Spirit of a Mountain Wolf (13 page)

That afternoon, no one was in the hallway and Razaq thought he’d test Danyal’s statement. There had to be a way out; he just had to discover it. He found the numbers by the front door that Danyal must have been talking about and pressed a few. They made a sound like the notes of a flute and Murad materialized as suddenly as a jinn and slapped Razaq’s hand away from the buttons.

He hauled Razaq to Mr. Malik’s room. Mr. Malik was still eating his curry. Razaq watched him dip the chapatti into the bowl and pop it into his mouth. His fingers were impeccably clean, so was his mustache. He pushed the dish away and Murad took it out while Mr. Malik smoothed both sides of his mustache with one finger.

“Now, my prince,” Mr. Malik began. Razaq bit down on his annoyance. He was sick of being called a prince. He used to call the goat they fattened for Eid-ul-Adha a prince. “You cannot go outside in case you get lost. Islamabad is a big city with many evil people. Only Bashir, Murad, and myself know the combination so there is no point in trying.” He studied Razaq. “I can see you need something to occupy you. Dancing is helpful to know, but you need to have a trade. A man has come to teach you how to give a malish, a massage. And then you will be a malishia.”

He raised his eyebrows, but Razaq said nothing. Mr. Malik smiled at him. Razaq was wary of those smiles: he looked too much like a leopard licking its lips. “You don’t know what a massage is, but you soon will. You can practice on me once you know how.”

He flicked his head toward the door, and Razaq was surprised to see Murad there; he moved so silently. He took Razaq to the room he had slept in the night before, then disappeared without a word. Razaq thought he was the rudest person he had ever met.

A young man stood behind a chair in the middle of the room, a towel over his shoulder. “Sit here, please, Razaq, and take off your qameez. My name is Sunni. First we shall learn to do the head massage. The customer feels very relaxed after a head massage. Start with the shoulder like this.”

Sunni proceeded to give Razaq a massage. Razaq was determined not to enjoy it, but with Sunni’s fingers on his neck, then his scalp, stroking his forehead and then his temples, he was transported to a different place. He had seen barbers do something like this in the village bazaar, but he had never experienced it. His mother had always cut his hair.

Sunni gave him a clap on the back. “Accha, now it is your turn.”

“What?”

“Now you do it to me.”

“But I won’t remember how to.”

Sunni grinned. “I will talk you through it. Come. This is the best way to be learning.”

And so Razaq began his training for his new job. The report to Mr. Malik stated Razaq showed great promise as a malishia, and Sunni became his instructor.

Sometimes men came in the evenings, and the boys danced for them. Tahira wasn’t included and Razaq thought how respectful of Mr. Malik to not show her to the men, for even though she was only twelve she was still a girl.

Apart from dancing classes and Sunni’s massage training in the mornings, the afternoons were Razaq’s own to fill as he wished. The TV was always on. He was becoming used to seeing people do things in that black box and remembering it was just a play.

The younger boys loved watching cartoons and movies with fighting in them. “Amir Khan,” Danyal shouted, “here he is, he’s the best.” Razaq remembered how Aslam had liked him, too.

“You’ve never seen TV much?” Danyal asked him.

Razaq shook his head. “We didn’t have it in the mountains.”

“Ah, no reception,” Danyal said wisely. Danyal seemed to know so much and yet he must have only been twelve. “Didn’t you have a dish?”

Razaq frowned. “Enough dishes, of course.”

Danyal hooted. “A satellite dish, you mountain goat.”

Razaq squinted at him. “You are fortunate; if anyone like Murad called me a goat, I would fight him.”

Once his father had called him a goral, a goat antelope, when he jumped from rock to rock chasing a sheep.

Danyal grinned, and in that instant he reminded Razaq of Zakim. “You are in luck then for Murad will never call you anything.”

“Why not?”

“Has he said anything to you yet?”

“No.”

“And he never will.”

Realization dawned on Razaq. “He is a mute?”

“Hahn ji. Had his tongue chopped off. He can’t write either, so he can never tell anyone about Mr. Malik’s business, can he?”

Razaq stared at him.

Danyal wriggled his eyebrows up and down, then grinned again. “So be careful what you say.” He made a sawing motion on his tongue and gagged. Danyal could always make Razaq smile.

One afternoon, Razaq sat with Tahira in a corner while the boys watched Angrezi cartoons on the cable channel. She told him about her village. “We had a buffalo. I used to milk her.”

“I used to milk goats,” Razaq said.

She smiled. “I walked to the well with a can on my head. The buffalo turned the waterwheel to bring the water up.”

“I filled buckets at a stream.”

“Cheat.”

He grinned at her. “Did you have goats?”

“A few. My father planted wheat, and we threshed it after harvest. That was fun, jumping on the stalks. My father had to give half the grain to the landlord.” She fell quiet.

It sounded a lot like Razaq’s own life—until the earthquake. “It was a terrible sound that came from the middle of the earth,” he told her, “like nothing I’ve ever heard. And all my family died.”

Tahira didn’t say anything, but she leaned closer and put a hand over his. Razaq stared at her fingers curling around his and reminded himself she was just a child.

Razaq thought he heard Tahira call out that night. Had he imagined it? He listened a moment, then heard a sob. He crept down the hallway and found her alone in a room, weeping. Razaq didn’t hesitate—he did what he would have for Seema or Layla if they woke up from a nightmare. He sat beside her and put his arm around her back. She let her head fall onto his shoulder.

