The Marsh Birds (6 page)

‘I was such a sad man,' he said happily to Dhurgham late one night as they walked home through the unlit alleys. ‘I can see that now. But with you in my life, I feel much better.'

Mr Hosni broke the spell. They were sitting on the living-room floor watching television. President Bush's son was trying to get elected but no one wanted him. The hilariously named Al Gore was going to win. Mr Hosni switched off the television, breaking their routine, and Dhurgham's heart fluttered painfully in his chest.

‘Birdie, your money has run out. There is none left. How are you going to pay for your board and food?'

‘That's impossible!' Dhurgham looked trapped. It couldn't be. There had been so much of it!

‘You are expensive! It's more than
possible
, it
is
!'

Dhurgham couldn't speak.

‘You will have to work, but what can a pretty, soft youth with no trade do?' Mr Hosni said gently.

Dhurgham wanted to cry out. His family had nothing. Their money could no longer keep him. How had this happened?

I have a trade, I have a trade. I can read and write. I am good at art. I know the Internet!

But he couldn't make a sound.

‘I have some friends who will help us, don't worry,' Mr Hosni said soothingly. ‘We won't have to do much, and I'll make sure they are only the good ones. It's what most people do, you know, but not many have their old Uncle looking after everything.'

Dhurgham stared at him wild-eyed, suddenly seeing just how trapped he was. He looked around. He ran into the kitchen and scooped up all the bread and the water jug and a jar of jam, with Mr Hosni trailing him in bewilderment. Then, sobbing with his inability to run, Dhurgham clambered upstairs, feeling weak, as if caught into the fabric of one of his own dreams. He barricaded his door from the inside. He sat, shaking and dizzy, on the bed, aware of how afraid of Mr Hosni's disappointment, hurt or anger he was; and how little he knew what his benefactor's reaction would be. Mr Hosni climbed the stairs and Dhurgham's heart thumped against the top of his stomach. Sweat leapt out all over his body. Mr Hosni tried the door, softly, then nothing. Dhurgham knew he was just outside, thinking. He buried his head between his knees to stop himself from fainting. Then he heard his benefactor sigh and tread heavily down the stairs, and he breathed more easily.

He felt foolish. Here he was barricaded in an upstairs room of his only friend's house, with enough food to last perhaps three days. He felt very foolish and small. But he didn't open the door, and he swore to himself that there would be no more adult love, no more, because, even though he felt the reasonableness of Mr Hosni's argument, he also felt its unfairness, its meanness, and he was on fire, finally, with an anger that could find no words.

He curled up on the bed, thinking,
I have a trade, I have! I am a great pilot, and philosophers also come in handy, as do artists
. He escaped for a while imagining a scenario in which Mr Hosni discovered that he was a real pilot. Mr Hosni was terribly impressed and got Dhurgham to smuggle things, trusting him on his honour to return.

He stayed the three days in his room, thinking; pissing, first out of the window, then into the empty water jug. When he descended to the kitchen on the fourth day, he was sweating again but exhilarated in his fear.

Mr Hosni was seated at the table. He lifted his head and whispered, ‘Birdie!' He had tears on his cheeks, but Dhurgham had only one plan and only one chance. He looked away so as not to be twisted. He walked over to the table and leant forward without sitting down, aware for the very first time of his own height.

‘My name is Dhurgham,' he said. ‘Never call me Birdie again.'

Mr Hosni smiled and Dhurgham was thrown by his benefactor's assurance. He leant in closer, trying to cover his fear.

Mr Hosni raised both hands, palms upward in capitulation. ‘Okay Birdie, okay. It's Dhurgham from now on. You are the man.'

‘And no more photos. Ever.'

‘OK, no problem—I didn't know you minded.'

‘I will pay my rent and board when I can. Until then you can love, once a fortnight. But not in my bed. And I choose … when.'

Mr Hosni shook his head slowly and smiled sadly.

‘Birdie, you don't know the going rates for love. That is nowhere near enough!'

Dhurgham began to shake so hard that Mr Hosni could see it. Mr Hosni's smile broadened. He stood up.

‘Have it your way,' he said lightly. ‘I don't mind. I love you dearly. You are like a son to me.'

Dhurgham crumpled into his seat and Mr Hosni made him pancakes for breakfast.

From then on, on rare occasions when Mr Hosni asked Dhurgham to stay a day or two with one of his friends, Dhurgham did so without a word. His great debt mounted and his self-disgust kept him passive. Mr Hosni never even had to mention it.

Meanwhile Dhurgham's body grew. He was already tall at thirteen. At Eid in his fourteenth year, Mr Hosni gave him a set of dumbbells.

