DAVE EGGERS
ZEITOUN
Dave Eggers is the author of six previous books, including What Is the What, a finalist for the 2006 National Book Critics Circle Award and winner of France’s Prix Medici. That book, about Valentino Achak Deng, a survivor of the civil war in southern Sudan, gave birth to the Valentino Achak Deng Foundation, run by Mr. Deng and dedicated to building secondary schools in southern Sudan. Eggers is the founder and editor of McSweeney’s, an independent publishing house based in San Francisco that produces books, an eponymous quarterly journal, a monthly magazine (The Believer), and Wholphin, a quarterly DVD of short films and documentaries. In 2002, with Nínive Calegari he cofounded 826 Valencia, a nonprofit writing and tutoring center for youth in the Mission District of San Francisco. Local communities have since opened sister 826 centers in Chicago, Los Angeles, Brooklyn, Ann Arbor, Seattle, Boston, and Washington, D.C. In 2004, Eggers taught at the University of California–Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism, and there, with Dr. Lola Vollen, he cofounded Voice of Witness, a series of books using oral history to illuminate human rights crises around the world. A native of Chicago, Eggers graduated from the University of Illinois with a degree in journalism. He now lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife and two children.
www.zeitounfoundation.org
www.voiceofwitness.org
www.valentinoachakdeng.org
www.826national.org
www.mcsweeneys.net
ALSO BY DAVE EGGERS
Memoir
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
Fiction
You Shall Know Our Velocity!
How We Are Hungry
How the Water Feels to the Fishes
What Is the What
The Wild Things
Nonfiction
Teachers Have It Easy: The Big Sacrifices and Small Salaries of America’s Teachers (with Nínive Calegari and Daniel Moulthrop)
As Editor
The Best American Nonrequired Reading
Surviving Justice: America’s Wrongfully Convicted and Exonerated (with Lola Vollen)
All author proceeds from this book go to the Zeitoun Foundation, dedicated to rebuilding New Orleans and fostering interfaith understanding.
www.zeitounfoundation.org
For Abdulrahman, Kathy, Zachary, Nademah,
Aisha, Safiya, and Ahmad in New Orleans
For Ahmad, Antonia, Lutfi, and Laila in Málaga
For Kousay, Nada, Mahmoud, Zakiya, Luay, Eman, Fahzia,
Fatimah, Aisha, Munah, Nasibah,
and all the Zeitouns of Jableh, Lattakia,
and Arwad Island
For the people of New Orleans
Contents
About the Author
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Dedication
Notes About this Book
Part I
Chapter 1 - Friday August 26, 2005
Chapter 2 - Saturday August 27
Chapter 3 - Sunday August 28
Chapter 4 - Monday August 29
Chapter 5 - Tuesday August 30
Part II
Chapter 6 - Tuesday August 30
Chapter 7 - Wednesday August 31
Chapter 8 - Thursday September 1
Chapter 9 - Friday September 2
Chapter 10 - Saturday September 3
Chapter 11 - Sunday September 4
Chapter 12 - Monday September 5
Chapter 13 - Tuesday September 6
Part III
Chapter 14 - Wednesday September 7
Chapter 15 - Thursday September 8
Chapter 16 - Friday September 9
Chapter 17 - Saturday September 10
Chapter 18 - Sunday September 11
Chapter 19 - Monday September 12
Chapter 20 - Tuesday September 13
Chapter 21 - Wednesday September 14
Chapter 22 - Saturday September 17
Chapter 23 - Monday September 19
Part IV
Chapter 24 - Tuesday September 6
Chapter 25 - Wednesday September 7
Chapter 26 - Thursday September 8
Chapter 27 - Friday September 9
Chapter 28 - Saturday September 10
Chapter 29 - Sunday September 11
Chapter 30 - Monday September 12
Chapter 31 - Tuesday September 13
Chapter 32 - Wednesday September 14
Chapter 33 - Thursday September 15
Chapter 34 - Friday September 16
Chapter 35 - Saturday September 17
Chapter 36 - Sunday September 18
Chapter 37 - Monday September 19
Chapter 38 - Monday September 19
Chapter 39 - Tuesday September 20
Chapter 40 - Thursday September 22
Chapter 41 - Friday September 23
Chapter 42 - Sunday September 25
Chapter 43 - Monday September 26
Chapter 44 - Tuesday September 27
Chapter 45 - Wednesday September 28
Chapter 46 - Thursday September 29
Part V
Chapter 47 - Fall 2008
The Zeitoun Foundation
Acknowledgments
Copyright
… in the history of the world it might even be that there was more punishment than crime …
Cormac McCarthy, The Road
To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
Mark Twain
NOTES ABOUT THIS BOOK
This is a work of nonfiction, based primarily on the accounts of Abdulrahman and Kathy Zeitoun (pronounced “Zay-toon”). Dates, times, locations, and other facts have been confirmed by independent sources and the historical record. Conversations have been recounted as best as can be remembered by the participants. Some names have been changed.
This book does not attempt to be an all-encompassing book about New Orleans or Hurricane Katrina. It is only an account of one family’s experiences before and after the storm. It was written with the full participation of the Zeitoun family, and reflects their view of the events.
