at least have had a
challenging thought to this, if not a spoken challenge.
The second section where I thought his character was weakened was when he
states his view on prostitution but then rationalizes it in an instant on
the basis that Khurram, not he, paid the tab. I think it would be stronger
leaving off at least that trite rationalization.
The writing is exceptionally strong, the interest high, and the topic
timely. You're back with a vengeance, my friend. "Resident reviewer" my
arse.
I'll return once I finish.
Best,
Dan
Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:b3qr7n$reg$1...@sparta.btinternet.com...
Huw Lyan Thomas
> The second section where I thought his character was weakened was when he
> states his view on prostitution but then rationalizes it in an instant on
> the basis that Khurram, not he, paid the tab. I think it would be stronger
> leaving off at least that trite rationalization.
Just gonna jump in here. A character can be "weak" without the
characterisation being weak. I'm seeing Martin as being a self-doubting,
slightly indecisive, diffident sort of guy. He may well be up for a bit
of moral ambiguity or self-deceit, if it will get him laid by a woman by
whom he's utterly smitten.
Perhaps that's part of the reason I had problems with his nationality,
because his archetype is closer to British than American.
--
Huw
www.hexlibris.com
nativelaw
"Huw Lyan Thomas" <huwSp...@hexlibris.com> wrote in message
news:MPG.18cd6b4d7...@192.168.1.4...
I read this twice, Huw <g>. Thought it was an interesting mouthful. Your
last line, coming on the heels of the
one about being up for moral ambiguity or self-deceit if it will get him
laid.....
Do you see a cultural difference between British men and American ones in
this regard? <g>
If so, do you think the 'younger generation' of
British men in their 20s are this way or has time and crossculturalization
blurred
the archetypes? Just curious.
Andrea
> --
> Huw
> www.hexlibris.com
Huw Lyan Thomas
> > Just gonna jump in here. A character can be "weak" without the
> > characterisation being weak. I'm seeing Martin as being a self-doubting,
> > slightly indecisive, diffident sort of guy. He may well be up for a bit
> > of moral ambiguity or self-deceit, if it will get him laid by a woman by
> > whom he's utterly smitten.
> >
> > Perhaps that's part of the reason I had problems with his nationality,
> > because his archetype is closer to British than American.
>
> I read this twice, Huw <g>. Thought it was an interesting mouthful. Your
> last line, coming on the heels of the
> one about being up for moral ambiguity or self-deceit if it will get him
> laid.....
> Do you see a cultural difference between British men and American ones in
> this regard? <g>
> If so, do you think the 'younger generation' of
> British men in their 20s are this way or has time and crossculturalization
> blurred
> the archetypes? Just curious.
My perception is that American men often have less self-doubt, so less
need for self-deceit. To me, Martin's rationalisation of sleeping with a
prostitute sounded very British. I can't imagine any of my American
drinking buddies getting into a semantic debate about exactly what
"paying for sex" means - if they wanted to sleep with the woman, they'd
just do it - and be grateful someone else was footing the bill :-)
I will state at this point that self-doubt and internal conflict make
for superior romantic heroes <g>
--
Huw
www.hexlibris.com
nativelaw
"Huw Lyan Thomas" <huwSp...@hexlibris.com> wrote in message
news:MPG.18cd9c9db...@192.168.1.4...
I agree with your latter point <g>. As to the former perception,
I wonder whether it is less a matter of self-doubt, and more a matter of
differing beliefs, values,
expectations. There used to be lots of American men who
are probably called "old-fashioned" now who wouldn't think of presuming even
a kiss on the first date--and 40-50 years ago any scenes where
a couple was in bed required they be fully clothed, kisses required
one foot to stay on the carpet. things have changed, of course, though I
like to think for my daughter's sake there are still old fashioned guys
around.
I just wondered if most UK young men have changed the other way now
or still retain the 'self-doubt' you say <g>.
Also I guess I should mention that I saw the protagonist in
Alaric's novel as British, as well. I hadn't really noticed my thinking.
But wasn't he an American who lived
in Britain though? I think I thought so and overlooked the UKisms - I would
hate to see him changed too much. Maybe they can be explained by
an extended period living abroad <g>.
Andrea
> --
> Huw
> www.hexlibris.com
Huw Lyan Thomas
> I just wondered if most UK young men have changed the other way now
> or still retain the 'self-doubt' you say <g>.
You could well be right. I'm pretty old, and out of touch :-)
> Maybe they can be explained by
> an extended period living abroad <g>.
Possibly, but on the other hand if it quacks like a duck... :-)
I was wondering what's gained/lost in story terms by making the protag
British/American, actually.
--
Huw
www.hexlibris.com
nativelaw
"Huw Lyan Thomas" <huwSp...@hexlibris.com> wrote in message
news:MPG.18cdb4531...@192.168.1.4...
Hmm. Considering Mr. Blair's professed views, perhaps not so very much <g>.
Andrea
>
> --
> Huw
> www.hexlibris.com
Alaric
Like Hugh ("that's Divine") Grant. <g>
Alaric
"nativelaw" <l...@nativelaw.net> wrote in message
news:v6783o8...@corp.supernews.com...
> Alaric's novel as British, as well. I hadn't really noticed my thinking.
> But wasn't he an American who lived
> in Britain though? I think I thought so and overlooked the UKisms - I
would
> hate to see him changed too much. Maybe they can be explained by
> an extended period living abroad <g>.
There are strong British characteristics in the upper class of many Arab
nations. Think Omar Sharif - backgammon, casinos and Julie Christie (phwaw).
Huw Lyan Thomas
> Like Hugh ("that's Divine") Grant. <g>
That's one of the stereotypes. Another is Rupert Giles :-)
--
Huw
www.hexlibris.com
Alaric
We Brits are only the cloak of respectability for this war. And hated in the
same way that folks who hate Laurel often don't like Hardy. I wanted Martin
carrying the guilt (justified or not) of being a citizen of Laurel.
Alaric
Oh, hang on....
There were those two vampyres in the cellar....
Lucky sod.
--
"There's a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in."
Leonard Cohen.
"Huw Lyan Thomas" <huwSp...@hexlibris.com> wrote in message
news:MPG.18cdc2b6d...@192.168.1.4...
Huw Lyan Thomas
> GILES? He's not sex-obsessed.
>
> Oh, hang on....
>
> There were those two vampyres in the cellar....
>
> Lucky sod.
Not to mention Jenny Calendar - the ONLY female on Buffy worth a second
glance IMO, and he was in there like a very diffident weasel up a
particularly intimidating trouser leg.
Still, you have to admire the success of his "I used to work at the
British Museum," chat-up line :-)
--
Huw
www.hexlibris.com
Alaric
> alar...@btinternet.com wrote:
>
> > GILES? He's not sex-obsessed.
> >
> > Oh, hang on....
> >
> > There were those two vampyres in the cellar....
> >
> > Lucky sod.
>
> Not to mention Jenny Calendar - the ONLY female on Buffy worth a second
> glance IMO, and he was in there like a very diffident weasel up a
> particularly intimidating trouser leg.
As opposed to sexy Sarah.
I'll go "trapping" with you any time, Huw.
Alaric
> Huw's right about this, Alaric. I didn't even catch it, because I'm so
used to hearing your voice. Would you like for me to go back through it and
point out the places which sound more British than American? I'd be glad to
do it, and I know others here would too. Don't feel like you're imposing. I
wouldn't have offered if I minded.
I may take you up on that, Sue. Thank you.
> I haven't read Day 2 yet, but one thing which stood out to me in the
restaurant in Day 1 was the narrator drinking tea. Is coffee available in
Iraq? I think most Americans tend to go for that over tea. I'm an exception
(hate coffee, love tea or Coke), and maybe your character is too, but it
would give the character more of an American feel.
I'm sure coffee is available. In Turkey and Syria it's very strong. But tea
is a tradition in Iraq, a bit like India.
> I just went back to see why it sounds more British. I pulled out this line
as an example: "I watch her to her car. I want to have kept the phone
number, and I'm glad I didn't.." It seems formal. Americans tend to be
informal in speech. I'll try to say it as an American, "I watch her walk to
the car. I wanted to keep her phone number, but I'm glad I didn't..." Dunno.
What do you think?
You're right, Sue. Not maybe the best example here, though, because I saw
the "and" as quite important, conveying a simultaneous rather than
alternative thought. But the first part I'll use.
Amanda Tarr
"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:b3qr7n$reg$1...@sparta.btinternet.com...
> A SLIT IN THE WALL
> The schoolyard is full of smiling children. Boys with eyes as brown as
> hazels and girls with dark hair who stare and giggle.
