Chapter 27: El Dictador y La Doctora

A/N: Thanks for the unexpected internet sympathy! Not to worry the depression is just the general malaise we all have now I suppose.

April 1984

Dr. Ayaan Ayyub nee Savastione stepped into the Baghdad heat and immediately dropped her sunglasses over her eyes. She was still getting used to the generally hotter and drier climate of the city.

The locale however had been an unexpected surprise. She had managed to land a flat in a new construction near the Tigris and walking distance from the brand new Out Patient Centre of Baghdad General Hospital.

She loved walking to and from work every day despite the heat. The Hospital, overjoyed to have her service, had offered to provide her with a chauffeur driven car but she had refused. Baghdad was a city in flux, for the better and walking through its streets made her feel like she was witnessing something bigger than herself.

It felt like there was something new to see every day. A month after she took up the job, a brand new promenade had been opened up along the embankment of the Tigris. Licensed hawkers tried to sell snacks and drinks to the exercise enthusiasts, couples and families that spent their free time relaxing in the wide expanse of the promenade.

There was an energy in the city that she hadn't experienced in Turin. Turin had been fashionable and powerful and old. Baghdad was even older, less fashionable but bursting with youthful excitement about building new things and doing things better.

New towers and buildings were popping up around the city. But unlike the gleaming steel and glass building of the West, Laila al Najafi the Minister in charge of Urban Planning had laid down strict rules on building heights, construction materials, manner of construction. Local developers had whined and complained but thanks to the iron womans efforts Ayaan could see that the unique look of the city of Caliphs would be maintained for posterity.

Ayaan stopped by a new corner cafe that had opened up a block away from the Hospital. The young waitress Basma grinned when she saw the doctor.

"Good morning madam doctor, the usual?"

"I've told you so many times...just Ayaan!" Ayaan mock scolded the young woman.

Basma just chuckled at their oft repeated conversation and went off in search of the Italian style cappuccino that Ayaan favored every morning.

Basma didnt know it, but Ayaan felt truly grateful towards her for helping her settle into her new life. When she had jumped head first into the new opportunity she had only belatedly began to worry about things like her accented and poor Arabic. But people like Basma had welcomed her with open arms.

Some time ago an unofficial 'call' had gone out into the world inviting expat Iraqis and their children to return to the country and contribute their skills. That was a romantic layman's way of putting what was effectively a desperate call for help to bridge the supply demand gap in the labour market. But surprisingly a lot of people of Iraqi descent had tentatively returned to plush jobs in the country. Common Iraqis called them the Lost Children of Iraq. Ayaan had been surprised by the fondness that the locals had for the returnees.

Basma had once explained that the Iraqi people had hope for a great future but they needed help from outside to achieve it. They didnt trust foreigners so they loved those of Iraqi descent who answered the call of the people. Very romantic and cliched stuff but Ayaan had been moved by it nonetheless.

Coffee in hand, Ayaan entered the modern new OPD centre only to be greeted by a great hullabaloo. She paused for a minute to get her bearings but she wasn't able to understand what had happened.

"Ayaan, thank god you're here!" a portly bearded man in a suit said as he rushed to greet her. This was Abdullah Rashid, the Hospital Administrator. It was a weird relationship, he was technically the CEO of the hospital but she was a senior consultant doctor...she was more useful to the hospital than he was. But there had been no friction between them, he was a chubby loveable man prone to anxiety and stress.

"What's going on Abdullah?" she asked in alarm.

He looked to be almost in tears, "The President. The President showed up in an unmarked car half an hour ago for a checkup. But there was no senior doctor available. Please please go and do the check up."

"President of what?" she asked him in consternation.

"Of the country dear lady. Of the country!"

(Break)

There were security guards in black shades outside the examination room door. They stopped her by holding up a hand and then spoke into their walkie talkies. Soon another guard emerged from another corridor. This time it was a female who led her to an unused room and frisked her.

All of this happened without any words exchanged. Ayaan was becoming more and more nervous. How had she found herself in this position? Her mother and father had begged her not to take up this job. She should have listened.

The male guards held the exam room door open for her and gestured for her to enter. Inside, she saw Saddam Hussein President of Iraq up close for the first time. Instead of the hairy, olives-wearing slob that she had seen on TV and newspapers here was a thinnish, middle aged, clean shaven man with curly locks of hair, hunched in his chair and reading MAD magazine.

She cleared her throat to announce herself but her voice still came out weird, "Umm Mr. President, I am Dr. Ayyub. I'll be your doctor for today."

