Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining

  #25. VILLA AL-SEKEM, AJLOUN, JORDAN

  Tuesday July 14, 16:02

  THE VIEW of the Ajloun Valley that fell away from the immense picture-window was indeed spectacular. Row after row of short, scrubby, spiky-branched olive bushes and long lines of lush, laden lemon trees stretched through the desert to the shimmering white buildings of Ajloun town which spread like a fungus up the hillside. To the right, the jagged tumble-down tower of Ajloun Castle pointed at the sky like a broken finger.

  ''You are wondering when the castle was constructed,'' said a soft voice behind him. It had a clipped, staccato quality, the consonants sounding hard somewhere in a trans-Atlantic lilt. Moustapha Al-Sekem had arrived. He was wearing a white double-breasted Armani suit, a black open-necked shirt, white slip-on shoes. ''It was built in the twelfth century by Izz-Al-Din-Usama, one of Salah Al-Din's generals, to control the road from Cairo to Damascus. The tower was added by the Mamluks. It was an astounding feat of engineering.'' The Doctor stepped forward, gold necklace, rings and dark glasses glinting their greetings. ''How are you settling in?''

  ''I took a bath, watched a film, had a nap,'' shrugged Ali.

  ''I hope you found the clothes we left for you,'' said Al-Sekem. ''You may wear any of them. They are at your disposal. Please.'' He extended an arm to indicate that Ali should leave the picture-window for the living room. It was huge. Ali descended three long white marble steps into a sunken area which contained three large sofas arranged as three sides of a square round a coffee table topped with smoke-grey glass. A vast white rug which reminded Ali of Siberian snowfields he had seen on the Discovery Channel lay on the marble floor in front of a tall gold-framed mirror. On either side stood matching sculptures in gleaming white marble of generously bosomed, big-hipped, half-naked nymphs twining sinuously round slender vines and, on a small table, a bust of Alexander the Great.

  ''I am a great admirer of the Macedonian King.'' Al-Sekem rested his gold-ringed fingers on the frozen curls of marble hair. Ali noticed his nails were dirty, cracked and broken. ''To have conquered the known world by the age of thirty. To have kings and emperors bow before you. To be lauded and admired across cultures and peoples for millennia. This is an achievement beyond any other. To hold the power of life and death in your hand and know that, at a word, at a gesture, you might cut off prince and peasant, destroy communities, wipe out worlds…this is power, Hisham. This is power.''

  ''I much prefer the Alexander who, generous in victory, forgave his enemies, forgave the Spartans, forgave and allied with Porus,'' said Ali.

  ''Bah'', snorted Al-Sekem contemptuously, ''Then you are both weak and foolish.''

  ''Tell me about the statues,'' said Ali. ''Bernini, I believe.''

  Al-Sekem shot him a quizzical glance. Ali inwardly groaned. A street-boy should perhaps not be an expert in either Renaissance Art or Ancient History.

  ''The Rape of Proserpina.'' Al-Sekem tapped the gleaming marble with the broken nail of his index finger. ''Feel the power of the God as he takes what he wants, no negotiation, no compromise, no questions. The original is in the Villa Borghese in Rome but the copy is perfect. Observe the bulging muscles, the powerful sinews, the facial distress, the strong fingers denting the flesh. The ancient Gods had unfettered power. They could do anything. Ethics, morals, human frailty, none of these hindered their ambitions or their desires. Here the brutal violence of rape is frozen in eternal celebration of the God's supreme action, his total and absolute control of the woman.''

  ''The faun outside my room,'' said Ali. ''It looks more like an early Bellini. Are you sure you know what you're buying?''

  Dr Al-Sekem's razor-thin smile resembled a once-savage, now-healed scar. He gestured to a circular sheet of thick glass in the centre of the floor. It was perhaps one and a half metres in diameter, a couple of centimetres thick. Beneath it Ali noticed a swirling, milling dozen large, flat, blunt-faced, round-bodied, silver-grey fish.

  ''These are piranha,'' Al-Sekem informed him, ''From the Orinoco River in Venezuela. Fearsome predators with extraordinarily sharp teeth and an appetite for meat, they hunt in packs. Blood in the water sparks a feeding frenzy. They can eat a fully grown human male within an hour. I can show you if you wish.''

  Ali's jaw fell open.

  ''Not you, Hisham. Not unless you disappoint me.'' His laugh chilled Ali's blood.

