crystalline
water, collecting limpets and mussels to cook over a driftwood fire on the
beach. Back at the marina that evening, they rinsed the dive gear in freshwater
and stowed it under the bunks, and then Hans hooked his camera up to the TV and
played the video.
As Penny sipped a glass of chardonnay and praised Jessica’s
diving skills, her admiration for the father and daughter’s unique relationship
grew.
- 12 -
“ A rnold Schwarzenegger,”
Ahmed whispered, lying on the top bunk amid the stench of stale urine,
biting fleas and the muffled sob of a child.
“Jean-Claude Van Damme,” Mohamed replied
from the darkness below.
The young Moroccans were inseparable, blood brothers to the
end, with scar tissue on their palms to prove it. Neither recalled exactly when
they first met in the orphanage in Tangier. Ahmed’s mother had left him on the
steps as a baby. Mohamed arrived some years later when the French mission
station ran out of funding. What they did remember was the bond forged between
them and the promise, if called upon, to die for one another.
Now twelve and thirteen, the boys still played the Hollywood
game occasionally, fantasizing that in reality their parents were movie stars,
who would one day return to pluck them from obscurity with loving arms and
reassurances of “We never forgot you.”
“Mimi Farrar.” Ahmed claimed Morocco’s very own goddess of
the silver screen as his birthright.
“She’s my mother, you thief.” Mohamed hissed.
“I thought you didn’t know your mother.” Ahmed giggled,
which set Mohamed off for the umpteenth time that evening.
The door creaked open. Ahmed and Mohamed fell silent. Lamplight
bathed the crowded dormitory.
Abu Yazza, the orphanage’s elderly patron, cast a drunken
bloodshot eye over the sleeping children, beckoning the boy who was sobbing with
a bony finger.
“Pious old pig!” said Ahmed as the door closed. “He may have
the respect of the imam, but one day . . .” He leant over the side of the bunks
and drew a finger across his throat.
“Abu Yazza and his baboon-faced wife are gonna show poor
Omar some hanan .” Mohamed spat the term “tenderness.”
“And he will have to slave all day tomorrow, no sleep and
bleeding.”
In exchange for squalid accommodation and measly food, the
orphans worked twelve-hour shifts in the airless basement of Abu Yazza’s carpet
factory.
The next morning the boys sat on their haunches in front of
a traditional wooden loom strung with a half-finished rug, their nimble fingers
weaving shuttles of polypropylene thread to create a striking blue, cream and red
paisley motif. Mohamed coughed and rubbed his red-raw eyelids, for chemicals in
the synthetic fibers often resulted in festering infections, dermatitis and
asthma.
“Are you okay, brother?” Ahmed asked out the side of his
mouth.
“It’s painful.” Mohamed blinked, trickles of sticky yellow
fluid dribbling onto his cheeks.
“It’s not for much longer. Remember the plan.”
As youngsters, Ahmed and Mohamed had put up with the cruelty
meted out to them by the heinous couple, internalizing the pain and developing
coping strategies – lying, cheating, fighting and stealing – to get them
through another day. Yet the pair were smart, hardening to their circumstances.
Cunning replaced indifference. Plotting, the luxury of dreaming – and woe
betides anyone who got in their way.
“Brother,” Mohamed whispered, watching Omar scurrying around
on his haunches, unable to look anyone in the eye as he swept up stray tufts
with a dustpan and brush, “I remember the plan.”
- 13 -
O ver
the next few days, while Penny spent time with Jessica fishing from the dock,
rowing the tender and visiting museums, Hans made final preparations for the
voyage.
Using a state-of-the-art software package, he interfaced Future ’selectronic equipment with charts downloaded to his laptop to create a
sophisticated navigation arrangement, making sure to back up the
water, collecting limpets and mussels to cook over a driftwood fire on the
beach. Back at the marina that evening, they rinsed the dive gear in freshwater
and stowed it under the bunks, and then Hans hooked his camera up to the TV and
played the video.
As Penny sipped a glass of chardonnay and praised Jessica’s
diving skills, her admiration for the father and daughter’s unique relationship
grew.
- 12 -
“ A rnold Schwarzenegger,”
Ahmed whispered, lying on the top bunk amid the stench of stale urine,
biting fleas and the muffled sob of a child.
“Jean-Claude Van Damme,” Mohamed replied
from the darkness below.
The young Moroccans were inseparable, blood brothers to the
end, with scar tissue on their palms to prove it. Neither recalled exactly when
they first met in the orphanage in Tangier. Ahmed’s mother had left him on the
steps as a baby. Mohamed arrived some years later when the French mission
station ran out of funding. What they did remember was the bond forged between
them and the promise, if called upon, to die for one another.
Now twelve and thirteen, the boys still played the Hollywood
game occasionally, fantasizing that in reality their parents were movie stars,
who would one day return to pluck them from obscurity with loving arms and
reassurances of “We never forgot you.”
“Mimi Farrar.” Ahmed claimed Morocco’s very own goddess of
the silver screen as his birthright.
“She’s my mother, you thief.” Mohamed hissed.
“I thought you didn’t know your mother.” Ahmed giggled,
which set Mohamed off for the umpteenth time that evening.
The door creaked open. Ahmed and Mohamed fell silent. Lamplight
bathed the crowded dormitory.
Abu Yazza, the orphanage’s elderly patron, cast a drunken
bloodshot eye over the sleeping children, beckoning the boy who was sobbing with
a bony finger.
“Pious old pig!” said Ahmed as the door closed. “He may have
the respect of the imam, but one day . . .” He leant over the side of the bunks
and drew a finger across his throat.
“Abu Yazza and his baboon-faced wife are gonna show poor
Omar some hanan .” Mohamed spat the term “tenderness.”
“And he will have to slave all day tomorrow, no sleep and
bleeding.”
In exchange for squalid accommodation and measly food, the
orphans worked twelve-hour shifts in the airless basement of Abu Yazza’s carpet
factory.
The next morning the boys sat on their haunches in front of
a traditional wooden loom strung with a half-finished rug, their nimble fingers
weaving shuttles of polypropylene thread to create a striking blue, cream and red
paisley motif. Mohamed coughed and rubbed his red-raw eyelids, for chemicals in
the synthetic fibers often resulted in festering infections, dermatitis and
asthma.
“Are you okay, brother?” Ahmed asked out the side of his
mouth.
“It’s painful.” Mohamed blinked, trickles of sticky yellow
fluid dribbling onto his cheeks.
“It’s not for much longer. Remember the plan.”
As youngsters, Ahmed and Mohamed had put up with the cruelty
meted out to them by the heinous couple, internalizing the pain and developing
coping strategies – lying, cheating, fighting and stealing – to get them
through another day. Yet the pair were smart, hardening to their circumstances.
Cunning replaced indifference. Plotting, the luxury of dreaming – and woe
betides anyone who got in their way.
“Brother,” Mohamed whispered, watching Omar scurrying around
on his haunches, unable to look anyone in the eye as he swept up stray tufts
with a dustpan and brush, “I remember the plan.”
- 13 -
O ver
the next few days, while Penny spent time with Jessica fishing from the dock,
rowing the tender and visiting museums, Hans made final preparations for the
voyage.
Using a state-of-the-art software package, he interfaced Future ’selectronic equipment with charts downloaded to his laptop to create a
sophisticated navigation arrangement, making sure to back up the
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