by Ellen Wiles
They were now standing face to face on the pavement. There was nobody else around. ‘Hi,’ the man said, not exactly threateningly. If this was a mugging, it was a strange way to go about it. The man had messy black hair and creases around his eyes. ‘You are looking for work?’
Yonas laughed involuntarily. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Smells like you need somewhere for sleep too,’ the man said, and smiled back, revealing a gap between his front teeth.
Yonas nodded. ‘You know somewhere?’
‘I do. I am happy I found you. You stay, then I get commission, okay?’
‘Maybe, but I do not know yet what you are offering me.’
‘Good point. I take you to see Uncle. Follow me.’
Uncle? Friendly or sinister? Maybe it was fate: lose an auntie, gain an uncle. Yonas followed the man through a gate into the potholed forecourt of a large building, along a narrow gap between the left wall and the fence.
The man turned as he walked. ‘What is your name?’
‘My name?’ Yonas thought frantically, then remembered the bin man. ‘My name is… Joe.’
‘Joe, yeah?’ the man said. ‘And where you come from?’
‘Eritrea. And you?’
‘Emil. From Romania.’ Emil pulled out a key and unlocked a side door, then led Yonas down a dimly lit corridor and up some concrete stairs to another door, on which he knocked three times. The words ‘come in’ floated out.
Inside, a grey-haired man with knitted eyebrows was sitting behind a computer, with three stooping table lamps poised around him like water birds. He didn’t look up. Emil cleared his throat. ‘Uncle, this is new guy. He say his name Joe. Eritrean. Been sleeping rough.’
Uncle appeared to ignore them and continued typing with two fingers. Was this going to be another Aziz? He could hardly look more different: gaunt, with a crooked nose, pointed shoulders and spindly fingers that looked as if they might snap at the next tap. After a little while he looked up, and his eyes were two spikes. ‘So. Joe. You are new to the UK?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know nobody here.’
‘No. I mean, I thought I did, but they… No, I know nobody.’
‘You are willing to work hard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. If I let you stay here, there are rules to follow.’ Uncle pushed his chair back, stood up and walked around to the front of the desk on which he perched and leaned forward, his dark eyes locking in. ‘How are you at following rules?’
‘Good.’
‘Well, my rules are simple enough. One’ – Uncle stuck up his forefinger – ‘I arrange the work. Two’ – middle finger – ‘you do as much work as I tell you to do, and you don’t work for anyone else. Three’ – ring finger – ‘you never – ever – tell anyone outside about how you got the work or anything about this place. Got it?’
Yonas nodded.
‘You haven’t seen the film, have you?’
Yonas shook his head.
‘Fine. Anyway, if you’ve got the rest, the correct answer would be yes.’
‘Yes,’ Yonas echoed.
‘Because if you talk we are all going to get into trouble. Do you know the meaning of the word trouble?’
‘I do.’
‘Good. If you imagine to yourself the worst possible kinds of trouble, then you’re on the right track.’ I don’t need to imagine, Yonas thought. ‘So, blend in. Don’t get yourself noticed. Keep yourself to yourself. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
Uncle got off the desk and began to pace around the room. ‘Good. You can stay for a trial week. You will do a mixture of work. Construction, cleaning and such like. You will get forty quid a week cash in hand from me, for working however many hours I tell you to work, normally around eight hours a day, for six days per week. In return you get to live here and sleep here for free and I give you work clothes to wear – which it looks like you need right now. If you want to leave I need two weeks’ notice. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ Yonas said immediately. He fought with the corners of his mouth to stop them from smiling.
‘Right. Here’s a tenner to tide you over.’ Yonas took the note and held it gently between his fingers as if it were pressed from gold. He imagined telling Gebre: Only day three, and I’m already in the money, with a real job, and a place to live! Was Gebre wishing he’d followed after all? Or was he still cursing Yonas for abandoning him and Osman?
‘Any questions?’ Uncle asked.
Yonas thought for a second. ‘What’s the film?’ he found himself asking.
