Lost Boys

by Darcey Rosenblatt

  “Some of the guys at school, their parents are sending them to Europe or America so they don’t have to sign up. We don’t have distant family there, do we?”

  “Nooo.” Uncle stretched out the word, as if there should be a but after it.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was just trying to think.” He divided the eggs between two plates, put some of the fresh feta on the side, and brought the plates to the table.

  “You had an idea,” I said, trying not to get excited. “I could tell. You have friends in America and in England—right?” I stood, knocking a fork to the floor. “And I have some money saved up.”

  “Sit down,” Uncle said as he sat. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking. Leaving the place you’ve lived all your life? Going far away to a country where you don’t speak the language?”

  “They’d have music there.” I sat but couldn’t keep my hands from waving around while I talked. “I’d learn the language. I already speak a little English. It wouldn’t be forever. This war has to end sometime—right? And”—I paused, choosing my words—“like I said, they’d have music there.”

  Uncle took a bite of his eggs and motioned for me to do the same. “I know it’s tempting, but you need to think about what this would mean to your relationship with your mom. I know you’re angry at her right now, but—”

  “Uncle, she wants me to die.” I slammed both palms onto the table with a little more force than I’d meant to. “I don’t want to die for something I don’t even understand.”

  I hadn’t been this mad since the months after Dad died, but something in me was excited, too. I stared at him, saying nothing. Finally he said, “I do know people, but even a visit would be complicated. Let me think about this for a bit. Okay?”

  I nodded, afraid if I spoke, the hope I held in my throat would fly away. Uncle cuffed my shoulder. “That’s enough history and family stuff for one day. Let’s talk about something else. I assume you haven’t found anywhere else to play?”

  “No. Ebi thought I could use the piano at his aunt’s house, but she was afraid we’d get caught.”

  “What about your dad’s old guitar? You played that a few times, right? Is it still around?”

  I shook my head and said, “But look.” I went over to Dad’s bookcase and wiggled it away from the wall, reaching into my secret hiding place.

  “What’s this?” asked Uncle.

  “I didn’t want to forget how to play, so I made my own keyboard.” I unfolded the long, stiff piece of paper I’d snuck from school. The keys I’d painted black were already fading from overuse. “See, I can still play and hear it in my head. It’ll have to do until I can find the real thing.”

  I flexed my fingers and ran them across the makeshift keys. “Remember that sonata I was learning? It goes like this.” I closed my eyes and hummed as my fingers reached for the keys. When I touched each piece of paper ivory, I remembered the sound from our old upright. It was like putting on a shirt that covered me from the inside out and fit perfectly.

  When I finished, I looked up to see Uncle shaking his head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re amazing. You can hold an entire melody in your head. It’s incredible.”

  I looked down at my fingers. “I thought everyone could do that.”

  Uncle shook his head. “No, not everyone can do that. Now, why don’t you go get that fancy tape player you didn’t hide very well this morning?”

  I was back in a flash. But as I handed him the tape player, we heard the second call to prayer waft through the open window.

  I put away my keyboard and put down the tape player. Prayer with Uncle Habib always felt different. Just the two of us felt like an oasis where God knew who I was.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After prayers, Uncle pulled a tape from his bag. I held my hands clasped tight behind my back so I wouldn’t grab.

  “Thank you so much, Uncle.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know if you like what I brought,” he said.

  “I always like what you bring. That Stevie Wonder you gave me last month? I play it every morning and every night.”

  He shook his head. “And your mother has no idea?”

  “Nope. I’m careful.”

  “Good. I don’t know what she’d do if she found this tape player.” He stroked the plastic box lightly. “For today I brought some Mozart. I know you’ve heard his stuff before. Your dad liked the Sonata in C. It’s probably Mozart’s most popular, but I like these, especially the Sonata in B-flat.”

