I looked up and down the hall. Ten feet away was a rickety chair. Without making a sound, I picked it up and placed it below the window. Standing on the wobbly seat, I could just reach the windowsill. I gripped it with all my strength and hoisted myself up.
Twice I was able to get my head past the sill to peek in, but I couldn’t pull my shoulders up. I stood on the chair and took a deep breath. Pulling again, I finally fit my shoulders through the opening and gently pushed until my waist rested on the windowsill.
Hanging above the room, I realized I was stuck.
It was at this exact moment that I heard a door open down the hall, followed by footsteps. It sounded as if someone was around the corner. They’d be on me in seconds. I thought of the diving board on the platform at the lake where I used to swim. The footsteps came closer. I tucked my head and dove.
After clattering to the floor, I lay in a ball. Could I have been any stupider? Even if the person connected to the footsteps hadn’t seen my legs hanging out the window, he would have had to be deaf not to hear the racket.
I lay on my side, not moving, waiting for whoever it was to try the door. But no one came. It was silent in the hallway. I tensed my muscles and lifted my limbs, assessing the damage. I’d instinctively protected the arm that I’d broken, but the other one would be bruised. Everything else seemed fine.
Who was out there? Maybe it was someone like me, sneaking around where he shouldn’t. I gingerly got to my feet and moved to the door. Pressing my ear against the cold wood, I was distracted by my thumping heartbeat. I looked at the clock on the wall. Only ten minutes gone since I’d left lunch and the class upstairs had started. It felt like forever.
I froze again. Someone might come by and notice the chair under the window. Then I’d be screwed. I stood for another five minutes, willing myself to stop worrying.
The tar sat right where Miles had left it. I walked to the case and took it out. It smelled like the oil Grandmother used to polish her table.
Other than the piano, I’d hardly ever been close to another instrument. During the few times I’d played Dad’s guitar I’d learned only a few chords. But when I settled the tar on my lap and smoothed my hand over the honey-colored wood, it felt like home. The double bowls were covered with thin membranes of stretched skin and were connected to a long neck holding six strings. I strummed and placed my fingers in different positions to change the sound. Then I lifted a pick from the case and tried it on the strings. The richness of the sound filled the room.
I strummed softly until I found chords that felt familiar. Watching Dad play when I was little had imprinted on me. The way a baby duck knows its mother, my fingers flew to the frets. After so many months, happiness was finally a thing I could touch.
I played quietly so the noise couldn’t be heard outside the locked door, losing myself in the memories of the music. I was working my way through all the songs I could remember when I heard a door slam. Suddenly a horde of boys clattered down the stairs. I’d meant to stay for a few minutes, but almost two hours had flown by.
I put the tar back, pausing for only a split second to stroke the wood, warm from my lap. I crept to the door and peered through the keyhole.
Slowly opening the door a crack, I saw no one. I darted out, picked up the chair and put it back in its place. When I straightened, I heard a throat clearing behind me. Knowing I couldn’t run, I took a deep breath and turned around. Majid leaned against the wall. The guard wore a slip of a smile. He must have been listening. He nodded, turned, and walked away.
The simple nod sent a gust of warm relief that traveled from my shoulders and down my spine. It weakened my knees ever so slightly. I stood perfectly still for a few seconds, enjoying the warmth. Then, knowing I’d be missed, I sprinted toward the yard but skidded to a stop before running through the door. It wouldn’t look good to run out like I was being chased. I watched the yard until the lockdown bell was sounded. In the confusion of the boys moving around, I fell into step next to Jaafer.
“Where were you, man?” he asked when I joined the line beside him. “I thought Fish Butt might have locked you up or something.”
“No.” I looked around to make sure we were out of earshot. “I sneaked into the classroom to play that old tar. I lost track of time.”
“What are you? Stupid or brave?” asked Jaafer. “I didn’t know you could play.”
A quick smile spread across my face. “Neither did I.”
Jaafer knit his brow but let it pass.
