by Prue Mason
I shake my head. Only my big sister would have the brains to think up a plan like that and then the nerve to pull it off. She’s pretty cool.
‘Do Mum and Dad know you’re here?’ I ask, but I figure I know the answer.
‘I guess they do by now,’ says Sarah. ‘And I guess they’re on their way home as we speak so we could both be in a bit of trouble …’
This is the old Sarah. I grin because it’s fantastic to see her again.
‘By the way, I have to admit it wasn’t my idea to offer those characters who had your mobile a reward for bringing you home. It was Barby’s cunning plan. That must be where I get my brilliance from, though.’
I look blankly at her. ‘A reward?’
‘Didn’t Mum tell you? Barby rang your mobile and she got this crazy old guy who spoke a bit of English. He said he might know where to find you, so she got in touch with a local television network and they put up a reward for your rescue.’
So that was it. That was why Baggy Pants and Old Orange Beard took me home. They’d been hoping to make some money out of me.
‘How much of a reward was being offered?’ I’m so curious.
‘Ten thousand dollars,’ Sarah tells me. ‘Mum’s even been on television appealing for help.’
‘Wow! I’m impressed. Before Mum left she was so mad at me I would have thought she’d have paid that much to get rid of me.’
‘I guess she changed her mind,’ says Sarah and, for a second, there’s a slightly gooey look on her face like she’s about to cry, but that quickly changes. ‘God knows why. And anyway, what happened to the old guy? Did he bring you here? How did he find you?’
‘It’s a bit of a long story,’ I say. ‘Can we just get out of here and go home and see if Tara’s okay?’
‘I’ve got a taxi waiting outside. Now you’d better introduce me to your friend here, seeing as I’m rescuing him as well.’
Walid is staring at Sarah like he’s never seen a Western girl before.
‘His name is Walid,’ I say. ‘But he doesn’t speak English. He only speaks Arabic.’
‘As-salaam alaykum,’ she says to Walid, which even I understand because it means ‘peace be upon you’ and it’s the way to say hello in Arabic.
‘Alaykum as-salaam. Old Goat told me all foreign girls are ugly and bad, but you have the beauty of a princess.’
Sarah giggles like she’s a kid, then she starts to jabber away to Walid who jabbers back. I didn’t know she could speak Arabic so well. She really is amazing.
‘That’s terrible,’ she says, and then she turns to me with that fierce look on her face she gets when she’s on the warpath about something. ‘Did you know he was sold to traders when he was seven years old; his family couldn’t afford to keep him. He’s been living in a camp just outside the city. He’s been a camel jockey!’
‘Um … no,’ I have to admit.
‘My God, what sort of life has he had to live?’ I know she doesn’t expect an answer this time. And she doesn’t give me a chance anyway, but it explains a few things – like why Walid could ride a camel like an expert.
‘And,’ she goes on, ‘those dreadful men he was sold to tied him up and left him in the mountains as a punishment because they said he was bad. At least he’s got a mother here somewhere working as a maid. Maybe Mum and Dad will be able to track her down through the Bangladeshi Embassy.’
I can hardly believe it. In about three minutes, Sarah has found out more about Walid than I knew after being with him for about a week.
‘Right,’ says Sarah. ‘First things first, though. We need to get home and make sure Tara is okay.’
The streets of Abudai are still fairly deserted, which isn’t much different from every other summer when lots of people get out of here anyway, but today the only people to be seen are soldiers. And there are still the marks of the war everyone’s now calling the Three Day War – not very imaginative. The Centra Tower is not shining like it usually does. It’s black, and the windows around the top ten or so storeys are broken. But it’s still standing. Other buildings have got bullet holes in them, and the taxi has to swerve around big craters in the road where bombs have landed.
‘How come you didn’t run away when the war was on?’ Sarah asks our taxi driver after she finds out he comes from Baluchistan where he has a wife and ten children at home and his latest newborn is a boy.
‘Where to go?’ the taxi driver shrugs. ‘My sponsor is keeping my passport and he is running fast away. Anyway, what matter is it to me who is winning or losing one war? Always taxis is being needed and in times such as this the fares are being greater so it is being good business.’