  I put the earphones on. Uncle pushed play. I pictured my keyboard. As the music began, I could hear where my fingers should be. I don’t know how long I lived in the new music before Uncle gently pulled the earphones off.

  “Don’t be greedy. Let’s try another one.” He reached into his bag, then sat back on his heels, thinking.

  “Do you remember ‘You Worry Too Much’? It’s a song by Rumi that I taught you when you were four.”

  “Barely,” I said. “He was a religious guy, right?”

  “He was religious, but he was really a poet. He was your kind of guy, Cub. Even though he died in 1273, he was all about reaching God through singing and dancing. Next time I come, I’ll bring some modern interpretations. But for today I have something else. You were so happy with Charlie Parker, I brought you a contemporary of his.” He handed me another tape. “I give you the amazing Mr. Thelonious Monk.”

  I loved the sound of the man’s name even without hearing his music. Thelonious Monk—a genie from this sparkling plastic box.

  “Sometimes he leaves silence where you think the notes should go,” said Uncle. “He played the keys like no one before or since.”

  I put on the earphones again and started the tape. At first, it hurt to listen. Instead of the instruments working together in the same melody, each was dancing in its own world. But as I watched the sunlight play with the dust above the kitchen table, I realized the separate dances were moving in the same direction.

  The saxophone wailed like women at funeral marches—high and sad. The sound stayed far from the melody, then as if by magic the piano jumped ahead, pulling the saxophone back into the dance. When they came together, the bass was right there waiting. The notes jumbled together, colored leaves tumbling down a stream. My face exploded in a grin. I looked at Uncle, and he was smiling, too.

  “I knew you’d get it,” he said loud enough for me to hear. “I can see it in your face. Some people think this is just noise, but not you.”

  “How can this be?” I whispered, moving one earphone back so I could hear myself talk. “There’s so much going on.”

  “Exactly.” Uncle jumped up. “And you know this jazz comes from American slavery. Picture a whole people caged—you hear that sadness? But music was their subtle rebellion, something that made them free. It’s no surprise our government bans music. Music can be power to people who are struggling.”

  “Mother would hate it,” I said, glancing at the door to her room.

  “She doesn’t understand it, so yes, she would probably hate it.” Uncle went to the urn and opened the spigot until dark tea filled his glass.

  “And I’m sorry, Reza, that she doesn’t understand you. She doesn’t understand the gift God’s given you. I hope that sometime, somewhere, there’ll be a place where you can grow your gift.”

  I looked at him. What kind of place could that be? Could I really go to England or America? A place where I could play music all the time? Sitting in this apartment, I couldn’t imagine getting there from here.

  I heard a key at the door and looked wildly at Uncle. Mother wasn’t due home for hours.

  I yanked the earphones off, looking for somewhere to hide the tape player, to hide myself, but it was too late. The door flew open and Mother walked in. I couldn’t comprehend her and this music occupying the same space. She looked at both of us. Her face went white. A full moon against a daytime blue sky. She r
aised her fists on either side of her head. She looked as if she couldn’t decide who to hit first.

  Then in a second she stood inches from my face. She ripped the machine from my hand and threw it to the floor. The earphones flew across the room, the music dying in a crash of splintering plastic.

  “You!” She turned to Uncle Habib. “Your ideas and your words of disrespect are one thing. I tolerate them because you are my brother, but when you bring this wicked noise into the house, there is no forgiving that. You have divorced yourself from God.” She stared at him with her fists by her side. “Leave immediately.”

  “No, Mother,” I wailed. “He isn’t hurting—”

  She wheeled on me. “Not another word from you.”

  “Sameera.” Uncle gave Mother a cool, angry stare. “How is it God’s plan to keep the boy from something he loves?” I saw the similarity, brother to sister, in their clenched jaws. “You were kept from learning what you loved. Don’t do that to your son.”

  “Not another word from you, either.” Each syllable was a hammer, striking a flat-head nail, but I thought I saw a tear she quickly brushed away. “Do you think it’s easy for me, raising a child by myself? I try to teach him God’s ways. I try to keep him pure. And you come to him with your rock and roll.”

