Sunday, Bloody Sunday
There's an old Arab saying: the only shortcoming of a man is an empty pocket. With the money that Malik received for the exclusive interview, our shortcomings have disappeared: we can disappear again. We find a nice bed-and-breakfast where we can leave our luggage and pay in cash, no questions asked. Just around the corner, we find a place where we can rent our best disguise so far, although Malik has his doubts: "Why do we dress up as Chicken Chucky and French Fries Fritz?"
"Because it's not a good idea to dress up as Santa Claus in February, Malik. We need a second opinion, and this is the perfect outfit for it."
Malik doesn't get it: "A second opinion? Did I miss something?"
I search for my spiPhone under my Chicken Chucky suit: "I have a problem with Khalid. You are convinced he's bad, but I'm not so sure. Before we decide if we're going to kill him or not, I want a second opinion. And who can give us the best opinion about Khalid El Bullít?"
"Evidentially, I don't have a clue."
I stop, surprised (although it's hard to «Show, Don't Tell» with my face hidden inside Chicken Chucky's neck): "Malik! You're a novel writer. You know every good action thriller keeps the story interesting until the end, because there's always one last clue that solves the mystery, and for every reader, this clue should hide in the open. Good fiction works like that because real life works like that; if you want real life to have a happy ending, pay attention to all the details, investigate every option, and work as hard as you can to get the best solution for the problems that stand between you and happiness ever after."
Malik doesn't agree: "Fiction is fiction. Real life is a completely different story."
"Look at real life like it is right now: a Californian fried chicken and a bag of French fries are discussing if the world's most dangerous criminal is good or bad. Did you ever read a fiction story more crazy than this? Of course, fiction differs from real life. If fiction was as crazy as real life, not one reader would believe it. Do you remember our little chat about Big Question #2, Truth or Dare? We agreed. Truth was the path to follow. Trust, respect and commitment might take longer than violence and deceit, but Truth is the only road to real-life happiness. Unfortunately, when I tried to get you to look at yourself and your own part of writing fiction in our real-life story, our discussion stranded like the Black Pearl in Davy Jones's kingdom. Do you remember?"
"I do. Additionally, I told you I prefer to sell millions of action thrillers and give up poetry. Action thrillers always have a happy ending. When the protagonist triumphs, it gives every reader the glorious feeling that a civilised person stands a chance against the savages in society. Illegally, is killing bad boys against the rules?"
"The 'rules' are: trust, respect and commitment. Action thrillers teach us Poetic Justice. Writers present us unrealistic characters in unrealistic situations. When the most beautiful character kills the ugly one in the final fight, we consider it a happy ending. Did Allah teach you that wisdom? Did killing his brother Abel turn Cain into a hero? For thousands of years, writers of fiction try to convince their readers that violent behaviour pays off, that beautiful people always have a good character, and that Good always wins in the battle against Evil. You, writers, are notorious liars. And you get paid for it.
» Poetic Justice is a lie. You believe in a lie, Malik. You believe so much in the wrath of Poetic Justice that you became an infidel of Allah's story of love. Poetic Justice is a false God, invented by fiction writers who preach lies and violence for their own financial benefit. In real life, the profit doesn't go to the one who works hard, but to the shareholder who owns the company and does nothing. In real life, it's not the peaceful country that wins the war; it's the most aggressive one that spends all the tax money on the military instead of using it to take care of the sick, the poor and the old. In real life, it's only the most selfish and greedy person who becomes a millionaire.
» You, the writers, fill everything around us, news, novels and cinema, with aggression and violence. Writers tell us 24/7 that fighting is the only solution to our problems, and they end each story with the lie of Poetic Justice to justify themselves. You call TV 'reality', but the reality is that writers and journalists decide what we read and watch, and they are in a constant desperate search for aggression and violence, convinced nobody is interested in peace and friendliness. It's true, we are immune. Today, the millions cry. Tomorrow we watch them die. Do you know why? Because violence pays off, aggression gets attention, and murder makes successful writers."
Malik watches me like a zombie. In less than 500 words, I killed his faith, his religion, and everything he believed in. I must calm down. My tone is too aggressive, too violent. If I want my words to stay, I'll have to play the strings of Malik's Frankenstein soul, and I should play with care and a friendly voice. I put my hand on the French fries that hide his shoulder and say: "Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you? I promised you the answers to the six Big Questions. This is why it took time to give them to you. I'm not here to hurt you. You're my friend. I'm trying to help you."
Malik fights back a salty tear of disillusion: "Gratefully, I know you're my friend. And I also know why nobody is interested in the answers to the Big Questions: it's hard to realise your life's been a failure, that everything you've ever done was useless."