As we walked to lockup, my head was a stew of dreams and memories. The sound track in my head was back, needing to be played. It was magic. Hearing music, playing music, made me think of Uncle. But for a few minutes, actually shaping the notes had taken me to a place where I might be happy for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Where are you, Reza? Dreaming of some naked girl?” Jaafer kicked the side of my leg harder than he needed to as he slumped down next to me. “You’ve been staring off into space for twenty minutes. Come to think of it, what’s up with you? You’ve been acting weird for days.”
I shrugged and mumbled. The truth was, my fingers ached to pick up the tar again. Ached more than I’d ever wanted nougat candy or even a new tape from Uncle. We sat aimlessly, and I half listened as Jaafer told me about this girl who lived on his street at home. I’d heard the story before, but I let him tell it again.
“Reza.” Another kick from Jaafer.
“What?”
“I asked if you think she’ll remember me. Man, the least you can do is pretend to listen.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
We both turned at the sound of a shout across the yard.
Two new kids were standing nose to nose, fists raised. One yelled something at the other, and in a flash they were rolling in the dust. Boys ran from every corner of the yard bellowing encouragement. Jaafer took off toward the fight, but I took a step backward.
I waited until I was sure the few guards patrolling were focused on the fight to make my move. Heading for the classroom door, I wondered if I was foolish enough to try the chair again. When I reached the hall I looked around. The old chair was gone. I tried the door. Locked. I slid down, rested my head on my knees, and stayed like that for a few minutes. Finally I pulled myself up, telling myself it was nothing, just a stupid old guitar. That I didn’t care if I ever held it again.
I shuffled away from the room. Putting off the time I’d have to talk to Jaafer and the rest, I leaned against the gateway to the yard. The fight was over. Abass and another guard dragged the boys toward lockup. Majid stood a few yards away, the only guard left in the yard.
He caught my eye and looked away. As soon as the door shut behind Abass, Majid glanced quickly to his right and left, then turned and walked straight at me. As he passed he caught my eye for a fraction of a second, his eyebrows raised. What was that? I liked this guy, but he was a guard. Was I to follow him? He didn’t look back. I watched him stride to the locked classroom door. Once there, almost before I could register what he’d done, he reached up to the ledge above the door and either took something or left something and then walked back to the yard.
He returned to the place he’d been, surveying the sea of boys. I was probably the only one who’d noticed he’d gone. That must have been the idea. I raced back to the door and jumped up to reach the place Majid’s hand had been. Something clattered to the floor. A key—the key to the classroom door. I wanted to run out and hug him, jump up and down. But instead I used the key to open the door and spent forty minutes smiling—with the tar in my lap.
From then on I checked the ledge above the door as often as I could. The first two weeks after that day, I checked ten times, but the key was never there again. I worried that maybe I shouldn’t have put it back. Maybe he meant for me to keep it, but that seemed too dangerous.
My eleventh try I swore would be my last. It was stupid to want something that wasn’t ever going to be there. But it w
as there, the tar was mine for an hour, and I was home. From then on sometimes the key was there, mostly it wasn’t, and every time I found it I felt like I’d won the lottery.
* * *
After breakfast one Saturday in mid-November, it was so cold, we begged Abass to let us go back to our room, where we could be out of the icy wind.
“Please, sir. You guys have those heavy coats and we have these…” Salar fingered his jacket, searching for a word. “I don’t know what you call them, but you wouldn’t call them warm. I look like a tulip in this thing.”
“To the yard, all of you,” Abass spat.
“Please,” I asked, speaking directly to the guard for the first time. “By the time lunch comes, we won’t be able to move our fingers.”
Abass brandished the short club from his belt and waved it in the air. “Go.”
Farhad whimpered and the rest of us hurried from Abass’s dark glare. The yard was full of small groups huddled together, trying to keep warm. All the guards stood together near the office.
“Looks like everyone’s on duty today. I wonder why,” said Salar as Omid joined us.