  The dining area was set by a window which overlooked a ten-metre swimming pool full of twinkling blue water and an red clay tennis-court. Beyond that, the stone-strewn terrace sloped steeply away to the olive groves. A young bikini-clad woman sprawled on a lounger and soaked up the sunshine.

  ''You may use the pool any time,'' said Al-Sekem. ''You will find what you need in your room. Also the woman if you wish. I brought her here to amuse you. She is Russian or Ukrainian or something. It is of no matter. She is an unbeliever and therefore cannot be dishonoured.''

  The girl lay face-up, bronzed and bronzing in the fierce afternoon sun. She was twig-thin with long, honey-smooth legs that stretched languidly to the V of her purple bikini briefs. Her hip-bones seemed sculpted from bronze. She had removed her bra and her soft, full breasts rose roundly, proudly from the flat, smooth plain of her stomach. Grape-black curls cascaded down her neck, fanning over her gleaming biscuit-coloured shoulders as, squinting through ruby-tinted sunglasses, she filed her purple-painted fingernails and pouted her purple-painted, heart-shaped lips in a voluptuously mocking kiss.

  ''I see a tennis-court,'' Ali said hastily. ''Do you play?''

  ''Why?'' Al-Sekem replied. ''Do you wish me to teach you?''

  ''Oh,'' said Ali before he could stop himself, ''I play myself.''

  ''Indeed.'' Al-Sekem seemed pleased. ''Shall we say eight o'clock tomorrow morning? We have three days before the Festival. You may as well enjoy yourself.''

  He brought Ali to the table. Glimmering candles in the centre reflected their flickering flames in the crystal flutes, shining gold cutlery, white bone-china and starched white cloth. From a silver ice-bucket protruded the green neck of a bottle, condensation masking the glass.

  ''Will you take a flute of champagne?'' Al-Sekem beckoned to a man in a white smock. ''It's a Dom Perignon 2002. One hundred and eighty dollars a bottle and the finest of the recent vintages.''

  Ali asked for mango juice.

  ''I don't trust a man who doesn't drink.'' Al-Sekem sipped from the elegant goblet. The cracked, dirty fingernails detracted considerably from the overall impression. ''Something too ostentatiously Puritanical, too zealously fundamentalist about them.''

  ''Will the girl be joining us?'' Ali asked hopefully, sitting in the high-backed, heavy ash-wood chair on Al-Sekem's left as his host seated himself at the table-head.

  ''She is watching her figure,'' said Al-Sekem indifferently, ''As, indeed, are you, I see.''

  He really did have the coldest smile Ali had ever seen.

  The mezze arrived, hummus, grilled red pepper, halloumi cheese, cucumber chunks, dainty meatballs, vine leaves stuffed with rice and raisins and baked flat-bread. Ali raked something from each dish onto his plate. He had not eaten properly for several days, not since the grilled chicken and chips he had shared with Hamza at the Journalists' Club.

  ''I hear Talal Hafez is dead,'' Al-Sekem began conversationally.

  ''Yes,'' said Ali. ''Their bloody agent, this Ali Al-Amin kid killed him. He was supposed to blow up the restaurant, Leila's. I stabbed him in the hand with a kitchen knife and legged it. God knows how he got away.''

  ''This is the child I was informed about,'' Al-Sekem mused.

  ''Yes,'' said Ali. ''He thinks he's some kind of super-spy but he's a jumped-up little jerk. Uthman could break him in pieces.'' He crammed some bread into his mouth.

  ''Why did you come here?'' asked Al-Sekem quietly. ''After all, your leader is dead.''

  ''I want to complete his mission.''

  ''What did he tell you about the mission?''

  ''Not much. That it is something to do with
the Jerash Festival, that's all.'' Ali took another stuffed vine-leaf. ''I came because I thought I could help you.''

  ''Oh,'' said Al-Sekem in a voice like rustling paper, ''You'll certainly do that, Hisham, you'll certainly do that.''

  Ali piled some red pepper strips onto a slice of halloumi. ''I hate these people,'' he said. ''I'm Syrian but I'm treated like garbage in my own country.'' He recounted what he could remember of the real Hisham's story, about the dead dad, the conscripted brother and the mother doing 'favours' for the Kurdish landlord as a way of paying the rent…

  ''I am garbage,'' he repeated emphatically.

  Al-Sekem sipped more champagne, dabbed his lips with his starched white napkin, seemingly considering. A bird wheeled by then dropped out of sight. Thin clouds were drifting lazily across the washed-out blue sky.