"That's not true. Big Question #5 is: is there life after death? There is. Every mother who raises a happy child will change the world after she's no longer here. Every farmer who's planted his crops today has changed tomorrow's world into a place where others will eat. Every carpenter who builds a bridge, every teacher who teaches skills, and every nurse who saves a life has made this world a better place. Those bridges, skills, and cured people are the proof of meaningful lives, long after we are dead. Of course, there's life after death: how many people find happiness, every day, in books like the Qur'an and the Bible? Those are works of writers who live on as long as their words are worth reading. You're a writer. Your pen has the power to change the world into a better place. As long as readers love your work, you'll live forever, like Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Nietzsche, and Victor Hugo.
» When we find a dead body in a house, we know exactly what to do: don't touch anything, call the police, and look around for clues that will lead us to the identification of the killer. What do we do when we find a crying woman in a house? We have no idea. Fiction trains us for finding dead bodies, not for helping crying women. In real life, a spy chooses who will live and who will die, but the writer chooses what we read about and what we learn. Fiction isn't about finding a happy ending, Malik. Fiction prepares us to do the right thing after reading about our hero's happily ever after.
» Your preferred happy ending ends with me, shooting Khalid El Bullít. I'm armed with Chekhov's gun and I don't mind killing Khalid, but first I want to be sure if he deserves to die, if he's indeed the evident evil evacuee of this mission. Therefore, I need a second opinion, from someone who knows Khalid better than anyone else, someone with no reason to defend him like his mother or his daughter, nor to hate and fear him as you do. Before I attack Malta Castle and kill Khalid, I want proof I'm going to do the right thing. It's my responsibility as a spy and as a human being. In a violent world of killers, it takes more to be wise than to be wicked."
I sit down on a bench in the park. Walking in a suit like this and searching for information on my phone can't be done at the same time. I wrestle my hand with the phone through an opening in the suit and raise it before the eye openings in Chicken Chucky's throat, so I can see what's on the screen. Today is Sunday. We visited Dorsa's school... two days ago. Friday the 9th of February. When we spoke to her, it was around four o'clock in the afternoon, a little later.
I connect to my secure secret backup space in the cloud and browse the files the Permanent Voice Recorder app has stored there. There it is. I activate the text2speech-mode so Malik can hear the clue he missed.
«Voice Barbie: "What would your father say if we come to your place to play with you every day? He would not like that, would he?"
» Voice Dorsa: "My daddy doesn't mind. He's never there, anyway. He's always working."
» Voice Barbie: "And your mother? What would she say?"
» Voice Dorsa: "My mother is in the hospital."
» Voice Barbie: "Oh, dear. Did your father shoot her? Should I send Ken with a Beretta to defend your mother?"
» Voice Dorsa: "Are you blond because you're silly or are you silly because you're blond, Barbie? My mother is in the hospital because she works there. I'm all alone when I'm at home, except for the armed bodyguards. You can come to my place anytime. We can have tea and we can play with the pony and we can brush our hair."»
I stop the recording: "Well? Did you miss anything? Like every other child, Dorsa has a mother. Dorsa says she's always alone at home. Her parents are probably divorced. According to Dorsa, her mother works in the hospital. I need a second opinion about Khalid El Bullít. I can't think of a better opinion than the one of his ex-wife, who's also a doctor. How many hospitals are there in Valletta?"
Malik confirms what I already found out on the Internet: "Medicinally, there's the Christian hospital «Knights of the Red Cross» and there's the Muslim hospital «Ahmadiyya - Love for All, Hatred for None»."
"Interesting. On our right, we have the Christian fighters. On our left, we have the Muslim lovers. Which one would you choose to visit first?"
Malik looks like I just asked him to explain Einstein's Relativity Theory in one-syllable words: "Actually, the Knights of the Red Cross is much bigger. Statistically, it gives us a higher chance."
"Statistically, most criminals are men, so when we execute all the men on this planet, we'll have world peace. Leave the numbers to me, Malik. I have a degree in Economy. You're a writer. You should concentrate on the words. That's difficult enough. Khalid is a Muslim. His mother Mariam is a Muslim. His daughter Dorsa is a Muslim. Why would his wife be a Christian?"
"She might be Muslim, but work in the Christian hospital."
"Muslim women prefer a female Muslim doctor and a female Muslim nurse. Why would they go to a Christian hospital if there's a Muslim hospital with a fine reputation in the same neighbourhood?"
