Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining

  #17. Red-Line Swimming Pool, SHARIA Mohamed Osama Qasem, Damascus, Syria

  Wednesday July 1, 15:31

  STANDING BETWEEN the corner of constantly busy Ibn Assaker Street and a large, open-air sports ground with a full-sized grass football pitch, some smaller, all-weather five-a-side and basketball courts and several rows of concrete seating, the large Red-Line swimming complex in Sharia Mohamed Osama Qasem is impressive despite its shabby, run-down appearance. The open-air twenty-five metre pool is served by a blue and white spiral chute and two diving boards, one a two-metre springboard, the other a fixed, five-metre platform. The pool is surrounded by a wide, stone-tiled seating area on which bathers may bake in the hot midday sun. A smaller, shallower kiddies' pool is situated up some steps behind a water-chute next to a line of tall lush green bushes. There is a large, fairly sparse café, a soaking-wet toilet and shower-block and, inside a metal cage, an open-air changing area with blue painted lockers and cubicles. The Red Line Swimming Pool is strictly 'Men Only'.

  Through the wire-link fence separating pool from pitch, Ali, fingers twined in the green wire, thought the yellow-bibbed men running through rubber tyres and dribbling balls round traffic cones seemed to be having more fun than he was. Tamer and Anas were splashing round in the kiddies' pool whilst Moussa Bashir and Hisham were smoking in white plastic chairs and drooling over some boys who were playing on the diving board.

  As arranged, Ali had met them on his usual bench next to the toilets in Zenobia Park. Tamer and Anas were wearing the same ragbag of unmatched, uncoordinated clothing as yesterday, except Anas had added a pair of cheap, black, laceless shoes. Tamer's eyes were bloodshot from a glue hangover. Anas seemed a bit brighter. They told Ali they had slept in the doorway of a lingerie shop. They nudged each other and giggled a lot.

  ''Lacy bras,'' Anas laughed.

  ''Skimpy knickers,'' Tamer sniggered.

  ''Have a cigarette,'' Ali sighed, handing them out.

  Tamer was from Bethlehem in Palestine. When his father was shot by Israeli soldiers for throwing stones at a road-sign, his mother arrested for 'harbouring a terrorist' (his father) and their house bull-dozed flat, Tamer hitched to Damascus, hiding in trucks and riding in tankers all the way to the 'Friday' Market where he worked unloading lorries. It was neither official nor paid and he relied on tips from the drivers and traders. Sometimes he earned, sometimes he did not. He lived on a building-site near Azer Square, often alone, sometimes with other homeless boys like Nour and Ahmad, the ten year old Palestinians Hisham had been huffing with yesterday.

  Anas, like Ali, was from Baghdad. After his mother was killed by an American air-strike, his father had picked up an AK-47 and run off to join Moqtada Al-Sadr's Mahdi Army where was currently shooting at anyone he could find, especially Americans and people working with the Americans. Anas, his little brother Firas and their grandmother had fled to Damascus in a taxi which had cost Granny her life-savings. Now they shared a one-bedroomed hovel with eight other Iraqis somewhere up the Qassioun mountainside. Firas, who was ten, sold toilet paper in the Journalists' Club. It was a good job, warm in winter, free tea and tips. Sometimes he had to clean the toilets too but it was worth a dollar a day. Firas neither huffed nor ran with the gangs. He thought himself a cut above the others. Anas, though, dismissed as demeaning dispensing bog paper for a living. Instead he begged in the Old City, picked the pockets of foreign tourists and considered himself authentically 'street'.

  ''We got to live,'' he said defensively. ''It's not my fault my Dad's a terrorist.''

  ''We've come here with our families or by ourselves,'' Tamer explained, ''But we're pretty much on our own. The Syrians don't want us. Nobody wants us. They tolerate us but why should they give us money or jobs or education? We're not Syrians. We're outsiders.''

  ''And we can't stay at home,'' Anas added, ''Or we'll probably die.''

  Ali told them about the market and the bomb and how his uncle had sent him to live with his cousin in Damascus.

