by Dean Hughes
“We can still talk sometimes,” Malek said. “Come over once in a while and we’ll hide behind the wall.”
A wall of concrete blocks ran along the sidewalk behind the place where the boys always waited, but in one place it had broken apart and fallen down. There was space to slip through. Hadi knew they couldn’t disappear for more than a minute or two at a time, but it was something.
Hadi scanned all the corners of the intersection. He couldn’t see anyone who looked suspicious. “Let’s hide behind the wall for a minute now. I have something to show you.” He walked through the opening, and Malek followed him. Hadi had hidden his book back there. “I have a book now,” he said, but he didn’t tell Malek about the woman in the store and the things she had said to him.
“Can you read it?” Malek asked.
“Not really. But I figured out the name of it. It’s called The Prophet. A man from Lebanon wrote it. It’s his ideas about life—or something like that.”
Malek took the book from Hadi and thumbed through it, then stopped and looked at a page. “Here’s one of his ideas,” he said. He read: “ ‘Then said a rich man, Speak to us of Giving. And he answered. You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.’ ”
“Do you understand what he means?” Hadi asked.
“Sure I do. If you do something for someone, that’s giving of yourself.”
Hadi wasn’t sure that was the meaning—at least the full meaning. He had to think more about it.
Malek was saying, “This is a hard book to understand, Hadi. But you can learn lots of words from it. And your father can help you at night when you get home. Once you can read this, you’ll be able to read anything.”
Hadi liked hearing that. But he wondered how long it would take him to work his way through the whole book. What he was thinking now, though, was that they couldn’t hide behind this wall any longer. The two had already spent too much time away from the cars. “We need to get to work,” he told Malek.
“I know. And I’ve got to have a good day, somehow.”
When they stepped through the opening, Hadi saw a man walking down the sidewalk toward them. Hadi saw him almost every day at the garbage pile. There was a dumpster halfway up the hill from the corner, and people brought their garbage there. They brought so much that the dumpster couldn’t hold it all, and it spilled out into the street. This man showed up there every day.
“That’s the man in black,” Hadi said to Malek. “That’s what I call him. He sorts through the garbage up the street.”
Hadi had never said anything to the man, but Malek surprised him by smiling and saying, “Ahlan wa sahlan.”
The man stopped. He stared at Malek for a moment, and then he said, “Don’t mock me.”
“I would never do that,” Malek said. “I wish you a good day.”
“Why do you laugh at me?”
“I wasn’t laughing. I was smiling. And I greeted you.”
“See this,” the man said. He pointed to a canvas bag he carried on his back. “It’s full of good things that people throw away. I pull them out and give them another life. So don’t mock me. I know you think I’m dirty, but someone needs to do what I do.”
Hadi heard the man’s Syrian accent. He had always assumed the man was a refugee like himself, but he had never known for sure. He wore black pants and a heavy black shirt. His shoulders were humped, maybe from bending over all day, but his hair was cut short, and in spite of what he did, he wasn’t all that dirty—except for his hands and the heavy boots he wore.
“I think you’re right,” Malek said. “People do throw too many things away.”
“They throw good food away, and I eat it. Sometimes it’s spoiled a little, but I eat the good parts. What do you think of that?” The man glared at Malek, seeming to dare him to say that something was wrong with what he did.
“That doesn’t bother me,” Malek said. “You look healthy.”
The man had distant eyes, as though he didn’t quite see Malek even though he looked in his direction. “I am healthy,” he said. “But you’re mocking me.”
“No, not at all. What’s your name? I’ll be here on this corner from now on. We should be friends.”
The man took at least five seconds to respond. He continued to stare toward Malek, and then he finally said, “Amir. That’s who I am.” He turned his attention to Hadi. “I have a name,” he said. “You didn’t think so, did you?”
Hadi didn’t know what to say. He didn’t answer. The man—Amir—was right. Hadi hadn’t thought of him as anything but the man in black who dug things from the garbage.
Malek reached out his hand and said, “It’s nice to know you, Amir.”
They shook hands and Amir looked at Hadi, who hesitated for a moment but then reached his hand out too. Amir said, “My hands are dirty.”
Hadi nodded and said, “That’s all right.” And he and Amir shook hands.
When Amir was gone, Hadi was still trying to understand what had happened, but he told Malek, “That was good what you did. I never knew what his name was.”
“I like to meet people,” Malek said.
“But I never thought of him that way. I mean, that he had a name.”
“Well, we’re the boys who bother people all day, trying to sell them gum and tissues. People don’t want to know our names either.”
“I know.”
“I have an idea about what I’d like to do in my life,” Malek said. “I want to have enough money to live in a nice house. But then I’d like to help people like Amir. And people like us—the way we are now.”
Hadi had spent the last two years thinking about one day at a time, nothing beyond. But Malek’s words sounded right.
Hadi walked across the street, avoided Rashid as much as he could, and tried to sell his gum to the drivers who were heading north or were turning to drive up the hill to the east. Rashid stepped up next to him eventually and said, “You made a good choice. You’ll do better over here.”
Hadi didn’t answer. He didn’t know why Samir considered Rashid a bad person, but he decided to stay away from him as much as he could.