Malik is running out of arguments. I don't know why he wants us to take a D-tour first, but it makes me curious: "If you like, we can visit the Knights first. We're wasting our time there, but it doesn't matter, as today is Sunday and not one Number One criminal terrorist, neither Muslim nor Christian, will make plans to destroy the world or any major city, probably New York, on a bloody Sunday."
"Why not?"
"Because the newspapers don't come out on Sundays, Malik. Terrorists want to sow terror and harvest panic. They need media attention to promote their message. What's the use of being front-page news on a Sunday, when there's no front page?"
I put my spiPhone back into my pocket and get up: "If we want to visit the Knights hospital, we should go to the right. The Ahmadiyya is over there. Where do you want to go first?"
Malik's face is clearly visible between the foam of the French fries of his suit. He's nervous. He didn't expect this. Or is he afraid? It's a hospital. Nothing can go wrong. According to the statistics, hospitals have the highest death rate of all buildings, but those statistics are for mortally wounded people, not for Chicken Chucky and French Fries Fritz. Nothing can go wrong.
I cut the Gordian knot: "We take the Knights first. If my expectation is correct, there won't be many Muslim women working there, so it won't cost us a lot of time."
* * *
"We're here to entertain the children, Miss. We were told to ask for Miss... What was her name, Malik? It was an Arabic name, but I didn't write it down and... Are there any women with an Arabic name who work here?"
The receptionist is very helpful: "According to our files, there are only two. Doctor Aisha Taabah and nurse Yasmin Zahirah, but neither one works at the children's department."
I decide to go for the doctor. The nurse wouldn't have the authority to contract entertainers for the children's department: "Doctor Taabah. That's the one. Where can we find her?"
"You can't. She's not working today. I will call Doctor Strickland. She's the head of the children's department."
This starts running out of hand, but we can't go back now. Doctor Mabel Strickland arrives. She doesn't know who hired us and she assures us there's no budget to pay us, but the Maltese Gossip Mill pays the bill, so she's delighted to have us around. For the next hour, we're entertaining sick children. Malik tells them fairy tales and I give hugs and lay chocolate eggs on their beds.
When I locate the administration office, I claim a visit to the bathroom, get out of my chicken suit and check the employee files for the background of those two women. Doctor Taabah has been happily married for thirty years and nurse Yasmin is twenty-one years old, not the age of someone with an eight-year-old daughter.
It's time to say goodbye to the children of the «Knights of the Red Cross» and say hello to the children of «Ahmadiyya - Love for All, Hatred for None». At least, we've had a bit of practice on our act.
* * *
"Playfully, I have a marvellous idea. We can play Hide-and-Seek. You all hide. Chicken Chucky and I will count to ten and find you."
"You have to count to one hundred."
"Countably, I can't. I'm a bag of French fries. I've never learnt how to count to one hundred.", Malik explains. The children all laugh.
I add another rule: "There's one more rule. You can't hide in Urgency Room A. Little Dorsa is there. She's badly injured. Nobody can go inside, as she can't be disturbed."
All the children go silent immediately. One of their friends is badly injured. They've learnt from Breakfast TV to pay attention.
"Is she going to die?" "Did she shoot herself?" "My mother says it's not cool for children to play with revolvers." "She has a Beretta 92." "That's not a revolver." "That's a pistol."
I raise my chicken wings to calm down the excitement: "No, it has nothing to do with shooting herself. She was playing with Barbie and Ken, making tea in the plastic teapot in Barbie's plastic kitchen, and then the teapot exploded. She got all the boiling water on her face and her clothes. Now, she has burnt skin all over. So what do we learn from that, children?"
The children have no idea, they've never been in such a traumatic situation before, so I answer the question myself: "We should never play with imitation toys, but only with the real Trademark Barbie kitchen and the real Trademark Barbie teapot. They keep us safe when we're playing. And we don't care if our mummies and daddies have to pay ten times more for those Trademark toys because the price tag of their gifts represents the value of their love for us. Right?"
"Right.", the children answer in chorus, and then they run away to hide themselves.
Malik starts to count. When he's at nine, I cut him off: "Come on, Malik. We're not here to play hide-and-seek. We have to find a doctor who's also a mother. Let's go to Urgency Room A. She'll be there any minute."
Malik takes his hands off his eyes and gives me a puzzled look: "How do you know?"
"Mothers and children are like that. Sensational stories go faster than lightning. With twenty children running and hiding in every corner of this hospital, the rumour about badly injured Dorsa in Urgency Room A will alert every mother who has a daughter with that name. Dorsa isn't a very common name, so I hope there's only one mother who'll respond."
