Page 6 of Spread Your Wings
“I saw one of Vasily’s friends before he saw me.” Mustafa’s haunted tone said there was more to the story, but Sammy didn’t know him well enough to push. “It wouldn’t look right, me in his car without him.”
The few passersby on the quiet street kept to themselves. No one made eye contact. The one perfect hiding spot, the alley beside the bathhouse, was empty. “So you hid?”
Mustafa shrugged, bumping his shoulders against the dashboard. “I hid.”
Sammy walked around to the driver’s side, thankfully the same as in the States. He took his time, so Mustafa could crawl over the center console and tuck himself under the passenger-side dash. He’d seen Mustafa do it twice, now. He still had no idea how someone that tall — Mustafa had to be close to six feet, he had at least three inches on Sammy — could squeeze into such a tiny space.
It took Sammy a moment to adjust to the manual transmission. His Firebird was an automatic, a gift from his mom when he’d graduated from Yale. He started the BMW without stalling it and pulled away from the curb with only one bucking motion. He passed two intersections before Mustafa unfolded himself from the floor. Another block, and Mustafa was seated and buckled, as though he’d been there the entire car ride.
“Turn right at the next block,” Mustafa said as the first wet snowflakes hit the windshield.
Sammy down-shifted to make the turn before the clutch was fully engaged. The car made a terrible grinding noise.
“Pull over. It should be safe now.”
Sammy obliged, happy to hop out of the car and hold the door open for Mustafa. Then he darted around and slid into the passenger seat.
“Thank you,” Mustafa said as he took the wheel. “Uncle Vasily always tells me I need to think before I act, or it will get me killed. You saved my life today.”
“It was my fault,” Sammy said. “I asked you to help me. Why is that part of town so dangerous?”
“The Serbs see the bathhouse as part of the Muslim corruption. They cannot touch Uncle Vasily and his friends, so they come after the younger generation. One of my friends was dragged to a car and beaten after leaving the bathhouse on New Year’s Eve. He’s still in hospital. I haven’t been back since.”
“Why was he beaten?” Sammy asked, still not understanding.
“Peder.”
One of the few Bosnian words Sammy recognized. “Gay? You’re gay?” He tried to sound disinterested as he gazed out the window. Storefronts and houses zipped past his window to the beat of his heart.
Mustafa didn’t answer. He bowed his head as he swerved onto a side street and backed into the first available parking spot.
“It upsets you I am gay, after you needed an HIV test?” Mustafa sighed. “Are you just some drug addict?” Mustafa yanked the parking brake and switched the car off.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why are you so worried about HIV?”
“Gay as the day is long,” he said, returning Mustafa’s fake smile. “Where are we?”
“Sebilj.”
Sammy had heard of the wooden fountain, its pseudo-Ottoman style a must-see attraction. Mustafa pirouetted from the car, slamming his door. The car shook from the impact. Sammy had to hustle to catch up.
People milled around the fountain, peering into the basin. The falling snow thickened into a gauze curtain around him. Sammy admired the fountain from all angles. He followed at a safe distance from Mustafa until his legs felt numb from the cold. He brushed the thin layer of snow from a bench that wrapped around a nearby tree and sat. He watched Mustafa pace around the fountain. With each full turn, their eyes met. Finally, after the tenth lap around the steps at the base, Mustafa joined him on the bench.
They sat in silence for a full minute before Sammy couldn’t take it anymore. “My boyfriend, ahem, ex-boyfriend, was the drug addict,” Sammy confessed. He leaned in toward Mustafa sothe people taking photos of the fountain wouldn’t overhear him. “I was willing to look past it.”
Mustafa nodded. “I do not even smoke. My friends all call me a pussy. I don’t like how it tastes, and I don’t want that shit in my lungs.”
“My mom caught me smoking once and threatened to send me to military school if I ever smoked again.” Sammy laughed. “Now that I think about it, I bet all the military school kids smoke, too.”
Mustafa chuckled. The sound warmed Sammy’s gut, despite the chill wind swirling snow around and between them.
“I like cocaine,” Sammy said, choosing complete honesty. “It’s expensive, though. I can’t afford it often, and I sure as hell don’t want a habit. I don’t inject heroin, or anything like that.”
“Good,” Mustafa said. “One of my friends died from heroin. I found him on the floor of the bath house. I don’t have the words in English to explain it to you. So horrible.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