Omid pointed to a group of boys standing near the office. “Those guys are being transferred to another camp. The jeep’ll be here soon. The extra guards are just to make sure they go quietly. Nobody likes to leave Camp Six.”
“I wonder where they’re going,” said Jaafer. “The guy who came from that camp up north, he was telling me the guards there use electric prods on their ears and tongues and worse places. He has burn scars on the bottoms of his feet.”
I rubbed my hands together, trying not to picture Ebi being tortured. Then suddenly I felt like a light bulb turned on in my head. “Another camp?” I said. “I didn’t know you could get transferred from here.”
“What are you going to do, Reza? Tag along to find your friend?” Salar mocked. “Give it up, man. We all have friends dead or locked up somewhere around this country. You’re not likely going to find him until we get home. And remember what they say about the other camps. This is the Hilton compared to those hell pits.”
“I don’t know,” I said, watching the boys preparing to go. I squared my shoulders and looked straight at Salar. True, everyone had friends lost or scattered, but it seemed like these guys all had a mother or a father or an uncle caring about them, waiting for them at home. I had no one but Ebi. Without breaking my gaze I said, “I feel like I need to find him. Does anyone have paper and a pen?”
Salar laughed but handed me a stub of a pencil from his pocket. Jaafer gave me a scrap of paper from our English class the day before. I wrote both Ebi’s name and my own three times on the small paper and tore them quickly. I palmed the three scraps and walked fast toward the group waiting near the office. Choosing three boys I knew slightly from Miles’s class, I asked them to be on the lookout for Ebi.
“If you hear someone quoting Kojak, that’ll be Ebi.”
The boys laughed, then quickly pocketed the scraps of paper as Abass appeared.
“Move along, scum. You have no business with these ladies.” The boys opened their mouths in protest, but Abass silenced them with a look. He shoved my shoulder hard and said, “Get back to your group.”
I staggered a few steps and turned back. Making sure Abass couldn’t see, I waved to the departing group.
When I rejoined our huddle, Jaafer said, “Weird. We’ll probably never see them again. Or maybe I’ll run into one of them in twenty years, in the bazaar, on my way home from work. I’ll be buying dinner for my family of six, and one of them will be there selling jam.”
Omid, shivering, thrust his hands into his armpits and said, “Assuming we’re out of here in twenty years.”
“I’m thinking positive.” Jaafer laughed, then lowered his voice. “But, for real, one of the guys that came in yesterday heard that some aid group, maybe the Red Crescent, is trying to negotiate to get us sent home.”
Salar crowed softly. “The Red Crescent is good! I could be home to help with my mother’s spring cleaning.” He rubbed his arms vigorously and stamped his feet. “I’ve got a game we can play instead of freezing to death. I call it Where’s My Girlfriend? Pasha, why don’t you start?”
Pasha glared at each of us in turn and said, “I’d have many girlfriends in heaven if I’d died like I was supposed to.” He turned his back.
“I should have known better than to invite you to the party,” said Salar. “I, then, will take the privilege of going first.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend,” said Omid.
“If I hadn’t been so stupid, signing up for this vacation spot, my next-door neighbor Havva would be my girlfriend by now. So, I’ll play Where Is Havva? Salar paused, his gaze far from the dusty yard. “She’s probably shopping. She and her mother go every Sunday morning. I can see her long, dark hair moving like…” Salar’s voice failed as he waved his hand back and forth, caressing the air.
Pasha stood on the edge of the group, sneering. “You fools,” he grunted. “You will never ascend to be with God. I should feel sorry for you, but I don’t.” He turned and walked to the other side of the yard.
We all watched him go. “Salar, long hair? Really? When was the last time you saw her without her chador?”
Salar shrugged and raised his eyebrow at the same time. “She hasn’t cut it. The way she walks, I know her hair is swinging against those hips.” He sashayed over to Omid, flipping the imagined hair over his shoulder. He put an arm around Omid’s waist and nudged his hip. “And her eyes.” Salar looked at Omid dreamily. “Those eyes go right to my soul.”
