Numbered Account

As Mevlevi neared the entrance to the camp, a crowd began to form. One hundred yards from the gates, he brought the Bentley to a complete stop and the mob surged forward to examine the car. In seconds, the Bentley was awash in the probing hands and curious faces of Mieh-Mieh's forsaken residents. Mevlevi climbed out of the automobile and told two rough-looking youths to guard his car. He gave each a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. The two took immediate ownership of the vehicle, beating back the mob with a series of slaps, kicks, and when necessary, blows- each accompanied by a derisive glance and an obscene oath. How quickly they forgot that only seconds before they too had been peasants.

Mevlevi made his way into the camp and within minutes was at the headman's residence. He was dressed for his outing in a flowing black dishdasha and red checkered kaffiyeh. He drew back the tattered curtain that served as the front door and crossed the home's wooden threshold. Inside, two children stared vacantly at a black-and-white television, its screen filled more by snow and fuzz than any discernible picture.

Mevlevi knelt by the older of the two, a corpulent boy of eleven or twelve. "Hello, young warrior. Where is your father?"

The boy paid his visitor no heed and continued watching the hazy picture.

Mevlevi looked at the girl wrapped in a hand-sewn blanket. "Does your brother speak?" he asked gently.

"Yes." She nodded dully.

Mevlevi grabbed the boy's ear and lifted him off the floor. The boy screamed for mercy.

"Jafar!" announced Mevlevi. "I have your boy. Come out, you infernal coward. Do you think I come to this hellhole to chat with your children?"

Silently, he apologized to the prophet, explaining that such actions, while harsh, were necessary for the glory of Islam.

A smothered voice called out from a back room. "Al-Mevlevi, I beg you. Do the boy no harm. I arrive presently."

A wooden dresser standing against the room's far wall rattled aside. Behind it, carved out of the wall like a missing tooth, was a dark opening. Jafar Muftilli emerged into the half-light of his living room. He was a crooked figure of forty years. He carried an abacus and a well-thumbed ledger. "I did not know this day would be blessed with so august a visit to our humble residence."

"Do you always pass your days in a cellar hidden from your friends?" asked Mevlevi.

"Please do not misunderstand, your grace. Matters financial must always be conducted with the utmost of care. Unfortunately, my fellow countrymen think nothing of robbing from their own."

Mevlevi snorted with disgust, keeping a tight hold on the boy and his ear. What "matters financial" could bother this wastrel? Whether to keep his life's savings in a hundred one-dollar notes or twenty-fives? "Jafar, I seek Abu Abu."

The headman nervously stroked his wispy beard. "I have not seen him for days."

"Jafar, today, of all the days I have passed on this wretched planet, I do not wish to be delayed. I must find Abu Abu at once."

Jafar licked his lips and held out his hands in supplication. "Please, your grace. I speak only the truth. I have no reason to lie to you."

"Perhaps not. Or perhaps Abu has purchased your cooperation."

"No, your grace…" shouted Jafar.

Mevlevi gave the boy's ear a sharp tug downward, separating it cleanly from the head. The fat child screamed and fell to the ground. Surprisingly, only a thin trickle of blood streamed through the boy's clenched fists.

Jafar fell to his knees. He appeared torn between comforting his hysterical son and beseeching his demanding visitor. "Al-Mevlevi, I speak the truth. Abu Abu is gone. I know nothing of his whereabouts."

Mevlevi withdrew an evil instrument from his robes and held it so Jafar could not mistake its capacity. A blade resembling a silver crescent moon extended from a stubby wooden handle. It was the knife of an opium harvester, an early gift from the Thai general Mong. Mevlevi knelt beside the whimpering youth and taking hold of his long black hair, jerked the child's head upward so that he faced his father. "Do you wish your boy to lose his nose? His tongue?"

Jafar was immobile with rage and fear. "I will take you to his house. You must believe me. I know nothing." He placed his forehead against the floor and cried.

Mevlevi cast down the boy. "Very well. Let us go."

Jafar exited his home followed closely by his insistent visitor. Everywhere they walked, residents of the camp bowed deferentially and withdrew into the shadows of their shanties. The camp itself was a confusing pattern of interlacing alleys and one-way passages, covering an area of five square miles. Once within its walls, a visitor could well be lost for days before finding his way out again. Assuming he was allowed to depart.