Lost Boys Page 9

  When everyone had settled in, Miles sat on his desk and tapped his fingers together. I felt worse than dirt. Miles reminded me of Uncle, and I’d already managed to disappoint him.

  “As most of you know, I grew up in Belfast. I’ve seen violence, but the minefields, the way most of you boys landed here, it’s…” He looked like he was searching for a word. He held up both his hands and motioned toward us. “I know what I think about all this, but what about you, boys? Was the war what you expected?”

  We all shifted around, stealing glances. I realized that Pasha wasn’t in the room. I felt like Miles was talking directly to me.

  Salar looked around. In the short time I’d known him he’d never been without a smile, but now his face was dark as a storm cloud as he said, “My family’s pretty patriotic. All my uncles and cousins were going, so it seemed like I should go, too. I sort of wanted to fight, you know, like in the movies, but they didn’t let us fight, did they?” He studied his hands.

  Farhad’s small voice came from the front of the room. “Hussain ibn Ali has always been my hero. I wanted to give my life for justice and truth like he did. When I woke up in the hospital and saw this”—he pointed to his stump—“I thought I’d failed. How could I have been stupid enough to get caught in a minefield the first day out?” His voice got even lower. “I felt like an idiot, but when I realized it happened to all of us, it made me feel better.”

  “They thought we were disposable,” added Omid in his deep voice.

  “I’d agree,” said Miles. “It’s an abomination against whatever God you believe in.” He let his words hang in the air.

  “I wonder what Pasha thinks,” said Jaafer. “He talks big, like Khomeini can do no wrong, but sometimes he must feel like we do.”

  Farhad spoke up again. “I think he feels like I do. We came to be martyrs and were never given the chance. It makes him so angry.” He paused for a second. “It only makes me sad.”

  “Interesting point,” said Miles. “Could be why he lashes out.” He was quiet then, as if waiting to see if we had anything else to add. “I have to be careful about what I say here, boys. I have some protection because I have friends in the press and in the Red Cross.” He tapped his forehead. “I mean the Red Crescent; in Europe and America they call it the Red Cross. But even with that, the camp could send me packing if I say too much.”

  He moved to the first row of desks, his hands in his pockets, his voice a little lower. “Even though I have to be careful, I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’ll leave here either as strong men or broken boys—that’s your choice. Learning to get along with one another, coming to class, reading, these things will spit you out strong. Fighting with each other—or even worse, with those guards—that’ll break your spirit and your bones, too. You can come to me if you need to talk. I may not be able to help you, but I can listen for as long as I’m here.”

  Miles nodded twice and then clapped his hands together. “All right, enough said, gentlemen. Let’s get on with class; let’s get moving. Today we’re going to start in on something written by that geezer Shakespeare.”

  After class I lingered in my seat. I didn’t want to face Miles, but I didn’t want to walk away, either. Before I could decide what to do, Miles stood in front of me.

  “Reza?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “No need to call me sir. Miles will do. Miles is just fine. Something you need here this morning, lad? You don’t want to be late for that wonderful food.”

  I took a deep breath. “Sir, I mean Miles, I … I guess I…” Another deep breath and I said, “Sorry about the fight yesterday.”

  “No worries, man. My little speech wasn’t directed only at you. You’re the latest one, but you aren’t the first to be in the way of a fight.”

  He went back to the desk, putting his things in an old briefcase. “Also, you’ll learn I can get a bit preachy, eh? I get carried away.” He snapped his bag shut and motioned for me to join him. I walked slowly behind him.

  Miles stopped at the door and turned. “Is there something else, son? Something else bothering you?”

  Like a ball fast off my foot, the words came. “They say you know everyone in camp and some in the other camps. Is that true?”

  “Everyone—there’s an exaggeration.” Miles laughed, but stopped when he saw my face. “Well, try me.”

  “I’m looking for a friend who was in the minefield with me.” I watched my shoes as if Ebi’s new address might show up there. “His name is Ebi. Ebi Saberi.”