The rhythm of these two sentences reads like a poem.
> The song is melodic and cheerful, the voices high and innocent, but the
> words are blades slicing away at the children's' futures. They praise
Saddam
> Hussein as though he's a faultless deity. They anticipate the death of
> Americans.
extra ' above
> "How can they teach such songs to children?" I ask Khurram. "All that
hate."
>
> Khurram shrugs. "Our media isn't as efficient as yours. We have to poison
> minds on a one to one basis."
Lately I feel like the natural state of humans is to hate anything they are
ignorant of.
> He lights a cigarette, shielding the flame of his lighter with nicotine
> stained fingers. Then he says, "I thought this would be enlightening for
> you."
>
> "Propaganda from kids? Enlightening? Is this the truth you want me to take
> back? Is this Iraq today? Children who can't think?"
Good dialog. Not many nits in this installment, although I'm working hard to
find them.
> The something else is an orphanage. Khurram tells me on the way that
divorce
> is a growing problem in Iraq and often results in abandoned children.
"It's
> easier for one parent to throw a child on the street than for two," he
> claims.
Khurram is one cynical man. Seems here that he hates his countrymen though.
Perhaps he might add something about single parents not being able to
support a child.
> "Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for
that
> one."
Bit lost here.
> At the orphanage, the children are even younger than those at the school.
> Some are just babies. The oldest are no more than five. As at the school,
> though, they line up for my inspection. They're in identical pyjamas, red
> for blood, red for sacrifice, red for brightness, red for the state.
Nice sentence.
> I know that Khurram has already taken me to places
> where CNN reporters wouldn't be permitted to go
Never did get a handle on why.
> The orphanage children, like the schoolchildren, have organised a show for
> me. They gather in a line, and the boys at both ends of it group hold
> pictures of Saddam Hussein. "Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be
> teachers," they chant, and one boy steps forward and shakes his fist. Not
at
> me, but his eyes are angry. He knows what he's doing, and he has a vague
> idea of why he's doing it. This is not a boy reciting by rote. This is not
> the Hokey Cokey.
I don't understand the Hokey Cokey reference, but it's easily discerned by
context.
> "Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be farmers," the children then
> announce, and a second little boy emerges from the group. Another tiny
fist
> is shaken.
The tiny fist is a great image.
> "All Americans are hungry," he says. "It's a state of being for you. The
> reason for being. The British were hungry before you. And the Turks before
> them. But you can't eat us. We'll twist and kick inside you. You might eat
> me. But some of those children, the ones who survive your bombs, they'll
cut
> your stomachs open from the inside."
Fantastic. And true.
> "Last week the French called themselves the old world and called you the
> new," Behbehani says, spitting out enough grains of rice to make me feel
> uncomfortable. "Ha! The cheek of it. France! The old world. Such
pomposity.
> We are the old world, Mr. Aziz. Iraq is the old world."
Good character for Behbehani there.
> Khurram colours slightly. And Behbehani has me then, on the basis that my
> enemy's enemy is my friend. "I know what the encyclopaedias tell me, but I
> don't have a feel for Iraq's past if I'm honest," I admit. "Maybe you can
> give me that."
"if I'm honest" should be replaced by "but honestly, I don't have a feel for
Iraq's past" I think for an American.
> Khurram starts to say something, doubtless something cutting, but
Behbehani
> holds up a silencing hand. "You're in the Cradle of Civilisation, Mr.
Aziz,"
> he tells me. "I'm sure you know that part of our history. Once this was
> Mesopotamia, the Fertile Crescent - the location, we're told, of the
Garden
> of Eden, was the land between our two great rivers; between Duja and
Furat,
> the Tigris and the Euphrates. Eden or not, here was the birthplace of the
> civilizations that pushed the world out of prehistory. Civilisation
> flourished here before Egypt breathed, before Greeks spread their wisdom,
> before Rome conquered the known world. Four thousand years before Christ,
> the Sumerian people had developed complex irrigation systems, cereal
> agriculture, writing."
>
> "Cuneiform," I say, just to impress.
>
> "Indeed," Behbehani confirms, and I bask in that confirmation. "And here
too
> we invented the wheel, and constructed the first plough. We developed a
> mathematical system based on the numeral 60, which is still the basis of
> time in the modern world."
My opinion on the info dump: Perhaps one sentence could be cut from the
first paragraph, but I personally didn't find the above paragraphs difficult
to digest. I believe it was easier to handle because it was set inside a
dialog.
However, I did have a hard time following the paragraphs after this. Perhaps
more whitespace, dialog, or anecdotal presentation of the history would
help.
> The weight of the centuries Behbehani has piled on my shoulders leaves me
> maudlin. "We're not coming with swords," I say. "When we're done, there
may
> be no alleys for you to lie in. I don't want that."
I like this paragraph; the images are strong.
> I feel heat in my face. "For you. You might get. oh, I don't know. stoned
or
> something."
guessing that the periods above were originally elipses
> "The bill is paid," she replies.
>
> I'm not surprised. Khurram is such a manipulator.
I don't like Khurram.
> "Your husband.?"
>
> "Dead. Desert Storm."
>
> "You're not that old."
>
> "I am that old."
Good dialog
> I caress her breast. Her body lifts. "The moving finger writes, and,
having
> writ, moves on," I recite. "Nor all thy piety not wit shall lure it back
to
> cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out one word of it."
>
> She touches me in a place that threatens to end the conversation. "There
are
> always footnotes," she says, "and some people read footnotes."
>
> "That's my legacy then? A footnote on yet another war to end all wars?"
Insightful, depressing.
Another fantastic piece, Alaric. The characters are well drawn, and the
images vibrant. I believe you are still being fair. It might be possible to
say that the narrator is less of a character for it, but I think that it's
the right choice. Were the narrator to voice strong opinions, I believe you
would run a much higher risk of alienating a potential moderate audience.
Thanks for posting this.
Alaric
news:3E63CD6A...@voyager.net...
> I wasn't trying to change your meaning, just give you some ideas.
> Whenever I reword something in a crit, it's mainly to get the writer
> thinking in other ways. It's never given in the spirit of "this is
> better", only "this is another option". My goal is to get the writer
> thinking in directions which may have been clouded by being so close to
> the story. I hope I didn't come across as arrogant in my critique of
> this story (or any story), because it wasn't intended that way -- only
> to be helpful. A writer's own voice and thoughts are ultimately the most
important.
Did you 'eck! No, I was just being honest on that particular para. I've
already incorporated most of your suggestions with gratitude.
Huw Lyan Thomas
> > Not to mention Jenny Calendar - the ONLY female on Buffy worth a second
> > glance IMO, and he was in there like a very diffident weasel up a
> > particularly intimidating trouser leg.
>
> As opposed to sexy Sarah.
>
> I'll go "trapping" with you any time, Huw.
Excellent. You take the blonde martial artists, and I'll have the exotic
technopagans :-)
--
Huw
www.hexlibris.com
Alaric
"Michael" <michae...@ntlworld.com> wrote in message
news:65db83ab.03030...@posting.google.com...
> OK, good opening again. Only you're lapsing into describing characters
through their eyes a lot - first the two lads in Day 1, (and their elderly
relative too?) and now 'eyes brown as hazels'. Nothing wrong with it, but
perhaps a little variety wouldn't go amiss. Just my 2p.
They put 2ps over eyes when folks are dead, you know. Yes, you're right.
> Sounds a bit documentary-ish, the "often results in abandoned children"
bit. I felt a bit of a jar here.
Yep. Skipping the nits and compliments, for both of which I'm very grateful
> Without being picky, in that damn heat would you be that hungry? I was in
Morocco for a holiday in May last year and boy, I lost weight.
Probably not in the middle of the day. I'll resequence.
> Now I feel a bit overwhelmed. Which I'm sure is the feeling you're going
for, as your narrator feels the same way - but it's a bit much, to be
honest. My brain's full.
Yes. Common observation. I'll look at that very carefully.
> Great stuff. On to part 3... this is really good, Alaric. I think a
slight historical overdose was present earlier - you might not need all of
it, you know. But the rest flows effortlessly. Enjoying this a lot. What
you've got in spades is a good balance of conflict, and some excellent
characterisation.
Thank you, Michael.
Alaric
"Michael Breslau" <mbre...@speakeasy.org> wrote in message
news:mbreslau-1215CB...@news-central.giganews.com...
> Alaric, this was so good that I was unable to
finish reading it - couldn't see through my tears.
> I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks that the U.S. is on a terrible
course.
