by Henry Porter
‘Maybe – I do not know this.’
‘I thought the British were still paying you?’
He shook his head. ‘I have new boss with plenty money now.’
‘You’re not thinking of me, I hope.’
Vuk snorted a laugh and began coughing. He felt for the flask in one of the hand-warmer pockets in the front of his jacket, took a mouthful and banged his chest violently with his fist.
‘What happened last night, Vuk? Why didn’t you answer? You could have called me back.’
‘Was busy with new boss.’
‘Who is your new boss?’
‘In moment I tell you.’
Samson stamped his feet and rubbed his hands and looked around, now bored with Vuk’s game. With the activity in the marketplace, migrants were stirring and beginning to look around for sustenance. ‘I need coffee,’ he said. His eyes travelled across the market stalls in search of a stand selling hot drinks. The stall that had been worked the night before by the young couple had gone. Then he saw two policemen making towards him, with a third man in plain clothes, who pointed straight at him. He bent down and slipped all three phones into the side pocket of his backpack.
‘Vuk, can you pick up my pack?’
‘Your pack?’
‘Yeah, my backpack! Pick it up and walk away from me. Do it now! It’s got Naji’s phone in it. Guard it with your life.’
Vuk hooked the bag over one shoulder and moved away into a group of men unloading crates of tools and electrical goods from a truck.
Samson patted his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. By the time he had lit up, Vuk had disappeared.
‘You!’ said the plain-clothes officer in English. ‘You are coming with us.’
‘Oh really,’ said Samson. ‘Why’s that?’
‘You are here illegally. You were instructed by border police to leave the country. You did not obey that instruction and you are now under arrest.’
‘What if I tell you that I’m leaving today?’
The man nodded and the uniformed police officers each took one of his arms. ‘It is too late for that, Mr Samson.’
‘You were here last night, weren’t you?’ said Samson, now recognising the officer. ‘You have two terrorist suspects under arrest because of my help.’
The man turned away and Samson was frogmarched to a waiting car.
*
Naji was first to wake. It had snowed a little during the night and pellets of ice had gathered in tiny drifts beyond the cover of the trees. He heaped pine logs onto the fire to make tea and nudged Ifkar awake. He was slow to come to, but eventually he took the tin cup, held it in both hands and blew on it. Moon raised her head and then let it flop back, ignoring the sliver of lamb that Naji held out to her. It was obvious to him that neither could travel that day.
Naji busied himself collecting more wood and repairing the shelter, then warmed the bread on the fire and placed a slice of hard cheese on it for Ifkar’s breakfast. He was worried about his friend’s pallor and glassy-eyed listlessness. He coaxed him to eat, saying he needed fuel to make new blood and defend himself against infection. Ifkar smiled weakly and did his best, eating a little, but then deflected Naji’s attention to Moon. Together they made her drink and forced some meat into her mouth, which she consented to swallow.
All three dozed for a while. By mid-morning Ifkar was getting worse. His forehead was hot to the touch and he complained of a raging thirst. Naji had no idea what to do – he was too large to help down into the town and Naji was sure he wouldn’t be able to get medical aid to him on the mountain, even if he found someone. There was only one thing for it – he would leave them and go to find drugs, water and food. He stoked the fire with a large, dry tree branch, and placed a pile of wood beside Ifkar so he could keep the fire going. He left his sharpened stick and a knife, and at Ikfar’s suggestion put the remaining food in a plastic bag and hung it on a tree a little distance away, because the day before they’d wondered if the bear had been attracted by the smell of food. He set off, and after hurrying downhill for five minutes found a track that wound down the mountain to the town. He marked the spot where he had joined the track by tying a rag to a sapling then raced on with only the dread of losing Ifkar and Moon in his mind. He reached the town in under an hour. At any other time he’d have taken care to scout out the place and watch for Al-munajil’s men, but he went quickly to the centre and found a large general store that had a few basic medical supplies for sale. He bought packets of bandages and plasters, although he knew they wouldn’t be enough to cover Ifkar’s gunshot wounds, and as much food and water as he could stuff into his pack. Outside the store he stopped to listen. Familiar sounds were coming down the street – the calls of market stallholders are the same the world over – and he followed them to an open-air market that was full of colour in the fleeting sunlight. A large number of migrants milled about and there was almost a festive atmosphere. He learned from a group of men gathered around a stall specialising in tools that several buses had already departed to take people to the Serbian border, and many more were promised that afternoon.