As the day went on, Hadi began to see people he normally saw in the morning, people who probably lived in the high-rise apartment buildings on the hillside. They seemed surprised to see him in this new place, but some of them bought his gum. One woman even said, “I’m sorry you have to do this,” and then gave him two thousand pounds. As it turned out, he had a very good day—better than he had ever hoped for. He had sixteen thousand lira in his pocket as the day was drawing to a close.
And then, just as he was about to quit for the day, a man did something that had happened to him only once or twice before. A young man in a nice car opened his window and asked, “Do you really take your money home to your family?”
“Yes, sir,” Hadi said. “I honestly do.”
“Then take this. I wish your family well.” He handed Hadi a five-thousand-pound note.
Hadi was astounded. He thanked the man sincerely, and at the same time, tried to think what this all meant. This was the best day he had had in many months, and maybe now his mother could see a dentist. When he walked back across the street to join Malek for their walk home, he was feeling light. But poor Malek looked worried.
“How did it go?” Hadi asked.
“Not well enough to satisfy Kamal.”
“Will he hurt you?”
“I don’t know.”
Hadi suddenly knew what he had to do, but he wasn’t sure he could. He needed the money too. His mother did. But he saw the fear in Malek’s eyes. Besides, if Malek was in trouble, so was he. If Malek didn’t do well, Kamal might be angry that Hadi was still at the intersection. Hadi reached into his pocket for his money. “Just a little while ago, a man gave me five thousand pounds,” he said.
“Five thousand?”
“Yes. But I had a good day without it. You take it, and pay me back
as soon as you can.” He held out the bill to Malek.
“No, Hadi. I can’t do that.”
“It’s what we agreed to—that we’ll help each other. And I don’t want to see your handsome face all smashed in.”
Malek didn’t smile, didn’t reach out for the money. But when Hadi pushed the money into Malek’s jacket pocket, he didn’t hand it back. He said, “Thank you, Hadi. I can’t believe you would do this for me.”
Hadi hardly believed it himself, and already he wondered whether he had been fair to Mama. He told himself this was a good place to work, that he might do well every day. And he told himself that he was protecting himself when he helped Malek. But he also wondered: maybe he had given Malek more than money. He felt as though he had reached inside and given some of himself.
7
Hadi walked with Malek to Bourj Hammoud, and along the way Malek pointed to some simple words in Hadi’s book, then helped him decipher them. Hadi was pleased with himself that he did quite well. And he appreciated Malek saying, “I’ll help you every day if I can. I won’t forget how much you helped me today.”
So Hadi now had a book and he had Malek to help him read it. Still, hope was frightening. It was so easy to crush. Right now things could end up going worse than ever. Kamal might put a stop to this new arrangement—his working across the street—and then what would happen?
Before they reached Malek’s street, the boys separated and said goodbye—just to be sure Kamal didn’t see them together. As Hadi walked on to the Dora intersection with sixteen thousand Lebanese pounds in his pocket, he was glad he’d had a good day in spite of moving across the street. He decided he would not tell Baba about the other five thousand. That would be too hard to explain.
Hadi stopped to see Garo again, and he bought some vegetables and a bag of oranges—enough to hand out a whole orange to each of his siblings, and his parents, too.
But things didn’t go as well at home that night as Hadi had hoped. Baba waited until the children calmed a little, and then he said, “Hadi did very well today, and I did better than yesterday, but I still don’t have enough for the rent that’s coming up. We’ll have to get by without buying much food for another few days—maybe a week. Hadi bought some good things to eat, and mostly we’ll have to depend on that.”
Khaled and his sisters were too busy with their oranges to pay any attention to what Baba had said. Hadi knelt by little Aram and peeled his orange for him. Aram was hopping, grinning, as Hadi handed him the sections one at a time. He stuffed them in his mouth, too fast, and juice ran down his chin.
Hadi had known that they still needed money for rent, but he had hoped they could buy more groceries than they had lately. Sometimes Hadi wondered why Baba never told him how much money they still needed, but it wasn’t his way to do that. Mama had told Hadi that Syrian men didn’t discuss such things with women or children. It was always a man’s place to make decisions, and especially, to handle family finances.
Baba had spoken in a kindly voice. Hadi knew how much he hated to disappoint Mama. She was sitting in her chair, holding little Jawdat, nursing him while she covered herself with a shawl. She only nodded, didn’t say a word, didn’t show any disappointment, but he saw in her eyes that she was frustrated, maybe even angry.
“We’ll make more money when the weather gets better. It always goes that way,” Baba said. He waited, but again Mama didn’t respond. Baba looked at the children and then back to Mama. “What food do we need most? I can buy a few things.”
Mama looked up. Hadi could see that her anger was boiling up to the surface. “Everything! ” she said. And then, in a voice that was splitting into a scream, “Everything! That’s what we need. How can you ask me such a question?”
Baba looked devastated. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Mama glared at him for a few seconds, and then she hung her head, kept it down a long time, and when she finally looked up, said, “It’s all right. You can’t help it. I shouldn’t say such things. We need bread. If we have to, we can live on bread and the things Hadi brings home.”