Michael, I don't know what to say. Compliments like that are very hard to
come by. Thank you. I'm keeping hope, but after today it's fading.
Alaric
> In Iraq would the man be called a headmaster? Just asking because I don't
know, and "headmaster" does sound very Harry Potterish.
Hmmm. Not sure. I'll look it up.
> This and the paragraphs below seem too heavy with history. It might be
good to break it up somehow, so the reader isn't overwhelmed all at once
with so much info.
Yes. Definitely a widely held thought.
> Very nice love scene.
I based it on me. <g>
> Good writing. You shouldn't have been hesitant at all to post this. So
far, it's excellent.
Thanks, Sue. I'm using all the nits.
R. Westermeyer
<alar...@btinternet.com> wrote:
>A SLIT IN THE WALL
>Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2003
>
>"Father, give me the Bull of Heaven,
>so he can kill Gilgamesh in his dwelling.
>If you do not give me the Bull of Heaven,
>I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,
>I will smash the door posts, and leave the doors flat down,
>and will let the dead go up to eat the living!
>And the dead will outnumber the living!"
>The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet VI.
>
>* * *
>
>Day 2
>Who We Fight
>The schoolyard is full of smiling children. Boys with eyes as brown as
>hazels and girls with dark hair who stare and giggle. Khurram has clearly
>arranged this riotous assembly in advance. The headmaster, a man well past
>retirement age with an explosion of grey hair, tells me I'm permitted to ask
>them any questions I wish. First, though, the children will sing for me.
Beautiful description. Though, what is retirement age in Iraq? if
unknown, the statement might come across, for lack of a better term,
ethnocentric.
>
>The song is melodic and cheerful, the voices high and innocent, but the
>words are blades slicing away at the children's' futures. They praise Saddam
>Hussein as though he's a faultless deity. They anticipate the death of
>Americans.
>
>I've already been taken around the school buildings, seen classrooms lined
>with brightly poster painted death scenes - guns being fired at tanks or
>aeroplanes emblazoned with the letters USA or with the stars and stripes;
>American soldiers lined up before a firing squad. One little girl has
>already presented me with a photograph of Saddam, telling, "I carry it
>everywhere, but it's yours now. I'll get another." A boy has given me his
>painting, which is of a dead Arab man clutching a gun. The painting is
>captioned "Martyrs are the true heroes."
>
>"How can they teach such songs to children?" I ask Khurram. "All that hate."
>
>Khurram shrugs. "Our media isn't as efficient as yours. We have to poison
>minds on a one to one basis."
Does Khurram REALLy believe it's poison? in the previous section, he
seemed to rely on humor, ambiguous as to his true convictions.
>
>"I'm serious."
>
>"So am I."
>
>"I want to leave," I tell him.
>
>He lights a cigarette, shielding the flame of his lighter with nicotine
>stained fingers. Then he says, "I thought this would be enlightening for
>you."
>
>"Propaganda from kids? Enlightening? Is this the truth you want me to take
>back? Is this Iraq today? Children who can't think?"
>
>Khurram smiles. "The truth lies not in what people think, but in what they
>do. Come. I'll show you something else if you wish. But you'll disappoint
>the children."
>
>"I know what they'll tell me," I say. "So I'll disappoint them."
>
>* * *
>
>"Their ways are verily loathsome unto me.
>By day I find no relief, nor repose by night.
>I will destroy, I will wreck their ways,
>That quiet may be restored. Let us have rest!
>I will establish a savage; 'man' shall be his name.
>Verily, savage man I will create.
>He shall be charged with the service of the gods
>That they might be at ease!"
>From Enuma Elish (When On High) - The Babylonian Epic Of Creation.
>
>* * *
>
>The something else is an orphanage. Khurram tells me on the way that divorce
>is a growing problem in Iraq and often results in abandoned children. "It's
>easier for one parent to throw a child on the street than for two," he
>claims.
>
>"Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for that
>one."
Don't get that sentence, Alaric.
>
>Again Khurram's mere presence obtains him all the favours he needs. I make a
>mental note to ask him why that is - when I made my request of the Ministry
>he was identified merely as liaison, but I'm beginning to suspect he's a lot
>more than that. Too many people nod at him in the street. Some even step
>aside. He's a face, there's no doubting it.
>
>At the orphanage, the children are even younger than those at the school.
>Some are just babies. The oldest are no more than five. As at the school,
>though, they line up for my inspection. They're in identical pyjamas, red
>for blood, red for sacrifice, red for brightness, red for the state. They're
>shepherded by a group of women who don't wear identical clothes but do wear
>identical looks and do all display headscarves. I've never felt more
>American, and I've never felt more manipulated.
Excellent!
>I've noted from the placard
>in the garden that this is Government House Orphanage, and it's obviously a
>display institution. I know that Khurram has already taken me to places
>where CNN reporters wouldn't be permitted to go, but Government House
>Orphanage is, I'm sure, not one of them. I suspect it's open all hours to
>interested foreign devils. So I don't understand Khurram's intent in
>bringing me here.
>
>I talk briefly with Bayon, the director. I can't think of anything to ask
>her without getting a stock answer, but I try to surprise her by enquiring
>whether the orphanage employed any men. My provocation seems to annoy her. A
>woman's job, she tells me with a sniff, is something a man would find it
>hard to adjust to.
>
>I also ask her how the orphanage is funded. She admits that the government
>helps. As do some wealthy male benefactors, although that source of revenue
>is drying up.
>
>The orphanage children, like the schoolchildren, have organised a show for
>me. They gather in a line, and the boys at both ends of it group hold
>pictures of Saddam Hussein. "Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be
>teachers," they chant, and one boy steps forward and shakes his fist. Not at
>me, but his eyes are angry. He knows what he's doing, and he has a vague
>idea of why he's doing it. This is not a boy reciting by rote. This is not
>the Hokey Cokey.
>
>"Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be farmers," the children then
>announce, and a second little boy emerges from the group. Another tiny fist
>is shaken.
>
>"Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be soldiers," the children tell
>me, and this time an older girl advances to deliver the threatening gesture,
>before telling me directly, and with a smile, "We will kill the American
>invaders." At this, all the children laugh, and they clap their hands.
This may come across abrupt, but some weather and landscape woudl be
nice here. Is it sweltering hot? Is it greasy dirt in every direction,
is this an urban area?
>Walking back towards the hotel, I ask Khurram, "So how exactly was this
>morning intended to benefit me?"
>
>"Are you hungry?" Khurram replies.
>
>I struggle to adjust on to the tangent. "I suppose so. Why?"
>
>"All Americans are hungry," he says. "It's a state of being for you. The
>reason for being. The British were hungry before you. And the Turks before
>them. But you can't eat us. We'll twist and kick inside you. You might eat
>me. But some of those children, the ones who survive your bombs, they'll cut
>your stomachs open from the inside."
This Khurram character is full of contradictions, or he's "content"
with there being no correct side, complete chaos. Like he's come to
terms with the impossibility enough to make jokes about it even, while
the narrator is in torment because, as an American, you gotta take
one side or the other. Am I on track so far?
>
>* * *
>
>"And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and
>Calneh, in the land of Shinar."
>Genesis 10, Verse 10.
>
>"I looked around for coastlines in the expanse of the sea,
>and at twelve leagues there emerged a region of land.
>On Mt. Nimush the boat lodged firm.
>Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
>One day and a second Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
>A third day, a fourth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
>A fifth day, a sixth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
>When a seventh day arrived
>I sent forth a dove and released it.
>The dove went off, but came back to me;
>no perch was visible so it circled back to me."
>The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet XI.
>
>"When Alexander the Great, died there were, in Mesopotamia alone, three
>hundred towns and cities bearing his name."
>Saady Yossuf - Postcards from Hajj Omran.
>
>* * *
>
>"Last week the French called themselves the old world and called you the
>new," Behbehani says, spitting out enough grains of rice to make me feel
>uncomfortable. "Ha! The cheek of it. France! The old world. Such pomposity.
>We are the old world, Mr. Aziz. Iraq is the old world."
>
>I'm with Khurram and Midhat Behbehani. Behbehani is a historian, perhaps
>Iraq's leading historian. His small black spectacles, perched on the end of
>his nose, suggest academia. His eating habits don't. Momma always told me
>not to speak with my mouth full. Until I met Behbehani, the logic behind
>that bit of folk wisdom was never entirely clear to me.
Great.
>
>"Tell him how old," Khurram says. He's unusually subdued, a respectful
>student.
>
>I steal his thunder. "I know how old."
>
>"He went to an American school," Khurram tells Behbehani. "General Grant,
>Wyatt Earp and Patton. And a brief reference to Uruk."
