The Syrian told him, ‘A father is not a son. Would he be happy with what you’ve become?’
Farood went up and down the line telling people to follow him and to have their money ready.
At his boat Berzan helped them aboard with one hand and took their money with another. ‘I told you twenty,’ he said to Farood.
‘Twenty was all I asked, I counted.’
Farood looked behind him and saw that others had joined the queue or were jockeying their way in with elbows and threats while others protested. At Berzan’s instruction he blocked any more trying to board, and when a group of three teenagers tried to side-step him he grabbed one by the collar and threw him back, shouting, ‘Later, later.’
Berzan switched on the engine and Farood stepped back on the boat. The teenager ran forward, leaping on board, clattering into a woman holding a child. There was some shouting, but not much. The boat backed away from the quay and Farood joined Berzan beside the wheel.
‘Ever sailed to Lesbos before?’
‘No, but I can see it. And there’s no traffic lights.’
Berzan slapped the takings onto the console. ‘Count it.’
Farood counted it twice, which Berzan noticed.
‘We’re two hundred lira short.’
‘Okay, throw two people overboard.’
Farood looked back at him blankly; Berzan looked straight ahead, then filled the silence with hearty laughter. He steered the boat directly ahead for around half an hour, then when he was sure he could see the white of buildings, he veered straight towards them. Although there was little wind, the bow lifted and spray hissed as it washed the deck.
‘Soon be there,’ said Farood to the passengers, ‘and once you’re in Greece you can go anywhere.’
A small boy in front of him pushed his face into his mother’s arm and cried as if he understood every word as well as the implications.
Farood went on. ‘I lived in Greece for a couple of years. They were good to me.’
He knew some could understand, but overall they appeared uninterested. The English teacher seemed to pity him. Farood could see this was no adventure, could recognise his own remoteness. The boat abruptly listed to the side where most had gathered; Farood clapped his hands and ordered a group shuffle across the deck. Within an hour the sea quietened in the arms of a bay.
Berzan pointed, called over his shoulder, ‘Mytilene.’
The town looked twice the size of the place they had sailed from. As they approached, most of the town’s people seemed to be right in front of them, on the shore, around the harbour, all looking out to the boat. It occurred to the crew that they were now embarking on the most awkward part of the operation. Over the last few weeks tourists and locals had seen boats like this arrive every few days, attracting more curiosity than concern. The Syrians were being housed in a shelter on a football pitch and some had been able to pay for ferries to Athens. They had not gathered, not yet sat down in their hundreds on the beaches, by the hotels and bars and supermarkets. But anyone who flicked to a news channel knew in time they would.
The boat’s hull bounced off a wooden jetty; Farood hopped off and hooked the rope end over a post. A man in shorts with a small dog advanced, shouting in Greek, but was overwhelmed by disembarking passengers rushing against each other, like people leaving a tube train on their way home. Farood lifted people ashore while the dog barked and a policeman marched up the quay, all boots and shades.
Berzan hurried up the ten or so remaining, telling them as they went, ‘Go see the policeman, he’s there to help you.’
The policeman cut a swathe through the rush, relaying information into his radio; he addressed Berzan in Turkish. ‘You have to have a licence to ferry people here. And you can’t just bring anyone on a lousy little boat like that.’
‘Really?’ asked Berzan.
Farood flung the rope back, but before he could board, the Greek policeman jumped across, propelling himself onto Berzan’s boat.
Berzan squared up to the invader, pushing out his chest, lifting a foot onto a rail. ‘I have a licence.’
‘Show me,’ ordered the policeman.
Berzan walked into the control cabin; the engine revved. ‘I left it over there, in Turkey.’
The boat reversed away from the jetty just as Farood landed on the deck. Berzan then pushed the policeman into the sea. For a few seconds he was underwater, then Farood saw him ascend an iron ladder onto the quay as if he’d taken a uniformed dip.
‘Do you think that was a good idea?’ he asked.
