Displaced

by Dean Hughes

  Hadi wished Allah’s blessing for prosperity on his father, and then he walked through Bourj Hammoud. When he reached Garo’s stand, the old man was setting up for the day. “Can I help you with those boxes?” Hadi asked him.

  Garo set down a box of avocados, then turned to look at Hadi. He smiled. “Good morning, Hadi,” he said. “Thank you, but…” He stopped, glanced toward the back of his stand. “Actually, you could help me with those melons back there. The box is a little big for me.”

  “Sure I will,” Hadi said, and he was thrilled to do something for Garo. He had offered many times, but Garo had always said he could manage by himself. So Hadi lifted one end of the box, Garo the other, and they carried it to a table at the front of the stand.

  “Thanks so much, my friend,” Garo said. “You’re a strong boy. You made the lift easy for me.”

  “Any time you need help, just tell me.”

  Garo patted Hadi gently on the shoulder. “I will, Hadi. I will. But I can do the rest. You go on to your place now. And have a good day.”

  Hadi smiled at him. “You too,” he said.

  “Inshallah,” Garo said, and they both laughed.

  Hadi felt more awake after that, and he walked a little faster the rest of the way. The rain had stopped, but the traffic, the noise, the people on the streets—it was all the same. So he worked his way through the traffic on the way to his corner, and he told himself that Kamal seemed to be all talk, that he wouldn’t bother to chase Hadi off the corner. What he was remembering was that he had promised to bring something that he and Malek could read, so he watched along the way for a newspaper that someone might have tossed aside.

  Not far from his intersection in Bauchrieh was a store that sold paper and pens and other such things, and it also sold books. He hadn’t managed to find a newspaper, but when he passed the bookstore, he wondered what books cost. He stopped just to look in the window, and when he did, a book cover caught his eye. On it was a picture of an astronaut, dressed in a space suit, standing on the surface of the moon, just as Hadi had once imagined himself doing. He tried to read the title. He recognized “first” and “moon,” but he couldn’t decipher the other words. He thought maybe he could save a coin or two each day, and after a time buy the book. But he put the thought aside instantly. Right now all his money had to go to getting help for Mama.

  As he was still standing at the window, two boys came out of the store. They were about his age, or maybe a little older. They were Lebanese, he thought, probably on their way to school, and maybe they had stopped to buy a notebook or a pencil. “Can you tell me something?” he asked one of the boys. He was embarrassed to ask them, but he really wanted to know.

  The boy was short and soft, with fat cheeks. He had been laughing about something, but now he looked surprised. “Excuse me?” he said.

  “Could you tell me what the words say on that book?”

  Both boys laughed. “Don’t you know?”

  Hadi took a breath. “No.” He looked past the boy.

  “Can’t you read?”

  Hadi should have known they would make fun of him. He turned to walk away.

  “It says ‘American Astronauts: First Landing on the Moon.’ ”

  Hadi looked back, nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

  “You must be a Syrian.”

  Hadi wasn’t going to have this conversation. But he didn’t want to be shamed. On impulse, he said, “I think I’ll buy that book,” and he reversed himself and stepped to the door.

  The Lebanese boys laughed harder, and Hadi knew it had been a stupid thing to say. He hadn’t avoided any shame; they knew he couldn’t read. Still, he walked in, and inside the little shop, he found the shelves where the books were displayed. He looked for more copies of the book about the men who had landed on the moon, but he couldn’t see any. He knew that a woman was behind a glass counter, off to his right, and he felt it would look strange merely to turn around and walk back out, so he pulled a book from the shelf, looked at the cover, and then began to turn some of the pages. The book had no picture on the front, and he couldn’t find many words he knew. But he wasn’t concentrating; he was mostly worried about the woman, who was watching him intently.

  He kept turning the pages, and he acted as though he were stopping here and there to read a passage. He was ready to put the book back and make his way out of the store when the woman said, “Don’t try to slip that book inside your jacket.”

