The Day of the Pelican (3 page)

The station door was locked. Her father knocked, and when nobody answered, he beat on the heavy wooden door with his fist.

"No, Baba," Meli begged. "You'll make them angry."

He ignored her and kept right on beating until the door opened wide enough for a pistol to stick out through the crack. "What do you want?" a voice demanded in Serbian.

"I need your help," Baba said meekly, as though he really believed a Serb policeman would help an Albanian. "My son never returned home from school today."

"So? Can I help it if your boy has run away?"

Baba stuck his big hand in the crack and forced it open wider, ignoring the pistol in the officer's hand. Watching, Meli could hardly breathe. "I think one of your men has made a mistake. My son is only a schoolboy. He knows nothing of politics." It was a lie. Mehmet knew plenty about politics, but of course what her father meant was that Mehmet was not a part of the KLA.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Hashim Lleshi. I own a small grocery store on the west side of town. This is my daughter, Meli. My son, Mehmet, who is missing, is only thirteen. He—is he here? Do you have him in custody? By mistake? Perhaps you have confused him with someone else?"

"Come back in the morning if you have a question."

"But to make a child spend the night in jail ... He ... Do you have children?" Baba's voice was low and pleading now. It hurt Meli to hear him humiliate himself before this Serb, but she knew he was determined to do whatever it took to get Mehmet safely home.

"I said, come back in the morning!" The policeman poked her father with the pistol to force him out of the doorway. "And be glad I didn't arrest you."

"Come on, Baba," Meli whispered.

Reluctantly, her father backed away. Once again he became the old man Meli had seen coming up the street. "Pray for your brother, Meli," he said. They were the only words he spoke during the long walk home. She did pray, or tried to; they were not a family who practiced daily prayers. As they walked past the dark shadow of the mosque, she prayed that God would not hold their lack of piety against them. Surely he wouldn't. God was the all-merciful, wasn't he?

Baba and Meli went back to the station the next morning, but the result was the same. The Serbian police would not even say if Mehmet was in the jail or not.

***

In the weeks following Mehmet's disappearance, the family went through the motions of getting up in the morning, eating, working, and lying down to sleepless nights. Meli couldn't make herself go to school, and her parents didn't seem to have the energy to insist. Suppose something should happen while she was at school? It didn't make sense, but somehow she reckoned that since she had been the cause of her brother's disappearance, she had to be home to make him come back safely. Whenever she wasn't working in the store or helping Mama with housework, she was standing at the front window, straining to see Mehmet turning the corner, coming down the side street, walking through the gate, climbing the stairs. He was laughing as he took off his shoes and came into the apartment.

Sometimes she changed the picture in her mind. This time Mehmet was walking down the street, opening the door of the shop. She imagined the bell ringing to announce his entrance, and Baba rushing forward to embrace him....

Meli rehearsed these scenes day after day, time after time. Once, as she stood at the window, Mama came over and put her arm around her daughter's shoulders.

"It won't bring him home sooner," Mama said gently.

But it might. If only 1 stare long enough and hard enough, 1 can will him home.
In part of her mind Meli knew this was foolishness, but she couldn't seem to help herself. It was guilt that drove her. If only she had behaved that day in school, Mehmet would be home now, teasing her, lording it over her.

Zana had called the very first day to ask why she hadn't come by, why she and Mehmet had missed school. "What's the matter, Meli? Are you both sick?"

"No, not exactly. It's ... it's ... I can't talk about it on the phone."

But even when Zana came to the apartment, Meli could only say, "Mehmet is missing. We don't know anything."

Zana had hugged her, but Meli hadn't been able to cry. She couldn't even say,
It's all my fault!
The words stuck like burrs in her dry throat.

***

Meli turned twelve in June. Mama made a little cake, but no one felt like celebrating. Still no word. And then one evening, when she wasn't even looking, Mehmet appeared. At first when Meli saw him in the doorway, she couldn't believe it was him. He was so thin. Besides, he had knocked on the kitchen door. When had Mehmet ever knocked on his own door?

"Mehmet?"

The ghost-like figure nodded. "Not a pelican," he said, stepping out of his shoes—or what was left of them.

