The Wall (29 page)

I can hear something that sounds like an argument from the main room of the apartment, then Leila's father appears, supported on one side by his daughter, on the other by his wife. He looks ten years older than the last time I saw him, with sunken cheeks and dull, waxy skin. His mouth seems to have retreated into his skull.

The huddle of people around me parts at his approach. His eyes, beaming with furious intensity, lock with mine, and he shrugs away the two women who are gripping his arms. Without their support he looks precarious and frail, as if the slightest nudge would knock him over.

‘You came,' he says, in a thin, breathy voice, his tongue clicking strangely in his mouth as he speaks.

I nod.

‘You brought me the medicine.'

I nod again. ‘As much as I could get. It's not a lot, but I did my best.'

One of his eyes becomes briefly shiny, as if a tear might be trying to form, but he blinks it away. ‘Thank you,' he says.

I nod once more, a series of sharp, fast movements that push back a tearful swelling in my throat.

‘How?' he says. ‘The tunnel's been sealed. There's a curfew.'

‘I hid.'

‘You hid? Where?'

‘An army truck.'

‘You hid in an army truck?'

‘On. On the roof. I jumped off after the checkpoint.'

He stares at me in disbelief, then a hubbub ripples through the room as this information is translated, debated and digested.

‘Can I stay here tonight?' I ask.

This question seems to burst a bubble of tension, and a roar of laughter fills the room, rolling around from person to person, rising and falling, as the question is repeated in both languages, with Leila's mother and brothers making expansive gestures offering me all the space, all the food, all the time they have to offer.

I soon find myself swarmed upon, with my filthy T-shirt pulled off me, my wounds bathed, and clean clothes shoved over my head. An array of food appears on the dining table: a plate of flat, white bread cut into strips, a bowl of olives, a dish of yoghurt, plates of dried herbs and olive oil. Even though it's the middle of the night, everyone gathers round the table, chatting and picking at the food, as if my visit has turned into a strange, impromptu party.

When I say I'm tired, the food is whisked away and I'm given a mattress in the corner, next to Leila's eldest brother. Within minutes, the room transforms from excited bustle to dead silence.

I'm still not sure how I'll get out, or even where I'll go. The shooting of the dog has shaken my confidence. The idea that I can head off, alone, to look after myself, without a family, or even any friends, looks somehow different now, viewed from here.

I'm still desperate to get away from Amarias, but even this short distance from home, everything already seems more violent, more frightening, more hostile than I anticipated. I thought it would be all right to be alone, since I felt alone in my own house anyway, but I now see there are further degrees of aloneness I hadn't understood. I'll be cutting myself off from more than I'd anticipated, heading towards an isolation I now realise will be deeper than anything I can yet imagine.

Lying on this thin, musty mattress, surrounded by sleeping strangers, my shoulder and head pulsing out dull throbs of pain, I sense that I've perhaps used up my reserves of bravery. But could I go back? Could I really just turn round and go home, let myself into the house and tell Mum the letter was a joke?

I close my eyes and listen to the snoring and shuffling around me. In the distance, a convoy rumbles and clatters. I'm too tired to make any decisions. For now, I just have to sleep. Tomorrow I'll figure out what to do, where to go.

The house is strangely hushed
when I wake. I open my eyes to a room full of people, all of them already out of bed, conversing tensely in low voices. The volume rises a little when they realise I’ve woken up, but a note of anxiety in the air doesn’t lift. They are all around the table in the far corner of the room, some sitting, some standing. There aren’t enough chairs for everyone to sit at once, nor is there enough space around the table, but everyone is nibbling at pieces of dry bread, which they dip into a plate of green herbs.

As I approach the table, one of the brothers stands and insists that I take his chair. I try to refuse, but everyone rounds on me with various noises on the spectrum between affectionate hospitality and offended outrage until I relent and take the free chair. The largest piece of bread is placed in front of me, along with a supply of herbs.

I start to eat, struggling to feign enjoyment of this meagre, spicy breakfast, but with each mouthful the flavour becomes a little less strange. Just as I’m beginning to think I might almost like it, Leila’s father appears and is given the chair at the head of the table, next to mine. Before he’s allowed to speak to me, Leila’s mother insists that he translate her apologies that, because of the curfew, the bread isn’t fresh. She seems to go on and on, but this is the only translation I’m given.

When she stops talking and moves away, he says, after a strained pause, ‘We want to know how you’re getting back. The tunnel is gone.’

‘I’m not,’ I reply. The response falls from my mouth without any hesitation or doubt, without me even realising I’d made the decision to continue my escape. It’s a new day. My determination has returned.

His eyes register a fleeting panic, as if he thinks I want to stay with his family for ever.

‘I’m running away,’ I say. ‘Back to where I was born.’

This is the first time I’ve said it aloud. It feels good to hear the words, the simplicity of the explanation making the project seem less fantastical.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. I just have to get away from my stepfather.’

‘The only way out is through the checkpoint.’

‘Isn’t there another way? A route to the bypass?’

‘Only through the checkpoint. Every other road out of town is blocked.’

‘But if I get through the checkpoint, there are buses?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘To the city?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then from there, to anywhere?’

‘Probably. But . . .’ His voice trails away, and he casts his eyes down to his hands. I notice that everyone in the room is rigidly still.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘There’s something I have to say.’

‘Yes?’

He raises his head and looks at me with sad, heavy eyes. ‘I’m grateful for what you’ve done,’ he says, ‘but the longer you stay . . .’ He seems to lose his thread for a moment, then swallows and goes on. ‘If anyone saw you come in here, you are putting us in terrible danger.’