True to his word, he charges us three times too much for the ride from the hospital to our compound. Sarah doesn’t even argue.
I hardly wait for the taxi to pull up before I jump out and run towards the big, heavy wooden gates.
‘Wait for us,’ Sarah calls out as she and Walid follow, but I’ve already waited too long to find out if Tara is okay.
I drag back one of the gates. Why isn’t Tara barking? She must have heard the taxi. Usually she’d be going crazy by now.
I go cold all over.
‘Tara! Tara!’ I yell, as I race through the gates. Then I see our door is open. That’s weird. Briefly I wonder if the soldiers are checking it out for Unfriendlies again. I don’t care, I have to find Tara. I have to find out if she’s dead or alive.
As I get to the step, I hear a whimper and the clickety clack of her nails on the tiles inside the house.
Tara skids out through the door and squeals when she sees us. She’s limping a fair bit and is fairly skinny, but she’s okay.
‘Hey, girl,’ I say, as I rub her ears and lean down to hug her, breathing in her warm, buttery-toast smell. ‘We’re home now.’
‘Not for long. You’re both going to be on the first plane out of here and there’ll be no arguments.’ It’s Dad. He’s still in his uniform, which is a bit crumpled, and it doesn’t look as if he’s shaved for about three days. The door was open so he must have just arrived. I can see he’s trying to look cross, but it doesn’t work.
‘Dad!’ I yell and rush over to him. He grabs me and Sarah and gives us both a big hug that almost smothers me, but I don’t care.
It’s Tara who reminds me that Walid has just been standing there, on his own, watching us. She goes over and sniffs at him in a friendly way. I can see by the way he’s standing so still and by the look in his eyes that he’s scared, but, typical Walid, he’s not going to let anyone know.
‘She likes you,’ I say to him. ‘And she’s not going to hurt someone who’s saved her life.’
‘What’s this about saving your life?’ asks Dad. ‘And who is that?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I tell him, as I go over and save Walid from Tara. ‘But if it weren’t for Walid …’ I gulp. With everyone being all emotional, I find it hard to hold back the tears when I think about the last seven days and how close Baggy Pants came to shooting Tara. If it weren’t for Walid …
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AFTERNOON IN ABUDAI, WEEK TWO
Dad didn’t make us go back out on the first plane, after all. He said we could wait until Mum came back. Then when Mum came back, crying bucket-loads of tears in between blasting us, we got another reprieve. Sarah, of course, was the one to work out the way to stay a bit longer.
‘We can’t go,’ she said, ‘not while Walid is here on his own. Adam’s his only friend and I can interpret for him.’
Mum said we could stay a week.
After lunch on our last day in Abudai, Sarah mentions the reward. I’d almost forgotten about the ten thousand dollars.
‘I hope those awful men aren’t going to get that money even though they did bring Adam back.’
‘Never!’ My mum suddenly sounds fierce. ‘They tried to kill the boys! And it’s utterly shocking the way they buy little children from those greedy traders and make them ride camels in those
dreadful races. Children as young as three on top of a camel! Can you imagine? All for the entertainment of rich sheikhs! They could give away the money they spend on those racing camels and keep half of Bangladesh in food for years.’
My mum’s on her soapbox and well away. I guess that’s where Sarah gets it from.
‘I can’t even imagine what this poor boy’s life must have been like,’ she begins.
Dad just sighs, and looks at his watch for about the hundredth time and mutters about somebody being late.
Walid and I have had conversations with Sarah interpreting, but there’s still so much I don’t understand about his life.
‘But how could his mother give him away like that?’ I want to know. It seems so cruel. My mum might get a bit annoyed with me, but she would never sell me into that sort of life.
Of course, Sarah has another opinion and isn’t slow in coming forward with it.
‘If Mum had had the choice of us both starving to death in Bangladesh or giving us what she believed would be a chance to be educated and make some money, I think she would have done exactly the same thing.’
