Devon puffed on the joint. “Not bad.” He handed it to T-Bone.
T-Bone took a hit and admired its purple tint. “Daudov, I think you may have just made a great discovery.”
Devon took the joint from T-Bone. “Grape herbal.”
“Grape Ape,” suggested Hector.
Between the weed and the boisterous camaraderie, the incident at the A&P had been forgotten. They all wound down their windows and cruised Reading and its outer neighborhoods looking for their next conquest—girls.
It had been a few days since anyone came to see Deni. He was beginning to wonder what was happening in the outside world. Did they forget about me? Is Marsha even working on my case? He was getting a little stir crazy and his mind was beginning to spin. The only thing he came to look forward to was his next crappy meal and a trip to the bathroom which was such a fucking ordeal.
The prison guard uncuffed his ankle from the bed and helped him to a wheelchair where he was taken to the lavatory facility. The guard waited outside the stall as he did his business. It was painful moving about; the sores and stitches from his wounds were tight and it made it hard to move without wincing.
Seated on the toilet, it all just came to him in a flash. The friends he will never see again. They will go on to graduate college, get married, and have families. Many will forget about him and some will deny they ever knew him. From the tiny space of the bathroom stall, he thought, My past has been wiped away and my future is questionable. What does that leave me and my existence?
He rose from the toilet seat and struggled to pull up his pants. Outside the stall, he was greeted by the prison guard who helped him back into the wheelchair. On the way back to his bed, Deni fingered a plastic bottle of pills and dumped it down the opening of his scrub top. He wasn’t sure what it was he grabbed; he didn’t care.
Later in the evening, after he choked down his dinner, Deni beckoned the attention of one of the guards. “Can I have some paper and a pen?”
“What for?” asked the guard.
Deni raised his eyes. “For writing.”
“What do you want to write?” asked the guard.
“Poetry,” said Deni. “I’m feeling inspired.”
The guard shrugged and found a pen and a few slips of paper for Deni.
“Thanks.” Deni sat up in bed and with the pen perched upon the paper he thought of all the soldiers, rebels and martyrs that preceded him. He thought of all who were caught behind enemy lines, imprisoned, tortured, executed, hung, and decapitated with their heads posted on stakes. He wrote in Russian:
Here I am a part of history. Many will forget my name, but my act will be remembered and who knows if that could possibly change the world in some small way. Maybe a few will see the injustices throughout the world and maybe those few will be further inspired into action in some way. Others may think this was for glory, notoriety and fame and may believe I was looking for a place in the afterlife. I am not and nor do I care. The Jihad if one were to suggest was not a murder of religious conviction; it was because there was no other option. No one was listening; no one cared for the plight of the millions who are now suffering. If a handful of people get the message, then I have been a success and my pathetic life has not been for naught. Sometimes a life, no matter how short, is meant for something bigger.
When the doctors and guards were occupied, Deni swallowed the bottle of pills and laid his head down on his pillow. He could feel his stomach swirl; he coughed and choked. As his body started to tremble, he could feel his consciousness slip away.
It didn’t take long for the doctors to notice Deni convulsing in his bed and the bottle of medicine that tumbled to the floor. Within minutes the curtain was pulled around his bed and a tube shoved down his throat.
Deni regained conscious for a few seconds to see at the foot of his bed that tall whispery black shadow. This time he saw it more clearly. It had a soft feminine face, long lithe arms and what looked to be wings behind its back. As soon as the shadow took hold of Deni’s feet, the doctors pumped out the contents of Deni’s stomach. He started coughing and gagging as the vomit poured from between his lips.
Afterward he laid in the bed helpless as the prison guards wheeled over a gurney. They lifted his limp body onto the gurney and strapped down his wrists and ankles. He was wheeled through the hallways to another room where doctors stuck needles in his veins and set him to a heart monitor and IV.
In between stages of consciousness Deni thought, They’re doing a lot to keep me alive before they kill me. Why don’t they just let me go?
