* * *
Something landed on him. It was wet, heavy, warm—a person.
For a moment he just lay there, with a man on top of him. Then he heaved him aside and nodded off again. Two men entered—were they the same ones who had beaten him up, or some others? They grabbed hold of the man, hauled him up, and pounded him with the butts of their weapons. Sadiq tried to get out of the way but could not escape blows to his own head, shoulders, and neck. The other man cried out, “Ya ummi!” Mother! He raised his hands to defend himself, fell, picked himself up, stood, before dropping to the ground and lying there motionless. The last of the kicks provoked no reaction.
A small, thickset guy with broad features and an unkempt beard lifted the man’s arm and let it go. The man’s hand thumped lifelessly onto the floor, and the torturer said, “Our prey is all set.”
They took one foot each and pulled, hauling the man like a sack. His head thudded against the floor as they dragged him over the threshold. Streaks of blood were left behind down the corridor.
“Lock the door on that other piece of shit!” the little stocky one with the beard shouted in broken Arabic.
The guard slammed the door shut. The lock clicked. Sadiq was alone.
He lay dazed, hollowed out, and feeble. How long had he been here, without food or water? One day, two days, three? Faint with thirst, he dozed off, awoke again. He felt like he was sinking, trapped in quicksand. Blindly, he descended ever deeper, went under, his mouth filled up, his nose, his throat. He lost all air. Choked. Sank into the depths.
* * *
His enfeebled body went on high alert as the door jerked open and light was let in. He saw the outline of a man in the doorway. He was tall and well built. Sadiq crouched in the corner, readying himself for the blows. They had come to get him. It was his turn. His time was up.
The man handed him a cup of lentil soup. Sadiq drank slowly. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. When the cup was empty, he licked around the inside, as far as his tongue could reach, before running his fingers over the bottom to get the last drops. Then he licked his fingers until no taste of the soup remained.
The guard returned. With water and a crust of bread. Why was he being given food all of a sudden, what did that mean? Was it a good sign? A bad sign? A last meal?
When the guard came back to collect the cup, Sadiq asked what had happened to the man who had been taken out.
“You don’t want to know,” the guard replied in a local dialect and slammed the door shut.
That evening, or that night, or whatever it was, the three men returned. The guard had screwed a lightbulb in the ceiling, so now Sadiq was better able to make them out. He recognized one of them: The orchestrator of the beating from the night before was short, compact, with a black beard spreading high up his plump cheeks, almost reaching his eyes. His face was broad, his hair tousled. The other man was tall, maybe close to six feet, with pale skin and dark, sleek hair. By his dialect Sadiq guessed he was Libyan. The last man was slender, with a golden tinge to his black skin, he could have been from the Horn of Africa, Eritrea perhaps.
The broad-faced, well-built one squatted in front of Sadiq. He did not say anything, merely stared right at him, his eyes fixed on Sadiq’s. The two others stood behind him. They all had handguns. No one said a word.
They stared at him in silence.
They’re trying to break me, Sadiq thought. The burly one remained squatting in front of him, the weight of his pistol making a pouch in the tunic. Sadiq decided to meet his gaze, to fight back: I’m not so easy to crush, just try.
He shifted position. His thickset counterpart did not. The man was younger than he had first thought, in his early twenties perhaps. Sadiq continued to eyeball him: I’m an older wolf than you. I would beat you in a fair fight.
He felt his heart beating and tried to breathe evenly. He used the technique he had learned as a sharpshooter to calm his pulse. But his heart would not allow itself to be mastered.
The bearded one got to his feet abruptly without saying anything, kicked Sadiq, and walked out. The other two followed.
* * *
“Why are you here?” the guard asked him the next morning.
“I don’t know,” Sadiq answered.
“You ought to know,” the young men went on. “Because this is death row.”
Sadiq felt a jolt pass through him.
“What have you done?”
“I’m innocent,” Sadiq said. “Let me explain, let me see a judge!”
“Impossible,” the guard replied. “The judge has had his say.”
“I’m here to find my daughters, to take them back home…”
“You’re a traitor!”
“I’m a father!”
The guard spat in his face. “Kazab!” Liar! He spat again. “You’re spying for Western intelligence.”
Sadiq wiped off the clot of spit and looked right at the guard.
“My daughters just up and left and … now … I … am … searching…”
“You’re lying. Kazab, kazab!” The guard left.
A dark feeling spread.
After a time the guard returned with a copy of the Koran.
“Can you swear on the Koran?” he asked, looking Sadiq in the eye.
“No,” Sadiq replied, “I cannot. I’m covered in shit. I can’t touch God’s book like this.”
The guard went out, with the book in hand. When he returned, he led Sadiq into the backyard, turned on a tap, and hosed him down. A rush of life gushed through him and he gulped greedily at the water washing over him. Blood, shit, and sweat ran down his body, it was as though the cold water whipped him back to life. Drink! Drink! went the refrain in his mind.
Once
