Lebanon Hostage Ch. 04

Neither of us speaks. As near as I can tell through my peripheral vision, Allan's gaze stays on his cigarette or on the ground, never at me.

My willpower cracks, I have to say something. "If you don't want to talk, I'll leave you alone. But I'd like to know how you're doing and if there's anything I can do to help. When you're ready."

Shit. That has to have come across as patronizing. Like I'm playing at being a social worker or a therapist.

Allan remains silent. I wait the silence out a while. I start thinking I'd better take a hint, lie back down and leave him alone. But then he speaks. His deep voice is very quiet and very taut. "I hate being here."

As soon as he's spoken, he begins to breathe more heavily, and loudly, and quickly, as if he's in physical pain. His body shakes a little, he looks like he's having some kind of seizure. "Allan?" I'm frightened. What should I do? Should I shout to the guards for help?

Then I realize: he's crying. Quietly but hard, fighting to hold it back. I've never seen Allan cry, it is unnerving to witness. He is exposing a degree of vulnerability he has not allowed me to see before. On some previous occasions, I have glimpsed him physically naked; now I am seeing him emotionally naked.

After an agonized hesitation, I kneel beside him and put my arm around his shoulders the way he did for me when I cried at our first meeting. Surprisingly, I'm not crying with him; the shock of his breaking down has been too much of a jolt to my own emotions. Good. Right now, I need to comfort him, not the other way around.

He's done crying within a minute or so. He breathes, sniffles, wipes his eyes. Although the physical closeness is feeding a deep hunger in me, I don't want to overstay my welcome, so I remove my arm from his shoulders and sit back down on my mattress.

Allan discards his burned-down cigarette and lights another. He smokes for a while in silence. Then he speaks, but with long pauses between each of his sentences, as if formulating his words in his head and then pushing them out into the air is a labor. His voice is level, almost emotionless.

"I haven't really pulled myself out yet... But I'm going to try harder..." A particularly long pause. "I was such a shit to you..."

His voice rises in pitch, making me think he's about to cry again, but he doesn't, he just looks miserable. Oh Jesus, is that what this has been about?

"You don't need to apologize for anything," I tell him. Now I'm in danger of crying. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the things I said. And I'll carry my own weight from now on, I promise."

Another long silence, during which Allan leans his forehead heavily into his hand. When he comes up for another drag, he looks fatigued. "I can't be strong all the time..."

I worry that he's not hearing what I'm saying to him. "No. You don't have to be. I shouldn't have made you feel like you did. I'm sorry."

More silence. In his still nearly emotionless voice, Allan says, "I heard you... when you stood up for me... I couldn't get myself to do anything about it... But thank you."

I am this close to saying, "I love you, Allan." If I were ever going to say it, this would be the moment.

I want to so badly. But I can't.

I have to do something, though...

I get up on my knees, open my arms tentatively. "Here," I say, already embarrassed, already regretting it.

It's an awkward hug. For one thing, I realize belatedly that his cigarette is going to get in the way. Also, he's still sitting, oriented perpendicular to me, so he can't properly return the hug unless he, too, gets up onto his knees and faces me, which evidently he doesn't want to do. But he lets me bend over and thread my arms around him. He holds his cigarette safely away from us, while with his free hand he reaches around to slap my back a few times.

"We'll be all right, mate," he says in a weak voice that doesn't sound very convincing paired with those words. He lets me hold him a few seconds longer, his own hand resting on my back. Then he gives me a couple more pats—the "we're done" signal—and disentangles himself.

***

We piece our routine back together, re-implement our rules. Not full-blown overnight. Step by step. I have to take the lead, be the one who pushes. Allan's mood is still very low, as is his energy level. He's making an effort, though.

He's tired all the time, but he tries not to nap much during the day so he won't lie awake at night while I'm asleep; he's afraid that's when he would be mostly likely to "slide away" again. I propose that he nap whenever he likes and then wake me up whenever he's awake, I'll adjust my sleep pattern to his. He says that's kind of me and maybe he'll take me up on it now and then, but not as a rule. He thinks it's better for both of us if I help him stay awake during the day.

The guards are pleased that Allan is eating again. Like his mood, his appetite is low, but he forces himself; if he simply can't stomach any more, he'll ask me to finish for him.

Allan asks the guards if he can say something to all three of them at the same time. They assemble outside our open grate, and he gives a little speech to thank them for the movie and for allowing the two of us to stay together. "You okay now," one of the guards says, soliciting confirmation. "I'm getting better, thank you," Allan responds, adding for emphasis, "especially now that I'm with my friend again." "You like the video?" the same guard asks. That question appears to catch Allan by surprise, it takes him a second to dig up the requisite courtesy. Yes, he enjoyed the film. "Rambo...," the guard intones in a dramatic voice, as in a movie preview, and all three guards laugh like boys. I'm mortified that the other hostages, hearing this conversation, now know exactly what happened, if they hadn't already heard it through the floor.

Allan gives a similar speech to the other shift of guards when they return, in which he apologizes for the inconvenience he caused them. I don't think I could have lowered myself that far, and I'm surprised to hear him do it, given that earlier he has objected to being "servile" toward the guards. But the apology clearly wins Allan some good will. The movie-quoting guard, the one who smacked us around but was finally persuaded that Allan was sick, says he's glad to see that Allan is better. He adds a stern warning, though, about always eating everything they give us and not eating one another's food. I apologize for the latter, in the interest of good diplomatic relations.

"You sick, you have problem—talk," the guard instructs us. "We not bad guys, hey? We help you."

I'm hardly reassured. I don't trust the guards any more now than I did before, which Allan agrees is a wise course. We presume, though, that the guard's comment—"We not bad guys, hey? We help you"—reflects how they genuinely perceive themselves.

It is true that after these exchanges, our relations with the guards become a little closer to what they were before the new hostages arrived. The guards still cheat us out of time in the bathroom; but they don't handle us so roughly, and they're not quite so draconian about being silent. Makmoud greets us again, although very softly, and the English student practices his vocabulary—but not all that often, and only with the two of us, I think, not with any of the other hostages.

As profoundly grateful as I am that Allan has come back, I still feel lonely and burdened at times. It's hard work, being the older brother. I'll watch Allan as he naps, despite himself, during the day, or at night if he drops off before I do, and I'll wish that I could hold and be held by him—properly, not clumsily. I need someone's arms wrapped around me. I'm tired of doing this. I want to go home.

Self-pity doesn't help. I have to pick myself up and keep going. Help me to keep going, God. Help us both.

Inevitably, I feel guilty that Allan and I were treated to a movie but the other hostages weren't. The ones who have spent all this time in solitary need a morale boost at least as much as Allan did. Certainly more than I did. I, after all, have Allan.