  “Mother, it’s not…,” I started, but stopped. This was not the time for a lesson on the difference between jazz and rock.

  “You are my younger brother, Habib.” She ran her hand across her face. “I thought you would have more respect.”

  “I respect you, Sameera. I do,” pleaded Uncle. “But Reza’s special, and I believe that’s God given. It deserves—”

  “Stop.” The sound was both bark and sob. She turned her back on us. There was silence until she slowly faced Uncle. “Habib, take your belongings. And you, Reza, will not move until he has closed that door behind him.”

  Uncle stared at me, then at Mother. He took a step toward her. She stepped back and pointed to the apartment door. He slung his small canvas bag over his shoulder.

  “Please, Mother,” I tried again, but she held her palm up like she was stopping traffic.

  Uncle walked over to me. He leaned close and whispered, “I’ll see you soon. Keep singing. Dance when you can, Cub.” He pulled his hat low and was out the door and gone. I hoped the men who’d followed me this morning were gone, too.

  * * *

  It was too late to cancel the dinner Mother had planned for Uncle. So that night the whole family gathered at the apartment. Without him it didn’t feel like family to me. I sat on the window ledge, watching steam fog the glass, smelling garlic, chicken, and dates. Arms crossed, I listened to the conversation around me.

  “I’ve been tolerant of his wild ideas and stories of rebellion,” Mother said to her sisters. “But bringing blasphemous music into our home and exposing Reza is beyond what I can stand.”

  “Sister,” said Aunt Azar. “Habib is still foolish. Give him time. He’ll come back to visit next month and he’ll apologize.”

  I caught Aunt Azar’s eye, and she sent me a shadow of a smile.

  Aunt Bita carried tea and a bowl brimming with nuts from the kitchen. “My neighbor’s apartment was full of tapes and records,” she said. “The police came in and destroyed them. They took him off for a sound beating. He didn’t walk for days.”

  “The rules are clear,” said Mother. “And this Western music is against the will of God.”

  The conversation droned on. My fingers drummed a slow tune on the glass, where no one could see. It was something Uncle had sung when he visited last year. Was it John Lee Hooker? I couldn’t remember.

  I pressed my forehead against the window. I stopped drumming and formed fists in my lap. Would I wake up one day and suddenly know God, like Mother did, or even like Father had? After that would I find a job like Father’s in the city? Or would I be more like Uncle? If my destiny was the will of God, I wished it was written down somewhere in a big library, where I could go look it up.

  I wanted to believe in something. I wanted to know who wrote the song in my head. I wanted to run into the night and go after Uncle.

  “Reza,” said Mother. “Come join our guests.”

  I looked into the darkness, wondering how she could even say my name when this morning she’d wished me dead, but when she asked again I did as she commanded. I’d never been out at night by myself and I wasn’t going tonight. Like a good boy, I’d go to school tomorrow and the next day and all the endless days until Uncle Habib came back. But my fists stayed clenched in my pockets.

  Hours after the guests were gone I lay awake. Getting up, I went to the living room and stood in front of the wastebasket that held my broken tape player. It was partly covered, but I could see the corner of cracked plastic. With one eye on the door to Mother’s room, I reached through wet tea leaves and pulled out the machine. It was cracked in several places and would never work again, but it opened to my touch. On the tape, Uncle had written “Monk—the best.”

  After hurrying back to my room, I slipped the tape into the inside pocket of my jacket.

  * * *

  As expected, Ebi was jealous the next morning when I told him about my very own chase scene. He was less interested in the fight between Mother and Uncle. I didn’t tell him what Mother had said.

  “That must have been so cool, Maggot. I should’ve been there.”

  Maggot was a character from Ebi’s favorite American movie, The Dirty Dozen. The first time he saw the war movie years ago he turned Maggot into my nickname.

