Kickass Anthology (22 page)

Shit, Jimmy.

Laughing, I pulled her into a hug. “Thanks, Angie. You are a goddess, a brilliant goddess.”

“Why, yes—yes I am. But what the hell was that for?”

“You’ll see.”

The next morning after breakfast, I followed Jimmy out to the latrine. When you fed that guy, he needed to empty his bowels exactly five minutes after the last bite. Jimmy was a predictable creature. You could set a watch by his shitting habits. When he emerged, zipping up his fly, I pounced.

“Hey, Jimmy.”

“What do you want, Hughes.”

“It’s not what I want. It’s what you want.”

He puffed his chest out and sneered. “Are you coming onto to me, fag?”

I chuckled, but backed up a few steps anyway. “No, you’re not my type. But I am wondering if you want your very own customized copies of my study sheets for the exams next fall.”

“You serious? Of course, I do. How much?”

“Two thousand bucks.”

“Two thousand dollars? Are you kidding me, you little greedy shithead?”

“Hey, I guarantee that they’ll be extra detailed. With great drawings of all the stuff we have to know.” I paused for effect. “And, I’ll include my tricks for memorizing those complicated names and weird dates.”

“You’re on.”

“Great, but I need the money now. Your parents can wire it through the embassy, right? You’ve done that before. I’ve already started making the copies. You’ll have them before I head back home to the States in a week. Deal?”

He closed his eyes and scratched his chin before nodding.

“Deal.”

And problem solved. Hell, I was a gay knight in shining armor, thanks to my Californian damsel and Jimmy the Jester.

Later that fall, Jimmy Hitchens would fail his comprehensive exams and would be dismissed from our grad program with the straps of his athletic supporter wedged painfully between his ass cheeks. He headed off to Wharton to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, doomed to spend his days in a sterile, fluorescent-lit box on the thirtieth floor of some high rise building in mid-Manhattan. A wife and 2.5 kids and a McMansion in Jersey. Rich, but ordinary.

Karma's a bitch, Jimmy boy.

I had the wad of cash in my hands in two days. At our next lunchtime break, I found Bashir sitting in his usual spot by himself in the shade under the pottery tent.

“Hi, Bashir.”

“Charlie! I haven’t seen you all week. I’d worried that you’d left without saying goodbye.”

“I would never do that.” I plunked down next to him on the bench. “Chatsworth assigned me to the artifact processing room. Data entry. It sucked.”

“Sucked?”

“It was boring. Punching in the field data on those old computers is tedious and frustrating, especially since those ancient machines crash every ten minutes.”

“Oh, I see.” He patted my thigh with his hand. I glanced around to be sure we were alone before I covered his hand with mine and squeezed tight.

“I leave for home in three days.” I hoped that my voice didn’t sound as gloomy as my heart felt. I was going to miss Bashir, a lot.

“Charlie, I want to show you something, but we have to go very early before the sun rises. It is a special place that you must visit before you leave Tunis.”

“That sounds like an adventure. Where should I meet you?”

Bashir laughed. “At the shed.”

I was tempted to make a snarky joke about tools, but I bit my tongue.

At the butt crack of dawn that next morning, we walked with a flashlight for close to half an hour towards the beach until we reached a magnificent building perched on top of the hill known as the Byrsa. Even in the dark, I recognized the prominent, sand-colored structure from my weekend outings to the archaeological park located down below. So consumed with my fascination for the ancient remains that lay scattered around the hill, I’d never bothered to go inside this building. It was a bizarre mishmash of western European and Arab architecture—a unique curiosity, alone and out of place.

As I stared at the edifice, I shoved my hand down the front pocket of my jeans to touch the roll of hundred dollar bills that I’d tucked away before I left the dig house—my surprise for Bashir; my gift for his family and his wonderful Jiddo.

“This is the old French catholic church of the saint, King Louis. It is no longer used for worship; the city holds concerts and other cultural events here now. Otherwise it is empty except for a curious tourist now and then.” Bashir informed me as we approached the portal.

“So, it’s closed now, right?”

“Yes, it is. My cousin is a security guard for the building. He is not working today, but…” From underneath his light blue shirt, Bashir pulled out a set of keys attached to a big metal ring. “No guards are here this early. Come, let’s go inside.”

We climbed the broad flight of steps and Bashir unlocked the large wooden door. With the help of our small flashlight, I saw two rows of ornate columns on either side of the central nave that led down to the opposite end of the building. I wasn’t much of a churchgoer anymore, but it was strange to see a Christian cathedral completely empty inside. No pews, no font of holy water, no crosses, none of the gaudy religious paraphernalia I’d seen in the few churches that I remembered from my childhood. Jesus and his disciples had been evicted long ago.

“This is magnificent and sort of spooky.

Bashir waved his arm. “Follow me.”

We walked down the wide aisle to a door at the opposite end of the building that led to a spiral staircase. We scrambled up the steps, Bashir climbing two at a time; he opened the door at the top and it led out to a narrow balcony with a low stone balustrade. In the low light of the impending sunrise, I could make out the contours of minarets crowning the mosques and the antennae-covered roofs of the apartment buildings. It was a breathtaking panorama of the crowded capital of Tunisia.