Chapter 8
All he saw was a bright white light shining in the distance surrounded by a deep blue expanse; there was nothing in every direction. Kneeling on Kamiila’s lap to get a better look, seven-year-old Deni pressed his face against the airplane window, yet he still saw nothing.
An American flight attendant came to their aisle and closed the shade on Deni. “People are trying to sleep,” she said in English.
Kamiila held onto Deni tightly. “He just wants to look out the window,” she replied in broken English.
“There’s nothing to see at this altitude. The shade stays closed until we start our descent into Philadelphia,” asserted the stewardess. She walked away and then returned shortly with a cookie and carton of milk for Deni. “This should keep him occupied.”
Kamiila glared at the stewardess, but she was in no position to argue against the stewardess’ obvious bribe of her son. Her English was poor and Deni had already bit into the cookie.
A few hours later, everyone peered out the window as the plane circled low over the green rolling hills of Pennsylvania and then curved over a large gas tanker, cargo ships and what looked to be like a stadium. When the wheels touched down on the tarmac, the stewardess spoke over the loud speaker, “Welcome to the United States, Willkommen in die Vereninigten Statten, Benvenuto negli Stati Uniti, and then finally they announced in Russian.”
Bashir and Kamiila escorted their family from the plane and followed the long line of passengers to claim their luggage. Mikail retrieved a cart that would hold the Daudov’s entire belongings. Once their luggage was collected, there was yet another long line at immigration.
It was 2002, a mere nine months after the 9/11 attack. America was on heightened alert for anyone that looked the slightest bit Muslim. Upon arrival from Russia, the Daudov family blended well into America; they were white. It was a blessing and soon to become a curse that the Daudov family did not look Muslim.
Americans were weary of anyone with dark skin, regardless of their ethnicity and religion. Natives of India were denied service at restaurants. Latinos were profiled at airports and anyone with a Muslim-sounding name drew suspicion. Families and trusted neighbors were soon split apart by fear. America was perched on the precipice of fear, wondering when the next attack will come.
Soon it was the Daudov’s turn at the immigration window and Bashir stepped up for his family. The immigration clerk studied Bashir carefully and then reviewed his documentation. “You were in the military?”
“Yes. Five years,” said Bashir trying to contain his nervousness.
“What was your line of business after service?” asked the immigration clerk.
“Doctor…, then farmer,” Bashir said. “I have family here. My brother in Delaware is sponsoring us. He works at a chemical company in Wilmington.”
As the immigration officer looked over the family’s paperwork, Deni reached up and pulled his chin up onto the counter to see what was going on. Just as Bashir and Kamiila were going to scold Deni to get down, the immigration officer studied Deni’s passport and then looked him in the eyes. “Are you Deni Alexei Daudov?”
Deni glanced up at Bashir and nodded.
The immigration officers stamped all their passports and smiled. “Folks, welcome to America. Just go through those glass doors there and you will be united with your awaiting party.”
Mikail pushed the cart with all the family�
�s belongings toward the glass doors which opened as they got closer. When they walked through the door they were officially in America. The moment was serendipitous for the entire family. The sun shone brightly through the windows. Everything around them was shiny and new. Even the faces on the people were friendly and welcoming. They had made it to America—the land of the free and where dreams come true.
Deni opened his eyes to a stinging bright white light. At the foot of his bed he saw the black whispery shadow. He tried to extend his hand toward the shadow but noticed that his wrists and ankles were strapped down. “What do you want with me?” he mumbled in Russian.
“We’re here to protect you,” said a calming male voice in Russian. “If anyone threatens you or tries to hurt you in here, you just need to call Marsha or myself.”
Deni turned sharply in the opposite direction and saw a short, stout bald-headed man wearing a tweed jacket, but said nothing.
“Hello,” the man said in Russian, “I am Viktor Grecko. I will be aiding Marsha with your case.”
