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Azeem's Tale...
Mar. 5th, 2008 | 02:37 pm
The inspiration for Azeem's tale...any one of the tens of thousands of human trafficking deaths which happen every year in this screwed-up world where humanity is just another commodity to be bought and sold.
Backstory
Azeem had been hanging around the hypermarket for most of the morning. It had been raining steadilly for over four hours now and he was cold and tired. Dragging his old bones off for a strong coffee and a smoke he was almost knocked over by a silver BMW ...just what he'd been looking for..brand new 5 Series, classy car, English plates and definitely not the boy racer type. Azeem waited until the car was unattended then stuck a voucher under the Beamer's windscreen wiper and settled down with his Galoise and double Expresso to await the driver's return.
The man arrived a little while later, struggling with too many bottles of Claret. Azeem couldn't help but smile for he seemed the perfect mark, middle-aged, professional, rich...perhaps an educated man like Azeem himself. The mark took the voucher, read it and slipped it into his pocket. Azeem approached him, face grinning ear to ear..'Yes sir..it's absolutely true, you are indeed a lucky shopper..a free feast and a five hundred Euros await you..congratulations' he said as he grabbed the dazed shopper's hand and shook it vigorously whilst one of the youngsters took a photograph for the store's publicity. A few minutes later, as he watched the Beamer glide off, Azeem hoped that this time he would be the one, the saviour...he could almost smell that sweet English air.
Less than an hour later, the BMW pulled up outside the restaurant. Azeem was there to greet Bryan the lucky shopper, his smile warm and welcoming as he presented him with five crisp 100 Euro notes. A Bedouin Feast lay inside, compliments of the management, and soon the two men were savouring Jamil's cooking and talking like old friends. The night flew by, far exceeding Azeem's most optimistic hopes. Politics, Fine Art, History...each topic discussed, dissected and debated...the Claret and laughter flowed freely and when it transpired that Azeem was perhaps the only Kosovan alive who passionately embraced the virtues of that most noble of English sports...well, let's just say that Bryan was bowled out for a duck.
Monologue
AZEEM SQUATS IN THE BACK OF A LORRY. IT IS DARK SAVE FOR THE LIGHT OF A SMALL HAND TORCH. HE IS SHIVERING AND LISTENING HARD FOR SOMETHING.
AZEEM
Nothing, no cars no people..no-one. This isn't how it was meant to be. What have I done? They said I was crazy, all of them, even Arben and Ismail...crazy old Azeem they said...waiting for a knight in armour to carry him to England.
(LAUGHS)
Crazy..? Me..? No way, my friend, not Azeem Iqbal. Did I drag my family half way across Europe to beg on the French Dockside like so many stinking rats or send my daughters into alleyways with old men for a few coins...was it me who risked my life clambering over tracks and onto moving trains in the dark...no, not me!...who are the crazy ones then..?
( GRINS..TAPS HIS NOSE )
Azeem...he is clever. Any fool knows that Kosovan, Serbian or English...we are all the same. We embrace our own and we fear what is strange...simple..so in Pristina, in the University for years I study English..it's language, customs and it's pastimes
(LAUGHS)
Even their cricket...what is that? So many rules, so much etiquette...and five days long? If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was a Serbian joke.
AZEEM LEANS CLOSE TO THE TRUCK WALL AND LISTENS.
AZEEM ( cont'd)
When it got too bad I got out, Arben and Ismail my two oldest friends didn't need to be asked twice. They both worked at the museum...robbed it blind before we left, icons,artefacts...anything portable we stuffed into their holdalls. We travelled with the other refugees most of the way, skinny girls with even skinnier babies...old women with sad eyes...brash young men in imitation Reeboks, bad skin and forged papers. Some had family in Albania or Italy..most like me were desperate to get to England.
AZEEM PUTS HIS EAR TO THE WALL.
AZEEM(cont'd)
Still nothing...something must be wrong. Bryan said it would all be fine...don't worry he said, it'll be fine...we'll take breakfast at Lords together..huh..no breakfast since these last two days and we are freezing in here.
I worry about Ismail and Arben..they've been quiet too long. I think they're sleeping...but their skin is so cold, I hope they are sleeping.
Maybe Bryan is in trouble...no..he's delayed that's all. He'll be here soon...smiling. He went ahead with the money you see, while we all squeezed into this filthy, little meat-truck...stinks of pork.
"I'll let you out in Dover and we'll travel to the big Smoke in style.." the last words he said before he closed us in here in the dark and locked the door..must be two days at least now
AZEEM BANGS THE SIDE OF THE TRUCK IN ANGER
AZEEM ( cont'd)
Nobody hears us...is nobody there?