‘The film! Oh. Well, I’m not giving it away that easily. You can ask the others. There’s a TV in the living area, so if it’s coming on I may let you know. Now, scarper. I suggest you prioritize a shower.’
Chapter 7: Emil
UK IMMIGRATION SHOCK 150,000 ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS ENTER UK EACH YEAR, SAYS WHISTLEBLOWER EX-HOME OFFICE BOSS
I will take one espresso macchiato, and two spoon sugar. Okay three, just today.
So, you wanna talk about Professor Jojo! Haha, yeah, that’s how I call him, but when I first met him in street, Professor was like opposite word I would think of, okay, I had to even hold my breath, like he smell of shit mix with rotten fish and mouldy cheese in big bag of rubbish when you leave too long before taking outside. You got my point. But when I am looking closer I am thinking: Wait. Nice smile, tall, cheekbones, huuuuge fro all matted and disgusting like rats living inside – but with a proper wash it’s gonna look good! I am even getting a little fantasy…
I can talk about it now, with you, no problem. But back when I meet the Prof, no way. I am so much hoping for another gay to come to live in warehouse, you cannot believe, but I can’t say nothing. I mean, I came to UK because everyone said London scene is awesome and people easy-going compare to rest of Europe – Romania anyway – so I think, okay, maybe there I can be me. But when I arrive I cannot even get work to pay rent, not even think about going out, clubbing, all that. I mean, London is so expensive, so, so, so, SO expensive, it’s not even true. Even room size of small cupboard in shittest area is too much money. So after some time I was living with a load of straight, immigrant guys in warehouse. I mean, not even proper house – this big, old place where they used to repair cars, with one big room out back full of mattresses. Some guys living there even more gay haters than back home. Russians especially. So I try to keep secret, and in case they guess, I am always try to be comedian, so they will like me for being that guy who is making everybody laugh. Problem is, then they start to really like me and wanna hang out, and they like going to pull women, so I have to make excuse. Once I even went out and pulled three women just to make point and get them off my back. Ugh. It’s like I just snog my sisters.
So anyway, Uncle tell Professor Jojo he can stay, and I show him spare sleeping spot – I mean, it is only mattress, okay, but he look right into my eyes and say thank you… like it is biggest favour anybody done him ever in his life, and he lie down, hands behind head, with biggest smile you’ve ever seen. He start saying something about leaving jungle, with like fox and snake kissing dove or something crazy like that, ending up in city with bed to sleep on… I have like no clue what he is talking about, but he tell me it was just a poem he remember, so I applause him and tell him that has got to be first poem anyone ever said in this place, but maybe if he want to fit in with guys here he better rein it in, and also, if he want to be friends even with me, he got to shower, like right now.
He jump up and ask if shower was with hot water, like that would be impossible, and when I said yeah of course, his face lit up like he just got papers from Home Office. I say I can lend him razor and I show him bathroom. He go to look at himself in mirror, then turn to me and his face is angry. I’m thinking, What did I do? He ask if I have scissors, and I’m like, Uhhh, is he gonna stab me or what? But I get them from kitchen. He take and say thanks, then start to chop at his hair like weeds! Just chop chop chop and throwing big lump
s down toilet, I mean – I was still imagining it all brushed out ready for dance floor, so I’m like, ‘Wait, please, my friend, keep some!’ But too late. He smile little bit and tell me, ‘My hair needs new start, like me.’ I tell him, ‘Okay, fine, but you can’t leave it all messed up like that. I can cut properly for you. I am cutting everybody’s hair in warehouse – I do yours for free first time. But I am not even touching your head until it’s had, like, three shampoos, okay?!’
When he came out of shower, he smell normal, and his face look so different with no beard, fresh and kind of fragile. But his body super-skinny, like bamboo stick. And his hair! There were tufts sticking out like clown, and now it’s been washed, I can see it’s not fro exactly, like looser curls, soft for touch.
