"Me too."
"Can't we talk about—"
"I have to go." She shook her head. Her whole body was in denial, like he was a stranger to her.
When she was gone, he leaned against the wall. There was no place to sit except the ground. If he did that he would never get up again.
Maybe that would be okay.
*
He didn't see her again over the next few days. An older woman took over his care, didn't look him in the eye, didn't say much at all. The shadow of his ever present guard appeared closer, darker. He asked Jibriil about Sufia.
"I told you, forget it. So forget it."
"At least tell me, is she okay? She's doing well?"
Jibriil sighed. "Of course. Absolutely. But she's lucky."
He didn't explain why.
Then she was back, one morning, unexpected, there as he was opening his eyes. As vivid as ever. She startled him. He sat up and wanted to shout out her name
Sufia put a finger to her lips. Went about her business, then left without another word.
Maybe it was a weird relationship from then on, but he could live with it. Being close to her, that was worth it. There were a few shared glances, smiles, touches. But all of them subtle.
A week of it. Then another. Small talk between them building each morning. More newspapers delivered from Jibriil. Still distant sounds of war, none of them encroaching their building. It was boring, but it gave him time to think. Whatever reasons Sufia had for wanting to return, for being loyal to her faith and family, sounded a hell of a lot better than whatever Jibriil was chasing. It didn't feel like the same thing. The army of young men, zealots who got off on killing and finding a way to bend the rules so that they could kill and kill again no matter what their holy book said.
They talked about their battles, their ambushes, their assassination of prisoners, all while laughing, smiling. Nothing about those boys reminded him of the beauty of a call to prayer. Or of the beaches, which Sufia and his guard finally took him to see. Or how the women, modest in dress, expressed themselves in brightly colored hijabs. What was it, then? Was Islam what the soldiers said it was, or what Sufia showed him just by being who she was?
He sat on the beach in the afternoon, watched the waves, and thought that he would be more than happy to help Sufia's dreams about Somalia come true, as long as he didn't have to carry a gun any more.
*
Another week. Adem only used the bed for sleeping, but he was sleeping more than usual. It felt good. He could walk without the crutch, but with a limp. The better he felt, the less Sufia was around. To fill the void, he began talking to the other soldiers here, some burned badly, some shot, one or two with AIDS, nearing their end. Adem was surprised to find a couple of boys slightly younger than him, both from elsewhere like himself—Australia and Sweden. They could talk about TV shows they missed, music, movie stars. Quietly, of course. And the stars had to be pretty big for all three to connect—Jay Z, okay. Will Smith, okay. Beyonce, okay. ?uestlove, not so much.
The Swede, adopted before he could walk, had really come back to find his father. Turned out Dad had died by way of the Ethiopians, which was enough for Hirsi to sign up. His truck had been attacked fighting the government. He was stuck inside while it burned. Half his face was cracked, crisp, his eyelid burned away. Scalp so thin in parts, Adem thought he could see skull.
The Australian, Yusef, had lost an arm after being shot in a battle with Uni African forces. He seemed proud of it. He asked Adem if he'd met any of the American white guys over here. "So weird. One was from Carolina. Like, South Carolina. He had a drawl and everything."
"White Islam? Really?"
"There's a few. Weird."
They told him stories. Crazy stuff. Soldiers who whipped women for wearing bras. Grand schemes to terrorize Israel, a handful of martyrs at a time. More stonings for adultery, theft, and blasphemy, which could be nearly anything.
Just when he thought he'd found some guys who understood where he was coming from, they began talking about rejoining the fight. Doing whatever it took to prove they weren't weak in the eyes of Allah. Hirsi told Adem, "Yes, they are going to send me home. But it's so I can plan an attack. I'll lie in wait, one year, and then trust me, you'll hear about it. It'll be great."
Adem made some excuses—pain, needed to exercise—and got out of there. Down the stairs, outside, walked right past Sufia without a word. She would've seen it on his face. He didn't want to risk hearing that she agreed with those guys. Hirsi, still cringing in pain, his face half a deathmask for the rest of his life, taking it out on the people who rescued him from this hell before he could even walk. Giddy about it.
