Lost Boys Page 11

  Miles nodded.

  “He found me. I think he likes to listen outside the door, so he leaves the key above the door when he can.” I looked down at my hands. “Sometimes. Not that often.”

  “Whoa.” Miles blew out his lips. “You could both land in it deep for that one, deep indeed.” He fell into a chair across from me. “But, Reza, it sounded splendid. Really amazing. That was the Jarrett tune you were playing, yes?”

  “Trying to.”

  Miles raked his fingers through his wiry hair. “I thought you said your parents wouldn’t let you play.”

  I strummed. “I played piano before the revolution, but I’d never played the tar before you brought it to class.”

  Miles leaned forward. “Let me hear that again. Play me that melody.”

  I played. It wasn’t perfect, but in parts I felt the lonely heart of the song. When I was finished, I rested my hands on the neck and looked up shyly.

  “That’s unbelievable. Let me get this right: You’ve never played the tar before—”

  “When I was younger, I picked up my dad’s guitar once or twice, but other than that…”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve barely played, you sneak in here for a month or two, and now you can play like that?” Miles stared at the tar. “You have a talent. A real talent.”

  “I used to live for music. I had tapes.…” My voice caught in my throat, and I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “I remember. Your uncle. Your uncle who died, right?”

  I nodded.

  “What was his name?”

  I moved my fingers silently over the frets. “His name was Habib.”

  Miles laid his big hand on my shoulder. “Your uncle would be proud. He would be very proud.”

  I met Miles’s eyes. “I’m happy when I play. I haven’t been anything close to happy since Uncle was killed. I’d stopped hearing songs in my head. I only heard noise, but now they’re back. I…” I faltered and turned my face back to my fingers. I hadn’t meant to say so much. I took a breath and added, “Thanks for bringing in the tar.”

  When there was no response, I looked up. Miles nodded slightly and wiped his eye. He cleared his throat. “This is why I do this work, Reza. I’m so glad it spoke to you.” He reached over and tapped the instrument. “I’m a little like you. Can’t imagine my life without music. It must have been so hard to live in a place where you couldn’t play or listen.”

  I nodded and we sat quietly for a minute.

  Then Miles stood and opened his briefcase on the desk. “You better get to lunch.” He reached into a pocket of his case. “But before you go, I want you to have this. Makes it a little easier to sneak in here. I’ll tell Majid. Less risky for him, too.”

  I looked at the single key shining in my hand.

  This was my key to heaven, not the plastic token I’d thrown in the hospital wastebasket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I paid attention to the new transfers. As the weeks passed, fourteen slips of paper with my name and Ebi’s written side by side left the camp. I checked with every incoming group. One day in the middle of winter a new group gathered by the office. I headed their way as soon as I saw them.

  “Welcome to our home away from home,” I said. “What camps have you guys come from?”

  “Camp Twelve. Up north,” said the oldest-looking boy.

  I barely heard the response before I asked, “Any of you come across a friend of mine at your camps?”

  One of the boys pointed at me and said, “Hey, crooked nose, slightly large ears, you must be Ebi’s mate.” He turned to another boy and asked, “What did Ebi say? Call him Maggot or something?”

  A current spread through me like fire to paper. For a second it was as if all the air and all the sound was gone from the yard. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind in the time it took to breathe. Ebi was alive! At a northern camp, but he was alive! More than anything, I wanted to talk to him, to see his familiar face.

  “Say that again?”

  “Ebi told us to call you Maggot.” I didn’t even care about the Maggot part; I treasured the old insult. I grabbed the new boy and lifted him into the air. I put him down and danced around like I was possessed.

  Jaafer came up behind me. “What the hell is going on, Reza?”

  I picked him up, too, and danced him around in a circle. “Ebi! Ebi’s alive!”

  Jaafer laughed. “That’s great, but put me down, you idiot.”

  I did, then turned back to the boy who knew Ebi. “Tell me about him. How is he?”

  But before the boy could answer, Abass strode toward us, raising dust with every step.

