My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (41 page)

"'They.' 'They' are America, ma man. They are the man. They are fucking Justin Beiber, like you, my man. They are the Clinton and Bush Administration. They finance Mister Obama. They are fucking Simon Cowell and the American Idol Pop bullshit. They are everything, my man. What do you call the ones in charge of everything?" questioned Hamid.

"I call them The Big Cheese," responded Michael.

It made Hamid smile.

"The Big Chiz? What does this mean?"

Michael thought to himself and smiled too. He loved facts, especially historical ones.

The Big Cheese was a term that was apparently recorded in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, in London, England. It meant first-rate, pleasant or simply good and even advantageous. Ironically, it derived from the Hindi or Persian word chiz, which simply meant 'thing'.

It was in 1886 that the Scottish Orientalist, Sir Henry Yule, made an entry in Hobson-Jobson, a famed Anglo-Indian Dictionary. Yule wrote of an expression 'the real chiz'. He cited an expression among Anglo-Indians, penning the phrase, 'My new Arab is the real chiz.' The real thing. Those who returned to England from India began to use the word chiz. With the majority of people naturally not used to it, chiz soon turned to a word more familiar sounding: cheese. It was inevitable that such a term travelled further, importantly to the United States of America where the phrase 'the real cheese' evolved into 'the big cheese', describing an important person.

"It means the most important person," stated Michael.

Hamid nodded his head. "I think I know this phrase. Is it like 'top banana'? Or 'big fish'? Is it good English?"

"Yes, it is good English," replied Michael.

"And big fish and top banana. Is it the same as big cheese?"

"It is the same. Yes," Michael answered wearily.

"Where does this come from? Calling somebody big cheese?"

Michael knew exactly where it came from. He was an intelligent man. His mind was full of trivia and odd, unusual facts. His answer could either help and go smoothly for him, continuing the casual banter back and forth, or could spin wildly out of hand. He was humble, modest even, with friends. Surely it was a simple answer. What harm could it do to inform his captor? He straightened and took a step towards the light and the cell bars, closer to Hamid. He took in a deep breath.

Hamid was taken aback by Michael's movements, despite them being slow.

"The big cheese. It comes from the Persian word 'chiz', meaning a thing. An Orientalist known as Sir Henry Yule first wrote it down in his set of dictionaries. An orientalist is really a term for Oriental Studies. It's an academic field of study that embraces Near Eastern and Far Eastern societies and cultures, languages, people, history and archaeology and all that stuff. The word 'chiz' was brought back to England and people began to say 'this was the real chiz'. It meant the real thing. The real deal. The only thing. Nothing to compare it to. The biggest thing. The big thing. Chiz changed to cheese. The big cheese. As with everything, the big cheese went to America." Michael held his stare on Hamid who, although he didn't fully understand every single word that he was being told, was intelligent enough to realise that the man before him was knowledgeable, and knowledge was, after all, power.

Hamid formed a nervous smile and tilted his head.

Despite Michael's weak, dirty and exhausted physique, and not least being caged inside a small, dark and wet cell in an underground base of an abandoned industrial building, somewhere amongst the sands of Iran, he held - for the briefest moment in time - the power.

Hamid moistened his dry, uncomfortable lips with his tongue and swallowed, thinking as he backed against the wall.

"Is America missing you? Is Lady Gaga missing you?"

"What does your heart tell you to believe? That I don't know America and America doesn't know me, or something else?" replied Michael.

"I think America knows you," said Hamid.

"I don't," said Michael.

Siamak listened and watched. He looked at his wristwatch. Siamak loomed into the darkness.

The Iranian captor known as Hamid smoked a cigarette as he stood outside the abandoned industrial structure, concealed beneath the sands of Iran. Hamid thumbed through Michael's tiny notepad, trying to understand the handwritten words scrawled inside.

The relatively good Iranian called Siamak stepped outside. Hamid glanced round and offered him a cigarette and he took one.

"What are you reading?" asked Siamak.

"The Englishman's book," replied Hamid.  "It has a list of names. Arab names. Written inside. He's a spy, you know?"

"Are you so sure?" asked Siamak.

Hamid turned around, sharply. "Yes. I am sure. This infidel is of impure blood and will kill us given just the slightest chance. He is playing us, Siamak. You are a fool to be kind to him. I believe he has engineered the revolutions in the Middle East. Egypt. Tunisia. Libya and us. Here. In Iran."