He made his way several blocks to the beach, fast as he could. Walked all the way out to the water. In up to his shins. Felt good. He thought about swimming. Then about swimming for it. Freedom. How far along the coast would he need to swim before finding a town not controlled by this army? How far before he gave up and drowned? He stared as far as he could, the sunlight popping off the water like a million flashbulbs.
Then there were the sharks. Both in the water and on land watching. He wouldn't make it far. Didn't matter how free it looked. The ocean was as much a prison as his hospital bed. So instead, he sat on the sand right beyond where the waves could reach.
That was where they found him.
*
He heard them first. Turned, made out four, the heat blurring them. Jibriil was always recognizable to Adem, no matter what. The way he walked, the swagger. With him, someone at least two feet taller, and then two more men, officers. Something about them said officers. As the blur cleared, it was clear that they were all wearing uniforms. Jibriil's was new, dark green, maybe his first time to wear it. The keffiyeh, the white scarf, around his head was blinding. The tall man wore a double-breasted suit, a wide floral tie, and a green beret on his head, ones that their enemies, the UA, wore. That didn't make any sense. The other two men were obviously higher-ups, their scarves sitting on top of their heads, flowing in the breeze behind them. No doubt they'd come looking for Adem.
By the looks on their faces, the sharks suddenly seemed a better fate.
"Look who can walk all the way to the beach by himself now. See? He's in good shape." Jibriil, finally breaking into a smile, helped Adem from the sand. Adem was only a little taller than Jibriil, but next to the giant in the suit, both seemed like children.
One of the older officers, fully bearded with more of an Arab look, said, "And not running away this time. That's good."
No one introduced themselves. They acted as if they all knew Adem's story already. He didn't know if he should drop to his knees or fear for his life. Jibriil would've told him, he was sure. So he stood there. Not a word.
His friend now motioned to the tall man. "Go ahead. Really."
Now that they were closer, Adem saw that the green beret had a bullet hole in it and was stained by blood. The tall man's blood? Or had he taken the hat as a prize?
He'd been used to the mix of Arabic, English, and Somali he'd heard, but when the tall man began speaking, it was different. He immediately understood—this was Northern Somali. The "official" version, slightly different in dialect from the Mogadishu version. "I am Farah. And yes, I took this beret from the head of my enemy."
Adem didn't realize he'd been staring at it. Farah took it from his head. "Shot him by my own hand, back when I did that sort of thing. Next time I'll aim lower and keep the hat clean."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…I wanted to ask."
"Absolutely. Tell me, your family is originally from the eastern coast?" Switching over to Arabic.
"Yes, north of Mogadishu. I've never been there, though. I might have some uncles and cousins there. I wouldn't know them."
"Shame, then. You came so far to be so close and still not know. Are they Muslim?" This time switching to Af Maay Maay, a Southern dialect, almost a different language. It was like watching a bad Minneapolis comedian doing a Tex
as twang. Was this a test? Adem's father knew Maay, taught Adem a lot about it while he was in high school.
"Yes. We all are. I'm pretty sure."
Farah glanced at Jibriil and the others. Nods, raised eyebrows.
Then, in very mannered, rough English, "But this language, this is your bread and butter, is it not? An American college boy. You grew up speaking English. More than that, you know how Westerners think. You know when they mean what they say."
Back at him, in English, "What's going on here?"
In French: "Can you tell when an American is lying?"
"About as well as I can tell when Jibriil is."
Laughs all around. One of the officers slapped Jibriil on the back. But Jibriil did not look amused. Pain was creeping down Adem's leg again. He hoped they'd let him sit down again soon.
Farah said something else, something Adem couldn't translate. But he recognized it. "I don't know Dutch. Or Swedish. It's one of those, isn't it?"
Farah waved it off. In English again, rough indeed. "No matter. I need someone like you. We have importance…ah….importance for you. A job for you."
