Boy 87

by Ele Fountain

  I pay for the food, gathering my bags together in one hand, and walk away from the stall, careful not to look as if I am hurrying. As I reach the edge of the market, both men peel away from their resting places and begin to walk slowly in the same direction as me.

  I cross the road next to the market, but instead of following the network of streets home, I turn the corner onto the busy main road which runs through the centre of town. I start to run, zigzagging around shoppers and coffee sellers.

  After fifty metres I turn to see the two men are still following me, looking left and right at the junction of the main road. Ahead is the cinema. I step off the pavement towards the wide entrance doors. The main doors are padlocked but round the side a door is ajar. I run over and push my way inside, kicking a bucket and mop to one side. I click the door shut and crouch down in the dark, waiting for my breathing to slow.

  The handle of the door turns and a lady wearing a pink headscarf peers round the door. She lets out a squeal of surprise when she sees me.

  “Sorry,” I say, lowering the shopping bags and raising my empty hands in the air, but the lady still looks fearful, unsure what to do next.

  I grab a big white floor cloth from the shelf of supplies and the bags of shopping, before squeezing past her, back out into the blinding morning light. I wrap the thin cloth around my head and then, looking down, carry on walking along the main road. I will find a different route home which doesn’t go past the market.

  I want to know if I’m being followed but do not turn around. After twenty metres I bear right off the main road.

  Away from the traffic it seems quiet. The street is empty. I listen for the crunch of footsteps behind me. I turn right, and then right again, hoping that my sense of direction will lead me closer to home. Soon I recognize the narrow street leading up to our alley.

  I reach the front door and knock softly, in the rhythm we have agreed. As I step out of the sun and into the cool darkness, I notice that my back is damp with sweat.

  “There were two men waiting for me at the market,” I say to the room of faces all focused on me.

  Mesfin has already returned from delivering the money. He locks the door and then goes over to the window, peering out through a gap behind the shutters. “Did they follow you?”

  “No, I lost them at the cinema.”

  Almaz giggles, and I realize that I am smiling too. Perhaps because I am still free. Perhaps because losing your kidnappers at the cinema sounds ridiculous.

  It’s obvious we will be unable to leave the compound again until Monday, when we will leave for ever.

  We open the few bags of food we have. There is perhaps just enough to last until then, but nothing spare to take for the journey. Shewit tends to Genet, so Almaz and I begin our normal lunchtime routine of chopping and stirring. She is fast and methodical. I am messy, even though I try to follow her example. I find cooking with Almaz makes me feel calm.

  “You’re getting pretty good,” she says. “Maybe you should train as a chef in England instead of teaching.”

  I laugh. “I like cooking, but my favourite part is eating.”

  After a moment or two of silence, I ask, “Did you know that we’ll be sailing to Italy instead of England?”

  “Not until you came back that night with Dad and told us. But Dad says we don’t have any good contacts in Italy, and it’s harder to find work.”

  “I’d love to eat a real Italian pizza,” I say. “But all of my contacts are in England too, and now that I can’t call my mum, I have to make sure I’m easy for her to find. Did your friends know you were going to leave?”

  “No. No one knew. Dad said we couldn’t say anything, and that the most important thing was to carry on like normal. On my last day at school, I knew I wasn’t going to see any of my friends again, but I couldn’t even say goodbye. I had to pretend I would see them all the next morning.”

  Almaz pours a little water into the pan. It sizzles and a jet of burnt-​onion steam billows out. She doesn’t normally burn things.

  The next few days pass slowly. We try to keep ourselves busy by choosing what to pack and what to leave, which takes very little time as we don’t have much between us. Shewit mends the zip on her big laundry bag, which we’re going to squash everything into.

  I exercise my ankle, which started to bother me again after running twice from the kidnappers.

  Almaz spends time with a needle and thread, stitching a neat pattern around the bottom edge of her netela. It reminds me of evenings at home, when Mum brought back work to finish.

  We play a lot of gebeta, even though four of the eggshell cups are broken and we are unable to replace them.

  On Sunday night, we get ready to sleep in the same room for the last time.

  In the morning, Shewit goes to sit with Genet and her husband. They speak quietly for some time. Genet starts crying and Shewit hugs her.

  Genet’s fever is worse, and she seems weaker every day. I know that Shewit thinks Genet should go to hospital and see what they can do for her. Otherwise her leg will turn septic and she will die. Her husband is worried about leaving her in hospital alone, and about how he will pay for the treatment. There is no way they can travel with us.

  When they have finished talking, Almaz goes over to Genet and gives her one of her two brightly coloured headscarves.

  When Almaz gets up, it is my turn.

  “I hope that you can follow us in a couple of months when your leg is better,” I say.

  She looks up at me and smiles a weak smile. Sometimes it’s easier to smile than to speak when you are feeling broken.

  I turn and say goodbye to Genet’s husband. He will have to work, shop and cook for both of them now.

  Shortly after lunch there is a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” Mesfin asks.

  “It’s time to leave,” replies an impatient voice in English.

  Shewit and Almaz kiss Genet on the cheeks. She smiles, but the smile quickly fades.