“What is the matter?” he whispered. “You have a bad dream?”

She nodded and wiped her face with a shawl. She was only a few years older than Seema, but Razaq felt such a confusion of emotion that it unnerved him. He wanted to protect her as if she were his sister. Yet she was not his sister, and if anyone in the mountains saw him do this, they would both be punished. He managed to push those thoughts aside. It was different here. There would never have been an unrelated girl sleeping in his home.

“Can you tell me?” he said.

“It was fire.” She sniffed. “I hate fire.” She stopped and Razaq waited. “It is how my family died. My village was attacked. I had a brother, the same age as you. He tried to fight but a man shot him. It was Easter—our Eid—they burned the church. Almost every Christian in the village was inside.”

Razaq stiffened. She was Christian?

“I was in the latrine,” she went on. Razaq could hardly see her—just heard her small voice telling him these things. He didn’t move his arm away. “It was Muslims from the next village who did it. Afterward, I wandered out to the main road and a man on a wagon picked me up. He seemed kind. I told him what had happened and he said it was justice because of the way America treats Muslims. I knew nothing of America, and I said what my father had told me: that we are all Pakistanis. But the man said true Pakistanis are only Muslim.”

“I am a Muslim,” Razaq said, wondering if she would hate him.

She turned her head. Could she see him? It was as if she was watching him, then she said softly, “But you wouldn’t burn me.”

“No.” Razaq said it with more fervor than he meant to.

Tahira sighed. “Today was our big Eid, Christmas. No one knows about it here,” she whispered, “they only know today as Ali Jinnah’s birthday, but in our village it was the biggest day of the year. We had new clothes and colored sweet rice, like a wedding.”

Razaq touched her face and knew that if he could see her eyes, he would find himself reflected in them. It was a place he wanted to stay forever.

Sunni brought oil bottles on a metal rack for Razaq. “This one is made from coconut, mustard, and olive oil with some coriander. This one is saanda—it’s from the fat of a lizard and it makes the customer very happy.” He gave Razaq a wink, but Razaq didn’t know what he meant.

Sunni showed him how to give a full massage, and soon, Mr. Malik said Razaq could start earning his keep. He was to have customers in his room while the younger boys were watching TV in the afternoons.

The first man that Murad directed to Razaq’s room was tall. “Please lie on the bed,” Razaq said, putting a towel where the man’s head would rest. He started on the man’s shoulders.

“That feels good,” the man said. “What else can you do—full body massage?”

Razaq glanced at the man’s long legs and feet, thinking it would take all afternoon. “Yes, if you want.”

The man rolled over and stood up. “Why don’t we cut the crap? Just bend over the bed, and I’ll massage you.”

Razaq saw the same look in the man’s eyes as Saleem had had that day when he’d grabbed him in the gali. “No.”

He ran out of the room and bumped into a hard wall of flesh. It was Murad. He sent Razaq flying into the doorjamb, belted him across the head twice, and dragged him down the hall to Mr. Malik.

The customer followed them, tying his shalwar cord. “I want my money back.”

Mr. Malik was in the doorway with money in his hand when the man reached him. He gave the man the money between two fingers. “Come back tomorrow. He is just playing hard to get.” He winked and, miraculously, the man grinned.

Mr. Malik did not smile at Razaq. “Bring him in here.” It was a growl and his face had grown dark. “Show him what the customer wanted.”

This time Razaq had no choice but to lean over the table, and Murad’s iron arm kept him there. This time there was no Kazim to save him. Now he knew what Ardil had endured and why he had never told. Razaq tried not to cry out, but his mouth bled from biting the inside of his cheek. When it was done, he stood unsteadily in front of Mr. Malik. Both men ignored the trickle Razaq could feel running down his legs.

“I am afraid Sunni’s education has been remiss,” Mr. Malik said. “He didn’t show you everything. From now on if a customer asks what you do, you say ‘massages.’ If they ask what else, you say ‘whatever you want.’ It is double for whatever they want. Understand?”

Razaq swallowed.

“Understand?”

Razaq finally opened his mouth. “Ji.”

“This way you will pay off your debt to me sooner. I will put aside some money for you—twenty-five rupees each massage, fifty rupees for ‘whatever they want.’ Much better that you work for me than be on the streets getting diseases. Samajti hai, do you understand this, Razaq?”

Razaq fought the tears that were pooling in his eyes and nodded.

“Sunni will come for an extra session in the morning and tell you all you need to know.” His mouth tightened as if he had some extra words to say to Sunni. He waved Razaq away.

If Murad hadn’t pushed Razaq down the hall to his room, he wouldn’t have been able to walk. For the rest of the afternoon he lay on his bed, wishing the throbbing would go away. But he knew that when the pain had gone there would be a different pain—that of shame. Nothing washed that away.

Men in the mountains said that badil, revenge, could erase shame, but Razaq wasn’t so sure. Would he feel better if he could kill Murad? Wouldn’t he then feel shame for killing?

The next afternoon, the man returned. He smiled at Razaq as if it was all a game, a game he was pleased to play. “Come on, pretty boy, show me your love.”

Razaq turned around while the man untied his shalwar. He ground his teeth and tried not to think of his mother’s horror if she knew what was happening to him, or how his father would avenge him if he were alive. He would call this “whatever” from now on, even though it was still skewering. Perhaps his mind would cope with it better.