Siamak lit his cigarette, took a long drag from it and exhaled his smoke into the clean, blue skies above.

"Say, for instance, that he is innocent," he suggested.

"But he is not," interrupted Hamid.

"But imagine he is. Just grant me this story," said Siamak. "Imagine he is innocent of crime. Not of sin, but crime. What if we are mistaken?"

Hamid looked him deep in the eye and exhaled his smoke. "He is not. Believe me. He is against Islam," he said.

Within the dark and wet cell that contained Michael, a shadow was seen. A puddle was disturbed. Michael's eyes diverted quickly to see a rat scurry across the damp ground and into the darkness.

"That thing was as big as a cat," he said to himself.

He was bearded now. He had been there for weeks, maybe a month or more. His eyes rolled around, this way and that, and followed something. A fly perhaps. His eyes narrowed and squinted. He wondered where his glasses were when he touched the bridge of his nose and twitched. He scratched his beard on one side of his face and twitched again. He suddenly jumped and shrieked. "Argh!" He stumbled backwards into the cold, concrete wall, looking downwards. Michael scrunched up his eyes, tight and then re-opened them wide, looking more awake and less trance-like and more conscious of his whereabouts. He gasped as he saw the face of Hamid, staring at him through the cell bars on the other side.

"Are you going crazy?" Hamid asked.

"Should I be?" replied Michael.

"I don't understand," said Hamid.

"Neither do I," responded Michael. He twitched again.

"Do you miss Justin Bieber? You have shaved head now. Do you miss your life?" asked Hamid.

"Right now, this is my life," Michael said.

"Are you playing word with me?"

"I'm not playing word with you, no," replied Michael, sarcastically.

"But you fucking are," insisted Hamid.

"But I'm fucking not," argued Michael.

Hamid formed a smile. He pointed a finger at Michael and brought forth the notepad. "Do you know that your American leader says Osama bin Laden is dead?" said Hamid.

"I thought he died years ago," Michael sighed. He was tired of Hamid's questions.

"Ha! Yes, yes he died years ago. Of kidney failure some say. I ask you, how many times can Osama die?" asked Hamid.

"I don't know. I'm not an expert on him," said Michael.

"Some say he had a code name," stated Hamid.

"Oh."

"Yes. The CIA gave Osama bin Laden the name of Tim Osman. It is a Western name, yes? Not Arab name."

"I guess not," Michael answered.

"Your book has a list of names. Arab names. Muslim names of brothers. Can you explain this of your book?" asked Hamid.

"Show me."

Hamid turned the pages and held the notepad up close to Michael's face through two of the iron bars.

Michael squinted as he jutted his head closer, trying to read in the darkness. Scrawled inside the book were several names: Guled Omar-Ali, Shaheen, Abdul Rah-Maan, Rabee and Nasif Farah.

Michael rolled his eyes upwards to meet with Hamid's. "What do you want to ask me about them?" he said to Hamid.

"Did you kill these Muslim brothers? My Muslim brothers. Did you murder them?"

Michael shook his head, calmly. "No. As far as I know, they're very much alive."

"This one. This one here. Why is his name marked?" Hamid pointed his dirty forefinger at the underlined name of Abdul Rah-Mann. "Is he a bomb-maker? Do you think he is a terrorist? Al-Qaeda? Let me tell you something. There is no Al-Qaeda, bro. It was made up by your governments, just like your news. You make up everything. You fake your news, bro. Your news is like a Hollywood movie, you know? Do you know that? Your fucking news is shit, bro. It's all green screen and Photoshop. Your movie director Stanley film the fucking moon landings, bro. You know that? I know that. Even Spielberg was considered for fucking Argo, my man. You know that? CIA is Hollywood, my man. Did you think up the crazy idea of telling your American leader to say to the world that bin Laden is dead? I tell you, bro, I know people in Pakistan do not believe this. It is bullshit," Hamid chuckled and formed a smile as he stepped back, eyeing the notepad and looking up at Michael. His paranoid, distrusting mind was filled with conspiracy theories. Although he rarely watched television, he did read a great deal, whether it was underground newspapers that preyed on the young and impressionable or websites claiming the bizarre and outrageous. Hamid believed the Twin Towers were empty on the day of September 11th 2001 and that a missile was used to strike them both and not two passenger planes at all. He believed every news network was in on the conspiracy. He believed major terror attacks were staged events, carefully orchestrated by the powerful elite of the Western world and it didn't stop with the War on Terror either. Hamid believed natural disasters, like tsunamis and earthquakes had also been staged. However, he often became confused and flustered when he discussed which earthquakes were a special effect of the West and which were real but used by the West as a special 'weather weapon', like HAARP.

