He remains on his knees, his huge hands on his sides, his gaze on her. It’s not the first time someone has threatened him with a gun.
“Seriously, Yazz,” he says. “Wallah! I swear, Yazz, I have no idea what you’re talking about, OK?”
She sees it in him, but she can’t accept it, it has to be this way. How else could it have happened?
She feels how Ignacio leans into the gun, how he does nothing to escape or counter her. And his eyes are so open and honest that the gun feels heavier and heavier in her hand, until it’s too heavy and she drops it, and it falls down onto the ground between them with a thud.
It’s as if all her energy suddenly drains out of her, this whole last day, this last week, the last four years, her whole life, suddenly washes over her, flooding her and she falls to the ground—her legs no longer legs, just twigs or grass, nothing at all. Somewhere, in another world, she feels strong arms placed around her, pulling her into a broad chest, a bearded cheek leaning against her head, a voice whispering.
“It’s OK, Yazz, you’re OK.”
Afterward, they end up at a café near the subway. It’s about to close, and there are only a few elderly Swedes inside with buns in their trembling hands. She can’t even remember how they got here, how she got a cup of hot chocolate in front of her and a cheese sandwich. The gun is tucked in her waistband again, and Ignacio doesn’t say anything, he just looks at her quietly from the other side of the table, crumbs in his beard, a cup of coffee in hand.
“It wasn’t loaded,” she says quietly, looking around to make sure no one is listening. “Just so you know, len.”
Ignacio laughs.
“Good to know,” he says and takes a bite of his Mazarin cake, nodding happily. “These sure are delicious little bastards.”
They’re silent again. Yasmine sips her hot chocolate. Finally, she leans across the table and tells him about the warning she got at Story Hotel, about how she’d been sure he’d ratted her out. She apologizes a hundred times. But she doesn’t say anything about Fadi and the weapons. It’s better to keep some cards close to your chest.
“But where did you get the gun from?” he says.
She shrugs.
“Long story.”
Ignacio nods, licks pastry frosting from his fingers, and takes a final swig of coffee.
“But these pictures . . .” she begins.
He nods slowly and leans across the table, lowering his voice.
“I was hoping you’d just drop it, Yazz,” he says. “I tried to warn you. People are scared. We started seeing that shit a few weeks ago. Those symbols? Around Pirate Square at first, then everywhere. One morning, it could be as many as twenty new ones. Just in Bergort. In one night.”
“And the cats?”
He shrugs.
“I haven’t seen that for myself. I think there was just that one you showed me. But that photo is all over online now. Fucking disgusting, ey? I mean, strangling cats? That’s psycho.”
Yasmine nods.
“Definitely. But what does it mean?”
“I don’t know, Yazz. But did you see the news this morning? ”
"The riots,” she says. “Is that only happening in Bergort?”
“I think it started with us. But it’s spreading now. I’ve heard people have seen that symbol sprayed all the way up in Fittja. But Bergort seems to be the epicenter. There are cars burning almost every night now. Even before what happened last night.”
He lowers his voice again and looks around to make sure no one is listening.
“Something is going down, bre. And this shit is something more than just the usual kids, not the usual discontent.”
“How do you know that?”
Ignacio leans back, as if he’s offended.
“Don’t you think I would know?” he says. “Seriously, give me a little credit. Anyway, this is something else. It’s organized. There’s some kind of plan. It started with the symbols. People posting that cat on the Internet and shit. Then cars started burning. Some rocks were thrown at the cops. Then it was quiet for a few days. Then it started again this weekend. And now? Shit, I swear, now all of Bergort is covered in those symbols. The last few nights ten cars have burned.”
He lowers his voice again and looks around.
“I have to head home,” he says. “Come with me, and I’ll tell you what I know, OK?”
They stand up and walk out the door, which makes a friendly ring as it closes. Outside the rain has ceased, and the night sky has started to clear.