That mother is already in Urgency Room A when we enter: "Good afternoon, ma'am."
"Where's my daughter? What has happened to her?"
"Are you the mother of Dorsa El Bullít? Are you the wife of Khalid El Bullít?"
"I don't use that name anymore since I divorced Khalid, almost eight years ago. I'm Djemila."
"Gracefully, Djemila means «beautiful and radiant» in Arabic.", Malik whispers.
"I can see that.", I whisper back. Perhaps Djemila isn't the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, but she's definitely in my top five.
"Your precious Dorsa is alright, ma'am. I apologise for the little lie we spread about her, being injured and in Urgency Room A. It was just a trick to find you. My name is Sami and my French fries friend here is Malik."
Djemila looks at us, suspiciously, but when I mention Malik's name, she suddenly changes her attitude: "Malik Querida? Really? You're the writer of «Precious Poetry». Yes, I recognise you. You have glasses now, and you shaved your beard off. I saw your photo in the Maltese Gossip Mill. You won the Maltese Cross. I love your work. When are you going to publish your next bundle? I'm so much looking forward to it."
I try to keep the initiative: "We're not here to talk about poetry, ma'am. We're looking for your ex-husband. We hope you can give us some information about him, about the man he was when you fell in love with him and the man he turned into when you divorced him."
Djemila looks at her watch: "Can we do that while I carry on with my work? I was in the middle of an operation when the rumours about my little Dorsa called me away. I hope you two can assist me. We're a private hospital and we're terribly understaffed. My patient was shot several times in a firefight. I've already taken the bullets out, but it's hard to stop the bleeding and suture the wounds without the help of an assistant."
I'm curious: "Gunshots? A firefight? Is your patient a rebel who was fighting for a cause?"
"This is not a rebel story. This is Sunday, Bloody Sunday. People do this to each other on Saturday night because they follow the examples from the entertainment industry. We have to fix her fast so she can go to another exciting party next Saturday."
Quickly, we get out of our foam suits and slip into the green outfits. The masks allow us to enter the operation room next door without being recognised. In the spy business, we use the word «operation» when we talk about taking action during a mission, but I never prepared for a sewing class. I have to do it anyway because Malik is no help at all: one look at the bleeding patient is enough for him to roll his eyes and pass out.
"Clean these tongs. Hand me the scissors. Khalid and I were married for two years, the two longest years of my life. He's a monster. Put this away. Clean the wound with sterile water. We met when I studied at University. I had financial problems and Khalid solved them for me. He treated me nice, gave me presents, and took me out. Put your finger on this knot... We married after I graduated. How's that blood pressure? When I was pregnant with Dorsa, the problems started. At first, he didn't come home at night. Then he stopped saying he loved me. He wanted me to prepare hamburgers for dinner instead of halal kebab. When I ordered couscous, he complained it tasted like shit. The worse was still to come... Cut this wire, please. One night, Khalid came home with dirty shoes and walked through the entire house before he took them out. It was horrible, a complete nightmare. I had worked all day at the hospital and after that, I had to explain to the cleaning lady three times I wanted the floor swept, mopped, and waxed before my husband came home, and he didn't even see how much work it had cost me. I cried the whole night. In the morning, I couldn't stand it anymore. I wanted to divorce him. He took it... quite calm, like he agreed our love had been a mistake..."
"Love is a private thing, Miss. There's no need to tell me all the sad details. I'm not working for the Sunday papers. I'm more interested in the work your husband... ex-husband did.", I say.
"You're right. The marriage lasted two years, but nothing of it was worth remembering. The divorce, on the other hand, was a spectacular fight that people still talk about at birthday parties, discussing the juicy details like it happened yesterday. In the end, we hated each other so much that we could drink each other's blood, but unfortunately, our religion prohibits us from consuming anything that contains blood. This Band-Aid will hold. That wound is next. You can take the cork out of it."
I look around if I can find something to clean up all that blood. Djemila points to a bottle and a funnel: "This patient isn't unconscious because of anaesthesia. We don't have money for anaesthesia; usually, we use a rubber hammer. This patient passed out because she was as drunk as a Dutch uncle when they brought her in. Don't throw away her blood. It contains at least 5% of alcohol. We save it in bottles and sell it to the Christians as Bloody Mary."
No assistant during the operations, money problems that stop doctors from finishing their studies, no money for anaesthesia...
"Doesn't the Maltese government give financial help to this hospital?"
"The Maltese government spends all its tax money on fighting terrorism and keeping poor fugitives out of Malta. This hospital depends on private funding. My ex-husband is our biggest sponsor. Without him, we would have been out of business years ago."