He knew a lot about markets, and at any other time he would have lingered among the stalls to watch, but as soon as he realised there was nothing he could buy to help Ifkar, he decided to leave. At that moment he became aware of a woman in a headscarf staring at him from the other side of a fruit stall. For a moment their eyes met. She smiled, then started waving excitedly and calling his name. He pulled his cap down and started to push through the crowd. But she moved quickly and in no time she had caught up with him and grabbed hold of his arm – not roughly, but with enough strength to prevent his escape. He turned to see the woman, who was not much taller than him, beaming and fanning her face after the exertion of her dash through the crowd. ‘Oh Naji, it’s wonderful to see you again.’
For some reason he noticed her huge breasts and thought how Ikfar would admire them. But who was she? There was something vaguely familiar about the stout figure and the chubby, friendly face. She laid her hand on his arm, shaking her head. ‘Naji! Don’t you remember us?’ She turned to a stocky man who was carrying a baby on his chest. ‘Fatimah and Hassan!’ she continued, her eyes popping. ‘The Antars! We were on your boat – you saved our little girl when we sank. You saved our little Marya! We have her because of you, Naji. Because of you, Naji!’
She lifted the baby from the sling and held her out in front of him. ‘This is Marya, who you saved from the sea. Don’t you recognise her?’
He nodded, though one baby looked like another to him. Even though he had spent so long looking at this baby’s face, he could not remember her. Marya stuck her hand out and touched his nose and her parents roared with laughter. Naji groaned inwardly. At the camp, he’d been embarrassed when the couple had come with tears in their eyes to shower him with kisses, and now Fatimah was determined to go through the same mortifying performance, telling those who had gathered around them that Naji was a true hero. He protested that he wasn’t a hero at all – all he’d done was reach for a life jacket when he was about to drown in the ocean. He didn’t know there was baby in it. But no one heard him. They touched him and patted his back and one man said that to hear of such selfless action restored his faith in humanity.
Marya was returned to the sling and a dummy was put into her mouth. Naji thought this was good moment to go and attempted to wriggle free from Fatimah’s grasp. ‘Where are you going?’ she cried. ‘Aren’t you going with us on the bus? Please travel with us, Naji! We may be able to help you.’
He shook his head. ‘I have a friend who is sick and I must return to him. He’s very sick.’
‘Helping everyone except yourself – as usual,’ said Fatimah. She glanced at her husband, who nodded his admiration. ‘There must be something we can do for you, dear Naji? We owe you everything.’
He shook his head
resolutely. ‘No, there’s nothing you can do for me. It’s kind of you, but . . .’ He stopped. ‘Have you got a phone I can use? I need to call my sister.’
‘Yes, of course! We bought a replacement in Lesbos.’ She held out her hand to her husband without looking at him. He placed the phone in her hand and she passed it to Naji.
He’d memorised his sister’s new number, but unfortunately not the number of the Englishman named Samson. He moved away a little and dialled.
She answered immediately.
‘Munira – it’s me.’
‘Oh, Naji! Naji – you’re all right! Thank God!’ She let out a sob of relief.
‘Yes, I’m fine, but I don’t have that phone any longer – someone stole it before I could call that man. Tell him I’m in the same place. But I am looking after a friend who is hurt and—’
Munira told him to shut up. This shocked him – she never spoke like that, even in anger, and now he realised that there was something strange about her voice. ‘Naji, listen to me. She died – our little sister Yasmin died. This morning she left us.’ The news came in gasps that ended with a moan of grief.