AZEEM SHIVERS AND RUBS HIMSELF DOWN TRYING TO KEEP WARM
AZEEM ( cont'd)
Six months I toiled in Calais for this..had to get to England and I needed to make money fast...wasn't fussy how. It didn't take me long to set it up. I like to eat you see and soon found a little place in the city with a friendly landlord...Jamil...second generation Moroccan immigrant...authentic North African food too. Trouble was, Jamil turned out to be local Mafia, so maybe it was him who found me...anyhow that doesn't matter now. We made money...big money. I'd finger the mark, play mine host and Jamil would put up the cash prize while the rest of the guys sat around in the cafe like normal punters cheering his good fortune. Good food and wine laced with just enough dope to put him out of it so Jamil's wife can wipe his credit cards...nice and simple..he wakes with a headache, a full belly and five hundred Euros extra in his wallet. Nothing stolen, nothing missing...until his cards are maxed up in Kuala Lumpur or Manilla. No comeback on me, Jamil or anyone else here in Calais...piece of cake.
AZEEM PULLS OUT THE LAST GALOISE FROM HIS PACK. LIGHTS IT AND SUCKS DEEPLY
AZEEM ( cont'd)
That's how it should have been with Bryan...just another mark with a wallet full of Platinum Cards but there was something about him. I can't put my finger on it, we just clicked from the minute he turned up waving his winning voucher.
( WISTFUL SMILE)
That night passed in a blur...we hit the same note on every subject..the con had never worked this well..seemed easy, too easy. I should have drugged him then, wiped his cards and walked away..but didn't..I couldn't. I wanted more than his money. I fled for my life from Kosova but couldn't get past Calais, I told him.
"Bloody typical...the likes of you rotting away here while England is swamped with no-hopers and chancers...but what can I do..?" he sighed
( AZEEM LAUGHS LOUDLY)
Put my fat Albanian arse in the front of your Beamer and smuggle me into London is what I wanted to say...but I stayed cool..opened another bottle and laughed some more.
We got talking about England's chances for the Ashes and I got on my soap-box about how one day cricket had ruined the test side and his face lit up...he was hooked.
I took a chance.,..take me to England, I said. He looked me straight in the eye...scratched his chin and shook his head.
" Too dangerous for me, Azeem my friend" he said. My spirits sank...then he said that he couldn't let me fester here any longer either. He was too smashed to drive back tonight anyhow and said he'd sleep on it... we'd talk again in the morning.
AZEEM SUCKS ON HIS CIGARETTE. THE TORCHLIGHT FLICKERS, FADES. HE SHAKES IT. THE LIGHT RETURNS.
AZEEM ( cont'd)
Jamil was furious...Mafia expect results you know. So he appears all smiles and pours Bryan a 'special' Cognac and offers him the guest room for free. I was gutted...scared that Jamil had spoiled my chance..that in the cold light of day Bryan would be on the morning ferry and long gone before I woke so I curled up on Jamil's floor and slept with one eye on the guest room door..I saw Jamil's wife go in and out...dip his wallet and swipe the cards..never trust a thief.
Early next morning, Bryan is up..sore head but all smiles. Tells me he's made a few calls...he'll take me to England..all three of us... but it will cost us five grand each...English Pounds.
I'm sorry, he says but the money's not for him, it's the going rate.
Fifteen thousand would clean us out...but what else could I do..this was my last chance and I said yes without thinking of anyone but myself. Ismail and Arben were wary...we're too old they said..we like it here..we've got a good thing going...but I told them not to worry...
Azeem is no fool, I told them. I trust Bryan and you trust me...so why worry..have I ever let you down before?
AZEEM LISTENS HARD
AZEEM ( cont'd)
A car...Ismail, Arben, wake up.! Its Bryan. ..Is it you Bryan..?
AZEEM JUMPS UP. HE RUSHES TO THE DOORS. A CARD IS SLIPPED UNDER THE TRUCK DOOR.
AZEEM ( cont'd)
What is this..?
( AZEEM READS ALOUD)
Azeem...the credit cards were all fakes. Old English proverb...you can't cheat a cheat...too late for you though...
(REALIZATION THEN DESPAIR)
AZEEM SEES HIS FRIENDS LYING COLD AND STILL IN THE CRAMPED VAN FOR THE LAST TIME BEFORE THE LIGHT FROM HIS TORCH FINALLY FLICKERS AND DIES. TOTAL BLACKNESS.