Deni rolled his eyes and saw Marsha standing by his head. He could barely speak; his voice was weak and scratchy. “Do you see it?” he asked in Russian, referring to the shadowy figure.
“Do I see what?” asked Viktor.
When Deni turned his head he saw the shadow was gone.
“What’s the matter?” asked Marsha.
“I think he’s hallucinating. It must be the drugs,” said Viktor.
“Ask him about the note,” said Marsha quietly hoping Deni would be much more receptive to an interview in Russian.
Viktor held Deni’s note he wrote the night before. “Was this a suicide note?” he asked in Russian.
“It doesn’t matter. I am already a ghost,” he muttered in English for Marsha to hear and then turned his head away.
It was a lazy Saturday afternoon as five-year-old Deni rolled around in the grass outside his Uncle’s farm in Volgograd. He turned on his back and saw the clouds pass above the vast blue sky. From the ground he watched the tips of the tall blades of green grass and the yellow dandelions blowing in the breeze.
A bee buzzing around a dandelion caught his attention. Deni sat up and popped the heads of the dandelion flowers until he had a handful of yellow buds. He carried them toward the farmhouse where his sister Lulii rocked in a chair on the porch.
“What do you have there?” she asked.
“Dandelions,” said Deni.
“You know dandelions give you super powers,” teased Lulii.
“Like what?” questioned Deni.
“They make you invisible,” she said.
“No they don’t. You can’t be invisible,” protested Deni.
“How do you know? Have you ever eaten them? Have you ever been invisible?”
“No, I’m only five,” replied Deni. He sat on the porch and gazed up at Lulii. Surely, his older sister would not lead him astray. Deni popped a yellow flower bud in his mouth and started chewing. It tasted dirty and bitter. He wanted to spit it out, but he didn’t want Lulii to think he was scared, so he swallowed.
Lulii laughed. “You’re beginning to fade little brother.”
“No, I’m not! You’re lying!” he shouted.
“Sure you are, look at your hands. I can see right through them. If you want to be completely invisible, you need to at least eat five.”
Deni hesitated, contemplating whether he wanted to be invisible.
“You know you can do almost anything when you’re invisible. You can eat as many cookies as you want, because no one will see you taking them. You don’t have to stay in bed when you’re not tired and you never have to take a bath,” said Lulii.
He thought about all the things he could do if he was invisible; it sounded awesome. Deni shoved three more buds in his mouth, started chewing and then stared at his hands. He didn’t notice himself disappearing, not yet anyway.
Mikail looked outside the screen door and noticed a wily smirk on Lulii’s face and Deni’s yellow lips and full mouth. “What’s going on?”
Deni looked up and spoke with his mouth full of dandelions. “I’m trying to be invisible.”
“But I can see you,” said Mikail.
Lulii gave Mikail a signal to shush. “It hasn’t started working yet; it takes a few minutes.”
Mikail shot Lulii a glare and reached for Deni’s hand. “Come with me.”
Deni took his hand and followed him in to the kitchen where Kamiila and their Aunt Vera were preparing the family’s dinner. Kamiila took one look at Deni. “What’s going on?”
“Lulii tricked him into eating dandelions,” said Mikail.
“She didn’t trick me!” shouted Deni with his mouth full of flowers.
Kamiila grabbed Deni by the chin. “Spit! Spit it out!” Deni spat out saliva-coated dandelion mush into Kamiila’s hand. “What is the matter with you?” questioned Kamiila as she strongly wiped down his mouth and tongue. “There are books you could be reading. Toys! You could be playing with toys! Boys like to play with toys!” she scolded.
Aunt Vera let out a bellowing laugh. “Oh Kamiila, dandelions are harmless. He could be eating bugs, worms or mushrooms.”
Kamiila shook Deni. “Are you eating bugs and mushrooms?”
“No ma, just flowers,” he said calmly as if it was no big deal.
“Why would you eat flowers?” questioned Kamiila.
“Lulii said they would give me super powers. She said they would make me invisible,” he said.
