Page 16 of Spread Your Wings
“Serbian assholes,” Tima said, her eyes flashing with anger.
“It is nothing,” Mustafa said as he reclined against the pillows, breathing hard from the effort to take a drink. “At least, I am still here.”
“They will start shooting next,” Vasily said. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Let them shoot. I would rather be dead.”
“Don’t say that,” Tima said.
“Does it hurt?” Sammy asked.
“My pride is wounded more,” Mustafa said. “They caught me on my way home from the restaurant. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“They hurt you this badly, and you tried to go to work the next evening?” Tima clucked at him with her tongue. “Mumu…”
“Careless boy,” Vasily said, cupping his cheek. “We must get you out of here.”
Mustafa sank further into the pillow and closed his eyes. “I will be fine.”
“This time, a concussion. Next time, the morgue,” Vasily said. “I know these men. They will stop at nothing.”
“So do something about it,” Mustafa huffed. “Stop talking and do something.”
“What would you have me do? They start with us because no one much cares if we die. We have been dying from AIDS for ten years, and no one has cared.”
“I care,” Tima said, grabbing Mustafa’s hand. They locked gazes, and Sammy noticed the family resemblance. Cousins, he guessed. “Bosniaks will care.”
“The Croats will not,” Vasily said. Then, he began speaking in Bosnian, and Tima translated for Sammy. “Once they are done with us, they will come for the rest of the Bosniaks. It will be too late for anyone, even the United Nations, to stop it.”
“How can I help?” Sammy asked. “I can talk to the hotel, make sure it’s safe?—”
“Nothing you do will make it safe,” Vasily said.
“I can take you with me to London,” Sammy said, the plan forming in his head. “Instead of returning, we can book you a flight to Atlanta.”
“I would need a student visa or green card,” Mustafa said, shaking his head. “The consulate cannot give either of those things. Our independence would need to be recognized by the United States.”
“Yes.” Vasily nodded. “I like this plan.”
“How could you like this plan?” Mustafa asked. “It’s crazy!”
“Take the American back to the hotel. We have much to discuss.” Vasily turned to Sammy. “When do you leave for London?”
“April nineteenth.”
Tima bent down and kissed Mustafa’s cheek. “Call me when you get home.”
“I will be back at work tomorrow, I promise.”
She glared at him but said nothing as she bowed out, making room for Sammy.
Sammy didn’t know what to do, so he stepped in and took Mustafa’s hand, intending to shake it. The bruises changed his mind, and he clasped his other hand to Mustafa’s, as well. “Glad you’re okay.” He gently placed Mustafa’s mottled arm back on the bed and let go of his hand.
“Thank you for coming to see me. I will be back on my feet tomorrow, I promise.” He laughed, then winced. “Well, maybe on my ass at the front desk.”
“I will see you then.”
Tima was silent on the drive back to the hotel. She pulled up to the front entrance of the hotel instead of parking in the lot. “Mustafa is the baby of the family, the favorite cousin. His parents abandoned him for, you know,” she sighed. “My mother taught us we are all one in the eyes of Allah, all deserving of love. I have to tell my mother he’s all right.” Her lip quivered. “He will be all right, yes? You will get him out of here?”
