Escape (12 page)

Skin lustrous, tawny. No tan line. Because Tarik sunbathed nude?

Face getting warmer by the second, heart thumping faster, faster, Luka wanted to flee. Get off that bed and hide. But there was nowhere to go.

Hoping the task would pull him back, calm him down, Luka reached for a corner of the tape stuck to the small of Tarik's back, careful, like always, not to let his fingertips brush against Tarik's dusky skin clinging to the tape, stretching, then yielding, going smooth, turning pink. The smooth, rounded muscles of Tarik's back went taut as Luka touched down on the wound with the cold, antiseptic-laced gauze, and a fresh flush of heat singed Luka's cheeks because at that cold contact Tarik had flexed his ass, too, then gone lax again, and something about that small, fleeting shift in Tarik's body startled and jarred Luka as if he'd been touched.

No no no. Please no.

Luka drew in a long, deep, silent breath, held it, and let it go silently, too. Again. Again. Trying to calm his heart. Dilute the cocktail of chemicals spilling into this blood, overheating him, dampening his skin. Quell the insistent, tormenting pulse threatening imminent swelling.

Not now. Not now. Please.

Tarik drew a deep breath and sighed, ribs widening, drawing lustrous skin taut over curved bones, and Luka turned away, honing his focus down to a white square of gauze in his hand, to the ointment, a translucent worm of white inching out the opening of the green and yellow tube as he squeezed it between thumb and forefinger. Looking at Tarik again, Luka only let himself see four wounds, four jagged lacerations stitched shut, scabbed welts, pink but not angry red.

No infection. Healing. Using the gauze to avoid contamination, Luka gently dabbed the ointment along each sealed gash, leaving the inflamed flesh glistening before he carefully placed the gauze against Tarik's skin and taped it in place, ensuring every millimeter of every wound was covered. Protected.

Up. Off the bed. Away from him. Putting away the tube of ointment and roll of tape, he wished he could shrink down and crawl into the metal case and lock himself inside.

“All done?”

“Done.” Luka kept his back to Tarik as he shut the lid, clicking the latches into place, then set it back on the night stand.

“Thanks.” Behind him, Luka heard the creak of the bed as Tarik got up, the rustle of cloth that must mean Tarik was putting his shirt on.

Once he'd dressed, Tarik was about to go wake Skinny and Calvin just as they stirred, mumbling and shuffling around upstairs for a few minutes before finally gallumping down the stairs. Maybe Skinny was hungover and Calvin needed his partner to perform his comedy routine; whatever it was, they seemed to have lost interest in the little cockroach. With the quiet efficiency of familiar routine, they prepared coffee and a breakfast that almost broke Luka's heart, it was so big and hot: bacon, eggs, bread with jam and butter, milk and orange juice. Just what was on his own plate was more food than he'd eaten all week.

“I have a little bit of bad news.” Skinny poured the last of the coffee into his own cup. “We don't have all the papers.”

Tarik helped himself to another scoop of scrambled eggs. “Anything to add to that?”

“The letter of invitation is at the post office, which is also the general store. I know the man who runs it, Bojan. We have an arrangement. You won't have any trouble with him. Just go and tell him I sent you. He knows what to give you.”

“Since he's your friend, it makes more sense for you to go, doesn't it?” Tarik mopped up the last remnants of egg and salt from his plate with a piece of bread.

“Thing is, people are moving here and there, these days. Coming and going. No one bats an eye, seeing a stranger walk through town. But they've already seen me around, and Armin. If either of us goes strolling up to Bojan's store, we're not strangers who passed through, one week. They'll realize we're camped out somewhere. Next thing that happens, they'll be going door-to-door, trying to find out which one of their neighbors' houses has squatters nesting. And that's our business here, ruined.”

Tarik got up. “Fine. Luka, get your jacket.”

“You can't take him!” Skinny was looking at him like Tarik was a complete lunatic. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Walking through town with an escaped Bokan prisoner. Great fucking idea.”