  ''My Uncle Wagdy has loads of children, too many really,'' he said. ''He couldn't look after me as well. Hamza, Wagdy's oldest, came here just after the war. He's a teacher. He's got his own flat and car. It's only a battered old Golf but it's a car. It's more than he had in Baghdad.''

  ''You have a home,'' Tamer sighed, ''And an adult to look after you, food on the table, a bed, a shower, a TV…'' His expressed desire nearly melted Ali's heart. He knew he should invite them back, them, Ahmad, Nour and all the homeless children for at least one decent meal but he doubted Hamza Madani would be impressed. Hamza did not seem impressed by anything he did and besides, even though such charitable undertakings might get him closer to Dar El-Tawhid than following Hisham to midnight sexchanges in the wastelands, they would surely compromise the safe-house. Instead he asked about Hisham.

  ''He's not the boss,'' Anas declared strongly. ''He just thinks he is 'cos he has a house and can go and come as he likes.''

  ''He also knows loads of people,'' said Tamer, ''Like soldiers and secret police.''

  ''And he always has money,'' said Anas, ''So he can get us food and drink.''

  ''And glue,'' Ali added sardonically. ''Where does he get his money from?''

  The others exchanged shifty glances before Anas giggled and mumbled something about selling sausages which made Tamer giggle too.

  Ali drew a deep breath and asked about Moussa Bashir. They dodged the question by demanding their money.

  ''Maybe I brought it,'' Ali said, ''Maybe I didn't.''

  ''You promised,'' whined Anas.

  ''You'd better have brought it,'' said Tamer, trying to sound threatening.

  ''You said you'd get some,'' said Anas.

  ''Moussa Bashir,'' Ali said sharply. ''What do you know about him?''

  Anas looked at him suspiciously. ''Why do you want to know?''

  ''Curiosity.'' Ali dug around in his tracksuit pocket for a bank-note. ''I'm wondering whether I can trust him.''

  ''Why?'' Tamer sniggered. ''You in the sausage business yourself?''

  They were becoming annoying but Ali did not want to abandon the bench yet. Hisham might come.

  ''Hot sausage,'' Anas snorted.

  ''Hot thick sausage,'' Tamer giggled.

  ''Hot thick brown sausage,'' Anas guffawed.

  ''With sauce,'' Tamer chortled.

  ''Hot sauce,'' Anas gurgled.

  ''Hot white sauce,'' Tamer chuckled.

  Ali got up wearily. ''I'm going to the kiosk,'' he said.

  Glancing now across the deep-blue water he could see Moussa Bashir and Hisham sharing a cherry-flavoured shisha. Hisham, long, lean and lithe, was sunbathing in tight, white, bulge-defining Speedos. His tanned, hairless limbs glistened with sun-oil.

  Moussa's scalp was shielded from the burning sun by a pale beige cap. Round-lensed light blue glasses balanced on his beaky nose. He had removed his shirt to reveal a narrow chest covered in wiry grey hair. His pale blue slacks were rolled up over his pale, thin ankles. His scaly skin seemed grey and flaky.

  Stubbing out his cigarette, Ali stepped away from the wire and stepped down to the pool. The swimming trip had been Hisham's idea.

  ''Come on,'' he had said, ''It'll be good for you. Get some exercise. You can't sit here on your bench all day like some sad old git.''

  ''I haven't any trunks,'' said Ali.

  ''Don't worry,'' said Hisham. ''Moussa will bring you some.''

  He did. Red ones so tight and so tiny they showed off every curve.

  ''Yum.'' Moussa Bashir had licked his lips.

  Feeling immensely self-conscious, Ali simply dived into the pool and swum lengths till he was tired. He did not know how to handle this aspect of the mission. He had not reckoned on Moussa Bashir being so openly, unsettlingly and predatorily sexual towards him.

  ''Eh'lan, Ali.'' The man scrutinised him through his pale blue lenses. ''You're just in time for an afternoon drink.''

  They entered the café through a beaded curtain. A din
gy, fishless aquarium was set in one wall. Eight long tables were smothered in red-and-white chequered plastic cloths. The waiter was a flustered-looking, middle-aged, moustachioed man in a red-and-gold waistcoat and baggy black trousers.