AZEEM ( cont'd)
May Allah forgive me...
( AZEEM SOBS)
the end.
Backstory
Azeem had been hanging around the hypermarket for most of the morning. It had been raining steadilly for over four hours now and he was cold and tired. Dragging his old bones off for a strong coffee and a smoke he was almost knocked over by a silver BMW ...just what he'd been looking for..brand new 5 Series, classy car, English plates and definitely not the boy racer type. Azeem waited until the car was unattended then stuck a voucher under the Beamer's windscreen wiper and settled down with his Galoise and double Expresso to await the driver's return.
The man arrived a little while later, struggling with too many bottles of Claret. Azeem couldn't help but smile for he seemed the perfect mark, middle-aged, professional, rich...perhaps an educated man like Azeem himself. The mark took the voucher, read it and slipped it into his pocket. Azeem approached him, face grinning ear to ear..'Yes sir..it's absolutely true, you are indeed a lucky shopper..a free feast and a five hundred Euros await you..congratulations' he said as he grabbed the dazed shopper's hand and shook it vigorously whilst one of the youngsters took a photograph for the store's publicity. A few minutes later, as he watched the Beamer glide off, Azeem hoped that this time he would be the one, the saviour...he could almost smell that sweet English air.
Less than an hour later, the BMW pulled up outside the restaurant. Azeem was there to greet Bryan the lucky shopper, his smile warm and welcoming as he presented him with five crisp 100 Euro notes. A Bedouin Feast lay inside, compliments of the management, and soon the two men were savouring Jamil's cooking and talking like old friends. The night flew by, far exceeding Azeem's most optimistic hopes. Politics, Fine Art, History...each topic discussed, dissected and debated...the Claret and laughter flowed freely and when it transpired that Azeem was perhaps the only Kosovan alive who passionately embraced the virtues of that most noble of English sports...well, let's just say that Bryan was bowled out for a duck.
Monologue
AZEEM SQUATS IN THE BACK OF A LORRY. IT IS DARK SAVE FOR THE LIGHT OF A SMALL HAND TORCH. HE IS SHIVERING AND LISTENING HARD FOR SOMETHING.
AZEEM
Nothing, no cars no people..no-one. This isn't how it was meant to be. What have I done? They said I was crazy, all of them, even Arben and Ismail...crazy old Azeem they said...waiting for a knight in armour to carry him to England.
(LAUGHS)
Crazy..? Me..? No way, my friend, not Azeem Iqbal. Did I drag my family half way across Europe to beg on the French Dockside like so many stinking rats or send my daughters into alleyways with old men for a few coins...was it me who risked my life clambering over tracks and onto moving trains in the dark...no, not me!...who are the crazy ones then..?
( GRINS..TAPS HIS NOSE )
Azeem...he is clever. Any fool knows that Kosovan, Serbian or English...we are all the same. We embrace our own and we fear what is strange...simple..so in Pristina, in the University for years I study English..it's language, customs and it's pastimes
(LAUGHS)
Even their cricket...what is that? So many rules, so much etiquette...and five days long? If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was a Serbian joke.
AZEEM LEANS CLOSE TO THE TRUCK WALL AND LISTENS.
AZEEM ( cont'd)
When it got too bad I got out, Arben and Ismail my two oldest friends didn't need to be asked twice. They both worked at the museum...robbed it blind before we left, icons,artefacts...anything portable we stuffed into their holdalls. We travelled with the other refugees most of the way, skinny girls with even skinnier babies...old women with sad eyes...brash young men in imitation Reeboks, bad skin and forged papers. Some had family in Albania or Italy..most like me were desperate to get to England.
AZEEM PUTS HIS EAR TO THE WALL.
AZEEM(cont'd)
Still nothing...something must be wrong. Bryan said it would all be fine...don't worry he said, it'll be fine...we'll take breakfast at Lords together..huh..no breakfast since these last two days and we are freezing in here.
I worry about Ismail and Arben..they've been quiet too long. I think they're sleeping...but their skin is so cold, I hope they are sleeping.
Maybe Bryan is in trouble...no..he's delayed that's all. He'll be here soon...smiling. He went ahead with the money you see, while we all squeezed into this filthy, little meat-truck...stinks of pork.
"I'll let you out in Dover and we'll travel to the big Smoke in style.." the last words he said before he closed us in here in the dark and locked the door..must be two days at least now
AZEEM BANGS THE SIDE OF THE TRUCK IN ANGER
AZEEM ( cont'd)
Nobody hears us...is nobody there?
