In the Sea There are Crocodiles by Fabio Geda Read Free Book Online

that day, but sometime later we heard a very loud explosion and ran to see. We were told that two suicide bombers had tried to get in. One had been stopped, but the other had succeeded. They’d both blown themselves up. Nineteen people had died inside and outside the mosque, or so I was told.
    I met a lot of boys who were going to Iran. Or who had come back from Iran. They said things were better in Iran than in Pakistan (which I didn’t doubt: I’d have sworn that anywhere on earth was better than Quetta)and that there was much more work in Iran. And apart from that, there was the question of religion. They were Shia—the Iranians, I mean—which was better for us Hazara, for the stupid reason that brothers in religion treat each other better, though as far as I’m concerned you should be kind to everyone and shouldn’t have to check their identity card or religious affiliation.
    I heard these voices in the air, as if broadcast through a loudspeaker like a muezzin’s prayer, I sensed them in the flight of birds, and I believed them, because I was small, and when you’re small what do you know of the world? Listening and believing were the same thing. I believed everything people told me.
    So when I heard those things—that the Iranians were Shia and they treated you well and there was work—and when I saw Afghan boys in the street who’d been in Teheran or Qom and now had money in their pockets, and clean hair, and new clothes and trainers instead of slippers, whereas we Hazaras who worked at the Liaqat Bazaar stank like goats, I swear to you, when I saw these boys stop for a night at the
samavat
Qgazi, and reflected that they’d been like me once whereas now they wore jeans and shirts, I made up my mind that I would go to Iran, too.
    I went back to
kaka
Rahim and asked his advice,because of all the people I knew he was the one who knew most about traveling. Unsmiling, smoking a cigarette as usual, the smoke clinging to his long lashes, he said I was doing the right thing, going to Iran, but he said it as if doing the right thing and doing the wrong thing were the two halves of a roll which had to be eaten together, without worrying about the filling.
    He wrote something on a piece of paper, a name, and handed it to me. Go and talk to him, he said. It was the name of a people trafficker and I had to introduce myself to him as a friend of
kaka
Rahim, so that he would treat me well and not be tempted to cheat me, which was something you always had to reckon with in that kind of situation. Then he went into the kitchen, put some roast chickpeas and raisins in a packet and gave it to me saying that he couldn’t give me anything else, except for his blessing, his wish that I arrive safe and sound.
    My mind was made up. There was no turning back.
    I went to say goodbye to Zaman and promised him I would always read a bit of the Qur’an, if I happened to find a copy. I went to
osta sahib
and thanked him for everything. Then I went to find the boys in the Liaqat Bazaar and told them I was about to leave.
    Where are you going?
    Iran.
    And how are you getting there?
    With a people trafficker. I got his name from
kaka
Rahim.
    If they catch you, you’ll end up in Telisia or Sang Safid. Like the old madman in the market, the one with the stones in his pocket, who spends all day rubbing them because he’s convinced there’s gold inside them.
    I was familiar with the stories circulating about Telisia and Sang Safid. Stories about beatings and abuse. I don’t care, I said, I don’t want to be here anymore.
    They say a whole lot of people die on the border because the Iranian police shoot at you, one person said.
    They say there’s a lot of work, said another.
    Rumors, I said. The only thing to do is go and see for myself.
    Sufi was eating dates, making big chewing movements with his mouth like a camel. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his
pirhan
, slipped the bag from his back and put it down on the ground. With a leap