“When asked about those pictures on Monday, I didn’t say anything. I was afraid for you, querida. You’re an outsider now. Do you even remember how it works here? People see you as a traitor. You just took off, and nobody ever heard from you. There were a bunch of rumors about you. We knew they weren’t true, but people who didn’t know said you pinched a bunch of dough from Red and took off. You know, everything always gets blown out of proportion.”
She nods. She knew that when she left. That it would be hard to go home.
“So I didn’t want you to get drawn into it. But I understand it’s serious now. You think it has something to do with Fadi? You think he’s spraying the fist in the star in that picture you have?”
“I know it has something to do with Fadi,” she says.
They walk quietly in the same direction they came from.
“So,” he begins. “This is organized, Yazz.”
He turns and looks at her.
“The kids are doing what they always do, you know? Spraying and burning and throwing stones and shit. But this time someone is behind it. Someone who tells them what to do and how and when. They have stencils? Shit, bre! Does that sound like the usual bunch of misfits to you? They barely know how to fucking set cars on fire.”
“So you think someone’s handing out stencils, or what?”
“Someone is, yes. And somebody’s busing in people for those riots who aren’t from Bergort. Really experienced shunos with helmets and slingshots and shit.”
"But who then?” Yasmine says. “Who’s organizing it? And why, what do they want?”
Ignacio seems to think for a moment before he answers.
“Ey, Yazz, you know how it is? Always so much talk. I swear, one day people will talk themselves to death out there. Some say it’s a conspiracy. Some corporation is behind it. Somebody’s doing it to hold us down, ya know? Some say they saw some sweet Audi hanging out by the parking lot outside of school and one of those masked-types took orders from there.”
Ignacio laughs and shakes his head.
“Same stoner talk as usual. It’s Jews and the Illuminati paying for everything as usual.”
“But why break into my hotel room and spray that fucking symbol on my wall? What do I have to do with any of this?”
They’re almost at the subway now.
“Someone ratted you out to them,” he says. “Somebody told them you were asking questions, but it wasn’t me. Somebody else must know. You must have talked to somebody about this.”
They look at each other quietly.
“But one thing I’ll tell you,” he continues. “Or I don’t know if I should tell you, because I’d rather you just forget this, Yazz.”
“Say what you know, Ignacio. I’ll find out anyway.”
“I know,” he says, looking worried. “OK, so. There were some crazy riots last night, right?”
Yasmine nods.
“I was out before it started,” he says. “You know, after our talk. I wanted to know more. So I grabbed some kids I know. Ali Five’s little brother and his friends. They’re always out late, always got their hands full of rocks and bottles. And they told me they were getting their orders from some masked guy. Or not a guy, a man. They didn’t know who he was, but there were several of them sort of directing the kids. And they usually meet at the Camp Nou, you know, the football field? So if you wanna find out that’s where you should start. But I wish you wouldn’t, Yazz.”
Sh
e nods.
“Thanks. I’ll be careful.”
“Be careful with that snitch, and don’t wave that gun around too much. Next time they might not settle for a warning, right? And it could be anyone.”
Yasmine bends up and hugs him.
“I already know who it is,” she whispers.
30. SYRIA—MAY–JUNE 2015
THE DAYS PASS by. Our positions are locked at the front line, neither we nor al-Assad are strong enough to destroy the other, and the battle is slow and increasingly mechanical. Among the sandbags, homemade grenades, and glossy eyes, we make fast, halfhearted attacks and even faster retreats. It reminds me of when I was younger, when we used to run toward the police on burning summer nights with our hands full of rocks and our heads full of poverty and overcrowding and testosterone. But now, our goals are grander, our motivation and perseverance something else. Now we’re better armed and the enemy responds with barrel bombs and snipers instead of batons.
Brother Shahid takes me up to the front sometimes when he feels like I’m ready to give up. When he sees that I can’t take any more boot polishing or shopping with the wives in the market.
