Page 6 of Spread Your Wings

Howard drove the Jeep further into Serbian territory, northeast of the airport.

Sammy began to recognize the Serbs on sight.

When he left the hotel, he saw them. When he headed toward the bridge, he saw them.

When he looked up at the tops of the surrounding buildings, he saw them watching through high-powered rifle scopes.

Not shooting. Waiting. Stalking. One day, he caught one as he went out of a nearby building, head down, scurrying away.

“Please, may we ask you some questions about the upcoming referendum?”

“Go home, American. We don’t need your melting pot here.”

The glare the man gave him was so hostile, Sammy took a step back. The man pushed him aside and continued toward the alley with purpose.

Howard fared better. He interviewed a thirteen-year-old boy, too young to know to keep his mouth shut.

The boy talked about destroying the Bosniaks.

He even mentioned killing Croats, if they stood in their way.

The rhetoric reminded Sammy of the Hitler Youth.

He felt sick to his stomach after hearing the interpretation.

“I hate them. They bring dishonor to our nation. They do not belong here. Serbia was better before the Turks, and we will be stronger when they are eradicated.”

The boy reminded Sammy of his junior high bullies. “Go kill yourself, fag. The world will be better without you.”

The boy’s statements had one unexpected result, Christiane and Tol agreed. He provided the missing voice of the Serbian people. They took the rest of Friday off after the early morning broadcast. Sammy went back to bed.

He tossed and turned for two hours before he gave up and took a shower. He needed sleep, but the test results haunted his thoughts. Today was the day: he’d know one way or the other. Positive or negative. Death or life. Freddie Mercury or Elton John.

Sammy groaned at his own comparison. There was no comparison.

Sure, Mister Elton John was in the glory days of a comeback, thanks to George Michael.

Sammy liked his songs, but the man had no qualms about capitalizing on others’ tragedies.

Ryan White. Marilyn Monroe. He was even on the list to perform at Freddie’s tribute concert.

Sammy would do his best not to boo Elton John in his own country.

If for no other reason, he’d do it for Freddie.

He straightened his cap and fixed his leather jacket in the mirrored elevator doors. When they opened, he saw Mustafa across the lobby at the front desk, assisting a group of new arrivals. He waved and then headed to the coffee bar.

Fifteen minutes later, Mustafa tapped him on the shoulder with an envelope addressed to him. This one was postmarked from London. “Another ‘Dear Sammy’ letter?”

“No. Queen tickets.”

“Queen is dead.” For once, Mustafa’s lips thinned to a flat line across his face instead of curving up.

“Tribute concert. April twentieth. I’m going. I bought a ticket for Gavin, too. Guess I’ll have to scalp it, now.”

“Whose tribute? Cover band?”

“The other three band members, and a host of chart-toppers. Metallica. George Michael. Elton John.”

Mustafa’s smile returned with extra wattage. “I love him. ‘Tiny Dancer.’ Amazing song.”

“Well, he’ll be singing Queen songs.”

“Which one? He doesn’t have Freddie’s…” Mustafa waved his fingers up and down his throat.

“Range?”

Mustafa nodded.

“Nobody does.”

“One day he announces he has AIDS, and the next, he’s gone. Such a shame.” Mustafa patted Sammy’s shoulder. “Have fun at the concert.”

“Thanks.”

Mustafa perched on the next barstool and asked the bartender for seltzer water. “Uncle Vasily will be here soon. No work today.”

“What does he do?”

“Pilot. Here to Vienna. Cargo, mostly.”

Sammy wasn’t sure what he expected Mustafa’s uncle to do for a living. Flying planes? Not what he imagined, especially after the way Mustafa had hunkered in the car in front of the bath house.

“He’s not your real uncle,” Sammy guessed.

“Friend of my father’s,” Mustafa said. “His family is Croat. They disowned him.”

Sammy didn’t ask, but he knew when Uncle Vasily walked in, another envelope in hand. He wasn’t effeminate, per se, but he had a vibe Sammy could sense in a crowd. Peder . Gay.

The way Mustafa reacted, they had history, but not recent. Or maybe the relationship meant nothing to either of them.

Vasily stood at the entrance to the bar and waited.

“We should go somewhere more private,” Mustafa said, sliding off the barstool.

Sammy followed. “My room?”

Mustafa frowned like he wanted to say no, but they’d reached Vasily at the doorway. Mustafa introduced them. Sammy shook Vasily’s hand.

“You’re staying at the hotel?” Vasily asked. “Want to read your results in your room?”