  “You,” he said. “Why do I always find you near our new guests? If I catch you again, I’ll…” He poked his dirty finger hard into my chest.

  I caught myself from falling backward and stepped toward Abass.

  “I was just talking to these guys, sir.” I added the sir through clenched teeth.

  “What do you have to talk about?” Abass was so close, I had to look up. The smell of him, his breath, his clothes, made my eyes water.

  The new boys backed away. I saw them but couldn’t focus. I sensed groups of boys all around me going silent.

  I narrowed my eyes and glared at the big guard. Without warning, Abass grabbed my collar and pulled me off my feet. “I could send you away, you soft little Iranian,” he jeered.

  I struggled to get free. “And be away from you?” I croaked. The happy had turned to anger just as wild. “Make it happen, old man.” As soon as I said it, I couldn’t believe I’d let the words out of my mouth.

  Abass tightened his grip on my collar and raised his fist. Just as he was about to hit me I felt someone grab me from behind. It was Miles. He pulled me away with one arm and held Abass back with the other.

  “Enough,” he said.

  Abass stepped close to Miles. They were face-to-face, less than a foot apart. “He was—”

  “I don’t care,” Miles interrupted. He released me and turned to Abass. “There is no need to hurt the boy.”

  “He—”

  “Abass, I’ll say it again. There is no need to hurt him. And it would not do to have him transferred.” Then his voice was lower so only Abass and I could hear. “And you know I can report this.”

  “But, Miles,” I interrupted. “My friend Ebi…”

  Miles didn’t look at me but said, “We’ll discuss it later.” He kept his eyes on Abass, as if staring down the barrel of a gun.

  Finally Abass turned away, calling, “You new boys—with me.”

  “All right, Reza.” Miles’s hand covered my shoulder and steered me toward the lunchroom. “What say I join you boys for lunch today?” He swept his big arm toward the gape-mouthed crowd around us. “Come on, gentlemen, join us. Nothing to see here.”

  “But, Miles, I need to talk to those guys. My friend Ebi is alive.”

  “Later, Reza,” Miles said. “Those new boys are with Abass now and you will stay away.” He quickened his pace. “It’s been a while since I came to lunch. Onions and rice still the specialty?”

  As soon as we sat down, Miles asked mundane questions about everybody’s hometown. It was clear he didn’t want to talk about what had just happened. One by one, the others answered hesitantly, stealing questioning glances at me when Miles wasn’t looking.

  My head was a boxing ring—elation and anger in opposite corners. I wanted to dance because Ebi was alive, but my fists clenched with rage when Abass brought the new boys in and glared in my direction.

  “All right, I know all about where you’re from, but how about family?” Miles stopped long enough to take a bite of rice. “Salar, do you torment brothers or sisters at home?”

  “Yes, indeed, I do, sir,” said Salar with a slight smile. “Two of each, all under ten.”

  “I might have known,” said Miles.

  “And you?” asked Salar. “Why aren’t you married with a bunch of kids already?”

  The corners
of Miles’s mouth went up slightly. “I was almost married. Right before I came here, as a matter of fact. To a beautiful girl named Myra.”

  “What happened?” asked Jaafer. “Did she leave you for another guy?”

  “No.” Miles looked from one to the other. “Not that simple. She left me for another life.”

  “Another life?” asked Omid.

  “We planned to marry, then work with an international health organization in Africa before we settled back home. But she decided the two-year commitment was too long. Her dad offered to buy us a house straight off if we gave up the idea. I wasn’t ready for that. Seems she was.”

  “Maybe she’ll be waiting when you go back,” said Jaafer.

  “No luck on that.” Miles smiled again. “I got a note from a mate that she was married last month. To a bloke who works in Daddy’s company, no less.”

  I hadn’t said a word since we left the yard. Miles caught my eye, but I looked away and pushed back from the table a few inches. Jaafer pressed on. “Do you have family back home?”

  “My mother and two brothers.” Miles reached in his pocket. He flipped open his wallet and tossed out a picture of a small red sports car.

