Page 73 of Never
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Esma. ‘I have a husband in Nice, that’s a town in France.’
Kiah was interested. ‘What work does he do there?’
‘He builds walls for rich people’s gardens. He’s a stonemason. There are many palaces in Nice. He works all the time. As soon as he finishes one wall there is another to be built.’
‘Is it good money?’
‘Amazing. He sent me five thousand US dollars so I could join him. He’s not a legal resident in France so I have to take this route.’
‘Five thousand dollars?’
Bushra, the mother-in-law, explained. ‘It was supposed to be just for Esma. He said he would send more later for his father and me. But my daughter-in-law is such a good girl, she wants to take us with her.’
Esma said: ‘I made a deal with Hakim, the three of us for five thousand. It means we have nothing to spare, but it was worth it, for soon we will all be together again.’
‘God willing,’ said Kiah.
***
Abdul spent the night at the home of Anand, the man who had bought his car. Abdul had haggled over the price, to avoid arousing suspicion, but in the end it had been a bargain, and he had thrown in his remaining cartons of Cleopatras as a bonus. Anand had seemed pleased, and had invited Abdul to spend the night. Anand’s three wives had made a tasty dinner.
That evening two of Anand’s friends had shown up, Fouzen and Haydar, and Anand suggested a game of dice. Fouzen was a thuggish young man in a dirty shirt, and Haydar was small and mean-looking, with one eye half closed by some old injury. At best, Abdul thought, Anand hoped to win back some of the money he had paid for the car; but he feared their intentions might be more sinister.
Abdul played carefully and won a little.
They asked him questions and he explained that he had sold his car to pay his fare to Europe with Hakim. They could tell by the way he spoke Arabic that he was not from Chad. ‘I’m Lebanese,’ he said, which was the truth, and the accent would be recognized by anyone from there.
They asked him why he had left, and he gave them his standard reply. ‘If you were born in Beirut, you’d want to leave, too.’
They were interested in what time the bus would depart and how early in the morning Abdul had to get to Hakim’s gas station, and his misgivings strengthened. They were probably thinking of robbing him. He was a stranger and a drifter; they might even think they could get away with killing him. There was no police station in Three Palms.
Abdul would dodge a fight if he could, but in any event he was not worried. These men were amateurs. Abdul had been a high-school wrestler and had fought in mixed-martial-arts contests to make money at college. He recalled an embarrassing moment in his CIA training. It was the unarmed combat course, and the trainer – a densely muscled man – had said the traditional words: ‘Okay, come at me and hit me.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Abdul had said, and the class had laughed, thinking he was afraid.
‘Oh,’ the trainer sneered, ‘so you know all about unarmed combat?’
‘I don’t know all about anything. But I do know a little about fighting and I avoid it when I can.’
‘Well, let’s see. Give me your best shot.’
‘Pick someone else, please.’
‘Just do it.’
The man was stubborn. He wanted to strike awe into the students’ hearts with a display of mastery. Abdul did not want to spoil his plan, but he would have to.
Abdul said: ‘Look, let’s talk about this,’ then he kicked the trainer in the stomach, threw him to the ground, and got him in a chokehold.
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said, ‘but you insisted.’ Then he released his hold and stood up.
The trainer struggled to his feet. His only visible injury was a bloody nose. He said: ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
On the other hand, Fouzen and Haydar might have knives.
They left at around midnight, and Abdul lay down to sleep on a straw mattress. He woke at first light, thanked Anand and his wives, and said he was setting off immediately.
‘Have some breakfast,’ Anand urged him. ‘Coffee, a little bread with honey, some figs. Hakim’s garage is only a few minutes’ walk from here.’
