In the Sea There Are Crocodiles - Fabio Geda [45]
We took the risk. Things went well.
It was almost morning, still dark, and with very few cars around, when two of the policemen, fed up with our yelling, threw open the door of the little room and, dragging us by our ears, flung us into the street, shouting at us to go back where we’d come from, bunch of screaming monkeys. Or something like that.
We spent the whole morning searching for Soltan and Rahmat. We found them outside the town, near the beach, but I didn’t have time to be pleased at finding them because I immediately lost my temper. I’d been hoping they’d have found some clothes in the meantime—trousers, T-shirts or whatever, maybe shoes—but they hadn’t found a thing. All four of us still looked like tramps, and it isn’t true that you can’t judge a book by its cover, you can.
One thing I’d done while I was in the police station (as an illegal, you have to be able to exploit every opportunity) had been to have a good look at a large map of the island on the wall: the place where we were was marked in red, Mytilene in blue. It was from Mytilene that you could catch a boat for Athens. It might be a day’s walk, through fields and along secondary roads, but we’d get there, even with aching feet.
We set off, walking along the edge of a road. The sun was hot enough to bake bread, even if you stood still you broke out in a sweat. Soltan was complaining—I don’t think Hussein Ali had any breath left, otherwise he would have complained, too, as usual—and from time to time he would lean into the road and wave at the cars to stop and give us a lift, even though he was half naked. I dragged him away, saying, No. What are you doing? They’ll call the police again. But he kept on doing it.
Let’s stop here, I beg you, he said. Let’s wait for someone to give us a ride.
If you carry on like that, I said, it’ll be the police who pick you up. You’ll see.
Not that I wanted to be the bird of ill omen, or whatever you call it. Not at all. It was in my own interest to continue the journey with them, so we could look out for each other, but they kept on and on about how tired they were and how much better it would be to get a lift from a small van or something like that, so finally I said, No, and walked away from the group.
Nearby there was a small shop with a petrol pump and to the right of it, a dirty, flaking old phone box half hidden by the branches of a tree. I went in, grabbed the telephone and pretended to be making a call, instead of which I was keeping my eyes on my companions, to see what they were up to.
When the police car arrived—with its lights on, but without a siren—I thought for a moment I should dash out and yell, Run away, run away, but I was too late. I huddled in the phone box and watched as they fled and the police caught up with them and beat them with truncheons. I saw it all from a kneeling position, through the dirty windows, unable to do anything, and praying that no one thought of making a phone call.
As soon as the police car had gone, with a screech of tires, I left the phone box, crept past the service station, making sure there was nobody around, and set off hell for leather along a sandy, deserted country lane. I kept on running, running, running, without knowing where I was going, until my lungs were ready to burst and I had to lie down on the ground to recover. When I realized I was fine, I got up and started walking again. After half an hour, I passed a courtyard. It was the