AZEEM SHIVERS AND RUBS HIMSELF DOWN TRYING TO KEEP WARM
AZEEM ( cont'd)
Six months I toiled in Calais for this..had to get to England and I needed to make money fast...wasn't fussy how. It didn't take me long to set it up. I like to eat you see and soon found a little place in the city with a friendly landlord...Jamil...second generation Moroccan immigrant...authentic North African food too. Trouble was, Jamil turned out to be local Mafia, so maybe it was him who found me...anyhow that doesn't matter now. We made money...big money. I'd finger the mark, play mine host and Jamil would put up the cash prize while the rest of the guys sat around in the cafe like normal punters cheering his good fortune. Good food and wine laced with just enough dope to put him out of it so Jamil's wife can wipe his credit cards...nice and simple..he wakes with a headache, a full belly and five hundred Euros extra in his wallet. Nothing stolen, nothing missing...until his cards are maxed up in Kuala Lumpur or Manilla. No comeback on me, Jamil or anyone else here in Calais...piece of cake.
AZEEM PULLS OUT THE LAST GALOISE FROM HIS PACK. LIGHTS IT AND SUCKS DEEPLY
AZEEM ( cont'd)
That's how it should have been with Bryan...just another mark with a wallet full of Platinum Cards but there was something about him. I can't put my finger on it, we just clicked from the minute he turned up waving his winning voucher.
( WISTFUL SMILE)
That night passed in a blur...we hit the same note on every subject..the con had never worked this well..seemed easy, too easy. I should have drugged him then, wiped his cards and walked away..but didn't..I couldn't. I wanted more than his money. I fled for my life from Kosova but couldn't get past Calais, I told him.
"Bloody typical...the likes of you rotting away here while England is swamped with no-hopers and chancers...but what can I do..?" he sighed
( AZEEM LAUGHS LOUDLY)
Put my fat Albanian arse in the front of your Beamer and smuggle me into London is what I wanted to say...but I stayed cool..opened another bottle and laughed some more.
We got talking about England's chances for the Ashes and I got on my soap-box about how one day cricket had ruined the test side and his face lit up...he was hooked.
I took a chance.,..take me to England, I said. He looked me straight in the eye...scratched his chin and shook his head.
" Too dangerous for me, Azeem my friend" he said. My spirits sank...then he said that he couldn't let me fester here any longer either. He was too smashed to drive back tonight anyhow and said he'd sleep on it... we'd talk again in the morning.
AZEEM SUCKS ON HIS CIGARETTE. THE TORCHLIGHT FLICKERS, FADES. HE SHAKES IT. THE LIGHT RETURNS.
AZEEM ( cont'd)
Jamil was furious...Mafia expect results you know. So he appears all smiles and pours Bryan a 'special' Cognac and offers him the guest room for free. I was gutted...scared that Jamil had spoiled my chance..that in the cold light of day Bryan would be on the morning ferry and long gone before I woke so I curled up on Jamil's floor and slept with one eye on the guest room door..I saw Jamil's wife go in and out...dip his wallet and swipe the cards..never trust a thief.
Early next morning, Bryan is up..sore head but all smiles. Tells me he's made a few calls...he'll take me to England..all three of us... but it will cost us five grand each...English Pounds.
I'm sorry, he says but the money's not for him, it's the going rate.
Fifteen thousand would clean us out...but what else could I do..this was my last chance and I said yes without thinking of anyone but myself. Ismail and Arben were wary...we're too old they said..we like it here..we've got a good thing going...but I told them not to worry...
Azeem is no fool, I told them. I trust Bryan and you trust me...so why worry..have I ever let you down before?
AZEEM LISTENS HARD
AZEEM ( cont'd)
A car...Ismail, Arben, wake up.! Its Bryan. ..Is it you Bryan..?
AZEEM JUMPS UP. HE RUSHES TO THE DOORS. A CARD IS SLIPPED UNDER THE TRUCK DOOR.
AZEEM ( cont'd)
What is this..?
( AZEEM READS ALOUD)
Azeem...the credit cards were all fakes. Old English proverb...you can't cheat a cheat...too late for you though...
(REALIZATION THEN DESPAIR)
AZEEM SEES HIS FRIENDS LYING COLD AND STILL IN THE CRAMPED VAN FOR THE LAST TIME BEFORE THE LIGHT FROM HIS TORCH FINALLY FLICKERS AND DIES. TOTAL BLACKNESS.
AZEEM ( cont'd)
May Allah forgive me...
( AZEEM SOBS)
the end.