Numbers

My name is Amir. I am 19. My whole family is dead. I sit amongst the outskirts of the crowd, waiting for my turn to get the 3rd meal today. They cook the food all wrong here, but there’s not much else. I try to be polite when they place my portion into my hands. It’s hot, and that’s about the only good thing about it. I shove down the food quickly so I don’t have to taste it. It’s empty mush but I need the calories. It’s not too long ago that I remember the feeling of starving. My little brother’s distended stomach from years of it. I skulk in the corner and watch the others play small games. Back to the wall, so no one can sneak up on me. The card game they play looks fun, but I can’t speak the language. Shame. I’m good with numbers. I was very good at cards. It feels like another lifetime ago. I don’t know what I’m good at now. I watch their game a little closer, seeing if I can figure it out. Maybe I won’t need to speak if I can just understand the game.
I wait a little longer, then push myself into the circle when they start dealing cards again. The other players squawk something at me but I sit down anyway. I nod to the one shuffling cards. A beat passes and he rolls his eyes before dealing me in. The man next to me grumbles. I take the flimsy bits of paper and fan them in between my fingers. I remember this game. The soldiers taught us. I look at the little pictures of men and women on the cards. The woman card holds a little weapon in her hand. I have pretty good cards. The man on my left plays. He looks over his set and grimaces. He’s older than me, maybe even older than my father. He smells like tobacco when he speaks, and he puts down a card. The faded white of it is stark against the dirty carpet. I pull a card and play. The one that shuffled the cards mutters something again.
His hair is short like a soldier’s. He’s younger than me I think. His crooked teeth peek out from his cracked lips as he utters a curse. The way the word is sharp on this tongue, I’m sure it’s a curse. I hate his eyes. They’re a terrible color. That awful mix of the sinking mud back home and the smog over this new city. Heavy brows furrow down scanning the game for some weak spots. He’s missing the top of his thumb, the pink scar showing once he places a card down. The dirt under his fingernails is black. The game moves to the next man, but I keep looking at dirty hands. He bites the missing top of his thumb and thinks. The black crescents on his hands point to the sky. The bags under his eyes are small, dark veins show under the tired skin. He raises a hand to scratch at the skin under his hand-me-down sweater. The edge of a scar peeks out from the neckline of his clothes. I grab his hand. His skin is tough like old leather under my palm.
“Don’t get it infected,” I tell him. He looks up at me in disgust. The other players look at me and then at him. I drop his hand. I will try again in what little English I know. I point from his hand to his chest.
“Scratch. Infect wound.” His eyes soften and he gives a small nod. The game goes on. The man on my left loses terribly and stomps off, but Dark Eyes. He lets me win.
I try to tell him not to let me win, but I don’t speak enough English. We played a few more rounds together. He reaches to scratch again but our eyes catch. He curses, and this time I hear it clearly. He speaks Arabic. So we do have a language in common. He tells me that he’s only been here for a month. That the cut is from falling off a boat and getting hit with the propellor. He doesn’t know why it itches so much. My mother was a doctor.
“It’s the scar tissue”, I tell him. “It just itches like that when it’s healing. It’s probably the clothes rubbing on it.” He nods and he asks me what can make it stop. I shrug. I don’t know. We sit outside our rooms in the hallway.
“Hey look, we’re neighbors”, He perks up a little. I nod. He goes into his room, but leaves the door open for me. I look down the hotel hallway to check that no one is looking our way. They aren’t. I let myself cross the threshold into his room. The room is bare, except for the laundry pile in the corner and the magazine clippings on the wall. Little photographs of statues, parks, and people on pedestals.
“What are those for?” I look especially closely at one picture of a man sitting on a rock. “I like photos. I can learn and get a job. They only let good ones into magazines,” he gets up and stands next to me.
“I’d like to be good at it. And I could work anywhere. I don’t even have to be smart to get it right.” He sits on the bed. I debate the risk of doing the same. I lean against his wall. The ceiling is covered with dark spots, just like in my room. We play a few rounds of a card game he showed me. His name escapes through the gap between his teeth, Malik. His voice is low and gentle. He sounds like he could be a singer when he speaks. He doesn’t ask much about me. I think he likes to ramble. Good. He doesn’t ask what my town was called, or what my first language is. I make sure to leave his room before nightfall. If I stay here they’ll know what I am. I don’t need more stares.
That night, and all the nights after, he knocks a simple rhythm on my bedroom wall. We string little songs back and forth to each other. We talk about how terrible the food is here. Now he loses to me at cards because I’m better, not because he lets me win.
A series of thumps on my wall tell me Malik is bored. I’m going to kill him. I hit my knuckles on the wall and he knocks back. I know I’m going to kill him. I have to get revenge. It’s what my father would want. It’s what my family would want. Maybe it’ll make me less of a sin. I’m not sure. The ceiling is sandy brown and it’s speckled. I’m ok with losing Malik. I’m ok with him dying. Lots of people die around me. He knocks a small rhythm on my wall. I repeat back the beat. I have to kill him. From this spot on the floor to the door out there are 135 dots on the ceiling. I count them all again. I have to kill him.
I collect glass shards when I can. I don’t know where to buy a knife, and I know better than to ask. It’s weeks later once I get my clear chance. Malik and I wander the streets in the city center. It’s crowded and loud, but Malik is good at finding pockets of quiet. He’s used to city life more than I am. I follow as he weaves through the evening hordes and into a alleyway.He laughs loudly at something I say.
