The Shipwrecked (12 page)

The paint sprayer stopped. The man with the gruff voice issued some technical instructions to the boy, or at least that was what I presumed.

       
—Leave that alone. The wife has made us eggplant stew. Wash you hands and turn on the burner.

       
—Why do you trip me up, Boss? You remember I nearly smashed my knee last time.

       
—You're so damn slow. Get a move on.

       
— [silence]

       
—What do you think? Red or blue?

       
—Blue looks better, Boss, I told you so.

       
—All right, all right. Enough of that.

       
—I'm going to the stadium tomorrow.

The man with the gravelly voice chuckled loudly. He started drumming on the hood of a car and with a falsetto began singing the lyrics of a racy and suggestive song.

In the corridor a trolley was being pushed along, serving food from cell to cell. A line of sugar ants extended from the floor all the way up the wall to where the light fixture held a low-wattage bulb in a wire cage. With my finger I crushed the ants leaving a trace of brown line on the whitewashed wall.

Suddenly, there was the sound of breaking glass and running feet. I pressed my ear against the wall.

       
—I'm gonna beat the hell out of you bastard. Come back here.

       
—Oh, for god's sake, Boss. Please, I am only trying here . . .

       
—Shut the hell up! You take care of everybody except me.

       
— [silence]

       
—Come back. I just want to have a word with you, talk some sense into you.

The bright afternoon sun had almost set and the breeze carried the smell of steel and paint. My knees were shaking.

A MAN AT
the end of the alley, the alley near the school, caught me by surprise. I was trembling. With stretched arms, he advanced toward me. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he said. “Just give me those.” I stepped away from him. “These bastards,” he shouted loudly. “They stop at nothing.” Some neighbors looked on from their windows, some standing in doorways. I let drop the spray paint can and the brush. The hammer-and-sickle emblem on the white wall bled paint, losing shape.

“Look at what the bitch has painted on the wall,” the man shouted at the onlookers, as he came close enough to me to feel his breath on the back of my neck. I broke into
a run, the unbuttoned collar of my dress flapping in the wind. I burst into the stationary shop a few doors down from the school. The sales clerk looked up, startled. He pointed to the back door, wordlessly. The smell of books and newsprint filled my nostrils.

. . . The sound of water filling a bucket. The screech of metal grating against metal. The man with the raspy voice grumbled.

       
—The son-of-a-bitch didn't take out the dent. He just filled it with putty.

       
—Sorry. I got distracted . . .

       
—Where the hell is the body mold? Not this one, the round-headed one . . .

       
—But Boss, this doesn't fit.

       
—What do you mean “doesn't fit?” Just watch.

I couldn't laugh. Unaccountably, I thought of the story of the princess who draped her long tresses down the castle wall for her lover to climb up and rescue her from prison.

       
—Jump up. I'll drop you off at the highway.

Perhaps he leaped over an obstacle, or a tree branch snapped. I listened to the puttering sound of the motorcycle until it faded in the distance. I had a feeling that Orange Slippers has been watching me. I raised myself
on my knees and looked toward the cell door. I heard the shuffling of the slippers moving away. The nightly howl of stray dogs had begun.

The repair shop opened later than usual. The man with gravelly voice cleared his throat. His grumbling was more bitter than usual.

       
—How dare you stand me up, you son-of-a bitch?

Sunlight had spread to the top of the wall. Pacing the cell for so long had made me dizzy. I stumbled to the floor. The ceiling seemed to turn round and round overhead pressing down on me. My breath was rapid and shallow. I tried to remember the poem I had written for my fellow inmates in the other cell block. No use.

The sound of a car pulling up to the shop door with tires skidding. The voice was high-pitched and sharp-toned, associated with men of small stature. It could be heard over the surrounding noises.

       
—Tailors have a reputation for being late. You make them look good, Farmoon.

       
—I swear I've been shorthanded, Mr. Tabesh. All is left is the polish, I swear.

       
—You can't lay up a government vehicle.

       
—I swear to all three of you gentlemen, I'll get it ready by tomorrow afternoon.

The sound of men talking casually among themselves and a car being driven away on a dirt road. A radio blaring in the shop.

       
—Good morning, Boss.

Something metallic was hurled. It crashed into a stone wall, making a ringing sound. Disgruntled mumbling of the man with the gruff voice.

       
—How do you think it makes me feel to be stood up by a rotten kid? You think this is a game?

       
—Please don't beat me, Boss. . . I overslept . . . I swear on my mother's . . .

Her hands at her waist, Orange Slippers was standing in front of my cell door swinging the oversized key ring. She had a twisted smile on her lips.

“Where are you?” she asked. “Do you have any aches and pains anywhere?”

