Displaced

by Dean Hughes

  For the third evening in a row, Hadi walked to the Dora intersection alone. Malek seemed to wait on purpose, and remained on his corner when Hadi left. Hadi gave his father eighteen thousand pounds, just to start preparing him for worse days ahead. And that night he had trouble falling asleep—something he rarely did. A few hours later he was awake and shaking, the noise and chaos of battle filling his head. He told himself he was all right, but then he thought of all that was going on and lay on the floor feeling utterly miserable, hopeless.

  But in the morning he said nothing to Baba about his troubles, and he walked back to his intersection, stood and waited for the cars to stop—and above all, tried not to think. It was an hour or so later when he saw Samir leave the middle of the intersection and walk toward him.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” Samir said. But then he looked back at the traffic and said, rather loudly, “It doesn’t matter whether I’m out there or not—the madness is always the same.” He slapped Hadi on the back and laughed, or tried to, and Hadi realized he was trying to make the cabbies think he was only killing time. But Hadi had heard the seriousness in his first words and he knew Samir had something important to say.

  Samir lowered his voice. “The police know that Rashid is a drug dealer,” he said. “Are you aware of that, Hadi?”

  Hadi shrugged. He wanted to ask Samir for help, but he knew better than to admit to anything.

  “Hadi, I’ve seen you hand something to men who stop at this corner, and I know it isn’t gum. I’ve seen you do this several times.” He waited, but Hadi still didn’t respond. “I think Rashid has you handing off his drugs. Do you have any idea how much trouble you can get into for that?”

  “Yes.” Hadi looked away, watched the traffic. He heard the usual sound of tires on the pavement, but it all felt new; his place, his corner, was gone, and it seemed as though the cars were about to start piling up on top of him. He didn’t know how he had gotten himself into such a complicated mess.

  “The police department is watching. One of these days they’re going to come sweeping in here, and if they find drugs, it won’t be just the taxi drivers who are in trouble. They’ll take you in with the others.”

  “I don’t sell drugs.”

  “I know you don’t. But I think you’re delivering, and when you do, Rashid drives away. That’s to cover himself. If you get caught, he can say he wasn’t involved, and the police will want to know where you’re getting the packages. If you tell them that Rashid is your source, your life will be in danger.”

  Hadi felt his throat tighten.

  “I’m sure that Rashid gets his drugs from the drug clans in the Bekaa Valley. Those drug people have power, Hadi. More power than you can imagine. Kamal’s people are nothing compared to them. If we pick up Rashid, they’ll get him out of jail. And then he’ll be looking for you—because you could be a witness against him. Rashid won’t be satisfied just to kill you. He’ll cut you up, make you suffer. And if he can’t find you, he’ll look for your father. You won’t be safe, Hadi, and neither will your family.”

  Samir glanced over at the cabbies, and he pretended to laugh again.

  “What can I do?”

  “I honestly think you would be better off to move away from Beirut, maybe go up north to Jbeil or Tripoli. You need to escape from Rashid and never see the man again. And do it before it’s too late.”

  Samir patted Hadi on the back, laughed again, turned and greeted the other taxi drivers. But then he walked away. Hadi had lost his breath. He had worried about being in trouble, but he hadn’t realized, not fully, how far this could go. What could he tell his father, his mother? Would his family really have to move away and try to get started somewhere else? It was too terrible to imagine, and it was probably impossible.

  His impulse was to run, to head for the Dora intersection and tell his father everything that Samir had said. But he knew better. He had to finish his day, pretend that nothing had happened.

  Hadi kept working, continued to walk to the cars, one at a time, and strangely, everything seemed about the same as always. Most drivers paid him no attention, didn’t seem to notice that he was breathless, shaking. A few bought his gum and most didn’t, as always. And Rashid, when he came back, seemed to have decided that he had been too hard on Hadi. Maybe he saw how nervous Hadi was, or maybe the other cabbies had told him about Samir coming over to talk with him. For whatever reason, he gave Hadi five thousand pounds and joked with him about being a good delivery boy.