  ''I understand,'' he said eventually. ''You and I, Hisham, we are the same.''

  Two white-shirted men emerged from the kitchen bearing silver platters.

  ''Ah,'' said Al-Sekem, licking his lips, ''The main course.''

  A silver bowl containing salt-crusted French Fries was placed in the centre. White china plates with gold-leaf rims were placed in front of the diners. Creamy grey half-cauliflowers nestled invitingly on bright green lettuce leaves. Al-Sekem held his knife like a surgeon about to operate.

  ''I trust you like brains?'' He sliced delicately into a lobe.

  Grilled brain. Lovely.

  Ali eyed it suspiciously. ''What's it from?''

  ''I believe they have come from a lamb,'' said Al-Sekem, ''As have the tongues.'' He indicated a plate of green lettuce topped with small, curly, grey strips. ''The testicles, however, came from a ram.'' He indicated another plate on which rested two skewers of cubed red-brown meat. ''I believe Uthman acquired them himself.''

  Ali almost choked on his mango juice.

  ''Tuck in,'' said Al-Sekem, ''Before your balls go cold.'' He uttered another dry, mirthless laugh. ''Bon appétit.''

  The brain was rich, creamy and a little bland, the tongues tasted furry and the ram's testicle was spongy and vaguely lemony. They were not entirely unpleasant.

  ''I am from Palestine,'' Al-Sekem began, ''A country that no longer exists in any official capacity. When I was seven years old, the Israeli army cleansed the population from the city of Jericho. My uncles and cousins were lined up against the wall of their shop and shot dead. My aunt was raped and then shot. The neighbours were herded into a garage which was set alight. They all burned alive. These are atrocities the Israelis have yet to answer for.'' His voice hardened, rose in pitch. ''One day they shall answer. They and all those who collaborate with them shall answer. Justice will be executed upon the guilty, wherever they can be found.''

  Ali lay his knife and fork quietly on the plate and wiped his lips with the napkin.

  ''My mother, father and sister escaped across the River Jordan,'' Al-Sekem continued, ''Even after the Israelis blew the Allenby Bridge, they clambered across the wreckage, staggering through the ruins with both Israelis and Jordanians firing from both banks upon them. My old grandmother, who was seventy, fell into the river. The Israelis shot at her while she drowned. We never found her body. My country was dismembered, my people ethnically cleansed, my homeland reduced to a blank white space on a map, other parts labelled 'Occupied Territories'. The Jordanians did not want us. We reminded them of their shame, their part in our defeat, their abject failure to confront the Israelis, to fight effectively…but their guilt was so great they gave us farmland here in Ajloun. My father died eight years later, a heart attack brought on by the stress of forced migration, the exhaustion of grinding out a meagre existence growing olives on a borrowed farm. He was forty-eight. That is my age now. My mother died three years later.''

  ''I'm sorry,'' said Ali. ''I know what it's like to lose your parents.''

  ''I won a scholarship to Yarmouk University in Irbid,'' said Al-Sekem, seemingly not hearing, ''To study Agricultural Engineering. After that I gained a PhD, a doctorate in Environmental Management, from the University of Cairo then I travelled to the USA for post-doctoral research in alternative energies at the University of Virginia. What I saw there shocked me to my core. Waste. Greed. No respect for natural resources. People squandering the wealth of the planet. Mankind has completely ruined this planet. They have dug it up for coal, drilled its surface for oil, chopped its trees down for wood, polluted its air with their chimneys. Yet there is no need. Nature does it all, through the sun, through the waves, through the wind. Nature provides everything we need but Man is greedy, destroying Nature for profit, killing God's creation for money. So I dedicated my life to creating new sources and new power, to sustainable development, and returned Jordan to build a wind-farm here, on this mountain, close to my old family farm. I have built wind-turbines across the Ajloun Ridge. I have installed photovoltaic panels in this house and all the houses in the village so they are powered by the Sun. I have now won a contract to supply these panels across Amman itself, and to construct more wind-farms in the Western Desert and in the north. I will build a hydro-electric plant at Bethany on the Jordan, and another on the Sea of Galilee, and we will desalinate the Dead Sea. We will irrigate the desert settlements along the King's Highway near Mount Nebo. But it is still not enough. The greedy and stupid continue with their oil-burning cars, their gas-guzzling lorries, their coal-fired power stations. They continue to mine and dig and drill despite my work. They anger me.'' He drained the champagne flute. ''But these insects will not stop me. I will save the planet. I have created Hands across the Sands. Together with Al-Arian Construction in Egypt, the Red Crescent, UNICEF and the Jordanian Government, we spent four million dollars on aid projects from Aleppo to Aqaba, from Cairo to Kirkuk. Twenty or thirty schools, orphanages, mosques, hospitals and village communities get grants from my foundation. Hundreds of people in Egypt, Syria, Palestine and Iraq have benefitted from my gifts. Jordan, my adopted home, stands to benefit most from my gratitude for it is here in Jordan that I will leave my legacy of change.''

