In the Sea There are Crocodiles Page 11

  I hardly had time to even be aware of this police car before I was inside it. With Hussein Ali. In the backseat. Just the two of us.

  The others had apparently managed to get away.

  ———

  Pakistanis?

  No.

  Afghans?

  No.

  I know you’re Afghans. Don’t mess me around.

  No Afghans, no.

  Oh, no Afghans no? Afghans yes, you little rats. Afghans. I can recognize you from the smell.

  They dragged us to the police station, and shut us up in a little room. We could hear steps in the corridor and voices saying things we didn’t understand, and I remember that what I was afraid of more than anything else, more than being beaten or put in prison, was being fingerprinted. I had heard all about this fingerprinting business from some boys who worked at the stonecutting factory in Iran. They’d told me that in Greece, as soon as they caught you, they took your fingerprints, and if you were illegal you were screwed, because after that you couldn’t ask for political asylum in any other country in Europe.

  So Hussein Ali and I decided to make nuisances of ourselves in order to get thrown out before the fingerprint people arrived. But to get thrown out you have to be a serious nuisance, a professional. First of all, we started whining and yelling that we had stomachaches because we were hungry, and the policemen brought us dry biscuits. Then that we had to go to the toilet. We kept saying, Toilet, toilet. After the toilet we started crying and shouting and moaning, and kept it up until night fell. Police on night duty are usually less patient, and if things go badly they hit you till you bleed, but if things go well they let you go.

  We took the risk. Things went well.

  It was almost morning, still dark, and with very few cars around, when two of the policemen, fed up with our yelling, threw open the door of the little room and, dragging us by our ears, flung us into the street, shouting at us to go back where we’d come from, bunch of screaming monkeys. Or something like that.

  We spent the whole morning searching for Soltan and Rahmat. We found them outside the town, near the beach, but I didn’t have time to be pleased at finding them because I immediately lost my temper. I’d been hoping they’d have found some clothes in the meantime—trousers, T-shirts or whatever, maybe shoes—but they hadn’t found a thing. All four of us still looked like tramps, and it isn’t true that you can’t judge a book by its cover, you can.

  One thing I’d done while I was in the police station (as an illegal, you have to be able to exploit every opportunity) had been to have a good look at a large map of the island on the wall: the place where we were was marked in red, Mytilene in blue. It was from Mytilene that you could catch a boat for Athens. It might be a day’s walk, through fields and along secondary roads, but we’d get there, even with aching feet.

  We set off, walking along the edge of a road. The sun was hot enough to bake bread, even if you stood still you broke out in a sweat. Soltan was complaining—I don’t think Hussein Ali had any breath left, otherwise he would have complained, too, as usual—and from time to time he would lean into the road and wave at the cars to stop and give us a lift, even though he was half naked. I dragged him away, saying, No. What are you doing? They’ll call the police again. But he kept on doing it.

  Let’s stop here, I beg you, he said. Let’s wait for someone to give us a ride.

  If you carry on like that, I said, it’ll be the police who pick you up. You’ll see.

  Not that I wanted to be the bird of ill omen, or whatever you call it. Not at all. It was in my own interest to continue the journey with them, so we could look out for each other, but they kept on and on about how tired they were and how much better it would be to get a lift from a small van or something like that, so finally I said, No, and walked away from the group.

  Nearby there was a small shop with a petrol pump and to the right of it, a dirty, flaking old phone box half hidden by the branches of a tree. I went in, grabbed the telephone and pretended to be making a call, instead of which I was keeping my eyes on my companions, to see what they were up to.

  When the police car arrived—with its lights on, but without a siren—I thought for a moment I should dash out and yell, Run away, run away, but I was too late. I huddled in the phone box and watched as they fled and the police caught up with them and beat them with truncheons. I saw it all from a kneeling position, through the dirty windows, unable to do anything, and praying that no one thought of making a phone call.

  As soon as the police car had gone, with a screech of tires, I left the phone box, crept past the service station, making sure there was nobody around, and set off hell for leather along a sandy, deserted country lane. I kept on running, running, running, without knowing where I was going, until my lungs were ready to burst and I had to lie down on the ground to recover. When I realized I was fine, I got up and started walking again. After half an hour, I passed a courtyard. It was the courtyard of a private house, surrounded by a low wall and with a big tree in the middle. I didn’t see anyone, so I climbed over. There was a dog, but it was tied up. It saw me and started barking, and I hid under the thick branch of the tree.

  I must have been tired. Because I fell asleep.

  I can imagine you were pretty tired, Enaiat.

  It wasn’t only the fact that I was tired. There was something about that place that made me feel calm, you know?

  What exactly?

  I couldn’t say. Some things you just feel.

  After a while, the old lady who lived there came out. She woke me up, but gently. I leapt to my feet, and was going to run away, but she made me a sign to come inside. She gave me some good food to eat, vegetables and something else. She made me take a shower. She gave me some nice clothes, too: a shirt with blue stripes, jeans and a pair of white trainers. It was incredible that she had all those clothes in her house, and in my size. I don’t know whose they were, maybe a grandson of hers.

