Chapter 7: The Devil Cook - My Name Is Samim

“How was your first day at school?” Miss Brown asks as she drives us home.

“Good,” I mutter, staring out the car window.

“Excellent.” She beams at me through the rear-view mirror.

Rita tells Miss Brown about the chess club and I gape at the streets with no wandering chickens or goats, at the trees with no fruit, and at the sky with no sun.

Once home, I can’t wait to unwind in my room, but Miss Nadia and Mr Higgins are already there, waiting for me.

“How was school today?” Miss Nadia asks as I walk into the study.

“Good. I will play in a chess club.”

“Oh, that’s great. Well done!”

“Hello, Samim,” Mr Higgins says, putting his glasses on. “Shall we begin?”

I nod.

“So, you, Zayn and your uncle arrived in Iran. What happened next?”

“Next, we met the first shaytan on our journey,” I say through gritted teeth.

Mr Higgins’ eyebrows jump. “What’s a shaytan?”

I draw in a deep breath. “A devil.”

The stone-cutting factory, Iran, winter 2019

We arrived at the factory around midnight. The guard gave us three old, stained mattresses and led us to the room where Afghan workers slept on the floor. We squeezed our mattresses between others, collapsed and slept the rest of the night.

We woke to the sound of men dressing, sneezing and coughing. I could see dark patches of sky through the small windows, so it must have still been very early. The workers gave us a few looks, but no one asked us any questions.

Although the men had just woken up, they all seemed exhausted: their bodies were skin and bone, and they had bruised limbs, hunched backs and dark circles under their sunken eyes. Just like us, they were asylum seekers – people who had fled war – and by law they couldn’t work in Iran, but the factory owner hired them anyway. He knew he could make them work twice as hard, twice as long, and for half the pay of his normal workers because they were desperate. It was a crooked deal for Afghans, but a thirsty camel will drink from a puddle.

“They look like they can hardly walk, let alone lift and cut giant rocks,” Zayn whispered.

A few weeks later, my uncle looked just like them.

Zayn and I got a job in the kitchen, helping the cook. We weren’t paid for it; we worked to stay in the factory and eat for free like the rest of the workers. The cook was an angry man with short arms and legs but a giant rectangular body. He looked like a walking wardrobe. He was always out of breath, huffing and puffing after every move. Like the rest of us, he was an Afghan immigrant, but he acted like he owned the place – at least with Zayn and me.

The cook was a shaytan who used to beat us all the time. He tossed us across the kitchen if he didn’t like something we did, he hit us with a rolling pin if we took too long to peel vegetables, and he yelled and cursed from dawn to dusk. Every night, Zayn and I prayed that one day the ground would crack open under his feet and swallow him whole.

My uncle tried to talk to the cook a few times and even spoke to the factory owner about how he treated us, but nothing changed. Until that day.

That day, after another beating, the devil cook asked Zayn to make him some tea. Zayn was so angry and fed up with that demon that he squirted soap into his glass.

When the cook took a sip, his mouth frothed. He looked like a mad dog, spitting and growling in a fury. He grabbed a rolling pin and chased Zayn around the factory. He didn’t catch him that day, but Zayn had to return to the kitchen the next morning.

When we woke up, I asked Zayn if he was scared.

“I am,” Zayn said, sitting on the mattress beside me, elbows on his knees. “But I’m still glad I did it. He hits us all the time, and now, at least once, we’ve hit him back.”

We walked through the kitchen door, holding hands. I don’t know how Zayn did it. I would have never returned to that kitchen, knowing what awaited me. But Zayn held his head high, and I only knew he was scared by how shaky his hand was inside mine.

An evil grin twisted the cook’s face as he took a wooden rolling pin from the cupboard.

“Have you got anything to say before you get your head smashed?” he growled.

Zayn sucked in a shaky breath and replied, “Yes, I’ve always wondered, how did you get so ugly and mean?”

The cook’s face purpled with rage. He shrieked like a swine, swung the rolling pin and hit Zayn across his face. Zayn landed on his side, blood dripping from his nose. The devil cook started kicking Zayn’s back, stomach and head. Zayn curled up in a ball, covering his face with his arms. Each kick tossed him to another part of the kitchen. His face swelled up and his eyes shut. Soon, he stopped moving.

I screamed so loudly that, one by one, the workers ran into the kitchen. When that monster saw them, he finally left Zayn alone.

“The little snake burned your dinner again!” the cook told the workers, wiping Zayn’s blood off the rolling pin with an apron.

“He’s lying! He’s lying!” I yelled, holding on to Zayn’s floppy hand. Tears flowed down my red face.

My uncle rushed to Zayn, pushing everyone out of the way. He kneeled beside him and pressed his fingers against Zayn’s neck.

“He has a pulse. He’s alive.” He squeezed my shaking shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, my shoulders twitching with every whimper.

Uncle Roshan stood up, gritted his teeth and flared his nostrils. He slowly walked to the devil cook, staring at his blood-splattered shoes. Then, when he was a step away from that shaytan, he lifted his gaze and looked him in the eye.

“I’ve never seen a creature smaller than you,” my uncle said, and, as if by command, the angry workers charged at the cook, grabbed his arms and legs, and dragged him out of the kitchen.

One of the workers used to be a doctor. He still had his medical bag, and he gave Zayn an injection and bandaged his wounds. Then he and my uncle carried Zayn to the room where we slept and laid him on the mattress.

“I’ll watch him. You get some rest,” my uncle told me, but I refused. I had to look after Zayn myself. I was his brother; it was my job. So, I sat, staring at his chest rise and fall and praying it didn’t stop.

Once night fell, I lay beside him and held his wrist, counting his pulse. When his heart thumped for the 18,876th time under my fingers, Zayn opened his eyes.

I screamed in relief, making the men jump and curse in fright.

Zayn looked at me, and my chin trembled. I wanted to tell him how happy I was that he was alive and how losing him would have ended me.

I was about to open my mouth and say all that when he whispered, “You look as if you just came out of a cow’s butt, Samim.”

And instead of words coming out of my mouth, tears of joy gushed out of my eyes.

* * *

I pause my story, gulping air as if I just came up from underwater. Thinking back to that day has made the bat in my chest go wild, and now I’m struggling for breath again.

3.1415926…

“It’s okay, Samim, take your time,” Miss Nadia says.

I take a few sips of water, focusing on the small waves of cold liquid flowing through me.

…5358979…

“What happened next, Samim?” Mr Higgins asks.

I put the glass down and look at Zayn. He turns to me and smiles, his unruly black curls shimmering silver in the light from the window.

“Next, we met the man who replaced the shaytan – the man who changed our lives.”