  Late in the day, the Risers came by. When Hadi stepped up to their car, Mrs. Riser greeted him with her usual smile, but immediately she asked, “Hadi, are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m just… well, I’m fine.” She offered him a thousand-pound bill, but Hadi said, “You don’t have to give me money. We’re friends.”

  “But we want to—”

  “It’s all right. I might not be back here tomorrow.”

  She didn’t seem to understand, but Mr. Riser did, and he asked, “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. I might work somewhere else.”

  But now cars were honking. “We want to help you,” Mrs. Riser said. But Mr. Riser was glancing back at the impatient drivers behind him. He said he was sorry, and he drove away.

  And now Hadi had lost two more friends.

  Hadi couldn’t think what he would do now. He could only think that he would finish out the day, and then, if he was going to break with Rashid, he would do so before morning. But when it was almost time to leave, he saw Malek crossing the street. Hadi was relieved to see him come his way. He thought maybe they could talk things out now. But Malek said, “Come with me. Kamal wants to talk to me—and to you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He sent one of his men to me. Kamal’s down this way.”

  Hadi glanced at Rashid, who was watching, his eyes saying that he wasn’t pleased with Malek being there. “I can’t leave,” Hadi said. “Rashid won’t like it.”

  “I can’t say no to Kamal. You can’t either.”

  “Just walk back across the street, and then, in a few minutes, I’ll tell Rashid I’m finished for the day, and I’ll come to you. Then we can—”

  “Kamal wants us now.”

  Hadi was caught. Kamal was dangerous and Rashid was worse. But he didn’t want to get Malek into trouble. So Hadi walked to Rashid and said, “Can I put my gum in the cabinet? It’s time for me to go meet my father.”

  “Aren’t you quitting early?”

  “Not really. The sun stays up a little longer now, but it’s about the time I usually stop.”

  “Who decides that? You, or that Malek kid from across the street?”

  Hadi knew this was all about control. It was Rashid who wanted to tell him when to be there, when to quit. But Hadi wasn’t coming back. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, and he walked away with Malek. He hoped Rashid wasn’t coming after him. But he had to go.

  The boys walked south along the busy street. There was a sidewalk, but cars were parked on it, so they had to wind their way in and out of traffic. Near the next corner, at the mouth of an alley, a man was standing, waiting. Hadi realized it must be Kamal.

  “What took you so long to get here?” Kamal asked, and Hadi heard the fury in his voice. Without waiting for an answer, Kamal said, “Come with me.” He turned and walked deeper into the alley. He looked at Hadi. “Malek told you to clear off his corner. Why are you still here?”

  “I work the other side of the street now. I don’t—”

  “That doesn’t matter. I told you to leave.”

  Hadi heard the rage and decided not to say anything else.

  “One of my men has seen you still talking to Malek, and today you talked to that policeman from the intersection. Samir. What were you talking about?”

  Hadi tried to sound calm when he said, “Just talking. He’s friendly.”

  “I asked you, what were you talking about?”

&n
bsp; “I can’t remember. How bad the traffic is and things like that.”

  Kamal stepped closer. “We hear things. Rumors go around. And what we hear lately is that the police are after me.” Kamal kept watching Hadi, as though he wanted to see the effect of his words. Hadi tried to look back at him, steady, not show any reaction. “Did Samir ask you about me?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying. I think he wants you to be a witness against me. Malek’s been complaining to you about me, hasn’t he?”

  “No.” Hadi glanced at Malek and saw how frightened he was, the blood gone from his face. “Samir didn’t say one word about anything like that. That’s the truth.”

  Hadi kept looking Kamal straight in the eye, and he thought the man believed him this time.

