ARAB (12 page)

*

Bristles on the hog’s back pricked Bashir’s mouth as he turned his face aside, half awake, wedged between the animal and a nub of timber that cut into his bruised hip. Careful not to move his leg, he worked a cramped arm from beneath his chest and pushed against the hog that farted and grunted and let out little squeals in its sleep. The stench was nauseating.

They had replaced the chain on his ankle with a leather strap, and an old woman had picked dirt out of the cuts and washed his foot. But the entire lower half of his right leg was swollen in a dull ache, protruding from the canvas, burning in the sun.

Yesterday he had fainted when the boy with the milky eye had prodded his ankle. He couldn’t swallow the
fuul
the girl had tried to spoon into his mouth. When he started crying, the tall boy snatched the bowl of mashed beans from her and pushed it into the snout of a squealing pig. They hadn’t fed him since.

He rolled onto his back and stared through blurring tears at the underside of the canvas where urine stains were shaped like a map of Spain with little reddish lines like rivers converging in the northeast coast where Barcelona would be.

The children were coming. They were laughing. Maybe they would hit him. Maybe they would lift the canvas and let out the trapped putrid air.

The woman who had bathed his leg wouldn’t be with them. She had stopped coming when the diarrhea splattered her blouse. She had cursed him and flung the bucket at his head. The children wouldn’t bring the bucket to him when the cramps came. He had to let everything flow down his legs. His pants now were crusted hard, smarting his skin.

His tongue was swollen, his mouth filled with sand, but the children wouldn’t give him water. They would stand against the building and watch the tall one hit his feet, and then they would run away.

Searching for moisture, he pressed his mouth into the thick lice-ridden hairs on the hog’s back. But the hide was dry and he leaned his forehead into the heavy, sand-encrusted body and closed his eyes and quietly sobbed. He was going to die here. He knew he was going to die of dehydration and malnutrition and fatigue, of blood poisoning or gangrene if his foot was infected, and it was all so meaningless and stupid.

It was not his fate, not his destiny, not the will of God. This was the will of Faisal Ibrahim.

But why? What did I do?

His mind drifted to thoughts of the dark-haired American girl in London, the girl who had spilled wine on the white suit he had just bought. He was thinking of her when the sun flashed down on him. He cringed from the glare, putting his forearms over his eyes.

“Making love to a pig?”

A huge bulk moved a shadow over him. He couldn’t see the face, but he recognized the voice of Diab. He cried out in pain when the hog fell against his leg as it scrambled to get away.

“Nothing new, is it, Bashir,” with a roar of laughter as the big man gripped Bashir’s swollen ankle, leaned down and cut the strap. He dropped Bashir’s foot to the ground and ignored the yelp of pain.

“What is this?” Diab said. “All this shit on him. Get some women out here and wash him off. Where’s the drunk? Where’s Elskran?”

After a few minutes Bashir felt women’s strong hands drag him by the arms onto the flattened canvas. The woman unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his belt, then with much loud complaining rolled him onto his stomach and pulled his shirt and pants off.

He hardened his mind against the pain as the women scrubbed his buttocks and legs. They helped him to his feet and pulled a soiled
galabiyah
over his head. He cried out when he tried to put weight on his tortured leg. Diab came from the front of the house and carried him out to the green Pontiac. The driver helped Diab get him onto the back seat.

“Sit sideways over the other side and put your legs up,” Diab said. “I hear the nights are cold up here. Is it true?”

“Please get me a drink. I need a drink.”

One of the women asked Diab for money, saying she had saved Bashir’s life. Diab pushed her aside and got into the car.

As they moved down the rutted road, Diab dropped his long arm over the back of the front seat and cuffed Bashir’s knee.

“How long you had the shits?” he said.

“For the love of God, give me some water.”

“Later,” Diab said. “But cheer up, Bashir. The worst is over. From now on you’re a privileged person, a regular VIP,” and he poked the driver with his elbow and they both laughed.

They drove for what seemed hours through flat farmland north of Cairo, but he was too tired to more than glance out the window. The occasional jouncing of the car made him nauseous. He was terrified of getting the cramps. He didn’t have the strength to endure abuse from the giant who filled the seat in front of him.