Maybe. I don’t really want to think about it. But with a life like Walid’s had it’s not surprising that he’s such a tough nut.
Now my mum’s spent hours scrubbing him, he looks different from the Walid I first met. He didn’t like being cleaned up much, but there’s no arguing with my mum when it comes to cleanliness. She even got him to take off the filthy dishdash so she could wash it. But the one thing you can’t take away from him, though, is that grin.
*
Such a wonderful palace Ad-am lives in. But one thing I do not understand is why, with so much eating, Ad-am is not big and tall. Maybe it is because of sleeping in one soft bed and too much washing in water.
I grin back.
‘Things are going to be different now,’ says Dad. ‘I’ve got a bit of a surprise for you.’
Just then the doorbell rings.
‘I’ll get it.’ Mum jumps up and runs to the door. I’ve never seen her act like this before.
On the step are two Arabic men wearing the traditional white dishdash and flowing headdress. With them is a small, dark-skinned Indian-looking man with a moustache. He’s wearing a suit and looks important. One of the Arabic men looks familiar, and then I realise who it is.
So does Mum.
‘Your Excellency …’ For once, she’s lost for words. I glance out through the doorway and I can see, standing at the gate, half a dozen Arabic and American soldiers. All of them are armed. It’s not surprising. On our doorstep is Sheikh Abdulla, the Prime Minister of Abudai.
‘As-salaam alaykum – the peace of Allah upon you,’ says Sheikh Abdulla.
‘Alaykum as-salaam,’ Mum replies automatically. It’s about the only Arabic she knows. She puts out her hand.
‘I’m Jannette McCourt,’ she says, but Sheikh Abdulla only nods his head politely.
Mum looks down at her hand, and then looks really flustered. But I know she’s not worried that he’s treating her like she’s beneath him. Mum’s always going on about how polite Arabic men are and that the average Western man could learn a lot from the way they treat women. Even though he’s refusing to take her hand, the Sheikh is actually treating her with respect. Mum’s flustered because she forgot that in Arabic culture it’s discourteous to touch a woman, even to shake her hand.
The Sheikh turns to my dad and speaks in perfect English.
‘This, as you must know, is his Excellency, the Ambassador of the Bangladeshi Embassy, Mr Chaudry.’
The important-looking Indian man bows politely.
‘And this is Mohammed Al Shamsi.’
‘Ah!’ My dad says, as if he’s heard the name before. ‘But we weren’t expecting such a delegation.’
‘It is important after such an incident as we have experienced to show the people that all is well. Also, when I was told of this story I wished to meet these two brave young boys. And there are one or two delicate matters …’
As he says this, he steps aside, and it’s only then I see that behind him is a small lady with a long dark plait that reaches most of the way down her back. She’s wearing a sari and has worried-looking eyes.
‘Mama! It’s my mama!’
‘Emir! My little prince!’
The small woman squeezes between the men, dashes towards Walid and hugs him tightly as if she’s never going to let him go.
‘Don’t cry, Mama. I am happy. Look! I am also having many dirhams. Now I can care for you just like Babu said.’
Walid’s mum is crying. Mum and Sarah are, too. I almost am.
Dad invites the Sheikh of Abudai, the Bangladeshi Ambassador and Mr Al Shamsi in, as if he’s used to doing this every day of his life. Mum pulls herself together then, and offers them all coffee.
‘Mr Chaudry has told me the whole story of these remarkable two boys.’ Here he looks in my direction and I can’t help it – I go red. Even Walid seems stunned.
‘But I wanted to hear the facts from the boys themselves. Adam and Emir, please can you tell us your story?’
So I tell my side in English and Walid tells his in Arabic. When we finish, the Sheikh looks thoughtful. ‘It seems,’ he says, ‘that if two such boys from different cultures can learn to live together and survive such a perilous journey, then there is something here for we adults.’ He grasps my dad by the shoulder and kisses him on both cheeks and, in true Arabic style, goes for the third kiss on the cheek.
I can’t believe it, but my dad lets him, and he doesn’t even seem embarrassed. In fact, he seems pleased.