  “There’s my real baby.”

  Salar grabbed the photo. “No way. That’s a Frogeye Sprite. What year—’58?” The boys crowded around the picture.

  “Pretty good guess. It’s a 1960. How did you know?”

  “My cousin had one before the revolution. I rode in it once.” Salar made a roaring sound in his throat. “Does it run?”

  “Like a top. That’s if my mates are taking care of it like they promised.”

  While the other boys passed the picture around, I watched. Miles sat back and cocked his head to the side. “You’re quiet, Reza.”

  “I guess I should thank you for backing him off.”

  Miles shrugged.

  “But I’m wondering what would happen if I did get transferred. Maybe I could find Ebi.”

  “Reza, you don’t want to go north. This is no summer camp, but conditions in those camps are wicked on a good day and dangerous on most. I can’t tell you boys enough how lucky you are that you ended up in this camp.” He scratched the back of his head and looked at all of us. “Haven’t you noticed what a show they put on for the journalists when they come through?” The guys all nodded.

  “They want the world to believe they’re running a fine school, a prep school for young men. In their eyes, I help maintain that image. I’m a teacher, not just an aid worker.”

  “Is that why Abass didn’t hit you when you got between him and Reza?” asked Salar.

  “Probably.” Miles steepled his hands under his chin. “They also know that I know people. People in the aid world, people at the paper in Baghdad. I have a few friends in the Red Crescent. My friend Masood is stationed in Baghdad with them, just a hundred and eighty kilometers away. That’s the only reason I have a little power around here. Remember, I’ve been to the other camps. You don’t want to be there.”

  “Maybe I need to be there to help Ebi,” I said.

  Salar laughed. “Rez, you’re a tough guy, but remember who you are. It’s not like you can go in armed. Plus, there is no guarantee you’d get sent to the same camp.”

  “Salar’s right,” said Miles. “You can only hope he’s one of the lucky ones who get transferred. I know it’s hard, Reza. But what I’m saying is you have it easy here. Or at least you did. You didn’t make a friend of Abass today. You’ll need to watch yourself.”

  “Fish Butt hates everyone,” said Omid. “I’d always wondered why he seemed sort of afraid of you, Miles. But he has a club, and all the guards around the wall have guns. Even if you do know people, aren’t you afraid of him sometimes?”

  “A man who lives to torment boys is not a brave man, not brave at all. I know that, and it’s part of the reason he’s afraid of me.”

  “That won’t help if he decides to use that club on you,” said Jaafer.

  “He won’t beat me, not me. I’m not afraid of that.” Miles rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t piss them off too badly, though, boys. I don’t want to get sent home. If I make too much of a pest of myself, they’d find another freckled face to show the world.”

  “Have you talked to your Red Crescent friend lately?” asked Omid. “Are the rumors true that we might get sent home?”

  “I’ve heard the rumors, too, but I don’t know anything for sure.”

  Jaafer nodded toward the photo. “Wouldn’t you rather be at home with your friends and your Sprite?”

  Miles retrieved the picture, looking at it fondly. “I’ll get back to it before too long. Soon enough.” He put the picture back in his wallet. “It’s different for me. Not the same. I didn’t go through what you lads did to get here. Besides, who would torment you with bloody weird music if I weren’t around?”

  We all laughed, and the conversation moved on to sports cars we’d like to have. I couldn’t stop thinking about Ebi.

  Miles took another helping. When he’d eaten the last spoonful, he said, “Gentlemen, I have an idea I want to run by you. I want your advice. I’ve been thinking about organizing a play, you know, with costumes and music.” He looked directly at me. “It might be a distraction for you all. What d’ya think?”

  “Would it be allowed?” asked Jaafer.

  “Don’t know, won’t know unless we try. Thought I’d check with all of you first. No use sticking my neck out if you aren’t interested.”

  “What play would we do?” asked Farhad.

  “You all know One Thousand and One Nights, yes? We could adapt one of those stories. How could anyone object to that? Write your story in Arabic and Farsi so no one can complain.”