Meli reached out and pulled her brother over the threshold. "Mama! Baba! It's Mehmet. He's come home!" She tried not to stare at his thin face as he bent to take off what was left of his once-shiny shoes, but she couldn't help herself.

Mama came running from the bedroom, nearly knocking Meli to the floor as she threw her arms around her son. "My Mehmet!" she cried. "Oh, my Mehmet." She led him to a chair and sat him down. "I have goulash," she said. "You must be hungry. Go get Baba, Meli. He must see his firstborn."

The family just stood and watched as Mehmet ate the goulash Mama heated up for him. The little boys pressed themselves against their brother's chair while Vlora jumped up and down with joy, but Meli and her parents were standing, staring at Mehmet as though he would disappear if they took their eyes from him. Occasionally, Baba would touch Mehmet's shoulder, as though making sure his son was still there. Their heads were crowded with questions, but no one knew what to ask or how to begin asking.

It was, as usual, Mehmet who spoke first. "The bastards beat me up and then took me out to the countryside and dumped me." He paused for a long time, looking down at his empty bowl. Nobody moved. "I guess they thought they'd killed me."

A little cry escaped Mama's lips. Her hand flew to her mouth.

"But I wasn't dead." Mehmet gave a short, bitter laugh. "Some KLA men found me. They took care of me until I was well. I wanted to stay with them, help them kill those devils, but ... but they made me come home."

"Thank God," Baba whispered.

"They said I must tell you Uncle Fadil was right," he said. "We can't stay here. We have to leave as soon as possible."

B
ABA CALLED A COUSIN WHO LIVED ON THE OTHER SIDE
of town to come look after the shop in the Lleshis' absence. No one in his family had tangled with the police. They had no reason to flee. The cousin was overjoyed. He came immediately for the extra keys to the store and the apartment. His family would move in the very next day. Perhaps it was unreasonable, but his delight angered Meli. The cousin was a lazy man who had never in his entire life worked as hard as Baba did in a single day. It wasn't fair that he should have their nice apartment and all the food in the store for nothing—even if for only a few weeks.

There was no telephone at the farm, so as soon as the matter was settled with his cousin, Baba got on his bicycle and rode out to the country. It was almost dusk when he returned in the Lada with Uncle Fadil. Although Uncle Fadil kept insisting that there was plenty of food at the farm, Mama and Baba were determined not to be any more of a burden than necessary. The men and Mehmet loaded the back of the car with fifty-pound sacks of flour, cases of cooking oil, sacks of onions and potatoes, big cans of white cheese, some jars of honey and plum jam, and a box of assorted canned goods: the goulash that Mehmet liked and the
pashteta
that Baba liked to spread on his bread in the morning. Thick coils of spicy sausage almost masked the usual smells of the old car. Space, though hardly enough, was left just behind the front seat for the four older children. The family was ready—or as ready as they could be—to leave the only home the children had ever known, with no idea of when they would see it again.

"Wait," said Mama, as Meli was about to climb over the front seat into the tiny space behind it. "My photo—my parents photo!"

Meli took the key from Baba and ran back up the outside stairs. Out of habit she slipped off her shoes at the door and raced into the living room. Her hands were shaking as she took the picture down from its special place atop the television set. The grandparents she had never known stared out at her as though wondering why they must leave their comfortable setting. She got a towel from the bathroom and wrapped the picture in it to protect the glass.
Don't drop it!
she told her shaking hands as she stuffed her feet into her shoes and, the precious picture tucked under her arm, closed and locked the door behind her. Slowly, she descended the steps, went out the gate, and returned to the waiting family.

She didn't look back. She hadn't said good-bye to her room, or the kitchen, or the living room. She hadn't said good-bye to her school, or even to Zana, who would never understand how she could leave without a word. But she wouldn't cry.
We must all be brave,
she kept telling herself.
Besides, we'll be back soon. Of course we will.
But something echoed deep and dark inside her stomach:
Inshallah.
God willing.

