Chapter 8

Before he joined us in the smuggler’s hideout, as the day of departure for our sea crossing approached, Malouk had been in the habit of visiting the beach on a daily basis. Once there, he’d find himself a deserted spot – he had much to say to the sea and he did not wish to be overheard. It was a secret between him and the waters alone. On his final night, he resolved to stand face to face with it one last time. He stood tall, challenging his old and mighty adversary. As on previous visits, he leaned his body back and spat violently onto its surface. The globule floated on a wave for a few seconds before dissolving into the depths. He watched it melt away, his stomach churning as he imagined himself in its place. Would the sea take its revenge? Would it swallow him up so effortlessly?

His fear was extreme but he battled it with all his might, yelling insults and abuse which echoed over the cliffs and rocks. ‘Damn you!’ he yelled at the roiling water, ‘You may look mighty but you’ve no real power. I’m not afraid of you. You can’t get much lower than me and I’m about to piss down your throat. You’re nothing but salt and brine. I’ll coast from here to Lampedusa. You’ll see. I’ll cross your wretched back and that’ll be the last you hear of me. You think you’ve got the better of me? You’re nothing. I never gave you a second’s thought. Some call you clever, some call you cunning, but you’re nothing. You may be old as the earth and I may be fated to die, but you’ve no feelings, no heart. How is it possible to have no soul? How were you poured into the deepest depths of this ugly world? Whose justice are you serving? Are you just offering us up as sacrifices to your god?’

On the fateful night when everything changed, the courtyard was shrouded in darkness, broken only by pale light shining weakly from the open doors of the outer rooms. I was trying to keep calm, prowling around the courtyard and waiting for my cigarettes. Malouk and Terhas were discussing our departure, occasionally drifting off topic to the life of Malouk the First.

‘You don’t believe his story, really, do you?’ Terhas questioned him, ‘You tell it as though it’s got nothing to do with you.’

‘What makes you say that? I love the tale.’

‘Then why call it a tale?’

‘The storytellers call it that, not me.’

‘But I really like it, Malouk, and so I want you to believe in it.’

‘Of course I do,’ Malouk stretched out on one of the bedsteads and was soon joined by others, exchanging funny stories and preparing for a long night of chatter.

‘Oh boy … How sweet it is to lie on a bed,’ Malouk announced in flawless English, rolling over on the springs.

‘Far sweeter to lie on a woman though,’ one of the others chipped in, oblivious to Terhas’s presence nearby. She cast him a scathing look, her mouth twisted into a sarcastic grimace and her face filled with contempt. The man cowered before her, turning his face from her cold glare.

Feeling a desperate need to remind myself of the outside world and escape the tedium of the evening, I leaned one of the rickety bedsteads against the wall and climbed up to the small landing above the door. I struggled to my feet and instantly froze, paralysed with fear, as I saw hundreds of flashing red and blue lights streaming towards us.

‘Poolllliiiiicccce!’ I heard myself scream.

All hell broke loose. Utterly disoriented, I remained crouched where I was, following the lights glimmering in the trees along the road. Then a hand seized me and pulled me to the ground. Malouk had come for me. He dashed into one of the rooms and returned with his guitar. Terhas, meanwhile, gathered our possessions and we slipped out through the door, which several of our fellow migrants had kicked down with a great splintering of wood. We raced towards the sea, cutting across plantations. Cars surrounded the building and all the remaining men and women were led away in handcuffs. Captain Attiah raced ahead with twenty people behind him. The Senegalese women thundered forward like raging bulls, unhindered by their traditional, flower-print dresses.

We reached the beach after half an hour and paused, straining to catch our breath.

‘Let’s keep to the sea edge!’ Captain Attiah shouted, ‘Then we’ll join the coastal path to Tripoli.’

‘You’re the Captain! Lead on!’ I called back breathlessly.

‘That smuggler has the worst luck,’ he panted to me, ‘Last summer the police stormed the same building – but there were only a few people inside. Some from Egypt and Morocco, and a couple from the rest of Africa.’

‘Weren’t they arrested? ’

‘No – the smuggler told the police they were construction workers who’d rented the building from him.’

We charged on through the darkness. Dense thorny vegetation ripped into our feet and legs but nothing would stop us.

‘We’ll get through this,’ I urged Terhas, attempting to alleviate the sense of catastrophe.

‘Don’t bother trying to cheer me up!’

‘Come on – where’s your sense of adventure?’ I joked.

‘Weren’t we together in the Desert of Death and the Smuggler’s Den? And preparing for the Sea Voyage?’ She gasped back at me, ‘Now life’s cruel enough to take our money away as well!’

Captain Attiah was listening in as he stumbled over the rocks, letting rip the vilest curses.

‘Cut out those filthy-sounding words!’ Malouk grumbled in English, looking more like a warrior than a musician.

‘How could you tell he was swearing?’ I broke in.

‘From the ugly rhythm of his words,’ he grimaced.

‘Tell your friend that I belong in meadows and canals, not rocks and poisonous thorns,’ Attiah scowled, falling silent to regain his balance before unleashing another torrent of curses. ‘Your money hasn’t been lost though,’ he said over his shoulder to Terhas. ‘Our man is trustworthy. I know him and I know how he works.’