Мазен Мааруф - Jokes for the Gunmen

But things didn’t improve for my father in the same way. The fact that he had lost his child made the gunmen realize that he was not only weak but also sad. Now, after giving him a thorough thrashing, instead of saying as usual, ‘We’re here to protect you,’ they started asking him to tell them jokes. ‘Come on, tell us a joke before you go. Take your time,’ they would say. So my father would have to think of a joke. Of course, in front of a bunch of gunmen you have to be a good storyteller to win your freedom. Your story has to be convincing, enjoyable and very short, and it has to make people laugh. Not like this story, for example.

We started spending more time together, me and my father. Although it was still the period of mourning for my deaf brother, my father and I had to make up jokes together. Jokes for the week. A joke a day. Just for the gunmen. And every joke had to be sharp. And sometimes rude. My father said, ‘Never mind. You can use rude words. What matters is the joke.’ My mother couldn’t take part in these evening sessions. Because she was the mother of the deceased boy, she was in the depths of despair, totally pale, silent and thin. My brother’s death seemed to have hollowed her out.

I must admit that the jokes were not good. At least, they didn’t make me laugh. Although I helped make them up, I didn’t get most of them. My father, on the other hand, thought they fitted the bill. He would smile with relief whenever we finished making up a joke. It was as if the day was done and he could rip that page off the wall calendar. Sometimes we’d spend the whole night making up a funny story, and sometimes we’d have to wake up early, sit together at the kitchen table and confer in whispers as we tried to work out the punchline to a joke that needed one. Sometimes I’d turn to the older schoolkids for help. I’d ask them to tell me a joke that would make people laugh, make them laugh big-time, and they would come up with one, out of sympathy, believing that I urgently needed cheering up because I had lost my twin brother. They would tell me the latest jokes they had heard and I would pass them on to my father in the evening. Then we’d start adjusting them to make sure they were quite new and had never been heard before. But whenever we finished making up a joke, I noticed that my father looked older.

My father said that sometimes he had to tell the joke while the gunmen had the radio on, and when the news came on they would say, ‘Shhh,’ and my father would stop, wait till the end of the bulletin and then tell the joke again from the beginning. As soon as he got a detail of the joke wrong, he’d get a slap on his face and one of them would say, ‘That’s not exactly what you said the first time.’ When the joke was over, they’d remind him that they were like brothers to him and if he needed anything he could come to see them, since they were there to protect us and help us. But I knew they were lying. If they really wanted to protect him, why hadn’t they poked his eye out yet, I wondered. They must have realized that if my father had a glass eye fitted, he would frighten them.

I HAD TO ACT. MAKE A MOVE. IT WAS OBVIOUS MY father would never get a glass eye if he went on like this. I had to increase his chances by provoking the gunmen to poke out one of his eyes, even if they came to regret it later. Meanwhile my plan was to hire a bodyguard for my father.

My brother and I used to save large banknotes in our joint money box on a fifty-fifty basis. Sometimes I would cheat, but not my brother. He didn’t have any opportunity, since I kept a close eye on him. Sometimes I would search his trousers while he was asleep and, if I came across a large banknote, I would keep it for myself. My brother was sometimes given extra pocket money because he was deaf, as if he could use the money to buy a new sense of hearing. So as not to hurt my feelings, he would hide it from me. But in the end I would find it. When my brother couldn’t find it, he didn’t ask me about it, and he didn’t snitch on me to Mother or Father. He just smiled and pointed at me as if to say, ‘I know.’ I had forgotten about the money box since his death, but now I decided to use it. For the benefit of the family, of course. I was now going to school regularly. To study and to bring jokes for my father. I thought I could put off the matter of the glass eye for a short while.

There was always a group of young men standing near the school. Five or six of them. We used to call them the ‘hippopotamuses’. They were brothers. All of them were tall, about the same height, and they were all equally massive. They were always well turned-out and walked in single file. They showered regularly, their hair was trimmed, their clothes were clean and they had gold chains around their necks. They were known to be quiet but also vicious, and they worked by the hour. I heard from the kids at school that they carried out difficult assignments, such as saving gunmen from certain tricky situations. Once they saved a sniper after the building where he was stationed on the roof was surrounded by hostile gunmen. So I wanted to make an agreement with the hippopotamuses. Not all of them, since one hippopotamus would be more than enough to protect my father.

I took the money box to school. After lessons were over and everyone had left, I walked towards the hippopotamuses, taking the green plastic money box out of my satchel. I didn’t look at any of them – I just kept walking until I ended up standing in front of them. Or rather, in front of one of them. I had to speak rapidly and say everything without stopping. Without looking up at the face of the person I was speaking to, I said, ‘Do you want a job I need a bodyguard for just one hour a day half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the evening and the money’s in the box what do you say?’ As I spoke I pushed my money box towards his stomach.

‘Bodyguard? Who for? For you?’

‘No, for my father.’

‘And what does your father do?’

‘He has a laundry.’

‘And how much is there in the money box?’

‘I don’t know. Open it up at your place and tell me tomorrow how many hours you can work for the money inside it,’ I said. My heart was pounding, because everything seemed to be going so well.

The next day the hippopotamuses came into school. That was during Maths. They knocked on the door, came in and asked me to come out to talk to them. Of course the teacher couldn’t do anything, nor could the headmistress. In fact, because the hippopotamuses asked to speak to me personally, that earned me double respect among both the kids and the staff. Outside the classroom one of the hippopotamuses said to me, ‘For the money in the money box, I can work seven hours. That means a week.’

‘Seven hours? That’s all?’ I said confidently.

‘Yes, and whether you agree or refuse now won’t make any difference, because we take our fees in advance, whether I complete the job or not.’

‘A week’s fine, just fine. You’ll escort my father for half an hour in the morning on his way to work and half an hour in the evening when he goes back home. You don’t have to escort him literally. Just walk behind him. Keep a short distance between the two of you, and let other people know that you’re his bodyguard, but don’t speak to him.’ Now I was talking like a gangster.

The man answered sharply, as if he’d been insulted, ‘You do realize you’re dealing with a professional here?’

It was Wednesday and we agreed that the man would start work the coming Monday, in five days’ time, that is, because he was tied up with certain other operations.

THE HIPPOPOTAMUS WAS A TRUE PROFESSIONAL and a man of his word, like any ambitious gangster. On the agreed Monday morning, my father found a man waiting for him at the entrance to the building. The man walked behind my father without uttering a word. Just as a bodyguard does. The hippopotamus had several pistols and several bullet belts draped over his shoulders. Despite my young age, he carried out the mission I had assigned him to the letter. I could see that for myself. I was peeking from behind the curtain. The distance between him and my father was very small. My father was terrified and didn’t dare speak to this enormous stranger. In fact, he was so frightened that he stopped halfway and threw up his breakfast on the pavement. As a professional, the hippopotamus stopped too and, while waiting for my father to finish vomiting, looked around in all directions, checking the pavements, the buildings and the roadway.