“How's anyone going to know he's Bokan? If I can walk through town, so can he.”

“Hey, kid. Say, 'Good morning.'” Skinny stared at him in malicious anticipation.

His southern accent would give him away. This was it. This was how he was going to die. Tarik was going to leave him in that house with those men, and as soon as he was gone, they were going to kill him.

“Come on, kid. Let's hear it.”

Luka tried to mimic Tarik's regional accent, the way he'd tried to mellow his thick Eastern accent when he moved to Sovići by imitating Željko's more neutral western one. “Good morning.”

Skinny snickered. “Yeah, great. The townsfolk will love it.”

Tarik sighed. “So he won't say anything. I'll say 'good morning,' and he'll smile and nod.”

“He talks with his
Balije
accent, or he walks around like a deaf mute. Either way, he'll draw attention. Either way, you're fucking us.”

“We're back to your problems, Begović. You don't have what you promised to provide. You can go, or he can go,” Tarik pointed at Calvin, “or I'll go with Luka. Those are your choices.”

“No, Kosos. Here's the situation. You tie him up and shut him back in that little bedroom so I don't have to see his face, and I'll tell you what you need to say to the man at the store so he'll give you your document. Otherwise, the two of you can pack up and leave and try your luck without it.”

Watching Tarik's calcifying expression, for one buoyant, swelling second Luka thought Tarik was going to shoot Skinny in the face. But after a few more seconds, he touched Luka's shoulder and herded him back to the bedroom and shut the door.

“You can't.” Luka pulled in one deep breath after another, trying hard not to start crying. “You can't leave me here with them. They're going to kill me.”

“They won't hurt you. If word gets out they fuck with the people who pay them, that's the end of them.”

Luka hissed through his teeth to keep from screaming, “You don't believe that. I can see it in your face, you're scared to leave me alone with them. Fuck, you didn't even feel safe leaving me in a separate room.”

“It's a shit situation. And you're right, I don't like it, either. But I can't leave without that paper.” Tarik dug the coil of cord out of his rucksack. “Fifteen minutes. I walk there, I get the paper, I walk back. And then we'll leave.”

While Tarik bound his arms back, Luka felt like a mystical monster had reached into him and scooped out his insides with its claws. He felt empty and weirdly weak. When Tarik was done, it was difficult just taking three steps and sitting on the bed.

Tarik leaned in close and whispered, “I didn't tie it. The ends are just tucked. If they come in to check, let them see I tied you up, like they wanted. But if they fuck with you, you can wiggle loose. But they won't.” Tarik held up his knife. “Just in case.” He slipped it into the pocket of Luka's jacket, then gave him what Luka figured was supposed to be a reassuring smile. Then he rooted around in his pack, and came up with a knife twice the size of the one he'd given Luka, one edge smoothly sharp, the other serrated with vicious teeth that reminded Luka of a scary movie about a man-eating shark. It was too long for the sheath on Tarik's belt, so the little strap that normally snapped shut over the hilt dangled limp and useless, now. “I'll hurry.” Tarik put on his coat and closed the bedroom door as he left.

Luka sat perfectly still, and listened. Out in the living room he heard Tarik's deep voice reverberate even though he was speaking quietly. “Don't even open that fucking door. If he's not safe and sound when I get back, you're both dead. And Begović—look at me—I don't make idle threats.” The other two didn't say anything. Then there was the creak of the door on its hinges, then the click of the latch.

Luka held his breath, and listened. A chair scraped over the wood floor, and the thump of someone's heavy tread made Luka's heart pound. The other, shuffling steps were Skinny's. Were they coming closer?

“That guy's got a big fucking mouth.” Calvin stomping to and fro.

“Yep.”

“Maybe I'll punch all his teeth out of that mouth, and see what he wants to say to me after that.”

Skinny shushed him. “The pet cockroach can hear you, you know.”

“Do I care? I'll break his little neck. One quick squeeze. Snap.”