  “Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t,” Kamal said. “But from now on you work for me. You won’t be crossing the street to waste Malek’s time. I’ll give you a place to work, and you better work hard.” He slammed his fist into his palm, as if to demonstrate his power. He was not a big man, but Hadi felt his force. He filled up his leather coat with big shoulders, and yet it was his voice, full of venom, that was most frightening.

  Hadi hesitated, but then said, “I won’t work at this intersection anymore. I’ll leave today and find a different place in some other part of the city. Or maybe move to a new city.”

  “You don’t listen very well, do you?” He held his fist out, close to Hadi’s face. “I just told you, you work for me now and I’ll decide where you go. Where do you get your gum now?”

  “My father gets it for me.”

  “Where?”

  “At a shop.”

  “What does your father do?”

  “He sells things on the street, the same as me.” But Hadi knew instantly he had said the wrong thing. He had revealed too much.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know what it’s called. It’s just another intersection.” There was no way he was going to tell Kamal where his father worked.

  “You’re going with me. Right now. We’re going to find your father. He’s going to work for me too.”

  “Rashid, the taxi driver, wants me on the corner where the cabstand is,” he said. “He won’t like you taking me away. You better be careful about that.” This stopped Kamal for the moment, so Hadi went on. “He’s a tough guy. He’ll come after you and he’ll—”

  Kamal grabbed the front of Hadi’s jacket. He shoved Hadi against the building behind him. Hadi hit the back of his head, hard, and everything swirled for a moment as he sank to the pavement. He was just starting to get his vision back when Kamal grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him up. “Don’t threaten me, you little swine. I’ll kill you right here.”

  Hadi tried to stand on his feet, but Kamal was lifting him onto his toes. Then suddenly he struck him across the face with the back of his hand and Hadi’s knees gave way. Kamal let him fall onto the grimy street. Hadi curled up, tried to get his breath, but Kamal kicked him hard in the back, the pain shooting all through his body.

  By then Malek was yelling, “No! Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!”

  But Kamal kicked Hadi again, harder.

  Suddenly Malek drove his shoulder into Kamal, surprised him and knocked him back. “Run, Hadi,” Malek gasped.

  Hadi jumped up, still dizzy. He doubted that running would get him anywhere, but he ran anyway. Kamal had already cast Malek aside, and he was running after Hadi, but the delay had been enough that Hadi made it out of the alley ahead of Kamal, and without looking, he charged into the middle of the traffic. He heard brakes screech, but he kept going. By the time he was across the street, he couldn’t hear Kamal behind him. Maybe the man had not wanted to run into the traffic, or maybe he didn’t want to be seen chasing a kid. All Hadi knew was that he had to keep running.

  There was another alley on the opposite side of the street, and Hadi ran down it. Then, when he saw an open door, he dodged into a building. It was an apartment house—a dark, stinking place—but Hadi kept going and found his way out the front door onto another street. Then he turned left and ran through that street, kept finding alleys and streets angling this way and that. The alleys were full of dumpsters, garbage cans, and plastic sacks piled high. A man sitting on a back step smoking a cigarette watched Hadi run by and yelled something at him. Hadi paid no attention. He was looking back from time to time, and he still saw no sign of Kamal. Maybe Kamal had turned back and was taking out his anger on Malek. Maybe he would force Malek to tell him where Baba worked. Malek knew about the Dora intersection. Hadi had to get there first.

  When he broke onto a busier street, Hadi realized something else: people were watching him. He felt the back of his head and then looked at his hand. It was covered with blood. The sight of the blood took some of his strength away. He had run all out at first, but now his legs, his lungs couldn’t keep up the pace. There was also a cloudiness in his vision, and he was feeling the pain in his back.

  So Hadi slowed to a walk, still keeping to back streets, never heading directly west, but always toward Dora. After he covered a few more blocks, he realized he had to get to Garo at the fruit stand. If he got that far, he would be close to the Dora intersection, but he needed help, and the only person he could think of to help him was Garo.

