In the Sea There Are Crocodiles - Fabio Geda [8]
In Quetta there were lots and lots of Hazaras. I had seen them coming and going in and out of the samavat in the past few days, when Mother was still there. In fact, she’d spent a lot of time talking to them, as if she had great secrets to confide. Now I tried to approach them, but I noticed that these Hazaras were different from the ones I knew, and that even the simplest words from my country turned into complicated foreign words in their mouths because of the accent. I couldn’t understand them or make myself understood, so after a while they stopped taking any notice of me and went back to their own business, which was apparently more urgent than the fact that I’d been abandoned. I couldn’t ask for information or exchange a few friendly words, a few jokes that would make one of them want to help me, take me to his house, for instance, give me a cup of yogurt and a slice of cucumber. If you’ve only just arrived (and the fact that you’ve only just arrived is obvious the moment you open your mouth to ask for something), if you don’t know where you are, or how things work in a place, or how you’re supposed to behave, people can easily take advantage of you.
One thing I wanted to avoid (one among many others, like dying) was people taking advantage of me.
I’d shut myself up in the kitchen, but now I went to find kaka Rahim, the owner of the samavat Qgazi. He was someone I could communicate with, perhaps because he was used to receiving guests and so knew lots of languages. I asked if I could work there. I’d do anything, wash the floor, clean shoes, whatever needed doing. What I wanted to avoid was having to go into the street, because I was really scared. I had no idea what was out there.
He listened, though he pretended not to hear me, then said, Only for today.
Only for today? What about tomorrow?
Tomorrow you have to look for another job.
Only one day. I looked at his long lashes, the downy hairs on his cheeks, the cigarette between his teeth, the ash from which was falling on the floor, his slippers and his white pirhan. I thought of jumping on him, hanging on to his jacket and wailing until either my lungs or his ears burst, but I think I was right not to do it. I blessed him several times for his generosity and asked if I could take a potato and an onion from the kitchen. He said yes and I replied tashakor, which means “thank you.”
That night I slept with my knees drawn up against my chest.
I slept with my body, but in my dreams I was awake. And I was walking in the desert.
In the morning, I woke up feeling nervous because I had to leave the samavat and go out onto the streets, those streets I hadn’t liked at all when I’d looked out at them from the main door or from the window of the toilets on the first floor. There were so many motorbikes and cars that the air was unbreathable, and the sewer didn’t run under the concrete, where you couldn’t see or smell it, but between the roadway and the pavement, a few meters from the door of the samavat.
I went and drank some water and rinsed my face, trying to summon the courage to throw myself into the fray. Then I went to say goodbye to kaka Rahim.
He looked at me without seeing me. Where are you going? he said.
I’m leaving, kaka Rahim.
For where?
I shrugged my shoulders. I don’t know, I said. I’m not familiar with the city. To be honest, I don’t even know what difference it would make if I turned right or left when I got out of the door. So I’ll just go to the end of the street, kaka Rahim, look both ways and choose the best view.
There are no views in Quetta. Only houses.
That’s what I thought, kaka Rahim.
I’ve changed my mind.
About what?
I can’t give you work here and pay you, pay you in money, I mean. There are too many of you. I can’t give work to everyone. But you’re a well-brought-up boy. So you can stay here, if you like, and eat and sleep here, until you find a place where you can really work, work and earn money and everything. But until that happens, you’ll have to work hard for me from the moment you wake up