Nowhere Boy: Chapter 5 - PDF

CHAPTER FIVE The night of September 1, the temperature dropped and Ahmed could tell that summer was coming to an end. It had been a cool summer anyway, with nights that were only cozy in the tent because of the heat of the bodies beside him. Now the rain fell in sheets, and despite the blue plas...

CHAPTER FIVE The night of September 1, the temperature dropped and Ahmed could tell that summer was coming to an end. It had been a cool summer anyway, with nights that were only cozy in the tent because of the heat of the bodies beside him. Now the rain fell in sheets, and despite the blue plastic tarps that volunteers had pitched over their tent, the water seeped in, making the ground damp. The silver hands of Baba's watch stretched up to midnight. Ahmed listened to Ibrahim snoring and Bana whining in her sleep till Zainab pulled her closer. Then he wedged on his shoes, checked to make sure he had the three hundred euros his father had tucked into his passport, and kissed Bana gently on the cheek, the way he had once kissed his littlest sister, Nouri. A smile flickered on Bana's face, but she did not wake. He scrawled a note to Ibrahim, thanking him for honoring his promise and promising in turn to get in touch when he reached Calais. By the time he'd swallowed the lump in his throat and crawled out the tent flap, a chilly wind was driving the rain sideways. The ground was muddy, and he could feel water soaking into his sock where the sole of his sneaker was peeling off. But at least no one was out to see him leave the park and knock on the window of an idling van. An unshaven man with a prominent Adam's apple turned around in the driver's seat and waved him inside. Ahmed slid open the door, releasing a cloud of smoke and thumping Albanian techno music. "Ahmed!" the man said, as if they'd known each other a long time. The smuggler's first name was Ermir; Ahmed didn't know his last name, only that he spoke English and had agreed to drive him to Calais. "You have the money?" Ahmed handed him the three hundred euros. Ermir counted it, then shoved it in his jeans' pocket. "Great, great. Take a seat in the back." Ahmed shut the door behind him. The van smelled horrible---like cigarette smoke and old cabbage. But it was a ride. The doors locked with a click, and Ermir pulled the van onto the road. Ahmed took a deep breath as the park disappeared behind him. Ermir smiled at him in the rearview mirror. "I forgot... Hand me your phone." Ahmed looked at the reflection of the smuggler uncertainly. His phone was the only way he could contact anyone. It was the only way he could get online, check in with friends back home. It was where he kept the only photos he had of his family. "Don't worry, Ahmed. I'll give it back to you in Calais. I just can't have you using it in the van." Ahmed hesitated, trying to remember if he'd heard other stories about smugglers collecting phones. The van jerked to a stop, and Ermir turned to face him. "Look, Ahmed. We've got to trust each other. I'm taking a big risk here ---" Ermir glanced at the door as if he was starting to think Ahmed wasn't worth the effort. Ahmed shoved the phone toward him. "Okay." Ermir pocketed it, then silently shifted back into drive. Ahmed pressed his face against the window. Since arriving by train from Germany, he'd seen little of Brussels beyond the park and the dirty, crowded Gare du Nord station a few blocks away. The skyscrapers that seemed half empty even during the day were dark and deserted. The broader avenues near the station gave way to narrow, curving streets lined with shabby row houses. Some had shops on the ground floor, but at this hour their entrances were shuttered behind metal grates. Tram lines crisscrossed above the streets like spiders' webs. The only hints of life were a few lone men smoking beneath overhangs and the neon signs of night shops. Ahmed knew they were convenience stores that sold mostly alcohol and cigarettes, but the English words seemed to hint at something darker. Ten minutes later, Ermir bumped his fist against the radio power button, cutting off the wailing woman singer. Ahmed hadn't particularly liked the music, but now he wished it was back on. The only sounds were the mechanical swish of the windshield wipers and Ermir tapping his cigarette into the ashtray. Suddenly he caught Ahmed's eye in the mirror. He was no longer smiling. "I'm feeling like three hundred is not enough here." Ahmed stiffened. "But you say it is---" "It barely covers the gas---" Ahmed peered out the window. He had no idea where they were. *Be calm,* he told himself. Smugglers always pushed for more. But he couldn't help remembering a tale he'd heard about a smuggler who'd threatened to harvest a refugee's organs if he couldn't pay more. A healthy kidney was worth more than three hundred euros on the black market. Ahmed tried to keep his voice from trembling. "I not have more money." Ermir stopped at a red light and jerked his head around. Ahmed could feel his eyes boring into him. "That's a nice watch." Ahmed clutched the Seamaster, as if to shield it from Ermir's greedy eyes. "No!" "Shut up!" The light turned green and Ermir hit the gas hard, jerking Ahmed back into his seat. "Let me out!" Ahmed shouted. He lunged for the door, but it was locked. "Sit back down! You owe me!" There was only one way to escape. Ahmed catapulted into the passenger seat. Ermir slammed on the brakes and grabbed Ahmed by the sleeve of his hoodie. Ahmed flung open the door and charged through it with such force that he could hear his sleeve rip as he tumbled out of the van. He landed