Escape (21 page)

Was Tarik making a joke? How could he ever imagine Luka, of all people, could think he was a coward? “I never thought that. Never for a second. You have a kid. He needs you.”

“I didn't desert because of Daris.” Tarik's voice was tight and cold, and Luka wasn't sure what to say. Tarik pushed his empty bowl away. “Before you went to the refugee camp, did you see any real action?”

“No.”

“I was against the war from the beginning. I never bought into all the propaganda. A bunch of recycled lies from every genocide from World War Two to Rwanda. I mean, really, to me, to put on that red uniform, pick up a gun, start rounding people up—how would I have been better than the men who tore through their villages with machetes, hacking off the ears and hands of their neighbors?

“When some of my neighbors, even some of the faculty and staff at the university put on uniforms and started walking around carrying guns, I couldn't believe people I knew could be that gullible. But when they started drafting people, when they made it a crime to refuse to serve, everything got so surreal. When my draft notice came, and I couldn't work out a way to legally leave the country, I didn't know what to do. They were executing draft dodgers in the street. I told myself, I'd go along with it, just the basic training, just to buy time, thinking maybe the insanity would end before they sent me into real combat.”

Tarik let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “Naive, right?” He was quiet for a long time. Then he cleared his throat, and spoke again.

“The first time I saw one of our guys get shot, I decided. He was right next to me, this ruddy, kind of doughy guy. We went through training together, so I guess I'd known him seven weeks. He was a little stupid, a little short-tempered, a little selfish, but basically harmless. And there we were, our first action, and he was hunkered down next to me behind the sandbags. The firing started. Fuck, it was loud. I set up and aimed my rifle, but I didn't pull the trigger. I was down on my knees, hunched up against that stack of sandbags, wondering who the fuck I was aiming my gun at. The seventeen year-old son of a poor beet farmer? Some kid they yanked out of school so they could put a gun in his hand and march him to the front? A man with three kids and a wife starving to death in a refugee camp?

“What did any of them—what did any of
you
ever do to me? All those scared, exhausted, hungry men I was supposed to shoot have as much to do with this fucking war as I do. Nothing.

“They can call it desertion. I call it a fucking duty. Obeying their orders and shooting at a man I've never met before, a man guilty of no crime, as far as I know, I call that murder.

“So I huddled there against that wall of sandbags, trying to look like I was doing my patriotic duty, but I didn't fire a single bullet. The fighting lasted about twenty minutes. It felt like three hours. Every single second of those twenty minutes, I thought I was about to die, and I almost wanted it, because then they could never make me pull the trigger. And then the guy next to me, Djuradj, that doughy kid with the red face, flopped over against me, half his head gone. And I swear, right then, that exact moment, the shooting stopped. As if killing Djuradj was the whole point of the battle.

“Four days later, they sent me off to scout with two other guys, and I managed to sneak off. And if they catch me tomorrow and shoot me for desertion, I'll die unashamed of my choice.”

Luka stared into his bowl. Tiny spheres of oil clustered together on the surface, yellow against the reddish broth.

“You think it's an excuse? That I'm a coward?” Tarik's voice was quiet. Hard.

Luka was almost too ashamed to meet his eyes, but he forced himself. “I'm the coward. I agree with everything you said. I thought those same things a thousand times since the war started. But I never would have been brave enough to do what you did.”

Tarik's laugh was strangely hollow. “It doesn't take any courage to run away from a legion of men trying to shoot you to death.”

“It does for me. I'm always too afraid to say no. To defy orders. Teachers. Parents. My boss. The soldier who kicked me out of my house. I've schemed my way out of a couple of things, broken the rules in secret, but I've never stood up and said no.”

Tarik stared at him so long, Luka had to go back to staring at the constellations of oil in his bowl. “Luka? Can I ask you something? Something personal?”

Luka lifted his head and met Tarik's eyes.

“What happened with your family?”

Luka broke away from Tarik's gaze again.

“I know what you said. But I got the feeling you just use the story about money, so you don't have to talk about what really happened.”

Luka shrugged.

“You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. It just...you seem like you're always hiding yourself. I want you to know you don't have to be so guarded all the time. Not with me.”

The question had Luka's heart thumping fast, had him squirming in his chair. But Tarik's gaze steadied him, somehow. Made Luka feel safe. “We weren't really poor. That's not why they sent me away.” He swallowed, but he couldn't say it. Even though Tarik already knew. Obviously.

“What was it really about?” Voice low and patient.

Why was it so hard, even pulled in and gently held by Tarik's steady gaze? Even though he already knew the truth that Luka defended every time he told the lie about his parents being poor and sending him away so there'd be one less mouth to feed. “They figured it out. What I am. That I'm...”

Tarik waited and waited, then finally asked, “They sent you away because you liked boys?”

Luka shrugged.

“Their own son? How could they?”

Luka shrugged again. “They were afraid, I guess.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Of me.”

Tarik grunted.

“Of the way people laughed. Of the shame.”

“What shame is worse than abandoning your own child?”

“That's not how they see it. To them, they were helping me. Giving me a chance to go live somewhere, where nobody knew that there was something wrong with me.”

“There's nothing wrong with you. You know that, right?”

What could he say to that? With Tarik, he was so happy. Not just for the physical pleasure of the things they did together. Luka loved listening to him, loved how Tarik held him in his gaze when he listened to him. Loved how, more than just feeling safe for the first time since he was little, he felt whole and right, instead of broken and badly made, which is how he'd always felt, on his own.

“They sent you away so young. Are you even sure...”

“What?”

“Maybe it wasn't what you thought. Maybe you felt guilty about things you were thinking, feeling, and made it about that. But maybe it really was about money.”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

Luka sighed. “Because, when I was little, I was too dumb to know I was supposed to be ashamed, and hide what I felt.”

