The White Zone by Carolyn Marsden Page B

cold wind.
    . . .
    At dusk, the blue taxi was parked in its usual spot, the driver nowhere to be seen. For a few moments, Talib stood looking up and down the alley: no one. Quickly, he knelt. At last, the hose swished against something.
    Talib sucked and got a mouthful of burning gasoline. As he spit it out, the pale pink liquid flowed through the hose and into his bottle.
    As he waited—the hose was quite narrow— memories of Nouri flickered through his mind. Once he’d gone with him to A’mma Maysoon’s family farm in Mosul. That warm morning it had been their job to kneel in the soft soil, pinching three leaves off each watermelon plant, leaving the fourth to grow fruit. He and Nouri had worked elbow to elbow.
    Toward noon they’d scared off a small brown snake.
    At the end of the day they lay together in the field as dusk gathered, pink at the edges of the sky.
    Maybe he wasn’t so angry with Nouri after all.
    But then Talib thought of the wreckage that had once been his home.
    At last the bottle was full and Talib took a rag from his pocket. He was stuffing it into the neck of the bottle when someone called out, “Hey, boy, what are you doing?”
    Talib looked up to see the taxi driver, waving his cap, dashing toward him.
    He hid the bottle under his coat and ran down the alley, passing a group of older boys playing soccer.
    When he looked back, the driver was nowhere in sight.
    Working his way along the side streets, he arrived back at Mutanabbi. It was too late to go to Karada today. He’d get on the bus late afternoon tomorrow. Once in the neighborhood, he’d hide out until nightfall.
    Meanwhile, where should he store the bomb? He couldn’t take it home—not with the strong smell. He thought of the spice shop, which had its own pungent odor.
    He located the shop, looked both ways and entered the gloom. Once inside he felt the sacks with one hand, clutched his deadly burden with the other. Finally, he plunged the bottle deep into a bag of cinnamon sticks.

THE LIGHT OF ALLAH
    The winter days had grown colder and more bitter than anyone could remember. Mama stuffed towels around the window, but the icy wind still found its way in.
    The sky hung low, the clouds like wet cement.
    Because of the war, there was no electricity. There was no kerosene for cooking, to heat water for tea or to fuel the lamps. While Mama and Shatha huddled in blankets, Nouri collected a pile of rocks in the corner of the courtyard. If the gun battles got close, he wanted to be ready.
    Sometimes Nouri peeked down Talib’s street. Bright laundry hung from the lines that squatters had strung in the ruins. Once he heard flute music. It sounded like a trickle of cold water.
    . . .
    That January night there was no battle. Nouri lay awake, listening to the quiet. The wind, normally sharp, blew like a caress against the windows.
    He relaxed into that soft wind, as if into a pleasant dream. Was this A’mmo Hakim coming back to him? Was this Allah’s grace?
    An idea drifted in, as if carried by the breath of the wind: he could make up for the harm he’d caused. He could give the black car to Talib’s family. On Mutanabbi Street, A’mmo Nazar could probably sell it.
    The next day Nouri would propose the idea to Baba. He’d polish the car until it shone with the light of Allah himself.

THE WHITE ZONE
    Allah is great!
The recorded voice of the muezzin called at sunrise.
Allah is great! There is no God but Allah!
    Talib rubbed his eyes.
    Instead of getting up, Talib burrowed deeper into the blanket, his breath fogging the cold air. Today was the day he’d sever his connection with Allah forever.
    He’d hidden the bus money in the pocket of his coat, along with three wooden matches. That afternoon he’d retrieve the bottle from the bag of cinnamon.
    Talib pressed his face into the pillow. He had only enough for a one-way bus fare. How would he get back to Mutanabbi