July 6, 2009

• zeitoun

  i can't wait to get my hands on this...i might break my book-buying ban and buy it!

  from McSweeny's:

  AN EXCERPT
  FROM ZEITOUN.

  
  

  
  

  - - - -

  
  When Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans, Abdulrahman Zeitoun, a
  prosperous Syrian-American and father of four, chose to stay through
  the storm to protect his house and contracting business. In the days
  after, he traveled the flooded streets in a secondhand canoe, passing
  on supplies and helping those he could. But, on September 6, 2005,
  Zeitoun abruptly disappeared. Dave Eggers's riveting nonfiction book,
  three years in the making, explores Zeitoun's roots in Syria, his
  marriage to Kathy − an American who converted to Islam − and their
  children, and the surreal atmosphere (in New Orleans and the United
  States generally) in which what happened to Abdulrahman Zeitoun became
  possible. Like What Is the What, Zeitoun was written in
  close collaboration with its subjects and involved vast research − in
  this case, in the U.S., Spain, and Syria. To order a copy, please click
  here.

  - - - -

  Zeitoun woke with the sun and
  crawled out of his tent. The day was bright, and as far as he could see
  in any direction the city was underwater. Though every resident of New
  Orleans imagines great floods, knows that such a thing is possible in a
  city surrounded by water and ill-conceived levees, the sight, in the
  light of day, was beyond anything he had imagined. He could only think
  of Judgment Day, of Noah and forty days of rain. And yet it was so
  quiet, so still. Nothing moved. He sat on the roof and scanned the
  horizon, looking for any person, any animal or machine moving. Nothing.
  

  As he did his morning prayers, a helicopter broke the silence, shooting across the treetops and heading downtown.

  Zeitoun
  looked down from the roof to find the water at the same level as the
  night before. He felt some relief in knowing that it would likely
  remain there, or even drop a foot once it reached an equilibrium with
  Lake Pontchartrain.

  Zeitoun sat beside
  his tent, eating cereal he had salvaged from the kitchen. Even with the
  water no longer rising, he knew he could do nothing at home. He had
  saved what he could save, and there was nothing else to do here until
  the water receded.

  When he had eaten,
  he felt restless, trapped. The water was too deep to wade into, its
  contents too suspect to swim through. But there was the canoe. He saw
  it, floating above the yard, tethered to the house. Amid the
  devastation of the city, standing on the roof of his drowned home,
  Zeitoun felt something like inspiration. He imagined floating, alone,
  through the streets of his city. In a way, this was a new world,
  uncharted. He could be an explorer. He could see things first.

  He climbed down the side of the house and lowered himself into the canoe. He untied the rope and set out.

  He
  paddled down Dart Street, the water flat and clear. And strangely,
  almost immediately, Zeitoun felt at peace. The damage to the
  neighborhood was extraordinary, but there was an odd calm in his heart.
  So much had been lost, but there was a stillness to the city that was
  almost hypnotic.

  He coasted away
  from his home, passing over bicycles and cars, their antennae scraping
  the bottom of his canoe. Every vehicle, old and new, was gone,
  unsalvageable. The numbers filled his head: there were a hundred
  thousand cars lost in the flood. Maybe more. What would happen to them?
  Who would take them once the waters receded? In what hole could they
  all be buried?

  Almost everyone he
  knew had left for a day or two, expecting little damage. He passed by
  their homes, so many of which he'd painted and even helped build,
  calculating how much was lost inside. It made him sick, the anguish
  this would cause. No one, he knew, had prepared for this, adequately or
  at all.

  He thought of the
  animals. The squirrels, the mice, rats, frogs, possums, lizards. All
  gone. Millions of animals drowned. Only birds would survive this sort
  of apocalypse. Birds, some snakes, any beast that could find higher
  ground ahead of the rising tide. He looked for fish. If he was floating
  atop water shared with the lake, surely fish had been swept into the
  city. And, on cue, he saw a murky form darting between submerged tree
  branches.

  He was conflicted
  about what he was seeing, a refracted version of his city, one where
  homes and trees were bisected and mirrored in this oddly calm body of
  water. The novelty of the new world brought forth the adventurer in him
  − he wanted to see it all, the whole city, what had become of it. But
  the builder in him thought of the damage, how long it would take to
  rebuild. Years, maybe a decade. He wondered if the world at large could
  already see what he was seeing, a disaster mythical in scale and
  severity.

  In his
  neighborhood, miles from the closest levee, the water had risen slowly
  enough that he knew it was unlikely that anyone had died in the flood.
  But with a shudder he thought of those closer to the breaches. He
  didn't know where the levees had failed, but he knew anyone living
  nearby would have been quickly overwhelmed.