  Hadi was taken by surprise. He had glanced at the woman when he had walked in, and she looked rather nice. She was an older woman, older than his mother, with gray hair and with round eyeglasses. He hadn’t expected her to sound so stern. “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “I know you can’t read that book. What you can do is steal it and then try to sell it. It’s happened in here before.”

  Hadi couldn’t think what to say.

  “You’re a street boy. I’ve seen you on the corner begging people to give you money.”

  Hadi thought of saying that he didn’t beg; he sold chewing gum. But it was probably all the same to her. He wasn’t going to talk to her. He turned and slid the book back onto the shelf, exactly in the spot where he had found it.

  “You Syrian children will steal anything. The government gives you food and clothes. You have more than the Lebanese children. But you aren’t satisfied. You have to grab for more.”

  Hadi finally looked her straight on, tried to think what he could say. “I wasn’t going to steal it,” he said. “I came in to look at that book that’s in the window—the one that’s about astronauts.” But his voice was shaking. He cleared his throat. “I want to buy it.”

  “Fine. Show me your money and I’ll sell you a copy.”

  Hadi’s attempt to save face had only ended up embarrassing him all the more. And yet he tried again. “I don’t have enough money today. But when I save enough, I’ll come back and buy it. How much does it cost?”

  “Quit lying. You don’t know how to read. You’ve never been to school. The only thing you understand is begging and stealing. Do you have any idea how tired we are of you people coming into our country by the millions and then expecting us to provide for you?” She pointed to the door. “Get out of here, right now.”

  Hadi wanted to say, I don’t steal. He tried to say it. But all this—the embarrassment, the ugly accusations—was too much for him. “I don’t…,” he began, but his voice broke. He stopped so he wouldn’t cry. But when he squeezed his eyes shut, tears ran down his face. He gave up saying anything and hurried toward the door.

  But the woman stepped from behind the counter and cut him off. She stood in front of him. He thought she might slap him, or maybe call the police. He stopped, ducked his head, wiped away the tears on his cheeks—but he didn’t look at her. He wished that he had never walked into this store.

  Silence continued for a long time, and Hadi didn’t know whether she would let him walk around her. Finally, he looked up and saw that her face had changed. Maybe she felt sorry for him now that she had seen his tears, but he didn’t want that. He was all the more humiliated.

  “Am I wrong? Can you read?” she asked.

  Hadi wanted to lie, but that was what she had called him, a liar, so he said instead, “Not very well. But I’m trying to learn.”

  “Do you go to school?”

  “No. But I want to go.”

  “Do you like books?”

  “Yes. When I was little, my father read to me. Sometimes about astronauts.”

  Again there was silence. Hadi decided she wouldn’t stop him if he tried to leave. But he took only one step before she said, “I’m sorry. I believe you. I think you really do want to read.”

  Hadi looked up again. He could see in her eyes, even through her glasses, that she actually was sorry.

  “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. But we get frustrated here in Beirut. I don’t know if you can understand that.”

  But Hadi didn’t understand. He an
d his father only wanted to bring home enough money to provide food for their family and to pay their rent. Charities did give them clothing, and sometimes a little food, but Hadi never begged for those things. And he paid for the fruit that Garo gave him—at least a little.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hadi.”

  “Some Syrian children do go to our schools.”

  “I know.”

  “But your father sends you out to beg in the street all day.”

  “No. We both sell things.” He pulled a package of gum from his jacket pocket. “I sell chewing gum.”

  She nodded, waited, seemed to think. Finally, she said, “I’d like to buy some of your gum. Can I pay you with a book?”

  “No. A book costs too much. People only pay me one thousand for my gum, or maybe five hundred.”

  “I have an old book that’s worn out and isn’t worth much, but it might help you learn to read. Would you trade me a package of gum for that book?”

  Hadi tried to think whether he felt all right about that. But he wanted a book, needed one. So he said, “Yes.”