  Miles thought for a moment and shook his head. “Sorry, don’t know him. But I’ll keep my ears open.” Miles waited until I looked up, then said, “You’re afraid he’s gone?”

  I didn’t move.

  “I know it’s hell, Reza. To see so many killed. But you survived. These camps are full of boys who survived. There are three other facilities in the north full of boys, too.” He came and stood beside me, draping his long arm over my shoulders. “Have hope, man. It’s all you can do.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I did my best to steer clear of Pasha as the days went by. I sat in the dusty yard, watching for clouds. The little piece of blue, squared off by concrete walls, seemed like the only sky I’d see for the rest of my life. I thought about home. Sometimes the image of Mother standing in the dusty street wouldn’t leave me. Once I was surprised by a tune that surfaced from a place long forgotten, a tune that rested on the tips of my fingers and lightly played on my knee.

  I looked forward to the music class Miles had promised, but it wasn’t scheduled the first few weeks. When the day finally came I woke with butterflies in the pit of my stomach—how I usually felt on the first day of summer. I hurried through breakfast to get to the classroom early.

  “Take a seat, boys. We have good stuff to cover today, excellent stuff.”

  Miles talked about meter signatures—how many beats per measure in different kinds of music. He went through three-quarter time and four-quarter time. He beat the count with his hand on his desk. The guys around me yawned, but I listened with every atom. When the hour was almost up, I took a sharp breath, shocked. I hadn’t thought of Ebi or Uncle since class started.

  As he was finishing up, Miles clasped his hands and turned them over, cracking his knuckles. “Before I let you go, I’m going to sing you two songs, both ballads—one from my culture and one from yours. Listen to the differences and the similarities.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not going to sing this in Farsi, but those of you who know a little English may be able to catch some meaning. It’s an Irish battle song called ‘Rising of the Moon.’”

  It was the most lonesome group of notes I’d ever heard. Lonesome, but strangely comforting, too. I couldn’t believe that such sad, sweet notes could come from this bear of a guy.

  When Miles finished he didn’t say a word, but immediately started singing my favorite ballad by Dariush Eghbali. Like the first song, the notes were sad and sweet, but in a completely different way. I hadn’t heard this song since before the revolution. Aunt Azar and Uncle had sung it at the dinner table. I could almost smell Auntie’s favorite spicy hot tea.

  The combination of the music and the clear picture of Uncle Habib’s smiling face made me press my palms against my eyes, pushing sandbags up against the memories that threatened to drown me.

  As soon as the song was finished, I stood. I kept my head down and was first through the classroom door. In two steps I bumped into green boots and green pants. I forced myself to look up, dreading Abass’s scowl, but it was the quiet guard I’d noticed near our lunch table. I quickly wiped my eyes and saw the small man looking at me through tears of his own.

  For a second, our stare took up the space where the music had been. Then boys tumbled out of the room behind me, heading for lunch. The guard looked away and moved down the hall in the other direction.

  * * *

  At lunch I saw the same guard standing four tables over, staring straight ahead.

/>   “Salar, what’s the story with that guard over there?” I asked, tilting my head toward the man.

  “The little guy?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s Majid. Unlike most of these jerks, he’s actually a human being. Abass is the worst of them, but they’re all pretty nasty.” He shrugged. “Majid sometimes seems to care what happens to us.”

  “Remember that time he slipped us all chocolate for no reason?” asked Omid.

  I watched Majid. When our eyes met, I thought he’d look away, but I saw the flicker of a smile, like the flutter of a bird’s wing at the edge of my vision.

  I thought about how music could affect this guard and Miles the same way it did me. Logically it made sense that other people in the wide world would be infected by this disease, but in a way I wished it was unique, passed only from uncle to nephew.

  * * *

  It was the last week of Ramadan, and Pasha never seemed to move from his sleeping mat during the day. At dinner he was first at the table and heaped his bowl full of the watery stew—usually leftovers from breakfast and lunch with added rice.