Egypt’s brief twilight had dimmed the fields when Diab’s hand prodded Bashir awake.

“We’re almost there,” he said. “We got a nurse for you, antibiotics, all the water you can drink, anything you want. Even a hot shower.”

“Thank you,” Bashir caught himself saying. He felt no gratitude. He was too tired to feel anything. The words came from weakness. Until he was stronger, until he knew what was going to happen, he did not want to think about anything except sleeping in a bed in an air-conditioned room.

And that’s what they put him in, with a nurse, a
muhagabah
shielding her hair with a white scarf. She sported European-styled clothes—a calf-length printed dress that clung to her waist and showed off the contours of a full bosom. She gave him water and pills and spread cooling ointment on his sunburned leg, then gave him fresh underwear and a clean robe.

“I don’t find any lice in your hair. They said there’d be lice.”

The lice must have preferred the hog, Bashir thought, tempted to press his face into her breast, to fit his lips around her nipple.

“The dysentery will go away,” she said. “And we can cure the infected foot. The other one is fine. You’re going to be fine, Bashir.” And she patted his shoulder and drew a sheet over him and told him she would leave the door ajar so that he could call if he needed anything.

He watched the ceiling fan that whirled over his head and closed his eyes, pleased that his sense of smell was restored even though he could smell only the ointment the woman had put on his leg and, with the door open, a faint aroma of cooking oil. Occasionally he heard voices coming from other rooms.

Twice that night the woman gave him pills and fitted pillows under his sheet to keep weight off his injured foot. He wondered who she was, who these people were, where this house was.

In the morning he asked a young boy who helped him to a bathroom down a short hallway, “Is this a hospital?”

“No.”

“Where are we?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

They were many miles north of Cairo, Bashir believed, and doubtless in one of the safe houses Faisal had established around the country, from Alexandria to as far up the Nile as Aswan, he had been told.

“We’ll try some solid food today,” the woman in the white scarf said, propping him up, her breast accidentally brushing his shoulder.

“You are married to someone here?”

She laughed and playfully slapped his cheek. “You are getting your energy back, I see.” Smiling, she held his wrist and took his pulse, not at all disturbed by his inquiry.

“When can I shave?” he asked.

“They want you to keep the beard.”

In spite of having thoroughly scrubbed himself and washed his hair, he felt contaminated. He doubted he would ever feel clean again. While he gazed solemnly at the fabric drawn tight over her swollen breast, she fed him a small portion of macaroni, tomato sauce and lentils, and later a small cup of yogurt.

“Meat tomorrow,” she said.

He believed she was aware of his interest in her. Maybe she wore that kind of dress to entice him. Women did things like that. And if you responded, they pretended to be insulted.

She changed the gauze on his foot and told him she could already see signs of healing. “In a week you’ll be fine.”

But they didn’t give him a week. The evening of his fourth day in the house, Diab came to his room and handed him a wooden crutch and told him to get up. With one hand gripping Bashir’s arm, Diab led him down the hall past the bathroom to a large screened porch where Faisal Ibrahim, lounging in a blue silk robe, was waiting for him. In a grassy area outside the screen, leaning on a pale yellow wall were two uniformed soldiers with slung rifles. One of them was smoking a cigarette.

“Bashir Yassin!” Faisal exclaimed. “Good to see you!”

The false heartiness of the greeting offended Bashir, but he said nothing. He limped to a cushioned garden chair, sat down and lowered the crutch to the floor. There was a pungent scent of fertilizer in the air. Just beyond a wooden fence he saw a large expanse of cotton-tufted plants across a broad field.

“How do you feel?” Faisal said.

As though you had nothing to do with causing this pain, you hypocritical bastard. May God roast your balls. But outwardly Bashir managed a wry smile which Faisal had no trouble interpreting.

“The past is past, Bashir. It’s the future we must think about now.”

When Bashir’s gaze briefly met Faisal’s, a sudden hatred surged through him, a desire to wrap his hands around Faisal’s throat and choke the life out of him. He quickly lowered his gaze, fearful that Faisal would notice his hatred.

