• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 119 0

to five other small green plugs on the ground. With the loose flap of your turban, you cover your nose and mouth. You look over at the mouth of the bridge, at the road to the mine. At the black wooden hut of the guard posted at the road barrier. Wisps of smoke fly from its little window. After hesitating for several seconds, you grab hold of one of the bridge’s rusty railings with one hand and grip your bundle with the other. Pulling yourself to your feet, you shuffle in the direction of the hut. Yassin gets up too and follows you, clinging to your clothes. Together you approach the hut. You put your head through the small, paneless window. The hut is full of smoke and there’s the smell of coal. The guard is in exactly the same position as he was before, his back against one of the walls, his eyes still closed. His cap might have been pulled slightly further down, but that’s all. Everything else is just the same, even the half-smoked cigarette between his dry lips …

Try coughing.

Even you can’t hear your cough, let alone the guard. Cough again, a bit louder. He doesn’t hear that either. Let’s hope the smoke hasn’t suffocated him. You call out.

“Brother …”

“What do you want now, old man?”

He can speak, thank goodness. He’s alive. But he’s still motionless, his eyes closed under his cap … Your tongue moves, preparing to say something. Don’t interrupt him!

“… You’re killing me. I told you a hundred times. When a car comes past, I’ll throw myself in its path, I’ll beg them to take you to the mine. What else do you want? Till now have you seen any cars? No? You want someone else’s word?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my good brother. I know there’s been no car. But you never know … What if you were to forget us …”

“How on earth do you expect me to forget, old man? If you want I can recite your life story. You told it to me enough times. Your son works at the mine, you are here with his son to see him.”

“My God, you remember everything … It’s me who’s losing my memory. I thought I hadn’t told you. Sometimes I think others forget the way I do. I’m sorry I’ve bothered you …”

The truth is, your heart is burdened. It’s been a long time since a friend or even a stranger listened to you. A long time since a friend or stranger warmed your heart with their words. You want to talk and to listen. Go on, speak to him! But you’re unlikely to get a response. The guard won’t listen to you. He is deep in his own thoughts. Preoccupied with himself. Let him be.

You stand silently in front of the hut, gazing away from it at the pitch and roll of the valley. The valley is dried out, covered in thorn bushes—silent. And at the end of the valley is Murad, your son.

You turn away from the valley and stare back inside the hut. You want to tell the guard that you’re only waiting here like this for a vehicle to pass because of your grandson Yassin. If you were alone, you’d have set out on foot a long time ago. For you, walking four or five hours is nothing. Each and every day you’re on your feet working for ten hours, or longer, working your land. You’re a courageous man … So what? Why tell the guard all this? What’s it to him? Nothing. Then let him be. Sleep in peace, brother … We’re off. We won’t bother you again.

But you don’t go. You stand there quietly.

The click of colliding stones at your feet draws your attention to Yassin. He is squatting down, crushing a piece of apple between two stones.

“What are you doing? For God’s sake! Eat your apple!”

You grab Yassin by the shoulders and pull him to his feet. The child shouts:

“Don’t! Let me go … Why don’t these stones make any noise?”

The smell of smoke escaping from the hut mingles with the roar of the guard’s voice:

“You’re killing me! Can’t you keep your grandson quiet for one minute?”

You don’t have the chance to apologize, or rather, you can’t face it. You take hold of Yassin’s hand and drag him to the bridge. You drop back down to the ground against the iron railings, put the bundle by your side, and, wrapping your arms around the little boy, scold him:

“Will you behave!”