“All right. And maybe one of these days I can buy some chicken.” He waited as though he wanted her to say something positive, or appreciative, but she only looked down again, so he put his coat back on and got ready to go.
When Baba left to buy the bread, Hadi sat down by his mother. “Look what I have,” he said. He showed her the book.
She looked at it, but she didn’t say anything.
“A woman in a bookstore gave it to me for just one package of gum. I’m going to learn to read it.”
She nodded.
Hadi opened the book. He turned the pages until he found the chapter called “On Love.” He had tried to read it on the bus, and Baba had helped him with some of the words. He pointed to a word and said, “That says ‘love.’ ”
“Yes,” she said. “I know that word.”
“We can learn five words every day. Or more, if you want.”
“Thank you, Hadi, but I can’t do it. Not now. I can’t think clearly.”
“Because of your pain?”
She seemed hesitant to admit that that was the reason, but finally she nodded, and her eyes filled with tears. She gripped his hand, still holding Jawdat in her other arm. “I can manage a little longer,” she said. “Or much longer, if that’s what Allah wills for me.”
But that couldn’t be. Allah couldn’t will such pain on Mama. No, Allah had provided her a gift and Hadi was sorry now that he had given it away. He felt almost sure Allah had intended the money for Mama—and Hadi had turned his back on her. Somehow he had to make up for that.
* * *
The next day was Friday, when Muslims gather for Jamaa prayer. But Hadi and his father worked on their corners, didn’t go to mosque. Almost as though Allah was not happy with them, the rains came back and they both had slow days, with little income. Saturday was just as bad, and Hadi could see in his father’s face, his movements, that he was worried all day on Sunday, the day they didn’t go to the streets. Bauchrieh was mostly Christian, and Sunday was Sabbath for them. Not many cars were on the streets.
When Hadi reached his intersection on Monday morning, Malek was already there. Rain had fallen during the night and the intersection was puddled with water, but the sun was out now. Hadi was glad to see Malek, although he only waved from across the street.
There were three days left in February, and Baba was saying that they had to have at least a couple more good days if they were going to make their rent payment. The landlord had let him pay a day or two late before, but this time the disgusting little man with eyebrows the size of bird’s nests had warned Baba that he wouldn’t allow it again. He even claimed that he had a list of people who had offered him more for the room if Baba couldn’t come up with his payment.
So Hadi felt something close to panic. He had to have a good day. And, of course, he still worried about Kamal. Every few minutes, he surveyed the area, searching for someone who might be watching him.
“Good morning, Hadi,” someone said. Hadi looked around to see Rashid. Hadi had continued to avoid Rashid as best he could, but the man was friendlier than any of the other cabbies. He was younger than the others, maybe thirty or so. He was mostly bald, and what hair he had was cut short. His beard was a similar length, as though he ran clippers over his face and head, all at the same time.
“How is it working out, to sell your gum on this side of the street?” Rashid asked.
“Not bad. About the same as the other side.”
“See? I told you that a long time ago. Maybe you’ll do even better after more of the drivers see you here for a while. Sometimes some of us in the cabstand have an errand we like to have someone do for us. And we pay for that. Would you like to do that, if we paid you?”
“Not really. I need to stay with the cars and not go running around.”
“On a slow day, we might be able to make things better for you.”
Hadi didn’t
respond. The man sounded a little too friendly, and that made Hadi uncomfortable. The cars on the street had stopped for the light, and he went back to them, and as so often happened, he sold nothing.
When cars were moving on Malek’s side, that meant the ones on Hadi’s side, heading north, were stopped, so Hadi could watch what was happening. Malek no longer begged people to buy his tissues, but he did say something—words Hadi couldn’t hear—and he smiled at the drivers. Hadi had always thought it was better to look more needful than happy, but he liked watching Malek, and he noticed that he was selling more tissues than he had in the beginning.
Later in the morning Hadi saw the little blue car come down the hill—the one that the foreigners drove—and he saw them buy a package of tissues from Malek, or at least give him some money. He noticed, too, that they must have asked about Hadi, because Malek turned and pointed to him. That was the worst moment of the morning. Hadi was glad they helped Malek, but he missed seeing them, talking to them for a few moments. And, of course, he missed receiving the money they would have given him.
It was almost noon when Rashid said, “Hey, Hadi, I want you to do something for me.”
Hadi turned from the street and looked at Rashid.
“Come here. I need you to walk over to the Charcoutier and buy me some cigarettes.”
Hadi stood his ground. These cabbies couldn’t start ordering him around.
“Come on. I’ll pay you two thousand lira.”
That was different. “Okay,” Hadi said, and he walked to Rashid, who held out some money to him and told him what brand of cigarettes he wanted. By then, however, another cabbie, Fawzi—a man with a bulging stomach and big, fat hands—said to Hadi, “I need something too. On your way back, buy me a shawarma sandwich, and you can get one for yourself.”
That was even better, so Hadi took the money and crossed the street to the west and then to the north, and he walked down the angled street to the Charcoutier. It was a big supermarket with a dazzle of food and lots of customers. The checker wasn’t supposed to sell him cigarettes at his age, but she didn’t seem to care.