‘Yes, we could learn something from them both, that’s for sure,’ he says. ‘And I have to say I am most impressed with the efficiency of your embassy officials, Mr Chaudry. You’ve moved so quickly to find the boy’s mother. Much more quickly than I would have expected under the circumstances, with the war just over.’
‘It was no major difficulty,’ says Mr Chaudry, in a clipped English accent, as he strokes his small moustache. ‘We have a register of all the maids legally working here and, happily, this boy’s mother had all the correct paperwork.’
‘Thank you, your Excellencies, for everything,’ Mum says, covering the lot of them in one address.
‘It is our very great pleasure, Madam.’ Mr Chaudry bows to Mum. ‘We in the Bangladeshi Embassy do our best in these tragic situations, but what can we do? Ours is a poor country …’
‘And we have made laws to stop the terrible practice of buying and selling children to be used as camel jockeys,’ says Sheikh Abdulla. ‘The teachings of Islam do not condone this behaviour, but many years of tradition are hard to break.’
‘We’ve got no right to be up on our high horse anyway.’ Sarah suddenly butts in. ‘It was only a hundred or so years ago that we were sending children up chimneys and down coal mines.’
Trust Sarah to put in her bit. I have to grin as the men look slightly startled, but they’re all too polite to acknowledge that there’s an unmarried female in the room so they carry on as if she hadn’t said a word.
‘Kalyani has been working for us for four years now, but she never gave any hint that she had a son,’ says Mr Al Shamsi.
The Ambassador nods. ‘It is the way of the dalals. They tell the mothers of these children never to speak of it if they want to see their sons again. The women feel they have no choice but to remain silent.’
‘So cruel,’ murmurs Mum. ‘How can human beings treat each other so badly?’
‘We have a term in Arabic,’ says the Sheikh. ‘It is nadir – the lowest point. This is, I believe, the nadir of human behaviour.’
I’m hardly listening any more. Ever since I saw Walid giving his mum those grubby old dirhams he’s been hanging on to all this time, my brain has been ticking away in the background and then, at last, it all clicks.
‘Hey!’
‘Sounds like Mr Smartypants has had one of his mind-bustingly brilliant brainwaves again.’ Sarah�
�s right back into her sarcastic mode.
‘Well, it just so happens that I think this might be one of the best,’ I say, then I ignore her and look at Mum and Dad. Even though the Ambassador of Bangladesh and the Sheikh of Abudai are looking over my shoulder, I’ve got to have my say.
‘It’s about that money – the reward … You know, I think I know what to do with it.’
Nobody says anything so I take a deep breath and start to speak more quickly.
‘I’ve probably made it sound like I was a bit of a hero on this adventure.’ I hear my sister snort, but I don’t let it interrupt what I want to say. ‘The truth is, I’d never have got back here without Walid – I mean, Emir.’ Boy, it was going to be hard getting used to Walid’s real name. I decide to stick with ‘Walid’ for now. ‘I mean, we both had to stick together to get here. Sure I did have one or two good ideas, but, like, when I was ready to give up he just wouldn’t. And he actually saved my life a couple of times. I think if anyone’s going to get a reward for rescuing me, then it should be Walid. Then he and his mum could go back to Bangladesh. With all that money they could live like … like sheikhs.’ I finish really fast because they’re all staring at me. Even Walid and his mum, who don’t understand a word I’m saying, are looking at me.
‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ my dad says, as he winks at my mum who’s snuffling again.
‘Not a bad idea, little brother,’ my sister concedes. ‘But I’d really like to know how you two were able to communicate, so you could work out what to do. Walid doesn’t speak a word of English and your Arabic is, it has to be said, hopeless, so how on earth did you know what the other meant?’
Trust Sarah to ask a question like that, but I’m sort of pleased she asked because the atmosphere was about to get seriously sloppy. Again.
‘Ask Walid,’ I say to her. So she does. Walid and I look at each other and shrug. Then, we jump up and we slam our hands together in a perfect hi-five.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR