Don't Tell Me You're Afraid Read Online Free PDF Page A

Ahmed.
    In the courtyard Hooyo, sitting on a chair, was still stirring, bent over the steaming pot heated by the brazier. She had covered her hair with a white veil, which she avoided wearing at home when she wasn’t cooking.
    Seen from the entrance, the skin of her face—illuminated by the moon and firelight and beaded with drops of moisture from the steam—seemed very smooth. Firm and shiny like the rind of a watermelon at noon.
    Just for a change, that night we ate rice and vegetables.

CHAPTER 4

    T HE NEXT MORNING we ran the race.
    The gathering place was at the national monument at eleven o’clock; the sun was almost at its peak and it was hot as hades.
    The course wound through the streets of the city to the stadium: Once we entered it, we would run a lap around the field, then cross the finish line.
    There were three hundred of us. For twelve months it was all I’d been waiting for: Week after week, day after day, I had mentally retraced every meter, every curve; I had imagined every moment of the race, picturing myself entering the stadium and at the finish.
    Still, last night’s encounter with Ahmed, along with Alì’s mood, had had an effect on me too.
    So I wasn’t able to give what I could have. I tried to keep to the edge of the group, I did everything I’d planned to do, but something inside me didn’t respond as I had expected. A part of my brain kept thinking about the glitter of those icy green eyes when they looked at Alì.
    A year. I had spent a year training and I wasn’t able to give my best. I would never forgive myself.
    The course was the usual one; Alì and I had run it a thousand times. The streets had been cleared of the few cars that normally traveled them and knots of vendors were gathered along the entire length of Jamaral Daud, selling water or refreshing juices, bananas and chocolate bars for a few shillings. With its trash cleared away, the avenue was unrecognizable.
    Had it been any other day, I could have won.
    But no. I came in eighth.
    Alì finished one hundred and forty-ninth.
    â€œYou’re better at biting than running,” I teased him afterward. He had also ended up in a pool of excrement: an open sewer. Realizing that he was behind, he had cut through a side street where trash and feces were dumped at night, ever since a bomb had ruptured the sewer system built by the Italians. The cesspool that day had spread over the entire width of the street. Alì had thought it was shallow but found himself in it up to his calves. Still, he had gained a lot of ground.
    At home that night we celebrated.
    Hooyo cooked kebabs of lamb tripe and entrails, which I was crazy about.
Kirisho mirish,
a spicy meat and rice dish, along with sweet sesame paste, was my favorite. We were happy; Aabe told a lot of jokes and made us all laugh.
    Alì, on the other hand, ashamed of the stench that stuck to him, didn’t even want to come out of his room. His brother Nassir had made him wash before going in, and afterward he refused to come out.
    Every so often, when Said or Nassir called out, teasing him about the stink, Alì shouted something from the room, sniveling woefully. At that point we all chimed in.
    â€œLeave me alone!” he yelled from his self-imposed isolation.
    â€œGo on, come out and eat, Stinko!” Nassir kept at him, knowing he was making him even angrier.
    â€œNo, I’m never eating with you again,” Alì shouted.
    â€œMay a thousand pounds of sewage fall on your head,” Said piped up, and we all laughed uproariously. Alì didn’t answer.
    Something was bothering him.
    The fact that Ahmed was one of the fundamentalists’ militiamen had affected him deeply.
    I’d told him that my brother Said was right not to trust Ahmed, but Alì had replied that Nassir was very close to Ahmed, so he couldn’t be bad.
    Since that day, however, his eyes would suddenly cloud over with sadness now and