Page 2 of Spread Your Wings

Outside, the sky was an overcast gray. Mumu escorted them to the hotel’s fifteen-passenger van.

The huge brown beast would require a chauffeur’s license in the United States.

Mumu tossed their bags into the back and helped Nicole step up into the passenger seat of the van.

Then he opened the sliding door for Howard and Sammy.

Once everyone was buckled in, he started the van and drove out of the parking lot.

Mumu drove for twenty minutes. Nicole filled the silence with questions about the city’s history and culture.

“What is your ethnicity?” she asked. “Serb?”

Mumu shuddered. “No.”

“Croat?”

Mumu shook his head. “No. Bosniak.”

Nicole whipped her head in his direction, her gaze hardening. “Do you practice?”

Mumu hunched over the steering wheel. “I eat pork and drink alcohol once in a while, if that’s what you mean.”

“Are you Sunni or Shiite?”

“Non-denominational.” He said the word as though it was foreign on his tongue, though practiced.

Sammy empathized. As a Catholic, he’d spent most of his youth defending his religion against his Southern Baptist peers.

“Leave him alone, Nic,” Harold said, his deep voice the death knell on their conversation.

Sammy patted his jacket to feel his wallet, with a St. Christopher’s medal tucked inside. He had a five and three ones left from the twenty he’d broken at LaGuardia a lifetime ago. It seemed strange to begin a new chapter in his life with only eight dollars cash.

The van slowed to a stop, and Sammy looked up at the hideous yellow face of the Holiday Inn, Sarajevo.

“We’re here,” Mumu said. “Welcome to Holiday Inn.”

Mumu helped Nicole with her bags, fake smile in place. He opened the door and held it for her to walk through and placed her bags on a nearby bell cart. He offered to carry Harold’s camera, but Harold shook his head. He’d traveled light, with nothing more than a backpack and the camera case.

“Let me help you,” Mumu said. His inflection made it more a question than a statement. His gaze darted between Sammy and the bags stacked on the cart.

“Sure,” Sammy said, handing over the handle to the large suitcase. “Don’t I need to check in?” he asked, taking the backpack off his shoulder.

“Hey, Mohamed,” Nicole said, “Aren’t you going to take my bags to my room?”

Mumu whirled around. “That’s not my name.”

“Is everything all right?” a tall blonde woman asked, crisp steps bringing her from the front desk to the bell cart loaded with Nicole’s bags. “I can help you with the cart,” she said with only a hint of accent. “Mumu is carrying this gentleman’s bag.”

To prove her right, Mumu tucked the rolling handle back into the suitcase and lifted it off the ground.

“Thank you,” Nicole said, her shoulders dropping from high-alert power suit levels.

Mumu motioned for Sammy to follow him to the front desk. They waited in line behind Harold, avoiding Nicole on the far side of the counter. Nicole and the blonde woman whispered back and forth.

“It’s Mustafa.” His voice was so low, Sammy almost missed it.

“Your name? Mustafa?”

He nodded. “Mumu’s just a nickname to avoid alarming the guests.”

“I still don’t get it,” Sammy said. “Why would they be alarmed? This isn’t Iran.”

Mustafa cocked his head to one side. “I wish I knew. Your friend seems upset.”

Sammy had to agree. A frown marred Nicole’s bronzed face. “Just met her,” Sammy told Mustafa. “You’re more my friend than she is. You bought me a kebab.”

Mustafa’s smile returned. “CNN bought the kebab. All I did was deliver it.”

Howard spun toward them, his room key in hand. “Man, I hate jetlag,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.” Sammy stepped up to the desk and checked in using his new credit card and passport.

The desk clerk spoke to him in English but spoke to Mustafa in Bosnian.

They conversed non-stop while processing Sammy’s transaction.

Sammy found it unnerving, and a little rude, but said nothing.

He didn’t want to sound as judgmental as Nicole.

“All set,” the desk clerk said, handing Mustafa the key. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thanks,” Sammy said, following Mustafa to the elevators.

Nicole was still arguing with the hostess in harsh whispers he willfully ignored.

Nicole embodied everything other countries hated about Americans.

She was also Sammy’s coworker. He would put up with her for his three-month assignment, and then they would be off to opposite sides of the world. He hoped, anyway.

Mustafa selected the fifth-floor button.

They rode the elevator in silence. This close, in the confined space, Sammy caught a whiff of Mustafa’s cologne, something woodsy with a hint of musk.

Sammy held his backpack in front of him like a shield, protecting him from what Mustafa’s scent did to him.

Mustafa stood in the opposite corner, oblivious to Sammy’s internal struggle.

Still have a boyfriend.

As they walked down the hallway toward room 512, Sammy dug into his coat pocket. Wallet in hand, he removed the five-dollar bill. He traded Mustafa the bill for his bag.

“Thank you,” he stammered. He almost shut the door on Mustafa’s heel in his haste to be alone. He needed to relax. Jerking off to the thought of someone—Mustafa—swearing at him in a thick Bosnian accent was next on his Sarajevo checklist.