Free An Infidel in Paradise by S.J. Laidlaw Page A

face is half-shadowed as he looks down at me.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “It’s just a game. You’re not scared of me, are you?” He’s still smiling benignly, but the atmosphere in the room has changed. I’m pretty sure it’s leaking oxygen. Any minute now, masks will drop from the ceiling.
    “Mr. Baker will be disappointed if you refuse to join in.” I startle at the mention of the teacher’s name. I’d almost forgotten where we were. “Come on, close your eyes,” he croons. “You can trust me.”
    We stare at each other for a long minute. I don’t know why I finally close my eyes and let him tie the scarf over them. I regret it the minute the darkness becomes absolute.
    “You know, I don’t need to be blindfolded to get lost on this campus,” I quip, trying to ease the pressure that has magnified exponentially with the darkness.
    “You won’t get lost. I’m going to guide you.” Strangely, his disembodied voice is more comforting than I would have expected, and his hand on my elbow as he nudges me forward feels steady. I’m suddenly aware of his smell – soap and cinnamon.
    I can tell we’re heading out of the theater because the floor gradually slopes up underfoot. The giggling of various classmates surrounds us but seems far away. Light creeps under the blindfold as we emerge into the heat. Mustapha keeps leading me forward but is strangely silent, as if he’s preoccupied with his own thoughts. I have the feeling he has a destination in mind. As we walk along, I can no longer hear other students and try to get my bearings under the blindfold. I think we must be crossing the parking lot because we’ve walked on pavement without stepping up or down for quite a while. Sweat is collecting in all the places you don’t want to be sweating when you’re blindfolded and with a boy.
    “It must be time to take off the blindfold,” I say, wishing I hadn’t agreed to play this game.
    “Soon,” he says, picking up the pace and dragging me with him.
    “Where are we going?”
    “You’ll see,” he says, missing the irony.
    Finally, he tells me to step up, and we’re walking on grass. It’s harder going, less even, and I stumble once, but he catches me. It’s cooler now and I can feel shade.
    “We’re here,” he says, eventually letting go of my arm. “You can take it off now.”
    I pull off the blindfold. We’re at one far corner of the campus, in a field next to a wall. I look around, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be seeing. It’s obvious from his quiet watchfulness that this place hassome significance, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is.
    “So?” I say finally.
    He points to a pile of stones.
    “A man died here,” he says. “A guard. Students aren’t supposed to know where it happened. They want us to forget. The administration keeps having the stones removed, but they always find their way back.”
    “When did it happen?”
    “A long time ago, ten years maybe. There was rioting in the city. That happens a lot. People get angry about the foreigners, the infidels, and they look for someone to take out their anger on. The school’s an obvious target. It wasn’t as well-guarded back then, and the walls were lower. They’ve raised them eight feet since and put the broken glass on top. No students were hurt; the teachers hid them. But one guard was beaten to death right here.”
    We’re silent for several minutes as we contemplate the pile of stones.
    “Why are you showing me this?” I say after a time.
    “Because you need to understand.”
    “Understand what?” I turn to look at him.
    “You can’t make fun of things.” His gaze is intent. “You need to be careful, show more respect.”
    I’m disappointed. He thinks it’s that simple. I’m just culturally insensitive, an ignorant kid who needs to be schooled in foreign relations. I know he doesn’t know about my dad or how hard it was to leave my friends inManila, and maybe he