  So Hadi crossed Mirna Chalhoui Highway and continued on into Bourj Hammoud. By now he was wobbling with each step, and he was not seeing anything very clearly. But if Garo could stop his bleeding, Hadi could make it to his father. He had to.

  Hadi’s feet seemed to know the way better than he did and kept him going, but all along the busy street, people turned to look at him. A woman came up behind him and said, “Young man, you’re hurt. You need—”

  “I know. I’ll be all right. I have a friend down this way.”

  “But you’re bleeding—bad.”

  “I know.” And now he could see that the blood had worked its way under his jacket and around to the front of his shirt.

  Two more people asked him whether he needed help. Each time he said that he was all right and he kept going. When he finally reached the fruit stand, he was almost finished. He stopped a few feet away from Garo, and when he did, his knees gave way. He sank to the sidewalk. “I’m hurt,” he said.

  Garo had been sitting with his eyes closed, probably asleep. But his eyes opened wide now. “Hadi,” he said, “what’s happened to you?”

  Hadi didn’t try to explain. He only pointed to his head.

  Garo, slow in his heaviness, stood up. He grabbed Hadi, pulled him up and hugged him to his chest. He lifted him and carried him through the little fruit stand and the curtain that hung at the back. There were boxes back there and a cabinet, and the smell of rotting fruit so thick that it nauseated Hadi. It had been coming for a while, but finally Hadi couldn’t hold back. He vomited, his empty stomach gushing mostly liquid.

  Garo held him.

  “I’m sorry,” Hadi said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  But Hadi was losing his battle with consciousness. He felt himself slipping down, even as Garo tried to grasp him.

  12

  “Can you hear what I’m saying?” Garo was asking, his face close, his labored breath brushing Hadi’s cheek.

  Hadi opened his eyes. It took him a second or two to remember where he was. He was sitting in a wooden chair behind Garo’s fruit stand. “Yes,” he finally managed to say.

  “Thanks be to God,” Garo muttered. “We must clean you up and get a bandage on you to stop the bleeding.”

  And then Hadi remembered. “I have to hurry,” he said. “I have to find my father.”

  “Why must you hurry?”

  “Someone might hurt him.”

  “The same one who hurt you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s happening, Hadi? Who did this to you?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “All right. But we have to take care of this before you
do anything else.” Garo moved around Hadi in his composed way, as though life for him, regardless of what was happening, was a matter of deliberate motion, always steady. “Rest for a minute. I must go into my house and get some things to bandage you, or you won’t make it to your father.”

  Hadi thought he couldn’t wait. He feared that Kamal had forced Malek to tell him where Baba worked and was already on his way to the Dora intersection.

  But he did wait—partly because he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him and partly because his friend Garo was taking care of him. He also knew that it was better not to walk down the street all covered in blood.

  Garo appeared after a few minutes. Hadi hadn’t known that Garo lived in the building behind his fruit stand. But he came from there, carrying a small pail of water and some white rags. “Let’s take your jacket and shirt off,” he said.

  “It’s okay. Just wash the blood away.”

  “Your clothes are full of blood too. I’ll get you something else to wear.” He was unzipping Hadi’s jacket, so Hadi helped him, and they took off his jacket, then pulled his shirt over his head. Hadi finally saw how soaked with blood his clothes were, and that scared him. He didn’t know how much blood he could lose and still live. He didn’t know whether he was still bleeding.

  “Nothing bleeds so bad as the head,” Garo was telling him. “But now that I see the wound, it’s not so bad as you might think. You’ll be all right.”

  And then he wet one of the rags and began to wipe Hadi’s hair and neck. When he rinsed the rag in the pail of water, it turned pink immediately. Hadi found himself settling back in the chair. The warmth of the water and the gentleness of the old man’s touch were soothing to Hadi.

  “My family lived in Aleppo before they came here,” Garo said as he worked.

  This took Hadi by surprise. Garo knew that Hadi had lived in Aleppo, but Garo had never mentioned that his own family had lived there.