“Cigarette?” He smiles. He puts the rolled tobacco between his teeth and I pull out my lighter. It’s bright orange and I paid 4 euro for it. I want to count the stones in the street but I have to keep my head up. He takes a drag, “Why do you think the stars aren’t here?” He leans against the wall and puffs of smoke fill the air. My family would want me to do this. My jacket pocket is heavy with the shattered edge of a bottle. It tears through the small stitches of the polyester.
“The fog. There’s more fog here.”
He looks down and takes another breath full of it. He nods slowly, rolls his shoulders, and passes it to me. The cheap tobacco tastes like a fever I had when I was 5. His eyes are like the dark churning waves of the river. “Amir,’ Malik toys with the 6th button on his jacket, “What is it like when you miss home?” His voice is unguarded, and the question is simple. My hands feel like fire and my ribs hurt.
“Where is my home, Malik?”
I repeat it again. This time in Arabic, so I know he understands. After knowing him this long, I don’t think he speaks my home language. The light shines on his hair as he slowly tilts his head up to look at me. Something changes in his eyes. Recognition. Understanding. The words squeak in his throat, “You’re not Saudi.”
It’s not a question. His eyes are wide in fear, and I won’t wait for it to shift into hate. I swing my fist down into his face. It’s disgusting, it’s far too easy how the bottle goes through him. His fists reach and a punch connects with my cheek, but the angle is wrong and it doesn’t throw me off him. He screams and I can feel it reverberate through the glass and up to my hand. The blood gushes out and the glass slips from my hand. The ground hits us hard, dumpters clanging as I crash into them. My vision blurs and a loud crack rings in my ears. Malik doesn’t move. I push myself off the cobblestones and march toward the street. I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine. My face is wet from the rain. I don’t know why the rain tastes like salt. There are 4 traffic lights and 2 trams and I just have to get home. Or is it 5 lights? It looks like 5. I look at my hands and they’re drenched in blood. My mouth tastes like blood too. I reach up to touch my cheek and it’s not there. I can feel my teeth. The punch. He didn’t punch me. His hand was at a weird angle. He didn’t punch me. He stabbed me. I move faster, as fast I can walk. The people around me are yelling so loud. Am I finally the man my family wanted? There are 5 shops and 1 statue before I get to the corner. But I can’t. The crowd is too much and they’re pushing me in.
And then, I can’t breathe.
I’m back home. My town is burning to the ground. My parents are dead. Cars catch fire around me, and the people chant. They chant in a language I can’t understand. They cheer when my brother is thrown off the path. The road or the Liffey River, they blur together into a darkness that swallows my little brother whole. The memories and my reality blur together, the people I grew up with and the strangers here in Dublin both begin to panic. I see fear in a one-eyed face. It’s the only face I know here. I reach for him, stumbling through the crowd.
“Malik! Malik!” The tram line explodes into flame at the same time that my father’s car does. The chanting gets louder and louder, a screeching chorus. I start fighting the crowd. I begin swinging my elbows hard into the bodies around me, forcing my way through. I feel the ghosts of hands clawing at me, trying to pull me back so they can kill me too. I punch and kick as hard as I can to get through. I’m not okay with losing Malik. I’m not ok with him dying. Lots of people die around me. He can’t die too. He stares into the fire, and I can’t tell if he’s breathing. Above him, I see the flag. I freeze. The same flag they waved when they killed my family. I look at the man below it. Malik. His name is Malik. I push through. He turns and sees me. His eyes are empty, and I know his spirit has gone to the same war as mine. He calls my name.
“Amir!” I grab his hand and shoulder and shove him to sprint. “Run! We have to run!” He holds my bloodslick hand and drags me behind through dark twisted roads and narrow streets. “Faster Amir!” We run for what feels like hours. We run until we see stars. We stop on a bridge somewhere I don’t know. 89 large stones make up the bridge. A torn-up wheeze fills the silence.
“Malik you have to breathe.” There are 5 trees by us and 1 river that I can see in the dim light. He wheezes again, the breath faster than the beating in my ears.
“How,” he spits out, “are you so calm?”
“I count things when I’m scared. It helps.” I sit on the ground, “I’m good with numbers.” Minutes go by in terrible silence as his breathing slows. He looks down at the bridge, then at me. He stumbles and crashes next to me.
“You attacked me,” He shifts on the ground beside me, “You can be sent back for that.”
I feel sick. He’s got 7 buttons on his jacket. The cold on my cheek feels funny.
“You stabbed me,” I whisper. “You can be sent back for that.”
He looks off, trying to count stars I think. My hand grazes his arm. “It was supposed to be better here.” My throat chokes up. I feel the weight of his head on my shoulder.
“What if we just went back to the hotel?” Malik whispers into the cold air. The world is all blurry with water. “What?” I say.
“What if we just went home? Back the hotel?” He leans his head against the wall. “You came back for me.” His hand is heavy in mine. And sticky. I nod my head even though it makes me feel sick.
“You’re the only friend I have.” And it’s true. Even if the war back home says we shouldn’t be. He nods the motion ruffling my jacket.
“You can kill me when we get back,” I choke on the words. But it’s what I deserve. Malik stands up and reaches a hand down to pull me up. He’s got 5 fingers, and 1 good eye.
“Amir, can we stop fighting like we’re still there? Just you and I?” Above him are more stars than I have ever seen. Too many to count. “Ok.”