  I pick up the large stripy laundry bag; Almaz grabs on to one of my arms as the four of us step outside.

  Two men with rifles are waiting in the alleyway. “Try not to walk in a line behind us. Keep your heads down. Let’s go.”

  I am leaving another home, but this time the destination is Europe. I try not to let excitement take over. When I left prison, Tesfay said the chances of making it were barely higher than zero. The odds for this journey must be higher. A wave of sadness rushes over me. I was supposed to look after Bini. We were supposed to look after each other. He made sure I escaped; I left him to die. Maybe Almaz and her family are foolish to let me travel with them.

  We follow silently through the maze of streets until we reach the main road. We are less conspicuous here amongst the dust lifted by the cars and trucks, and the people hurrying along beside the traffic. The armed men walk fast, and I find it hard to keep up. The laundry bag is an awkward shape and I have to carry it in front so I can barely see where I’m going. I feel sweat running down my back.

  We reach the edge of town, where there is a patch of dirt the size of two football pitches; it is noisy with buses, coaches and taxis.

  Almaz is walking next to her mother; both have their eyes to the ground.

  I walk with Mesfin. Since I rescued Almaz, he has started treating me more like a member of the family. We even played gebeta together a few times. I wonder how he feels, taking his wife and daughter from their safe room to journey across the desert. I guess their room wasn’t going to be safe for much longer.

  At the far edge of the bus depot is a large open-​top truck with sixty or seventy people crammed inside. Yellow plastic containers drape over the sides, making it bulge like a pregnant donkey. I instantly know that this is the truck we will be travelling on. The little I can see of the actual truck is battered and dusty, and there is no shelter from the sun for the passengers. It is definitely not new, like Medhanie promised us. I cannot see him anywhere. Perhaps he is busy today
after all.

  One of the armed men takes a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “Name?” He looks at me.

  “Shiferwa Gebreselassie.”

  He stops in front of Almaz and smiles at her, but it is not a friendly smile. “Name?”

  I can barely hear her reply as she speaks to the ground, not wishing to meet the man’s eyes.

  The other man with a rifle is tall and has a curved nose which looks like it may have been broken. He addresses all four of us. “The yellow containers are for fuel and water. Do not help yourselves. We’ll stop to eat and drink, and you’ll be given water then. If the road is good it should take perhaps five or six days to cross the desert. You will be met at the border, where you’ll take a different truck to the port. Understand?”

  We all nod mutely.

  “Find a space on top. If there’s no room for your bag you have to leave it behind.”

  The truck is already full. Mesfin climbs on first, then holds out his hand to me. Together we pull Shewit and Almaz up. Bodies press against me from all sides. It’s hot, and the sun beats down relentlessly. Almaz and I push our way further into the truck, but there is no room to sit. I take off my sweater and tie it round my head and neck.

  The smugglers jump up and find a place to sit at the edge, resting their rifles on their knees. Shewit and Mesfin also find a place along the truck edge, where it’s cooler and less squashed. The engine revs loudly before we move slowly towards the desert in a haze of dust and diesel fumes.

  We drive for hours without stopping. Although we speak different languages, I still manage to work out that the other people on the truck have come from the refugee camp further south. They had been driving for an hour when they reached our town. There are a few boys my age, older men, and also a woman with a boy younger than Lemlem.

  My mouth is so dry that it’s painful to swallow. My eyes are sore. As the reddish mountains and the town melt into the distance, a flat yellow landscape sprawls out around us in every direction. I feel as if I am speeding towards my future in a billowing cloud of orange sand.

  Almaz turns and smiles.

  I know why she is smiling. It’s good to feel part of something again. Part of a group. It makes our journey seem almost normal. I smile back.

  “Ato Medhanie must make a lot of money,” I say.

  Desert 2

  For four days we drive, stopping only once in the morning and once in the afternoon to eat bread and cold lentils, and to drink water. Then the stew runs out and we have only hard bread. We sleep under tattered plastic sheets, Almaz between her parents, and me next to Mesfin. We dig a shallow pit in the sand and place the sheets on top, weighed down round the edges with another layer of sand. There are six or seven other people sharing our pit each night. I can start to see my ribs again. As the road changes from gritty track to no road at all, we move more slowly, often sliding through soft sand, steering towards some point which only the driver magically knows. Sometimes I see a plume of dust in the distance. Maybe another truck bumping across the desert to the border.

  Ours ears become so accustomed to the rumble of the engine that there is a constant ringing noise in them when we stop. While we drive, Almaz and I get used to speaking loudly and lip-​reading to understand. Almaz stares at me intently to make sure she doesn’t miss anything I am saying. She always pauses before answering, careful not to waste words. It’s exhausting to talk for long. We mostly discuss where we want to live in England.

  “A big city,” says Almaz. “A big city will have good cinemas and music. My mother knows some people in London.”

  “I don’t know much about England,” I confess. “My uncle has a friend in London too. My mother knows somebody in the north. I don’t know where. I think it’s cold in the north, though.”