So, I make him coffee in red Malteser mug and tell him to sit so I can start trimming, and we talk. Actually, it is me doing most talking at first. I try to ask him what he’s been doing, where he’s from, stuff like that, but he’s not saying much, just asking me more questions back. And I like talking, you know, so I keep going, but after some time I say to him, ‘Hey, it’s your turn now!’ But he just laugh and say oh, long story, he’s just happy he made it here, then ask more about me. And I get that. I mean, lot of guys in warehouse have shit lives before and not like to talk about past too much, especially if they don’t know you yet. So I just tell him about other guys and about work for Uncle and living in London. And for some reason I am already feeling easy with him, like, you know, he listens, and not everyone does that, right? And he’s sounding interested, he’s making jokes even… and then it just slips out. That I like guys.
I stop. I’m like, oh shit, shit shit shit, I kept that secret for so long, and now I just told to some new guy I don’t even know, who probably hates gays, or is gonna tell. I feel super-nervous, and my hands start shaking, I’m thinking I’m gonna accidentally stick scissors in his scalp. I mean, you know, he seem nice enough, but most straight African guys in warehouse don’t like gays from what I hear – but I am still hoping he will say, like, ‘Oh my God, I’m gay as well!!!!’ Haha. Actually he just say ‘okay’, you know, just ‘okay!’, like it’s just one small thing about me, like my favourite colour, like he is totally cool with it. So that was big, big relief.
I ask him, look, can you do me a favour – don’t say nothing? He say no problem, he can keep secrets. Then, still looking away from me, cos I’m cutting his hair, he say his best friend from back home is like me, and he keep that secret too, because back home you can get put in prison. He tell me how that friend, Gebre, is closer to him than his own brother, how his parents basically adopted him as kid, after his father got disappeared. I’m like: ‘Disappeared?’ He explain how before independence Ethiopians would just come and take Eritreans from where they working, or living, no warning, then they never see again, no explain, nothing. He is telling me he feeling guilty now, meeting me, because he never tried to talk to his friend about it. I’m like, ‘You mean you could not talk about his father?’ And he say no – that is bad memory, but occasionally they talk about that – no, he mean he never talk to his friend about him being gay. Then he sort of burst out how he wish he could change that now, and also introduce his friend to me. I’m like, ‘Sure! Bring him right over! And I hope he looks like you!’ (I not really say that last bit.)
Then I ask him, ‘How about you, you married?’ And he shake his head, say no, but not look at me, just start talking about something different. He never ever talk to me about any wife or girlfriend, after that, even when we good friends – always keep private about that stuff. But also he don’t say nothing to other guys in warehouse about me, not whole time we living there. He is solid guy, Professor Jojo.
At first, other guys try testing him. Make him do bins and tell him he’s got to shower last in queue, all that. I’m thinking, How is he gonna deal with that, cos he’s quiet kind of guy, and mostly guys at top of pile are alpha guys, you know – maybe they push him around. But no, he stay cool, he don’t get intimidated. He even make people start to like him, just from small things, like buying pack of cookies, offering around.
So, Uncle tell me I gonna be Professor’s mentor, you know, like, person who’s gonna show him around for work and stuff. I remember first day we get on bus together, and he’s like, amazed that seats are so nice! Stroking his like he got new puppy! I’m like, okay, so today we go to bank where all guys working there sniff coke in toilets, then later we go to gym where guys pump truckloads of iron and grunt like pigs, then tomorrow we have solicitor’s company where they work all hours in clock, and PR company with brainstorming area like pre-school art room for kids who need to roll on beanbags and draw with crayons. He think I’m just being funny. Later he realize it’s all totally true.
So, I show him main sights as bus goes into City, like tower that’s named after a cucumber but looks like massive dildo, and Bank of England that looks like palace. We have fun, pointing out people wearing weird clothes, and just chatting. And he’s good to work with too. Doesn’t mess about, like me, but picks everything up fast, like I only ever have to explain one time, then he got it.
