by C. E. Smith
‘The firing pin or the bullets,’ Nick says. ‘It’s not a bad idea. But if he catches you near his stuff —’
Burkett remembers how Akbar didn’t hesitate to shoot that dog. ‘So it’s the roof of the cowshed,’ he says. ‘We drop from the eastern wall and hope not to get hurt.’
‘We have to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and Akbar’s rifle.’
‘What if I wrestled him?’ he asks.
‘What good would that do?’
‘I could take out his knee.’
‘What do you mean, take out his knee? I told you I’m opposed to any kind of violence.’
‘How do you define violence?’
‘Violence I define as intentional harm.’
‘Wrestlers get hurt all the time.’
‘But not intentionally.’
‘Think of it this way. I’m causing a minor injury to keep us from being shot.’
‘The degree of injury makes no difference.’
‘So if someone were about to shoot a child in the head, you wouldn’t try to stop him?’
‘Ideally I’d do everything in my power to stop him without hurting him.’
‘Why do you say ideally?’
‘Because I’ve been known to give in to lesser impulses. If someone I love were threatened, I probably wouldn’t handle it very well.’
‘You said you paid the warlord to protect others.’
‘A precautionary measure.’
‘A compromise, even if no one was hurt. If you hire men with guns, you have to allow for the possibility of someone getting shot.’
‘In the States, I benefit from police protection, even if I oppose their use of firearms. I see the bodyguards as no different – a police-like deterrent for the protection of those working at the clinic.’
‘You’re basically permitting the use of physical force. That’s what I’d call a compromise.’
‘More like a strategy.’
‘Think of this as my protection. A strategy for the protection of someone else.’
‘I can’t agree with it, but no more can I stop you.’
‘I just need your help convincing them to let me wrestle.’
In the silence that follows, Burkett listens for the sound of Nick’s breathing, which seems to have a different rhythm during prayer. Or so he imagines: it comforts him to believe he can tell exactly when Nick is praying. In truth he has no idea.
He’ll wrestle Akbar – he’ll take out the knee. And during the night, while their jailers sleep, they’ll climb the wall and head north. A simple plan, but with so many potential problems. The wrestling is the part that worries him least. It won’t be difficult to injure Akbar’s knee, at least he doesn’t think so: it’s a matter of using his shoulder as a fulcrum. The greater challenge lies during the night, in sneaking out to the courtyard without waking their captors.
He pokes his finger into the crack in the wall. What if he drugged Akbar and Sajiv? He could grind the remaining diazepam into powder and mix it into their food or drink. There’s more than enough to knock out two men. The problem is he rarely handles their food after it’s cooked. Though he and Nick often have the task of separating small stones from the rice, it is always Akbar who ends up cooking it.
As for the water, he can’t imagine gaining access to both of their canteens at once. He could spike the water he brings up from the stream, but the buckets hold at least a gallon, and even if he could concentrate the solution without arousing suspicion, there is no guarantee that both Akbar and Sajiv would drink from that particular supply.
Quietly he opens the bag and presses two of the pills against his tongue. Only eight remain – still enough, he tells himself, to sedate their captors. He would expect a relatively low tolerance in a devout Muslim. Akbar and Sajiv are unlikely even to have tasted alcohol.
He wonders where the use of drugs would fall in Nick’s pacifist scheme. At what point would sedation qualify as poisoning? Nick would need to know about it – he’d have to be warned of any contaminated food or water, but Burkett has yet to tell him about the stash of diazepam. Would Nick believe him if he lied about the original number of tablets? It is a conversation he would prefer to avoid.
20
It is late afternoon. Akbar and Sajiv circle and feint, gripping each other by wrist, elbow, or neck – coming together and backing away, again and again till Akbar makes a lunge for Sajiv’s knee, tall gangly Sajiv, who turns away, prying at Akbar’s locked hands in the rising dust.
As Burkett nears the edge of their imaginary ring, he’s keenly aware of Nick’s eyes at his back. Today might be his last chance to wrestle Akbar before Tarik comes back. It was three days ago that they learned of Tarik’s impending return, but not till now have Akbar and Sajiv taken the time for one of their grappling sessions.
The challenge now is convincing Akbar. If Nick refuses to make the argument, Burkett will have to resort to some sort of provocation, a shove or a leg attack. No question, Akbar is the sort to respond to brute force. The language barrier hardly matters when picking a fight, but Burkett must strike a fine balance, since picking a fight with Akbar could get him shot. Better to reason with them, and for that, he needs Nick.
When Akbar and Sajiv notice him on their side of the courtyard, they break apart and glance toward their guns.
‘Let me wrestle,’ Burkett says.
They stare, uncomprehending. Placing his hand to his chest, he speaks the Arabic word for wrestling: ‘Sura’a.’
Sajiv says something Burkett doesn’t understand, drawing a rare laugh from Akbar.
‘He’s making fun of you,’ Nick says. ‘The words for ‘wrestling’ and ‘seizure’ sound similar, more so with poor pronunciation.’
Akbar is no longer laughing when he speaks. ‘It would be unwise to wrestle an epileptic,’ he says with Nick interpreting. ‘The condition results from demon possession, and the demon could pass from one body into another.’
‘My seizure wasn’t caused by a demon,’ Burkett says.
Akbar smiles with self-satisfaction and says, ‘Drug addiction is itself a kind of demon possession.’
‘But when a man’s faith is strong,’ Sajiv says, ‘he should be able to fight demons without fear of possession.’
Akbar scowls in the silence that follows. Now that it’s a matter of faith, he can’t easily refuse without admitting spiritual weakness.
Perhaps Burkett shouldn’t be surprised to find common cause with Sajiv. Have he and Nick not privately referred to him as the ironic Islamist, as the movie fan? He remembers that burnt magazine. Perhaps by trapping Akbar in a theological quandary – and bringing him down a notch as a wrestler – Sajiv hopes to have his vengeance for all those bikinis and sequined gowns lost to the flames.
‘Why can’t you be the one to wrestle the American?’ Akbar asks.
‘Because you’re the better wrestler,’ Sajiv says. ‘A man doesn’t go into battle with his practice sword.’
Akbar gives a reluctant nod. He has no choice but to agree.
After a pause, he takes a different tack. ‘It is far too dangerous,’ he says. ‘Tarik would be furious if the American were hurt or killed.’
‘Does a great wrestler not have the skill to refrain from hurting or killing someone?’
‘Shouldn’t I wait for Tarik?’ Akbar asks.
‘Why not now?’
‘Tarik will have a camera,’ he says. ‘If I’m going to humiliate the American, we should film it and put it on the internet for Muslims all over the world to see.’
‘Perhaps it would be best to keep it private,’ Sajiv says. ‘While our brothers in jihad might be encouraged to see you make a fool of him, others might see it and think of you afterward as unclean.’
‘The only opinion that matters is that of Allah.’
‘That is true, but you should consider your prospects in marriage. What man would risk exposing his daughter to filth and disease?’
‘I will die in battle long before I take a wife in this world.’
‘There won’t always be a battle for you to fight,’ Sajiv says. ‘Now that so many of the politicians opposed to us are dead, it is only a matter of time before we have achieved our goal of independence.’
‘I will travel across the sea. There are always infidels to fight.’
‘You’ve never left Khandaros in your life,’ Sajiv says. ‘Wrestle him today, and let his defeat be the stuff of tales rather than spectacle. Did the Prophet need video recordings to spread his message?’
‘I won many matches in America,’ Burkett says, ‘where the wrestling is the best in the world.’
Sajiv laughs at the claim. ‘Arabs are the best wrestlers,’ he says. ‘Persians second.’
‘It disgusts me to touch him,’ Akbar says. ‘Physically as well as spiritually, he is unclean.’
‘If you’re worried about hygiene,’ Burkett says, ‘I’ll make it easier for you by bathing with soap.’
At this suggestion Sajiv smiles and unlocks the cowshed. He retrieves one of the precious bars of soap and tosses it to Burkett. The four men walk down to the stream, which during the night has risen as high as Burkett’s calves. Nick too leaves his clothes on the bank in order to take advantage of the rare availability of soap. Burkett lies on his back in the running water, his lips and nose breaking the surface when he needs to breathe. He keeps his eyes closed and his ears submerged, and it feels like genuine solitude. If all goes as planned and tonight they escape, the one thing he might miss is the stream.
They are back in the courtyard. Burkett offers his hand, but Akbar ignores it and without warning dives for his ankle. Burkett should have expected a fast start. He shrugs off the leg attack, and another that immediately follows – both of them sloppy and ill-conceived.
In Akbar he senses the panic of one who realizes he’s outmatched. Akbar seems oblivious to Sajiv’s commentary, whether advice or ridicule. Burkett recognizes the word ‘American’. No doubt they’re surprised this middle-aged American knows how to wrestle.
Their arms locked, Burkett observes the predictable shifts and compensations. He feels the old thrill of near effortless control in the face of an opponent’s exertions. It puts him in mind of the Penn State wrestling room, when he’d go against one of the high school recruits: so easy for him, almost playful, yet such a challenge for the recruit. And of course, back then, he never meant any harm. Not till now has he ever wrestled with the desire to cause injury.
While Akbar flails he can almost relax, expending strength only where necessary. He could score at will, but he’s waiting for the perfect moment.
In order to take out the knee, he needs Akbar’s weight on the left foot, the toes rotated outward. He tries different combinations of taps and drags, and even when he finds just the right set-up he rehearses it yet again. It is perhaps a minute into their bout – by now Akbar is gasping for breath – when Burkett drives his shoulder against that knee. The sound of snapping ligaments – two ticks in rapid succession – reaches Burkett’s ear like a secret signal tapped on a wall and meant only for him.
When Burkett wakes he has no recollection of being struck in the head by Sajiv’s Kalashnikov. He might have doubted Nick’s account, but how else to explain the swelling in his scalp? Or the fierce headache, unrelenting and even audible, as if he could actually hear the razor blades scraping the inner surface of his skull. He holds a hand before his eyes to make sure he isn’t seeing double.
The way Nick tells it, the otherwise taciturn Akbar lay there writhing in pain, shouting obscenities (Satan would defecate on Burkett’s grave) while Burkett made unconvincing apologies. Sajiv ordered Burkett and Nick to kneel with their hands behind their heads while he tended to Akbar. Sajiv palpated the knee and tugged on the ankle despite Akbar’s obvious pain with even the slightest movement. Burkett, apparently, couldn’t resist laughing at this travesty of orthopedic examination, and Sajiv must have heard it, for that was when he picked up his weapon.
‘Maybe you were right,’ Burkett says.
‘About what?’
‘The benefits of non-violent escape.’
He covers his eyes – not from shame, but to protect them from the afternoon sunlight that has just brightened the high window. Light sensitivity, he thinks: photophobia. A sign of subarachnoid hemorrhage.
The way Nick describes it, Burkett lifted his hands in surrender, saying, ‘Wait, it was an accident’, before the butt of Sajiv’s rifle slammed into his head. He dropped to an elbow, raising the opposite arm in feeble defense, but that didn’t stop Sajiv from striking him again.
‘And you were out cold,’ Nick says.
‘Nothing else? I didn’t do anything else?’
Burkett strains to remember, but the memory doesn’t exist, and the effort only compounds his headache, as if by trying to remember he were aggravating a splinter in the very depths of his brain. Again sunlight prods him from the small window and when he turns away even the afterimage causes pain.
In the hours that follow he feels a renewed urgency to escape, to carry out their plan as soon as possible now that Akbar is incapacitated. But he can’t seem to stay awake. His mind registers the passing time as a series of images: Nick inflating a blood pressure cuff, pulling off his soiled pants. Tarik shining a penlight into his eyes and later hanging an IV bag. Tarik saying, ‘We’ll have you delivered home in no time. The negotiations are going very well.’
