Chapter 44
Evidently, Nabeed and his gang were busy elsewhere.
Possibly another kidnapping? Maybe a car bomb in a crowded market?
Paul could only hope the bomb would detonate while they were still in the car.
He remembered stories of hostages who had endured harsh, even violent conditions, yet years later were somehow able to look back and find sympathy for their captors.
He might give it a try, or he might not.
His contact was now a skinny kid he called Alfie, after the Little Rascals character Alfalfa.
Alfie brought his breakfast bowl of gruel, his lunch of dried figs and stale bread, and his dinner of a stew that was possibly lamb, with a collage of mysterious vegetables mixed in for roughage and color.
Thumbing through his ribs, Paul believed he was no longer losing weight but he damned sure wasn’t gaining it back.
Isolation required constant work. Other than his weight, Paul was okay physically.
His wounds had healed and the scars on his legs were fading.
He couldn’t see his back, and didn’t really want to.
He was doing a thousand sit-ups and push-ups each day and slowly adding more.
However, he did not want to burn too many calories.
He stretched, repeated the basic yoga positions he had learned watching Chelsea, and sat on the concrete floor in a meditative pose for hours.
Emotionally, he was stabilizing. The fear of dying was gone, though the possibility of it was not.
He simply refused to believe that his country would abandon him.
He believed he would be rescued. He thought of his bride and missed her greatly but was learning that he could make himself miserable by dwelling on her.
One morning, long after his gruel, Alfie appeared at an odd time and said, “I learn English, okay?”
He had given Paul no reason to believe he possessed more than average intelligence, and Paul had no desire to teach the kid anything.
He was still wearing his AK-47. However, once his wounds healed and the nightmares stopped, Paul began to realize that the worst part of captivity was the isolation.
He really wanted someone to talk to. Anyone.
He managed a smile and said, “Okay, how much do you know?”
“A little.” Leetle.
“What is today?”
Alfie touched his fingers as if counting. Number three was Tuesday. “Day three.”
“Good. And day three is Tuesday. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. Repeat.”
He rattled off something that was not even close.
“Go slow. Repeat slowly.”
With patience, they finally made it to “Friday” with a passable accent.
Alfie was clearly proud of himself and wanted more.
Paul encouraged him to continually repeat the days of the week.
Then they eased into the months. Paul was desperate to know how long he’d been a captive.
He was guessing that about thirty days had passed from his kidnapping to the point when they stopped drugging him.
Those days were a haze and could have been one month or two.
The beatings and torture lasted about sixty days, then mercifully ended abruptly.
Alfie seemed determined to keep going. Paul said, “Repeat, September, October, November.”
Alfie understood and repeated as directed. Ironing out the accent would take plenty of work. Paul said, “This month is September. Understand?”
Alfie thought for a moment, shook his head and said, “No, is October.”
They repeated “October” several times. Paul was pleased to know that it was a Tuesday in October.
They worked on the other nine months until it was time for Alfie to tend to other duties.
He was back the next day with a stack of even older National Geographics and a copy of the Quran.
In Arabic. Paul thanked him and they spent an hour learning to count to one hundred.
After a week, Alfie was stopping by twice a day for his lessons and improving rapidly.
Paul had never learned another language and wasn’t sure how to do so, but he stressed the need for constant practice.
When they decided that they might actually like each other, Paul managed to convey his desire to go outside. He had not seen the sun or moon in many months. Alfie grew quiet when the request was fully understood and its gravity became obvious. He frowned and shook his head. Absolutely not.
However, the following day, after the breakfast gruel, he handcuffed Paul through the bars, covered his head with a foul-smelling hood, and led him out of the cell.
After a few steps, they were on sand. He forced Paul to his knees and kept him there until it became uncomfortable.
“Do not move,” he ordered, in surprising English.
With his hands still cuffed behind him, Paul tried to move his knees in the sand and find a position that was bearable.
It was impossible. The strain on his lower back throbbed.
The temperature was mild but the hood prevented fresh air.
After a few minutes, he was quite uncomfortable and wishing he’d stayed in his cell.
Suddenly, Alfie yanked off the hood. The bright sun blinded Paul and he closed his eyes. Slowly, he managed to squint and focus.
It was a compound, a series of flat box-like buildings, flung haphazardly around a central, barren clearing with a large pole in the center.
From the pole in all directions netting fanned out, so that every building and vehicle was hidden from above.
The sides were wide open and Paul could see for miles across the endless desert, with row after row of dunes and burnt sand.
Black silhouettes of distant mountains dotted the horizon.
What a forsaken place. One of his first thoughts was: I have no idea where I am and it will be impossible to find me.
Then, a startling sight: About a hundred feet away, in a fenced dogtrot similar to his own, there was another prisoner. On his knees, hands tied behind, with his back to Paul.
“No talk,” Alfie said. “No talk.”
“Why are my hands behind my back?” Paul asked, loud enough for the other prisoner to hear.
“No talk.” The other prisoner didn’t move.
Alfie took a step closer as if he might hit him. Paul said nothing else. A few minutes later, a small door opened at another hut and a hooded prisoner was escorted into his dogtrot. He fell to his knees and his hood was removed. From his position he could not see Paul.
Each had a guard close by, as if an escape was imminent. Paul thought, So there are three of us. They wore matching brown robes that made them look like monks.
They faced east, toward the rising sun, but only Paul could see the backs of the other two. After an hour or so, his hamstrings began to throb and he feared cramps. Alfie had apparently stepped away. Paul rolled to his side and stretched his legs, fighting off cramps.
The following day, around midmorning, Alfie led him out again into his dogtrot.
Paul bitched under his breath, “Just take off the damned cuffs, okay? This hurts like hell.” Alfie ignored him and forced him to his knees and yanked off his hood.
The nearest prisoner was in place, on his knees, but he had turned to Paul. They tried to make eye contact.