Dhurgham remembered his bedroom, suddenly, as potently as if he could curl into his quilt, open his eyes and there it would be. His mind reached inward, yearning for the distant clank and tinkle of his street, the heavy scrape of his door, the smell of wood and kerosene in the entrance, then up the stairs, round the corner, up again to the landing, to his room. He could see the golden light on the walls, could smell the familiar mix of old socks, plastic toys, oiled wood and orange blossom wafting in from the orchard. That season, again. He wanted to cry. Every detail, so ordinary then, so unremarked, was radiant and painful in his mind, emblematic. His budgie chirruped from the cage on the sill. Yes! His yellow Susie! His refugee from the bombings. The war had given him Susie when he was just five. Clinging yellow to his windowsill, and so afraid. Her wings were translucent white. How could he have forgotten Susie?

He could see his toys, scattered about, each one speaking of his loss. He could hear the hum and clatter of the house, the loud clink outside of the gas vendor. He could hear, almost touch, almost smell, what he once was. His happiness.

Mr Hosni dragged Dhurgham with him by the hand. Dhurgham could feel Mr Hosni sweating, could feel Mr Hosni's fear.

‘Come with, come with. I can't see him without your help! I can't!' Mr Hosni gasped. Spittle bubbled at the centre of his bottom lip and sobs rose from his chest. Dhurgham shuddered with feelings he couldn't define. He wanted to pull away, stand up, but he didn't pull his hand away from the frenetic tugging and clutching of Mr Hosni's hands, pulling him down into a stoop. Mr Hosni was doubled over in terror.

They got to the hospital door and then Mr Hosni passed out as he stepped over the threshold. He just stumbled as though he had tripped, then slid down and flopped to the ground at Dhurgham's feet. Dhurgham stood next to him, helplessly, as medical staff rushed over. The puff of cold hospital air had paralysed him with memories. He hoped they would find something seriously wrong with Mr Hosni and keep him. He thought vaguely that he could simply walk away now.

‘He's just upset,' Dhurgham said distantly. ‘His father is dying.'

He stayed with Mr Hosni as if in a dream. He stood quietly by as Mr Hosni sobbed into Mrs Abboud's chest. He was with them, silent, when they went to the huge stone house on the outskirts of Damascus which Mr Hosni had not seen since he was twenty-five. He sat wordless in the back of the car as Mr Hosni's mother drove them home the day after the burial. He said nothing, shocked, when Mrs Abboud took his hand in hers, placed her other hand over it and, holding tightly, said,‘Look after my Hani, his heart will break now.'And then he held Mr Hosni as he seemed to spread wide and soggy on the floor. Now and then Mr Hosni lay down, curled on the floor, shaking all over, but mostly he just sobbed and filled the room with used tissues. The long threads of hair that normally trailed over his balding scalp hung down on one side to his shoulder. Dhurgham said nothing. He had one clear memory to focus on. He was feeling for its edges, feeling for a tiny crack he could peel back to uncover his family.

He had only been to a hospital once. He was ten. Uncle Mahmoud was yellow and his bones stood out under the skin. The cut in his belly was blue and puffy like a stitched quilt. It was the fattest thing on him. He could see Uncle Mahmoud pointing to his belly, lifting his shirt with a bony yellow elbow held high. He could hear Uncle Mahmoud's voice. ‘I got here and said, where is the sheet on my bed? They said, you have to bring your own. Then I said, where is my blanket? You have to bring your own. Then dinner came round, lentil soup. Goodie, I thought. Then they said, where is your bowl, you should have brought one with you. So I couldn't have soup, and next day, when Umm Jamal brought me a bowl, there was no more soup. Then they did the operation because I was starved enough and a doctor happened by on his way to the West. When I woke up, three days later, because they use horse anaesthetic, I said, where is my nurse? What do you mean, nurse? they said, you have to bring your own.'

Uncle Mahmoud joked as usual, but his mouth, stretched thin and dry over his teeth, made it seem as though he wasn't really joking. He smelt bad. It was the last time Dhurgham saw Uncle Mahmoud. He knew that without remembering anything more.

There was no chink, no lifting corner. Nothing that took him out of the hospital, away from Uncle Mahmoud's dying. It was seamless. Even Nooni, who must have been standing beside him next to the iron bed, was erased. Why was it that his memories were stripped from him? Mr Hosni, sleeping now with jagged childlike breaths, was indecent with the grief of his memories. Dhurgham looked down at his benefactor. He felt the weight of that head in his lap and he imagined it dead, brains rotting under the thin hair.

‘That boy will turn on you, you know,' Mr Hilton said softly to Mr Hosni as he watched Dhurgham serve them. ‘He'll add it all up one day soon and probably stab you in your bed.' There was a certain smugness to his voice that made Mr Hosni dismiss what he had said.

‘You are jealous. The boy loves me. He is my nephew.'