“Sounds like a great double feature. Then what do we tell Damir? We fuck up this little enterprise of his, he'll skin us alive.” Skinny shuffled around. “Let that soldier shoot his mouth off. He comes back, we put up with him and his cockroach another ten minutes while they get organized, then they're gone, and we've got our paycheck. Come on. It's your turn to do the dishes.”

“I'll do 'em later.”

“You always say you'll do them later, and after another three meals they're all stacked up in the sink, and I'm stuck doing three turns' worth.”

“Quit nagging me, Begović. You sound like my auntie. Like a little old lady.”

“Go fuck yourself, Armin.”

They kept bickering, shuffling and stomping like a couple of half-starved stray tomcats hissing at each other, and little by little Luka let himself breathe. His heart was beating almost normally by the time Tarik was back.

“There. You satisfied?” Skinny aborted his recitation of his long list of burdens he was shouldering because of Calvin's shirking of the chores. “The old goat give you any trouble?”

Luka didn't hear Tarik answer, or his footsteps, but a moment later the bedroom door opened. Tarik came in and closed the door. “You okay?”

Luka nodded.

Tarik nudged him forward and unwound the cord from his arms. “They left you alone?”

“Yeah. Can we go now?”

Tarik looked grave. “I didn't get the document. I have to go back tonight.”

Luka's body felt heavy, like it was sinking into the bed even though he was trying to sit up straight.

“With the documents, I can get over the border.” Tarik sat down on the bed and spoke softly, like he didn't want Skinny and Calvin to hear him. “My son is there.”

Luka tried to hide his shock.

“Just by luck, Senka went to Alkbana with her family, before she found out she was pregnant. But I got drafted before I could get across.”

It was impossible to imagine Tarik holding a baby. “How old is he?”

“Almost six months. His name's Daris.”

“So, you're going back tonight.”

“The old man won't deal with those two. He's afraid of them.”

“I'll be fine. They didn't even open the door. I think they just want to get paid and get rid of us.”

“I was originally supposed to cross with another soldier I knew. The documents are for two brothers. You're as good a match as he was for the passport. If you want, you can go with me. Get out of this crazy country. This ridiculous war.”

It didn't matter if the Eršban soldier in civilian's clothing was lying, or telling the truth. Either way, Luka was a microscopic cog in Tarik's catastrophic plan. Probably he was telling the truth. Why else would he have bothered dragging Luka along with him the past three days? Why else would he have shared his scarce reserve of food?

“Luka?”

“So, we'll leave later tonight?”

“The old man told me to come back at seven.”

“Okay.”

For a while, Luka listened to Armin's grumbling, Begović's indignant cackle, and Tarik's low murmur, his words indistinct from behind the bedroom door where Luka kept himself hidden from Skinny and Calvin's animosity. When he got desperately thirsty, Luka briefly braved the kitchen, relieved to see through the dirty living room window that Begović and Armin were sprawled on a couple wicker chairs on the porch. Over in the living room, Tarik was reclined in the big armchair by the window with a book. He looked up, gave Luka a smile over the pages of his novel, then sank back into the imaginary world spread open in his hands. Luka gulped down the glass of water, refilled it, and closed himself up in the little back bedroom for the rest of the afternoon.

He didn't hear Tarik's footsteps, and startled when the door opened and Tarik was suddenly behind him.

“You hungry?”

“Sure.” Luka held himself still, willing Tarik to turn around and go away so he could hide his drawing.

“Come help me cook?”

“Okay. Just a second.”

“Oh my God, Luka.” Suddenly Tarik was right there, leaning over his shoulder, looking at the drawing partially hidden under Luka's protective forearms. “Let me see?”

Luka surrendered his drawing, letting his arms fall limp in his lap, and Tarik leaned in closer, lowering his head toward the drawing.

“You did this? Today? How long did it take you?”

“Three hours, maybe.”

“God, it's gorgeous. Reminds me of...” He stooped a little lower, and chuckled. “I was going to say Remedios Varo, and there's
Trasmundo
, right in the middle. And the rest?”