Kickass Anthology (21 page)

“I’ve taught my brothers a few words. Youssef and Mohamed will work at the excavations when they are old enough,
inshallah
. They will need to understand some English to be hired.”

“How old were you when you started working?”

Bashir sat down next to me. I felt his hip brush up against mine; I nonchalantly covered my crotch with one hand to try to keep my dick from tenting my khakis. Smirking, he looked away for a moment.

“I was thirteen, not much older than Mohamed.” Bashir handed me a clear glass filled to the brim with amber tea from the metal tray that his sister had placed on the floor in front of us. “It is—how do you say—normal for sons to follow their fathers and earn jobs at the excavations. Generations of my family have worked for the archaeologists who come here to dig all times of the year—the French, Germans, Italians and of course, you Americans.”

“So your father is also a workman?”

“Yes, he was. He died two years ago. He was hurt in a terrible accident at one of the excavations. The sides of a very deep trench collapsed without warning. My mother died before that, soon after my baby sister was born.”

“I’m sorry, Bashir.” We sat in uncomfortable silence as the restless boys put their shoes back on and ran outside while Mariem continued to prepare dinner. When I finished my tea, I asked, “Bashir, as the oldest son, does that make you the…?” I wasn’t sure what expression to use.

“No. I am not the head of our household, no. My grandfather lives with us.” Bashir rose to his feet without uncrossing his legs and extended his hand. “Come, I will introduce you to Jiddo.”

He tapped softly as he slowly turned the handle on the wooden door. The back room was dark, the only window blocked by a closed shutter. On a narrow bed lay his grandfather, covered in blankets. The old man’s eyes were closed but I suspected from the way he was breathing that he wasn’t sleeping.

“Jiddo?”

His grandfather opened one eyelid and smiled a toothless grin. His eyes were green, darker than Bashir’s, but still vibrant. “Bashir, my boy. Who is our guest?”

“This is Charlie. He’s an American student from the excavations. I invited him to share our meal with us, remember?”

Jiddo wrestled with the blankets and wriggled to sit up before he extended his bony right hand. “
Motasharefon bema’refatek
.” When I paused, my mouth frozen open, Jiddo gently clasped my fingers with both of his hands and added, “I am pleased to meet you, Charlie.”

“It is my pleasure, sir. And thank you for allowing me to join your family for dinner.”

I may not have some fancy, upper crust New England pedigree, but I’d been taught manners.

“He is very polite, Bashir. That is good. You are most welcome in our home, Charlie.”

Bashir’s grandfather coughed a few times—his lungs sounded clogged with phlegm—and draped his thin legs over the side of the bed. “I must wash before dinner.”

Bashir helped him hobble to the bathroom. When he returned he put his hand on my elbow and led me towards the door. “I must help Jiddo. He is old and very ill. You may wait in the front room or remove your slippers and enjoy our garden. It will not take long.”

“Can I help?”

“No, but thank you. The garden is through that curtain.” I hadn’t noticed the narrow opening over by the corner until Bashir had pointed it out. The garden wasn’t much more than an unroofed, tiny courtyard; the plaster-covered walls were washed in the orange hues of the late afternoon sun. The dirt floor and most of the lower sections of the walls were filled or hung with pots of all shapes and sizes, overflowing with a bountiful harvest of vegetables and herbs. I plucked a sprig of mint and crushed it between my fingers to release its refreshing fragrance.

After a few minutes passed, I felt a hand lightly stroke the nape of my neck and then trace a line down the hollow of my back. “Charlie, we are ready to eat.”

Bashir. It was just a customary, friendly touch—men hugged and held hands and even kissed in public in this part of the world—or so I tried to convince myself. My body interpreted his sensual caress very differently. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I tried to breathe. My face must have flushed bright red, since Bashir quickly asked, “Are you feeling well?”

“Yes, yes. I’m fine. Thank you. And I’m hungry.”

“Good. We must eat. Remember, extra portions for you or Youssef will be disappointed.”

Bashir pulled me in for a hug and kissed my cheek. “Come, my friend.”

We sat on cushions in a circle around the open serving area on the floor, Bashir to my right. He glanced at me between bites and smiled. The meal was delicious; Mariem had prepared heaping plates of couscous with flat bread and spicy grilled vegetables picked fresh from their little garden. After weeks of canned beans, some local Spam substitute and stale bread at the dig dormitory house, my mouth and my stomach were ecstatic.

As we shared Mariem’s scrumptious fare, I reminded myself to pass the serving dishes with my right hand and keep my feet out of view. I couldn’t help but worry that I’d somehow offend my gracious hosts. Like all of the other students, I’d attended an informal seminar on basic Tunisian customs during those first few days before digging began. Since Chatsworth decided to hold that particular ‘cultural rules’ session during the most brutal part of the afternoon heat, most of the students slept through it. In hindsight, I was damn grateful that I hadn’t.

Throughout the dinner, Bashir’s grandfather entertained the whole family with his humorous and often bittersweet tales of life in Tunisia during the Second World War. Jiddo was a captivating storyteller, adding bits of dialogue here and there in a variety of hilarious male and female voices. Occasionally he would recite bits of traditional Tunisian poetry—poignant words about war and sacrifice and love—verses that he’d learned as a boy. Even though much of it he recounted in Arabic, I was mesmerized. I’d never met my grandfather; I wondered if he’d been as charming as Jiddo.

