These Boys, These Missouri Boys

The Americans sent me this letter via the standard Tunisian post. Someone at the postal center, some secret policeman, opened the letter before the carrier brought it here to my flat. American symbols, eagles and olive branches, adorn the envelope. The secret policeman at the postal center probably copied the letter, made note of the address, and placed my name onto some list. What is worse, the fundamentalist gentlemen from downstairs, with their thick beards and scowls, watched me retrieve the post and now must wonder who the shy Iraqi kid is, in truth.

They are still trying to get me killed, the Americans.

I take the letter and the envelope down the dark hallway to the toilet, burn it there, and flush the ashes. I should think less on America and more on attending university here in Sousse. Their university is lovely, situated on the sea, its ancient, whitewashed edifices highlighted in blue. Truly, all the buildings here in Sousse are lovely, quite a few of them adorned with stylish filigree. It is no wonder the Europeans flock to this place with their cameras and their sunscreen, lie on the beach, and wait for me to bring them their drinks.

The whitewash makes me think of Tom Sawyer and his fence, and I am reminded, again, that I should think more on my thesis and less on the dream of America. My thesis is still the key to everything. I must remember the parts I lost in Baghdad, consider my new ideas. In this way, I should become a true scholar.

With the best of intentions, I open the thesis document on my computer and laugh. Because, of course, it is impossible. My thesis? It is all about America, man. The place I have never been. And in any case, it is pointless to attempt creative work when assailed by the noise of the riots. It is too loud even for thinking.

Outside, the university students throw bricks and scream the president’s name. They chant for all young people to come out into the streets and join their revolution. They sing the Tunisian national anthem and “Tunisia Our Country,” by that rapper El Général. They are not doing him any favors with that. President Ben Ali will have El Général arrested soon, I predict.

Now they are chanting for Ben Ali to join them in the streets, too. Thinking they can give him some justice. Foolishness.

Each night for this past week, the crowd has moved closer to the government center and the main square. Today, I overheard English tourists on the beach discussing whether they should leave, mentioning how the rioters in Tunis touched the iron gates of the presidential palace last night. Insanity. Riot police pushed them back and splashed the streets with a bit of blood. Soon President Ben Ali will send his army into the streets to relieve the police, and then the real bleeding will begin.

Through my window I see red police lights flashing in the smoke and tear gas. Nearer to our flat than it had been an hour before, this riot. Police chase the people down. They are coming my way, and the state intelligence service will be behind them carrying lists. Perhaps they carry a copy of that American letter. Perhaps they will find me and see that the name on my Syrian passport is different from the name on that letter.

My flatmates are out there. University gentlemen making time with the ladies and the cool kids. They had wanted me to come out with them tonight, but I declined. “Go have fun without me,” I told them. “I had my adventures at home. Besides, I have to work in the morning. The English tourists on the beach need more drinks before they decide what to do.”

I sit down at my computer and reopen my thesis. With fingers on the keys, I consider where to start and try to remember where I stopped. I think of Baghdad years ago, when I met Professor Al-Rawi for the first time to discuss The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, his favorite book by his favorite American.

He awarded me the special task of reading it in the off-term, when the other students of English relaxed at home. Each day, I went to his office on the Karada campus and he explained to me things which I could not have possibly understood then.

Truly, I did not comprehend a single thing at first. How Mark Twain wrote. How these Americans spoke, so ignorant and rough. Why Americans today thought of this story of terribly behaved children as such high art.

“Kateb, you must understand the context,” Professor Al-Rawi said. “What the American reader knew then, what Americans today do not remember, and what you certainly cannot understand. These were not just boys making silly plans in caves. These were boys growing up just in time for their war. Sitting there, making plans to start this robber’s gang, this was quite humorous to Americans reading the book in the nineteenth century.”

“But not the Americans of today?”

He lit a cigarette. “Humorous, yes. But for other reasons. You see, Americans today . . . forget. Ten years after these boys met to scheme in caves, their civil war fell upon them. These boys, these Missouri boys, they would have cut each other’s throats in that war. And the sides they would pick? This was determined in their youth, you see.”

We were silent for a moment while I considered this.

“Have you thought about Huck Finn cutting Tom Sawyer’s throat?” he asked.

“No.”

“You should, Kateb. You should think about that.” Then he smiled, like he knew all along what would come for us.

A grenade goes off in the street. A stun grenade, I should think, from the exaggerated noise and the lack of shrapnel clicking off the cobblestones. Lethal grenades, I know, make only the noise that they must.

The riot turns a corner now and moves closer to me. Soon we will lose our electricity, and I have only this old desktop computer with no backup battery for emergencies. This makes writing treacherous, and I must save my work often. I stop, save my changes, and close the document. Then I think that while there is still some electricity remaining I should look at the Internet to pass time. I open a few windows of porno to distract, but this does not work.

Soon, I am searching for Pleasant’s name, and the mulasim’s name, too. This is what the American letter told me I should do. Find Americans who would know me. Americans who would know that I am truthful, Americans who could write letters for me saying, “Kateb. Yes, I knew him. He served with us. A good man. He helped us.”

I find Pleasant soon enough, right on Facebook. But the mulasim? He is nowhere, as though he is hiding.

I begin my note to Pleasant, “Old friend. Crazy-man Lester. This is Dodge.” Then I close Facebook without sending.

Then, though I know I should not, that it is pointless and no good can come of it, I open the video clip of Mohamed Bouazizi, again. What started these riots. Burning himself in front of the Sidi Bouzid police station. I have watched it many times, now. We are the same age, almost. And he is skinny, like me. He cries and hits himself in the face. He throws paint thinner down his back, howling like a wild thing. Then, when he lights his match, he is suddenly calm. Like he knows this will work. That the revolution will grow from this.

The foreign news, still sneaking through on the Internet, claims that Mohamed Bouazizi is still alive in hospital. I check on him several times each day, without good reason. I did not know him. I am not even Tunisian. Why should I care so much?

In any case, I still find it foolish, this chanting in the streets on his account. What do they think will happen? That President Ben Ali will leave because a young man selling fruit from a cart lights a match? That because the kids all have cameras on their mobile phones, President Ben Ali will not kill them with bullets and clubs?

An idea comes to me and I return to my thesis to put down one more thought, quickly, before I abandon work for the evening. I scan for the passage about Huck’s guilt and make a new paragraph.

“Huck believes in the Widow Douglas,” I begin. “Her opinions on right and wrong he considers as fact. He even accepts the Widow’s assertion that he will go to Hell as a hard truth, with the simple caveat that he does not mind going to Hell so long as Tom joins him there. He wishes to do what is right for his friends on Earth, even when he knows it is wrong. His abiding desire to help his friend Jim, in particular, brings him dire feelings of guilt, as if he has betrayed the good Widow.”

Just then, the electricity leaves our flat with a loud pop. The computer screen becomes black and I lose these words. But I am not upset. I have already changed my mind about them.

I sit in the darkness and listen to the chanting in the streets before getting up from my chair and moving to the window. Without heat now, I grope in darkness for my coat and put it on over my jumper. It is a nice coat, abandoned by some careless French tourist at the resort. The bosses allowed me to take it home once they realized that I owned so few winter clothes.

The crowd will come around the corner at any moment, and I wonder if my flatmates will appear with it. I wonder if I should go onto the streets if only to see this thing. This revolution.

Then I think of Lester, his picture on Facebook in my mind’s eye, and I wonder if he will help me, if he even should. I wonder where Mulasim Donovan can be found, if not on Facebook. I write down a note in the dark. Universities. Newspapers. Places to look for him.