  The lady kept talking all the time, in Greek and English, and I didn’t understand much. Whenever I saw her smile, I’d say, Good, good. Whenever she made a serious face, I’d also make a serious face, and shake my head from side to side: No, no.

  In the afternoon, after I’d had my shower and got dressed, the old lady went with me to the bus station, bought me a ticket (yes, she actually bought it for me), put fifty euros in my hand, a whole fifty euros, said goodbye and left. Yes, I thought, there really are some very strange and very kind people in the world.

  There you go again.

  What do you mean?

  You tell me things, Enaiat, and then immediately you go on to something else. Tell me more about this lady. Describe her house.

  Why?

  What do you mean, why? I’m interested. Other people might be, too.

  Yes, but I already told you. I’m only interested in what happened. The lady is important for what she did. Her name doesn’t matter. What her house was like doesn’t matter. She could have been anybody.

  How do you mean, anybody?

  Anybody could have behaved like that.

  So, incredibly, I arrived in Mytilene. It’s a big, busy city, Mytilene, with lots of tourists and shops and cars. I asked the way to the “ship station,” using what I thought were the English words for the port where the ferries left for Athens. The people I asked answered in words, as people usually do, but I looked at the movements of their hands.

  This way. That way.

  When I got to the port, I came across a whole lot of other Afghan boys who’d been there for days and days wandering around and trying to buy a ticket, and every time they’d tried they’d been chased away, because it was obvious they weren’t normal passengers, but illegals. That depressed me a bit. How long would I have to wait?

  But that didn’t happen to me.

  Maybe it was because of how I was dressed, because I was clean, because my belly was full and I had that contented look you have on your face when you’ve eaten well. Whatever it wa
s, when I got to the counter and asked for a ticket, the girl behind the counter replied, Thirty-eight euros. I couldn’t believe it at first, so I said, Repeat? And she said again, Thirty-eight euros.

  Through the opening, I passed her the fifty-euro note I’d got from the old Greek lady. The girl—who was quite pretty, incidentally, with big eyes and nice make-up—took it and gave me twelve euros change. Incredulously, I thanked her and went out.

  You can imagine the other boys’ faces when they saw me with the ticket in my hand. They all gathered around. They wanted to know how I’d managed it and some wouldn’t even believe I’d bought it myself. They said I’d got a real tourist to buy it for me. But I hadn’t.

  How did you do it? they asked.

  I just asked, I replied. At the counter.

  The ferry was huge. There were five decks. I went up to the top deck to get a better view of the horizon and was savoring with every part of my body the fact that I was sitting comfortably and relaxed in a chair, not kneeling in a dinghy or with my legs crossed in the false bottom of a lorry, when suddenly my nose started to bleed: it was the first time in my life I’d had a nosebleed.

  I ran to the toilet to rinse my face. I stuck my head under the tap, and there I was, with my head bent over the washbasin and the blood flowing and—I don’t really know how to explain it, but I felt as if it wasn’t only the blood that was flowing out of me, it was everything I’d been through, the sand of the desert, the dust of the streets and the snow of the mountains, the salt of the sea and the lime of Isfahan, the stones of Qom and the sewage from the gutters of Quetta. By the time the blood stopped flowing, I felt great. Better than I’d ever felt in my life. I wiped my face.

  As I was looking for somewhere else to sit, again on the top deck, and again so that I could look at the horizon, I walked past a line of benches which were all occupied, and to avoid a little girl who was playing I brushed against someone’s knee. I’m sorry, I said. I gave the boy a fleeting glance and was about to walk away, but then I stopped and gave him a closer look. It isn’t possible, I thought. Jamal.

  He looked up. Enaiatollah.

  I’d met Jamal in Iran, in Qom, playing football in the tournament between the factories. We hugged.

  I didn’t see you before, he said. I didn’t see you in the port.

  I just arrived.

  But I didn’t even see you around Mytilene.

  I only arrived on the island yesterday.

  Impossible.

  I swear.

  How?

  In a dinghy. From Ayvalik.

  Impossible.

  I swear.

  Yesterday you were in a dinghy and today you’re already on a ferry?

  It must be luck. In fact, I’m sure it’s luck.

  We sat down next to each other and chatted for the rest of the journey. He’d spent four days in Mytilene without managing to get a ticket for Athens, and in the end he’d given eighty euros to someone who spoke very good English to buy it for him. But the worst thing was that, at one point, the police had picked him up. And fingerprinted him.

  We reached Athens about nine the next morning. Some of the passengers hurried down into the belly of the boat to get their cars, others embraced their relatives on the last step of the gangway, still others put their cases into the boots of taxis and joined the traffic. The port was full of people greeting each other and patting each other on the back. Jamal and I weren’t expected by anybody, and didn’t know which way to go. Not that it made us sad. It was just that it’s strange seeing all those relaxed, calm, confident people around you when you’re the only one to feel lost. But that’s the way things are, isn’t it?