  On the final night of the week, the only seat left at dinner was next to Pasha. I thought about sitting at another table but decided not to let Pasha have that pleasure. I checked to make sure Farhad had a full plate, since he’d been fasting too, then I emptied what was left in the communal bowl into mine. Before I could take a bite, Pasha grabbed my bowl and poured it into his.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, pulling at my bowl.

  “I’m starving. You didn’t fast today and I did. There’s no more, so I’m taking yours.”

  “Did you think of asking?”

  Our tussle brought three guards to the table. Abass swiped both bowls.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Pasha stole Reza’s food,” explained Farhad.

  “Is that so?” Abass looked at me, then at Pasha. Neither of us said a word. “Then I suppose they can both go without.” He stacked the bowls on top of each other and reached for the communal bowl.

  “That’s not fair,” said Farhad and Omid at the same time, but a look from Abass as he walked to the kitchen made them swallow their words.

  “Here, I have a few bites left.” Omid passed me his bowl. “You can finish it.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I left for a table nearby and ate the few bites in silence.

  At the end of the meal, Abass came to line us up. Majid came out of the kitchen and said to Abass, “I’ll keep the end of the line in order.”

  I glared at Pasha’s back. When we moved through the door, Majid slipped me a small paper bag. Inside were a dozen dates—the sweetest dates I’d ever tasted.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jaafer and I leaned against the fence, watching the black-and-white ball pass from foot to foot. It’d been ages since my arm really hurt, but the idea of the pain was still fresh in my mind. Neither of us had played since we arrived.

  “Come on,” yelled Omid. “Get your butts over here.”

  “I guess it’s time,” said Jaafer. “We’ve been sitting on the bench too long.”

  I shrugged. We joined the game. I was surprised how good it felt to move, to reach my foot into a jumble and pull the ball out, the sound of it—whack—as it flew toward the makeshift goal. When I finally collapsed to catch my breath, Jaafer fell down next to me.

  “Check it out. New recruits,” he said, pointing to the guard station. I saw eight boys wearing clean yellow canvas spilling out of an old jeep. Abass motioned to Salar, who put on his tour-guide face and headed over.

  I wandered over to the group. If they’d come from another camp, maybe they’d seen Ebi. Out of nowhere, Kamran’s spiky head popped into my mind. Maybe he and Ebi were hanging out somewhere together. I felt a smile that didn’t reach my lips.

  A boy was talking when I came near. “… Yeah, I hear this is the best camp to be at. It’s brutal where we were. Some guys were beaten and burned and others just disappeared—we never knew if they were shipped to other camps or something else.”

  “Rough,” said Salar. “Hear that, Reza? You better hope he doesn’t know anything about your buddy.” He turned back to the new boy. “That’s all Reza here cares about, finding his boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” I lunged at Salar. He fended me off with a punch.

  “Who is he?” asked the boy.

  I told him Ebi’s name and described him.

  “Sorry, I don’t know any Ebi.”

  “Like I said, you should be happy he’s not at that camp.” Salar clapped me on the back and motioned toward the classrooms. “Come on. Let’s show them around our humble home.”

  The boy’s words—“others just disappeared”—lodged in my brain. Could Ebi have survived the minefield, only to be killed by some slimy guard? Sometimes Abass’s scowl replaced the fireball that woke me in the middle of the night.

  * * *

  One night as we slept, winter strode into camp. Frost left lace tablecloths across the yellow dirt. We swatted the cloudy trails our breath left as we headed to breakfast and class.

  When Miles walked into the room with an instrument case under one arm, a riff of happy notes twirled into my brain. He opened the case and carefully lifted out a skinny something with a long neck. I immediately thought of Dad’s old guitar.

