Read Online One Hundred and One Nights (9780316191913) by Benjamin Buchholz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Benjamin Buchholz
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money to pay the deputy his bit.”
“You have to pay to become a policeman?”
“To pass the test,” he says. “Just a little baksheesh goes a long way. That, or family. Or both.”
“How much do they ask?”
Mahmoud blushes.
“Come, come,” I say. “I am a merchant. Money is just money. I am accustomed to such things. And maybe I can help you.”
“I could never repay—”
“We can work something out,” I say, not at all certain why I am offering him my patronage. In fact, the next thing I say is nothing but a bald lie: “I watch you working diligently up here. You are here every day, yes?”
“All day,” he says. “Except for Fridays, when the deputy relieves me so I can visit my father and attend prayer. They bring me food, water. I sleep here.”
He thumps his hand on the edge of the cot to emphasize the place where he sleeps. He points out his prayer rug, too, to show me he completes his daily observations even when not allowed to go to the mosque. I see his Kalashnikov leaning against the side of the tent.
“Are you a good shot?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “They never let me shoot.”
“Why don’t you shoot that can?” I point to a paint can overturned on the edge of the on-ramp embankment about thirty meters down the road.
“I have no spare bullets,” Mahmoud says. “What will I do if I use the bullet they have given me?”
“What purpose will one bullet serve, anyway?”
“I am to use it to signal the police.”
“Then ask the police for a new one. Tell them you used it for practice. Or tell them you used it to scare away the dogs. Or that you shot an American or something.”
“It will come out of my pay. I cannot afford—”
“Hah,” I say. Without rising from my chair, I reach back toward the tent, pick up his gun, shoulder it, aim at the can, and pull the trigger. I brace for the kick the gun should make, but it doesn’t kick at all. There is no bullet in the chamber. Layla’s story is true. I am disappointed at the weapon not firing, having had in mind a remembrance of the smell of sulfur and saltpeter, the sweet acrid hot deathly smell that should have filled the air after the click of the trigger.
I play dumb.
“It must be broken,” I say. “See if you can fix it for me.”
Mahmoud is standing. His mouth is open, aghast that I have touched his Kalashnikov, the mark of his limited authority. He is a little man, not much taller than me even as I sit. His uniform, dark blue, sags from his shoulders and bunches at his waist, where he has belted it with a length of rope.
I hand him the weapon so that he can open the chamber and inspect it. He grabs it from me, pulls the bolt back, and looks inside.
“There’s no bullet,” he says after a long puzzled moment.
The thought crosses my mind to seal some sort of deal with the man: offer him help with his police examinations, with the bribes, offer to bring him some additional bullets for the gun. Yet I’m not sure enough of myself. Not sure how this man, Mahmoud, fits with my plans. I need to watch him more. I need to study him more. I need to play a game of “Watch Mahmoud,” similar to my game of convoy counting, though game is probably the wrong word for such an activity, too soft by far, whereas spying —as Layla calls it—sounds far too indirect.
“I’ll bring you a bullet,” I say, a small concession on my part. “Maybe a few bullets. What good is a guard without bullets?”
“Thank you,” he says.
The conversation ends on a down note, like that. It had been building toward something, toward a partnership, an odd sort of uneven partnership. Do I need him to watch over my store, my shack, when Sheikh Seyyed Abdullah guarantees it? No. I’m at a loss. I stand. I see the city of Safwan spreading beneath me into the distance to the south, with the overpass high enough above the flat desert to command a view for miles in every direction. I take longer than I should, standing
“You have to pay to become a policeman?”
“To pass the test,” he says. “Just a little baksheesh goes a long way. That, or family. Or both.”
“How much do they ask?”
Mahmoud blushes.
“Come, come,” I say. “I am a merchant. Money is just money. I am accustomed to such things. And maybe I can help you.”
“I could never repay—”
“We can work something out,” I say, not at all certain why I am offering him my patronage. In fact, the next thing I say is nothing but a bald lie: “I watch you working diligently up here. You are here every day, yes?”
“All day,” he says. “Except for Fridays, when the deputy relieves me so I can visit my father and attend prayer. They bring me food, water. I sleep here.”
He thumps his hand on the edge of the cot to emphasize the place where he sleeps. He points out his prayer rug, too, to show me he completes his daily observations even when not allowed to go to the mosque. I see his Kalashnikov leaning against the side of the tent.
“Are you a good shot?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “They never let me shoot.”
“Why don’t you shoot that can?” I point to a paint can overturned on the edge of the on-ramp embankment about thirty meters down the road.
“I have no spare bullets,” Mahmoud says. “What will I do if I use the bullet they have given me?”
“What purpose will one bullet serve, anyway?”
“I am to use it to signal the police.”
“Then ask the police for a new one. Tell them you used it for practice. Or tell them you used it to scare away the dogs. Or that you shot an American or something.”
“It will come out of my pay. I cannot afford—”
“Hah,” I say. Without rising from my chair, I reach back toward the tent, pick up his gun, shoulder it, aim at the can, and pull the trigger. I brace for the kick the gun should make, but it doesn’t kick at all. There is no bullet in the chamber. Layla’s story is true. I am disappointed at the weapon not firing, having had in mind a remembrance of the smell of sulfur and saltpeter, the sweet acrid hot deathly smell that should have filled the air after the click of the trigger.
I play dumb.
“It must be broken,” I say. “See if you can fix it for me.”
Mahmoud is standing. His mouth is open, aghast that I have touched his Kalashnikov, the mark of his limited authority. He is a little man, not much taller than me even as I sit. His uniform, dark blue, sags from his shoulders and bunches at his waist, where he has belted it with a length of rope.
I hand him the weapon so that he can open the chamber and inspect it. He grabs it from me, pulls the bolt back, and looks inside.
“There’s no bullet,” he says after a long puzzled moment.
The thought crosses my mind to seal some sort of deal with the man: offer him help with his police examinations, with the bribes, offer to bring him some additional bullets for the gun. Yet I’m not sure enough of myself. Not sure how this man, Mahmoud, fits with my plans. I need to watch him more. I need to study him more. I need to play a game of “Watch Mahmoud,” similar to my game of convoy counting, though game is probably the wrong word for such an activity, too soft by far, whereas spying —as Layla calls it—sounds far too indirect.
“I’ll bring you a bullet,” I say, a small concession on my part. “Maybe a few bullets. What good is a guard without bullets?”
“Thank you,” he says.
The conversation ends on a down note, like that. It had been building toward something, toward a partnership, an odd sort of uneven partnership. Do I need him to watch over my store, my shack, when Sheikh Seyyed Abdullah guarantees it? No. I’m at a loss. I stand. I see the city of Safwan spreading beneath me into the distance to the south, with the overpass high enough above the flat desert to command a view for miles in every direction. I take longer than I should, standing
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