  Let’s go and have breakfast, said Jamal. Let’s get a coffee.

  I had the twelve euros left over from the ticket, and he had some loose change. We went into a bar and bought two huge paper cups of very weak coffee, like filter coffee, to be drunk through straws. I tasted it. It was disgusting. I’m not drinking that, I said.

  Don’t drink it if you don’t want to, said Jamal. But hold it in your hand.

  In my hand?

  Like a tourist. Let’s walk carrying the coffee. That’s what tourists do, isn’t it?

  It was afternoon by the time we ventured into the city. We got on the underground. Every four stops we got off and went to see where we were. Then we went back down and set off again in the same direction. After going in and out three times, we came out and saw a big park, and there were lots and lots of people there because there was a concert, right there in the park, which was called Dikastirion, if I remember correctly.

  When you don’t know what to do, it’s not a bad idea to mingle with a crowd. And in the crowd we heard people speaking Afghan. Following the voices, we found ourselves in the middle of a small group of boys, more or less our age, some of them a bit older, playing football. Here’s a piece of good advice: if you ever spend time as an illegal, look for the parks, you always find something good in a park.

  When evening fell, we waited for those boys to go to their homes so that we could ask for hospitality and something to eat, because we’d made friends with them after the match. But after a while, when it got dark, we saw one of them slip under a tree and take out a cardboard box. Then another one did the same, and another. In other words, the park was their home. But we were hungry, as people usually are when they haven’t eaten for several hours.

  Isn’t there an Afghan restaurant that can give us food? we asked.

  Look, we’re not in Kabul. We’re in Greece. In Athens.

  Thanks, anyway.

  The park was their home. And it became our home. That first morning we woke up early, about five. Someone mentioned the name of a church where they gave you breakfast. We went there and I had some bread and yogurt. For lunch there was another church. But there, the priests had laid out a whole lot of Bibles in every language—even mine—in full view, next to the front entrance, and before eating you had to read a page of it or they wouldn’t give you any food.

  No way, I thought in a burst of pride. I’d rather die of starvation than be forced to read the Bible for food.

  Except that, after a while, my stomach started rumbling loudly, louder than my pride. Damn that hunger. I wandered around for half an hour trying to hold out, until I felt as if my belly button was being prised open with a corkscrew. So I approached the church and stood in front of the Bible in my language, looking at a page and pretending to read for what seemed like a long enough time, making sure the attendants saw me. Then I went inside.

  I ate bread and yogurt. Like breakfast that morning.

  You were lucky last night, my neighbor said.

  Jamal was trying to get another piece of bread from the priests or monks or whatever they were. I was licking the bottom of my yogurt pot.

  Why? I asked.

  Because nothing happened.

  I stopped licking. What do you mean, nothing?

  No police, for instance. Sometimes the police come and kick everyone out.

  Do they arrest people?

  No. They just kick us out and make us move on.

  Where to?

  Wherever we like. It’s just to make life even harder for us. I think that’s why they do it.

  Ah.

  But it’s not just the police, the boy added.

  Who else?

  Older boys. Men. Who go with little boys.

  Where do they go?

  Men who like little boys.

  Really?

  Really.

  That evening, Jamal and I looked for the darkest, most hidden corner of the park in order to be safe, although if you’re forced to sleep in a park, you can’t expect much in the way of safety.

  ———

  The most incredible thing I got involved in during that summer in Athens was (in Greek) the XXVIII in other words, the Games (listen to this) of the Twenty-Eighth Olympiad: Athens 2004. To be specific, the big stroke of luck for me and all the illegals who were in Athens at the
time was that a lot of running tracks and swimming pools and stadiums and sports complexes and other things were still unfinished, and the games were going to start soon. So, in order for the city not to lose face, there was a big need for undeclared laborers, and even the police turned a blind eye, I think.

  Every now and again, migrants are a secret weapon.

  I didn’t even know what the Olympics were. I didn’t find out until I went with other Afghan boys to a little square where they’d said we could find work and a car picked me up and took me to the stadium. There I discovered that, if I wanted, there was work for two months, every day, including Saturdays and Sundays. The work was actually well organized. Each task was given out on the basis of age. All I had to do, for example, was hold the little trees in the avenue while others dug holes to plant them in. In the evening you were paid in cash: forty-five euros. An excellent wage, for me at least.

  ———

  I remember that one night, in the park, a man came and sat down next to Jamal and started slowly stroking him. A Greek guy with a beard and a flashy shirt. Jamal gave me a little kick to wake me up (the two of us slept side by side, to protect each other). Listen, Ena, he said, there’s someone here who’s stroking me.

  Why? I said.

  How should I know? He’s stroking me, but I don’t know why.

  Is he bothering you?

  No, he’s just stroking me. He’s stroking my hair.

  Then I remembered what that guy had said in the soup kitchen at the Orthodox church. We jumped up and ran to some older boys. The man with the beard followed us, but when he saw the older boys surround us, and us pointing at him, he shrugged his shoulders and went away.