Berzan considered Farood’s right to ask such a question of him. ‘You want to spend some time in a Greek jail as well?’
When they arrived back in Turkey, a small group of would-be passengers were waiting and edged towards the boat the moment Farood secured the rope. Berzan shoved them back, announcing, ‘One hour, one hour!’
He’d decided they needed a map of the island, to give themselves some other landing options, now that he’d almost drowned a Greek policeman. Ten to twenty metres behind them, following them across to the gift shop, walked a man, maybe five years older than Farood, carrying a motorcycle helmet. They came out and walked up the shaded side of the street towards the morning’s café – and so did he.
After fifty metres Berzan sighed and effected a casual about-turn with both hands in his pockets. ‘What the fuck do you want with us?’
The hanger-on was around Farood’s height: a pink tee shirt, a beard and moustache trimmed short, hair waxed back, no sunglasses, a smile.
‘That’s no way to talk to someone.’
He wasn’t feigning coolness. If there was any threat, it hadn’t ruffled him.
He looked at Farood. ‘You don’t even recognise me, do you?’
Recognition seeped its way across Farood’s face as the man moved closer to him and confirmed, ‘Have you gone blind, you bastard? It’s Misha.’
Farood repeated his name back to him in two halves; his smile swelled to a grin. They squeezed each other’s hands as Misha pulled Farood into an embrace. Though the Afghan was initially the less demonstrative, the same joy flowed between the boys that had dared and endured together from Baghlan to Athens.
Farood took Misha’s hand again and clasped it inside his other hand. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Farood.
‘I’m doing the same as you.’
‘I remember you, Turkmen,’ said Berzan.
Misha was no longer the teenager in his cellar. He was now in his early twenties, barrel-chested and the tallest of the three. He and Farood were still holding hands. ‘And I remember you, Berzan.’
‘You have a boat, Turkmen?’
Farood interjected. ‘Berzan, it’s Mi-sha.’
‘Yeah, I’m working on a boat, a bit bigger than yours.’
Berzan spat on the ground and asked, ‘You taking any Syrians over today?’
‘No. We’re doing some cleaning today, but there’s plenty more on their way.’
Farood led him by the arm to a café; Berzan ordered coffees and offered food that Misha refused. Though Berzan probed Misha about, ‘How many Syrians?’, ‘How much money?’, ‘How long have you been here?’, Misha evaded all details, directing the conversation towards Farood’s last few years, in particular this unexpected relationship.
‘How did you two end up together?’ he asked.
Farood was suddenly shamed. He wanted to say that he wasn’t anyone’s prisoner anymore, that he’d been making a lot of money, was with Berzan because he had taken control of things over in Rotterdam, but he knew what it looked like. It looked like his life had gone backwards.
Berzan answered for him. ‘I found him moving people into England from Holland. My people. Can you believe it?’ Berzan laughed and the other two smiled. ‘You two, you got some fucking nerve. You run away, cheating me out of money,
then you have the balls to set up your own business.’
The other two laughed this time.
‘But I always knew you had something – you weren’t as scared as everyone else, or as stupid, and you had each other.’
Misha leaned forward. ‘Actually, we were scared of you. Terrified. That’s why we ran. Hey, Farood, did you ever make it to England?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
Cordiality was thawing; Misha rose and extended an invitation. ‘Thanks for the coffee. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll show you my boat? My boss would like to meet you.’
Misha fetched his motorbike and wheeled it ahead. The bike gleamed and bulged black and chrome, and despite heaving its bulk, he pulled away by several lengths as Berzan sullenly lagged behind. They passed through the town square, bordered on three sides by elderly men on benches, rolling beads through their hands and smoking, watching young women pass by. A group of Syrian men were sitting on a plastic sheet playing cards beneath Ataturk’s plinth. Out the other side of the square was the southern end of the harbour and a fishing trawler with a bleached blue hull.