Kamiila laid her hands on his waist. “Why would you want to be invisible?”
Deni shrugged not wanting to tell his mother all the deceit he could get away with when invisible.
“Honey,” she said, “how will we see you? How can we hug and kiss you when we don’t know where you are? You don’t want to ever be invisible. You want us to see you so we can love you.”
Deni nodded soberly.
Kamilla glanced up at Mikail and handed him the wash rag. “Here you finish washing up your brother, while I deal with your sister.”
Mikail kneeled before Deni and washed his face.
“So I’m not invisible?” Deni asked.
“No, just yellow,” replied Mikail. “If anyone gives you any trouble, you come to me. Anyone tries to steer you wrong, you let me know.”
Deni nodded. “Okay.”
Deni lay in the hospital bed and bit his lip trying to suppress his emotions. His twisted, disturbed expressions and somber eyes fooled no one.
“What’s the matter?” asked Viktor in Russian.
“Nothing,” Deni muttered. It wasn’t nothing; it was everything. He would never see his brother again. He would never be able to roll around on the tall grasses of the Russian plains and stare at the big vast sky. Never again would he taste the bitterness of a dandelion bud. He chuckled at the memory of eating dandelions, but it didn’t help his mourning.
Deni looked up at Viktor. “Are you from Russia?”
“My parents were, I was born in the United States. My father had a clerk’s job at the Embassy in Philadelphia. After the Soviet Union dissolved, my parents became citizens and retired in a house in Upper Darby.”
“So you have never been to Russia?” asked Deni.
“Oh sure, my wife and I visit at least every other year. I have cousins in St. Petersburg.”
“I’ve never been to St. Petersburg,” said Deni.
“It’s a beautiful city,” replied Viktor. “Marsha tells me you lived on a farm outside Volgograd. That must have been quite an experience.”
“It was the best, the best of everything. No one here in America could ever understand. At nights my Uncle Aslan would try to play the balalaika. He was awful, but what was worse was my Aunt Vera. She tried to sing the old folks’ songs. She sung so badly it would send a chill down my spine. But my aunt and uncle loved playing bad music together.” Deni laughed as tears welled in his eyes. “My sisters and I would giggle and laugh. At times we would sing and dance along
just as badly. It was Mikail who would scold us and tell us we need to have respect. We couldn’t help it; it was so funny.”
“Sounds wonderful,” replied Viktor.
“It was,” asserted Deni. “It was.”
“Deni, we’re here to work for you,” said Marsha. “You’re not alone, but you have to trust us. If you need help getting through this, think of the people who love you.”
Deni glanced at Marsha. “People love me?” he asked and then turned away, focusing on his body, wrists and ankles strapped to the bed. “If people loved me, they’d let me go instead of holding me down.”
In the short time Marsha knew Deni, she realized he was saying a lot more than his words indicated. The trick was finding the key that would unlock the puzzle to his mind. She did however have an idea that might give her some insight.
Marsha handed him a composition notebook. “As a journalism major, you should know the pen was always thought to be mightier than the sword.”
Deni handled the cheap composition notebook in his hands and then flipped through the blank pages. “Is it, or does the pen simply inspire the sword?”
“Writing is liberating. You can be anywhere and anything you want inside this book. Let it go,” she said.
Deni did feel a sense of liberation despite his imprisonment. Even though his body was in captivity, his mind was free to wonder. As Marsha and Viktor were getting ready to leave, Marsha had a prison guard release Deni’s right hand from restraints so he could write. Once again alone, Deni stared at the composition book and wondered where to begin. The first word he wrote on the first page of the book was freedom:
Freedom: My father always said freedom was for fools who didn’t know what to do with it, yet for ages so many people fought and died for freedom. Slaves were locked in cages and shackles—their physical presence a threat to their masters. Artists, writers and poets were ousted from society—their visions, thoughts and musings a threat to kings and leaders.
The Insurrectionist Page 8
