Excerpt
(excerpt from Chap.35, a visit to Baghdad)
We're staying at the decaying Abbassia Hotel on Saadoun Street right in the heart of the city...
The Abbassia, a seasoned actress now permanently resting, is run by an Assyrian Christian named Jim, a friendly 50-year-old who served as a merchant seaman for a number of years and who speaks English fluently with a faint Scouse accent. Rotund, short and with a shock of tousled, silvering hair, this genial proprietor is fond of the bottle and since he's perpetually hung over and has the telltale eyes to prove it I nickname him Bloodshot Jim. But alcohol aside, Bloodshot Jim is a decent, straight-talking man and generous to his guests; after we've paid for two rounds of drinks, Jim serves us a round on the house.
He has taken a shine to Tommy and me and we feel completely at home in his company and in his hotel. He treats his other guests with respect, three Egyptians and a Jordanian are staying, as well, but to us he shows special affection and once he learns it's our first visit to Iraq, he's swift to advise us what to do and say and more importantly, what not to say.
"Never mention the name," he cautions as he points to the portrait behind him above the bar, "not in here or outside. Nowhere. You never know who you're talking to. Think what you like but don't say it. That way, you'll be safe and sound and no one'll harm you."