“You shoot better now,” he says, opening the door to the passenger side. “Maybe we can get some use from you today?”
And when he says that, I am filled with pride and anticipation, my shoulders rise, my chest expands, I jump in next to him, and we drive in silence up to the battle.
But when we get there I’m given no task, or I don’t know how to find a task. The brothers are coordinated, like actors or dancers. They have their safe spots and holes in the wall where they shoot and duck, shoot and duck. They have places where they drop their homemade grenades, their patterns and rituals. And I have nothing. Just awkwardness and a lack of ability and balance. Instead, I boil tea and help them build the wall, filling sandbags and lining up our homemade mortars.
This is what my jihad is. Not like a sword, more like a brush to polish my brothers’ shoes. Not like a spinning bullet, headed for the head of the enemy, but like an empty case, left on the ground, meaningless. But I say my prayers and I read my Qur’an. I take satisfaction from what we talk about in the evenings in the glow of the camp stove: we are in this together, we are fighting for our brothers and sisters, we are building a society that would please Muhammad, peace be upon him.
And some nights when I lie on my cool mattress I am filled with it. Some nights it’s as if I could touch the very essence of it, as if I could hold it in my hands and my heart. Other nights it’s not enough at all, and I sit in the window and look out over the dark and count the stars until the distance and emptiness threaten to destroy me.
I tell none of this to brother al-Amin during our short and irregular talks over the crackly satellite phone. Instead, I tell about the heroism at the front, replacing myself as the protagonist in my brothers’ stories. And brother al-Amin listens and praises me and tells me how well I’ve integrated and how proud Allah, may he be glorified and exalted, must be of me. He often mentions the traitor and always tells me to be careful not to reveal that we’re talking. He’s not even certain brother Shahid can be trusted. But together we can solve this, he says. Meanwhile, it’s important that he gets a good overview of how we live here. He’s interested in the details, asks me to send pictures of my room and the area, which I do gladly. Then I don’t even have to lie but can for once just document and tell.
“Our chance will come,” he says often. “Be on your guard. I have a plan. Sometimes someone important comes to the front to check on the troops. You know, they sleep in different beds every night so that the dogs and lackeys who spy for the West, may they burn forever in hellfire, won’t be able to execute them with their bombs and drones. When that happens, we’ll put our plan into action.”
“What’s the plan?” I say and feel excitement growing within me. “What can I do?”
“Just make sure you tell me when that happens,” brother al-Amin says. “Then I’ll make sure we have the chance to save our leaders and reveal the murtaden who is behind this.”
It’s sometime in June, a little after lunch, when I see brother Tariq’s car racing along the dusty red street outside our house. It’s already as warm as a summer day in Bergort, and, after trying to fix a water pipe in one of the bathrooms, I’m leaning against the sun-warmed wall with a cup of mint tea in my hand. It’s rare that someone comes back from the battle in the middle of the day, and I think something must have happened. Maybe somebody’s been wounded or killed by those dogs in a cowardly attack, and when I see him slow down I rise up and jog toward him as he exits the car, weapon in hand.
“Brother Tariq,” I say. “What has happened?”
As usual, he looks at me with a mixture of disdain and suspicion, and I regret that I ran toward him like an idiot, like a servant or a slave.
“I have a mission for you, Fadi,” he says.
Always Fadi. Never brother. As if he doesn’t think I’m worthy of even that.
“OK,” I say. “I do what I can to serve Allah, may he be glorified and exalted.”
“You know the guesthouse?”
I nod. The guesthouse is a deserted apartment building that stands near the village’s small square, the only part of town where a few civilians still live. We’ve also slept in the guesthouse, it’s important that we keep moving around so that the dogs and lackeys don’t find out where we are and bomb us in the night.
“Sure,” I say. “Why?”
“We’re having guests tonight,” he says. “I want you and the women to prepare three apartments with mattresses and sheets. For twelve.”