Apparently Faisal noticed something. His voice changed. In a lowered, measured tone, he said,

“Your future, Bashir. It can be long and good and prosperous, or it can end right here, today. You’re a sensible man. Be sensible.”

Bashir took a deep breath. He didn’t look up. His body trembled as he waited for what was coming.

“The police know you are no longer in your apartment.”

“The police? They’re looking for me?”

“Someone must have reported you missing.”

Bashir was surprised. Who could have gone to the police? Esmat Bindari? He wouldn’t be looking for me. Who?

“We left the furniture,” Faisal said. “Some of your clothes are here, some we threw away. When you leave—”

Bashir looked up. “Leave? I can’t walk! You’ve crippled me!”

“The limp will add to your disguise, Bashir. And the beard. I don’t want you touching it until you’re ready.”

“Ready for what? Why is this happening? Why are you doing this to me?”

He suddenly experienced a childish impulse to beg Faisal for mercy. It leaped into his mind from nowhere, almost made him drop to his knees, shaming him with memories of begging strangers for money when he was a child in Gaza.

He gripped the arms of the chair and choked off the impulse, his body shaking with rage. To have even wanted to beg Faisal for mercy sickened him.

I’ll beg this swine for nothing! Nothing! Never! Never will I beg him for anything!

“Listen to what I’m saying,” Faisal said. “Store my words in your heart. Don’t even think of betraying me. You’ve heard of that incident in Algeria. It’s true. It really happened. I made that traitor kneel in front of me and place his neck on a log, and I had a giant with a double-bitted ax chop his head off. I will do the same to you if you don’t carry out my orders. Do you understand?” He leaned forward, raised his arm and brought it crashing down into his fist. “Chopped his head off!”

The force of Faisal’s words terrified Bashir. Faisal’s face was flushed. He was breathing heavily, his palm pressed to his chest. He looked on the verge of fainting.

“You understand me?” he said, the words choking in his throat. He drew a tissue from his robe and spat into it.

“I understand,” Bashir said, astonished by the passion that had overtaken Faisal, realizing he must not argue with this man. He must appear servile. He must get past this.

Trying to calm himself, Faisal made a vague waving gesture toward the other room. A young girl wearing a white scarf over dark hair came in. She gave Bashir a timid, almost shameful glance.

“My pills and some juice,” Faisal said, his voice a breathless rattle.

He obviously resented Bashir’s having witnessed this bout of weakness, but he made no apologies. The nurse in the white scarf brought him pills. She took his pulse and put a stethoscope to his chest, then left without a word.

“Yes,” Faisal said to Bashir. “I am not well. But don’t look for my death.”

Bashir said nothing.

“As you will learn,” Faisal went on, “I have friends everywhere. No matter what happens to me, they will carry out my orders. Unless you do exactly what I say, you will die. And it won’t be an easy death.”

“What did I do? What do you want of me? I’ve always been loyal.”

“Remember, Bashir. You have no future without me. Remember that. No future. Nothing.”

“Faisal! I’ve always been loyal to you. Why are you doing this?” ashamed to hear himself whining like a child, begging for mercy. From the way he’d been treated—the softening up process he had heard it called—he was being prepared to be an assassin. But that was ridiculous. Me? An assassin? He refused to believe it. He had never killed anyone in his life. Those rabbis? He never killed any rabbis. He made that story up to get into Egypt.

“Here,” Faisal said, handing Bashir the wallet and ring of keys Diab had taken from him. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

This, Bashir told himself, putting the keys and the wallet into his pocket, is how they treated that Palestinian before sending him to Algeria to kill that Italian. But they can’t want me to kill anyone. I’m not a murderer. This is insane!

Later, lying in bed unable to sleep because of the pain, he heard a door open and the loud voice of Diab.

“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, Faisal.”

“It’s the ride I hate,” Faisal said. “And climbing those stairs. Can’t we find a building with an elevator?”

“That would bring us into the city. You could be recognized. It’s only two flights of stairs.”

“I know, I know. What time are we to meet this … what’s his name?”

“Uthman al-Ajami.”

“But he calls himself something else, you said.”