  “Who were they? Maybe they were Iraqis? They’re such bastards, we need to pulverize them.”

  “I don’t know if they were Iraqis or government goons. It’s all so stupid. Did you hear Dara’s older brother was killed last week? That makes eleven guys from school in the last three months.” I took an orange from my lunch pail and started peeling.

  “Yeah, and we owe it to them to strike back.” Ebi punched an unseen target. “We need to get even.” I shrugged and let him keep talking. “The clerics from the mosque are coming to school tomorrow to talk about joining up. Maybe then I can convince you and my mother.”

  That afternoon our whole class watched the weekly funeral procession. Dozens of men walked solemnly down the avenue. Some carried a poster with the face and name of a dead soldier.

  The first time this happened over a year ago, it seemed sad and scary. Now it happened so often, we didn’t think about it much.

  Ebi elbowed me in the ribs as we lined up. “Look, the girls are out today, too.”

  I followed his gaze. It was getting warm and my starched white button-down shirt felt clammy on the back of my neck. I glanced at the girls lined up in front of their school across the street. They must have been miserable in their dark uniforms and veils.

  “Remember when we used to have those special assemblies with them?” I asked. “Back when they wore skirts and sandals.”

  “Yeah, can you believe we thought girls were lame then? Now this is as close to them as we get. Unless you count my cousins.”

  “What about your sister?” I asked.

  Ebi snorted. He had an eight-year-old sister, but neither of us considered her a real girl.

  “She might be the only girl you have a chance with,” he teased. “You with the crooked nose and your weird stuck-out ears. But see the one just in from the end?” Ebi pointed. “I think that’s Parto; she lives on our block.”

  “You can’t tell it’s her, freak,” I said, squinting into the sun. “The only thing not covered are her eyes, and she’s standing all the way across the street.”

  “Well, she has beautiful eyes. I think she might be looking at me.”

  While Ebi bragged about his “girl” to someone else, I stared at the slow stream of wooden boxes. Lately the men marching were getting older. Could it be that all the young guys were already at the front? Or worse—already dead?

  There was no talk of the funeral march the next day whe
n the men from the mosque came to class. My nose itched from the chalk dust we’d raised with our thorough cleaning. Now we sat, a little like soldiers, in our straight rows of desks. Our teachers stood silently in the back while the two holy men, dressed in long black robes and white turbans, walked in. Ebi, on the edge of his chair, moved one leg up and down, fast. His whole desk jiggled.

  One of the men was older than the other. His long, gray beard reached to his chest. The younger man’s beard was dark and scraggly around his face. He held a small wooden box under one arm.

  The older one spoke in a raspy voice. “We’ve come to talk to you today about something that is crucial to the future of Islam—crucial to your future. As you know, we are engaged in an ongoing battle with Iraqi forces.” His voice grew louder with every word. “We are involved in sacred defense. The terrible Iraqi government is oppressing its citizens and threatening our very existence. We must bleed the enemies of God anywhere, by any means.”

  I heard Uncle’s voice in my head, telling me this struggle had been going on forever. I wished I knew where Uncle was. I hoped the two men who’d chased me didn’t know, either. I thought about who he might know in England and America.

  The cleric’s steely gaze traveled each row. “We have come to ask you to join with us in this glorious struggle. Put aside your daily lives for Islam.”

  Several boys cheered. Ebi joined in, his fist in the air. I loved my country. I thought of the market and the city just before dark, of the mountains where we vacationed before the war. Why couldn’t I raise my fist?

  When the shouting died down, the old man continued, “You are all smart young men and know the danger and sacrifice are real. But you will be part of something greater than yourselves. And if you should be lucky enough to die in this holy war, you will be dying for God. There is no better sacrifice than this.”

  I closed my eyes and saw Mother’s face as she stood in our kitchen.

  “We are handing each of you a key.” The old man’s voice reverberated against the white plaster walls.