Misha kicked down his bike rest and introduced them. ‘So, this is her. Guys, meet Zerrin.’
Compared to Berzan’s vessel she was high in the water with a gangplank at thirty degrees. Two men were washing the cloudy yellow deck and as they walked past the gaping entrance to the hold, they could hear another man singing to himself in the hollow below.
‘Guys, this is the captain.’
The captain lifted his head slightly by way of a greeting. ‘Berzan?’ He held out his hand, streaked with oil, which Berzan smothered with his. The bigger man tried to make the most of his size, rolling back his shoulders, taking a slow breath and half a step in, but the captain was oblivious. ‘You want to run Syrians over to Greece?’ he asked.
‘We’re already taking them.’
Berzan glanced back at the men cleaning the deck – they were both watching him. The captain threw down the cloth. Misha led Farood back down the deck to provide some privacy.
‘Okay. It is important that we cooperate. We were the first here, my boat has taken a lot of people to many islands and I look after my passengers. That’s important. How much are you charging?’
‘That’s my business,’ replied Berzan.
‘No, it’s mine as well. You charged a hundred lira, and that’s too much. It will drive people to other towns, other boats will come and charge less. Put us both out of business.’
Berzan pointed behind him. ‘They’re already queueing at my boat now.’
The captain looked away, out to the sea, to Lesbos. His tone softened. ‘Misha says you haven’t any lifejackets.’
‘It’s only over there,’ said Berzan.
The captain remained patient. ‘The water can change. The wind too. Something goes wrong, they’ll say we murdered people. Then the TV people will come, because they will like that. Then there will be no more business for anyone. Not one person must drown, understand?’
‘Of course,’ Berzan concurred.
‘Then you’ll take some lifejackets from me?’
Berzan nodded, and the captain called for Misha to collect the jackets from the hold and take them to Berzan’s boat.
‘I appreciate this,’ said Berzan.
‘No problem,’ said the captain. ‘I’m only asking twenty lira a jacket.’
It was now confirmed what Berzan had assumed from the moment of Misha’s invitation, so he turned and addressed everyone. ‘Supposing I don’t want to buy them?’
The crew member from the hold ascended and all three looked at Berzan as the captain casually gave his reply. ‘I’ll sink your boat for you. Misha will collect the money for the jackets.’
Farood helped with the lifejackets as Berzan left the captain’s boat, his heavy steps echoing across the steel deck. When it came to the exchange at Berzan’s boat he slapped the notes against Misha’s chest. ‘Turkmen bastard.’
Misha looked directly back at him then counted the money. ‘You know what, Mr Berzan. Things are different now. We’re both older, aren’t we? And my boss, he has a crew behind him who do what he says. And if he says we have to sink your boat, we will.’
Misha left in a strut, left Farood still working for Berzan, as he had worked for Vinnie, for Khalid. He left Farood feeling like a boy, and feeling too, some sense of loyalty to Berzan, even when the old man yelled at him, ‘Go get me a boatload. Get more this time.’
By way of defiance he found the family he had bought the sandwiches for and gave them the money to give to Berzan. When he led the passengers to the boat, he carried the mother’s belongings down to the quay and put a lifejacket on the ten-year-old. By the time Berzan was satisfied there were around thirty-five crowded onto the boat, half of them without lifejackets. He took another look at the map then shrugged and started the engine. It was now early evening; they were sailing into a sunset but there was still ample light ahead.
Farood smiled at the children; he spoke to his passengers in English in the hope that some would understand. ‘Anyone not been on a boat before? It’s nothing to worry about. And if you can’t swim, don’t worry, you won’t need to.’
The ten-year-old boy returned the smile on the rebound of Farood’s cheery tone.
As Mytilene began to present itself, Berzan commanded Farood to take the wheel whilst he peered through a telescope at the coast from the bow. His eye hovered over something. ‘Bastards!’ He ran to the wheel, ousting Farood; the boat veered, its stern overcompensating. People held the sides, shouting and screaming. Farood steadied himself on someone’s shoulder; a child began to cry.