  Moussa led the boys to a table at the back and ordered five glasses of Jordanian Haddad Arak, the spirit made from grapes and aniseed, and a flask of tap water.

  ''I don't drink alcohol,'' said Ali tartly, ''And neither should you. It's haram, forbidden.''

  The others tipped the fire-water down their throats.

  ''More,'' ordered Moussa.

  Ali shifted uncomfortably as another glass was set before him.

  ''What's up?'' scoffed Hisham. ''You some kind of fundamentalist?''

  ''Al-Qaeda Ali,'' mocked Tamer.

  Moussa's eyes were hard. This was a dilemma. Ali could smell the aniseed. He was conscious of four pairs of eyes fixed on his fingers. He did not want to drink it. One hundred percent proof alcohol might slow his reactions but he had to get Moussa to invite him to the madrassa. Would drinking impress him? Or not?

  Not.

  Ali pushed the glass away.

  ''You go to Hell if you want.'' He summoned the waiter. ''Mango juice, please.''

  Moussa, Hisham and Tamer started discussing the situation in Palestine. This was a catalogue of ancient grievances, barbed wire, sandbags, checkpoints, arrests, graffiti, and occasional car-bombs.

  ''It's not all bread and roses in Baghdad, you know,'' said Ali after a while, grumpily poking the thick orange syrup with his plastic straw.

  ''No.'' Moussa narrowed his eyes. ''So what would you do about it?''

  Ali considered the issue of the Jaish-Al-Mahdi's attacks on the Sunnis, Al-Qaeda's attacks on the Shia, the impotence of the Americans, the slaughter of the Christians and the fact that the entire police force had been abolished along with the military and political system and concluded that his country was a complete disaster-area.

  ''I pray for Youm al-Qiyāmah,'' he said, ''The Day of Judgement. It's the only solution.''

  Hisham snorted. ''I hate you people,'' he said contemptuously. ''You sit there, all complacent, doing nothing while your country burns, while your people bleed, waiting fatalistically for Armageddon and God to step in. What if he doesn't?''

  ''Hisham!'' Anas seemed shocked.

  ''Yeah, Anas,'' said Hisham, ''What if he isn't there? What if Al-Lah isn't there? What if it's all a lie, a great big lie to keep stupid donkeys like you scared and in your place? What if it's all made-up to make you behave yourself? What if it's all a load of old shit?''

  Angrily he ordered another arak, added a large splash of water, swirled the cloudy liquor round the glass.

  ''You, Ali, you saw your mother blown to bits, your sister's foot blown off, your father and brothers die… you saw it…''

  He gulped down the drink and ordered a fourth.

  ''And you're not angry? You don't want revenge? You don't want to kill those bastard sons-of-bitches that did it?''

  'He's in a thousand little pieces,'' Ali said wryly. ''It isn't so easy to kill him.'' Tamer and Anas laughed. ''But yeah… I'm angry. I've had to leave my home and my school to live in a shit-hole with a cousin who doesn't give a crap about me. I'd rather be learning Maths, French and Science and looking forward to a future as an engineer than sitting in a café with a bunch of losers like you figuring out where to get the next glue-fix or sex-fix…I had plans, you know.''

  ''We all had plans,'' murmured Moussa Bashir, ''Till the Jews and Americans came.''

  Ali bit back ''and Yasser, your bomber.'' Instead he finished his juice.

  ''We should be fighting back,'' stormed Hisham, ''Not waiting for God to come down from Heaven in a flash of lightning. It's ridiculous.'' He swayed in his seat and lit another crumpled cigarette. ''We let these bastards run all over us.''

  Moussa Bashir seemed suddenly bored. He scanned the laminated menu.

  ''Something to eat?'' he asked.

  ''I'll have a burger,'' said Anas excitedly.

  ''Me too,'' said Tamer. ''God, a burger. I love burgers.''

  ''Hisham?''

  ''Whatever.'' The boy in the white trunks was sulking as he smoked.

  ''Burger. Ali?''

  ''What else is there?''

  ''Nothing,'' said Moussa. ''Five burgers please.''