I
FRIDAY AUGUST 26, 2005
On moonless nights the men and boys of Jableh, a dusty fishing town on the coast of Syria, would gather their lanterns and set out in their quietest boats. Five or six small craft, two or three fishermen in each. A mile out, they would arrange the boats in a circle on the black sea, drop their nets, and, holding their lanterns over the water, they would approximate the moon.
The fish, sardines, would begin gathering soon after, a slow mass of silver rising from below. The fish were attracted to plankton, and the plankton were attracted to the light. They would begin to circle, a chain linked loosely, and over the next hour their numbers would grow. The black gaps between silver links would close until the fishermen could see, below, a solid mass of silver spinning.
Abdulrahman Zeitoun was only thirteen when he began fishing for sardines this way, a method called lampara, borrowed from the Italians. He had waited years to join the men and teenagers on the night boats, and he’d spent those years asking questions. Why only on moonless nights? Because, his brother Ahmad said, on moon-filled nights the plankton would be visible everywhere, spread out all over the sea, and the sardines could see and eat the glowing organisms with ease. But without a moon the men could make their own, and could bring the sardines to the surface in stunning concentrations. You have to see it, Ahmad told his little brother. You’ve never seen anything like this.
And when Abdulrahman first witnessed the sardines circling in the black he could not believe the sight, the beauty of the undulating silver orb below the white and gold lantern light. He said nothing, and the other fishermen were careful to be quiet, too, paddli
ng without motors, lest they scare away the catch. They would whisper over the sea, telling jokes and talking about women and girls as they watched the fish rise and spin beneath them. A few hours later, once the sardines were ready, tens of thousands of them glistening in the refracted light, the fishermen would cinch the net and haul them in.
They would motor back to the shore and bring the sardines to the fish broker in the market before dawn. He would pay the men and boys, and would then sell the fish all over western Syria—Lattakia, Baniyas, Damascus. The fishermen would split the money, with Abdulrahman and Ahmad bringing their share home. Their father had passed away the year before and their mother was of fragile health and mind, so all funds they earned fishing went toward the welfare of the house they shared with ten siblings.
Abdulrahman and Ahmad didn’t care much about the money, though. They would have done it for free.
Thirty-four years later and thousands of miles west, Abdulrahman Zeitoun was in bed on a Friday morning, slowly leaving the moonless Jableh night, a tattered memory of it caught in a morning dream. He was in his home in New Orleans and beside him he could hear his wife Kathy breathing, her exhalations not unlike the shushing of water against the hull of a wooden boat. Otherwise the house was silent. He knew it was near six o’clock, and the peace would not last. The morning light usually woke the kids once it reached their second-story windows. One of the four would open his or her eyes, and from there the movements were brisk, the house quickly growing loud. With one child awake, it was impossible to keep the other three in bed.
Kathy woke to a thump upstairs, coming from one of the kids’ rooms. She listened closely, praying silently for rest. Each morning there was a delicate period, between six and six-thirty, when there was a chance, however remote, that they could steal another ten or fifteen minutes of sleep. But now there was another thump, and the dog barked, and another thump followed. What was happening in this house? Kathy looked to her husband. He was staring at the ceiling. The day had roared to life.
The phone began ringing, today as always, before their feet hit the floor. Kathy and Zeitoun—most people called him by his last name because they couldn’t pronounce his first—ran a company, Zeitoun A. Painting Contractor LLC, and every day their crews, their clients, everyone with a phone and their number, seemed to think that once the clock struck six-thirty, it was appropriate to call. And they called. Usually there were so many calls at the stroke of six-thirty that the overlap would send half of them straight to voicemail.
Kathy took the first one, from a client across town, while Zeitoun shuffled into the shower. Fridays were always busy, but this one promised madness, given the rough weather on the way. There had been rumblings all week about a tropical storm crossing the Florida Keys, a chance it might head north. Though this kind of possibility presented itself every August and didn’t raise eyebrows for most, Kathy and Zeitoun’s more cautious clients and friends often made preparations. Throughout the morning the callers would want to know if Zeitoun could board up their windows and doors, if he would be clearing his equipment off their property before the winds came. Workers would want to know if they’d be expected to come in that day or the next.
“Zeitoun Painting Contractors,” Kathy said, trying to sound alert. It was an elderly client, a woman living alone in a Garden District mansion, asking if Zeitoun’s crew could come over and board up her windows.
“Sure, of course,” Kathy said, letting her feet drop heavily to the floor. She was up. Kathy was the business’s secretary, bookkeeper, credit department, public-relations manager—she did everything in the office, while her husband handled the building and painting. The two of them balanced each other well: Zeitoun’s English had its limits, so when bills had to be negotiated, hearing Kathy’s Louisiana drawl put clients at ease.
This was part of the job, helping clients prepare their homes for coming winds. Kathy hadn’t given much thought to the storm this client was talking about. It took a lot more than a few downed trees in south Florida to get her attention.
“We’ll have a crew over this afternoon,” Kathy told the woman.
