The Rebel

Amina-2

“Yes, I am. I want to go to Karachi, as soon as Possible.”

“Karachi?” he repeats, giving his beard a scratch.

“I’m going on holiday. My family is waiting,” I add, and hope from the bottom of my heart that I’m convincing enough.

“Do you have money?”

Now we’re talking.

“It depends how much they want for the journey.”

I consciously don’t bribe with my money, to avoid giving ideas to these sea rascals.

“We’re going to Kuwait, is that not good?”

Are you kidding me, grandpa? That’s right in the opposite direction.

“I’m looking for a ship going to Karachi. Do you know one or not?”

He scratches his neck and points to the most run-down cargo ship in the harbour.

“Those people there, they are going that way. The captain often takes on passengers, of course, only if they can pay the fee.”

Frowning, I’m studying the ship with paint flaking off the sides, and realize it’s exactly the same that has caught my eye before. It might be silly, but I take it as a sign. It might even be good that it’s not some ultra-modern sea-wonder. They probably need money more, and they’re not as picky if they can earn a little extra on the way.

“Thank you,” I say making my voice deeper, and say goodbye, starting for the afore mentioned boat.

“Hey, you!” he shouts after me, and I pause. The blood chills in me. I halfway turn back, pretending to scratch my forehead, only to cover my face. “Say that Messala has sent you.”

I give a silent nod and quickly leave the old man behind me. I can hardly help myself; I feel like running all the way to the ship, but I hold myself back, and control my feet.

As I approach the boat, slowly, I can make out its name. Braveheart. My heart makes a big thump as if heaven was speaking to me. Yes. That’s it. This has got to be my ship. The ship that will take me to freedom.

While I negotiate in English with the blond-haired, blue-eyed sailor with the wrinkled face, I’m holding onto the strap of my rucksack as if it was a life belt. I try to sound confident, and to be honest, I am somewhat put at ease by the fact that the captain is not from the Emirates, he doesn’t even look Arabian. His accent is very strange, but I can’t really place it. My guess is he might have come from the north, from the Netherlands, Sweden or something like that. Even the rest of the staff looks European – at least the ones I have seen up to now – and I take that as a good sign as well.

“It can work,” he shrugs his shoulders in a relaxed manner. “There are still free beds downstairs, in the boxes. And the boys could—"

The alarm switches on in my brain at once, and I stare at the man with fright. What else? On my first free night, I am to share some tiny space with a bunch of unknown mariners? Out of the question. I wouldn’t have a peaceful moment. I need to be alone. I need a cabin, a cubicle, a hole, anything, where I can be on my own.

“I need my own cabin,” the words break from me, probably too loudly, because the mariner raises his eyebrows with wonder at my interruption. I’m also taken aback and clear my throat. I want to seem confident, not aggressive, and especially not desperate. “The thing is… I have… worked a lot lately,” I blurt it out, “I need sleep, but don’t sleep too well. So… if I could have a private spot…” I scratch my chin nervously.

The blond man studies me with suspicion for a while, and I begin to feel more and more uncomfortable with his scrutinizing eyes on me. For sure, he can’t put the picture together about the poor little migrant worker from Pakistan who doesn’t want to sleep in a crowd.

“You’re not some damn junkie, right?” He pushes his face up to mine, observing me with a frown. “I don’t do business with druggies. There is only trouble with them. I don’t need you to be on my ship when you overdose yourself, then I can f**k it with the authorities.”

“What?” I make big eyes at him. Do I really look like a druggie? God. Then my incognito works pretty good. “It’s not that at all,” I shake my head vehemently. “I simply want a good night’s sleep.” Musingly, he tilts his head, while tugging at his white goatee. “I’ve got money. I’ll pay for it,” I add, hoping this keep him from asking any more questions.

Slowly, he pulls a smile, or at least, he pulls his face, which may as well be a smile.

“Good. Because if you want a separate cabin, you need to dig deeper into your pocket, boy. Much deeper,” he winks at me, although I don’t know what exactly he means. Still, I smile back.

“Fine. No problem. How much?”

He glances towards the ship and rubs the back of his neck.

“We’ll discuss it on board, don’t worry. We’ll make a deal.”

“Okay,” I agree, although I would be much happier if we could clear the issue here, in the open.

“We are taking off in an hour, but you can board now if you want. I still have something to do here.”

I look at the ship and the workers who are still loading goods into it with their carts. I decide to wait until the last minute. The less time I spend on board the Braveheart in the mariners’ company, the better.

“All right, I’ll be there on time. Thanks.” I say and pretend to have something urgent to do in the opposite direction.

＊

“This will be your cabin. Not a luxury suite, but it will do. It is shared by the surgeon and the first officer, actually,” he says with laughter, and pushes in the door painted green at the end of the aisle.