And then the room is crowded with men he doesn’t recognize. His eyes drift from one Kalashnikov to the next before settling on what appears to be a scimitar – an ornate weapon with some kind of inscription on the blade. Darkness settles till all he sees is that blade, like a sliver of light in the very shape of the narrow opening between his eyelids.
He has a sense of falling in darkness. His flailing hands discover what he takes for a branch or a vine, but in fact it’s a human arm, and he’s wrestling with a man, both of them in free fall. He’s desperate to take out the knee, but it seems impossible without the ground for traction. And as they wrestle, he realizes his opponent has the exact same goal, both of them using the same techniques toward the same end, but with no result other than fatigue.
He wakes to the sound of voices from upstairs. He remembers the unfamiliar men standing over his bed. A new complement of guards obviously diminishes their odds of escape. Not that he’d get very far with his head injury, the slightest movement causing exquisite agony. He wants nothing more than to lie in complete darkness.
‘How’s Akbar?’ he asks.
‘The good doctor gave him a crutch and a splint,’ Nick says, ‘probably something for pain as well.’
‘How long has Tarik been here?’
‘A few days.’
Burkett’s eyes trace the catheter from the back of his wrist up to the near empty bag hanging from a pole. He reaches between his legs and touches another catheter that emerges from the tip of his penis and drains into a plastic container at the foot of his pallet.
‘Where did these medical supplies come from?’ he asks.
‘They’ve been making trips to Allaghar.’
Once again playing the part of Burkett’s nurse, Nick has kept a written record of his blood pressure every six hours for the last three days, even through the night. He’s also disposed of his urine and vomit, changed the IV bags, and swabbed the Foley catheter with alcohol. The lack of sleep is taking its toll. Already gaunt from the sparse diet, Nick with his bleary eyes looks like he too needs IV fluids.
‘They’re talking about taking us to another house,’ Nick says. ‘As soon as Tarik’s comfortable moving you.’
‘Then we have to run,’ Burkett says. ‘What if the next house has close neig
hbors? What if its walls are too high to scale?’
He stops at the sound of footfalls on the stairs. Tarik appears in the doorway, wearing his usual khakis and white oxford shirt, yellow stains under the arms. In his hand is an old-fashioned medical bag.
‘I hear you’re an excellent wrestler,’ he says. ‘My friend Sharif would like to take you on when you get better.’
‘Bring him on,’ Burkett says. He imagines working his way through a series of jihadist wrestlers, one knee at a time.
‘Was hurting Akbar part of your plan to escape?’ Tarik asks. ‘That is what Sajiv thinks.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘I believe you,’ he says, ‘but my colleagues argue that your present incapacity would prove otherwise. Had it been an accident, they say, Allah would not have allowed you to suffer punishment at the hands of Sajiv.’
This is typical of Tarik, Burkett thinks: a man who plays both sides, an educated skeptic one moment and a fanatic the next.
‘How long before we’re released?’ Nick asks.
‘My friend in the capital only days ago received a reply from the woman journalist,’ Tarik says. ‘Your people have requested proof of life, which we will provide now that Dr Burkett has regained consciousness.’
‘What woman journalist?’ Burkett asks.
‘Miss Véronique Six,’ he says. ‘She’s been surprisingly reasonable in our dealings.’
Véronique. The women who sleep with you always regret it. Which of those women told him that? He doesn’t know if Véronique had any desire to see him again, but she certainly has reason now to regret knowing him, or at least sharing her phone number. He hopes her negotiations with the Heroes of Jihad will boost her career, perhaps earn her a book deal.
Simply by placing a hand on Burkett’s shoulder, Tarik seems to glide into the role of physician. He listens to Burkett’s heart and lungs. He tests his eye movements, light response, and his patellar reflexes.
Tarik does him the courtesy of naming each pill or injection – nimodipine, Bactrim, Lasix, metoprolol, and Ativan. Burkett might object to the dank, unsanitary basement environment – and the lack of diagnostic imaging and labs – but these are the drugs he’d likely receive in a typical American hospital.