“Get off, man.” Omid pushed him away. “Your soul? More like your crotch.” He made a grab below Salar’s belt.
Salar ducked to escape and said, “Your turn, Omid. Oh, never mind. With that face, you’ll never get a girlfriend.”
“I have a girl, and I get to see her without her chador all the time.”
“In your dreams.” I laughed.
“Yeah, your wet dreams,” sniggered Jaafer.
“Shut up.” Omid lunged at both of us. Then he took a torn wallet from the pocket of his canvas pants and held out a tattered picture. He handed it around. “This is Ghodsi. Our parents are friends. When we visit, no one wears a chador.” He looked at the picture as if memorizing her face, then said, “Where is she now? She could be with my little brother. Sometimes she takes care of him while my mother shops.”
All the boys watched Omid; smiles flickered across their faces and were gone. Omid shook his head as if to break a spell and said, “Reza, how about you? A stud like you must have a girl.”
“Where is she now?” I cocked my head, looking thoughtful. “Ah … she might be…” I started slowly and then sped up. “She lives in my building, so she might be visiting my mother. Sometimes she helps cook—you know, kissing up to my mom.” I paused, while Jaafer watched me with a face full of questions. Softly, I finished. “She might be playing the guitar. Sometimes, if we’re quiet so no one else in the building can hear, my mom lets us play for her.”
The game went on, each of us taking his turn at spinning stories, until the lunch bell rang.
“What was that?” whispered Jaafer as we walked across the yard. “I thought your mom wouldn’t allow you to play music, and how come you’ve never mentioned the girl?”
I smiled. “I made her up. I made up the guitar. And best of all, I made up a mother who’d let me play.”
“Good one.” Jaafer nodded, draping his arm over my shoulders as we entered the lunchroom. We all ate in silence, remembering fragrant kitchens and fleeting pictures of the lives we’d left behind.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
My feet landed in the same place every day—mat to the latrine, latrine to the yard, yard to the cafeteria, and back again. I remembered Ebi’s boasting about how exciting life was going to be when we joined up. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this kind of boredom.
Some weeks we saw Miles on Monday and then not
again until Friday. On those weeks, by Friday I was like a junkyard dog, itching for class to begin.
“Take your seats.” Miles perched on the edge of his desk. He held a small tape player, and I thought again of the smashed machine in our kitchen. “I have different music for you today. Some of you might like this bloke. His name is Keith Jarrett, and he’s an American, but he’s much more popular in Europe than in the States.”
Miles pushed play, and we listened to the sound of a lone piano. Someone staged a loud snore, but the music made me think of sitting on the front steps of Ebi’s apartment house late one night, watching the empty streets and hearing the city fall asleep.
Farhad and I walked out together. He was shaking his head.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“It’s confusing. I know what the holy men say about Western music. I’ve always believed it, but I don’t see how this stuff’s going to hurt anyone.”
“I don’t get it either, my friend,” I said.
The melody stayed in my head. We had an hour before lunch, and I could feel the frets of the tar under my fingers. I wanted to see if I could play the notes while they were still in my head.
When Miles crossed the yard on his way to the office, I looked around for Majid. He was watching me and gave me an almost imperceptible nod.
I gave an equally subtle bow in thanks. I think the key was warm to my touch when I pulled it from above the door. Once in the room, I took the tar in my lap and played. I hummed the tune over and over, my fingers so happy to move up and down the neck. I couldn’t re-create the complexity of the piano music, but I quickly found the melody.
I kept playing, my body so connected to the tar that I didn’t hear the key in the lock until the doorknob turned. Holding my breath, I watched the door open, and before I could exhale, Miles stood in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” Miles looked at the key in his hand and back at me. “How did you get in here?”
I thought about lying, but Miles deserved the truth. “I snuck in months ago. The guard, Majid, you know him?”
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