  The woman walked back to her counter, reached underneath, and pulled out a book that looked as though it had been left out in the rain. It had a hard gray cover, no pictures on the front. “This is a book written by a Lebanese man named Kahlil Gibran. Have you heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “He talks about life and how we should live it. He offers ways to think about the world—new ways. I’ve read the book many times, as you can see. But I want you to have it.”

  “Thank you.” Hadi held the gum out to her.

  The woman smiled as she took the box. He knew she didn’t really want it. But he was excited to have a book of his own. He opened it, looked through some of the pages. He saw a few words—little ones—that he knew, but most of it looked difficult.

  “How will you learn to read it?”

  “I have a friend who will help me. And my father. He knows how to read.”

  “If you want, you could stop by here, and I could help you a little.”

  “Thank you.” But Hadi knew he wouldn’t come back, at least not for now. She had already told him what she thought of him. What he wanted was to learn to read and then somehow earn enough money and come back to her store to buy the book about the astronauts.

  “This is a hard book,” the woman said. “You will struggle to read it at first. The words are difficult, but the meaning is deeper than the words. You can read it a hundred times in your life and still learn more each time.”

  Hadi really didn’t understand what she meant, but he said, “Chokran.” He told himself, someday he would stop at this store and read the book aloud to her. He would have better clothes by then, and a job. He and Malek would figure out a way to get off the street and do things the woman could never imagine.

  But for now he had a book, and he had not expected such a thing to happen. As his father had said to him, Inshallah.

  6

  As Hadi walked toward his corner, he wondered whether his eyes were red. He didn’t want Malek to see him that way. But from across the intersection, Hadi could see that Malek wasn’t there yet, and Hadi wondered why. He worried what might have happened to him, what Kamal might have done.

  Hadi stopped at the cabstand to pick up his gum. When Rashid saw Hadi coming, he grinned. “I didn’t think you would be back today,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I saw the man who works for Kamal watching you.”

  “You know Kamal?”

  Rashid laughed. “Yes, I know him. I know all about him. And I know the men who work for him. You better be careful, Hadi. Don’t cross Kamal or his gang. You won’t get away with it.”

  “I know that,” Hadi said, but he didn’t want to say more than that. Rashid was a moody guy, and he could be pretty scary himself. Once he had told Hadi that he ought to work from the cabstand, just for a change, but then, when Hadi said he liked the other side of the street better, he had cursed him for saying so.

  Hadi got his gum and crossed to the north side of the street. He decided that he might as well work from that side until Malek showed up. He could then chat with him for a minute before he returned across the street. Hadi was nervous about Malek not being there, and Rashid’s assessment of Kamal had frightened him. He had been trying to tell himself that Kamal was no real threat, but Rashid knew the streets, and he obviously knew plenty about Kamal and his gang.

  But things started well. Hadi felt lucky when he saw people he knew, people who always bought gum from him. In half an hour he had taken in four thousand Lebanese pounds, and then his friends, the foreigners, came by. They smiled at him, gave him two thousand pounds, and wished him a great day.

  Hadi thanked them, blessed them. But as they began to drive away, he noticed something, and he ran after them. They had moved up a little and then been caught in the traffic and stopped again. He caught up to them and said, “Your tire, in back, it’s low.”

  The man looked at Hadi curiously. Clearly he hadn’t understood.

  “Your tire, back here.” He pointed to the tire. “It needs air.” He pressed his hands together, to show him what he meant, that the tire was going flat.

  “Ah, I understand. Thank you.” They both laughed, pleased that they had found a way to make sense of Hadi’s gestures. The man said something else, and Hadi thought maybe it was that he would get the tire fixed, but he wasn’t sure. But then the man said, “You are good friend to us, Hadi.”

  Hadi laughed and thanked him again, but he was surprised the man had called him a friend. They had been kind to him, but he didn’t know their names or where they were from. He thought they spoke French, but he wasn’t even sure of that.