Mama, Baba, and Vlora were crowded into the front seat of the car with Uncle Fadil. Meli, Mehmet, Isuf, and Adil were in the rear. They sat facing backwards, their spines slammed against the front seat, their knees drawn up against their chests, surrounded by what were for now the family belongings. Mama had insisted that they bring their winter jackets and a blanket for everyone. It was summertime; surely they'd be home before anyone needed a jacket. Although Auntie Burbuqe had plenty of utensils for cooking and eating, there were some Mama couldn't bear to leave behind for the careless cousins to misuse. No furniture, of course—the foodstuffs were the important cargo. Vlora had been allowed one doll, but there were no other toys in the car. They had left so much behind, but at least Mama had her parents photograph. It was the only thing she had to remind her of her childhood home.

"You look like my mother," Mama had often said to Meli. "She was such a beautiful woman. See, in the photo? You can tell how beautiful she was." And Meli would obediently look at the photo and agree, though her grandmother seemed stiff and plain to her, and she secretly hoped she would be much prettier than that when she grew up.

Now Meli strained for a last sight of home in the fading light. It was a lovely place, her town, on the banks of the Drin River, nestled between the hills that divided Kosovo right down the middle and the snowcapped Cursed Mountains, which barred the way to Albania, from where in the mists of the long-ago past her ancestors had made their way to this fertile plain.

But the beauty of the sights she was leaving behind was soon crowded out by a riot of fears. She was afraid that they would be stopped by a police patrol, or worse, by Serb paramilitaries, who had begun to act as though they were more powerful than the police. If the Lleshis were stopped, they would be searched. Not that the family owned any guns—Baba didn't believe in guns—but who knew what the Serbs might find suspicious? Suppose they just took Baba or Mehmet or Uncle Fadil away for no reason at all? Mehmet had disappeared once already, probably just because a boy running down the street past the police station had aroused their suspicion. Maybe, now that he had been jailed and beaten and had lived with the guerrillas, he was on some secret list of KLA sympathizers. That must be it—that was why he had insisted that they leave town. She shuddered.

"Mehmet." She was whispering so as not to wake up the little boys, who had fallen asleep. Those in front wouldn't be able to hear her over the racket of the engine. "Mehmet, if we re stopped, you have to hide."

Mehmet gave a snort. "Where? Among the sausages?"

Yes, it would be foolish to try to hide. She fought to keep alert, to keep her eyes open for the first signs of danger. But she was tired. The next thing she knew, the car had rattled to a stop. She straightened up quickly. Where were they? To her relief she made out in the darkness the outline of the family farmhouse. Mehmet was still sitting as stiff as a board against the back of the front seat, his eyes wide open. He hadn't fallen asleep—she was sure of it.

The adults got out of the car, Baba carrying the sleeping Vlora. Mehmet clambered over the front seat and out the door. Meli tried to stretch out her numb legs in the small space he had left and was about to wake her little brothers when Auntie Burbuqe came hurrying out of the house, carrying a bag.

Even in the pale light from the doorway Meli could see how agitated she was. She said something to Uncle Fadil, who in turn spoke softly to his brother. Baba shook his head. Then Mehmet went over and talked with Baba. Now Auntie Burbuqe was handing the large bag to Mama. No, she shouldn't t wake Isuf and Adil—not yet. Isuf had fallen against her, so Meli sat still, but she craned her neck, trying desperately to figure out what was happening. Finally, Mehmet climbed back over the seat into the space she made for him by gently prodding Isuf to a sitting position. "What is it?" Meli asked. "What's the matter?"

Mehmet didn't answer. He waited until Uncle Fadil took his place behind the wheel again, and Mama, carrying the bag Auntie had given her, and Baba, with Vlora still in his arms, struggled back into the front seat. "It's not safe here," he said. "We have to go."

"What did Auntie Burbuqe say?"

Mehmet pushed Isuf gently to give himself a bit more room. Isuf mumbled something in his sleep. Adil stirred and nestled closer to Meli's shoulder.

"Shh," Mehmet said. "Don't wake them up. We have miles to go. The longer they sleep, the better."

"But why can't we stay here?"

"It's not safe."

It was all he would say. Sometimes Mehmet could be so maddening. "Why not?" Meli demanded.

"Shh. There are paramilitaries all around. They ve been threatening everyone—telling them to leave the country."