In the Sea There Are Crocodiles - Fabio Geda [13]
I turned. A group of boys—six or seven of them, speaking Pashtun, probably Baluchis—were standing in the middle of the street, looking at me and laughing. One of them, who seemed to be the leader, was playing with a packet of chewing gum—my packet of chewing gum—balancing it on the back of his hand.
We started arguing, me in my language, they in theirs.
I really needed some chewing gum, the leader said.
Give it back to me, I said.
Come and get it. He made a gesture with his hand.
Should I try and get it from him? I should point out that I was a lot smaller than them and there were more of them than me and they all looked quite tough and not to be trusted. If I’d thrown myself on their leader, I’m ready to bet I would have ended up with broken bones and all my merchandise in their boxes. And what would it be like to tell osta sahib that everything had been stolen from me on the very first day? So, not out of fear, but rather because I’m the kind of person who thinks before doing something important, I had almost decided that it was better to lose a packet of chewing gum than my teeth, and was about to leave when—
Give it back.
Give him back the packet.
Out of nowhere, a group of Hazara boys suddenly materialized. First one, then two, then three, there seemed no end to them. Some were younger than me. They dropped from the roofs, sprang out from the back alleys. After a few minutes, there were more of us than there were of them. Seeing how things were shaping up, some of the Baluchi boys slunk away. Their leader stayed put, along with two of his followers, one on his right and one on his left, but a step behind him because they were scared. I felt as powerful as a snow leopard. With that small army behind me I approached the leader to try and get the packet of chewing gum back, but he suddenly started running. Or at least tried to. I grabbed him, and we rolled on the ground, with our boxes of merchandise and everything. I could feel his muscles under the cloth of his pirhan. He landed a couple of punches. As we fought I managed to grab a pair of socks from his box. Then he gave me a kick in the stomach that took my breath away, grabbed hold of his box and ran away. He still had the chewing gum. But I had the socks, which were worth more.
One of the Hazaras helped me up.
You could have joined in, I said. I wouldn’t have minded.
Yes, we could, but it would have been worse for you next time. This way, you showed you could defend yourself.
Do you think so?
Yes, I do.
I shook his hand. Thanks, anyway. My name’s Enaiatollah.
Sufi.
———
I made friends with the Hazara boys, and with Sufi in particular. His real name was Gioma, but he was known as Sufi because he liked to keep himself to himself, and was as calm and silent as a Sufi monk, even though there were times when he caused more trouble than anyone else.
For instance, as we were walking through the streets one evening, he went up to a vagrant lying half asleep on the ground, a dirty, smelly fellow, and dropped a handful of little stones into his metal bowl. The poor man immediately got up to see who’d given him all that money, and I’m willing to bet he was already under the illusion that he was rich and could afford a meal in the best restaurant in the city or buy himself as much opium as he wanted. That must have been why, when he realized they were only stones and saw us laughing behind the wall of a mosque, he started running after us, shouting that he’d fry us in chip oil. But we sped off, and he was too weak to catch up with us.
Another time, Sufi saw a motorbike tied to a pole and got on it. Not to steal it, just to know how it felt to be on it: he’d always dreamed of having a motorbike. But as soon as he gripped the throttle and pressed the clutch lever, for some reason the motorbike started up. It jerked forward, turning