Page 3 of Spread Your Wings
“Thank you,” Nicole said, her shoulders dropping from high-alert power suit levels.
Mumu motioned for Sammy to follow him to the front desk. They waited in line behind Harold, avoiding Nicole on the far side of the counter. Nicole and the blonde woman whispered back and forth.
“It’s Mustafa.” His voice was so low, Sammy almost missed it.
“Your name? Mustafa?”
He nodded. “Mumu’s just a nickname to avoid alarming the guests.”
“I still don’t get it,” Sammy said. “Why would they be alarmed? This isn’t Iran.”
Mustafa cocked his head to one side. “I wish I knew. Your friend seems upset.”
Sammy had to agree. A frown marred Nicole’s bronzed face. “Just met her,” Sammy told Mustafa. “You’re more my friend than she is. You bought me a kebab.”
Mustafa’s smile returned. “CNN bought the kebab. All I did was deliver it.”
Howard spun toward them, his room key in hand. “Man, I hate jetlag,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.” Sammy stepped up to the desk and checked in using his new credit card and passport. The desk clerk spoke to him in English but spoke to Mustafa in Bosnian. They conversed non-stop while processing Sammy’s transaction. Sammy foundit unnerving, and a little rude, but said nothing. He didn’t want to sound as judgmental as Nicole.
“All set,” the desk clerk said, handing Mustafa the key. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thanks,” Sammy said, following Mustafa to the elevators. Nicole was still arguing with the hostess in harsh whispers he willfully ignored. Nicole embodied everything other countries hated about Americans. She was also Sammy’s coworker. He would put up with her for his three-month assignment, and then they would be off to opposite sides of the world. He hoped, anyway.
Mustafa selected the fifth-floor button. They rode the elevator in silence. This close, in the confined space, Sammy caught a whiff of Mustafa’s cologne, something woodsy with a hint of musk. Sammy held his backpack in front of him like a shield, protecting him from what Mustafa’s scent did to him. Mustafa stood in the opposite corner, oblivious to Sammy’s internal struggle.
Still have a boyfriend.
As they walked down the hallway toward room 512, Sammy dug into his coat pocket. Wallet in hand, he removed the five-dollar bill. He traded Mustafa the bill for his bag.
“Thank you,” he stammered. He almost shut the door on Mustafa’s heel in his haste to be alone. He needed to relax. Jerking off to the thought of someone—Mustafa—swearing at him in a thick Bosnian accent was next on his Sarajevo checklist.
CHAPTER TWO
Sammy and Harold worked together through the weekend. Sometimes, Sammy wrote copy to go with Harold’s videos from the streets of Sarajevo. Other times, he and Harold hopped in the rag-top Jeep Wrangler and drove to bustling public areas. By Saturday evening, they’d toured the library, museum, and the Olympic Stadium.
There, they interviewed people. When English didn’t work, Sammy dusted off his French skills. He translated into a microphone while Harold focused on the people of Sarajevo. Most of their interviewees expected life to go on as usual, as it had since the dissolution of Yugoslavia. Despite their optimism, Sammy felt the pressure of “political unrest” as he had never experienced.
The tension between the Serbs and Bosnians was so thick, it seeped into his chest. He couldn’t take a deep breath.
Harold guided him back to the Jeep. He clasped the camera case to his body, probably to ward off the pickpockets that had checked Sammy’s empty pockets already.
Once Sammy had regained his breath, bent over his knees, breathing into his hands, Harold patted him on the back.
“Is this your first war?”
“They’re not at war.”
“I heard the same thing you did,” Harold said. “They will be.” Harold’s deep bass rang with certainty. Sammy hoped he was wrong. In the two days since they’d landed, Sammy had seen beautiful relics and statues restored to their glory before World War II. He’d also found a Kebab House serving more delicious flat bread laden with lamb, vegetables, and tzatziki sauce. He wanted more of a chance to enjoy the city, before the referendum, at least. He wanted the war to hold off until then.
Nicole broadcasted their stories late Monday night, in time for the Monday evening news back home. Despite the late night, eager to complete his first assignment, Sammy showered, shaved, and started a pot of coffee. He was still at the coffee station in the newsroom, a ballroom converted into office space, when Howard stumbled from his room in pajama bottoms and a USC sweatshirt. His eyes were still sleep-blurry from an evening nap.
Sammy gave him the first cup of coffee to drown his morning breath.
“Jeez, Harold, could you at least try to look professional?” Nicole asked after she signed off and they disconnected from Atlanta.
“I’m just the cameraman,” he said, taking another gulp of coffee.