The smell of cooked rice and minced meat stew with split peas was everywhere. The water jug slipped out of my hand and crashed on the floor in front of the washbasin. A narrow stream of dark yellow urine flowed on the mosaic floor. Orange Slippers jumped back. “That's precious,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “You couldn't hold your piss for four hours. What the hell you thought you could do for the masses?”

Tuesday Prayer was being broadcast from the loudspeakers throughout the building. I rubbed the mirror with the palm of my hand and looked into it. My eyelashes were clumped together with dry foam. There were pimples on my face. I had a strong desire to be alone by myself.

“Don't let that bother you too much,” Orange Slippers said in a more conciliatory tone as she patted me on the back. “I'll take care of this. Tomorrow is bath day. Have your clothes ready.” She then handed me the food plate and left another water jug on the floor and locked the cell door behind her.

I found the din of hammering and filing irritating. I removed the overcooked dried limes and split peas from the soup bowl.

“Every two or three months your father would sneak in for a visit,” my mother had told me, “looking older and more decrepit than the time before. The signal was three rings on the phone after nine o'clock at night. I would raise the corner of the curtain of the parlor window to signal that the coast was clear.

“I would take a quick shower and cook his favorite minced meat stew. He was on the run and never stayed more than one night at a time. He often smelled musty and smoky. I could not sleep, afraid they would raid the house to catch him. He was always optimistic that things would get better with people rising and demanding their
rights. I could not make him understand that people would not rise because he told them to.” She then smiled and rubbed the the bulging veins on her hands.

“You were two years old,” my mother continued, “as playful as a monkey, like you still are. You would hug his legs and he would lift you off the ground and swing you side to side. That made you laugh and laugh. Sometimes he sounded like he'd lost his mind. He said he would make you a swing from one end of the world to the other. Ultimately it was from a swing like that that they hanged him. I'd never know what kind of argument had persuaded him to think and act like that.” She then stared at me with bloodshot eyes. “It looks like you are following in his footsteps,” she moaned.

The hinges of the door of the shop squeaked. The man cleared his throat and spat. The crunch of his work boots on the sandy floor made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

       
—Don't be scared, boy. Sometimes the devil gets under your skin.

       
— [silence]

       
—In this day and age you need sometone to take care of you. Or they'll stick it up your ass.

       
—[silence]

       
—Me? You see me here? I am in place of your dad. Why do you clam up?

       
—I don't know. What am I supposed to say?

       
—You don't have to say anything. Just treat me as well as you treat others.

       
—Leave me alone, Boss.

       
—Now drink up to get a buzz on.

       
—But with one's dad? This is . . .

       
—Oh, come on! Men don't cry. Don't spoil our day. Why are you sweating on a cold day like this?

       
—[silence]

       
—That's all right. Don't think about it. Hit me in the face if it makes you feel better.

       
—[silence]

       
—Now, remember you didn't hit when you had a chance. By the way, Mr. Fart was here this morning and unloaded a whole bunch of insults on me. Go ahead and polish the Mercedes. I don't want to deal with him again.

       
—[silence]

       
—Are you starving? Say something. I'm going to stop by the house and pick up some lunch. We'll be lucky if this leftover garbage from prison does not give us erectile dysfunction.

A motorcycle drove away and its engine noise died beyond the hills.

       
—I'll be no man if I don't kill him, that motherfucker.

There was a tremor in the boy's voice. He had been shouting and now, as he chopped wood, he talked to himself.

Again, I could smell the odor permeating the cell. I did not want to think of their quarrels. But there was something bothering the boy, something I could not see or hear.

I was awakened by the squeak of the window in the cell door. I felt lifeless as I stretched on the floor of my cell, like a broken statue afraid to move lest some parts of my body would fall off. I moved slowly, deliberately. My sobbing filled the cell. I bit hard on the edge of the blanket. The salty taste of the wool filled my mouth.

I had a sense the boy had infiltrated my dreams, but I didn't know how. Every time I woke up I looked around apprehensively, afraid that someone had peeked into my dreams.

       
—Hey boy, what's the matter? Your eyes are like hot coals. Come and get your lunch. It is healthy and nutritious.

       
—[silence]

       
—You've gone on silent mode again? Coo coo coo!

       
—Leave me alone, Boss. I don't like it this way.

       
—Wow! We're so serious, aren't we? That's why I like you as I do my own kid.

       
—[silence]

       
—I am like the good cop. You know? To serve and protect? I'll be looking after you any way I can.

       
—[silence]

       
—Now tell me. In all honesty, how many of you were on the Saveh highway?

       
—Saber and . . . with me . . . four of us.

       
—I know what bastards they are. In their company you'll soon be a druggie.

       
—[silence]

       
—You'll be safe if you follow your boss. With those guys? I don't know.