Places and Names by Elliot Ackerman

Places and Names by Elliot Ackerman

Author:Elliot Ackerman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2019-06-10T16:00:00+00:00


* * *

“Where are you, Dara?”

Matt cradles his cell phone to his ear. The wind has picked up, and his voice mixes with the roadside traffic and is nearly swept away.

“I’m right by the flagpole,” Matt adds. “Which one? The huge fucking Kurdish one!” He laughs. “All right, see you in a second.”

Whole schools of identical headlights rush past. I hope Dara finds us, because there is no way we’ll find him. But before my anxieties can coalesce into actual concern, a black Audi Q6 parks next to us, kicking up a trail of dust that billows into my mouth. The SUV’s door swings open and the cab’s light spills into the street. A muscled Kurd with black, gelatinous hair and a white UFC “Tap Out” T-shirt barrels toward us. “Professor! You’re so skinny!” he bellows at Matt, who is equally enormous, and the two embrace in a contortion that is half hug, half wrestling move. After a quick round of introductions, Dara tosses our bags into the back of the Audi. “Let’s get going,” he says. “Three hours to Dream City.” I can only imagine he’s referring to Erbil.

We pull out of Silopi, passing by a few Ford and Chevrolet dealerships, as well as two amusement parks replete with neon-lit Ferris wheels. While this procession of burgeoning Americana flits by my window, Matt and Dara cycle through a Rolodex of shared acquaintances, catching up on the last six years. “You didn’t hear? He’s in Germany.” Or, “She’s at the Ministry of Interior and doesn’t return my calls.” Dara is eager to query Matt about the faculty at the American University, making interjections like “We all thought he was a prick.” Or, “Not once? Well, I thought you were sleeping with her.” There is something universal in the conversation, the same as any student relishing an encounter with an old teacher, the two meeting as equals for the first time. Dara’s phone interrupts them, its ringer set to the theme from The Godfather. In the quiet, I can hear annoyed staccato bursts of Kurdish through the receiver. Dara replies, equally annoyed. There is a brief argument and then he hangs up. “I didn’t expect you guys to take so long,” he says. “My mother’s worried. She didn’t want me to drive all the way out here. The last few months have been pretty bad.”

The lights of Silopi disappear from the rearview as we snake our way into the Qandil Mountains, and I can feel the dark presence of the sheer ridges just off the road as Dara tells us about the fighting around Erbil and how in the summer many families evacuated. “Things are better now,” he says, “but who knows. The Daesh are right outside of the city.”

Our conversation ebbs to silence. The dark mountains untangle, spilling into a flat plain, its horizon pricked by flashes from the northern oil fields. The Kurds, unable to reach a deal with the government in Baghdad, which heavily taxes its export barrels, now burn off their excess oil.



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