  He turned on
  Vincennes Place and headed south. Someone called his name. He looked up
  to see a client of his, Frank Noland, a fit and robust man of about
  sixty, leaning out from a second-story window. Zeitoun had done work on
  his house a few years ago. The Zeitouns would see Frank and his wife
  occasionally in the neighborhood, and they always exchanged warm
  greetings.

  Zeitoun waved and paddled over.

  "You got a cigarette?" Frank asked, looking down.

  Zeitoun
  shook his head no, and coasted closer to the window where Frank had
  appeared. It was a strange sensation, paddling over the man's yard; the
  usual barrier that would prevent one from guiding a vehicle up to the
  house was gone. He could glide directly from the street, diagonally
  across the lawn, and appear just a few feet below a second-story
  window. Zeitoun was just getting accustomed to the new physics of this
  world.

  Frank was
  shirtless, wearing only a pair of tennis shorts. His wife was behind
  him, and they had a guest in the house, another woman of similar age.
  Both women were dressed in T-shirts and shorts, suffering in the heat.
  It was early in the day, but the humidity was already oppressive.

  "You think you
  could take me to where I can buy some smokes?" Frank asked. Zeitoun
  told him that he didn't think any store would be open and selling
  cigarettes this day.

  Frank sighed. "See what happened to my
  motorcycle?" He pointed to the porch next door.

  Zeitoun
  remembered Frank talking about this motorcycle − an antique bike that
  he had bought, restored, and lavished attention on. Now it was under
  six feet of water. As the water had risen the day before, Frank had
  moved it from the driveway up to the porch and then to his next-door
  neighbor's porch, which was higher. But now it was gone. They could
  still see the faint, blurred likeness of the machine, like a relic from
  a previous civilization.

  He and Frank
  talked for a few minutes about the storm, the flood, how Frank had
  expected it but then hadn't expected it at all.

  "Any chance you
  can take me to check on my truck?" Frank asked. Zeitoun agreed, but
  told Frank that he'd have to continue on a while longer. Zeitoun was
  planning to check on one of his rental properties, about two miles
  away.

  Frank agreed to
  come along for the ride, and climbed down from the window and into the
  canoe. Zeitoun gave him the extra paddle and they were off.

  "Brand new
  truck," Frank said. He had parked it on Fontainebleau, thinking that
  because the road was a foot or so higher than Vincennes, the truck
  would be spared. They made their way up six blocks to where Frank had
  parked the truck, and then Zeitoun heard Frank's quick intake of
  breath. The truck was under five feet of water and had migrated half a
  block. Like his motorcycle, it was gone, a thing of the past.

  "You want to get anything out of it?" Zeitoun asked.

  Frank shook his head. "I don't want to look at it. Let's go."

  A few doors down, Zeitoun and Frank came upon a house with a large white cloth billowing from the second-floor window.

  When they got closer, they saw a couple, a husband and wife in their seventies, leaning out of the window.

  "You surrender?" Frank asked.

  The man smiled.

  "You want to get out?" Zeitoun asked.

  
  "Yes, we do," the man said. They couldn't safely fit anyone else in the
  canoe, so Zeitoun and Frank promised to send someone back to the house
  as soon as they got to Claiborne. They assumed there would be activity
  there, that if anywhere would have a police or military presence, it
  would be Claiborne, the main thoroughfare nearby.

  "We'll be right back," Zeitoun said.

  As they were paddling away from the couple's house, they heard a faint female voice. It was a kind of moan, weak and tremulous.

  "You hear that?" Zeitoun asked.

  Frank nodded. "It's coming from that direction."

  They paddled toward the sound and heard the voice again.

  "Help."

  It was coming from a one-story house on Nashville. They coasted toward the front door and heard the voice again: "Help me."

  Zeitoun
  dropped his paddle and jumped into the water. He held his breath and
  swam to the porch. The steps came quicker than he thought. He jammed
  his knee against the masonry and let out a gasp. When he stood, the
  water was up to his neck.

  "You okay?" Frank asked. Zeitoun nodded and made his way up the steps.

  "Hello?" the voice said, now hopeful.

  He
  tried the front door. It was stuck. Zeitoun kicked the door. It
  wouldn't move. He kicked again. No movement. With the water now to his
  chest, he ran his body against the door. He did it again. And again.
  Finally it gave.

  Inside he found a
  woman hovering above him. She was in her seventies, a large woman, over
  two hundred pounds. Her patterned dress was spread out on the surface
  of the water like a great floating flower. Her legs dangled below. She
  was holding on to a bookshelf.

  "Help me," she said.

  • 10:43 am
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