"One that involves talking to foreigners?"
"Can you tell where an American is from on accent alone like you can a Somali?"
Adem shrugged. "Sometimes. But a lot of people grow up watching TV now, so they're losing some of the differences."
In Minneapolis he'd hardly heard the typical Minnesota accent everyone laughed at and imitated. Then he moved out west for college and discovered many of the adults honked like that every day. The kids his own age, though, could've been from anywhere. He missed that sound—the flat, neutered English of his friends.
The men laughed the way older men do. Adem wasn't sure what was funny. Jibriil said, "Shall we go back now?"
They began walking the road to the hospital, all of them patient with Adem's limp, as if he was the most important among them. Jibriil and Farah flanked him.
"You're perfect for this. It's going to be great." Jibriil wrapped Adem up with an arm around the shoulder, a big squeeze, knocking Adem off-balance. They waited for him to get his rhythm back, started again. "They need a translator."
"Who are they?"
A shrug. "Kind of like the navy."
Farah said, "When enemy states send their tankers and cruise ships into our waters as if they are immune simply because they are not on the frontlines, then we act. They take our fish, they poison our water. And we make those states pay for their transgressions."
It took a moment to click in Adem's head. He turned to Jibriil. "You mean—"
"Yes, exactly. Pirates."
"Pirates?"
This was when Adem expected to wake up. It was bizarre enough to be where he was and to have seen what he had seen. But then there were pirates?
He didn't wake up. He was still limping towards a building he wished he'd never have to sleep in again, full of seriously wounded young men still dreaming of martyrdom. A woman he couldn't fall in love with even though he already had. A handful of newspapers he'd read forty times apiece.
But he'd rather sleep there than be a pirate.
"I can't be a pirate. Look at me! Just because I have a limp doesn't mean it's a wooden leg."
Jibriil laughed. The others didn't. Jibriil explained the thing about the leg, and one of the men said, "Oh, Johnny Depp. Pirates."
Adem hadn't meant to be funny, leaned in to tell Jibriil, "I can barely walk. I'm in a world of pain. This is ridiculous—"
Jibriil shut him up with a curled lip. No jokes.
Farah said, "You can come to Bosaso with me, and you will help me talk to the companies who own the ships. You will be my mouth. But they will know that you are an independent….ah….contractor, I think is how you say it. So if they were to arrest you or threaten you, it would not deter us. You will have no inside information. You will only know what we tell you."
Adem couldn't believe it. Bosaso. Like, a real city. Modern, growing, free. It was on the northern coast, near the horn, Puntland. Mostly untouched by his army. He was surprised to hear they had any presence there at all.
One of the other officers picked up again. "We have trained some of their men. They recruit from us. In exchange, we have been rewarded very well. A vital source of help to wage our campaign."
"So I don't have to be on the ship?"
Farah said, "No, no. To put you there would be pointless. I need you on land, in meetings with me, talking to moneymen and politicians. They won't see you the same way they see us. We dress like them, talk like them. We will give you a place to live, on your own. When your job is done for the day, you will be free to move about the city. And you will be given money to cover your living expenses, and a small portion of any ransom you help negotiate."
Another glance at Jibriil. Grinning, made his scar look more frightening. "You're perfect for this, Adem. It's what you've been studying for. It's business, politics, world affairs, all balled up into one."
It hadn't come out of the blue. That was obvious. Jibriil must have used his rank to ask around, find a way out for Adem. Not a real way out. As the man had told him, he would be "free to move about the city", but he left unsaid, but not to leave it.
"I don't know," Adem said. "I need to think about it."
Farah looked down on him, a sour look on his face. "I don't have time."
Jibriil pulled Adem aside, spoke softly. "What are you doing?"
"There's a big difference between fighting a war and becoming a criminal."
"Not really. Not here. Look, to kill a man, for the glory of God even, is still killing a man. What will you be doing for these men instead? Talking. Just talking. Not killing. Some of us are called to fight. But you're special. You are not a fighter. But goddamn, can you talk."
