"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know we couldn't say-"
"I think it would be better if I left. I can go back to the camp and cook."
"Come on, don't do that."
"You are the one who's doing. This is very inappropriate."
It was a strange feeling, looking into her eyes and knowing that every word she was saying, no matter how sharp and forceful, didn't express how she really felt. She wanted to say Yes, please, I'd love to see the States. She was curious like that. Sufia deserved to see the world, not told her "proper" place in it.
He glanced over her shoulder. No one paying attention. Something so innocent, really. He took one more hobble towards her, took her arm in his free hand gently, leaned in for a kiss. At first she pulled back, but not so much. If she'd truly wanted away, all it would have taken was a step backwards. But she stayed. He kept on. A tiny, dry peck on the lips.
He pulled away. Her eyes, wide open. She shivered beneath his touch. Blinked one two three four-
Then cupped his face with her hand and kissed him for real. Bold, hard. He fought to keep his balance on his crutch. Wanted it to go on and on. But a few seconds later, she backed away, five feet. Held her hands together tightly. As if he was a stranger. What had he done? Adem felt as if every eye in Somalia was on him. Nothing was innocent. He should've fought the urge. Fighting urges was the whole point, now he realized. Oh God. How could he accept anything less than more after that kiss?
"I have to go."
"I'm sorry," Adem said.
"Me too."
"Can't we talk about-"
"I have to go." She shook her head. Her whole body was in denial, like he was a stranger to her.
When she was gone, he leaned against the wall. There was no place to sit except the ground. If he did that he would never get up again.
Maybe that would be okay.
*
He didn't see her again over the next few days. An older woman took over his care, didn't look him in the eye, didn't say much at all. The shadow of his ever present guard appeared closer, darker. He asked Jibriil about Sufia.
"I told you, forget it. So forget it."
"At least tell me, is she okay? She's doing well?"
Jibriil sighed. "Of course. Absolutely. But she's lucky."
He didn't explain why.
Then she was back, one morning, unexpected, there as he was opening his eyes. As vivid as ever. She startled him. He sat up and wanted to shout out her name
Sufia put a finger to her lips. Went about her business, then left without another word.
Maybe it was a weird relationship from then on, but he could live with it. Being close to her, that was worth it. There were a few shared glances, smiles, touches. But all of them subtle.
A week of it. Then another. Small talk between them building each morning. More newspapers delivered from Jibriil. Still distant sounds of war, none of them encroaching their building. It was boring, but it gave him time to think. Whatever reasons Sufia had for wanting to return, for being loyal to her faith and family, sounded a hell of a lot better than whatever Jibriil was chasing. It didn't feel like the same thing. The army of young men, zealots who got off on killing and finding a way to bend the rules so that they could kill and kill again no matter what their holy book said.
They talked about their battles, their ambushes, their assassination of prisoners, all while laughing, smiling. Nothing about those boys reminded him of the beauty of a call to prayer. Or of the beaches, which Sufia and his guard finally took him to see. Or how the women, modest in dress, expressed themselves in brightly colored hijabs. What was it, then? Was Islam what the soldiers said it was, or what Sufia showed him just by being who she was?
He sat on the beach in the afternoon, watched the waves, and thought that he would be more than happy to help Sufia's dreams about Somalia come true, as long as he didn't have to carry a gun any more.
*
Another week. Adem only used the bed for sleeping, but he was sleeping more than usual. It felt good. He could walk without the crutch, but with a limp. The better he felt, the less Sufia was around. To fill the void, he began talking to the other soldiers here, some burned badly, some shot, one or two with AIDS, nearing their end. Adem was surprised to find a couple of boys slightly younger than him, both from elsewhere like himself-Australia and Sweden. They could talk about TV shows they missed, music, movie stars. Quietly, of course. And the stars had to be pretty big for all three to connect-Jay Z, okay. Will Smith, okay. Beyonce, okay.? uestlove, not so much.
The Swede, adopted before he could walk, had really come back to find his father. Turned out Dad had died by way of the Ethiopians, which was enough for Hirsi to sign up. His truck had been attacked fighting the government. He was stuck inside while it burned. Half his face was cracked, crisp, his eyelid burned away. Scalp so thin in parts, Adem thought he could see skull.
The Australian, Yusef, had lost an arm after being shot in a battle with Uni African forces. He seemed proud of it. He asked Adem if he'd met any of the American white guys over here. "So weird. One was from Carolina. Like, South Carolina. He had a drawl and everything."
"White Islam? Really?"
"There's a few. Weird."
They told him stories. Crazy stuff. Soldiers who whipped women for wearing bras. Grand schemes to terrorize Israel, a handful of martyrs at a time. More stonings for adultery, theft, and blasphemy, which could be nearly anything.
Just when he thought he'd found some guys who understood where he was coming from, they began talking about rejoining the fight. Doing whatever it took to prove they weren't weak in the eyes of Allah. Hirsi told Adem, "Yes, they are going to send me home. But it's so I can plan an attack. I'll lie in wait, one year, and then trust me, you'll hear about it. It'll be great."
Adem made some excuses-pain, needed to exercise-and got out of there. Down the stairs, outside, walked right past Sufia without a word. She would've seen it on his face. He didn't want to risk hearing that she agreed with those guys. Hirsi, still cringing in pain, his face half a deathmask for the rest of his life, taking it out on the people who rescued him from this hell before he could even walk. Giddy about it.
He made his way several blocks to the beach, fast as he could. Walked all the way out to the water. In up to his shins. Felt good. He thought about swimming. Then about swimming for it. Freedom. How far along the coast would he need to swim before finding a town not controlled by this army? How far before he gave up and drowned? He stared as far as he could, the sunlight popping off the water like a million flashbulbs.
Then there were the sharks. Both in the water and on land watching. He wouldn't make it far. Didn't matter how free it looked. The ocean was as much a prison as his hospital bed. So instead, he sat on the sand right beyond where the waves could reach.
That was where they found him.
*
He heard them first. Turned, made out four, the heat blurring them. Jibriil was always recognizable to Adem, no matter what. The way he walked, the swagger. With him, someone at least two feet taller, and then two more men, officers. Something about them said officers. As the blur cleared, it was clear that they were all wearing uniforms. Jibriil's was new, dark green, maybe his first time to wear it. The keffiyeh, the white scarf, around his head was blinding. The tall man wore a double-breasted suit, a wide floral tie, and a green beret on his head, ones that their enemies, the UA, wore. That didn't make any sense. The other two men were obviously higher-ups, their scarves sitting on top of their heads, flowing in the breeze behind them. No doubt they'd come looking for Adem.
By the looks on their faces, the sharks suddenly seemed a better fate.
"Look who can walk all the way to the beach by himself now. See? He's in good shape." Jibriil, finally breaking into a smile, helped Adem from the sand. Adem was only a little taller than Jibriil, but next to the giant in the suit, both seemed like children.