>
>Behbehani shovels in another forkful of rice. "I suspect our American friend
>knows more of our history than you do, Khurram," he says. "I suspect most
>people know more of our history than you do."
>
>Khurram colours slightly. And Behbehani has me then, on the basis that my
>enemy's enemy is my friend. "I know what the encyclopaedias tell me, but I
>don't have a feel for Iraq's past if I'm honest," I admit. "Maybe you can
>give me that."
>
>Khurram starts to say something, doubtless something cutting, but Behbehani
>holds up a silencing hand. "You're in the Cradle of Civilisation, Mr. Aziz,"
>he tells me. "I'm sure you know that part of our history. Once this was
>Mesopotamia, the Fertile Crescent - the location, we're told, of the Garden
>of Eden, was the land between our two great rivers; between Duja and Furat,
>the Tigris and the Euphrates. Eden or not, here was the birthplace of the
>civilizations that pushed the world out of prehistory. Civilisation
>flourished here before Egypt breathed, before Greeks spread their wisdom,
>before Rome conquered the known world. Four thousand years before Christ,
>the Sumerian people had developed complex irrigation systems, cereal
>agriculture, writing."
>
>"Cuneiform," I say, just to impress.
>
>"Indeed," Behbehani confirms, and I bask in that confirmation. "And here too
>we invented the wheel, and constructed the first plough. We developed a
>mathematical system based on the numeral 60, which is still the basis of
>time in the modern world."
>
>We talk and eat, Behbehani and I, whilst a whipped Khurram remains for the
>most part silent. The chicken and rice accompanies the story of Sargon, the
>Akkadian who built an empire extending as far as Lebanon - an empire which
>fell when the great city of Ur rose up against Akkadian rule. The leftovers
>are still being picked at when I'm told of Noah, who lived and floated his
>boat from Fara, 100 miles southeast of Bab-ili, soon to become Babylon, or
>in English the Gate of God. I chew sticky cake as I'm educated on the life
>of King Hammurabi, whose code holds firm down all the centuries in that it
>introduced legal protection for even the lowest classes, made the state the
>responsible authority for enforcing the law and decreed, "An eye for an eye,
>a tooth for a tooth" - that the punishment should fit the crime. The cheese
>helps me through the time of the Cassites to the Assyrians, who divided the
>circle into 360 degrees, who invented longitude and latitude for
>geographical navigation, whose celebrated King Nebuchadnezzar the Second
>built the Hanging Gardens, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.
This paragraph with so much precious history woven into an ordinary
meal. Very well done.
>"All for his concubine Amyitis," Behbehani explains, "Legend says she was
>born in Media, and that she pined for the mountains. The Gardens were the
>closest thing to those mountains the King could give her."
>
>Coffee, bitter and strong, is the complement to tales of grand invasions -
>Cyrus, and Alexander the Great, then Behbehani skips quickly past Christ to
>the great wars with the Arab Muslims and to Dhat Al-Salasil, the battle of
>the Chains, so named because Persian soldiers were chained together so that
>they couldn't flee. This, I'm told, was a time of jihad. It's a word I ask
>Behbehani to explain because of its regular appearances in the news.
>
>"Named after Jihad fi Sabeel lillah," he obliges. "Westerners misinterpret
>it as all-out war, no holds barred. But Muslims are regulated by religion
>even in the way they fight. Prohibited from rape. Prohibited from the
>killing of women, children, religious leaders - more broadly, anyone who
>hasn't actually engaged in warfare."
>
>Over cigars, I learn of Abu Ja'far Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khawarizmi - he
>discovered algebra, invented the number zero and introduced Hindu numbers -
>which mediaeval Christian Europeans saw as the work of Satan - to the Arab
>world. On then to a more familiar name, the Mongol Temujin, who led his
>armies into the Middle East, changing his name along the way to Genghis
>Khan. Temujin's grandson Hulagu Khan elected to march on Baghdad with two
>hundred thousand Tartars, and contemporary accounts say that rivers of blood
>flowed in the streets for forty days, that all the alleys were filled with
>bodies.
>
>By now we have brandy in cups. The restaurant is emptying. Behbehani raises
>his aperitif in a mock toast to me and winks. "So you see, my friend," he
>says, "you will not be the first to try to trample over us."
>
>"Nor the last," Khurram chimes in. "When you are gone, we shall still be
>here. Available to supply you with lessons in civilisation."
>
>The weight of the centuries Behbehani has piled on my shoulders leaves me
>maudlin. "We're not coming with swords," I say. "When we're done, there may
>be no alleys for you to lie in. I don't want that."
>
>Behbehani smiles. "Then you're a civilised man. I hope we meet again."
>
>"I hope so too," I reply.
>
>* * *
>
>"Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their
>houses shall be spoiled, and their wives ravished."
>Isaiah 13, Verse 16.
>
>"And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE
>MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH."
>Revelation 17, Verse 5.
>
>* * *
>
>Khurram leaves just after eleven. I collect my key and take the lift to the
>eighth floor, where my room is.
>
>Jasim is waiting in the corridor. She's taller than I remember, and her hair
>is down. She takes my breath away. When it returns, I use it for honesty. I
>can't mislead her again.
>
>"Khurram was taking advantage of you," I tell her. "There's no quick legal
>way to get your brother into America."
>
>She nods, says nothing. I look her up and down and decide she'd come to
>seduce me, to create a debt. A black, hugging dress, cut just below the
>knee. Black stockings. Black high heeled shoes.
>
>I wish things were different. I wish she'd dressed for me, not her brother.
>But I force my message across nonetheless. "He wanted to help the book. He
>thought you'd give me an idea of how the middle classes were reacting to the
>probability of invasion. He caught me by surprise, and I played along. I
>wish I hadn't."
>
>She nods again. "I know Khurram of old," she says. "What you say doesn't
>surprise me."
>
>"Again, I'm sorry."
>
>"You could still invite me in," she says. "That would be polite."
>
>"Would that be wise?" I ask. "Now you know the truth."
>
>"Wise?"
>
>"Safe."
>
>She chuckles. I think of bells. No, that's a lie. I think of sex. "For you?"
>she asks. "Do you have to protect yourself against women, then? Are you
>impossible to resist?"
>
>I feel heat in my face. "For you. You might get. oh, I don't know. stoned or
>something."
>
>"Just for entering a man's room."
>
>"Yes."
>
>"You've a lot to learn about Iraq before you write about Iraq, Mr. Aziz.
>We're a secular society. And Baghdad is a city, not a shanty town."
>
>"I know. But.."
>
>"I can safely go in your room, Martin. If you're prepared to allow it,
>naturally."
>
>"Of course." Her use of my first name thrills me, so much so that I fumble
>with the key card. She watches with a smile. I'm closer to her now, and her
>fragrance reaches me - a subtle cedar note that nudges me towards lust.
>
>Once inside the room, I open the door wide for her, and as she moves past me
>I switch on the lights. I expect her to take one of the armchairs by the
>window, but instead she sits on the bed. I offer coffee. She declines.
>
>I pull the chair from under the writing desk and straddle it. "So how can I
>help you?" I ask.
>
>That smile again. "A bed for the night, kind sir."
>
>"I don't understand. Have you been thrown out of your house? Not because you
>met with me, surely?"
>
>She loosens her hair still further, so that it falls across her shoulders.
>Then she says, "I told you that times are hard for all of us."
>
>"You did, yes."
>
>"So I have to work. When the opportunity arises."
>
>Finally, I understand. "You're saying you're a. that.."
>
>She helps me. "An escort."
>
>"Yes. But no. A woman like you.."
>
>"Just for the last eighteen months. I haven't made a career of it. And I'm
>careful. Only the international hotels. Only American men, or Europeans.
>Once a month, perhaps. When I have to. When funds are low."
>
>I catch myself wondering whether her legs are really as long as the shape of
>the dress implies.
>
>"Why me?" I ask.
>
>"Khurram's idea. If you're offended, I'll leave."
>
>I know how important it is, for my own integrity and that of the book, to
>send her home. Instead, I say, "How much will it cost me for you to stay?"
>
>"The bill is paid," she replies.
>
>I'm not surprised. Khurram is such a manipulator.
I'm really liking this Khurram guy.
>I recall so many bar conversations in which I've told friends how sad
>prostitution is, that it's the yoke of women and the shame of men.
>
>So the fact that I'm not going to be paying acquires substantial importance.
>
>* * *
>
>"A slippery path is not feared by two people who help each other."
>The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet V.