Sammy glanced from Vasily to Mustafa, not sure how to protest. Reading his results should be private, not only behind closed doors but also alone.

As much as he wanted to ask them to wait downstairs, he felt obligated to invite them to his room.

Both Mustafa and Vasily had made the test possible.

They should be a part of the results. Sammy could handle some discomfort if everything would be okay.

“It will be fine,” Vasily said, clapping him on the back.

Mustafa had promised Vasily would bring the doctor if his results were bad. Still, Sammy hesitated.

“Maybe we should wait for you in the bar,” Mustafa said.

“No, it will be fine.” Vasily’s sharp tone said he wouldn’t take any shit.

“My room,” Sammy said. He headed for the elevator. Vasily and Mustafa talked in Bosnian the entire elevator ride, and the walk down the hallway. They got on Sammy’s last nerve, but he said nothing. Vasily’s stance and bearing reminded Sammy of a soldier, or an assassin. The man seemed dangerous.

Once inside, Vasily took the comfortable chair.

Sammy sat in the desk chair in front of the window.

That left the bed for Mustafa. He gathered two of the freshly stacked pillows and angled against the headboard.

His long, jean-clad legs hung over the side, so his boots were suspended in midair.

Damn, he looked good enough to fuck. Sammy hoped that was still a possibility in his future.

Sammy slid the envelope postmarked from London under the desk blotter. Vasily handed him the other, more important, envelope. Sammy guessed the name and address in the left corner matched the clinic next to the bathhouse, but he couldn’t be sure. It was written in Cyrillic script.

He opened the envelope, dread pooling in his gut. What if the results were also in Bosnian? He didn’t want Mustafa or Vasily to read it to him. It was hard enough trying to act like an adult when his life hung in the balance.

The doctor would be here if it were bad, he reminded himself. It didn’t make his palms stop sweating or calm his pulse.

Fortunately, the report was in English. They’d tested him for everything from Herpes to Syphilis.

Sammy scanned to H:

Hepatitis A, B, and C: Negative

HIV: Negative

A quick review showed the rest were also negative.

He stood up. He may have jumped twice, waving the piece of paper in the air. “Woohoo! Thank God.”

Mustafa laughed. “You okay?”

“Stop laughing. You did the same thing when you were tested,” Vasily said.

Mustafa covered his face with his hands. “Be quiet.”

“Glad you are well,” Vasily said to Sammy. “My young friend thinks you are, how do you say, hot stuff.”

“He does not know how to use English sayings,” Mustafa said, standing. “Come on, Uncle Vasily, before you embarrass me more.”

“Nice to meet you,” Vasily said, before Mustafa pushed him out the door and closed it behind them. Sammy heard enough to know they were again talking in their native tongue.

He folded the paper, then tucked it back into the envelope and switched it with the one from London. Though nothing had changed, not really, he felt better about opening it now. More deserving.

The two tickets were embossed with the Queen crest, and the ink used to print the dates was thick and black, not faded. He eased them into his carry-on backpack next to his plane tickets to London.

He wasn’t expecting the soft knock at the door. He grinned as he opened it. Mustafa charged in, his cheeks still pink from Vasily’s parting words.

“You’ve been tested, too?” Sammy asked. He darted to the window and settled into the office chair to keep some distance between them.

“Yes. After my friend died from the overdose. I didn’t know he was using.”

Sammy nodded. “So, you and your friend were more than friends?”

Mustafa shook his head as he returned to the bed. “He and Vasily.”

“Oh.” Sammy frowned. Their chiding banter had seemed more brotherly than romantic. “You and Vasily?”

“It’s not what you think,” Mustafa said, sinking back against the headboard. “It’s just sex. I don’t love him. He doesn’t love anyone. Incapable. Too broken.”

Sammy nodded. He’d seen it often enough in older men.

It was one reason he avoided them. They’d seen too many friends die or lost too many lovers to the horrible disease afflicting their community.

If they weren’t too scared to fuck, they fucked everyone without thought or feeling. They dared death to take them, too.

“What about you?” Sammy asked. “Are you like him? Broken?”

“I want more out of life,” Mustafa said. “I waited to go to university, and now I don’t think I will. I know enough English to get by at the hotel, but I want to go to America.”

“And do what?”

“Become a stock broker, like Wall Street .” Mustafa grinned.

“Now? We’re in a recession.”

“I know. You need me to get you out of it.”

Sammy laughed. “Wow. You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“I enjoy working with money. My family is poor, but I’ve helped Vasily invest. He has two airplanes now, and his own hangar.”

“All from watching Wall Street ?”