WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE
Voices, nearby. Hushed, urgent tone. They were arguing. His left eye was a nonstarter but his right opened a little. He saw a group of people across the room. They were dressed in a motley assortment of parkas and sweatshirts as if they’d just come from a giveaway at the Goodwill. Everything still hurt but in a manageable, compartmented way. He tried to turn his head and groaned. The voices stopped and they all turned to look at him. A young boy separated from the group and rushed to his side.
“You are awake, Amerikaayi.”
As his eye focused he took in the room. It was basically a lean-to made of tarps, scrap plywood and tires. The dirt floor was swept clean and the chinks in the walls were filled with rags and balled-up T-shirts. Seven stern faces gathered around his cot. They looked Middle Eastern, dark complected; the men wore beards and the women’s heads were covered.
“I am Feda,” the boy said. His eyes were bright, his face smudged with dirt.
“Where am I?” Jordan croaked.
“They call this the Jungle,” Feda said.
“What jungle,” Jordan said, struggling to stand.
“No, no, you mustn’t,” Feda said. “You must stay inside. You won’t be safe out there.”
“My bag,” Jordan cried.
“You had no bag, Amerikaayi. You had nothing. My father found you three days ago. By the parking lot. You were badly hurt. You kept saying you were sorry. And other things I didn’t understand.”
Jordan fell back onto the cot. That was it, then. A quarter of a million euros, his phone, his clothes, passport, wallet, everything gone. Why had the trafficker turned on him? He’d checked out. Dozens of successful crossings. No intercepts, no complaints. According to the chat rooms, way safer than the Eastern Europeans. It didn’t matter now. He closed his eyes. All gone.
He wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep but it was dark except for a guttering lantern in the corner that cast the boy’s shadow like a twitching monster across the tarp ceiling. Angry voices on the other side of the doorway.
“You must eat,” the boy was saying. Jordan smelled charred flesh and something yeasty and rich. And something brighter, herbal. Mint, maybe. Feda laid a plate on the wooden crate next to Jordan’s cot. There was a scorched flatbread, long like naan. It was dotted with blackened bits of finely chopped meat. Jordan realized he was famished. He sat up despite the protest of bruises. Feda offered him a pale tea in an old vegetable tin.
It was warm and spread heat throughout his body even though it tasted like weak, bitter, thrice-used tea bags with a hint of old mint. He ate with his hands; the bread singed his fingers but he didn’t care. Feda watched him eat, refilling his tea when it was empty. His shrunken stomach was soon full. Jordan offered the boy the last of the bread. He took it and ate it slowly; his eyes closed almost reverently. Jordan noticed for the first time how thin he was.
“You’re hungry,” Jordan said.
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Why do you feed me if you haven’t enough food for yourself?”
“You are a guest.”
“Where is this jungle? Who are the men outside? How did I get here?”
“I told you, my father found you. You were hurt so he brought you here.”
“Here...”
“This place has no name. Many people live here in the woods all around. This house is the hujra—you know, for guests.”
“What is the language the men are speaking?”
“Pashtun.”
“Pashtun,” Jordan said. “Where is that from?”
The boy smiled. “My tribe is Afghan. Some of the others are from Pakistan. There are also many, many refugees from Syria. They are trying to make the crossing. Many people.”
“You are Afghan?” Jordan asked. “How do you speak English so well?”
Feda smiled again. “There was a man in my village who lived for a long time in your country. The Jirga decided he should teach English to all the children. They thought it would be wise to understand our enemies and that children could get closer. And, of course, it would be easier for the young to learn a new language.”
“But I’m American,” Jordan said. “Why are you helping me?”
“You needed help,” Feda said as if the question was silly. “Pashtunwali, it is the law.” He thought a moment. “It is the way to heaven. It is honor.” He seemed more satisfied with this word. “This is a sacred thing.”
“Even if that man is your enemy?” Jordan said.
“Of course,” Feda said.
“So, if a man tried to kill your family and you found him hurt on the road, you would help him?”
“Of course.”
“And yet on another day, if we met somewhere else...”
“Maybe it would not be the same.”
Looking at his face, still softly contoured, not a trace of facial hair, Jordan found the contradictions impossible to reconcile.
“How old are you, Feda?”
“Twelve years.”
“And when I am better, when I am healed?”
“Where would you want to go?”
“To England.”
Feda nodded. “Everyone wants to go to England. It is difficult.”
With a loud snapping sound the tarp that covered the doorway swung back and a man with a gray turban and fierce brows strode into the hujra. He had a long face and a thick gray beard with a single streak of dark black. He had round glasses and his eyes were dark and intense. His face was wind burned. Beneath a green army surplus coat that seemed tight in the shoulders, Jordan could see several looped scarves and a black Guinness sweatshirt. The man stood over Jordan, eyes flickering over his injuries, assessing him while he spoke quickly to Feda. He had the presence of someone used to being obeyed.
When he finished speaking, Feda said, “My father welcomes you. He says you are hamsaya. You are under our protection.”
* * *
“What’s he playing at?” Sam said. It was late and the heat had cycled down to its night setting.
Dennis looked up and arched a brow.
“The Angel says he’s in Calais but his phone is crossing into Belgium. He’s not stupid. What the fuck is he thinking?”
Dennis grunted something noncommittal. “I don’t like it. It doesn’t make sense.”
Manny at the other terminal cocked his head. “Maybe somebody stole his phone.”
“Maybe. I don’t like it. Any of it. I want eyes on him.”