At first, Naji had no idea what she was saying, for with the battle of the walnut tree and his total preoccupation with Ifkar and Moon, he’d forgotten completely about his sister’s illness. It was a couple of seconds before the realisation dropped like a stone in his being. Yasmin was dead, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back – no act of courage or self-sacrifice. Nothing. She was gone and he was responsible, for he hadn’t reached Germany and brought his family to safety. And in his mind stirred that other dark truth that he’d kept tethered and hidden for so long.
He staggered a little. The hand holding the phone dropped from his ear and he sank to the ground. Fatimah caught him and helped him to a low wall, where Naji sat with his head hanging and tears coursing down his cheeks. The woman took the phone from him and spoke to Munira and listened gravely. Then she handed the phone back to Naji. ‘Speak to her, dear child. She needs to hear your voice.’
He couldn’t manage anything except to mumble that he was desperately sorry and that it was all his fault: bringing Al-munajil into their home so that he spied on her and determined to marry her was his fault. That was the reason they had had to leave Syria and go to the camp and that was the reason Yasmin had caught the disease. Munira stopped him in mid-flow and told him to think straight – how could he, a young boy, be held responsible for the evil of a man like Al-munajil, or for the conditions in the camp that caused their sister to catch meningitis? Was he responsible for the war? Was it Naji Touma’s fault that hundreds of thousands of people lay dead in ruined cities across their homeland?
He had to agree that it wasn’t.
‘This is the life that has been chosen for us – that’s all there is to say about it,’ said Munira. She stopped and Naji heard his beloved sister take several deep breaths to control herself before she stumbled through an account of the funeral they would hold for Yasmin the following day. ‘We can survive this disaster as long you stay safe, dear brother. You must call the man who will help you. Promise me that you will do that.’
He told her about his phone, but not how he’d lost it, and she said she’d call Paul Samson, but Naji must stay in one place until he arrived. He replied that he couldn’t do that because he was looking after a friend who was sick, but that he could meet Samson in Pudnik market, where he was at that moment, the following morning.
He made her repeat the arrangement several times to make sure she had got it right. After they had told each other how much they loved each other and Naji had sent his love to his mother and his middle sister, Jada, she hung up. He gave the phone back to Fatimah. His hand trembled and tears were still running down his cheeks. She opened her arms and he let himself fall into them and be held against her breasts, right there in the marketplace with everyone watching and wondering what was going on.
‘I heard you blaming yourself just then,’ Fatimah said in his ear. ‘That is wrong, Naji. You saved our baby, and my life, too, because I could not have lived without her. Do you understand?’ She took his head in her hands and held it so that he could see her face. ‘We owe you everything, Naji. During these terrible times you must remember that three strangers will never ever forget until their dying day what you did for them.’
He nodded and wiped away his tears. But she held him for a little longer and that made him feel better, or at least able to go on.
The scene had attracted the attention of two medical volunteers, a young man and a middle-aged woman. They had rushed to Pudnik with a mobile treatment centre because large numbers of people had arrived from the south and east at the same time, many of them injured from their encounters with the Bulgarian police. The young man, a tall blond with blue spectacle frames, asked Fatimah if there was anything they could do, and she explained that Naji had just had some very bad news. ‘Perhaps we can at least clean and dress the graze on his arm,’ said the woman in good Arabic. ‘It looks like it might be infected.’ Naji turned his arm and saw the graze on his elbow for the first time. He shook his head and said it didn’t bother him – he had to be going.
‘It won’t take long,’ said the woman, putting an arm round his shoulder. ‘Our vehicle is just over there.’ Numb with grief, Naji allowed himself to be steered to a camper van parked at the side of the bus station, next to the marketplace. Fatimah and her husband followed with the baby.