  “I heard it’s cold everywhere,” she says. “It’s like rainy season all the time.”

  “But there must be a dry season too.”

  I think about Mum and Lemlem back at home. Who will I live with, without my family? It might take Mum a lot longer than six months to be able to leave now that the military is watching her. I want to stay with Almaz, Shewit and Mesfin. Perhaps they won’t want me with them once we arrive in England. They will be busy looking for jobs and looking for a school for Almaz. I would be one extra person to think about.

  The truck labours through a ridge of soft sand. As it nears the top, we slow despite the whining revs of the engine. Diesel fumes drift over the trailer and we slide to a stop. I hear the driver’s door open and he jumps down into the sand, shouting up to the men with guns.

  One of the smugglers near the footboard shouts back angrily. “Everyone off!” he orders.

  Our legs are stiff from lack of use. Slowly we climb down onto the footboard, then jump into the hot sand. Almaz and I wade towards her parents, who are waiting in the desert, several metres from the truck.

  “Are you OK, Mum?” Almaz asks.

  “A little thirsty,” she answers, “but at least we had a place to sit.” Shewit unwinds the scarf from her head. “Come.” She points to the sand, intending to shade us all with her scarf.

  Before I can join them, one of the smugglers points at me and shouts, “You!”

  On the sand in front of him lies a heap of shovels. He chooses nine or ten other men and directs us each to a wheel. A different smuggler orders us to collect some worn wooden planks from the floor of the trailer.

  Without the breeze we enjoyed driving along, the pounding sun from above and the heat rising from the sand below start to seep through my skin, claiming me piece by piece for the parched desert. I blink the sweat from my eyes and try to breathe steadily.

  For an hour we dig away sand and place planks in front of the wheels, until the truck has inched to the top of the dune. The driver gets out to look for the firmest route down.

  My head is swimming and the blood thumps in my temples.

  “We need water,” one of the other men says in English.

  One of the smugglers slings his rifle over his shoulder and unties a yellow water container from the side of the truck. He pours a small plastic cupful for each of the men who helped dig out the truck. Then half a cup for the passengers strewn around the truck. They scramble to their feet and form an anxious queue, but no one pushes. They let the family with the young boy move to the front.

  The truck engine revs again, and slides down the dune towards firmer sand. People walk slowly after it. Shewit grabs my hands and looks at them, tutting and shaking her head when she sees the raw blisters, which sting from my salty sweat. At least the sweat might stop them from getting infected. There is no spare water to wash away the dirt.

  Almaz and I climb back into the truck. I hold out my hand to Shewit and Mesfin, then take up my spot in the middle.

  “Thank you for digging us out,” says Almaz while we can still hear each other.

  With barely enough energy to keep myself upright, I smile back.

  The truck sets off, creating a wonderful warm wind, and we rumble on towards the glow of a setting sun on the horizon.

  Desert 3

  The next morning, I am stiff from digging, and cold. A feeling I try to savour. We roll up the plastic sheets and set off while the sun is still a thin line in the distance. Medhanie said it would take five or six days to cross the desert. Maybe tonight we will reach the border.

  After several hours, the flat desert rises up into small rocky hills ahead. The truck begins to rattle more than usual as the ground beneath becomes harder, with only a thin layer of soft sand on top.

  There is a sudden bang, and the truck jumps like it’s been bitten, flinging the passengers sitting along the edge off the truck and onto the gritty track. They land with sickening thumps. There is the smell of diesel and the vehicle leans drunkenly. Almaz clings to me as we are crushed by the weight of people sliding to one side of the trailer. The pressure lifts as they start to scramble over the side and backboards and jump to the ground. People begin shouting a
nd wailing. We can’t see what is happening.

  I hold Almaz by the shoulders and look in her eyes. “Are you hurt?”

  “Yes, my arm, but I think it’s only bruised. You?”

  “I’m OK. Let’s find your parents.”

  We clamber up to the side and jump down to join the other passengers gathering in groups around people lying on the ground. The front wheel of the truck is bent to one side, next to a large rock.

  The driver is sitting on the ground with blood running down his face.

  One of the armed men is shouting into his mobile phone.

  “I can’t see Mum and Dad,” says Almaz.

  She starts running amongst the injured. Some are crying out, or clutching their arms or legs. Five or six aren’t moving.

  Almaz spots her father. He is kneeling in the sand, bent over someone. She rushes to his side and I see that Shewit is lying in front of him. Almaz brings her hands to her mouth and lets out a small cry. I follow her to Mesfin’s side.

  “Get water,” he says calmly.

  I run back through the sand to the truck and tug at one of the yellow containers until it comes loose. In the confusion, the smugglers don’t see me. There is a little water left at the bottom.

  When I return, Shewit’s eyes are open. “My leg. What has happened to my leg?”

  I look down and see that below the knee her leg is bent at an unnatural angle. “I think your leg is broken,” I say.

  “I’m so thirsty,” Shewit replies.

  I pour a little water into the lid of the container and pass it to Almaz. She gently tips it into her mother’s mouth. The sun is fierce, and Almaz removes her headscarf to make some shade for her mother.