>
>"Come, Shamhat, take me away with you
>to the sacred Holy Temple, the residence of Anu and Ishtar,
>the place of Gilgamesh, who is wise to perfection,
>but who struts his power over the people like a wild bull."
>Spoken by Enkidu in The Epic Of Gilgamesh.
>
>* * *
>
>And later, I recall other bar conversations when, po-faced and naïve, I held
>forth on the need to divorce sex and love, that the first could not beget
>the second.
>
>But when Jasim rolls from me. when her lips leave mine and she settles in
>the crook of my arm, I know that I've found my Euridice, my Helen, my
>Juliet. My heart hammers against my ribcage, and my body throbs in the
>aftermath. She's pleased me and she's used me, so that currency wasn't the
>only trade. Now she breathes in my ear, and her fragrance spins in my brain.
>
>"Will you stay the night?" I ask her.
>
>"Yes," she replies. "Of course."
>
>"Your husband.?"
>
>"Dead. Desert Storm."
>
>"You're not that old."
>
>"I am that old."
>
>"The children?"
>
>"Grandparents."
>
>We breathe together. In time. Lovers. Oh yes indeed, we're lovers. My heart
>slows. I feel myself start to drift. I decide I don't want to drift.
>
>"Tell me about Khurram," I say.
>
>For a moment she doesn't answer. For a moment I suspect that she's asleep.
>Then she says, "He's more than he seems."
>
>"More in what way?"
>
>"If he's looking after you, you're an important man."
>
>"Me? Far from it."
>
>"Someone thinks you are."
>
>"Someone?"
>
>"Someone with influence."
>
>"Does he know Saddam?"
>
>"Probably."
>
>"Is he a friend of Saddam's?"
>
>"Possibly."
>
>"I'm not important. I'm just a writer."
>
>"I believe you."
>
>"Are you suggesting Saddam. well..?"
>
>"Knows you're here?"
>
>"Yes."
>
>"Probably. I doubt it's a priority for him."
>
>"But for someone."
>
>"Iraqis believe in the power of history."
>
>"I'm not a historian."
>
>"Won't your book be history one day?"
>
>"It'll be a personal view."
>
>"All history is somebody's personal view." She shifts onto her back. Already
>I'm beginning to want her again. The memory is fading and sweet.
>
>"But he thinks I'll be an apologist," I interpret.
>
>"Will you?"
>
>"No. I've seen a lot of things that concern me. And the past concerns me.
>The Kurds, more than anything."
>
>"There's concern, and there's propaganda. Perhaps Khurram trusts you to draw
>that line."
>
>"That's my intention."
>
>"Then that's why he's working with you."
>
>I consider that. It makes a little sense. "Do you know your Omar Khayam?" I
>ask her.
>
>She giggles. "You're an Arab scholar now?"
>
>I caress her breast. Her body lifts. "The moving finger writes, and, having
>writ, moves on," I recite. "Nor all thy piety not wit shall lure it back to
>cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out one word of it."
>
>She touches me in a place that threatens to end the conversation. "There are
>always footnotes," she says, "and some people read footnotes."
>
>"That's my legacy then? A footnote on yet another war to end all wars?"
>
>"My hero," she says. "Shall I give you some adulation?"
>
>I decide to let her change the subject.
Excellent, Alaric. So far, each section holds its own but beckons
forward.
=--bob
Dan Rogers
> danr...@xcelco.on.ca wrote:
>
> > The second section where I thought his character was weakened was when
> > he states his view on prostitution but then rationalizes it in an
> > instant on the basis that Khurram, not he, paid the tab. I think it
> > would be stronger leaving off at least that trite rationalization.
>
> Just gonna jump in here. A character can be "weak" without the
> characterisation being weak. I'm seeing Martin as being a self-doubting,
> slightly indecisive, diffident sort of guy. He may well be up for a bit
> of moral ambiguity or self-deceit, if it will get him laid by a woman by
> whom he's utterly smitten.
My words were ill-chosen. I'm not questioning whether or not Martin should
succumb to Jasim's charms. There's a lot of moral ambiguity in this piece.
The fact that nothing is black and white, only various shades of gray, I
find to be the charm. It's masterful story-telling on Alaric's part, and I
envy him this ability to bring out subtle nuances in character without
having to resort to cannibalism or head-hunting as a plot device. Some of us
are not so lucky.%~(
However, the thought process around Martin's decision bothers me. Witness:
> I know how important it is, for my own integrity and that of the book, to
send her home. Instead, I say, "How much will it cost me for you to stay?"
This is great. No problems here.
>The bill is paid,'" she replies.
> I'm not surprised. Khurram is such a manipulator.
> I recall so many bar conversations in which I've told friends how sad
prostitution is, that it's the yoke of women and the shame of men.
And all of the above--excellent.
> So the fact that I'm not going to be paying acquires substantial
importance.
It's this last sentence. Does Martin really believe what he's saying? I
don't think so. And if he doesn't believe it, why is he telling the reader
it. Despite his bar conversations, he lies down with Jasmin anyway. No
problem there, but I'd just prefer to see it happen rather than have him
rationalize it in such a trite fashion.
> Perhaps that's part of the reason I had problems with his nationality,
> because his archetype is closer to British than American.
I've followed this thread with interest, but I must honestly admit that I
didn't notice this aspect enough for it to bounce me out of the story. I
thought that perhaps Martin was picking up some of the ways and speech
patterns of the Iraqis. It's like whenever I visit Quebec I become uncannily
French. Mais oui, Monsieur.
> --
> Huw
> www.hexlibris.com
Danny Boy
Fraser
Read the first bit straight through without a pause. Great stuff. Spotted a
few things at the beginning here, so I'll comment as I read on.
"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:b3qr7n$reg$1...@sparta.btinternet.com...
> Day 2
> Who We Fight
> The schoolyard is full of smiling children. Boys with eyes as brown as
> hazels and girls with dark hair who stare and giggle. Khurram has clearly
> arranged this riotous assembly in advance. The headmaster, a man well past
> retirement age with an explosion of grey hair, tells me I'm permitted to
ask
> them any questions I wish. First, though, the children will sing for me.
>
> The song is melodic and cheerful, the voices high and innocent, but the
> words are blades slicing away at the children's' futures. They praise
Saddam
> Hussein as though he's a faultless deity. They anticipate the death of
> Americans.
>
> I've already been taken around the school buildings, seen classrooms lined
> with brightly poster painted death scenes - guns being fired at tanks or
> aeroplanes emblazoned with the letters USA or with the stars and stripes;
> American soldiers lined up before a firing squad. One little girl has
> already presented me with a photograph of Saddam, telling, "I carry it
> everywhere, but it's yours now. I'll get another." A boy has given me his
> painting, which is of a dead Arab man clutching a gun. The painting is
> captioned "Martyrs are the true heroes."
Not doubting your research, but I'd have thought that if the school knew an
American author was on the way they might have toned down the anti-US decor
and behaviour a bit? Purely out of politeness to a guest maybe? Dunno, just
struck me as a bit odd.
>
> "How can they teach such songs to children?" I ask Khurram. "All that
hate."
>
> Khurram shrugs. "Our media isn't as efficient as yours. We have to poison
> minds on a one to one basis."
>
> "I'm serious."
>
> "So am I."
Ha. Excellent.
<snip>
>
> The something else is an orphanage. Khurram tells me on the way that
divorce
> is a growing problem in Iraq and often results in abandoned children.
"It's
> easier for one parent to throw a child on the street than for two," he
> claims.
>
> "Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for
that
> one."
missing inverts?
>
> "All Americans are hungry," he says. "It's a state of being for you. The
> reason for being. The British were hungry before you. And the Turks before
> them. But you can't eat us. We'll twist and kick inside you. You might eat
> me. But some of those children, the ones who survive your bombs, they'll
cut
> your stomachs open from the inside."
>
This is damn good.
> * * *
>
> "Last week the French called themselves the old world and called you the
> new," Behbehani says, spitting out enough grains of rice to make me feel
> uncomfortable. "Ha! The cheek of it. France! The old world. Such
pomposity.
> We are the old world, Mr. Aziz. Iraq is the old world."
>
> I'm with Khurram and Midhat Behbehani. Behbehani is a historian, perhaps
> Iraq's leading historian. His small black spectacles, perched on the end
of
> his nose, suggest academia. His eating habits don't. Momma always told me
> not to speak with my mouth full. Until I met Behbehani, the logic behind
> that bit of folk wisdom was never entirely clear to me.
>
> "Tell him how old," Khurram says. He's unusually subdued, a respectful
> student.
>
> I steal his thunder. "I know how old."
