Two Men in a Van

“Hey man, we’re cool, you can come out now, we’re over the border. I’m going to pull into a transport café about 20 kilometers from here.”

Sandy slowed as Mustapha climbed over the back seat into the front of the van. He said nothing but turned quizzically towards Sandy as the van pulled into the motorway parking lot.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to order coffees, then take a shower and get into our disguises. C’mon, we’re going to hit gay Paree dressed as painters. The worst part is over.”

He could feel the other man stiffen, wary.

“This is a place for transport drivers, they can eat and shower then take a nap in their vehicles. Look, I know you don’t have any papers, but this is an all-night cafe, it’s 4 a.m. no one’s going to notice us”.

Mustapha chose a seat at the end of the almost empty restaurant, far away from the counter. Sandy returned with the tray of beverages and croissants and caught his surprised gaze as he watched a lorry driver at the next table downing a glass of beer.

“I guess you don’t drink”, Sandy remarked. Mustapha shook his head.

“No, it’s forbidden, it’s bad for you, makes people do crazy things.”

“Yeah, you can say that again. I’ve managed to stay off the stuff for the last couple of months, with a little help. It was difficult, but I’m getting back on the straight and narrow,” he said with a sigh. He removed a packet of pills from his creased sports jacket and swallowed two, helping himself to water from the carafe on the table.

“That’s why I take the pills. They make you feel nauseous if you drink, so you stop wanting to”.

They finished their coffees in silence. Then Sandy reached forward:

“Hey, tell me, I know you got stung before, but what’s this with the Eiffel Tower? Why are you so anxious to see it?  We’re here, you’ve already made it to France. Look, he waved the menu at him, its written in French.”

“My cousin says: “Eiffel Tower or no money.” Mustapha replied slowly. “I can’t read your alphabet,” he added.

Surprised, Sandy remarked: “But your English is pretty good”.

“I only write in Arabic”.

Sandy whistled. “Okay, okay. The Eiffel Tower it is then, that’s what I’m getting paid for.”

He stood up, then went back to the counter for two more coffees.

“Thanks. I never met anyone called Sandy before,” Mustapha remarked as he accepted the warm drink.

“It’s not my real name, it’s because of my hair, you know, the colour of sand. I used to get teased about it at school.”

The lorry driver stood up, pushed back his chair, and with a nod to the two men walked out of the café.

Sandy reached down to the sports bag at his feet, pulled open the zip and showed Mustapha the painting overalls.

“You put these on after the shower,” he instructed, handing over the bag, and placing a metal token on the table for the rest room. “I’ll get dressed into one too.”

Mustapha looked into the bag: “But these are messy”, he protested.

“Look” Sandy said irritably, “we’ve got to look like painters. We both wear overalls, and we have a painter’s van, which is in decent enough shape, so we don’t risk getting pulled over. But we have got to look the part, okay? Otherwise, you just hide in the back of the van again, but if we get checked, how do I explain you away. We were lucky at the border stop, you know.”

He stood up: “Right, I’m going outside for a cigarette, see you in ten.”

As they drove away from the cafe twenty minutes later. Sandy decided to avoid the motorway for the rest of the journey because of possible cameras.

“So, how long have you been on the road then?” he asked conversationally, trying not to yawn. The tiredness and stress were beginning to catch up on him. Mustapha was staring out the window, the autumn brown trees invisible in the darkness. He paused, then started telling Sandy about his long and difficult journey.

It had taken almost two weeks. The beginning with the other immigrants had gone smoothly, first the boat from an Egyptian port, crowded together, hiding at the back of a lorry, but no one checked, and the crossing went okay. But then on the mainland the driver had stopped and made them get out saying that another lorry was coming for them. But he had driven off with their money and passports and they realized they had been dumped.

Sandy shook his head. “Yeah, you hear so many horror stories. Look, I’m just doing this as a once off to help a friend out. I’ve started getting my act together and I’ve got a real job lined up for next week, finally. I’ll be working for a printer, what I used to do before I went to prison”.

Mustapha nodded. Then he went on to say how he had decided it was best to separate from the others and start walking North towards Lausanne where his cousin had a friend who could put him up and lend him money. He hitched a ride with a farmer who gave him a few days’ work picking fruit. He’d been given a bed and food and enough money to pay a guide to take him over the mountain on foot. But it was scary, he wasn’t sure if the guide wasn’t going to take his money and leave him on the wrong side of the border.

They drove on for a while in silence, then Sandy checked his watch: “We’re doing good, I guess we should hit Paris around dawn”.

“I need to stop and say prayers at dawn.” Mustapha replied.

“Prayers? Where are you going to say the prayers?”

“You can stop the van and I’ll get into the back.”

Sandy shook his head but said nothing and continued driving. Shortly after they started getting close to the Paris suburbs, the city lights still lit up. He slowed down as they drove round a ring road.

“Not the time to get a parking fine,” he commented. “So, Mustapha, what are you going to do when you get to your cousin’s? Has he got something lined up for you? It’s not going to be easy without any papers”.

“My cousin helps, he does up apartments, carpentry, painting. I’m good with my hands. I’ll be able to repay the loan from his friend in Lausanne, then start earning and send money to my family.” 

Sandy glanced at him: “Well, I guess you’re lucky in a way, you’re all so close.”

“Don’t you have family?” Mustapha asked now.

Sandy shook his head, then hesitantly: “It’s just not the same here.” He paused. “Anyhow, now I’m getting a job, and I’ve stopped drinking, I’m going to be able to see my two daughters again. They’re eight and six.”

They stopped at a red light; the sky started to brighten.

“Do you want me to stop here then?

Mustapha checked his phone. A few minutes later his alarm went off with the call to pray. Sandy pulled into a parking space and got out of the van to stretch his legs, the autumn air cool. After ten minutes Mustapha waved to him, and they got back on the main road, leading into the capital.

“We’ll hit the Seine pretty soon, it curls around the city.”

The traffic was slowly building up and both men were lost in their thoughts.

Suddenly Mustapha called out: “The Eiffel Tower, I can see it”, turning towards Sandy with a big smile. Sandy crossed over to the Left Bank and drove slowly along the quays.

“Here we are then,” he said pulling up. Both men got out of the van and walked towards the monument, Mustapha stared upwards, a smile on his face.

“Anchored, I guess that’s what we need to be too.” Sandy commented.

They moved back towards the van. Mustapha slid open the side door to remove his travel bag, then he opened the zip of his overall, pulled up his tee shirt and took out a wad of bank notes from a purse he was wearing round his waist. He thrust the money at Sandy, who whistled when he saw the amount.

 “You’re a brave man,” Sandy pronounced, handing him back a 50 euro note. ““Here, take this, for good luck, for both of us in our new lives”.

With a smile Mustapha started walking away, heading in the direction of the metro, he turned round and waved.