Suddenly, I realized that Jiddo was asking me a question. “Why do you study archaeology, Charlie? Will it make you rich back in America?”

I laughed, and Bashir smothered a snicker. “No, sir. Archaeology will never make me rich. Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. I study it because I find the past fascinating. There are so many unanswered questions, so many stories left to be discovered.”

Jiddo nodded, coughed violently for a few seconds, and said, “And there are many stories that you will never find because they are lost forever to the sands of the desert.”

“And to the depths of the seas and to the worms of the earth,” Bashir added wistfully. “But if they do survive, you will find them, Charlie. You will find the secrets left behind by your dead Romans.”

“Hey, those dead Romans are very much alive and well to me, Bashir.”  I bumped him playfully with my shoulder and he teased back with his elbow. We had this urge, this hunger to touch each other, even if only as a tease. When our silly sparring match died down, I looked across the circle; Jiddo nodded at us both and smiled.

“Sometimes, dear boys, there are histories that were never meant to be found and, worst of all, secrets that can never be shared.”

Bashir and I looked at each other and then back down at our plates.

After the meal was finished, I thanked Bashir’s grandfather for his hospitality— probably more profusely than I should have—and the younger boys helped the old man back to his room. Bashir suggested a short stroll around the neighborhood for digestion; the air had cooled quite a few degrees and a nice breeze blew though the streets of the city.

We walked in silence for blocks, Bashir’s arm hooked through the crook of my elbow. It was nice, this simple public gesture of friendship between two young men. We stopped near a public fountain and sat on the stone steps of the modest plaza. Small children were kicking around a tattered soccer ball as a few old men drank tea at outdoor tables that held impressive hookah pipes. It was near dusk and Bashir’s sultry eyes were even sexier in the low light.

“I am fixing a mistake that my uncle has made.” He blurted out in a soft voice.

“I don’t understand, Bashir.”

“Charlie, my uncle—the workman named Ahmed—has been taking the tools from the project’s shed. I have been—how do you say—stealing them back from him. I have returned most of what he has taken.”

“But, why did he do that?”

“To pay for medicines for Jiddo. He is dying and he is in pain.”

“Bashir.” I exhaled, took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. “But you have doctors and hospitals here in Tunis, right?”

“Oh, yes. We have good hospitals, Charlie, but Jiddo… They cannot do any more for him and the doctors will give the medicines for pain for only so long. They are expensive and Jiddo is stubborn. He was supposed to die last year.”

Bashir flashed a grin but sadness veiled his handsome face.

“So my Uncle Ahmed sells things at the markets to help pay for the medicines. Our wages from the excavations can barely pay for our food and other basics for our families; the money we are paid is not enough. And Jiddo is in pain. It is hard to watch him suffer, so Ahmed steals. It is dishonorable, but my uncle feels that he has no choice.”

Bashir stared down at his fingertips, pressed together like a steeple, and added, “Jiddo would be very angry if he found out about what Ahmed has done. And Ahmed could lose his job, Charlie. He could go to prison, or worse. My uncle has a wife and four children of his own. So I am fixing it. I am returning the remaining items that Ahmed took as quickly as possible.”

“But then how will you get the pain medicine for your grandfather?”

“I do not know. But we will have our honor. That is most important—for me, for Jiddo, for the memory of my father. So now you understand, yes?”

“Yes, I do. And I can help.”

“You will help me get the tools back inside the shed? There are not that many more—maybe six or seven shovels.”

“Yes. I’ll figure out a plan and no one, not Chatsworth and not that jackass Jimmy will find out. Ahmed’s job will be safe. And, if you let me, I’ll find a way to get money for your grandfather’s pain medication.”

I expected that returning the missing tools to the shed would be a piece of cake but I had no idea how I’d find the money. I was broke but feeling gallant. I wanted to be Bashir’s gay knight in shining armor.

Bashir wrapped his arm around my shoulder and he whispered. “You are a noble man, Charlie Hughes. In Arabic, your name would be…” He chewed on his bottom lip as he thought for a moment and decided, “Karim.”

Embarrassed but flattered, I lowered my head and scratched my scalp; he reached over and tousled my curly hair with his other hand until I pushed it away.

“I am honored to be your friend, Bashir.”

Bashir squeezed and rubbed my shoulder. “
Shukran
, Karim.”

UP ON the dig house roof, gazing at the stars, Angie and I lay side by side on a blanket as we shared a final cigarette at the end of another long, exhausting day. Bashir and I had managed to get the last of the stolen tools into the shed the day before. The first part of my promise to Bashir was accomplished, but now what? How the hell was I going to scrape together enough cash for Jiddo’s medicine?

“You’re quiet tonight.” Angie noted.

“Just thinking. A friend needs some help and I’m not sure what to do.” I took a deep drag and sighed a lazy cloud of smoke into the night sky.

She leaned over and plucked the cigarette from my lips. “By help, do you mean money? Because I’m pretty sure you could accomplish just about anything else, Charlie.”

“Yeah, money. Shit, I wish I was rich.”

“Don’t we all. It’s a fucking sick joke that guys like Jimmy are swimming in dough.”