>
> "He went to an American school," Khurram tells Behbehani. "General Grant,
> Wyatt Earp and Patton. And a brief reference to Uruk."
>
> Behbehani shovels in another forkful of rice. "I suspect our American
friend
> knows more of our history than you do, Khurram," he says. "I suspect most
> people know more of our history than you do."
>
> Khurram colours slightly. And Behbehani has me then, on the basis that my
> enemy's enemy is my friend. "I know what the encyclopaedias tell me, but I
> don't have a feel for Iraq's past if I'm honest," I admit. "Maybe you can
> give me that."
<snip>
Alaric, this is some slick shit. I'm wishing I was holding a novel in my
hands. I enjoyed the history lesson, but maybe it is a bit too much all at
once for what seems like a long story / novella length piece
Alaric
> I'm midway through Part 3 and am finding this excellent and compelling.
There were a very few sections where I thought Martin's character could have
been strengthened. One was when he received the explanation of jihad from
the historian, the part about Muslimism dictating that its soldiers not
participate in sex crimes or slaughter of innocents. Tell that to the
Kuwaitis. I guess I thought that Martin should at least have had a
challenging thought to this, if not a spoken challenge.
Maybe that's true. Although to a degree that would make him a mouthpiece,
which I try to avoid until the very end - the prologue of his book. He
absorbs information both damning and supportive of Iraq. If anyone should
say that in the context of the story, it should probably be the historian.
> The second section where I thought his character was weakened was when he
states his view on prostitution but then rationalizes it in an instant on
the basis that Khurram, not he, paid the tab. I think it would be stronger
leaving off at least that trite rationalization.
Yeah, I'm really unhappy with that part. The romance is to a degree tacked
on. Whilst I don't think the story would work without it, it needs to be
strengthened, and I can possibly kick the prostitution angle altogether.
> The writing is exceptionally strong, the interest high, and the topic
timely. You're back with a vengeance, my friend. "Resident reviewer" my
arse.
It's big and hairy. <g> Thanks, Dan.
Alaric
> Just gonna jump in here. A character can be "weak" without the
characterisation being weak. I'm seeing Martin as being a self-doubting,
slightly indecisive, diffident sort of guy. He may well be up for a bit of
moral ambiguity or self-deceit, if it will get him laid by a woman by whom
he's utterly smitten.
I know I would <g>.
Alaric
> Khurram is one cynical man. Seems here that he hates his countrymen
though. Perhaps he might add something about single parents not being able
to support a child.
He's of Kurdish descent, so even if he serves Saddam he hates him. And yes,
he's a cynic. I'll look at an addition there. Not sure.
> > I know that Khurram has already taken me to places where CNN reporters
wouldn't be permitted to go
> Never did get a handle on why.
Reporters are discouraged from free interviewing of Iraqis.
>> This is not a boy reciting by rote. This is not the Hokey Cokey.
> I don't understand the Hokey Cokey reference, but it's easily discerned by
context.
Not heard it? You put your left arm in. Left arm out. Children's dance game.
> The tiny fist is a great image.
It's a true story, told by a recent visitor.
> My opinion on the info dump: Perhaps one sentence could be cut from the
first paragraph, but I personally didn't find the above paragraphs difficult
to digest. I believe it was easier to handle because it was set inside a
dialog. However, I did have a hard time following the paragraphs after this.
Perhaps more whitespace, dialog, or anecdotal presentation of the history
would help.
> I don't like Khurram.
Shame. I wanted people to distrust him but like him. Bit like Greenstreet in
Casablanca.
> Insightful, depressing. Another fantastic piece, Alaric. The characters
are well drawn, and the images vibrant. I believe you are still being fair.
It might be possible to say that the narrator is less of a character for it,
but I think that it's the right choice. Were the narrator to voice strong
opinions, I believe you would run a much higher risk of alienating a
potential moderate audience.
Thanks, Amanda. I think I go along with you that to an extent Martin needs
to be a cypher. I'm really grateful for your help on this.
Anopheles
"Alaric" wrote:
> A SLIT IN THE WALL
> Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2003
>
> "Father, give me the Bull of Heaven,
> so he can kill Gilgamesh in his dwelling.
> If you do not give me the Bull of Heaven,
> I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,
> I will smash the door posts, and leave the doors flat down,
> and will let the dead go up to eat the living!
> And the dead will outnumber the living!"
> The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet VI.
>
> * * *
>
> Day 2
> Who We Fight
> The schoolyard is full of smiling children. Boys with eyes as brown as
> hazels and girls with dark hair who stare and giggle. Khurram has clearly
> arranged this riotous assembly in advance. The headmaster, a man well past
> retirement age with an explosion of grey hair, tells me I'm permitted to
ask
> them any questions I wish. First, though, the children will sing for me.
>
> The song is melodic and cheerful, the voices high and innocent, but the
> words are blades slicing away at the children's' futures. They praise
Saddam
> Hussein as though he's a faultless deity. They anticipate the death of
> Americans.
>
> I've already been taken around the school buildings, seen classrooms lined
> with brightly poster painted death scenes - guns being fired at tanks or
> aeroplanes emblazoned with the letters USA or with the stars and stripes;
> American soldiers lined up before a firing squad. One little girl has
> already presented me with a photograph of Saddam, telling, "I carry it
> everywhere, but it's yours now. I'll get another." A boy has given me his
> painting, which is of a dead Arab man clutching a gun. The painting is
> captioned "Martyrs are the true heroes."
>
> "How can they teach such songs to children?" I ask Khurram. "All that
hate."
>
> Khurram shrugs. "Our media isn't as efficient as yours. We have to poison
> minds on a one to one basis."
>
> "I'm serious."
>
> "So am I."
>
> "I want to leave," I tell him.
>
> He lights a cigarette, shielding the flame of his lighter with nicotine
> stained fingers. Then he says, "I thought this would be enlightening for
> you."
>
> "Propaganda from kids? Enlightening? Is this the truth you want me to take
> back? Is this Iraq today? Children who can't think?"
>
> Khurram smiles. "The truth lies not in what people think, but in what they
> do. Come. I'll show you something else if you wish. But you'll disappoint
> the children."
>
> "I know what they'll tell me," I say. "So I'll disappoint them."
>
> * * *
>
> "Their ways are verily loathsome unto me.
> By day I find no relief, nor repose by night.
> I will destroy, I will wreck their ways,
> That quiet may be restored. Let us have rest!
> I will establish a savage; 'man' shall be his name.
> Verily, savage man I will create.
> He shall be charged with the service of the gods
> That they might be at ease!"
> From Enuma Elish (When On High) - The Babylonian Epic Of Creation.
>
> * * *
>
> The something else is an orphanage. Khurram tells me on the way that
divorce
> is a growing problem in Iraq and often results in abandoned children.
"It's
> easier for one parent to throw a child on the street than for two," he
> claims.
>
> "Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for
that
> one."
Que?
> Again Khurram's mere presence obtains him all the favours he needs. I make
a
> mental note to ask him why that is - when I made my request of the
Ministry
> he was identified merely as liaison, but I'm beginning to suspect he's a
lot
> more than that. Too many people nod at him in the street. Some even step
> aside. He's a face, there's no doubting it.
>
> At the orphanage, the children are even younger than those at the school.
> Some are just babies. The oldest are no more than five. As at the school,
> though, they line up for my inspection. They're in identical pyjamas, red
> for blood, red for sacrifice, red for brightness, red for the state.
They're
> shepherded by a group of women who don't wear identical clothes but do
wear
> identical looks and do all display headscarves. I've never felt more
> American, and I've never felt more manipulated. I've noted from the
placard
> in the garden that this is Government House Orphanage, and it's obviously
a
> display institution. I know that Khurram has already taken me to places
> where CNN reporters wouldn't be permitted to go, but Government House
> Orphanage is, I'm sure, not one of them. I suspect it's open all hours to
> interested foreign devils. So I don't understand Khurram's intent in
> bringing me here.
>
> I talk briefly with Bayon, the director. I can't think of anything to ask
> her without getting a stock answer, but I try to surprise her by enquiring
> whether the orphanage employed any men. My provocation seems to annoy her.
A
> woman's job, she tells me with a sniff, is something a man would find it
> hard to adjust to.
>
> I also ask her how the orphanage is funded. She admits that the government
> helps. As do some wealthy male benefactors, although that source of
revenue
> is drying up.
>
> The orphanage children, like the schoolchildren, have organised a show for
> me. They gather in a line, and the boys at both ends of it group hold
> pictures of Saddam Hussein. "Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be
> teachers," they chant, and one boy steps forward and shakes his fist. Not
at
> me, but his eyes are angry. He knows what he's doing, and he has a vague
> idea of why he's doing it. This is not a boy reciting by rote. This is not
> the Hokey Cokey.
