Yosef started to reach for his pistol, but Bashir waved his finger at him. “No, no, Colonel. There are more of us than you.”
Yosef felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. To come so far and to be captured like this.
“What is the meaning of this, Bashir?” President Alneuf asked, taking a handkerchief from his inside coat pocket to dab sweat from his forehead.
“Ah, Mr. President. There is no meaning. None whatsoever. These young men from the village are loyal to you. They want to join your anti-revolution movement and hereby swear to protect you until we can get you out of the country. It is not as the colonel first thought.
Right, Colonel?” Bashir winked at Yosef and laughed. “No, we are not here to capture, but to cooperate. I don’t think I have had this much fun since my younger brother fell off the rocks into the sea. Took twenty two stitches to sew his head up. You should have seen the expression on his face … much like yours, Colonel Yosef.
“But on a serious note, Colonel, I present you with more patriots for your small force.” He executed a mock salute, drawing smiles from the villagers. “These are the young men whom the New Algerian Army drafted earlier today. See-they have returned.”
The village men fell out of the encircling formation and eagerly moved forward to touch Alneuf and shake his hand. Several bent to kiss his hand, even as he shook his head trying to stop them. Some were as young as fourteen, with sparse facial hair. Most were in their twenties or older, sporting mustaches of varying degrees of black and gray. Alneuf patiently shook hands with each as they mobbed the charismatic Algerian leader.
Yosef stalked over to Bashir and whispered angrily, “Don’t do that again, Bashir. We could have had an unfortunate incident.” If he had given the word, his men would have fought, even if death had been the outcome. Most who were asleep when the village force entered remained asleep.
Bashir grinned. “Yes, Colonel, once again you are correct. We could have, if your men had been awake. But the purpose of this exhibition was to show you that we are trustworthy, and what better way to prove it. But,” he added as he laughed, “why give up what freedoms we had for the yokes the new government will place on us? You know the American saying, “Better the devil you know’?”
Before Yosef could respond, the front door opened and several women dressed in the traditional chukkas and veils entered, carrying bowls of steaming rice, beans, and fresh-broiled lamb balanced precariously in their hands and along their arms. Pita bread lay haphazardly around the edges, instead of eating utensils. The aroma did what Bashir and the villagers had failed to do. It woke the remaining bone-weary Guardsmen, who anxiously edged forward.
The women shooed them away while two young girls, about sixteen, cleared a spot in the center of the room. One girl shook out a carpet she carried, and spread it on the cleared area, while others arranged the dishes and bowls of food on it. The sound of female tittering, incomprehensible to the men, accompanied the activity. As the older women moved away, more young girls entered bringing tea, juice, and water for the famished group. Several brought bowls of fresh fruit.
Everyone gradually stood, their eyes feasting on the banquet in front of them. They looked at Yosef, waiting for permission to begin. Bashir placed his hands over his stomach as his booming laughter echoed through the room. If he had to put up with this incessant laughter long, he could learn to hate their benefactor, thought Yosef.
An older woman, standing near Bashir, slapped his arm, causing the laughter to abruptly stop, and said something in a Berber dialect that Yosef failed to understand. Bashir blushed. Saliva filled Yosefs mouth. Hunger was a relentless foe.
“Gentlemen,” Bashir announced. “The number-one wife of Said Yefsah, village elder, leader of this small village, and renowned for his choice of tobacco, welcomes you to her table and says that while you stare the food grows cold. Please eat.” Then rolling his eyes, he said in a lower voice, “And, for the love of Allah, keep your hands away from the young women.”
Like hungry wolves on unprotected sheep, the men dove into the food, bumping each other as they filled the pita bread, dipping it in the strong garlic humus before shoving the tangy mixture into their mouths.
Olive oil and bits of humus trickled down their cheeks to be wiped away by dirty hands.
Bashir said something to the number-one wife. She hurried over, shoved the men apart, and hastily prepared two plates with a small helping from each dish — a mizi of everything. She carried the plates to President Alneuf and Yosef. Both men thanked her. She bowed her head and silently backed away.
Then, turning abruptly, she clapped her hands and the women silently departed, herding the young girls, reluctant to leave, ahead of them.
The number-one wife was the last to depart. She held her head high with pride, knowing true men were massacring the food prepared under her supervision.
Bashir waited until she disappeared. He grabbed some pita bread, made a thick sandwich, and moved to where President Alneuf and Yosef sat eating.
“So, Colonel, have you given thought to what we do next?” Bashir asked as he took a huge bite of the soft bread. Grease dripped onto his aba.
He pulled the tail of his headdress forward and wiped his mouth and chin. Then he blew his nose on it again before tossing it over his shoulder.
President Alneuf looked up. “Said Bashir, do you have a telephone that I may use?” Alneuf broke off a small bit of pita bread to go with his chicken.
Bashir’s eyes opened in amazement. “A telephone, Mr. President? You do realize, sir, that I would suspect the new government is monitoring telephone calls to anywhere you may call? It would not surprise me if your voice would set off alarms.”
“I understand, Said Bashir, but I would also suspect that you have a cellular telephone that will be hard to locate?”
“Yes, that is true. I do have a telephone, but as to whether they can locate it or not, that remains to be seen.” Bashir looked at Yosef, who nodded.
“Mr. President, maybe it would be better to wait to use the phone until morning. Then, if they are able to find us, we will at least have had a night’s rest before running again,” Yosef added. “Plus, we do not want to endanger the village by calling from here.”
Bashir searched his pockets. “I know I have one here somewhere.”
“I thank both of you for your concern, but I need to call if we are to get out of the country safely. I appreciate your concern, Colonel, but I hardly think that one phone call from a mobile phone is going to endanger this village.” “Can I ask who you intend to call?” Yosef asked.
“No, I think not, Colonel. The less you know about this phone call, the less you have to worry.”
“Okay, Mr. President,” Bashir replied. He pulled out a small GSM cellular phone with the word Motorola embossed in silver lettering across the top. He flipped open the mouthpiece and punched in the PIN number. “Here you are, Mr. President. Behind the curtains there”—he pointed to the back wall—“is a small stage. If you stand near the boarded window you will have better reception.”
The president stood, brushed his pants off, and took the phone. “I thank you both for all you have done. I have debated this, but I feel I am endangering you and every loyal Algerian fighting on my behalf.
Let’s hope this works,” he said, holding up the cellular telephone.
President Alneuf strolled to the curtains, lifted them slightly, and disappeared behind them.
“Colonel, a debate with oneself lacks a dissenting opinion,” Bashir said, noticing the concern in Yosef’s face.
President Alneuf punched in the memorized number. When the American ambassador had given him the number months ago, he had nearly thrown it away. While he had accepted it with grace, his initial reaction had been anger and disgust that America believed it had the right to offer protection to the leader of another sovereign country. The audacity!