Tarik moved his chair close to Luka's, then leaned in, stroked his shoulder, kissed his temple. “What didn't you hide?”

The earliest memory was the one he hated facing. Why? All the other times, he'd known—even if only vaguely and remotely, the other time in Bijeljina, before he'd been sent away—he was being bad. That his thoughts, his wants, were wrong and dirty and needed to keep them secret. But that first time, in the car, he'd been so stupid. Bouncing and giggling and high on the drama and laughter and adventure of the movie, and the simpler, childish pleasure of the excursion into the city.

“When I was eight, my aunt and uncle took me and three of my cousins to the city for the day. My first time leaving Bijeljina, except for the few times I'd gone with my parents to visit family in Dvorova, which is hardly any bigger than our village. I'd been looking forward to it for weeks, and don't think I slept the two nights before the big day.

We left really early in the morning, just after dawn, so we'd have the full day to explore the city. We walked around for hours, then had lunch in a restaurant that seemed really fancy to me, even though it was full of regular people. I had a cheese burger with onion rings and a strawberry milkshake. I still remember how huge and delicious they were, how I kept eating until my plate and glass were empty, even though I was stuffed before I'd eaten half. And after lunch, we went to see a movie. One of those animated musicals for kids,
The Enchanted Feather
. Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“It's about three boys who compete to save the kingdom from a magical curse, because the one who defeats the evil spell will get to choose one of the king's daughters for his wife.” Luka took a few deep breaths. Even now, held safe in Tarik's steady gaze, Luka couldn't escape the miserable regret for opening his mouth, back then. “When we were driving back that night, Lejla and Ajla started arguing about which boy would be the best husband. Ajla said she would have chosen the big, strong, brave boy who fought off a pack of ghost wolves by himself in the dark forest, but Lejla wanted to marry the smart one who used the information he found in books to figure out how the break the dark spell imprisoning the kingdom.”

When he stopped talking, took in a deep breath, Tarik pressed his big, warm hand to the center of Luka's back, stroking in slow circles, and Luka's body softened under that soothing touch.

“My aunt asked me and Sejad who we'd marry, the princess, or her friend. It's so stupid, but I was excited to answer. But Sejad was two years older than me, and I waited for him to say something, first. And he said something like, 'Gross. I don't want to marry any stupid girl and have to kiss her all the time.' And I was such an idiot, I thought that meant he felt like I did, that he'd rather pick one of the boys, too. And I told them all I wanted to marry Ivan. He wasn't as tough or as smart as the other two, but he was the only one in the whole movie who cared more about saving the kingdom, than about winning the contest and getting his reward. The others seemed greedy and selfish, and he seemed good and kind.

“Lejla and Ajla started giggling, and Sejad hit me in the arm and told me I was stupid, that I had to pick a girl. My aunt and uncle didn't say anything, at first. Then my aunt said something like, 'Boys marry girls, and girls marry boys.'” Luka took a deep breath and huffed it out. “And I said I didn't think I'd want to get married, if I had to marry a girl. Everyone was quiet the rest of the drive back. Even Lejla and Ajla, who hadn't stopped talking for ten seconds the whole day.

“When we got back to Bijeljina, my aunt and uncle made us kids wait in the car while they went in and talked to my parents. Then they came back to the car, told me to go inside, and they left with my cousins. My parents never said anything about talking to my aunt and uncle, never asked me about the movie, or about marriage, or even about our trip to the city. It was like they pretended that day never happened. But from that day, they were different with me. Not in an obvious way. I mean, they didn't yell at me more than before, or keep me from playing with my friends. They just seemed... afraid. Like they were always watching, always listening as if they were scared, every minute, that something terrible was about to happen.”

“And when you got older, they sent you away?”

Luka shrugged. “When I was thirteen, the terrible thing my parents were afraid of finally happened.”

Even now, with a barrier of years, and Tarik's close embrace keeping him safe, Luka started to tremble as he let in the memory he usually pushed away. The lighthearted pleasure of a Sunday afternoon's liberation from his work at the barbershop and the chores and babysitting responsibilities of the house. Laughter as he and the other three boys traipsed through the woods and out to the lake. At thirteen, he was the youngest among them by at least two years, and since he didn't go to school, anymore, and was kept so busy taking care of his younger siblings and helping out at the shop, he wasn't so close as the other three, who were always together, getting into trouble over their petty delinquencies. But most Sundays, after church, they'd invite him to tag along on whatever adventures they had planned.

Even though it was a bitterly cold February afternoon, the others wanted to go to the lake, because it was one place where they could be sure they'd be left alone by the grownups. Rough-housing, smoking, and even drinking, when they could get their hands on a bottle, were the activities of choice. Luka never smoked, even when they offered him a drag off their cigarettes, but sometimes he took a sip or two from the bottle they were passing around, just enough to feel like he was part of the group, but mostly what he liked was listening to their ribald jokes, their tall tales of conquests of girls from neighboring villages (never girls from their own village, and Luka always wondered if it was out of respect, or because the boys were lying, and would be at greater risk of being caught out if they said those things about girls they all knew), and watching their inventive contests to test their physical prowess.

In summer, they'd compete to see who could dive under and swim the farthest toward the center of the lake without coming up for air, or they'd rig a rope to a tree branch, and see who could hurl themselves farthest from shore. In colder months, there were foot races, and contests to see who was bravest, as determined by who would jump down from the highest tree branch, wall, or rooftop. Three times, they'd held amateur boxing matches, but that was a pass-time of last resort, because when they got home to their parents with black eyes and split lips, Mirza and Faris got grounded and had to do all their siblings' chores, on top of their own.