‘Oh,’ I say, unsure how to respond. A memory of the shocking, bitter tang of freshly picked olive flashes into my mind as I realise that despite what I’ve brought him, he wants me to leave.

‘They will be looking for you,’ he says. ‘Your stepfather saw my identity papers. If they found you here . . .’

His voice trails away. He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. ‘You’re right,’ I say, standing up from my chair. ‘I have to go.’

‘We’d all be punished. They’d accuse us of kidnapping you.’

‘I’ll go. I understand.’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s not safe. They could tear down the house. They can do anything.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ he says, taking my hand, inviting me to help him up. His skin feels dry and brittle, like the flesh of a leaf. Eye to eye, still gripping my fingers, he repeats, ‘Don’t apologise. Leila will take you to the checkpoint.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I can find it. I don’t want to put her in danger.’

‘You’ll wear this,’ he says, handing me the headscarf Leila lent me on my first visit. ‘This time you must keep it. No more coming back.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the scarf, ‘but I’ll find my own way. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.’

‘And we don’t want you to get hurt,’ says Leila. ‘It’s not close and there are no signs. You won’t find it on your own.’

‘If I find The Wall I can find the checkpoint, and I can’t miss The Wall.’

‘It’s not so easy,’ says Leila’s father. ‘Some parts are unsafe. You need a guide.’

‘I don’t want to risk it,’ I say.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Leila insists. ‘It’s because of me you are here. I have to help you leave.’

‘But –’

‘I’m coming. Even if you say no, I’m coming. Now have a drink and let’s go.’

She hands me a glass and holds my gaze as I drink.

‘He will go ahead, he will go behind,’ she says, pointing to two of her brothers. ‘Early warning system.’ The two brothers nod at me, then the elder of them turns and leaves, muttering something I don’t understand to Leila before slipping out through the front door.

‘Two minutes,’ says Leila.

Her father reaches out a hand, and I extend mine, thinking he’s going to shake it, but instead he grips my palm between his cold, desiccated fingers and rotates it, placing his other hand gently over my knuckles. ‘Thank you,’ he says, staring into my eyes, squeezing my one hand within his two.

‘Thank
you
,’ I reply.

‘Now go,’ he says, releasing me from his grip.

Leila arranges the scarf over my head, then leads me swiftly out of the house. In the doorway I smile and nod at her family. They each give me a small wave, but no one speaks.

The low sun casts elongated shadows across the street, but is already giving off intense heat and a dazzling glare. Leila sets a fast pace, wordlessly indicating that I should keep up without staying too close. She seems to want me a pace or two behind her, no more, no less.

We walk on, through a succession of unpaved streets, all of them puddled with stagnant water and criss-crossed by dangling loops of electric cable and laundry. The Wall occasionally comes into view, but we seem to veer away from it as often as towards it, our route never straight for more than a minute at a time. As far as we walk, the density of rough concrete structures never seems to diminish, with every square foot of land inhabited, buildings bulging and twisting to cram themselves into each available nook of land.

Leila doesn’t look at me or speak for the entire walk, until we arrive at a flat area of empty bulldozed land. She stops, glances at me, and with a flick of her chin indicates a rubble-strewn field, as big as a football pitch, beyond which is the checkpoint, sealed by concrete slabs and reels of razor wire. Behind the roadblock are rows of metal cages leading into the corrugated-iron structure that is up against The Wall. A narrow strip of tarmac, empty for a short distance, leads towards a line of waiting people.

A dozen or so boys run across the field, shouting and throwing stones at an army jeep that is driving towards a shelter in front of the checkpoint. A few stones ping off the metal of the jeep, but the soldiers don’t seem to care, and the boys aren’t noticeably excited when they score a hit. Something about the confrontation has the feel of a weary ritual.

By the time I look back at Leila, she’s already walking away. It seems impossible that this view of the back of her head might be the last I’ll ever see of her, that she won’t even say goodbye, but I know this must have been what she was told to do, and that to go after her would put her at risk. There’s no way of knowing who’s watching. No one could be allowed to see she was with me.

I stare at her slender form receding down the stark, bright street. At a junction just ahead, the two brothers are waiting for her. Neither of them appears to speak as she rejoins them, and they walk away immediately, disappearing from view. Leila’s step falters. Instead of following her brothers, she stands there, in the middle of the road, motionless. In one quick movement, her head swivels to face mine. She blinks twice, but doesn’t smile, or move, until, after a long stare, her index finger comes up to her lips, and she gives her fingertip a kiss. Without releasing me from her stare, she turns her finger towards me, pointing it skywards, and presses the fingertip subtly in my direction. Before I can respond, she turns with a quick scuffle of feet, raising a cushion-sized cloud of dust, and is gone.

I stare at the space where she stood, watching the dust settle back to earth. My blood feels heavy and sluggish in my veins; my limbs doughy, thick and immovable. Leila has gone. Though she lives less than a mile from my home – or what used to be my home – I know I’ll never see her again.

It strikes me that I don’t know what to call the feeling that has grown between us. It was hardly what you could call a friendship. ‘Affection’ or ‘tenderness’ seems closer, but still wrong. Whatever the word might be, I sense that I want to hold on to it, keep it alive for as long as I can, though I know she has gone, for the last time.

It’s dangerous to stand there doing nothing, drawing suspicious glances, but for a while I can’t move. With a terrible effort, I eventually force myself to turn round and look again at the checkpoint. The jeep has disappeared from view, and the boys have formed into a huddle around a small fire of burning rubbish. Most of them are still holding stones which they toss idly from hand to hand.