—Timid! Shy! Insecure! It’s a simple question. DO. I. LOOK. SHY?
It’s a trap. I know. He knows that I know. He also knows I have no choice but to walk into it. He is testing me.
—No, sir. I’m sorry.
—You’re sorry that I don’t look shy? Never mind that. Are you in control?
—In control?
He wants me to panic. I can’t.
—Of this situation. Are you in control here? Are you in charge?
—No, sir.
—Then who is?
—You are, sir. You’re in charge.
He is the man in charge. He wanted me to know.
—Then if I’m in control, and I don’t, as you said, look timid or insecure, don’t you think I would have asked if I wanted you to stop the bleeding? You, my friend, are meddling in shit that doesn’t concern you.
—I’m not.
Defiance. Stop it, Idir.
—Like hell you’re not!
—I won’t do anything else, sir, I promise.
—Oh, but you will. You will if I tell you to! See, you chose to help that man. You made a decision. It wasn’t yours to make and you know it. I know you do, you look like an intelligent man.
—I—
—Don’t interrupt me, Samaritan! You even said it! “You are, sir. You’re in charge.” That tells me you understand the hierarchy. And yet! And yet, you made that decision for me.
Have I done this? Have I gotten myself here? There’s nothing I can say, no good answer. I might die today, and I don’t know if it was inevitable or if I inched myself into it, one small mistake after the other. Don’t draw attention to yourself. That is what they told me. It’s too late for that. My head is spinning, thoughts going through my mind faster than I can catch them.
There’s a television set in the waiting room behind the man in charge. No sound. I can’t hear it through the window if there is. I see the building we’re in. It’s a helicopter shot. Dozens of police cars. Tactical teams. We must be on every channel. I can’t read the text at the bottom of the screen. Tidir is still on her knees facing the floor; so are the kids. Good. She must know he’s talking to me. I hope she doesn’t do anything. She won’t. She’s smarter than I am. I bet she could read the small print if she were in this room. Tidir has the best eyesight. She can read street signs before I even know there is a street sign. She finds even the smallest toy parts Ramzi leaves behind. More aerial shots of the building. “Terrorism” in bold white letters, big enough even for me to see. I hope no one dies because of me. I’ve started a chain of events I can’t seem to stop. Please let no one else suffer for it.
—I tell you what, Samaritan. I have a phone call to make, but I’ll get back to you in a sec. Don’t worry.
I am worried, but it feels good to have his eyes off me. He must be talking to the police. I can’t hear the words, but he’s probably making demands. It does not matter at this point. Either they’ll surrender—that seems unlikely—or tactical teams will storm in and fire at everything that moves. People will get shot. Bad people, good people. Collateral damage. One thing is for sure, they will not meet their demands. They will negotiate—that could last for days—get the man in charge to release a few hostages if they can. That is what we are, now. Hostages. They will show good will, send some food, but in the end they will come in and people will die. I think I just heard him say “fifteen minutes.”
—Every fifteen minutes! You hear me!
I do. I wonder if he was shouting to the people on the phone or if this was for our benefit. If it was, it seems pointless. Everyone here is already as scared as they can be. He’s established his dominance; now what? All I can do is wait. There is no way out of this room, only the door I came in through. Even if there were, I could not leave without my family and the man in charge is standing five feet away from them. He is in control.
—Samaritan! I told you I wouldn’t forget about you!
What does he want with me?
—Samaritan! Look at me when I’m talking to you! What are you here for? Why are you in this room? Did they punish you because you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong like you did with me?
Maybe I can do some good. Maybe if he focuses all his attention on me, everyone else will be safe. My family will be safe.
—I didn’t. I’m . . . I’m here for a test.
—A test?! What kind of test?
—Ci . . . A citizenship test.
—Citizenship! That’s right! You’re a fucking immigrant! Where are you from?
This is my chance. I cannot fade into the background anymore, but I can try to become human again. Right now, I am only a hostage to him, a means to an end. Dehumanized. If I share some personal things . . .
—Teheran.
—You’re from Irak!
—Iran.
—Iran, Irak . . . You’re a Muslim, aren’t you? Why’d you come here?
—We were . . . Our lives were in danger.
—Our lives . . . You have a family?
—Yes, sir. They came with me.
—Let me get this straight. You leave your country because . . . you’re in danger. You take your wife, your kids? Kids, plural?
—Yes, sir. Two of them.
—Good for you. You get them out of Iran and you come to this place, and now you’re here, today, for a fucking citizenship test. Wow. That’s messed up. That is some bad fucking luck, my friend! How’s it going?
—What?
—The test. How is it going so far?
—I . . .
—Is it easy? Is it hard? Come on, Samaritan! I’ve got time. Let’s get you through that test!
—. . .
I don’t know why is he’s doing this. There’s nothing genuine about him, nothing good.
—I’m trying to help you here! Are you going to refuse my help?
It does not matter why he is doing it. He is not hurting anyone while he’s talking to me.
—No, sir. Thank you, sir.
—There. Gratitude. That’s what I like to hear. What’s the next question?
—I . . . It’s on the desk, sir.
—Then get the fuck up and go back to your desk! We don’t have all day!
He had that man shot because he wouldn’t get down. Now he wants me to get up. Do what he says, Idir. Everything will be fine. I will not sit on the chair. I’ll just kneel in front of the desk and swipe left to the next screen.
—Yes, sir. It’s . . . I’m at question six.
—Six! How many are there?
—Twenty-five. This is question six of twenty-five.
—Shit. That’s a lot. We better hurry then. What’s the question?
—How old was Mary Stuart when she became Queen of Scotland?
—That’s the question?
—Yes, sir.
—What kind of question is that? Why do you need to know that to be a citizen? I don’t know that!
—There are lots of historical questions, sir.
—And?
—That is the question, sir. How old was Mary Stuart when she became Queen of Scotland?
—What’s the fucking answer?
—Oh. I don’t know.
I am much too scared to think, but I really don’t know the answer. If I did, I might not have told him. I don’t think I should. The last thing I want is to sound like a know-it-all.
—You don’t know?
—No, sir. I don’t.
—Is it multiple choice or open answer?
—Multiple choice.
—Shoot!
—There are four . . . four answers to choose from: One week old. One month old. One year old. Five years old.
—None of these make sense. Does anyone know? Anyone?
Please let no one answer. Please. Keep him focused on me.
—People! Wake the fuck up! Samaritan here is going to flunk his test if no one answers!
—Six days. She was six days old.
Who said that? It came from inside the test room. One of his men behind me.
—Six days old! Are you sure?
—Uh-huh.
—Look at you, smarty-pants! That makes no sense, though. Six days old . . . What would she do? There ya go, lads! The baby pooped! Let’s sack York!
Does he expect us to laugh at his jokes? Let him speak, Idir. Let him speak all he wants. The longer this takes, the better chance we have. The police might come in.
—All right, Samaritan, one down. What’s the next one?
—Question seven. Which . . . Which stories are associated with—
—Oh oh! I’m afraid we’re out of time, Samaritan. . . . Get up.
—What?