  Tamer and Anas were talking about lacy bras again. Hisham was sitting with his long legs stuck out straight and crossed at the ankles, sucking on his cigarette, a petulant frown scarring his forehead.

  Ali watched the strands of mango pulp sliding down the inside of his glass, then glanced at Moussa Bashir who said ''So you come from Baghdad?''

  Ali nodded. ''Born and bred.''

  ''Lived through the war?''

  Ali nodded again.

  ''How do you like the Americans?''

  ''I hate them,'' said Ali simply.

  ''And Saddam?'' asked Moussa quietly.

  ''Not a good Muslim,'' said Ali.

  Moussa sat back thoughtfully. ''Would you like to learn more about The Qur'an? I have a friend who can teach you.''

  ''I guess,'' said Ali.

  ''Well,'' said Moussa cheerfully, ''You're among friends here.'' Reaching across, he playfully squeezed Ali's left nipple between his finger and thumb.

  The burgers were thick fatty slabs of brown meat squeezed into soggy bread-rolls. Garish splotches of mayonnaise and ketchup oozed from the sides and dripped onto the paper napkins beneath. Grease seeped through the bread.

  The others stuffed them ravenously into their mouths, chewing and chomping as though worried that someone would confiscate them if they paused for a breath.

  Ali ate more slowly. The burger was pretty bad. He could feel indigestion beginning even as he swallowed another chunk.

  The others wiped their fingers on their swimming-shorts and smacked their lips.

  ''Lovely,'' sighed Tamer.

  ''Beautiful,'' said Anas.

  ''Glad you enjoyed them,'' said Moussa Bashir, signalling for the check.

  Ali went for a final swim. The sun was beginning to set and the pool would soon close. The burger lay like lead in his stomach.

  When he saw Tamer and Anas head off to get changed, he clambered from the pool and went to the toilet, a large concrete-floored area with stinking urinals, where Hisham was squatting naked over a hole, the white trunks discarded at his feet like a sloughed-off snakeskin.

  ''Bloody burger,'' he grunted. ''It's going right through me.''

  Ali peed. ''I don't think I'll crap again for days,'' he said. ''It's blocked me right up.''

  Moussa Bashir sidled slyly up to the next urinal. Ali's heart sank, especially when Moussa lovingly, lingeringly cupped his right buttock.

  ''Don't scowl, Hisham.'' The boy was wiping himself with some paper. ''Ali's hot, aren't you, Ali?'' Moussa patted his bottom again.

  ''I guess,'' mumbled Ali, blushing fiercely.

  ''Tonight?'' Moussa squeezed Ali's buttock. ''On the building site?''

  ''Maybe.'' Ali writhed away from the man. ''I'll see. Cousin. You know?''

  ''You weren't so bashful last night,'' said Moussa Bashir. ''In fact you were quite …ah.. forthcoming.''

  ''And vocal,'' added Hisham, stepping jealously into Moussa's embrace.

  Ali blushed again and left them to their fondling. However soiled he suddenly felt, he dare not risk a shower till he got home. He dragged his clothes and towel from the locker, shut himself behind the blue door of a cubicle, stripped off the ridiculous red trunks and started drying his legs, when Moussa tapped on the door. Ali pressed the towel against his groin.

  ''Ali?'' oiled the voice. ''Are you in there?''

  ''Yes,'' he said. ''I'm changing.''

  ''Oh,'' chuckled Moussa, ''You don't need to change. You're perfectly sweet as you are.''

  Behind the door, Ali mimed vomiting. The voice reminded him of thick treacle.

  ''I just want to say I hope to see you tonight,'' Moussa cont
inued, ''Or at least see parts of you. We're all going to the building-site for some fun. Please come. You'll make me very happy.''

  ''It depends on my cousin,'' said Ali. ''I'd love to come but he's really strict.''

  ''Wants you all to himself, eh?'' said Moussa. ''Well, I can hardly blame him for that.''

  ''If I can't make it,'' he called, ''Where shall I meet you on Friday?''

  ''Come tonight and show yourself,'' twittered Moussa, ''And I will tell you, with a kiss.''

  Ali lost patience. Dropping his towel on the tiles, he opened the cubicle door.

  ''Tell me now,'' he said.