So one morning, after one week or two maybe, I remember one guy left newspaper on his seat on bus and Professor pick it up. Headline is something like ‘Rapist asylum seeker caught with pants down taking a shit on a solid gold toilet studded with diamonds that he bought for his fifty-bedroom castle in Chelsea after selling cocaine to hardworking British businessman who believed they were just buying expensive cornflour’, and he rips it out and puts in his pocket, then carries on reading. I’m like: ‘Wait, what are you doing?!’
He goes: ‘Collecting.’
I’m like: ‘Why?’
He goes: ‘This newspaper is always talking about immigrants and how dangerous they are. Like we are about to take over.’
I’m like: ‘You’re twisted, reading that.’
He just grins. He goes: ‘I just want to know how British people think of people like us. Some of them, anyway. Lots, actually. I think this is the biggest selling paper.’
I’m like: ‘So, you wanna walk around thinking how everyone hates you? I still don’t get it.’
He goes: ‘Look, some people collect stamps, I collect newspapers, okay? It’s normal!’ He’s a geek, okay, but I still not realize how much, until we find out about library.
Oh yeah, so that’s how he got name, Professor. He start bringing library books back to read. Of course, guys start laughing at him. I remember Alfonso ask him one time: ‘How come you get library pass anyway if you’re illegal?’ And he just say he has ways. We know he must be nicking books and we tell him: ‘Hey, if you wanna steal shit, why not get us drugs or alcohol or something useful? DVDs at least! Do you think you gonna win Nobel Prize from reading all these books?’ He says it’s not stealing, he’s bringing books back to library after, and he likes to read, he studied literature at university. University! Turns out he wrote big essay on newspapers in his country. Boris was first one to start calling him Professor, and it stuck – then I added Jojo, so he wouldn’t sound too smart. He used to read so much different stuff, like history books, story books, even dictionary – like, not just to learn English better, but reading meanings of words for fun. For fun! Who does that?
Oh, other thing about Professor I got to tell you is cooking. Haha, especially one meal! Okay, so normally in that warehouse, nobody cooks. Not properly. If we got enough money, we eat McDonald’s cos it’s easy and tastes good and you feel nice and full after. If we got less money, or wanna be more healthy, we eat like soup, or spaghetti hoops, or pasta and sauce or eggs on toast, that kind of shit. Basically, nobody cooks cos we’re guys, and we’re too tired from work, and all we got to cook in that place is microwave and two hotplates anyway. But when it came near to Christmas… okay, from like October – you know how in UK shop windows get stuffed way early with gifts, flashing lights, snowflakes, discount signs, and everybody is walking around with big fat shopping bags, cos all Brit
ish people have credit cards – Professor read in one newspaper that average British person spend £200 on presents! What was I saying? Oh, yeah, so when it came near to Christmas, Professor ask me what we do in warehouse. Like, for celebrations. Especially for eating.
I tell him I guess we’ll do like year before: put up tinsel and some pound shop lights, then on Christmas Day get drunk and eat chips and cheese and watch TV. And then on 27th when there is discount everywhere, last year I buy frozen UK Christmas food like mince pies and turkey and eat later. But basically there’s no big meal or anything, we all eat our own stuff like normal.
But Professor say to me: ‘How about we have Christmas feast all together?’
I’m like: ‘Well, if you get the food and cook then maybe the guys will go for it!’
He goes: ‘Okay, I can try if people chip in some money.’ He tell me back in his country, only women cook, but he thinking it cannot be that hard – he seen male chefs cooking on TV and he want to learn himself now he is here. And also he say Christmas in his country is not even in December, so he wants to try British one.
I’m like: ‘What? Christmas not in December? Are you serious?’
He goes: ‘It’s Orthodox Christmas.’ Always happens on seven of January. And for dinner they eat roasted goat, and panettone, you know? – it’s like Italian bread thing that is all light and soft and taste of lemons – and bowls of popcorn, and super-strong coffee, beans roasted fresh that day.