  But cars were honking now. The couple had to move on.

  After the early traffic congestion calmed a little, Samir, the policeman who tried to keep the traffic under control, walked over to the corner and greeted Hadi. “Marhaba,” he said. “Kifak?”

  “I’m very well. Chokran.”

  But Samir wasn’t just passing time. Hadi could see that in the serious way he was looking at him. Samir was a thin man, a little taller than average. He had a quiet voice even though he sometimes had to shout and blow his whistle at people. He had told Hadi once that it was a hopeless task to bring order to the streets of Beirut—but at least he had a job.

  “Where’s the new boy?” Samir asked.

  “I don’t know. I thought he would be here.”

  Samir nodded, looked serious. “Hadi, be careful,” he said. “You’re being watched.”

  “Now?”

  “No. But I’ve seen people from Kamal’s gang.”

  “Rashid said the same thing to me. Have you been talking to Rashid, or—”

  “No, Hadi. I know these people; so does Rashid. When Kamal first moved into this part of town—a few months back—a street boy stood up to him. Kamal took the boy into an alley and beat him almost to death. We knew he did it, so we arrested him, but he was out of jail that same day. He has connections to people in the crime world. Those people won’t be denied. They’ll kill a boy like you just to prove they’re in charge.”

  Hadi drew in some breath. He had been trying to tell himself that Kamal was just some thug who tried to scare people.

  “You’re a good kid, Hadi. You’re respectful to people. You don’t get in the way of cars or cause me any trouble. But you know that selling things on the street, the way you do, is actually illegal. If I find out our police department is making a sweep to get all you children off the street, I’ll warn you ahead of time. But Kamal is a different matter. I know you need money for your family, but you won’t help anyone if you get yourself killed.”

  Hadi nodded again. “Chokran. I’ll be careful.”

  “And, Hadi, don’t trust Rashid. He’s a bad man too. Even worse than Kamal.”

  “Okay.” But Hadi had a hard time believing that. Rashid had a dirty mouth, but he was just a cabd
river. It didn’t seem like he would hurt anyone.

  Samir walked away and Hadi tried to think what he should do. He knew with all these warnings, Baba would say he should leave now and look for a new corner. But one reason to stay was that Samir would look out for him.

  It was another twenty minutes or so before Malek showed up. “How’s it going?” Malek asked, as though it were a normal day. But Hadi could see that he was upset.

  “What’s happened?” Hadi asked.

  “I didn’t wake up on time. My father usually wakes me and my brothers, but he didn’t do it this morning. I don’t know why. But then Kamal spotted us leaving the house late. He told my brothers to hurry and get to the street, but he pulled me aside and told me I was getting no more chances. I had to start selling more tissues. And he said that you have to leave. Today.”

  Hadi had been apprehensive for a long time now, but these words sank deep. He felt a kind of shakiness fill up his whole body. He thought maybe he should walk to Dora, talk to Baba, get his advice. But as soon as he thought of that, he knew they would have to spend the day looking for another intersection, and that meant going back to their apartment that night and telling Mama that she had to keep living with her pain. Maybe it even meant not being able to pay the rent and ending up on the street. “What if I work across the street, the way we talked about?” he asked Malek. “Did Kamal say anything about that?”

  “No. I just told him I’d make you leave.”

  Hadi knew he was taking a huge chance—actually putting his life in danger—but why should Kamal care if he worked with cars that were going a different direction? “I’m going to work over by the cabstand. If Kamal tells you I can’t do that, I’ll look for a new corner, but for today I’ll stay at this intersection.”

  “I’m sorry you have to do that, Hadi. But if I do better over here, maybe I could share some of what I make.”

  “Malek, no. You’ve got to make more just to keep Kamal satisfied. None of this is your fault. Don’t worry about it.” Hadi tried to sound calm, but he was still shaking.