  The lockdown bell rang and Miles stood up. He rested his hand on my head for a second. “See you in a few days, boys. Stay out of trouble until I get back.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  During that long locked-up afternoon, we lay on our mats watching dust dance in the shafts of sunlight that moved across the room. The room was exactly the same as it had been when I’d left that morning, but now it felt less like a prison because Ebi was alive. As the fact sunk in, I thought about the fight with Abass. If he sent me away I’d never see Miles and the tar again. I replaced the thought with Ebi’s grin.

  “What do you guys think of Miles’s idea? You know, doing a play.” I sort of liked the idea. But I wasn’t going to let on that I did unless the other guys were in, too.

  “It would pass the time, I guess,” said Omid as he played with a scrap of paper he’d wadded into a ball. “Unless we’re too old to put on a stupid play.”

  Salar stood up and paced. “It doesn’t have to be a kids’ play. Remember last year when those guys from that other camp came to play classical music for us? They were treated like they were on tour.”

  “Yeah, like Miles said, I bet they were rolling them out for the press,” said Jaafer.

  “Probably,” agreed Salar. “But I talked to one of them when they were here. They got good meals at every camp they visited.”

  “Wait,” I said as fireworks went off in my brain. “They had guys tour from another camp?” If we did a play and it had the possibility of getting me within shouting distance of Ebi, I had to do everything I could to make it happen.

  Jaafer laughed. “Reza officially has a good reason for doing this play. He could find his friend Ebi, kidnap him, and bring him back to live with us.”

  I laughed back. “That’s the ultimate plan, but I’d settle for seeing his face. And like Omid said, it’d pass the time. Any of those old stories have pirates in them? You’d make a good pirate, Jaaf.”

  “Most of those stories have people in prison. At least we could relate to that,” said Jaafer.

  “What about genies?” I sat up. “That three-wishes crap. We could wish for the Red Crescent to come out of a magic bottle and set us all free.”

  “We can’t be too obvious with the prison thing,”
said Omid, throwing his paper ball for me to catch. “If it’s too political, we’d get Miles in trouble.”

  We spent an hour discussing our favorites from the ancient stories, each telling the different versions we grew up with. Even Pasha joined in.

  “I’ve got a good one,” I almost shouted when the inspiration came. “How about The Fisherman and the Genie? No princesses. Salar wouldn’t have to play the girl.”

  Salar threw his jacket in my direction.

  “I don’t remember that one,” said Farhad.

  “Sure you do,” said Omid. “The fisherman pulls weird things up in his net, like a dead donkey and shards of glass. Then he pulls up this sealed copper jar.”

  “Right,” chimed in Salar. “There’s a genie in the jar who’s royally pissed off because he’s been there for four thousand years. Instead of granting wishes to whoever frees him, he lets the guy choose how he’s going to die.”

  “Then the fisherman tricks him and gets him back in the jar. But I forget—did the guy ever get a wish?” Omid asked.

  “No, there’s something about magic fish the fisherman sells to the sultan for tons of money,” said Salar.

  “Oh, yeah, the fish,” said Omid. “I was worried there wouldn’t be parts for Jaafer and Reza.”

  I threw the paper ball back at Omid’s head and Jaafer wrestled him to the ground while everyone cheered them on, but as soon as they were done, we started casting the play for real.

  * * *

  That night it felt colder than ever. We tucked our thin blankets around us, wondering if the buildings were heated at all.

  After a few minutes Jaafer said, “I wish Miles could find out more from his friend in the Red Crescent about us going home.”

  “I wonder if we’d all be able to go.” I didn’t like the thought of going home without Ebi. And, I realized, I didn’t like the thought of leaving Jaafer here, either.

  After a minute Jaafer said, “You were lucky Miles was there today, Rez. That jerk could have hurt you bad.”

  “All I could think about was getting to Ebi. It was stupid, but Abass is just another idiot, like those bastards that sent us through the mines.”