Suddenly, I'm interested: "Was that part of the divorce conditions you negotiated?"
Djemila shakes her head: "No, it's just a win-win business agreement between two parties. Khalid makes money by selling drugs and guns. He donates that money to us, so we can fix the bullet holes and enlarge the life of the drug addicts. When they come out of the hospital, they go on buying guns and drugs. That way, everybody gets what they want. We're never short of patients. Put your finger here, so I can tie the knot."
"So you know what your ex-husband does for work. He's a drug lord and an arms dealer."
"He's a businessman who keeps his promises and who's always willing to help his clients out of a difficult situation. The difference between a warrior and a murderer lies in the reason why he kills. He might have treated me badly, but deep in his heart, Khalid is a good man. He didn't love me, that's true, but he never raised his hand to me either.
» In my first years as a doctor here, I treated many women who were married to men who 'loved' them, men who hit their wife 'because they loved her so much'. I've treated broken bones and dislocated jaws, injuries from falling from stairs in houses that had only one floor. All that suffering could have been avoided if those husbands had 'loved' their wives less. Read the current statistics on domestic violence and compare them with the numbers of ten years ago. The number of victims has dropped by 90%. When a new patient enters with injuries from domestic violence, we give Khalid her address. Khalid visits the violent husband and teaches him a lesson. It's hard to hit your wife if you don't have hands to hit her with. When I was married, I complained I didn't have enough shoes, until I met a patient here who didn't have feet. He liked to kick his wife. Khalid taught him the advantages of a footloose life."
"Does Khalid's preventive system also work with rapists?"
"Do you really want to know that? It's such a pain in the ass that no man ever needed a second treatment. The name «Batman» has a completely different meaning here."
"One last question, Miss. Does Khalid live at Malta Castle?"
"Who told you that?"
"I heard it from the waiter at restaurant Manoel, who heard it from the lady who owns the shoe shop in Old Bakery Street, who heard it from her hairdresser, who heard it from her babysitter."
"Then it must be true.", Djemila says while she looks away, like she doesn't want me to see in her eyes if she's lying or not.
Our patient has stopped leaking body fluids and is still alive, so it's time to concentrate on Malik. With a sniff from a bottle, we wake him up.
"Wipe your tears away from your bloodshot eyes, Malik. Were you afraid of a little blood?", I ask.
"Afraid? Me? No, obviously not. I just didn't want to risk bloodstains on this green suit. Don't you know how hard it is to clean blood stains?"
I look at the time: "Thanks for the information, Miss. We would love to be of more assistance to you, but we have an important mission going on. We need to find twenty missing children who have been hiding in this hospital for about half an hour now."
Djemila raises an eyebrow: "Half an hour? Most children are easily bored when a game takes that long without action."
"They aren't like other children, Miss. Every single one of them is patient."
* * *
"Scornfully, what did his ex-wife say about Khalid?", Malik asks.
"She says Khalid is a good man. He helps her with violent domestic affairs, he helps her keep her job, he takes care of her daughter without any problem, and Khalid also donates important contributions to the Maltese society. She said he's a respected businessman who never raised his hand on her."
Malik is disappointed: "So? Specifically, if that's the second opinion you needed, I guess we're done. People trust a reliable criminal more than they trust their government. A few words from a beautiful lady are enough for any man to surrender. I see you're a lover, not a fighter. She is beautiful, isn't she? Did you ask her on a date? Are you going to play doctor with her now?"
"What do you think? Will my friend become shark food because I run away with the gorgeous girl and live happily ever after? I'm not that kind of action hero. Will I close my ears when my eyes meet the eyes of one of the most beautiful women I've seen in my life? I'm not that kind of man either. Our trip to this hospital was worth the trouble. She confirmed my opinion about Khalid El Bullít: she said he made her cry the whole night. I can't stand a woman crying. A man who makes a woman cry is bad. He deserves to die. We're going to attack Malta Castle. Khalid El Bullít won't get out of there alive. Valletta isn't big enough for the both of us."
Malik shakes his head: "You shouldn't say that."
"Why not?"
"Rhythmically, that line comes from a song. It's protected by copyright. You should invent something original or you can go to jail."
"Our lawyers can fight that legal battle over Khalid's dead body. Right now, the battle has begun, the battle for Malta Castle."
"Medievally, are we going to attack right now?"
"Of course not. Today is Sunday, bloody Sunday. You can't believe the news in today's papers. We'll attack tomorrow, at dawn... well, right after breakfast because we've paid for bed and breakfast. We can't kill a serial killer if we don't finish the cereal first. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day..."