  The waiters brought dessert, fresh figs and coconut ice-cream, two glasses of arak and a flask of water. Ali swamped the strong aniseed taste with as much water as he could and then with ice-cream. Al-Sekem mixed a little water with his, swilling the glass till the liquor clouded.

  ''It is my passion, my life. It occupies every waking moment, every sleeping one. I dream of turbines and solar panels. I dream of building Paradise on Earth. It can be done. It can!'' Al-Sekem slapped the table. ''But first we must cleanse the earth, cleanse it of greed and corruption, the temptation of profit, cleanse it of Man so Mother Nature can heal what is left.''

  ''So,'' Ali said carefully, ''How do you square blowing up buses with saving the planet?''

  ''It is all God's work,'' Al-Sekem said indifferently.

  Ali sipped the cloudy arak again. He hated it. ''Where do I come in?'' he asked.

  ''Ah,'' said Al-Sekem, ''You are going to sing.''

  The glass froze at his lips. ''Sing?''

  ''It's why you were chosen.'' Al-Sekem swallowed his arak. ''Because you can sing.''

  Ali had not known Hisham was a singer. His heart raced sickeningly.

  ''What do you want me to sing?'' he said.

  ''Whatever you like,'' said Al-Sekem, a Dictaphone magically appearing in his hand. ''You don't mind if I record you.''

  It was not a question. Ali sensed the whole dinner conversation had been recorded anyway. Reluctantly, because his voice had just broken and was still somewhat croaky, he pushed back his chair, swigged another mouthful of arak, decided 'Buttons', 'Lollipop' and 'Pocketful of Sunshine' would be deemed inappropriate, and cleared his throat.

  ''I learned this in school,'' he said, hearing the nervous quaver in his voice.

  ''Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away,

  Now it looks as though they're here to stay,

  oh I believe in yesterday…

  Suddenly I'm not half the man I used to be,


  There's a shadow hanging over me,

  oh yesterday came suddenly.''

  Al-Sekem, seemingly satisfied, clicked off the Dictaphone. ''That,'' he declared, ''Is what you will sing at the Festival. And now you may amuse yourself before bed.'' Standing up, he smoothed his white Armani jacket. ''Acquaint yourself with the girl if you wish. I must return to work. Thank you for your company.''

  ''Wait,'' Ali said urgently as the man, bowing very slightly, made to leave. ''You brought me all the way from Damascus to sing at a festival because Talal Hafez said I had a good voice?''

  ''Just so,'' said Al-Sekem. ''The speakers will be powered by the wind. Your voice will be amplified by Nature herself. It will be a perfect demonstration. Why? What did you expect?''

  ''But the lorry, the crate…''

  ''Avoids unnecessary paperwork,'' said Al-Sekem. ''Enjoy your evening. Should you require anything, dial zero. Do not forget our morning appointment. Eight o'clock. You will find whites in your room. Do not be late.''

  ''Could I see the factory?'' Ali was grasping desperately for something. ''The turbines? I'm interested in the engineering.''

  ''Surely you would rather inspect Katya's engineering?''

  There was something in Al-Sekem's laugh that sucked all the warmth from his jokes.

  Ali was confused. None of this made sense.

  Puffing out his cheeks, he crossed the floor to the window and gazed out at the girl basking lizard-like in the early evening sunshine.

  What if he was wrong? What if Moustapha Al-Sekem really was a legitimate businessman? He was mad, yes, but what if he wasn't dangerous? What if all Hisham really had to do was sing an old Beatles' song in front of a few dozen people?

  Moustapha Al-Sekem saw himself as the saviour of the world but the God-Complex he possessed did not adequately explain his connection with Dar El-Tawhid, with Talal Hafez, with the suicide-bombers. Perhaps he did not know what Talal did with his money. But what about the special deliveries, the boys that had preceded him? What had happened to them? What about Hands across the Sands and Amr Al-Arian? And how did the girl fit into the picture?