Kathy and Zeitoun had been married for eleven years. Zeitoun had come to New Orleans in 1994, by way of Houston and Baton Rouge and a half-dozen other American cities he’d explored as a young man. Kathy had grown up in Baton Rouge and was used to the hurricane routine: the litany of preparations, the waiting and watching, the power outages, the candles and flashlights and buckets catching rain. There seemed to be a half-dozen named storms every August, and they were rarely worth the trouble. This one, named Katrina, would be no different.
Downstairs, Nademah, at ten their second-oldest, was helping get breakfast together for the two younger girls, Aisha and Safiya, five and seven. Zachary, Kathy’s fifteen-year-old son from her first marriage, was already gone, off to meet friends before school. Kathy made lunches while the three girls sat at the kitchen table, eating and reciting, in English accents, scenes from Pride and Prejudice. They had gotten lost in, were hopelessly in love with, that movie. Dark-eyed Nademah had heard about it from friends, convinced Kathy to buy the DVD, and since then the three girls had seen it a dozen times—every night for two weeks. They knew every character and every line and had learned how to swoon like aristocratic maidens. It was the worst they’d had it since Phantom of the Opera, when they’d been stricken with the need to sing every song, at home or at school or on the escalator at the mall, at full volume.
Zeitoun wasn’t sure which was worse. As he entered the kitchen, seeing his daughters bow and curtsy and wave imaginary fans, he thought, At least they’re not singing. Pouring himself a glass of orange juice, he watched these girls of his, perplexed. Growing up in Syria, he’d had seven sisters, but none had been this prone to drama. His girls were playful, wistful, always dancing across the house, jumping from bed to bed, singing with feigned vibrato, swooning. It was Kathy’s influence, no doubt. She was one of them, really, blithe and girlish in her manner and her tastes—video games, Harry Potter, the baffling pop music they listened to. He knew she was determined to give them the kind of carefree childhood she hadn’t had.
* * *
“That’s all you’re eating?” Kathy said, looking over at her husband, who was putting on his shoes, ready to leave. He was of average height, a sturdily built man of forty-seven, but how he maintained his weight was a puzzle. He could go without breakfast, graze at lunch, and barely touch dinner, all while working twelve-hour days of constant activity, and still his weight never fluctuated. Kathy had known for a decade that her husband was one of those inexplicably solid, self-sufficient, and never-needy men who got by on air and water, impervious to injury or disease—but still she wondered how he sustained himself. He was passing through the kitchen now, kissing the girls’ heads.
“Don’t forget your phone,” Kathy said, eyeing it on the microwave.
“Why would I?” he asked, pocketing it.
“So you don’t forget things?”
“I don’t.”
“You’re really saying you don’t forget things.”
“Yes. This is what I’m saying.”
But as soon as he’d said the words he recognized his error.
“You forgot our firstborn child!” Kathy said. He’d walked right into it. The kids smiled at their father. They knew the story well.
It was unfair, Zeitoun thought, how one lapse in eleven years could give his wife enough ammunition to needle him for the rest of his life. Zeitoun was not a forgetful man, but whenever he did forget something, or when Kathy was trying to prove he had forgotten something, all she had to do was remind him of the time he’d forgotten Nademah. Because he had. Not for such a long time, but he had.
She was born on August 4, on the one-year anniversary of their wedding. It had been a trying labor. The next day, at home, Zeitoun helped Kathy from the car, closed the passenger door, and then retrieved Nademah, still in her carseat. He carried the baby in one hand, holding Kathy’s arm
with the other. The stairs to their second-floor apartment were just inside the building, and Kathy needed help getting up. So Zeitoun helped her up the steep steps, Kathy groaning and sighing as they went. They reached the bedroom, where Kathy collapsed on the bed and got under the covers. She was relieved beyond words or reason to be home where she could relax with her infant.
“Give her to me,” Kathy said, raising her arms.
Zeitoun looked down to his wife, astonished at how ethereally beautiful she looked, her skin radiant, her eyes so tired. Then he heard what she’d said. The baby. Of course she wanted the baby. He turned to give her the baby, but there was no baby. The baby was not at his feet. The baby was not in the room.
“Where is she?” Kathy asked.
Zeitoun took in a quick breath. “I don’t know.”
“Abdul, where’s the baby?” Kathy said, now louder.
Zeitoun made a sound, something between a gasp and a squeak, and flew out of the room. He ran down the steps and out the front door. He saw the carseat sitting on the lawn. He’d left the baby in the yard. He’d left the baby in the yard. The carseat was turned toward the street. He couldn’t see Nademah’s face. He grabbed the handle, fearing the worst, that someone had taken her and left the seat, but when he turned it toward him, there was the tiny pink face of Nademah, scrunched and sleeping. He put his fingers to her, to feel her heat, to know she was okay. She was.
He brought the carseat upstairs, handed Nademah to Kathy, and before she could scold him, kid him, or divorce him, he ran down the stairs and went for a walk. He needed a walk that day, and needed walks for many days following, to work out what he’d done and why, how he had forgotten his child while aiding his wife. How hard it was to do both, to be partner to one and protector to the other. What was the balance? He would spend years pondering this conundrum.