Marwan came out of the shop belonging to the fat man who smuggled people from Basra to Kuwait, and found himself in the crowded covered street, which smelt of dates and big straw baskets. He had no definite idea where to make for now; there, inside the shop, the last threads of hope that had held together everything inside him for long years had been snapped. The last words the fat man had spoken were decisive and final; it seemed to him that they were forged from lead.
“Fifteen dinars, can’t you hear?”
“But …”
“I beg you, I beg you. Don’t start wailing. You all come here and then start wailing like widows. My friend! My dear friend! No one’s forcing you to stay here. Why don’t you go and ask someone else? Basra is full of smugglers.”
Yes, of course Marwan would go and ask someone else. Hasan, who had worked in Kuwait for four years, had told him that to smuggle one person from Basra to Kuwait cost five dinars and no more, and that when he came to stand in front of the smuggler he must be more than a man, and show more than courage, or they would laugh at him, cheat him, and take advantage of his sixteen years.
“They told me that the price for one person was five dinars.”
“Five dinars? Ha, ha! That was before Adam married Eve. Turn around, my boy, take three steps, and you will find yourself in the road without being thrown out.”
Marwan gathered all his courage and put it into his words. There were only seven dinars left in his pocket, and a moment before he had thought himself rich. But now … was he being treated like a child?
“You’ll take five dinars from me and be satisfied, or else …”
“Or else?”
“Or else I’ll denounce you to the police.”
Getting up, the fat man came round his desk, till he stood, panting and dripping with sweat, in front of Marwan. He stared at him for a second, looking him up and down, and then raised his heavy hand in the air. “You want to complain to the police about me, son of a …”
The heavy hand crashed down onto his cheek, and the word was lost in a fearful roar, which began reverberating between his ears. He almost lost his balance for a moment, and staggered a couple of steps back. The voice of the fat man, hoarse with anger, reached him:
“Go and tell the pimps that I’ve hit you. You’ll complain to the police about me?”
Marwan stood his ground for a short while, which was enough for him to realize that any attempt to restore his honor was futile. In fact he felt, to the marrow of his bones, that he had committed an unforgivable sin. As the marks of the fingers on his left cheek burned, he began to digest his humiliation.
“What are you waiting here for?”
He turned on his heel and went out through the door. His nose was assailed by the smell