  “You’re in for a treat today, lads. I’m going to give it a go with an instrument that I just picked up—the tar. I found it at a secondhand shop on my day off. I can play guitar passably and I’ve messed around with a lute, so I thought I could handle this thing, but I’m still getting the hang of it. I wanted to play you Rumi. His music bloody begs for an old tar.”

  The word Rumi was like bait on a hook. Uncle’s voice rang in my head: Rumi was your kind of guy.… He was all about reaching God through singing and dancing. I moved to the front row.

  Miles fumbled to get the fingering right. When he looked up, his eyes met mine and sparkled like diamonds caught in the sun.

  After two measures I knew the song. It was one Uncle had taught me when I was little. My father used to sing it, too, sometimes. At least before the revolution.

  The oddness of Miles’s accent faded as I listened to the words. Some of the phrases were old and strange, but others could have been pop lyrics. When Miles came to these words, I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat:

  You have seen your own strength.

  You have seen your own beauty.

  You have seen your golden wings.

  Of anything less,

  why do you worry?

  The cold morning sun reflected off the frets as Miles’s fingers moved up and down. I hadn’t thought of the song in years, but when I was eight, this song made me feel strong and proud.

  The notes faded away. There was something in the room that hadn’t been there before—a scent of home, delivered by the old instrument. Miles let it linger for a minute before jumping into a lecture on music from other countries. Before class ended he strummed another melody, an old Celtic lullaby.

  “That’s enough for today, gentlemen,” said Miles. “Better get to lunch. I’ve kept you a little long this morning. Don’t forget, we have a special session this afternoon in watch repair. If any of you are interested, it’ll be upstairs in Room Six.”

  Chairs scraped and desks clanked together as we left the room. Miles put the tar away and placed it in the corner.

  I stared at the tattered black case. My fingers ached to open it—to feel the tar’s wooden neck, to hear it sing under my touch. Miles walked out of the room, talking to Omid about something, but I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t tear myself away. It was like the last piece of honey cake. The polite thing would be to walk away, but the memory of sweet, sticky melodies made me take a step closer. Would I be able to play? Could I…?

  “I’d forget my head if it weren’t screwed on.” Miles burst back into the room. “I forgot to lock up. Anything I can do for you, Mr. Reza?�
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  My eyes flitted around the room, looking for a reason I might be standing there like a tree trunk. “No, ah, just going.”

  Miles slapped me on my back, dreams of cake and music scattered. “I need to lock up and you’d better get to lunch. It tastes like warm mud, but it’ll keep you alive.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As promised, Miles had invited an old man from town to spend two hours after lunch talking about the inside of a watch. It seemed like a boring idea to me, but several other guys had fathers and grandfathers who were jewelers. Over our lunch of gray lentils and overcooked onions, they talked about opening their own shops when they got home.

  Even boys who never went to Miles’s classes wanted to see a new face. By the time Jaafer and I had finished our lentils and walked into the waning winter sun, the yard was deserted except for a group in the far corner.

  “I heard Borzin made a deal for a newspaper.” Jaafer pointed across the yard. “He’ll be cleaning the toilet for a month. Let’s check the scores.”

  “You go ahead,” I said, pulling my jacket close. “I’m gonna take a leak, maybe sit there awhile to stay warm.”

  “You’re going to that stupid watch thing up in Room Six, aren’t you?”

  “No. I just don’t want to freeze here for two hours. I’ll be back in a while.”

  Laughing, Jaafer headed toward the group of boys. “Please yourself, but you’ll have to pay me to tell you the scores.”

  “Yeah, right,” I shouted back. I stepped into the dark hallway and walked directly to the classroom we’d been in that morning. The tar was calling me, calling so loud and clear it was a wonder no one else heard. I stood before the closed door.

  Somewhere in my head I heard Uncle say, Open the door, Cub. Nothing there to bite you.

  I reached for the knob. It didn’t move. I was just about to turn away when I noticed a row of windows above the classroom door. The first one was ajar, and I wondered if I could get up there and fit through it.