on his knees and elbows on the asphalt, but he didn't even feel the pain. He sprang back to his feet and ran as fast as he could. Behind him, he could hear a door slam shut and tires squeal. He imagined Ermir stomping on the gas. He would slam the van into him and take his watch before leaving him for dead in the pouring rain. "Help!" he shouted in English. No one answered. He turned blindly onto a quiet street, past an apartment building, to where large houses hunkered behind iron gates. One gate was open and he ran inside, around the house and into the backyard, where he nearly crashed into a brick wall. He was coughing now and gagging and was drenched to his underwear, but the same part of him that had stopped him from jumping into the sea after his father propelled him over the wall. He dropped clumsily to the other side, scratching his face against the branches of a bush. The garden was unkempt. Even in the pouring rain, he could see that green tendrils of ivy had swallowed the walls, and weeds snaked around the trunk of a small fruit tree. The house overlooking it was dark. Ahmed slipped through the patchy grass and leaves toward the back of the house, where there was a recessed cement patio beneath an overhang. He stood beneath the overhang, shaking as he watched the wall, halfexpecting the smuggler to catapult over it. But no one came. Hot tears slid down his cheeks. At least he could feel his father's watch warm and heavy on his wrist, hear the ticking of the hand. Ahmed caught his breath, pulled up his drenched sleeve and inspected the watch for damage. It was unscathed, but in the pale light of the moonlit clouds, he could see the scraped skin on his elbows where they'd hit the concrete. He slowly became aware of the rest of his body. His throat felt dry and hurt when he swallowed. He needed water. At the back of the patio, leading into the house, was a set of glass doors. Ahmed tried to peer through, but a curtain covered them. He quietly turned the knob and gave it a gentle push. He expected to meet resistance, but to his amazement, the knob turned and the door opened. He cautiously stuck his head inside and looked around. The room was filled with different-sized bikes, helmets, a skateboard and skis. It was clearly a basement storage space for a family. He carefully took off his sneakers and socks, then slipped inside and closed the door behind him. The blue carpet absorbed the sound of his steps, but he still walked very slowly in case someone was in a neighboring room. As he reached the end of the storage room, he had another stroke of luck. Just outside it was a bathroom. He crept inside and turned on the tap, cupped his hands and drank. His throat burned, but he felt a little better. Just then, a white blur moved behind him. Ahmed whipped around just in time to see a fluffy white cat look at him, then race into the next room. His heart thumping, he followed the cat into a laundry room with piles of dirty clothes lying next to a washer and dryer. It was tempting to strip off his drenched clothes and place them inside. But he continued on, tiptoeing into a room cluttered with a stack of chairs, a mattress, a rolled-up carpet and other random pieces of furniture. Ahmed slipped through a door at the side of this room and found himself in a low hallway piled high with stiff, new packing boxes. It seemed as if the family who lived here had recently moved in. Ahmed slipped in among the boxes, quietly shifting those that blocked his way. He expected to hit a wall where the hallway ended, but instead he spotted a small door. A skeleton key stuck out of it. Ahmed turned the key and opened the door. A dank smell drifted out of the darkness. He could hear water dripping inside. He walked down two small, uneven stairs until he was below the basement, in what seemed like a subcellar. On the right was an empty room with dirt walls. Next to it was a cement room, which Ahmed figured out by touching the rough, wet walls. With his hand on the wall to guide him, he crossed the room and nearly hit his head on a low arch. Ducking beneath it, he broke through a curtain of gauzy cobwebs into a third room. It was still damp, but drier than the other two, and there was a little light from a high rectangular window, enough to illuminate a switch on the wall. Ahmed turned it on and light blazed from a single naked bulb. At first, Ahmed thought he had discovered a crypt. The walls of the room were lined with deep cubicles. But there was nothing inside them; the room was empty except for the crisscross of cobwebs. Clearly, no one had been down here in weeks, even months. Ahmed realized what he was thinking, but he pushed the idea away. Someone would find him; he would be arrested for breaking into the house. But the idea wouldn't leave him. He had no money, no phone. He had nothing---just a fake passport and a watch, not even bus fare to get back to Parc Maximilien. He swallowed and felt the pain of swollen glands. There was the bathroom outside for water and waste, and even an alcove in the wall beneath the little window that was just big enough to hide in if someone came. What if he stayed here, just for a night or two? Ahmed quietly retraced his steps out of this hidden wing of the basement to the laundry room. He pulled a towel out of the heap of laundry to dry himself off with and a blanket to sleep on. Then he crept back to the little door off the utility hall and closed it behind him. As he leaned against the door, his knees felt weak and wobbly. He staggered back to the crypt, stripped off his wet pants and torn hoodie and collapsed onto the blanket.