  Slipping on his Monster Dogs and shoving his hands into his shorts pockets, he stepped out into the sapping heat of the terrace. Immediately sweat prickled his skin.

  The girl was lying on her back, her right foot drawn up beside her left knee, her arms flat by her sides. The purple briefs were simply a tiny V-shaped pouch.

  ''Hi,'' he said. ''I'm Hisham.''

  The girl did not move. ''Katya Kinkhladze,'' she said. ''My friends call me Kinky.''

  Ali hardly dared breathe. Her bare breasts, softly rising, softly falling, reminded him of freshly baked bread-rolls. A thought of melting, dripping butter fired through his brain. He shook himself fiercely, like a dog after a shower. He could not help staring. He had never seen breasts before. Breasts had simply been something he and his friends had giggled about in Primary Six or his brothers had lusted over in the Playboy magazines they had got from American soldiers. In fact the only breasts Ali had ever seen had been in the pictures Mohammed had torn out of Playboy. Once he had taken advantage of his brothers' absence to remove some from their under-the-mattress hiding place, folded them out on his knee and tried to imagine what his brothers found so fascinating. He had not really understood why that tingling sensation had been so enjoyable but it had drawn him back to those pictures several times until, one afternoon, Hussein caught him, smacked him round the neck for 'being dirty' then bought his silence with a Charmander card and a Marlboro Light.

  ''You speak English?'' she asked, appraising him through the ruby-coloured lenses.

  ''A little.'' Ali dropped onto the edge of the sun-bed next to her. ''Can you speak Arabic?''

  ''Not much,'' said the girl. ''Can you speak Georgian?''

  ''No,'' he said, cursing Colonel Ibrahim for not including Georgian, whatever that was, in his Basic Training. ''How old are you?''

  ''Don't beat about the bush, do you?'' She smiled suddenly. It was like a camera flash illuminating her whole face. ''Though you can beat my bush any time you like. I'm twenty-one.''

  ''I'm eighteen,'' he lied breathlessly. ''Three years' difference isn't much.''

  The girl smiled again. ''Put some lotion on my back, would you?''

  Failing to repress a not unpleasant quivering in his stomach, he groped for a yellow bottle of Soltan, squeezed a white smear of cream into his trembling palm and massaged it caressingly into the woman's satin-smooth skin.

  ''Why do they call you Kinky?'' he asked, choking down the boulder.

  She settled on her side. ''That's for you to find out,'' she murmured silkily.

  Ali's hands reached the strand of the bikini thong and the peachy half-globes of her buttocks, bare to the sun. Inexplicably he felt like crying. He asked what she did at the villa.

  ''I entertain Moustapha's guests,'' she told him. ''I can entertain you if you wish.''

  ''How much?'' The question heaved through a thick soup in his throat.

  ''You're a guest of Moustapha's,'' shrugged Katya. ''He'll take care of it.''

  Cream oozed over her buttocks. God Almighty, he was throbbingly hard. Maybe he should go for it. You only live once. Why die a virgin?

  She was a whore.

  She was also a woman.

  He was a schoolboy.

  What would his mother say?

  His mother was dead.

  What would Fatima say?

  God, it was so hot.

  He stripped off his rapidly dampening T-shirt.

  ''My.'' Katya sat up. ''You look very fit. Swimmer?'' Ali nodded, the pebble in his throat becoming a boulder as she ran a neatly filed purple fingernail down the middle of his chest. ''I bet you're very good at breast-stroke. Perhaps you can show me.''

  Ali swallowed the boulder as the fluttering butterflies in his stomach metamorphosed into a stampeding elephant herd.

  ''You seem a touch tense,'' she breathed. He caught a delicate lilac perfume as she leaned closer, caught his wrist in her fingers. ''I am an expert masseuse. I could ease your tensions very quickly.'' He hesitated. ''I have arak,'' she said, ''And Marlboro Lights if you're interested.''

  Ali allowed her to lead him down the steps to the under-pool pump-room. Ducking beneath an overhead maze of pipes, they found a corner among some packing cases and sacks. The girl placed Ali's hand on her right breast, and, with her fingers, fiddled with his zip. The shorts fell away to his knees. Ali blushed hotly.

  ''Oh my, Hisham.'' she said lazily, ''What a naughty boy.''

  Ali gulped, closed his eyes and surrendered to a dozen new and extremely pleasant sensations.

  Up in the living room, the piranha swam in lazy circles.