“Wow, what a view.”

“There’s an even better view. Come.” Bashir grabbed my hand and led me around the curve of the walkway to the opposite side of the high balcony. “See?”

Off in the distance, the ancient harbor of Carthage sparkled as the first glow from the approaching sunrise illuminated the peaks of the waves. Behind the harbor, the dark hills of the promontory rose like a fortress in silhouette.

I pointed to the circular bay of water down below. “That’s the ancient Punic harbor. From up here the Carthaginians watched that harbor fill with Roman warships, watched the Romans take the city in  vicious hand-to-hand combat, house by house. Thousands of people were enslaved and the city was burned to the ground. It was rebuilt as a new Roman city about a century later under the dictator, Julius Caesar. There was this famous story from that war…”

Bashir moved closer and stared out at the sea. “Tell me the story, Charlie.”

“When the Roman general, Scipio Aemelianus, was ordered by the Senate to lay siege to Carthage, the Carthaginian nobles along with hundreds of Roman deserters took refuge up here on the hill inside a great pagan temple that once stood where this church is now. The king agreed to sacrifice himself to save the lives of his family and his allies.”

Bashir said nothing as he wrapped his arm around my waist.

“The Carthaginian queen was ashamed of her husband’s voluntary surrender; she grabbed her sons and jumped into the flames in order to avoid capture. The Roman deserters did the same; hundreds burned themselves alive in the fire. They say that when Scipio saw this act of bravery, he dropped to his knees in front of his victorious legions and wept tears of genuine sorrow for all of the lives lost. Scipio then declared that what had happened to Carthage would one day happen to Rome.” I sighed and then chuckled. “But it’s just a story.”

“There must have been many acts of courage and self-sacrifice throughout the ages, Charlie.”

“I suppose that we all hope we’ll act courageous when faced with a terrible situation.” I replied as I continue to drink in every detail of the spectacular view of the harbor.

We stood there in silence for a while, until Bashir said, “Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“I am like you, but I’m not as brave. I have never spoken to anyone about this before.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am—what is the word—I am a homosexual, like you.”

I lowered my voice to match his. “I kind of suspected that.”

“I can never tell another person. The elders and the other men of my city would attack me and shout ‘
manuke khara
.’”

“What does that mean?”

He spat out the obscenity with disgust. “Shit fucker. If they found out what I am, I would be tortured and imprisoned. Maybe killed. It would not matter that I have never had sex with another boy, or with anyone. The accusation alone would mean...”

“Bashir, it’s all right. It’s who you are, not what you are. Your  secret is safe with me. And, well—I’m a virgin too.” I interrupted as I choked up but forced myself to smile.

“You are? See, we are very much alike. Have you—it is impolite of me to ask this, but have you ever kissed a boy?” A twinkle returned to his eyes.

“Yes, once. It was awkward and not very nice. He was drunk and the kiss tasted like stale cheap beer that someone had used as an ashtray.”

“Oh, I see. No, that doesn’t sound pleasant”

I cupped his chin and turned his face towards mine. “I’ve always wanted to try it again. Would you…?”

Bashir nodded, closed his eyes and leaned in; he pressed his supple, full lips against mine. Our lingering kiss was pure and sweet and almost too good to be real. But it was real. It was a perfect, new first kiss.

When he pulled back, I ran my thumb over his cheek. “Thank you, Bashir.”

“It is me who should thank you, Charlie. That felt better than I’d imagined it would in my dreams. You have such soft lips. That may be the first and only time that I kiss another boy for the rest of my life.”

We hugged for a few minutes when, suddenly, I remembered and pulled the cash from my front pocket. “Bashir, this is for you. It should be enough to buy the medications for your grandfather.”

He was speechless as he looked down at the thick roll of dollar bills that I’d pressed into his palm.

“This—this is too much, Charlie. I cannot accept it.” He tried to give the cash back to me but I wrapped my hand around his and closed his fingers around the money.

“Please, take it. It’s for Jiddo. And Mohamed and Youssef could use new pairs of shoes. And you—you should stop pushing heavy wheelbarrows and quit working at the excavations.” I combed the fingers of my other hand through his thick black hair. “You’re too smart for that.  Go back to school, Bashir—go back to school for your father. For your family.”

He tried to say something but his words dissolved into tears; I pulled him into a tight embrace and we both cried.

I was leaving.

Since Chatsworth had hinted that this might be the last season of his research project, there was a good chance that I’d never be back in Tunisia. I didn’t have the heart to tell Bashir that I might never gaze into his beautiful green eyes again.

He wiped his nose and pointed towards the harbor. “Charlie, that is what I want to show you.”

The top of the bright morning sun emerged above the pointed peak of the highest hill on the harbor promontory, casting its rays like a fan of gold over the horizon. I wrapped my arm around Bashir’s shoulder. When he rested his head against my neck, I whispered against his temple, “What an extraordinary way to start the first day of the rest of our lives. Have courage. Things will get better, Bashir.”