Inside the van, Naji insisted on standing, which meant the woman had to sit to treat him. She applied iodine, which stained his arm golden brown, dressed the graze with lint and stuck it down with strips of plaster. As this was being done, Fatimah leaned through the door and started telling the pair how brave Naji was and how he had saved her child and was travelling to Germany on his own. Naji gave her an exasperated look and willed her to shut up, but she went on and on, and threw in the observation that many kids were vanishing on the migrant trail. The aid workers glanced at each other, then the woman started asking Naji searching questions about his journey. He looked her straight in the eye and told her that he was travelling with two cousins, who were both over eighteen years old. Fatimah did not hide her surprise at this news.
‘Your cousins, why are they not here with you now?’ asked the female aid worker.
‘I will go and find them,’ Naji said confidently.
‘Why don’t we come, too?’ she said pleasantly. ‘It will be nice to meet them, and we can make sure they know how to look after that arm of yours.’ In English, she told her colleague to make a call and say they had come across another unaccompanied minor. Naji recognised the phrase from the camp in Lesbos, where he’d heard it too many times, but his expression gave nothing away. She turned to squirt antiseptic gel into her hands and then worked it between her fingers. The blond man smiled at him and bent to pick up a box of latex gloves that had fallen behind the little counter on which lay two trays of disinfected instruments. Naji saw his chance. In one fluid movement he scooped up a wad of large dressings, the roll of lint and bottle of iodine, ducked past the woman and jumped through the doorway of the van. He collided with Fatimah, causing her to spin round with a shriek of surprise. For a few vital seconds she blocked the exit for the blond medic, who’d reached out to grab Naji but missed him.
Naji ran from the bus station and plunged into the crowds in the market, where he began to weave through the stalls in an expert fashion – fleeing someone in a market was not a new experience for him. Soon, he was back in the dismal streets of Pudnik and heading for the far side of town. Somewhere in his being, the pain of his loss throbbed, but now he consciously focused on Ifkar and Moon, for in the immediate reality of the Balkan Mountains they were all he had.
He longed to see Ifkar and show him everything he had managed to get hold of in Pudnik, but as approached the spot he’d marked with the rag, he saw a small tractor and trailer parked
a little way up the track. The engine was still going and a layer of blue exhaust had settled over the path. Voices came from the direction of the shelter where Ifkar and Moon lay. Naji crept through the trees with his heart beating so fast he thought it might be heard. But he hardly made a sound as he moved over the beds of leaves and pine needles, and he was able approach to within a few metres of the camp without making a noise. He lifted a branch and saw two figures moving around the shelter – an old couple. They had swept back the plastic sheet and moved some of the boughs that Naji had arranged. They were bent over Ifkar and Moon; neither appeared to be moving. He glimpsed Moon’s coat but he couldn’t see Ifkar. The fire was still alight. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and a twig snapped. Both heads turned towards him, and two pairs of eyes searched the forest. The woman, whom Naji guessed was in her sixties, wore three coats of different lengths, a patterned cotton scarf over her head and a woollen one around her neck. She smiled tentatively in Naji’s direction, although she couldn’t see him, and murmured something to her companion. He straightened and started towards Naji. He was a large man of about the same age, wearing a black cap with earflaps and a faded green parka with a fur-trimmed hood. Naji shrank into the bushes, but the man came near to where he was hiding and said something softly, then he simply put his hand out. He spoke again. Although it meant nothing to Naji, he guessed the man was saying hello. He waited a few seconds, then edged forward and showed himself. The man nodded and grinned, then turned to go back to the shelter. Naji followed.
On the ground by the shelter were two baskets full of fat mushrooms and a few small yellow ones. Naji understood immediately that they’d been collecting them for food and had come across the shelter by chance. He slipped past the couple and knelt down by Ifkar, who opened his eyes with a wild expression as Moon gave a lazy wag of her tail. Naji touched him on his good shoulder and said that he’d got all the bandages necessary, plus the iodine. Ifkar nodded drowsily. He was sweating and also shivering. ‘I cannot walk today,’ he told Naji apologetically.