Page 57 of Gamma
Arabic, and the English translation: “There are guns in the truck. I should arrest you.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I just want to go home. I’m not here to cause any trouble. I’m going to find my friends and leave the country.”
“You are very far from Tunis.” A pause for the translation to catch up, and then he speaks again through the translation app: “You will run out of fuel first.”
“Are there any fuel stations I can go to?”
A pause. “I have a friend, in a place called Enfidha, near the airport.” Another pause. “He has an auto shop, mostly salvage and cheap repairs.” Another pause for translation. “Tell him Youssef sent you. You want to trade.”
“I understand. How do I find the auto shop?”
I hear a pen click, silence, and then paper ripping. “Keep going on this road, Highway A1.” Pause for translation. “Exit for Enfidha.” Another pause. “Like this.” I assume he’s drawing a map.
“Thank you for helping,” Apollo says, with the translation following.
The radio squawks again, and a voice, sounding impatient even to me, crackles across the line.
“You are lucky I have a meeting I am late for. Do not make me regret letting you go.”
“I won’t. Thank you.” Without the translation app, then: “Shukran.”
Boots crunch away, a door opens and closes, a motor turns over and catches, and then tires roll over gravel—finally, I hear the car speed away.
I wait.
“You can come out,” Apollo says. “He’s gone.”
I sit up, swing my legs over the gate and drop to the ground. “What the hell was that?”
Apollo is visibly sweating—he wipes his brow. “A very lucky encounter.”
“He just let you go?”
“And gave me a lead on how to get rid of this truck. To say it stands out more than we already do is the understatement of the century.” He shakes his head. “I have no idea why he let me go other than he was genuinely late for something even more important than whatever he thinks was going on here.” He waves at the truck, indicating the many, many bullet holes.
I mean, we’re not talking one or two or three—it’s riddled, and missing both windows.
He wipes his face with his palm. “Lucky break, I guess.”
He heads for the driver’s side, reaching for the handle to haul himself up, but he misses and stumbles backward off the step.
I take his hand. “Apollo, my god. You can barely function.”
I lead him around to the passenger side, step up and open the door, climb up and in, and then reach down for his hand, haul him up. When he’s in, I reach over him and close the door, and then scoot behind the wheel; I take a moment to put my hair back up in a bun.
I look at him. “Okay. How do I operate this?”
He blinks hard; I’m getting very worried about him. “Three pedals down there.” He points. “Far left is the clutch, push it all the way in with your left foot, and turn the key.” He frowns, and digs in his pocket, hands me the key. “You’ll need that.”
I push in the clutch, which requires more of an effort than I’d anticipated; when I turn the key, the diesel motor cough, chugs stubbornly a few times, and then catches and turns over. “Okay, now what?”
He gestures at the gear shift. “Push in the clutch and hold it, foot off the gas pedal. Good. Now.” He covers my hand with his on the shifter and pulls it to the left and then back toward the bench; I feel it catch. “That’s first.” Pushes it forward, back right to the middle, and then forward again. “Second.” Straight backward toward the bench. “Third.” Horizontally to the right. “Fourth.” Back to the middle. “Neutral.” Across left and all the way forward. “Reverse.”
Keeping the clutch in, I practice the pattern a few times. “Okay, got it.”
“Clutch down, foot on the gas pedal, that’s the start.” He watches as I touch the pedal. “Push the gas pedal in, but keep the clutch in.” I do so, and the engine roars, but nothing happens. “This time, let off the clutch gradually. As you let off the clutch, push down the gas pedal—gently. Gradually. Trade it off, as much clutch as you let up, push the gas down the same amount.”
I try it, and the truck lurches, but then dies. “What’d I do wrong?”