"I don't know. I've not seen or heard any news. I've been here," said Michael, exhausted.

"So, answer me, ma man. This name, why you have him marked this way?"

Michael touched his front teeth and rubbed one of them. He rolled his tongue around inside his mouth, filling out his cheeks and gums, thinking, as he looked up at Hamid. "He is someone rare."

"Rare? What is rare?" asked Hamid, with extreme curiosity

"Not ordinary. He surprised me," replied Michael.

"Like a clown?"

"No, not like a clown. He is nice. Warm. A nice person. Not violent," answered Michael.

"Like a gay?" Hamid said, with a frown.

"I don't know about that. I don't think so," said Michael.

"So how is he surprising you? Does he jump out of a box?"

"No. He's not a bloody clown, don't you understand me! Listen, he was a nice boy who you could actually have a conversation with."

"Are you gay man, too?" asked Hamid, aggressively.

"No, I am not gay man, too," Michael snapped, becoming more rapidly in tune with his environment again.

"I don't believe you, bro," said Hamid.

"Well, you don't have to, bro. I mean, you haven't believed me so far, have you, so hey, why break a habit, Hamid?"

Hamid frowned, not understanding Michael's fast-paced dialogue. "You need to slow down your words, you fuck."

"Listen, Hamid. The cussing and cursing doesn't suit you and I'm sure your Lord and Saviour, not to mention your mother, wouldn't like you speaking that way, especially to guests, so how about a little respect?"

Hamid formed a scowl and stared angrily at Michael through the vertical, solid, iron bars. He suddenly reached through and grasped Michael's bald head, pulling him forwards against the cell bars. Clang! He stepped up close, still clutching the front of his head tightly.

Michael snarled as he looked up at Hamid, who was close, practically eyeball to eyeball.

Hamid pointed at him.

"Tomorrow, you go on internet. You'll be like a movie star. Many people watch you, bro." Hamid released his grasp and Michael straightened. He looked up at him and stepped back into the shadows. Hamid lowered his eyes to his hand and spread his fingers, gently moving them. He let the hair drift to the ground below and into the darkness.

Michael listened to Hamid's footsteps as they echoed down the corridor and into nothingness. He sighed and twitched.

"Psst. Hey. Mister. Jacob," called the kind Iranian known as Siamak through the cell bars to the man.

Michael looked up and scratched his bearded face.

"I liked your story of the Czech Republic. The midget talk made me laugh," said Siamak.

Michael half smiled and lowered his eyes to the wet, concrete floor.

"Do you love her?" Siamak asked.

Michael rolled his eyes to meet Siamak's. "Of course. Yes, very much," his voice croaked. He coughed. He coughed again and cleared his throat and wiped his mouth, freeing it from spit. He looked up at Siamak once more. Michael's eyes were hollow, bordering on soulless.

"Please. Do not lose hope in seeing her again," said Siamak, as he whispered through the bars.

"Don't lose hope? Are you joking?" replied Michael.

"No, no I am not making joke. Please, listen, how do you say, for what it is worth..."

"For what it's worth? Seriously, for what it's worth? I was sold. I was sold and do you know what for? Do you? DO YOU!" shouted Michael, causing Siamak to jolt backwards and blink.

"Please, please be quiet. I am not allowed to speak with you. It is not good at this time. We must be quiet."

"We? And for what it's worth. Do you know how much I was worth that day? Apparently I was worth an iPhone and a good scaring. How much are you worth? Are you worth more than that? I thought I was. What is a human being worth?"

Siamak tightened his mouth. He understood Michael's pain and anguish. He widened his eyes, forced a smile and tapped the bars with his knuckles.

"Hey. Hey, do you like music?" he asked.

"What?" answered Michael.

"Music. I can get you music. What music do you like?"

Michael scoffed. "'Born to be wild', can you get that?"