“Twelve?” I say.
It’s rare that we have any guests at all. Occasionally a group travels through on their way to another front line, another eternal struggle, and stops for a night, but not more than once or twice since I came. And never so many at once.
“Yes,” says Tariq. “Twelve. Do you think you can arrange that?”
Again, that superior expression in his eyes, that smug smile on his face. I swallow, and the thought occurs to me that perhaps this is what brother al-Amin has been talking about? Perhaps this is precisely what the traitor is waiting for? Important guests that the traitor can report to the government troops.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Of course. Who’s coming?”
“That’s nothing you need to worry about today, Fadi,” he says. “Just make sure there are mattresses and water. And ask sister Mona and the others to get a lamb at the market.”
“A whole lamb?”
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”
Tariq turns around and goes back to his jeep, throws the Kalashnikov on the seat next to him, and drives back in the direction he came from.
I wait until the dust settles on the gravel, and the only thing I hear is the irregular, never ending hack of gunfire from the front, before I pull up the satellite phone from my pocket. With my heart pounding, I call brother al-Amin.
31. LONDON—THURSDAY, AUGUST 20, 2015
KLARA FEELS TEMPORARILY paralyzed by the sight of Patrick Shapiro wrestling with the seemingly jammed door. Not until he finally gets it open and disappears inside does she spring to action, knocking back the last of her wine.
Without looking away from the building, she crosses the pub and exits out onto the street to get a good view of all the floors. She lights a cigarette and stands close to the entrance of the pub, so as to be less obvious if Patrick looks out the window.
It takes about a minute, but then a light goes on in a third-floor window. It’s too high for her to be able to see into the room, but she can make out shadows moving along the walls.
Patrick. Was he really the one who took her computer? Was he in the alley on Sunday night? Sure, he’s an oddball, but she still finds it hard to believe that he would be involved in stealing her computer.
Maybe it’s the wine, but for once she feels strong and focused, almost angry. What the hell is wrong with that fucking nerd? S
tealing her computer, installing fucking spyware on it? Is he a stalker?
Or could it be as banal as jealousy that she’s the one who’s helping Charlotte with the report? Why else would he have The Stockholm Conference written on the whiteboard in his office? She’s heard about how it works in universities, people stealing each other’s work, backstabbing each other. But this? To steal and hack into a colleague’s computer?
What did he hope to find? Or was it simply that he was out to destroy her: erase what she’s done and make her look completely incompetent in Charlotte’s eyes?
Here she’d been afraid all this had something to do with Christmas two years ago, the international scandal, the intelligence services. And it’s something as petty as this. Something as petty as academic jealousy. Something as petty as Patrick Shapiro.
Before she has any more time to think, the light goes off in the apartment, and she recedes into the shadows. Soon a soft light flows through the door of 3 Formosa Street, and she sees Patrick’s silhouette framed there. He shuts the door carefully and starts walking quickly toward the Tube station at Warwick Avenue.
She hesitates a second, lets him get a bit of a head start while trying to calm herself.
Before she’s gone no more than thirty feet, she stops and retreats into the protection of the building again. From the shadows on the other side of the street, two figures have emerged to follow Patrick. And there’s something about the stonewashed jeans they have on. Something about their shiny leather jackets and broad shoulders. Something about how they move, how they blend in and stand out at the same time. Something that tells her this might actually be more complicated than she thought. Something that’s not just about Patrick and academic jealousy.
At the same time, she can’t stay away. The wine and her newfound focus pull her along Warwick Avenue, surfing on a small, barely noticeable wave of recklessness and negligence, making her feel, briefly, totally alive in the moment, without past.
She can’t see Patrick anymore, focuses instead on leather jackets and keeps herself at such a distance that she almost loses them. And when she gets to the subway, she’s sure she has. But at the last moment she spots a crew cut disappearing down the stairs. She doesn’t see Patrick anywhere. He must already be down by the tracks.
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