Where is Manar?
Book One: The Twin Star
Chapter 4: The Art of Insult
—
On the old bus seats with their rough texture, surrounded by the rattle of the dying engine and the scent of cheap perfume, the conversation continued — a discussion that had begun to resemble a political Zar session.*
"Yes, Grandpa. And because of the corruption, the government didn't even try to investigate," the heavyset man said, anger blazing in his eyes.
"God curse them. The bastards have destroyed the country," the old man replied sadly.
The young man interrupted, still scrolling through his phone: "Grandpa, I think it's the political parties. Trying to distract people from the protests."
The driver, meanwhile, kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror with a look that screamed "I know what's really going on." He said confidently: "No. They want to scare people. So they stop demanding their rights."
I don't think he understood anything. Most people just like to talk for the sake of talking. Even Manar seemed to agree with me — that look of hers that said, "Keep talking your nonsense. I'm listening."
The old man drifted back in: "No. I saw the man fall and die right in front of me. At the grocery store! He was standing there, healthy. Then suddenly — he grabbed his neck, screamed... and dropped dead. The mark was a burn. A circle. And a line through the middle."
"Black magic. The Masons are behind this." The driver glanced at me again in the mirror. That knowing look.
He wanted me to join the discussion. But I knew better. You people don't know what's happening. And don't look at me like that — I'm not getting involved in this mess.
"I don't think it's the Americans," the heavyset man muttered, cutting off the driver. "They're testing some new virus."
"No, I'm telling you — it's Iran. Getting rid of their opposition." The young guy pocketed his phone and jumped in.
"Damn them. They smuggle drugs to us, and this is the result." The driver jerked the steering wheel, then turned all the way around to face me.
I swear he twisted his face even more this time. For dramatic effect, probably. Shit, man — watch the road! For the love of drugs, pay attention! I'm not joining your debate.
And also — why do you keep saying something different every time? I'm now certain you don't understand anything. Are you a party planner or something? God, I hope we get there alive.
Someone new flagged down the bus. Great. The party was getting bigger.
I stayed out of it. The driver kept staring at me, nearly crashing us multiple times.
I was tired of these topics anyway. I stared out the window and thought about a friend who wasn't here anymore. We tried this before. It didn't work.
—
The bus reached Al-Ashar. Three more people had boarded after us: a mother, her daughter, and a little boy.
The driver continued his "political analyses" — a cheap cocktail of conspiracy theories, blaming first the Americans, then outer space. I glanced at Manar. She was watching the road in strange silence, counting pink bikes in her little head.
I exhaled. The old man's words about the "burn mark" echoed somewhere in the back of my mind. The world was boiling with mystery, and here, people boiled with useless arguments. My only concern? How to survive the toy market with my wallet intact.
I leaned toward Manar and whispered: "My cupcake. You hear that? The driver says it's aliens. The heavy guy says it's viruses. Alaa farted. What do you think? Cosmic conspiracy or pure Iraqi bad luck?"
"Huh?" Alaa turned, confused.
Manar lifted her head. That look — the one that made you feel like you were talking to a department manager. Coldly: "Thami... Chicken."
I laughed inside. Manar was the only logical person on this damn bus. Let the world burn. Let the politicians fight. The only thing that mattered right now was the Chicken.
—
The bus stopped with an ugly screech in Al-Ashar Square. The driver announced, like he'd just discovered America:
"Al-Ashar! Get off!"
I let everyone else off first. Then I stepped down holding Alaa's hand, carrying the little gang leader in my other arm — ready to face the market dust, the greedy vendors, and any bald-headed son of a hen who tried to rip us off.
Dust and exhaust fumes welcomed me.
The market was packed — the kind of chaos that made you lose focus. Sharp haggling, the screech of wooden carts. One nearly ran over a street vendor's goods, swerving at the last second with desperate skill.
Life buzzed beneath your feet the moment you entered that alley. I weaved between vendors spread on the ground and those who'd laid old fabric on the sidewalk, displaying everything they owned.
I turned into a street where you knew what they sold without looking — your nose told you. Spices. Alaa and Manar started sneezing. I held it together. The smell of spices, broken concrete, the sound of footsteps — it transported you somewhere else. Not the twenty-first century. Or was it the twenty-second? I didn't know. I'd Google it later. Or forget.
—
After about fifteen minutes on foot, we reached the bike and toy street. Manar's eyes lit up. She twisted around, scanning bikes everywhere — like every kid her age.
Alaa was quiet. Too quiet. He was planning something. It would surface eventually.
I entered the first shop. "Peace be upon you, brother."
"Upon you be peace. How can I help?" The owner rose from his desk.
"I need your most beautiful bike. For my little princess." I gestured toward Manar.
"At your service. Electric, regular, or remote-controlled — which would you like to try?"
"The choice is hers."
"Take your time. Let me know if you find something." He left us to browse. Big shop. Many options. We looked at everything. Manar wasn't convinced.