>
> "Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be farmers," the children then
> announce, and a second little boy emerges from the group. Another tiny
fist
> is shaken.
>
> "Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be soldiers," the children tell
> me, and this time an older girl advances to deliver the threatening
gesture,
> before telling me directly, and with a smile, "We will kill the American
> invaders." At this, all the children laugh, and they clap their hands.
>
> Walking back towards the hotel, I ask Khurram, "So how exactly was this
> morning intended to benefit me?"
>
> "Are you hungry?" Khurram replies.
>
> I struggle to adjust on to the tangent. "I suppose so. Why?"
>
> "All Americans are hungry," he says. "It's a state of being for you. The
> reason for being. The British were hungry before you. And the Turks before
> them. But you can't eat us. We'll twist and kick inside you. You might eat
> me. But some of those children, the ones who survive your bombs, they'll
cut
> your stomachs open from the inside."
>
> * * *
>
> "And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and
> Calneh, in the land of Shinar."
> Genesis 10, Verse 10.
>
> "I looked around for coastlines in the expanse of the sea,
> and at twelve leagues there emerged a region of land.
> On Mt. Nimush the boat lodged firm.
> Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
> One day and a second Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
> A third day, a fourth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
> A fifth day, a sixth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.
> When a seventh day arrived
> I sent forth a dove and released it.
> The dove went off, but came back to me;
> no perch was visible so it circled back to me."
> The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet XI.
>
> "When Alexander the Great, died there were, in Mesopotamia alone, three
> hundred towns and cities bearing his name."
> Saady Yossuf - Postcards from Hajj Omran.
>
> I know how important it is, for my own integrity and that of the book, to
> send her home. Instead, I say, "How much will it cost me for you to stay?"
>
> "The bill is paid," she replies.
>
> I'm not surprised. Khurram is such a manipulator.
>
> I recall so many bar conversations in which I've told friends how sad
> prostitution is, that it's the yoke of women and the shame of men.
>
> So the fact that I'm not going to be paying acquires substantial
importance.
>
> * * *
>
> "A slippery path is not feared by two people who help each other."
> The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet V.
>
> "Come, Shamhat, take me away with you
> to the sacred Holy Temple, the residence of Anu and Ishtar,
> the place of Gilgamesh, who is wise to perfection,
> but who struts his power over the people like a wild bull."
> Spoken by Enkidu in The Epic Of Gilgamesh.
>
> * * *
>
> And later, I recall other bar conversations when, po-faced and naïve, I
held
> forth on the need to divorce sex and love, that the first could not beget
> the second.
>
> But when Jasim rolls from me. when her lips leave mine and she settles in
> the crook of my arm, I know that I've found my Euridice, my Helen, my
> Juliet.
Well chosen paramours, my friend. All fatal females. Is this a clue? Are you
that subtle?
>My heart hammers against my ribcage, and my body throbs in the
> aftermath. She's pleased me and she's used me, so that currency wasn't the
> only trade. Now she breathes in my ear, and her fragrance spins in my
brain.
>
> "Will you stay the night?" I ask her.
>
> "Yes," she replies. "Of course."
>
> "Your husband.?"
"Your husband?"
> --
> "I shall hang the world around my neck
> And walk
> I shall adorn myself with innocent cities
> And stroll in Wisdom
> Buddhist Spartan Hindu Zoroastrian
> Wounded, my heart is inundated with memory of the future."
> Siham Jabbar, My Journey.
>
Once again, excellent. Your best work yet. No question.
One comment. It is a penchant of yours to imbed poetry, extracts, etc, in
your works. Be careful. It can be overdone and detract from line of thought.
Once you hook the fish do not place impediments in the path of the line. I'm
not saying to change this but do seek opinion.
Anopheles
Alaric
"Dan Rogers" <danr...@xcelco.on.ca> wrote in message
news:v6983ff...@corp.supernews.com...
> It's this last sentence. Does Martin really believe what he's saying? I
don't think so. And if he doesn't believe it, why is he telling the reader
it. Despite his bar conversations, he lies down with Jasmin anyway. No
problem there, but I'd just prefer to see it happen rather than have him
rationalize it in such a trite fashion.
I think you're right on the prostitution point, Dan. I'm going to take that
employment away from her.
Thanks for the earlier compliments.
Alaric
> Beautiful description. Though, what is retirement age in Iraq? if unknown,
the statement might come across, for lack of a better term, ethnocentric.
Fair point. Dunno. I'll check.
Does Khurram REALLy believe it's poison? in the previous section, he seemed
to rely on humor, ambiguous as to his true convictions.
I think he intends the comment to be half-true. Ironic. He probably knows
all politicians feed their public poison. To be honest, Khurram came alive
in my head and wrote his own dialogue. I know how trite that sounds, but
it's true.
>"Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for
that one."
Don't get that sentence, Alaric.
Should be internal inverts around "all folks are the same." But it needs
redrafting.
> This may come across abrupt, but some weather and landscape would be nice
here. Is it sweltering hot? Is it greasy dirt in every direction, is this an
urban area?
Again, good point.
> This Khurram character is full of contradictions, or he's "content" with
there being no correct side, complete chaos. Like he's come to terms with
the impossibility enough to make jokes about it even, while the narrator is
in torment because, as an American, you gotta take one side or the other. Am
I on track so far?
Yeah, in the sense that he'd rather there be no outside intervention. He
believes that Saddam's time is limited, and Iraq should be left to sort out
its own destiny.
> This paragraph with so much precious history woven into an ordinary meal.
Very well done.
Thanks, Bob. There's certainly some merit, though, to the argument that its
TOO much.
> I'm really liking this Khurram guy.
I'd buy him a drink.
> Excellent, Alaric. So far, each section holds its own but beckons forward.
Thanks a lot, Bob.
Alaric
> Read the first bit straight through without a pause. Great stuff.
Thanks, pal.
Not doubting your research, but I'd have thought that if the school knew an
American author was on the way they might have toned down the anti-US décor
and behaviour a bit? Purely out of politeness to a guest maybe? Dunno, just
struck me as a bit odd.
You'd have thought so. This did supposedly happen to a journalist during a
recent visit.
> missing inverts?
Yep.
This is damn good.
Thanks, F.
> Alaric, this is some slick shit. I'm wishing I was holding a novel in my
hands. I enjoyed the history lesson, but maybe it is a bit too much all at
once for what seems like a long story / novella length piece.
Yes it is. Without space to piece it out, it needs cutting back. Thank you,
sir.
--
"There's a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in."
Leonard Cohen.
"Fraser" <fra...@hotmail.com> wrote in message
news:b4293h$1qvglo$1...@ID-116198.news.dfncis.de...
Alaric
>> "Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the same excuse for
that one."
Que?
Should be inverts or italics for "all folks are the same."
> Well chosen paramours, my friend. All fatal females. Is this a clue? Are
you that subtle?
He sees it that way. He expects to suffer for his love. Fatal? Maybe in the
sequel <g>.
>> "Your husband.?"
> "Your husband?"
Thank you, sir. Good spot.
> Once again, excellent. Your best work yet. No question.
Thanks again, my friend.
> One comment. It is a penchant of yours to imbed poetry, extracts, etc, in
your works. Be careful. It can be overdone and detract from line of thought.
Once you hook the fish do not place impediments in the path of the line. I'm
not saying to change this but do seek opinion.
No, you're right. I did it with my own (such at is) poetry in a couple of
recent stories, with limited success. Here, I think the quotes are part of
the history, but I do it too often, without good reason.
Dan Rogers
Yer welcome. I don't want to give the impression that I have a problem with
the prostitution aspect, nor do I find it unbelievable. Again, it was just
that one line of rationalization that Martin made that I had a problem with.
Alaric
Yeah, but I do think it works better without.
Anopheles
I believe that would be a mistake. The answer is not to sanitise reality but
find a path through it.
Alaric
"Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
news:b45qko$1rlv0l$1...@ID-34438.news.dfncis.de...
Do you think so, Barry? I'm the last to sanitise the underbelly - see
Without You. Here, I just wondered if it was necessary. There's no sources I
could find on a notable prostitution issue in Iraq.
Anopheles
You don't need sources for a personal level, only the broader one. All you
need is your knowledge of people and history. In times of crisis and
starvation, women sell themselves so that their children can do better than
they did. The woman you have created is perfectly human.
Also, stop to think about the protagonist. It doesn't matter if readers find
his action untenable. He is human and humans have flaws. If a character has
no flaws, that character is not interesting. All you need is for him to be
worthwhile in a balanced view.