Adem shook his head. "Too fast."
"You've been here over a month now. How much more time do you need? I've been trying to help you, and now I can. Please, take the job. You'll be like an ambassador. Adem, please."
He was right. It was better than what he had expected. Lying awake at night, waiting for his guard to tell him it was time to go back to the camp, gear up for another fight. Or worse, for the guard to take him out back, put Adem on his knees, and finish the job the mob had started. This limbo was nice—Sufia, the beach, the quiet. But once it was over, there would be no plane back to the States. Farah's offer was the best chance he had.
He said, "Okay. Okay, I'm ready."
Jibriil let out a deep breath. Smile coming to his face. "Thank God."
They rejoined the men in the middle of the street, Jibriil about to start talking when Adem said, "I'd like to make one request, if that's okay with you, sir."
Farah narrowed his eyes, but it wasn't anger. More like he was amused by the weak American standing up to him like that. He told the other officers in Arabic, "What kind of monster have we created here?"
Laughter. Then, "Hear him out, at least. He's already started negotiating hasn't he?"
Did they think he didn't know Arabic? Hadn't they tested him, like, two minutes ago? Adem said, "Please, it's not much to ask."
More laughter from the officers, but Farah wasn't so happy this time. Adem continued in Arabic. "I would like an assistant, especially since I'm still not completely healthy yet. There's a woman who helps me here, Sufia, and I could really make use of her kindness until I'm fully recovered."
No one was laughing anymore. Farah stared into Adem's face. Taking it apart in his mind? The tall man finally said, "Absolutely not."
Jibriil leaned towards Adem. "It's not the way—"
"I'm sick of that answer. I know it's not what they do here. But it's what I want, and I can at least ask."
"You asked, he said no. There."
Adem turned back to Farah, Jibriil's hand wrapping around his bicep. "Why not?"
Not used to being talked to like this. The tall man let out a breath, probably dismissing the little bastard. There was always combat if that's what he
preferred. Farah said, "We can give you a nurse. We can give you an assistant. There's no need—"
"Tell me, you can give me a cook, someone to change my bandages, someone to help with my schedule. But you can't give me a woman who speaks English better than I do. One who was educated in London. I don't need an assistant. I need her. If she's in a meeting, maybe she sees or hears something I miss. Body language. Tone. I don't know. But believe me, you want both of us for this."
Farah couldn't help but grin as Adem pled Sufia's case. He turned to the other officers. "A born negotiator. I'm glad he's on our side. Otherwise, I would kill him where he stands."
Adem flinched. But held his ground and his tongue. Nothing else to say.
One of the other officers motioned to Jibriil. "You know the girl he's talking about?"
"Yes, she's helped his recovery greatly."
Nods all around.
Farah finally stuck out his hand. "Deal. But you pay her out of your cut. You find her a place to stay. Not with you."
Adem shook it. He wondered what else he could've gotten—more money? Two weeks vacation? But Sufia was worth more than any of that. The others began walking back to the hospital. Adem didn't have anything to pack. He wondered if they would let him keep his rifle. He hadn't seen it since being dragged from the truck, so it was probably lost forever, in the hands of some twelve-year-old ready to take on the infidels. Let him have it. Adem preferred a shower, a bed, and some time alone with Sufia.
Jibriil told Farah, "I'd also like to send along a bodyguard, if that's okay. I know you might have plenty of men for this, but I can send a man with combat experience, someone vested in keeping Adem away from danger at all costs."
Not a bodyguard, Adem thought. A babysitter. Maybe the guard who had been watching him his entire time here, never got his name. Whatever. If he wanted to stand in the hall with his gun and look bored, fine.
At the hospital, a jeep awaited Farah, his driver very much looking like a pirate—sleeveless shirt, bandana around his head. Scars on his arms, face. Staring daggers. Farah told one of the officers to find Sufia. Jibriil called out to one of his soldiers, but Adem missed exactly what he said. The soldier rushed off.
All the Young Warriors Page 15