We left. Tried several more shops. Nothing.
Then she saw it. A bike that looked like Hadi's daughter's.
"Thami... make it... pwettier than... Chicken."
Hahahaha. Of course she did. She never left things unsettled.
I called the owner — a young guy, mid-twenties, black eyes, black hair. "Brother. This bike — the three-wheeler. I want it in pink. Add lights, a bell, a pink ribbon."
"Wait. I'll get one from the back."
"Now Manar's getting the most beautiful bike in the market," I told her. She smiled like a victor. Her hair danced.
He returned with a pink three-wheeler — girl cartoons, flowers, a horn, little signals on the handlebars.
I put Manar on the ground, placed the bike beside her. She climbed on easily. Rode it. Alaa clapped — his first positive interaction all day.
"How is it, cupcake?"
She half-closed her eyes. The two front pigtails pointed at me like antennae.
"My Chicken... pwetty... than Thuda's Chicken." A mocking laugh.
"Alright, sweetheart. We're buying it."
Were they identical? Almost. Pink versus purple. Maybe kids had different comparisons. Or maybe it was girl genetics. Who knows. She was convinced. That's all that mattered.
"How much?" I turned to the owner.
"Sixty thousand." Poker face. Price is fixed.
I looked at him. One look. I knew his type immediately — the kind who thinks he's the smartest flea in the room.
"Can't you lower it a bit?"
"Sorry. Market prices are high these days." His face: an old dog. I won't move, even if you piss on me.
You bald-headed son of a hen. I knew the price. The Pitbull bought his daughter's bike for forty-five. This guy was overcharging.
Most shop owners hired people to run their branches. Employees raised prices for extra income.
"I saw one exactly like it for forty-five. Don't you think your price is high?"
"I don't think so. Our prices are wholesale." He tried to look like Gandhi. Wouldn't budge a single dinar.
He knew I wanted it. If I'd negotiated before Manar fell in love with it, he wouldn't have dared.
"Fine. Pack it."
I didn't care anymore. I hated his face. If it were my bike, I'd burn the money before buying it from him. But Manar wouldn't let it go.
"Alright." Disgusting smile.
"Manar, sweetheart, come here." I lifted her off the bike so he could pack it.
After he wrapped it, something occurred to me. "Excuse me. Are you from Basha Street?"
"No. Not from that area."
Basha Street. One of Basra's most storied neighborhoods. Known for its trade. For decades.
"I know someone from there. You look just like him. Also a stranger to Basra. I heard he booked a ticket to Cap d'Agde** recently." I handed him the money.
"You're right! I'm not originally from Basra. We moved here seven years ago." Surprised look.
"You know? I heard tourism in Cap d'Agde is booming. And that guy — I thought you might be busy booking the shared room.***" I smiled. Half-closed my right eye.
"Huh?" Mouth slightly open. Confused.
"Come on, Alaa." I grabbed him and left. The guy still didn't get it.
This type — you know them immediately. Overprices. Thinks he won. Basra deserved better. But that's another conversation.
I left him standing there, mouth open, unaware that I'd just insulted him with physics and geography. It would take him a while to realize. And burn.
The moment I turned into a narrow alley, I sped up, dragging Alaa silently. I knew the fire would ignite in his head soon.
And then I heard it. His booming voice. Cursing behind me in the crowd. But I'd already dissolved like salt in the belly of Al-Ashar.
I vanished between alleys, carrying Manar and her bike, leaving him to spit on the ground and curse his luck.
"Damn you. You won the battle. But I won the war." I muttered victoriously.
—
[The Seller's Perspective]
The toy shop door burst open. The young man ran out toward the street where the customer had disappeared a minute ago. But the market was too crowded. He couldn't catch him.
He looked at the money in his hand. Pulled out fifteen thousand. Pocketed it. Cursed under his breath. Then remembered the last look — that half-closed eye.
He searched his phone. Cap d'Agde. France.
And then he understood.
How had that guy insulted him so perfectly — with a smile, a friendly goodbye, like a brother — without showing a single emotion? The axe had fallen. And he couldn't catch him.
"Ptoo!" He spat on the ground.
"Son of a ####. If I'd caught you..." Dark look. He went back inside.
—
I walked. Carrying Manar in one arm, the bike in the other. Then I heard Alaa's voice — a strange tone, like he'd been watching everything carefully, processing it all.
"Sami... ummmm... you got a minute?"
— End of Chapter 4 —
—
Author's Notes:
* Zar:
A traditional ritual once practiced in parts of the Arab world and East Africa to exorcise spirits. Sami uses it sarcastically to describe the chaotic political debate on the bus.
** Cap d'Agde:
A French resort famous for "activities" that need no explanation. If you insist on knowing, search for it yourself — at your own risk.
*** The Shared Room:
A reference to a particular type of accommodation in Cap d'Agde. If you know, you know.