Alaric
Good thought, Barry. I'll mull it all over.
Amanda Tarr
> He's of Kurdish descent, so even if he serves Saddam he hates him. And
yes,
> he's a cynic. I'll look at an addition there. Not sure.
[snip]
>
> > > I know that Khurram has already taken me to places where CNN reporters
> wouldn't be permitted to go
>
> > Never did get a handle on why.
>
> Reporters are discouraged from free interviewing of Iraqis.
Sorry for the slow response. Been away for a couple days.
You know, I'm often slow to catch on. Pretty much your one comment above,
about Khurram being a Kurd cleared up all the confusion I had throughout the
story. For instance, above, I couldn't figure out why the narrator had been
granted special access... but now I understand Khurram's motive.
Perhaps you mentioned his ancestry earlier and I never noticed it. I just
wanted to point out how much this cleared up.
(by the way, I mentioned later that I didn't like Khurram... twas just an
emotional reaction to his paying Jasim to prostitute herself, everything
else about him is compelling)
Alaric
No, you're right. The prostitution thing is an author's shortcut - a bad
one.
"Amanda Tarr" <at...@soe.sony.com> wrote in message
news:v6idpm7...@news.supernews.com...
Patrick Null
>"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
>news:b3qr7n$reg$1...@sparta.btinternet.com...
> A SLIT IN THE WALL
> Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2003
>
> "Father, give me the Bull of Heaven,
> so he can kill Gilgamesh in his dwelling.
> If you do not give me the Bull of Heaven,
> I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,
> I will smash the door posts, and leave the doors flat >down,
> and will let the dead go up to eat the living!
> And the dead will outnumber the living!"
> The Epic Of Gilgamesh, Tablet VI.
>
> * * *
>
> Day 2
> Who We Fight
Incredible, Alaric. You are continuing to stretch your wings and your
prose, as always, shines off the page, my friend. A few comments before I
nit this:
Your numerous quotes are, for lack of a better term, annoying. I know
you're in love with them, but you overdo it. There was one section where I
had to read three quotes just to continue on with the story. Sorry, but
that's way too much. I think one quote between each section would suffice.
The history was infodumpy. I love history, but it filled up my brain too
much, what little there is of it. <G> It can probably be paired back some.
What I WILL say is that I liked the whole conversation taking place over
lunch/dinner? The chicken, rice, cheese, cigars, and brandy was just a
masterful touch.
Personally, I didn't have a problem with the prostitution and his
rationalization of it, but I can certainly see how the other reviewer's
comments are valid.
Your characters are strongly drawn, and while Martin is more or less passive
in his responses as he takes in all the information, it doesn't stop me from
thinking this is one of your strongest main characters yet that I've seen
from you.
Ok, nits now:
> The schoolyard is full of smiling children. Boys with >eyes as brown as
> hazels and girls with dark hair who stare and giggle. >Khurram has clearly
> arranged this riotous assembly in advance. The >headmaster, a man well
past
> retirement age with an explosion of grey hair, tells me >I'm permitted to
ask
> them any questions I wish.
I like "explosion of gray hair"
>One little girl has
> already presented me with a photograph of Saddam, >telling,
Saying instead of telling?
> Khurram shrugs. "Our media isn't as efficient as yours. >We have to
poison
> minds on a one to one basis."
LOL!!!
> "Not in America," I reply. "You've no all folks are the >same excuse for
that
> one."
Que?
>They're in identical pyjamas,
pajamas-probably a British spelling.
>They're
> shepherded by a group of women who don't wear >identical clothes but do
wear
> identical looks and do all display headscarves.
This sentence is a little awkward. Forgive me:
"They're shepherded by a group of women who don't wear identical clothes but
do wear identical looks as they display headscarves."
>They gather in a line, and the boys at both ends of it >group hold
> pictures of Saddam Hussein.
Delete "group?"
> "Our father Saddam Hussein
Shouldn't there be commas around Saddam Hussein?
> "Our father Saddam Hussein shows us how to be >soldiers,"
Again, commas?
> I struggle to adjust on to the tangent. "I suppose so. >Why?"
Delete "on"
>
> "All Americans are hungry," he says. "It's a state of >being for you. The
> reason for being. The British were hungry before you. >And the Turks
before
> them. But you can't eat us. We'll twist and kick inside >you. You might
eat
> me. But some of those children, the ones who survive >your bombs, they'll
cut
> your stomachs open from the inside."
Excellent, Alaric. Just excellent.
> "Last week the French called themselves the old world >and called you the
> new,"
Comma after "week"
> Khurram starts to say something, doubtless something >cutting, but
Behbehani
> holds up a silencing hand.
I wonder if you need the "doubtless something cutting"-it's like you're
trying to hard to convince us that Khurram is this cynical guy. We've
already gotten the point.
(snip the history lesson)
> By now we have brandy in cups. The restaurant is >emptying. Behbehani
raises
> his aperitif in a mock toast to me and winks. "So you >see, my friend," he
> says, "you will not be the first to try to trample over us."
Brilliant, Alaric. I love that last line.
> She nods, says nothing. I look her up and down and >decide she'd come to
> seduce me, to create a debt. A black, hugging dress, >cut just below the
> knee. Black stockings. Black high heeled shoes.
Why am I thinking the black dress and black high heeled shoes is too much
American? I didn't realize Arab women wore such clothes, though I have to
admit I know next to nothing of clothing styles over there.
>
> She chuckles. I think of bells. No, that's a lie. I think of >sex.
LOL!!!
> I feel heat in my face. "For you. You might get. oh, I >don't know. stoned
or
> something."
>
> "Just for entering a man's room."
I want to read that last line as a question.
> "I can safely go in your room, Martin. If you're >prepared to allow it,
> naturally."
Just an idea, but "enter" instead of "go in?"
> That smile again. "A bed for the night, kind sir."
Delete "kind sir"-for some reason, I can't envision those two words as being
a part of her vocabulary. In fact, if I may be honest, that sounds very
Alaricish.
>
> "I don't understand. Have you been thrown out of your >house? Not because
you
> met with me, surely?"
Oh, Jesus, he can't be THAT naieve, can he? Unless he's just acting dumb
for her benefit, since he already admitted she was there to seduce him.
> Finally, I understand. "You're saying you're a. that.."
My opinion is this: Don't have him stumble on the words. It makes him
appear weak. Just have him say: "You're saying that you're an escort?"
> I'm not surprised. Khurram is such a manipulator.
I'm with Amanda-I don't like this guy very much.
> And later, I recall other bar conversations when, po->faced and naïve,
po-faced? Que?
> For a moment she doesn't answer. For a moment I >suspect that she's
asleep.
> Then she says, "He's more than he seems."
Wow, she'd be able to fall asleep THAT fast?
> I consider that. It makes a little sense.
Delete "a"
> I decide to let her change the subject.
Excellent, Alaric. Just LOVED your dialogue. That's it from me. On to
part three.
Alaric
"Patrick Null" <whitew...@msn.com> wrote in message
news:b4lc30$1vj6l8$1...@ID-173005.news.dfncis.de...
> Your numerous quotes are, for lack of a better term, annoying. I know
you're in love with them, but you overdo it. There was one section where I
had to read three quotes just to continue on with the story. Sorry, but
that's way too much. I think one quote between each section would suffice.
Fair criticism, Pat.
> The history was infodumpy. I love history, but it filled up my brain too
much, what little there is of it. <G> It can probably be paired back some.
What I WILL say is that I liked the whole conversation taking place over
lunch/dinner? The chicken, rice, cheese, cigars, and brandy was just a
masterful touch.
I'm looking at a way to reduce that.
> This sentence is a little awkward. Forgive me:
"They're shepherded by a group of women who don't wear identical clothes but
do wear identical looks as they display headscarves."
> Delete "group?"
Oops. Good spot.
> Shouldn't there be commas around Saddam Hussein?
Yep.
Why am I thinking the black dress and black high heeled shoes is too much
American? I didn't realize Arab women wore such clothes, though I have to
admit I know next to nothing of clothing styles over there.
Black's quite common - the most common colour, really.
> Oh, Jesus, he can't be THAT naieve, can he? Unless he's just acting dumb
for her benefit, since he already admitted she was there to seduce him.
He's like me. Heh.
> I'm with Amanda-I don't like this guy very much.
Awww. I do.
> po-faced? Que?
Britism. Straight faced.
> Wow, she'd be able to fall asleep THAT fast?
Like me again. He's so-o-o good.
Using all your nits, Pat. Thanks, pal.