Berzan yelled over his own shoulder, ‘There’s a police van at the harbour. We’ll go around the island a bit.’
The boat picked up speed against the current that tugged between the mainland and the island; a wave or two began to spill over the bow.
‘Where are we going to land?’ called out Farood against the raised pitch of the engine.
Berzan seemed to be racing a phantom. They cleared the headland and crossed into a shallow bay with fragments of the town lying beyond the beach. They taxied straight at it, stopped to a bobbing drift as Berzan scanned the beach with his telescope. Everyone looked at the shore. Farood’s ten-year-old stood and pointed at a petrel skimming the water, moving his arm along its line. The boat lurched away again, beyond the next headland, closer to the rocks than before. The bay beyond was narrow, the beach shingly. There were fewer bathers, no buildings behind, but they approached cautiously. Berzan gave the wheel to Farood and looked down over the side of the boat, shielding his eyes to find the bottom. He raised his hand as a signal for Farood to cut the engine. As they edged in with each wave, Berzan ordered everyone off the boat and into the sea. Children apart, he took their lifejackets first. Some refused to disembark; the teacher protested, ‘We paid to be taken to the island. We’re not there yet.’
Berzan dropped himself over the side of the boat; the water passed above his waist. ‘See. Come, come.’
He ferried children to shallower water, but after the third journey he halted at knee depth, looking up the beach, beyond his stumbling cargo, at a police vehicle parked on the scrub and its former occupants who were heading his way. Berzan waded back to the boat. He hurried everyone off: the flailing mother, the submerged child, the half-swimming father. Then he turned on the engine, and when it kicked its heels, screams could be heard inside its wash.
‘Wait, wait!’ implored Farood.
‘The sooner we are in Turkish water, the sooner the coastguard can’t touch us.’
Farood looked back at the bobbing heads, floating garments. He thought about using the telescope but decided not to.
Thirty-Two
Dikili, Eastern Turkey
It was September, with cooler, shorter days and a breeze most morning
s. Red-rumped swallows gathered on telegraph wires. It had been several weeks since Farood and Misha had last met and they were under the café awning looking out on a scene that had enlarged since then. The police were no longer observing groups of ten or twelve people; they were marshalling the crowds now living on the promenade, in the square and in side-street doorways. There were more police as well as private security personnel protecting shop-fronts and shop-behinds. Privately, the two men enjoyed the scene, taking some pride in its creation. They were eating baklava and drinking Turkish coffee behind new sunglasses. Farood’s head was shaven and he was growing a beard and sporting a new tracksuit. Misha was in overalls and his longish hair was screwed into a ball on the top of his head. They sat in silence as the police searched two men across the road. They found a knife on one and when it was shown to him, he said, ‘Taeam… taeam’ – food. The officer kept the knife and shunted the men down the promenade towards another bench.
Farood tilted his wrist to show Misha his new watch.
‘It’s fake,’ said Misha, smiling.
Farood sniffed then asked, ‘Where’s your boat been?’
‘We’ve been down the coast, running people to smaller islands. A few trips to a place and we move on.’
Farood spooned the bottom of his coffee. ‘That boat of yours—’
‘The captain’s, you mean.’
‘Yeah. It’s big. Deep. How do you get people onto the beach?’
‘We have a couple of dinghies.’ Misha raised his sunglasses. ‘We don’t drop them in the water.’ He pressed a cigarette out.
‘Plenty of new boats here,’ said Farood.
‘Too many. Stupid little boats getting in the way.’
Farood nodded in the direction of Lesbos. ‘There’s a coastguard circling the island now.’
‘Picking people out of the sea?’ asked Misha. He stood, lowered his sunglasses. ‘We’re heading off, Farood. The captain has had enough of watching his back.’
‘Where?’ asked Farood.
Baghlan Boy Page 27