I carefully step inside, and immediately a stale, fungous smell hits my nose. I force myself not to lift my hand to my mouth with disgust. I don’t have time to really look around, he goes on at once.

“They were a bit cross that they had to share their cabin, but business is business,” he says as his eyes glitter, and I can almost see his pupil becoming a dollar symbol and spin around.

“So, as we said,” I nod and hand him the amount we previously agreed on.

He wets his finger and begins to count before my eyes. What is he thinking? Would I try to throw him over on his own ship?

As he finished, he puts the notes into his back pocket and jabs his finger at me.

“I suggest, stay away from them.”

“Them?” I raise my eyebrows inquisitively.

“The doc and the baldy guy who normally sleep here. You didn’t exactly impress them with your snivelling about the cabin. I want no fuss on board. Got it?”

Did I get it? Crystal clear. I will never stick my nose out of the cabin, take my word for it, mate – I think to myself, but I don’t want to take it too far. I wasn’t going to get friendly with the whole crew anyway, but I don’t need to let him know that.

“Right. There’ll be no issues, all I want to do is sleep.”

He stares at me a while longer, as if he’s still not getting it, then he shakes his head with resignation and walks to the door. I’m about to exhale with relief when he pauses and turns back.

“And no throwing up in the cabin, understood?” he jabs a finger towards my chest, frowning.

“Sure thing, Captain,” I answer politely, then shake myself, and add: “Yeah. Right.”

He walks out the door, and he turns back even from there, while I’m getting freaked out, wishing he would just beat it, so I can close this damn door on myself.

“The toilet is on the other side. Opposite the cabin.”

“I see.”

He nods, and at last, disappears down the aisle, up towards the bridge.

Quick as lightning, I lock the door of the cabin on myself, even give it a little tug to make sure it is shut, and heave a huge sigh. As I look around in the lousy little box, tears begin to roll down my cheeks, but not because of the dirt and mess surrounding me. Something completely different is wrenching my heart. I hug my rucksack and beside the round little cabin window, I collapse to the floor. My vision is blurred from the tears as I watch the beach getting distant through the glass window. Good-bye, my home. Good-bye, family. Good-bye, Emirates.

＊

We’ve been at sea for twenty-four hours, but I haven’t had the guts to set foot outside the cabin. It was enough to take only one glance at the beds to make the decision: I’d rather sleep on the floor. The sweaty bedsheets reeking of male odours and the spotty mattress appalled me. I felt I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, and spent half the night with my eyes open, crouched against the wall. Finally, my efforts were in vain, sleep defeated me at dawn, and I almost crapped myself when early in the morning I was woken by the noise of someone banging on my door. I jumped up, but suddenly didn’t know what to do, I was really frozen with fear. I watched the doorhandle being pressed down again and again from outside, then someone gave me a holler: “Hey, boy! Breakfast at the canteen. Move your backside if you don’t want to miss it.” Breakfast? With the crew? I wanted it as much as a root canal treatment, so I just cleared my throat and shouted back in the manliest style I could muster, “No, thanks. I don’t have an appetite.” The answer is a murmur from the other side, and then: “Don’t you dare puke all over the cabin or the doc will skin you alive, take my word for it.” Until then I didn’t think about it, but as soon as he mentioned it, I was overcome by nausea. I took a few deep breaths, but stale air in the cabin didn’t exactly help. “I won’t,” I groaned, and couldn’t even move after that until I heard his footsteps growing distant.

I spent the day chewing on the salty biscuits I brought from home, but soon it’s almost evening, I feel the urge to relieve myself. Although I’m far from wanting to do it, I will need to get out of my hiding place and at least go as far as the toilet.

I check every detail of my clothing with the accuracy of a maniac before I cautiously stick my head out of the door and spy around the corridor. There’s nobody around, noises are only coming from upstairs, the canteen. The toilet is merely a few steps from here, I do it at light speed. The toilet is in quite a decent state, considering we are on a somewhat-illegal smuggling ship full of men. Still, I try to touch as few things as possible, and do my job quickly. Somewhat calmed down, I step out of the door to sneak back into my cabin, but just then, my hope to remain invisible, is scattered to pieces. In the corridor, I run into a chubby, bearded man who is carrying a pack full of bottles, making noises in the effort. There is a greasy apron tied around the elderly, European man’s waist from which I conclude that he must work in the kitchen. We look at one another, and I wish I could just sprint into my room without a word, and lock the door behind me, but I soon discard the idea. Up to now, hopefully they’ve only thought I am weird for not showing up on deck, but after a move like this I can be certain that they wouldn’t leave it at that, and they would drag me out of the cabin. No, I can’t do that, I must keep my cool, and…