She thought she sounded like a flight attendant. But Saddam looked up sharply and then quickly got rid of the magazine. He seemed embarassed that she'd caught him reading a naughty comic.

"I'm sorry for the wait," she continued politely.

He waves his hand, "I showed up unannounced. You weren't to know."

"Well shall we get started," she said, taking a seat behind the desk.

He nodded and straightened up, "I'm just here for my biannual checkup." He pointed to a file on the desk, "My blood test results."

She nodded and opened up the file feeling herself relax. Doctoring was something she could do.

After a few minutes she said, "Well the results look quite promising given ....errr..."

"That I'm a middle aged man?" he prompted with a smile.

She felt her face flush and anxiety filled her. Would she be carried away by the Mukhbarat for pointing out Il Duce's age?

"Ah I was going to say given your lifestyle," she said lamely.

"Oh," he asked quirking an eyebrow. "And what do you know about my lifestyle Doctor?"

She felt completely scared and flustered. "I'm sorry....I...ah..."

He snorted. Saddam snorted. "Relax Doctor. Contrary to popular belief, I have a sense of humour. And doctors don't get carted off to the torture chamber for pointing out my age."

She gaped at him. What was happening. Was Saddam Hussein teasing her.

"Yes well erm the only concern is the elevated blood pressure...any particular stresses you're experiencing?"

He snorted again and looked incredulous. "Ummm I'm the leader of the nation. Where do I begin? Inflation, foreign ambassadors, electricity brownouts...I'm also terrified of my Minister of Urban Planning..."

"Laila al Najafi!" Ayaan exclaimed forgetting herself for a minute and gushing, "I would love to meet her once."

"Dont tempt fate doctor," Saddam replied with a surly tone.

"Right...ummm...well I'll prescribe some medicine for that. You'll need to take it daily for a few months but it will help with the blood pressure."

"I can have beer with it though right?" he asked.

"No I'm afraid no alcohol with the medicine."

"What!" he exclaimed "no beer for a few months? Lady you're killing me!"

She stared in surprise. This was the dreaded Saddam? He was like an overgrown child.

"Let's move to the physical exam. Can you please take a seat on the examination table and remove your shirt?"

He did so and she was surprised that instead of a protruding tummy like many middle aged Arab men tended to have, he had a lean if somewhat loose torso.

"Ahh!" he exclaimed when she put the stethoscope near his heart. He glared at her, "that's really cold you know."

It was her turn to snort.

"What?" he asked curiously.

"Youre not what I was expecting Mr. President," she replied.

"Saddam."

"What?"

"Call me Saddam. If anyone has the right to call me by my name it's my doctor."

"Okay."

"And what were you expecting? An fat crazy old Arab dictator" he asked with a grin.

She laughed in spite of herself, "I don't know what I expected but certainly not an overgrown baby."

His eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed like a fish's.

God was she flirting with Saddam? How absolutely bizarre.

She asked him to put his shirt back on and then they sat back on either side of the desk as she began writing down her observations and prescription.

"Its weird that I'm writing down a prescription," she murmured.

"Whys that?"

"You're the leader of the country. You don't exactly need to show a prescription to order whatever medicine you need," she replied.

"Lex imperium," Saddam replied softly.

She looked up, "What's that?"

"The law is king," he replied. "The hardest thing for me is to not put myself above the law. Every time I do that, it dilutes the rule of law."

She was surprised by his candour.

"Why do you speak Arabic with an Italian accent?" he asked her as she was making the final illegible scribbles on her notepad. She felt her face flush in embarrassment at the question. But when she looked up, he was looking curious not teasing.

"I grew up in Italy," she said.

"But you're of Iraqi descent?"

She nodded, "Yes my mother and father were both Iraqis. They...left for Italy when I was a baby."

"Oh so you're a returnee," he said.

"I think were called the Lost Children," she replied cheekily but he looked confused. "That's what the people on the street call us. You should get out more Mr. President."

He made a face, "Lost Children, how cringey.. "

She laughed again. "You're really not what I expected."

He smiled.

She handed him the notepad and explained how and when to take the medicine. He thanked her genuinely and made to leave. She felt a small twinge of disappointment. This had been the first time she'd had such an easy conversation in a long time. Would people believe her when she told them? She would never tell anyone. Some memories were to be treasured alone.

He had stopped at the door, "If you're available on Sunday I would love to host you at the Presidential Palace for brunch."

Not getting an immediate response from her he fidgeted, "I enjoyed our conversation. It's not very often I get to joke around. I'd love to just talk with someone."

She nodded, "I hope you'll send me a chauffeur driven limo being a dictator and all."

He laughed uproariously as he left.